#i meant for this to be like 900 words

[luffington]

meanie ♡

➤ summary: Zoro tests out a remote-controlled vibrator on you in the middle of town. (18+)

➤ pairing: roronoa zoro x afab!reader

➤ word count: 2.6k

➤ warnings: voyeurism, semi-public sex, established relationship, degradation, humiliation, fluff at the end, franky being franky, fem terms for reader

➤ notes: i've been thinking about this concept for MONTHS and i finally got around to writing it! might make a sequel featuring sanji.. who knows :3

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

“What is it?” You asked after several moments of silence, studying the foreign object your boyfriend had placed in the palm of your hand. Bright blue, shaped like an oversized bullet with a slightly tapered tip, coated with soft silicone. It definitely wasn’t a weapon or a tool. Zoro’s matching remote didn’t provide any clues. 

“Something I asked Franky to make.” Zoro answered smugly but internally cringed at the memory. A few days ago, he had approached the cyborg with bright red cheeks and mumbled his request without making eye contact. Franky simply responded ‘suuuperrr!’, and Zoro was still trying to forget the fact that he already knew how to build it. “Wanna see how it works?”

The remote only had three dark blue buttons: up, down, and power. He pressed the latter and you flinched as the object suddenly sprung to life in your hand, vibrating softly but consistently. “It… vibrates? Okay, but what is it used fo–” It finally clicked in your brain. “Ohhh. Oh, Zoro.” 

He mirrored your knowing smirk with his own. “C’mon, let’s test it out.”

You could barely stand the next morning, wobbling along the deck even though the sea was calm. Nami gave you a suspicious look before announcing that the ship was about to stop at a nearby island for a supply refill. 

Zoro approached you from behind, his muscular body pressed against your back. Breath tickling your ear as he whispered, “Perfect chance to use it again.”

Your eyes widened. “You mean… on the island? In public?”

“What do you think the remote is for?” He frowned. “We talked about this, I thought you were into it. But if you don’t want to…” 

You shook your head — you definitely wanted to. This was a persisting fantasy of yours, something you’d never admitted to your past partners out of embarrassment. But you trusted Zoro more than anyone. However, touching yourself while imagining the thrill of being caught was very different from the impending reality which made your stomach flutter with anxiety. 

“It’s either in town or on the Sunny. Would you rather maybe get caught by strangers or definitely get caught by our friends?” Zoro added with an annoyed expression, “Knowing my luck, that shitty cook would be the first to notice.”

Okay, he had a point. Not just Sanji – getting caught by any of your crewmates would be incredibly awkward. At least you would never see anyone in town again.

So you let Zoro lead you to the men’s quarters, climbing onto his bed as he grabbed the vibrator from his locker. Laughing as he playfully pushed you flat on your back, slotting himself between your legs and easily pulling down your skirt and undies. He ran two fingers up and down your slit before rubbing your clit in small circles. You bit back a moan – this was gonna be a long day. When you were wet enough, Zoro pushed the vibe snugly inside your pussy.

You expected him to keep going and turn it on, maybe let you cum if he was in an especially good mood. But he hopped off the bed, adjusting his rumpled shirt and leaving you to fix your own clothes. “Let’s get going. I need a fucking drink.”

The two of you had been walking around town for nearly a half hour and Zoro hadn’t touched the remote. You passed a bar fifteen minutes ago and he kept walking – he was stalling. Parading you in front of dozens of new faces and leaving you constantly anticipating the vibrations to start. It didn’t help that he kept his hand and the remote in the same pocket of his pants.

A flashy weapons shop caught his eye. He claimed he needed new materials for taking care of his swords, but you didn’t think there was anything wrong with what he had on the ship. You practically clung to him nervously as he wandered around the shop. He occasionally stopped to study items, seeming a little too interested in a sword that was comically worse than his current ones. 

As he picked it up for a closer look, the toy sprung to life inside of your pussy, causing you to squeal in shock. Vibrations sent shivers up your spine, and you felt a fire ignite in your core just as embarrassment burned in your mind. Zoro turned the power up two levels and snickered when you grabbed onto his shirt sleeve to steady yourself. “Careful, babe, there’s a lot of sharp edges around.”

“I know that.” You pressed your forehead against his shoulder and shut your eyes tightly. Unable to do anything besides rub your thighs together. The vibrations weren’t nearly strong enough to make you cum, but they were impossible to ignore. 

“The shopkeeper’s looking at you.” Your boyfriend whispered in a sultry tone. “Bet he wishes you were clinging to him instead. He definitely knows how easy you are. How easy it is to get your slutty cunt soaking wet. You just need a pair of eyes on you, huh?”

“You’re so mean,” you pouted, clenching onto his arm even tighter. Zoro turned up the toy another level and you bit back a moan. You hesitantly turned to look at the shopkeeper, a balding man with beady eyes. He seemed skeptical, not entirely sure what was going on, but his lecherous gaze still moved up and down your body as if he were appraising you. 

“Stop staring at my girlfriend, you goddamn creep.” Zoro suddenly growled and grabbed your hand, quickly moving to the exit as you stumbled behind him. The shopkeeper flushed red and opened his mouth to respond, but Zoro cut him off. “All of your swords are fucking awful.” 

You giggled as the door slammed behind you. “Zoro, if you’re gonna get jealous, why are we doing this?”

“I’m not jealous. I’m showing off what’s mine.” He was right – ‘jealous’ wasn’t the best word to describe him, since you made it clear that he had no competition. ‘Possessive’ was more accurate. He’d been like that since the start of your relationship. Always asking who your pussy belonged to, marking you with bruises and hickies, making you scream his name over and over as he pounded his cock into you. 

Thankfully, you had grown used to the light vibrations after a few minutes – Zoro was kind enough to turn the power level down, but didn’t shut it off. The two of you entered the bar you’d passed earlier, a dark and dingy place with about a dozen people inside.

“Hey!” Luffy’s obscenely loud voice rang throughout the building. He waved you over to where he was sitting, the large table already covered in empty dishes. Your eyes widened and you subtly shook your head at Zoro. The swordsman ignored you and strolled over to the bar counter to order two glasses of sake, leaving you no choice but to sit across from your captain. 

Your boyfriend placed a glass in front of you and moved his chair incredibly close to yours, resting his hand on your bare upper thigh. You shifted in your seat — big mistake. The toy was now pressed against the most sensitive spot inside you. 

“What’ve you guys been doing? Zoro, I thought you’d come straight here,” Luffy asked around a mouthful of food.

Zoro mentioned the shops you stopped by, casually turning the vibrator much higher mid-sentence. You clamped a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle your lewd moan, bending over in surprise as the toy insistently massaged your walls. It simultaneously felt heavenly and sadistic – the unrelenting pressure on your g-spot and Zoro’s big hand tightening on your thigh, clearly satisfied by your response. 

Luffy seemed confused, but Zoro told him that sake doesn’t always sit right with your stomach. Yeah, sure, your glazed over eyes and squirming legs could definitely pass as a stomach ache. Maybe to your oblivious captain, but certainly not to the people around you.

Your boyfriend’s hand moved farther up your leg, sneaking under your skirt to thumb at the waistband of your panties and rub the sensitive skin underneath. The toy got even stronger, probably on its highest setting at this point. Zoro continued his conversation with Luffy without stumbling once, barely glancing at you when you spilled your second round of sake all over your white shirt. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Luffy frowned, leaning across the table to study you closely. You prayed he wouldn’t look down and notice Zoro’s half-hidden hand. “Maybe you should talk to Chopper.”

“No! No Chopper!” You immediately exclaimed, making Zoro chuckle quietly. “I… I mean I’m fine, I’m not sick.”

Your captain hummed in thought, but in typical Luffy fashion, shrugged and said, “Well, whatever.”

Zoro finally turned to look at you with a sly grin. “Why don’t we go to the bathroom to wash off that stain?” You instantly nodded in agreement.

The swordsman shoved you against the wall of a men’s bathroom stall and crashed his lips against yours, devouring your mouth like an animal. One hand held your wrists together above your head and kept you in place as the other trailed across your chest, stopping to squeeze your tits. He delighted in your barely restrained moans and breathy whimpers of his name.

“You have no idea how fucking sexy that was,” he panted against your lips. “You’re so bad at hiding how much of a dirty whore you are for attention. All you need is your cute cunt touched and you’re gone. You probably have no idea where we are right now. The only thing your slutty brain can think about is my cock, right?”

“Yes, fuck, Zoro, I need you so badly.” With a satisfied smirk, he hiked up your skirt and pulled your panties down to your mid-thighs. Unceremoniously pushing two fingers inside your hole to retrieve the vibrator. You were so lucky that the bathroom was empty – the noise you made was unholy. 

“Your panties are fucking soaked,” he snickered, admiring the obvious wet spot on the fabric. But Zoro didn’t turn the toy off, simply turned down the vibrations then reached under your shirt and pressed it against your nipple. You cried out again as he adjusted its position so your bra would keep it firmly in place.

Zoro flipped you around so you were facing the wall. He was right – you were much too cockdrunk (and slightly tipsy on real alcohol) to care about how unhygienic a bar bathroom was. You unconsciously wiggled your hips when you heard the sound of his zipper and felt his hard cock rest on top of your ass. He grabbed your wrists again to keep them firmly pinned behind your back. 

“Don’t even need to prep you, I can just slide right in,” the swordsman chuckled. He rubbed the tip of his cock against your clit teasingly, then shoved his entire length inside you in one rough thrust. You let out a pleased moan, glad that you were finally getting the orgasm you’d been anticipating for at least an hour. Zoro rested his head in the crook of your neck. “You’re so damn loud. We’re still in public, y’know.”

“So shut me up.” You pressed your lips against his again, tongues swirling around each other in a messy dance as he continued to fuck you hard. His cock hit all the right places inside you, the ridges and veins and warmth giving you a more human sense of satisfaction than the electronic toy ever could. It still buzzed away against your nipple, which was almost painfully stiff at that point. Zoro panted heavily against your mouth – riling you up inevitably got him riled up, and he was just as close to hitting his peak as you were.

The bathroom door opened.

Both of you froze. Your entire body went as stiff as a mannequin, too afraid to even breathe. Zoro narrowed his good eye and listened closely to every single footstep, door creak and ruffle of clothes. There were three bathroom stalls, and the stranger was courteous enough to use the one farthest from you, leaving an empty one in between. Once he was sure that the person wasn’t a Straw Hat, Zoro’s hand moved from gripping your ass to cupping your face, silently pushing two fingers between your lips. You gagged around them anxiously.

“Now we really gotta be quiet,” the swordsman whispered directly in your ear. You didn’t have time to question what he meant before he slowly moved his hips back, his dick pulling out of you inch by inch until only the tip was inside of you. He pushed back in just as carefully, the quietest smack of skin as his hips met your ass echoing in your racing mind. The stranger heard it, you knew he heard it. Zoro shifted again and you shook your head in protest, but he just pushed his fingers farther down your throat and continued to fuck you. 

The sound of a toilet flushing made you jump. Zoro’s hips moved in slow circles and grinded his cock against your walls, deep and deliberate. You heard the stranger unlock his stall and turn on the sink outside. If he glanced in the mirror, he would definitely see two pairs of feet pressed together underneath your stall. Your pussy clenched at the thought, causing Zoro to grunt quietly.

As soon as the bathroom door swung closed, Zoro pulled his spit-soaked fingers from your mouth and you gasped for air. “Good little slut listened to me for once,” he chuckled and resumed his previous brutal pace, thick cock filling your cunt so perfectly and prodding at your cervix. 

“Fuck, I’m so close…” You whined, feeling drool drip down your chin.

Zoro promptly reached underneath you to massage your clit. “I’m right there, too, baby. Cum for me.” His words – his permission – brought you over the edge. You saw stars and really tried your best to not let the entire bar hear you. Moments later, thick spurts of cum coated your insides, Zoro biting down on your shoulder to muffle his own satisfied groan. 

You stayed pressed together as you both caught your breath, his cock still snugly inside you. “Zoro, the vibrator–” He had clearly forgotten about it, but there was no way you could ignore the incessant buzzing against your practically numb nipple. He instantly fumbled to grab the remote from his pocket, finally shutting the toy off.

“My fault,” he mumbled apologetically. Letting out a content sigh and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I know I’m an asshole, but, uh, thank you. For being so good to me.”

“You’re not an asshole,” you frowned, gently rubbing the top of his head. “I’m the one who asked for this. I like it when you’re a meanie, and I like that you like it, too.”

He grinned and nuzzled into your touch, prompting you to pull him even closer. “Is there a difference between an asshole and a meanie?”

“Of course. I would never date an asshole. Just a guy who fucks me exactly how I want it.” You giggled to yourself. “We’re going to a clothing store before we leave, by the way. You owe me a new shirt.”

When you exited the bathroom, cheeks still slightly flushed and dry sweat on your temple, Franky had stolen your chair at the table, sitting across from Luffy and chugging a bottle of cola. He spotted you two and immediately gave you a big thumbs up, shouting “Yow!”. Both of you blushed furiously — so much for avoiding getting caught by your crew. Perverts recognized perverts, you supposed. 

[beyondbellebby]

Me: yeah I'm basically a writer🥰

Also me whenever I have to write anything that isn't narrative or fiction:

[groundzero-v]

I noticed that an amazing fic I read with over 60k words and over 900 kudos...didn't receive a single comment in 2022.

There were some comments in 2021, then a gap, then a few comments from this year. That is insane.

Ao3 is not built like Wattpad, it is not meant to be treated like the 'latest hits' page where you only read the new works, or where you only click on sort by number of kudos. It doesn't matter if the fic you like is not wip anymore - if you really like the story, comment. A simple heart will do. The author won't think you're annoying, in fact they'll probably be incredibly happy.

Fic authors don't deserve to have their work just disappear with no engament after few weeks pass. The fics don't deserve it either

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

you'd never let me fall ・b.c

—Bangchan who carries you home while your a little drunk and your feet a lot a bit hurt

paring・bangchan x gn!reader // geners・fluff, established relationships // words・900 // warnings・drunkenness, if you don't like rambles or tooth-rotting fluff than you won't like this

a/n・i needed something soft and fluffy after a pretty big fight with my dad and i found this also @sunnysdiary istg i dont know what i would do without you ilysm. p.s. lowkey proud of myself for finally just writing (i only edited once for like an hour :))

You were exactly two blocks away from your apartment when the handful of shots you had thrown back earlier really started to hit you. The sun had died hours ago, the sky now sparkling with stars that seemed to dance and tangle with the streetlights in your vision.

Wow.

You were really fucked up.

You sigh, leaning deeper into the crook of Chan's neck, his hand pressed protectively against your back as he holds you up. His breathing is soft and calming when the world begins to shift again, sharp pain shooting up your legs thanks to the stupidest decision you made all night—wearing high-heels.

The only thing that could be heard over the harsh click of your foot-shaped-death-traps is your pained groan as you loll your head against Chan's shoulder and stumble over the sidewalk mindlessly.

"I'm tired, carry me home," you slur, a slight whine in your voice. He simply smiles, looking down at your dizzy gaze with tender eyes before effortlessly scooping you up bridal style.

The moon grins with you.

Your heartbeats intertwine as you squeal, lovesick giggles pouring from your lips as you hide your face in his sweat-coated neck.

There was no way he was real.

You pull away, blinking up at his sharp jaw and shiny lips, and you swore if you looked just long enough you could find the stars hung on his lashes. There was something about him, something that spread warmth underneath your ribs. You could never quite place it—the feeling bursting within you before settling down like sweet rose perfume fading off your shirt as your nose acclimates to the scent.

Perhaps it was the alcohol that made you so sentimental, or how in a rush of emotion you remember days when you used to assess others by their expressions, the tone of their voice, and the heaviness of their footsteps. You had gotten so used to living on the edge of disaster the thought of certainty deemed to be an impossible feat—that was until you met Chan. He was something special, he loved you softly, with gentle fingers and adoring gazes. He wasn't loud, not with his words or his actions, and sometimes from the outside, society might have deemed he didn't love you at all, but you knew better than that.

Just because it was subtle didn't mean it wasn't there—it just meant it was safe.

The notion alone is enough to bring tears to your eyes, drunkenly choking out: "Thank you for always carrying me."

His gaze softens before he faintly tilts his lips, muttering, "Thank you for letting me carry you."

You were almost to the house when, mindlessly, half-asleep, you mumble, "You'd never let me fall," before going limp in the comfort of Chan's strong arms.

If you weren't so drunk, you might have noticed the shift in his stride, how a shy blush falls over his cheeks and he fights the urge to spread a smile so bright across his face it would put the sun to shame.

But you were far too gone to notice. And he was so focused on keeping you safe that he didn't sense how deeply in love with him you were right then.

You were correct; down to his very last days, he would never let you fall.

You hadn't realized how close you were to the apartment before he steps through the unlocked door, your vision blurring into the darkness of your shared home. It was the silky sheets you felt first, the warmth of his hand leaving you only before he gently pulled the covers over your body and right underneath your chin.

He kisses your forehead, lips lingering there before, hesitantly, he whispers, "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't get to carry you."

He brushes a stray lock of hair from your eyes as you crack them open only to smile, lopsided and silly. "I guess we'll never know."

Bangchan stares at you for hours after that, admiring you in all your tranquility. He knows he should stop, but he also knows he can’t. It had bottled inside him for so long, and it felt as though the rug had been ripped out from under him, and suddenly his feelings flooded out of him all at once. This wasn't what average love felt like—it was pure, gentle, and, best of all, entirely absolute.

In the novels, love is described as something maddening, profound, and disorienting. And while there are moments where it felt as though the galaxy had been sewn into your fingertips, it was more than that. Chan quickly came to find that love lived in silence—the intimate moments where words didn't matter. There was no pressure or unrealistic expectations when he was with you, no anxiety about being perfect all the time. Being with you made his world feel... lighter.

He breathes, brushing a lock of hair out of your face. You shift, instinctively leaning into his touch. A small smile tugs at his lips when the moonlight catches your face just right; you were peaceful, angelic like spring flowers fluttering in the breeze.

There are very few things in this world that are truly poetic. Some may say the stars, the sea, humanity, and the very depth of our emotions. And while Chan could agree with all of those, his love for you outweighed them all.

please don't forget to reblog with tags or comment what you think your feedback makes my day 😁

[nottslove]

THE OTHER GUYS (part two) → part one.

Pairing: theo nott x malfoy reader

Warnings: VERY VERY LONG!!!!! 18+, mdni, smut, some fluff, a bit of angst, draco's little sister, brother's bsf, mean theo, dirty talk, oral, m. receiving, choking, gagging, heavy cursing, drug use (theo smoking), corruption kink, degrading, praising, google-translated italian, porn with plot, obsessive/possessive theo, innocent reader, inexperienced reader x very experienced theo, lowercaps intended. SMUT UNDER THE CUT!!

Summary: theo goes back to ignoring you at hogwarts, and you have no idea why, so this time, you find another way to grab his attention...

Author's note: this is a part two to the other girls→ part one. i would recommend reading part one, but if you don't, that's okay too. i decided to write a part two to this since a lot of people asked me to, and as a big, big thank you for 900+ notes on part one. so, thank you so much guys!! i hope you enjoy this.

THEODORE Nott was an asshole. You had come to realize that the hard way. All your life, you had loved him, put him on a pedestal, making excuses for his faults and habits, your love for him completely blinding you from seeing anything else but perfection.

Not anymore. Ever since the little moment you shared at Christmas, he had been completely ignoring you. Not even like before, where he'd give you a little nod or greeting.

No, he pretended like you didn't even exist.

Any time you'd approach him, he'd walk right past you, pretending you were invisible. And when you began following him around, trying to get his attention, you heard one of his friends ask him why you were suddenly following him around.

"Looks like you've got yourself an admirer," Mattheo jested, pointing to your figure trailing behind Theo's. "I think Malfoy's little sister's got a crush on you..."

"What a fucking baby," he drawled arrogantly, making all his friends laugh when he rudely told you to leave him alone and stop following him around. "Go away, Baby Malfoy, and stop fucking stalking me. It's creepy."

His friends howled with laughter— it was a good thing Draco wasn't there, or else he would have beaten Theo to the pulp.

Your eyes welled up as you stood there frozen, unable to move. Your gray eyes filled with tears, and your lips puckered into a pout. The red, hot sensation of humiliation coursed through your veins, and your fingers began to tremble slightly.

Your blonde curls framed your face perfectly, and you wore a white, pleated skirt and a baby pink button-up sweater, which made you look like a doll— especially with your proper, white, thigh-high stockings you wore underneath, paired with your rose-gold pumps.

"Aww, look Nott, you made her cry," Berkshire commented, noticing the way the tears balanced in your eyes.

Theo moved closer to you, his tall frame towering over yours as he looked into your eyes with his merciless, dark blue ones.

"Poor Baby Malfoy," Theo scoffed. "Such a fucking cry-baby... Can't even take a fucking joke."

His friends guffawed, making you feel worse, and a tear spilled down your cheek as you glared at Theo with as much hatred as you could muster.

"I hate you," you said quietly, loud enough for only Theo to hear your words, before you sniffled and wiped your tears with the back of your hand. "Don't you dare ever come near me again."

And without waiting for Theo's witty retort, you turned on your heel and walked away, holding back the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks.

You meant it. Every word.

No longer were you going to make excuses for his bad behavior— it was time for you to move on.

Sure, you had loved Theo since you were three, but he was no longer the same person.

Seasons change, and so do people.

Still, his public rejection stung, deflating your ego by a sizeable chunk.

Now you didn't care about Theo's attention any more. You had given him your time, attention and love, and he had rejected it, ridiculing you and embarrassing you in front of all his friends.

But once things mulled over, and you tried to force your feelings for Theo away, you realized things weren't that easy.

You still loved him.

It wasn't possible to get rid of feelings that had manifested in you for years and years, growing with time instead of fading away.

And Theo??

Well, he'd continued his life as if your feelings meant nothing to him. As if you meant nothing to him.

It exasperated you. It hurt you.

Watching him hang around with several different girls every day, pretending you did not exist.

As the approaching Hogsmeade weekend drew nearer, you found yourself constantly being asked out by other guys.

You rejected the first two, wanting to go out only with Theo, and no one else.

And then it hit you.

Why were you moping over someone who didn't care if you existed or not??

You were the only one losing out.

And so, when the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain asked you out, you said yes, desperate to drive a particular Slytherin with dark blue eyes away from your mind.

But that wasn't your only intention. Perhaps a small part of you said yes to Roger Davies was so that Theo would notice you, and feel an ounce of the jealousy you felt when you saw him with other girls.

Roger was the perfect gentleman. He held doors open for you, gave you his jacket even though you told him you weren't too cold, pulled out your chair for you, paid for your meal, and even kept his arm respectfully at your waist.

There was just one problem.

He wasn't Theo.

All throughout your date, your gaze would slide away to Theo, looking at the two girls that sat on either side of him in a cozy booth, with his hands possessively at their hips, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

He, of course, was so enamored with his harlots, as you liked to call them, that he paid no attention to you and Roger.

And even when he spotted Roger walking you back, he said nothing.

And though you'd describe your date as perfect in every other aspect, when Roger asked you if you would like to hang out a second time, you told him you would think about it.

But there was no thinking about it. It was evident, Theo was the only one you wanted.

Roger was the guy you deserved, the guy who deserved you, who made you feel like a queen, a princess.

He just wasn't Theo.

The next morning, you were completely surprised to see Roger unharmed.

It confused you, seeing as normally, Theo would beat up every boy who would ask you out.

It irked you, why he hadn't touched Roger, though you felt like a horrible person wishing for a perfect gentleman like Roger to get beaten up for no reason.

Whilst you watched Theo from afar, moving on with his life, you realized he simply didn't care.

And so, when the next Hogsmeade visit came around, Roger asked you out again, and you agreed, this time, fully intending to enjoy yourself with Roger.

With that open mindset, you realized he was a wonderful person. He was smart, funny, entertaining and handsome— perfect.

You enjoyed your second date a lot more, and slowly, you found yourself opening your doors to the idea of falling for Roger.

For Valentine's day, he even sent you a bouquet of the most exotic flowers, a mix of both tropical and garden flowers.

The old you would have cast a glance towards the Slytherin table, trying to see Theo's reaction, but the new you didn't care.

Your eyes locked with Roger's across the Great Hall, and he winked at you, causing you to blush, giggle and smile.

Little did you know, this little, sweet exchange had been caught by Theo's dark blue eyes.

The only reason you were dating Roger now was because Theo hadn't landed that bastard in the Hospital wing, and he hadn't done this because he never saw Roger Davies as a real threat.

However, when his eyes caught the way you blushed and giggled when the fucktard had winked, he knew he had to step in before your feelings for the Ravenclaw grew.

You had zero knowledge of Theo's plan. In fact, you had almost forgotten about the Slytherin completely, you found yourself daydreaming about Roger quite often.

You could say that you had begun to catch feelings for the Quidditch Captain. After all, who wouldn't?

He was perfect. In every, single way.

This time, it was you who asked Roger if he would like to go to Hogsmeade with you, and he laughed.

"I thought it was obvious that we were going together.." he chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Oh," you replied, feeling rather dumb.

"Merlin, you're so cute," the older wizard replied, gently kissing your nose. "I'll pick you up in the courtyard at five, alright?"

You were there at the courtyard, beside the fountain ten minutes to five.

And when five rolled around, Roger was nowhere to be seen.

Still, you waited for a little longer, wondering if something had perhaps held him up.

At six, still no Roger.

You didn't know what forced you to stay outside, perhaps you lost track of time, or perhaps you accepted the reality that Roger had stood you up.

You waited until after dark.

It started raining.

Your spirits had been dampened along with your clothes. All the effort you had taken to get ready— gone.

You could barely distinguish between the tears on your face and the rainwater that had drenched you.

It was dinner time, but you weren't hungry for anything but answers— why had Roger stood you up??

You got your answer when you were face to face with your unconscious boyfriend after Luna Lovegood led you to the hospital wing.

He was injured— badly. He had a black eye, a split lip and bruises all over his face, neck and hands. Madam Pomfrey also informed you that he sported three broken ribs and a cracked jaw.

Roger awoke the next morning. When you heard the news, you instantly rushed to the Hospital Wing, to check on him, ask him if he was alright.

You didn't expect him to break up with you.

"But, why?" you asked softly, you lower lip jutting out into a pout as your eyes began to water.

It had hurt. So fucking much.

"I'm really sorry... You're an amazing girl, and I really, really like you, but I don't want to end up here again... Nott said if I come near you again, he'd kill me.."

You froze.

"He said what?" your throat was dry, your voice hoarse— you simply couldn't believe your ears.

"Excuse me, I'm going to have a word with him!" you said angrily, filled with sudden rage from an unknown source.

With that, you stormed off.

As usual, you found Theo and his friends in their usual hangout spot, the dungeons, outside the common room, where they all got together and smoked.

Before he could notice your arrival, let alone say anything, you barged past his friends and raised your hand, connecting your palm with his cheek.

A satisfying smack sounded, and the tips of your fingers burned— you really had slapped him hard.

His friends oohed and aahed, and Theo shot them all a glare, rendering them silent.

"Fuck off," he told his friends, making a dismissing signal with two of his fingers, and you softened slightly, remembering how he had touched you with those fingers, how he had curled them to reach that spot that made you see stars.

However, with the way he shrugged, looking absolutely unbothered, all your anger for him suddenly came back.

"I hate you!" you growled, lifting your hand again to slap him, trying to get a rise out of him, a reaction— anything!

Before her palm connected with his face, Theo's quick reflexes ensured his fingers clasped around you wrist firmly, stopping your movements.

"Is there a reason for this sudden loss of temperament, Doll?" he drawled, drawing out a breath that was polluted with cigarette smoke.

"Why'd you do that to Roger?" you asked, wrenching your hand away from his grasp, your jaw clenched.

You didn't know what you were expecting, in all honesty, but it surely wasn't Theo acknowledging his mistake and apologizing.

Of course, he played clueless. Leaning back, he slouched against the wall, taking a drag of his cigarette and letting out a puff of smoke that made you cough.

"You'll need to be more specific, Baby," Theo drawled, gently rubbing your cheek with the back of his ringed fingers.

You hated the effect he had on you. You hated the fact that you became putty the moment he laid a single finger on you.

This time, you didn't cave in— you knew his game.

"Don't fucking touch me!" you hissed, slapping his hand away, though the echoes of his touch still lingered. "Why did you beat Roger up? What did he ever do to you?"

Theo's jaw clenched, obviously with the way you seemed so intent on fighting for Roger.

"I'm protecting you," Theo remarked. "As your older brother's best friend— you don't know what kind of guy he is..."

"Oh, and you do?" you asked, placing your hands on your hips. "Enlighten me, Nott, what kind of guy is Roger?"

The Nott boy only seemed more enraged by your question; it was evident in the way his nostrils flared the slightest bit, and how he held on to the cigarette with slight aggression...

"He's only using you. You don't see it, but he just wants to get in your pants," Theo seethed, taking a step closer to you and towering over your presence with his tall, dominating figure. "He wants to claim your virginity, like he's done with so many other girls before."

Theo's words hit you like a tidal wave. This time, your hand lifted up by its own accord and slapped Theo across the face again, and you felt the tips of your ears heat up with the anger that flooded through you.

"And you don't?" you found yourself biting back, unsure of where this newfound courage came from. "You think you're any different? Using me to get your dick hard then ignoring me for months?"

Your voice was hoarse as you laid the blatant truth out there, and your anger had turned to sadness and betrayal, and most of all— hurt. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you didn't relent. You continued to stare at Theo with utter hatred in your eyes.

But you were oblivious to his stares, to the way his fists balled up until the veins in his forearms protruded.

You kept on speaking, laying out all your feelings, once and for all, tears spilling down your pretty cheeks.

"Roger has never once placed a hand below my waist, never once made me feel unwanted, never, never, never—" you continued, your voice breaking slightly, as you spoke, overwhelmed by all the emotion.

"You just had to go and ruin my fucking life, the moment I started to fall for him—"

At this, a small sob slipped past your lips. You liked this guy, you really, really liked him, and Theo had ruined it all for you.

Theo's gaze had darkened the moment you said these words, and it was his turn to launch into a monologue.

"If I can't fucking have you, then no one else can," he growled darkly, pressing you to the wall and domineering himself over you, casting a shadow on your petite frame. "Are we fucking clear?"

You weakly pushed him away, his words causing your knees to buckle slightly as all the fight left you.

"You don't want me— you made that clear enough already," you accused, your voice cracking as you try to dodge out of his grasp. "And I should have seen it earlier, but I was just too blinded by my love for you!" your voice grows slightly higher in pitch, and you didn't realize what you'd just said until it was too late.

Realization flickered in Theo's dark blue gaze for a brief moment, before it faded away.

"You think I don't fucking want you?" he replied hoarsely, sounding far too pained by the way he was the cause for your tears, for your despair, when he had spent the brunt of his Hogwarts years hitting everyone who had ever hurt you behind your back.

"You think it was fucking easy?? Having to hear your pretty little moans when you came all over my fucking hand, and not being able to do more?" he growled, grabbing your jaw in his one hand and upturning it slightly, forcing you to look at him.

You stood frozen, not knowing where he was going with this. "You think I enjoy it, watching Roger touch what's mine?"

A tear spilled down your cheeks as you stifled a sob, but you said nothing, too frozen in place to do anything but listen to his words.

"Ever since Christmas...." he breathed, releasing your jaw, caging you in between his arms as he leaned in closer to you, until you could smell his aftershave. "Ever since Christmas, I've been trying to get that image of you out of my mind... Spread all over my lap as you drench my fucking fingers— moaning my name..."

You visited that night frequently too, when you had your fingers between your thighs at night, getting yourself off whilst imagining Theo's dark, intense stare.

He held in a sharp intake of breath, shaking his head. "Wanna know how I jerk off to that image every, single fucking night? How I imagine being the first to fill that pretty, little hole of yours?"

His words awakened all the previous feelings you had for him, and you found yourself shivering slightly as you clenched your thighs together, feeling your panties dampen slightly.

If Theo noticed, he didn't say a word— he was still continuing to speak. "Been thinking about you nonstop, since that night," he confessed, his voice taking up a low, dulcet tone as he leaned in, nose brushing your neck as he inhaled your scent. "About how you'd look, spread all over my bed as you moan my fucking name," he rumbled.

You let out a small whimper at his words, pressing your lips together, and you could feel his words affecting you as the slick between your thighs grew.

Him being so close didn't help either.

"But I can't have you, Doll," he breathed, lips dipping slightly to brush against your neck as you felt him inhale again. "Your brother would kill me... That's why I had to ignore you, make you hate me so you'd stop following me around, stop looking at me with hopeful eyes..." He paused, and his expression looked pained, like he couldn't bear to confess his thoughts and feelings.

"But then you got with that other guy, and God.... seeing you with Davies was fucking hard— at first, I tried to convince myself he was the right choice for you, but I couldn't do it— I was too fucking selfish to let anyone else have you..."

You felt the tears spill down your cheeks and you suppressed a small sob, at the rush of emotions that flooded through you at his admissions.

"You're a coward," you accused him, your voice laced with a slight whine. "And you made me feel like it was my fault— all because you didn't have the fucking courage to be a man—"

Those words were Theo's breaking point, and you heard him growl. He didn't let you finish as he dragged you to the nearest empty classroom and locked the door, away from prying eyes and nosy stares.

"Didn't have the fucking courage to be a man, huh?" Theo echoed, mocking your previous words as he towered over you, firmly gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him.

You took a step back, your back colliding with the door as you met his gaze. The soft look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glare that questioned your audacity to question his masculinity.

He wasn't thrilled. You always, always managed to get on his nerves, whether it was with your mouth, or with some outfit you donned, that always made you look so fucking adorable.

"I'll have you know, I'm more of a man than that stupid Ravenclaw of yours will ever be," he rumbled, and the look in his eyes told you he was fucking pissed.

"I don't think so," you hissed, turning around and fidgeting with the lock of the door, trying to open it and escape the prison Theo had put you in.

He harshly grabbed your arm and turned you around, until your back collided with the door as he glared at you, jaw clenched, placing a hand on either side, effectively caging you in with no escape. "No, no, not gonna work like that, Doll— you're not going anywhere..."

You could feel your teeth clap together as you stared at him angrily, yet at the same time, the tips of your ears turned red, and the sinking feeling in your stomach told you that you were trapped.

"Not until you let me prove exactly how much better I am than Davies..."

You crossed your arms over your chest, refusing to listen to him. It was at this point that you could see exactly how manipulative he was, trying to keep you tethered to him, refusing to you to love anyone else but him, yet not giving you any love in return.

"I can give you a few points," you replied cattily, your words aiming to wound him just as much as he had hurt you. "One, he isn't a coward. Two, he knows what he wants. Three—"

Theo didn't let you get to three.

Before you began speaking, he had already snapped his hips forward, and a surprised gasp left you as he quickly wrapped a hand around your neck, announcing that he was clearly the one in control in this room and asserting his dominance.

"Three, he has a much smaller dick," Theo snapped abruptly, driving his hips forwards slightly, rutting into you so you could feel exactly how big he was, how hard he was underneath his trousers.

You could feet his bulge pressing into your stomach, right above your core, where you needed it the most.

Nott took advantage of your momentarily shocked state to dip his head low, until his lips brushed against your ear.

"You feel that, Doll? See how big it is? It's gonna fucking ruin you..." he rumbled, rolling his lips slightly forward, making you whimper slightly as you clenched your thighs.

You said nothing, your eyes fluttering shut as you bit your lip to silence your tiny, desperate whines.

A cruel chuckle left his lips at your silence, which only fueled his enjoyment.

"Cat got your tongue?" he drawled, his ringed fingers sliding underneath your skirt and gripping the back of your thigh, cold rings searing into your warm skin.

"Where's the fucking smart mouth of yours?" he mocked, teeth grazing against your collarbone, eliciting a small moan from you as his cologne and aftershave flooded your senses.

His words triggered a sudden urge in you to prove him wrong. "Fuck you," you spat.

That was all it took for his hand to grip your throat and force you down to your knees, leaving no room for arguments or protests.

You gasped, too stunned to to anything but remain frozen to the floor, in utter shock.

"Let's put that pretty little mouth to better use," he grunted, using his hand on your neck to bring you closer, causing your nose to collide with his groin. "Show me what a good girl you can be and maybe, just maybe I'll reward you..."

You knew what he was asking for. But your blood tingled with nervousness, and your mouth ran dry.

You had no idea how to do this— you'd never done it before.

And Theo knew. Still, he looked at you with mock surprise, dark blue gaze boring into you, as if he were waiting for you to say something to challenge his authority.

"Is something the matter, Doll?" he drawled, playing clueless to your inexperience.

Theo was in control here, he was pulling every string, and you knew it.

You nodded, looking up at him, heat pooling in your stomach. "I d-don't— I've never... I don't know how—"

You were stuttering, so nervous.

Panic filled you at the situation you had gotten yourself into, staring up at Theo with your wide, silvery eyes and perfectly pouty, glossed lips.

He chuckled softly, and for a moment, brief tenderness flickered in his dark blue gaze.

Well, since you used your words and asked so nicely..." he trailed off, rubbing your cheek with the back of his hand. "I'll go easy on you just this once, Principessa, since it's your first time..."

You swallowed thickly, every touch of his driving you insane. It irked you, how one moment he could be so mean and cruel, and the next, he was all sweet smiles and soft caresses.

"Take my pants off," he instructed, slight affection lacing his tone.

You looked up at him, for a brief moment before your hands drifted up on their own, fingers unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his zip, which was rather difficult seeing as his pants were completely stretched out by the size of his hardened girth.

"Good girl," he praised, thumb pressing softly against your lower lip. "Now the boxers."

The soft pad of his thumb smudged your lip gloss, as your fingers hooked around the waistband of his boxers, and your mouth ran dry as you slowly began tugging them down, trembling slightly with nervousness.

A hitch blistered in your throat when you saw Theo's dick for the first time, and Merlin— he wasn't kidding when he said it would fucking ruin you.

It sprang free from his boxers, slapping against his stomach and making him emit a quiet hiss from his lips. Beads of precum slid down the veiny length to his balls, and you were rendered speechless once more, your mouth completely dry.

Your dumbfounded expression only caused Theo to chuckle softly, gently patting the side of your face with his hand.

"Who knew, all it took was a little dick to keep that pretty little mouth quiet, hmm?" he muttered. "Per me è una vera sgualdrina…"

His large hand wrapped around his girth, and he gave his cock a few pumps quietly hissing in pleasure.

"Take me in your hands now, come on, Principessa, don't be shy..." he cooed, encouraging you to relax for him a little.

You nodded, tentatively bringing your one hand to wrap around the base of his length, clenching your thighs when he moaned loudly, not even hiding his desire for you.

"Fuck— proprio così..." he rasped, and you could feel him throbbing in your hand, as you slowly ran your fingers down his length, tracing over his every vein.

He guided the tip to your lips, slowly dragging the pink flesh across your plump lips, causing your lip gloss to smudge and mingle with his precum.

"Apri la bocca, open up that pretty mouth for me, Doll—" he murmured, and his other hand flew to the back of your neck as he led your head closer, rings pressing into your warm skin and causing you to shiver.

As you looked up at him, you could see the quiet traces of pleasure that laced his features as he guided his cock to your mouth, and you suddenly had the unwavering urge to please him, make him forget all those other girls.

Your lips parted, and the slightly salty taste of his precum grazed against your tongue as the tip of his dick filled your mouth.

"Good girl," he praised, tapping your cheek twice, "wrap those pretty lips around me— fuck, just like that..."

Once you got used to having him in your mouth, your tongue lightly traced over the tip of his lick, causing him to nearly buck his hips into your mouth.

"Now suck—" he grunted. "Fuck Doll, it's not gonna fit, use both hands..."

You brought both your hands to grip the base of his cock as you slowly began so suck, your pinky finger grazing against his balls, drawing out his pleasure.

Curses spewed from his lips in both English and Italian, which only fueled you to do better, and you pressed your head further down, trying to take more of him into your mouth.

As you sucked, your tongue pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock, and Theo was doing everything in his power to hold himself back from losing control and mercilessly fucking your mouth.

"Shit— shit, baby girl— doing so fucking well— you look so Goddamn perfect with my cock filling your pretty little mouth—" he groaned, fist tightening in your hair as he rutted his hips into your mouth, causing the tip of his cock to press against the back of your throat.

You gagged, tears springing to your eyes, and the sight was enough to make Theo almost cum in your mouth.

"Now bob your head, up and down, just like that," he instructed, using the hand at the back of your neck and his grip on your hair to guide your movements before allowing you to resume control.

Saliva dribbled down your chin in masses, and tears streamed down your cheeks with every time his cock hit the back of your throat. You choked and gagged, and every little sound you made was driving Theo insane.

Sweat beaded at your forehead, and your baby hairs clung to your brow, and you slid your teary gaze up to meet his eyes, and that was the moment Theo died internally.

He had thought of you so many times like this, touched himself at the thought of branding you as his personal slut, his personal fucktoy.

He had longed to cover your pretty little tongue with his thick seed, fill that mouth of yours, and this sight before him was a dream come true.

"Fuck— fuck— Doll, I'm so close," he rasped, bucking his lips into your mouth involuntarily, causing you to gag again, and another wad of saliva slid down your chin and dripped down your neck. "Doing so good—"

He had lost all ability to even look at the sight before him, head thrown back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes closed tightly, his stomach rising and falling with his irregular breathing.

He couldn't concentrate on anything except your warm, wet mouth around his cock, bringing him closer to release and sending his mental state into spirals.

"I'm gonna cum inside your mouth," he warned you, but you didn't relent. "Cazzo, cazzo, Principessa— mi ucciderai..."

Before you knew it, his thighs shook slightly, and the salty taste of his cum hit your tongue, as he filled his mouth with your seed.

He shivered as your cheeks stretched slightly, accumulating his release before they emptied, and a sharp moan of desire left his lips when you swallowed as much as you could, the rest dripping down your chin.

He pulled his dick out with a soft pop, but you didn't let go, not yet. You licked your lips, and ran your tongue across the length of his cock, cleaning every bit of the sinful mess the two of you created.

He tried to calm down, to regulate his breathing, and once he composed himself, he instantly pulled up his pants, sliding his belt back into place.

Then, he crouched down to where you were on the floor, still on your knees, eyes closed and trying to breathe evenly, trying to ignore your obvious need for him between your thighs.

You opened your eyes when you felt Theo softly hold on to your shoulders.

"Are you okay, Baby girl?" he murmured softly, using his tie to slowly wipe the mess on your chin and neck, lips softly brushing against your forehead. "God— you did so well for me, looked so fucking pretty on your knees for me—"

You nodded, basking in the golden glory of his praise, letting him pamper you just a little. His hands straightened your clothes out, and your hair, with tender touches, and you were surprised to see this side of Theo that came out just for you, and only for you.

His large hands softly cupped your cheeks as he made you look into his eyes, searching for any signs of injury or discomfort.

"Can I kiss you, pretty girl?" he breathed softly, his nose brushing against yours.

You nodded, and his lips connected with yours, engaging you in a liplock that was both passionate and lustful, his lips worshipping yours and causing you to let out a soft moan.

Theo softly chuckled once more, hand drifting to your inner thigh, underneath your skirt.

"You need me, Doll?" he whispered huskily, fingers gently grazing over your sensitive folds over the thin, soaked fabric of your panties, causing you to let out a soft whimper.

He kissed you again, helping you to your feet, allowing you to grip him for balance. His lips brushed against yours ever so softly.

"You deserve a reward for that, did so fucking good," he promised, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears. "How about you go freshen up, and I'll see you tonight outside the room of requirement, hmm?

"Okay," you murmured, clearing your throat as the blush on your features grew darker.

And as you opened the door, you heard Theo's voice call after you.

"And don't hang out with other guys..."

profile; nav;

©nottslove 2025. do not copy, steal or claim any works/graphics as your own.

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[dilf-hunter-fantasies]

[900 words of fluff, smut, and breeding kink]

Daydreaming about...

Husband!Joel Miller and the first time it slipped from your lips.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen. 

It was a sultry summer evening, the kind where the air still clung to you even after the sun dipped below the horizon. You’d both been a little buzzed, the walk home from the neighborhood block party filled with laughter and teasing touches. 

Joel had barely managed to close the front door before his lips were on yours, his hands greedy and warm as they wandered under your sundress.

It had been the kind of night where everything felt heightened—the taste of his tongue against yours, the way his calloused palms felt against your skin, and how his every touch seemed to unravel you. He’d taken you to bed with that intense, unfiltered adoration in his eyes, the kind that always left you weak in the knees. 

He was almost too much, murmuring worshipful praises into your ear, and against every inch of your skin. He had that sparkle in his eyes that made you melt. Everything was a pleasant blur, the way your bodies fit together, your giggles as he nearly growled, trying to pull you closer. 

The haze of his tender, overwhelming love, was more intoxicating than the warmth of the sun and the last hints of alcohol buzzing in your veins. He was pure devotion, attuned to every part of your body, every thought you might have, and coaxing you into a state of euphoria. 

You didn’t even realize you were talking, rambling softly between gasping breaths as he rocked into you, filling you to the brim until your eyes rolled back. But you’d been singing sweet praises right back to him. 

“So good,” you whispered. “Just like that, fuck.” 

And he did exactly as you said, hitting that perfect angle that had you floating away, lost in the bliss. 

And then it happened. 

Slipping free, soft and breathy between moans. “Oh, fuck,” your brows scrunching together in that way they always did when you were close. “Cum deep, baby, I need it.” Another moan rolled through you as he thrust his cock so deep it kissed the end of you. “That’s it. I want to carry it inside me, always. Fill me up until it takes, Joel.” 

Joel had frozen for a moment, his gaze locking on yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His cock twitched inside of you like he was somehow even harder than he’d ever been. Something primal flickered in his dark eyes, his jaw tightening before he let out a deep, guttural groan. 

Whatever switch you’d flipped in him sent him spiraling into something wild, feral. He’d pumped into you like it was his sole purpose, whispering filth and adoration in equal measure, his body relentless against yours until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. A tangled vine of limbs. 

Now, a couple of years into your marriage, that same insatiable energy has returned. But this time it’s real. Tangible. The decision to start trying for a baby had been an exciting one, but you hadn’t anticipated how it would unleash a new, unstoppable side of your husband.

Joel’s been radiating pure, unadulterated want for weeks now. It’s in the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire universe. It’s in his hands, which can’t seem to stay off you, whether he’s tugging you into his lap on the couch, pressing against you in the kitchen, or pulling you into the shower under the guise of saving water.

You’re attempting to finish making dinner when you feel him behind you. His strong arms slide around your waist, his chest pressing firmly against your back. His hands find their way to your hips first, then drift upward, cupping your breasts as his thumbs tease over the sensitive peaks through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine. “How am I s’posed to keep my hands off ya when you look like this?”

“Joel,” you protest weakly, though the way your breath catches betrays you. “I’m trying to cook.”

“Don’t care,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Need you, darlin’. Right here, right now.” His hands trail lower, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your leggings, and you’re gone, dinner long forgotten as he husks into your ear about how he’s gotta keep you filled up. Spouting off nonsense like how he can hear your pussy beggin’ for him, how she’s feelin’ empty and needs him too.

And somehow, no matter how filthy and feral he gets for you, it’s endearing. Wrapped in love and yearning for the idea of a family. Of more to love. 

The rest of your days—and nights—follow the same pattern. 

You find yourself pinned against the kitchen counter, bent over the couch, tangled in the sheets. He’s unstoppable, each touch, kiss, and thrust carrying a purpose that leaves you trembling and breathless.

Even at work, he’s insatiable. A quick trip to his job site to drop off his lunch turns into a heated, stolen moment in the back of your car. His kisses are ravenous, his hands rough but loving as he pulls you into his lap, his gruff voice murmuring, “Can’t wait, baby. Need you now.”

Every touch feels like a vow, every whispered word a promise. Joel loves you with his whole being, and now, with the thought of building a family together, that love has taken on an obsessive edge that leaves you dizzy and utterly devoted to him.

Late one night, as you lie together in the afterglow, his hand splayed possessively over your lower belly, he looks at you with those hearts in his eyes.

“This time,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I feel it.” 

And you believe him. 

click here for more of my writing

let me know if you liked this or if you'd like to be tagged for my writing

dividers

🍒 @lovely-vamp-princess 🍒 @mushgloomz 🍒 @untamedheart81

[takes1]

imagine: aone takanobu is too big

details. woopsie cold start / fem!reader / mutual, intense size kink / established relationship / sexual dysfunction / begging / themes of self-restraint / f!rec oral / brat meets soft top / 900 words

his rough hands swallow up your shaky thighs, keeping you steady, supported, but more importantly spread for his wide, slick tongue to break you in.

"taka'-," you try, but your voice doesn't carry your words.

he hums, approving, against you, a low vibration that forces a whine from your tight throat. he loves the way you say his name. if feels like nobody can do it the justice that you do.

"o-h my god--, oh-!" your moans crescendo at his hungry sucking at your clit.

he stays, diligent and devoted, until he's edged you enough times to bring out the right amount of desperation, a pitiful state of trembling, and tears that threaten to spill from your eyes.

he brings you back and forth over the flat of his tongue, the heat from his breath and the strength in his grip too much to take when your cunt is that overstimulated-- you cum hard, loud, and he's there to hold you through it.

you can't sit upright anymore. your legs won't do it. but always the gentleman, he's there to help you onto your back.

not for cuddles, like you thought-- he looms over you for just a moment, a sloppy kiss to your quivering bottom lip, and he slips from your shaky, weak hands to slide right back down between your legs.

"taka'," you cry, "i can't--,"

"you know you can."

his wide shoulders keep you from squeezing him away. he sucks a distracted, harsh kiss into the crease of your thigh and it turns into tens more. those big, thick, calloused fingers go from lazily rubbing over your pussy to stuffing them deep inside. he knows you can usually take three but you won't right now.

the way you look down gets him as hard as a rock. his strong, square jaw works under your pleading and glossy gaze.

he wishes he could fuck you senseless with no risk.

he's knuckle-deep, sucking on your clit, and fucking you with his eyes when you try to bargain with him.

"i'm-- i'm ready," you whine, his work shirt balled up in your fists, pushed up so you could smell it while he ate you out, "promise. i am."

it's a lie. he can hear it. he can feel it.

his frustration goes into a hard nick to your thigh, a groan that doesn't quite make it past his busy lips. it's the restraint you have him exercise that makes him crazy. it was hard enough if you could make it easy, for you not to entertain a bad idea.

the begging, though. he clings to your thigh like a lifeline, hips already heavy but now sinking down into the cool sheets.

before he can tell you no, because that look always meant 'no, baby' you keep going:

"i need you. i need you so- bad," you're getting short of breath so you take a gasp.

you're already tight around just two of his fingers. he squeezes his eyes shut, with a strangled grunt, barely able to listen to you as you continue.

"ple-ase, please, please--,"

he takes his fingers back slowly, much like the way he clambers back up to sit on his knees, parting your legs a bit too wide so he can take a good, long stare at you.

his cock aches, strong, and it spreads a sharp and unpleasant kind of longing through his whole stomach- up to his chest.

he loves the way you clutch his shirt, how you tense at his burly form over you, your eyes searching him for new things to appreciate.

you love the strict, pained look in his brow. how tortured he really is, it gives you a kick. it's no lie that you want him to fuck you, but you weren't as dumb as you often played it. but if there's any responsibility to shoulder, like this restraint, aone does it for you a heartbeat. you have fun where you can.

your palm stretches out to rub on him through his boxers. you get maybe one, two, seconds of tactile play before he snatches your wrist and pushes his body over you, pinning it with absolutely no resistance.

"you know i can't," sounds horrible, and jealous, and mean.

only now do you put up a tiny fight. a squirm against his sullen, sulky kisses.

"taka-!"

"stop," he cuts you off, then keeps you silent with his palm.

"just-," his eyes evade yours for a moment, and you know he's not so tough, "please-, please stop begging me."

he's breathier, and heavier, as he rolls his hips onto yours. it's gentle, but the friction feels so good that your eyes just roll back into your skull. you relax under his weight.

"you know i can't-," he repeats, over and over again so he won't forget it, as he pushes his constrained cock against you.

his kindness doesn't help. you want him so much more for it.

links. longer haikyuu. my other imagines. my masterlist. requests open.

notes. titled: i do what i want and what i want is aone takanobu!! god i cant stop writing him. nobody requests him. but i do. for me. to myself.

taglist. 🤍 @integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

[maeintree]

almost doesn't count | s. reid

Summary: Spencer Reid has been crushing on you ever since you joined the BAU, and Valentine’s Day feels like the perfect time to finally ask you out Pairing: early seasons!Spencer Reid x agent!fem!Reader Word Count: -900 Author's Note: just some fillers to put something on my masterlist! and some lil lovey dovey valentine's day fics!! this is really short but i missed spencer so here ya go!

Spencer Reid had been working up the courage for weeks.

It wasn’t as if asking someone out was an impossible feat—he had recited entire passages of obscure literature from memory, broken down complex behavioral patterns in serial killers, and once even explained the mechanics of quantum entanglement to Morgan (who had promptly told him to shut up).

But somehow, walking up to you and asking you out on Valentine’s Day seemed more daunting than anything he’d ever faced before.

His crush on you had been a quiet thing at first, sneaking up on him the moment you joined the team. It started with stolen glances across the bullpen, the way your laugh made his heart stutter, and how you always listened—really listened—when he rambled. And then, before he knew it, you were in his thoughts more often than he cared to admit.

So, on Valentine’s Day, he made a decision: he was going to ask you out.

It started with a simple Valentine’s Day card. Well, simple in theory. In reality, it was an intricately folded piece of card-stock, filled with Spencer’s neat (?) but small handwriting, detailing an absurdly specific statistic about the origins of Valentine’s Day traditions.

You knew it was meant to be sweet, in his own Spencer way, but it also made your heart race in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

Spencer, naturally, was oblivious.

“So, historically, Valentine’s Day wasn’t actually a romantic holiday,” he had begun, sitting across from you in the BAU’s break room, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. “It originated from the Roman festival Lupercalia, which was a—uh—fertility ritual involving the sacrifice of goats and, um, the slapping of women with strips of their hides.

Which is—obviously—not romantic at all, but somewhere around the 14th century, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote ‘Parlement of Foules,’ and that’s where the association with love really started. Although there’s also speculation that St. Valentine himself was a priest who performed marriages in secret, which is why—”

You leaned forward, watching him with amusement as he continued rambling, the words spilling out at an almost frantic pace.

It was endearing, the way he talked so much when he was nervous, and you weren’t sure if he was even aware of how much he was saying at this point.

“Spencer,” you interrupted gently, resting a hand over his. “Breathe.”

He blinked rapidly, as if suddenly realizing he hadn’t taken a proper breath in minutes. “Right. Breathing. That’s—uh—important.”

His cheeks turned a shade of pink that rivaled the candy hearts Garcia had placed around the office. “What I—I mean, what I was trying to say is that I know Valentine’s Day is usually about, um, flowers and chocolates and not historical analysis, but I—uh—I wanted to give you something that—”

“That’s uniquely you?” you offered, smiling.

He exhaled, relieved. “Yes. Exactly.”

You took the card, running your fingers over the embossed edges. It was thoughtful, sweet, and—most importantly—Spencer. “I love it.”

Spencer’s face lit up in a way that made your heart stutter. But before either of you could say anything more, a loud whistle from the doorway made you both turn.

“Reid,” Morgan drawled, grinning as he sauntered in. “Did I just hear you giving a TED Talk on Valentine’s Day?”

Behind him, JJ and Emily exchanged knowing smirks, while Hotch simply raised an eyebrow in quiet amusement.

“Oh, he didn’t just give a TED Talk,” Garcia chimed in, appearing suddenly with her arms full of pink-wrapped candies. “Our resident genius just made the most adorably awkward Valentine’s confession in BAU history.”

Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

And despite his embarrassment, despite the teasing, despite the overwhelming urge to disappear into the floor, Spencer smiled. Because, for once, he didn’t entirely mind being the center of attention.

It was supposed to be simple. Once everyone clocked out, he’d find you outside, ask if you wanted to get dinner—something casual, no pressure. But as he stepped outside, he saw you before he could call your name.

And he saw the man standing next to you.

Saw the way you smiled at him. Saw the way he cupped your cheek before leaning in to kiss you.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, feeling his heart plummet to his stomach. The words he had rehearsed in his head over and over evaporated into nothing.

The man pulled away, and you hugged him before stepping into a car, leaving Spencer frozen where he stood.

“Well, that sucks,” Garcia’s voice cut in, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed her walking up beside him, arms crossed as she watched the same scene unfold.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Who is he?”

Garcia tilted her head, looking at him like she was about to break bad news. “That’s her boyfriend. Aren’t they cute?”

Spencer felt something in his chest tighten, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “They are.”

Garcia’s face softened. “Spence…”

But he was already turning back toward the parking lot, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Garcia.”

She sighed, watching him walk away, before muttering under her breath, “Okay..”

help this feels so ooc for him, i'm so used to writing cocky people.. i'm so sorry! but anyhow, likes, comments, & reposts are greatly appreciated!

[staytinyzen]

(Mis)delivered Confessions

Bff!San x gn Reader no gender mentioned for reader (Friends to lovers trope)

Sending a message to the wrong person.

Warnings: slight swearing for the first part? Ig that’s it

Word count: ~ 900

Part 1 | Part 2

You were lying on your sofa legs draped over the armrest, typing on your phone as you helped your friend draft a confession text.

"Y/N, I can't do this! There's no way I can tell him!" she almost yelled through the speaker.

“Girl, chill. You're overthinking it. You just have to be honest. What could go wrong?" you replied, half-listening as you typed out a possible confession for her to send.

She had been crushing on a guy in her class who she befriended on the first day but didn’t know how to take the relationship further, she was freaking out so she asked for your help before losing her mind.

“Hi, this might be random and maybe not the best time but I've been holding this in for a while… I really like you. Every time I see you, I feel like my heart is gonna explode, I can't stop thinking about you. If you’re not feeling the same, I hope this won’t change a thing in our relationship and we can continue being friends…”

You glanced over the message, feeling satisfied. You hit send.

“There, I wrote it. All you have to do is send it. Easy, right?” You said happily.

“Thank you I’ll try, can you send it?”

You were confused, “Girl I just did ?”

“I cannot see it can you send it again ?”

“Wait…” You sat up straight on your couch and looked at your phone screen.

And then... sheer horror.

Because the name at the top of the chat wasn't hers.

It was “Sannie^⩊^”

Your best friend.

Your neighbor.

“Oh fuck…” you really fucked up.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no!” you groaned, scrambling to your feet as panic set in.

Your friend asked what was happening as she had no clue what was going on.

“Oh no I did not just do that”

“Just tell me what’s happening!”

“I did actually send the message but not to you but to San… OH MY GOD!! I can’t delete it either, I have to tell him it’s not meant for him, I’m so dumb”

San.

The person you had spent countless nights watching movies with, stealing food from, and leaning on when life got rough—whether that meant venting about a bad day, sitting in comfortable silence, or simply knowing he was there, always ready to catch you when you stumbled.

Panicked, you scrambled to type:

"Wait!! That wasn’t for you! OMG, please ignore that!!"

Ironically, while pushing your friend to confess to this guy, you were pushing your own feelings to the side, not wanting to lose him, the person you cared about the most and loved so much that you preferred ignoring whatever you felt.

Yeah, great job. So much for telling your friend "it's easy" and the whole "what could go wrong?" speech.

You were panicking, even if you were to explain the situation, things would be awkward.

Soon enough three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

You stared blankly at your screen.

You felt like you might throw up.

“I’ll call you later okay ?” You ended the call without waiting for her response, her crush can wait a bit.

You were still standing in the middle of your living room not knowing what to do.

Suddenly your phone buzzed:

Sannie^⩊^: “Oh. Got it”

That was it? Just “Oh. Got it”?! No teasing? No jokes? He always teased you!

Your phone buzzed again.

Sannie^⩊^ : “Who was it for?”

Your breath caught. For some reason, you didn’t want to explain the whole situation it felt too… complicated. It really wasn’t meant for him but what if it was the universe just pushing you because you’ve been hiding for a long time yet you weren’t ready for that.

So you took the coward’s way out :

“It doesn’t matter. Just ignore it.”

Sannie^⩊^: “Okay.”

The awkwardness in that one word made your stomach twist.

You groaned, throwing yourself onto your sofa. Maybe if you stayed here long enough, you’d just disappear.

But then—

A knock at your door.

You frowned. It was late. Who—

Another knock. Louder this time.

With a sinking feeling, you opened the door.

And there stood San, messy tousled hair, hoodie slightly askew, neckline slightly off, he probably just threw it on before coming over, he looked hot… and—frustrated?

“You’re seeing someone?” he blurted out, stepping inside before you could answer.

“What?” You blinked, slowly closing the door.

San ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tense. “You wouldn’t tell me who that text was for. And it wasn’t me. So who is it?”

You gaped at him. “Why do you care?”

His eyes flickered. “I—” He hesitated, then scoffed. “I don’t. I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

“San.” You crossed your arms. “Are you jealous?” You asked trying to joke and ease the tension.

He scoffed again—too quickly. “No.”

But his ears were red.

Your heart pounded. “Then why are you here?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. “I just… I thought—” He exhaled sharply. “I thought I had more time.”

Your breath caught. “Time?”

His gaze locked onto yours, raw and unguarded. “Time before you fell for someone else.”

Silence…

A shaky laugh escaped you. “San…”

He swallowed hard. “Tell me it wasn’t supposed to be me.”

You hesitated. A part of you wanting to explain the misunderstanding.

His voice dropped almost whispering“Tell me, and I’ll drop this.”

Your heart screamed at you, but you were frozen.

Maybe you were meant to send that text to him after all.

Next

[rindreamery]

can i please get a fluffy nagi seishiro drabble with topping one as laying on your head on their chest and topping two as best friends to lovers?thank you!

ORDER 3: READY TO GO !

nagi + sweet + laying your head on their chest + best friends to lovers w.c. 900+

note. thank you guys for your patience with these 🙏 literally drowned in schoolwork for finals so i haven't really had time to write freely as i wanted to

interested in more? check out the lounge !

the thermostat in nagi’s apartment always feels like it’s cranked to the lowest temperature possible. 

the living room is freezing, the chill is constantly nipping at your skin, and you’re uncomfortably aware of the goosebumps scattered across your skin. you’re shivering in your spot, the type of cold where you can feel it under your skin and in your stomach, and the regret of wearing a worn-out hoodie is finally starting to sink in. it doesn’t help that your once-hot drink has long turned cold, effectively getting rid of your last source of warmth. 

nagi’s so unfazed, and it bothers you how he manages to look so comfortable like this, while you feel like you’re on the verge of contracting hypothermia. but you don’t want to get up; you don’t want to leave the comfort of the corner of the couch and expose yourself even more. (and in some ways, you start to think that you and nagi really are meant for each other. you’re both lazy.)

“it’s freezing, sei.” you nudge him on his thigh with your foot, easy access from where your feet lay on his lap. it’s an exceptionally rough nudge, and he groans softly at the feeling, but he only spares you a quick glance before he’s drawing his attention back to his phone. typical. your eyes twitch, your lips press into a thin line, and you’re visibly unimpressed with the man sitting next to you. you nudge him again, “can’t you crank the thermostat up, or something?”

there’s a brief pause—

“‘m too lazy,” — then comes his predictable response. you’ve had this conversation about one hundred times in the past, and his response is always the same. word-for-word, without fail. you sigh to yourself, because, quite frankly, you’re not quite sure why you were expecting something different from him this time around. you’ve accepted your fate, and you’re just about to throw your feet off his lap, ready to make the five second tread to the thermostat on the wall. but you feel a large hand press down on your ankles, trapping you. “don’t get up.”

a complaint lies on the tip of your tongue, and you have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. 

“what am i supposed to do then?” you grumble, crossing your arms and defeatedly sinking back into the cushions. (though, to be fair, you didn’t put up much of a fight.) his hold on your ankles never leave, and his grip tightens, ever so slightly. “you want me to freeze to death, huh?”

“c’mere,” nagi tugs at your ankles, pulling your body from its spot by an inch. he’d put his phone off to the side, and he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to come over to him. your brows subtly pinch together in confusion, and you stay frozen in your spot, unsure of what he wants you to do. “i’m warm,” he adds, as if to convince you. 

your heart does a flip at the sight of him slightly opening his arms, inviting you to crawl over to him. but you don't rush over to him. 

you're nervous. you’ve never outright cuddled with nagi— maybe pressed your shoulders against him, thighs touching, at best. but there’s never been a situation in which you were snuggled up against him and wrapped in his arms. so there’s hesitation behind your movements as you squeeze your way into the space he’s made for you, unsure of where to place yourself and where to put your hands. do you wrap your arms around him? do you lay them on his chest— and you shake the thought out of your head.

too intimate. (but, then again, this whole situation is.)

“lay on my chest,” he mumbles by your ear. his hands are planted firmly onto your sides, guiding you into a position comfortable for the two of you, and you let him. you feel awkward and rigid the whole time, but oddly pliant under his touch, and you try your best not to act like a wooden plank against him. but it doesn’t work, and he grunts at how stubborn you are, resisting him. “try to relax a little,” and you awkwardly laugh, a nervous response. 

it takes a second for the two of you to find your place. as you lay your head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat wraps you in a sense of calm— each beat like a soft, reassuring thrum, to calm your nerves. you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, and it almost feels like a rocking lull.

you’re becoming aware of the fact that he’s surprisingly comforting. so you allow yourself to melt into him, little by little, and he reciprocates by wrapping his arms around your waist. you feel him press his chin on the top of your head, and the way his fingers sneak under your hoodie to draw idle patterns on the skin of your back. (this feeling is foreign and weird to you, but welcome in a way.)

you’re sure nagi can feel your heartbeat, and the way it threatens to beat out of your chest, but you can feel his too.

his pulse quickens when one of your hands press against the planes of his chest, the other arm falling to your side. you feel him take a sharp intake of breath, the way his chest abruptly rises before slowly falling back down, in a shaky breath. “you warm now?” he whispers, his voice a level of gentle you’ve never heard before. 

“yeah,” you whisper back, completely settling into him, cheek pressed against the fabric of his hoodie. your hearts are still racing from the nerves of being so close, but you’re both relaxed— at peace. a silent understanding. 

you feel his mouth quirk up into a faint smile, as he presses his face deeper into your hair. “let’s take a nap together.” 

maybe, this was nagi’s plan all along.

© rindreamery, 2024

[lilazooo]

Leather Jackets & First Editions

Jason Todd x Reader / fluff, slice of life

You noticed him the first time he walked in—mostly because he looked completely out of place.

Leather jacket, bruised knuckles, a scowl that could burn a hole through your romance display table. He scanned the shelves like they personally offended him and picked up a copy of The Catcher in the Rye only to frown at it like it owed him money.

You arched an eyebrow from behind the counter. “Lost?”

But then you saw the way his fingers hovered over the spines—familiar, practiced. He traced the titles like they meant something. Like he already knew what he was looking for.

“Not lost,” he replied, eyes still on the shelf. “Just judging Holden.”

___________________________________________

He started showing up every Thursday.

Never bought anything at first. Just skimmed the shelves, made dry comments about genre tropes, and asked questions like:

"Why does every thriller have a dead wife?"

Or

"Is it legally required for fantasy books to be 900 pages?"

You snorted once and said, “You’re one broken spine away from being banned.”

“I like the way you threaten me,” he said without missing a beat, and your heart might’ve stuttered a little.

___________________________________________

He didn’t talk much at first—just quiet nods and one-word answers. But he always carried a book with him, even if he wasn’t buying one. Always marked up with underlines, notes in the margins, and dog-eared corners that made your inner librarian twitch.

After a while, you stopped pretending not to notice the way he lingered. How he’d show up when the place was quiet. How he always left just after closing, like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

One Thursday, you slid a copy of The Secret History across the counter—his style, a little dark, a little obsessive—and tucked a folded scrap of paper between the pages.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only gave you that half-smile like he already knew.

Later that night, your phone lit up.

"Do I have to fake return this to see you again, or can I just ask you out?"

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Congrats for the 900

"Did you just throw me a pillow?"

For the evnt pls

~850 words

Your boyfriend has been busy all day. The day he was supposed to spend with you. But no, he was more distracted by phone calls, case files, and taking care of Haley.

Don't get it wrong, you love Haley, but petsitting the one day Jason promised to take you out for dinner? That stung.

So, if you were a little huffy and evasive the entire day, well, it's not like he actually noticed.

Sure, maybe you should communicate your feelings. Maybe you should tell him that you're feeling neglected and hurt. But he's a detective! He really can't take two seconds to realize his partner wants his attention just long enough to eat dinner?

You lose your patience when he tells you he'll heat up food later, and that you don't need to worry about him. He's supposed to be dressed and ready to go for your reservations, but he's not. He has one hand on some forensic sheets, and the other petting Haley.

He doesn't even look up at you. Even though you'd put in the effort to look nice. He still doesn't look up when you leave to lock yourself in your bedroom.

Jason doesn't come in until it's late, late enough that you'd normally be asleep. Instead, you're curled up in the center of the bed, heartbroken and angry.

He creeps into the room like he's trying not to wake you, and you feel your emotions flare. You don't even think before you hurl a pillow straight at his head.

He's clearly not expecting it, but years of reflexes have his hands in the air to catch the projectile, "Did you just throw me a pillow," he asks, clearly stunned.

"Go sleep on the couch," you hiss, burying your face in the sheets to hide your red-rimmed eyes.

"Baby," he breathes out, ignoring your request, he drops the pillow at the end of the bed and sits next to you, rubbing his hand over your arm, "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He sounds soft, worried. He sounds like he actually cares, and it's enough to break the floodgates of emotions you've been forcing back all day.

Your words tumble out, broken and disorientated, "You ignored me all day– Today was supposed to be our day and we had those dinner reservations and I dressed up and you didn't even look at me."

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, fingers stilling against your skin, "I'm so sorry. That was today?"

You nod weakly, hiding your face further in the blankets, embarrassed now that you've gotten everything off your chest. It feels small when you say it out loud. It makes you feel small.

"Let me look at you now," he asks gently, slowly starting to rub your arm again.

"I'm a mess now," you choke out, "I dressed up hours ago."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, "really, I– I never meant to hurt you. I got busy and–" he exhales shakily, lightly tugging your arm to get you to face him, "I know it's not an excuse. I should have done better by you."

You peek at him over your shoulder, and the misery on his face makes your heart lurch.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, slowly reaching to brush the tears off his face when you finally face him. He runs his thumb across the tracks of tears staining your cheeks, face furrowed.

"I'm sorry," he tells you again, lowering his head to kiss your forehead, "You're the most important thing to me. I never want to make you think differently."

You nod a little, helpless in the face of his genuine grief over hurting you. You lean into his touch, finding comfort in his soothing touches.

"I'll take you out twice this week to make up for it," he promises, kissing the rest of your tears away, "and we can spend all day together tomorrow. Does that sound good?"

"That sounds good," you echo hesitantly, your fingers finding his wrist as you speak, an unspoken ask for him to stay close.

He smiles at you, and leans down to nuzzle your throat, literally your skin with mumble apologies and kisses.

His continued onslaught of touches are only stopped by Haley jumping on the bed, clearly delighted to be your company.

You laugh at how quickly she curls up on your stomach, offering your hand slobbery licks when you go to pet her.

"Do you still want me to sleep on the couch, sweetheart," he asks, studying your every movement. It's clear he'd do whatever you asked of him.

"I want you to stay," you tell him. It's all the permission he needs, and he's quick to lay at your side, dragging his leg over yours and throwing an arm over your waist, careful not to disturb Haley.

He presses his mouth to your temple and stays there, taking you in. You think he's going to fall asleep like that for a moment. But then he speaks, "You know you're my whole world, right?"

"I– yeah. I know," you mumble, curling into him, "I just forget sometimes."

He hums, tangling you closer to him, "Then I'll remind you. Everyday. Until you can't forget."

It's another promise. Another vow. And this one, like so many others, you know he'll keep.

[calummss]

Monsters | Elijah Mikaelson

masterlist

summary: you had been raised to hunt vampires. kill them before they killed you. yet the truth was not true. your parents came from a long lineage of vampire hunters and when they found out you had not only sided with them but protected them, they knew they had to save their little girl—even if it meant torturing her

pairing: elijah mikaelson x fem! reader

words: 900

a/n: for the sake of the fic reader’s name is salem. tw torture and not entirely proofread

Your head was pounding. You could feel everything pulsing as you slowly regained your consciousness. Your lids felt heavy, your neck hurt from your head resting on your chest. You opened your eyes to see where you were but you could only make faint lines of your surroundings. Everything was blurry, everything was dark. With half open eyes you scanned your surroundings but there was only stone. A cellar made out of dark stone, shackles fused to the walls.

My cellar? You thought as you slowly moved your head, two dark figures standing in front of you.

“Who are you?”

“Sweetheart…”

You knew that voice. The voice that taught you. The voice that read you bedtime stories. The voice that told you that you were born to be one thing and one thing only.

“Mom?” Your voice, dry and hoarse, barely managing to speak as your body was still not in its usual state.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Your mother knelt before you, brushing back your sweat-drenched hair like she was still a little girl waking up from a bad dream; but the warmth was gone.

“What? What are you– Why can’t I move?” You tried standing up but you were chained to the chair.

“We are going to fix you.”

Dad?

“I’m sorry sweetheart but we had no other choice,” your father came forward, the ceiling light barely illuminating his face. “We had to drug you to get you here.”

“Drug me? What is this—?” You pulled against the chains, “What the fuck is going on?”

“You were raised to be strong!” His voice was deep and loud, echoing between the walls. “To protect our family’s legacy. And then you go and side with them. With our enemies!”

“No.” You breathed. “You raised me to be a killer.”

The slap came fast and sharp. Your head snapped to the side, your cheek burned as a tear fell down your face.

“You are sick, Salem.” Your mother sighed. Her face showed that she cared but her soul felt different.

Your father crouched before you, gripping your chin tightly, forcing you to look at him. His face, his eyes, everything about him was stone-cold. “They got inside your head.” His tone almost mocking. “Those vampires…those monsters you call friends.”

“They are.”

Crack

“Ahh!” You cried out as his belt hit your skin. Your fingernails were digging into your skin as you clenched your teeth. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!”

“Do you know why we named you ‘Salem?’” Your mother’s hand cupped your face as you tried to escape her touch. “You were named after the witch trials. The greatest supernatural genocide in history. Your name carries the very thing you were meant to do. Why are you trying to fight us, sweetheart? You were born for this. We have trained you since you were born. How could you possibly be so naive to believe that they care about you?”

“I was brainwashed by you and your stupid legacy. I opened my eyes and saw the truth. You are the monsters. Not them.”

Another lash on your back. Your body convulsed against the chains, the pain searing through your veins. You cried out hoping that someone could hear your screams but it was useless. Your family had built this cellar with just that in mind; for no one to hear, so that no one can be saved.

“You can lash me all you want but it won’t change the fact that whilst they were protecting me with their lives, you are the ones causing me harm. You are the monsters; and no matter how often you look in the mirror, you will always be tainted by all the evil you have done.”

“STOP!” Lash. “FUCKING!” Lash. “SIDING!” Lash. “WITH THEM!!”

You screamed at the agonising pain that had burned into your skin. Red, bloody, raw. Like fire had ignited. Even criminals weren’t treated like this by officers and they were your parents…

To save your body from further harm, you saw blackness pool around your sight as you slowly fell unconscious, your head feeling heavy as your vision faded into complete darkness

You didn’t know how long you had been drifting in and out of consciousness, the room always dark and damp, no sense of time.

But then you heard it. The sound of footsteps coming closer as two loud thuds erupted. Bodies hitting the floor. Someone was here.

“Where is she?”

Your heart clenched. Elijah.

And then suddenly you felt the warmth of his hands on your face, his voice gentler than before. “Salem, can you hear me?” He softly hit her cheeks. “Hey. Salem.”

You forced your eyes open. His face was blurry but his cologne sent a wave of safety through your body. “You found me…”

“Always.”

Elijah ripped the chains from your skin, immediately collapsing against him, your body trembling. You buried your head in his chest, his arms engulfing you carefully, the wounds on your back still fresh. “Here,” Elijah bit his wrists and placed it to your lips. As you drank his blood you could feel the wound closing, the pain subsiding within a matter of seconds.

“Come on, I'm taking you home,” Elijah murmured into your hair. “You’re safe now.”

As you turned around you saw your parents slumped against the walls. Elijah stared at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “Do you want me to kill them?”

You stared at them as a single tear slipped down your cheek. And then with a voice utterly empty, “They’re already dead to me.” You walked past them, not an ounce of empathy left for them, and left them to save themselves.

[novaursa]

The Broken Crown (2/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 1

- Word count: 9 900+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The light of late afternoon spills into your chambers at Aegonfort. The fire in the hearth crackles quietly, but the warmth it offers feels distant, barely touching the chill that has settled deep within you. You sit by the window, staring out at the courtyard below, where the life of the castle continues as if nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

It has been weeks since Tesaerix’s cries were last heard, her roars of frustration and anguish fading into silence, replaced by the eerie stillness of acceptance. Chained to the ground, her spirit broken, she no longer fights against her captivity. And yet, the anguish that grips your heart is as strong as ever, a constant, gnawing presence that refuses to loosen its hold. It is as if a part of you has been chained alongside her, and no matter how many days pass, the weight does not lift.

The door creaks open behind you, but you do not turn. You know who it is—there is only one person who would come to your chambers unannounced.

Aegon steps inside, his presence filling the room, though he lingers by the door, as if uncertain of his welcome. You hear the soft sound of his boots against the stone floor as he moves closer, and still, you do not turn to face him. Your eyes remain on the distant horizon, though your mind is far away, lost in the echo of memories and dreams that will never come to pass.

"Y/N," he says quietly, his voice cautious, as if he fears your reaction. "Your nameday is approaching. I’ve arranged a celebration in your honor."

His words hang in the air, but they barely register. A grand celebration—another event meant to remind you of your place, of the crown that sits on your head like a lead weight. It is as though he believes that feasts and dances, the laughter of courtiers, and the lavish display of power might somehow ease the pain that lingers in your heart.

You force a smile, though it does not reach your eyes, and nod slightly. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice distant, detached. "It is kind of you."

Silence falls between you, heavy and suffocating. You can feel his gaze on you, searching for something—some sign that you might be softening, that the wall you have built around yourself might be cracking. But it remains firmly in place, unyielding.

Aegon takes a step closer, but his movements are slow, hesitant. He is not the same conqueror in this room, not the king who has united the Seven Kingdoms. Here, in your presence, he seems uncertain, unsure of himself. His hands hang at his sides, restless as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

"I wanted it to be special for you," he says, his voice quieter now. "Everything I’ve done… it’s been for you."

You finally turn your gaze away from the window, meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. His expression is conflicted—his usual mask of authority replaced by something more vulnerable, more human. It is a rare thing to see Aegon uncertain, and for a moment, you almost feel a flicker of sympathy for him. Almost.

But the weight of what has happened between you, the chains that bind not only Tesaerix but also your spirit, is too heavy. The wounds are still fresh, too deep to be soothed by soft words or grand gestures.

"Special," you echo, the word tasting hollow on your tongue. "I see."

He opens his mouth to say something more, but no words come. Instead, he stands there, a man lost in the silence of his own making. You can see the hope in his eyes, the faint flicker of desire that perhaps you will change your mind—that you will ask him to stay, to be by your side, to share in some moment of closeness that has long been absent between you.

But you don’t. The invitation he silently waits for never comes.

You turn your gaze back to the window, the sky outside darkening as the sun sinks lower, casting the world in shades of gold and shadow. Your heart remains cold, your soul untouched by his presence. Whatever he is waiting for, you cannot give it to him. Not anymore.

Aegon lingers for another long moment, the silence between you stretching until it feels almost unbearable. And then, finally, he steps back, his movements slow and reluctant, as though each step away from you is a struggle. He pauses at the threshold, turning back one last time, as if hoping that you will stop him, that you will call him back.

But you say nothing. Your silence is its own answer.

Without another word, he leaves, the door closing softly behind him, the sound barely a whisper in the quiet room.

You are left alone once more, the distant hum of the castle’s life continuing outside, but it feels far removed from your own. You sit in the stillness, the ache in your chest as sharp as ever, the weight of the world pressing down on you as you stare into the darkening sky, wondering when—if ever—this feeling will fade.

The sound of trumpets fills the air, their bright, brassy notes cutting through the din of the crowd gathered in the tournament grounds outside Aegonfort. Banners snap in the wind, the vibrant colors of the Targaryen sigil—red and black—mingling with your own, the gold and crimson of the standard Aegon created for you. The noise of the people is a constant hum, their excitement visible as they gather for the grand tourney, held in honor of your nameday.

You sit in the royal seat, placed high above the jousting field on a raised platform. The elaborate wooden structure is draped with silks and banners, casting an air of regality over the event. The weight of the eyes below is heavy on you, but your expression remains composed, practiced. This is your moment, after all, though it feels more like a display of duty than celebration.

Your gown gleams in the midday sun, the fabric shimmering with every movement. It is a deep red, the color of blood and fire, with gold embroidery swirling around the hem and sleeves, symbolizing the flames of your house. The rich silk clings to your form, the neckline modest but elegant, the material flowing down your figure in a cascade of crimson and gold. Around your waist is a finely braided belt, studded with small rubies that catch the light, drawing attention to the dragon motif woven into the threads.

Aegon had made sure you were dressed in the colors of the banner he gave you, a reminder that you are his queen—separate yet still bound by his will. The crown he gifted you, delicate but unmistakably regal, rests atop your head. It is a circlet of pale gold, with small crimson stones set into it, matching the colors of your banner. It feels heavy, a constant weight that you have yet to grow accustomed to, a symbol of a power you never sought.

Your hair, long and shining like polished silver, is braided intricately, the locks woven into a style fitting your station, adorned with golden pins that glitter in the light. A single lock has been left loose, curling over your shoulder, a softer touch against the formal stiffness of your attire.

Beside you sits Aegon, his violet eyes ever watchful, always keenly aware of your presence. He wears his usual armor, dark and imposing, trimmed with gold and red. You can feel his pride radiating off him like heat from dragonfire. His gaze lingers on you for a moment too long, as if to ensure you have not only embraced your role as his queen but that you look the part. The crown, the colors, the throne at his side—everything has been chosen with care.

"Do you not think she is radiant?" Aegon remarks to no one in particular, his voice carrying over the din, but his words are meant for the crowd. His smile is tight, meant to dazzle, but you know him well enough to see the strain behind it. You nod politely, offering a small smile in return, though it does not reach your eyes.

On Aegon’s other side sit Visenya and Rhaenys, both dressed in their own regal attire. Visenya, severe and cold as ever, wears black, her armor gleaming beneath her cloak, a silent reminder that she is the sword of your family. Rhaenys, in contrast, is draped in lighter colors, her violet eyes warm and playful, though even her smile seems dimmed by the undercurrents that swirl through the family.

The crowd roars as the herald steps forward, raising his hands to signal the start of the tournament. The cheers grow louder, echoing across the field as knights in shining armor ride out, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground, eager for the competition. The joust is about to begin, a display of power, skill, and loyalty—all in your honor.

Aegon rises from his seat, his imposing figure drawing the attention of everyone present. His armor clinks softly as he moves, and he raises his hand, signaling for silence. The crowd quiets almost instantly, all eyes on the Conqueror.

"In honor of my queen," he begins, his voice strong, carrying over the vast sea of spectators, "we celebrate her nameday with a display of the finest knights in the realm. Let this tourney show our strength, our unity, and our devotion." He pauses, glancing down at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But before the joust begins, I wish to honor her in another way."

The murmurs from the crowd grow louder as Aegon steps down from his platform, making his way to his waiting horse. His squire rushes to his side, handing him his helmet, the dragon sigil gleaming in the sunlight. He mounts the large, black stallion with practiced ease, turning to face the royal stand.

"I will compete in this joust," Aegon announces, his voice filled with confidence, "in honor of my queen, Y/N, who has graced us with her beauty, strength, and loyalty."

Your heart clenches at the words. His declaration, his participation in the tournament, is all for show—a grand gesture to prove his devotion to you. Yet all you feel is the tightening grip of duty around your chest. The crowd erupts in cheers, and you force another smile, nodding at him as though this is exactly what you wanted.

Aegon’s gaze remains fixed on you for a moment longer, as if waiting for something more—perhaps a sign of approval, an invitation for him to return to your side after his victory. But the emptiness within you, the lingering ache that no crown or grand display can mend, keeps you silent. Your smile falters slightly, but still, you say nothing.

The crowd’s cheers continue as Aegon turns his horse toward the jousting lanes, ready to prove his prowess on the field. As he rides away, the space beside you feels colder, and the weight of the crown on your head presses down harder than ever.

...

The thundering hooves of horses echo across the field as the first knights prepare for the joust. Banners ripple in the wind, bright colors dancing against the azure sky as the crowd cheers, eager for the spectacle. You sit in your royal seat, your hands folded in your lap, eyes drifting over the tournament grounds. Lances gleam in the sunlight, and the clinking of armor fills the air as the first challengers ready themselves at the end of the lists.

But your thoughts are far from the cheers and excitement of the crowd. The weight of your crown feels suffocating, and your gaze strays, not to the knights or the lances, but to the far-off silhouette of Tesaerix. Chained, grounded, a shadow of her former glory. From this distance, you can barely make out the flicker of her golden and crimson scales in the sunlight, but you know she is there, tethered to the earth as you are tethered to your fate.

Rhaenys leans toward you, her voice soft as she attempts to draw you back into the present. "It’s quite the sight, isn’t it?" she says, her tone gentle, almost coaxing. "These knights would give anything for a chance to win favor from the queen of the day."

You nod politely, but your smile is forced, your mind not on the tournament or the gallant knights. Rhaenys, ever perceptive, catches your distraction, her brows furrowing slightly. "You seem distant, Y/N," she murmurs, her voice laced with concern. "Is something troubling you?"

Your response dies in your throat as your gaze flickers back to the horizon where your dragon is held captive. The ache in your chest deepens, a quiet fury simmering beneath your outward calm. "Tesaerix," you finally whisper, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "I cannot stop thinking of her, chained there while we celebrate."

Rhaenys follows your gaze and falls silent, perhaps sensing the gravity of your pain, but before she can respond, Visenya, ever sharp and vigilant, leans forward from her place beside Aegon. Her voice is cold, a warning cloaked in authority. "Do not even entertain the thought, Y/N," she says, her violet eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours. "You will not free her, nor will you make a spectacle of defiance here."

Your blood runs hot at her words, and you turn to face her, your gaze hardening. "And what would you do, Visenya, if Vhagar were bound in chains?" you ask, your voice low, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Do you think you would sit there so calmly if she were made to suffer like Tesaerix? I would see her miserable as you’ve made my dragon."

The insult hangs in the air like a sharp blade. For a moment, the tension between you and Visenya is palpable, her lips pressing into a thin, dangerous line as she regards you with something between anger and cold resolve. Her hand twitches as if she might grip the hilt of the sword always at her side, her eyes flashing with a silent warning.

But before she can retort, the rumble of hooves draws your attention to the lists. Aegon rides forward on his black steed, his armor glinting in the sun like dark steel, his helm adorned with the sigil of the dragon. The sight of him, proud and commanding, steals the air from your lungs, if only for a moment. The crowd erupts into cheers as the king takes his place for his first tilt.

Aegon rides past the royal stand, his eyes catching yours for a brief second. There is something unreadable in his gaze—pride, perhaps, or a plea for recognition—but you do not hold it for long. He wheels his horse around and lowers his lance, ready to compete, the first challenger already in position across the field.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the pressure between you and Visenya still lingering, but your eyes are now fixed on Aegon. His horse stamps impatiently, nostrils flaring as it waits for the signal to charge. You cannot help but feel the weight of what this moment represents. He is not just jousting for sport; he is jousting for you, for your approval, though you find it difficult to offer anything more than cold indifference.

The herald raises his flag, and the trumpets blare again. Aegon spurs his horse forward, charging down the lists with deadly precision. The opposing knight, though skilled, seems small compared to your brother’s imposing presence. The ground trembles beneath the weight of their charge, the clattering of armor and hooves filling the air.

Aegon’s lance strikes true, shattering against the other knight’s shield with a thunderous crack, sending his opponent crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. The crowd roars its approval, but the sound washes over you, distant and hollow.

He circles back, his horse kicking up dirt as he passes you again, his gaze seeking yours once more, waiting for your reaction. But all you can think of is Tesaerix, grounded and silent, far from this spectacle. The chains that bind her feel like chains around your own heart, and no matter how grand this celebration, no matter how skilled Aegon is in his displays of strength, it does nothing to free you from the cage you find yourself in.

You offer Aegon a small nod, nothing more, and he rides on, returning to the field for his next challenge. The cheers rise again, but in the quiet of your mind, there is only the sound of chains, rattling against the earth.

The Great Hall of Aegonfort is alive with light and sound, the towering stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting the dragons of House Targaryen. Tables laden with rich foods—roast meats, fruits, and fine breads—stretch the length of the hall, and the clatter of goblets and the murmur of excited conversation fill the air. Musicians play in one corner, their tunes light and festive, attempting to match the celebratory mood of the evening.

At the center of it all sits Aegon, victorious from the day’s tourney, his head held high and a satisfied smile playing at his lips. He now wears a simple crown of dark iron, his armor exchanged for a fine tunic of black and red, the sigil of the three-headed dragon emblazoned proudly on his chest. His eyes, however, are on you.

You sit beside him at the high table, still adorned in your colors of gold and crimson, though the joy of the evening seems lost on you. Despite the merriment around you, a tight knot of frustration coils in your chest, one that has only grown since the tourney’s end.

The feast is in full swing, and yet the animosity between you and Aegon is seen by all around you. He notices your coldness, the way your gaze barely meets his, and the way you’ve hardly touched your food. You’re an island of silence in a sea of celebration, and the strain between you grows more obvious with every passing moment.

Aegon turns to you, leaning in slightly, his voice low so as not to draw attention from those around you. "Is something wrong, Y/N?" His words are careful, but there is a slight edge to them, a hint of irritation beneath his outward concern.

You finally turn to look at him, your expression tight. "Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?" you say, your tone sharper than you intended. "Why would the King of Westeros compete in his own tourney?"

His brow furrows, clearly taken aback by your criticism. "It was in your honor," he replies, his voice firm but measured. "I wanted to show—"

"You wanted to show off, Aegon," you interrupt, your voice quiet but biting. "You’ve already conquered Westeros. Must you also conquer a tournament that was meant to be a gift to me?"

He blinks, clearly not expecting such a reaction. "I was honoring you. Showing the realm your importance, your—"

"No," you cut in, your gaze hardening. "You were showing the realm your power. You didn’t let the knights fight for glory or honor. You took that from them, just as you’ve taken everything else. It wasn’t fair to them."

The tension between you sharpens, and the warmth of the hall seems to dim, at least in the space between the two of you. Aegon’s jaw tightens, his fingers drumming against the table as he processes your words. "You think I should’ve let them win," he says, disbelief lacing his tone. "As if they deserved it more than me."

You lean in slightly, keeping your voice low, though your frustration is clear. "Yes, Aegon, I think you should’ve let them win. You already have the Seven Kingdoms. Why take this from them too? The knights came here hoping for glory, for a chance to win your favor—or mine. But they were never going to, not with you in the lists. They had no chance."

Aegon’s gaze darkens, his fingers stopping their rhythmic drumming. "You wanted me to lose," he says, his voice soft but dangerous.

"It’s not about losing," you reply, struggling to keep your voice steady as the simmering anger within you rises. "It’s about fairness. What was the point of them competing if the outcome was already decided the moment you took the field?"

Aegon’s expression grows colder, his pride clearly stung. "I did this for you, Y/N," he says, his voice harder now. "For you."

"And that’s precisely the problem," you say, your voice trembling slightly, not with fear but with the weight of everything unsaid. "You think everything you do is a gift to me, but you never ask me what I want. You never stop to think about what I might need."

Aegon’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze is unbearable, like staring into dragonfire. He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to rein in his temper. "What would you have me do, then?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. "Step aside? Watch others take what I’ve built?"

You stare back at him, unflinching. "What you’ve built is already yours, Aegon. You don’t need to prove it to anyone. But maybe... maybe you could let someone else have a moment. Just once."

Aegon’s face tightens, his frustration clear, but he says nothing. His silence feels heavy, pressing down on you both like a smothering weight. The noise of the feast around you continues, but it feels distant, almost hollow, as if you are both cut off from the rest of the hall.

Finally, after a long, tense moment, Aegon rises from the table, drawing the attention of those around you. His expression is unreadable, his eyes hard as they sweep over the hall. "I need air," he mutters, his voice clipped. Without waiting for a response, he strides out of the hall, his departure swift and silent, but leaving a wave of discomfort in his wake.

The guests glance in your direction, curious whispers rippling through the crowd. You sit there, your hands gripping the edge of the table, your heart pounding in your chest as you watch him leave. The weight of your words lingers, hanging in the air between you, but now he is gone, and you are left with the aftermath of your confrontation.

Rhaenys, ever perceptive, leans in slightly, her voice soft as she tries to ease the tension. "You speak the truth, Y/N," she says, her tone gentle but understanding. "But Aegon... He is not one who takes criticism easily."

"I know," you murmur, your voice distant as you stare at the empty space where Aegon once sat. "But someone has to tell him."

Visenya, sitting quietly at the far end of the table, glances at you but says nothing, her expression unreadable. She has always been loyal to Aegon above all else, and though she may agree with you in silence, she would never speak it aloud.

The feast continues, but for you, the victory Aegon claimed in your name feels hollow, like everything else he’s given you—a gift wrapped in chains.

Aegon pushes through the grand doors of the hall, his movements sharp and purposeful, though inside, his heart is a storm. The warmth and noise of the feast fade into the background as he steps into the cool night air, the silence wrapping around him like a cloak. The torches lining the walls cast flickering specters across the stone courtyard, but Aegon hardly notices. His thoughts are too loud, too chaotic, drowning out everything else.

Servants and lords alike part in his path, their eyes darting nervously away as he strides through the corridors of Aegonfort, his jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. They sense his anger, his turmoil, and none dare to stand in his way. Even the guards lower their gazes, unwilling to meet the eyes of the king when he is like this—when the Conqueror wears his crown of fire.

Aegon’s mind races, replaying the confrontation with you over and over again. Your words had cut him deeper than any lance could. He had wanted to honor you, to show the realm your importance, but instead, you had seen only pride, only selfishness. He had fought for you, but all you had seen was a king who took what he wanted, again and again.

He walks with no clear destination, but his feet carry him toward the outer edge of the fortress, where the dragons are kept. It is instinct, perhaps, that draws him there—a need to be near the creatures that have always been his strength, his power. Yet as he approaches the dragon stables, a familiar sight meets his eyes outside them, one that still stirs unease in his chest.

Tesaerix.

The dragon lies chained to the ground, her once-majestic wings folded tightly against her body, her neck bound with heavy iron links that glint in the torchlight. Her deep crimson eyes, fierce and sharp, stare directly at him as he approaches, burning with a silent accusation.

Aegon stops a few paces away, his breath hitching as their gazes lock. Tesaerix does not roar or thrash as she once did when first bound—there is only a quiet, simmering fury in the way she looks at him now. The fire in her eyes, though dimmed, is far from extinguished.

He stands there for a long moment, staring at the dragon, the creature that had been bound because of you. Because of what you had tried to do. And now, here she lies—chained, just as you were, in a way, trapped by decisions neither of you had wanted.

"She hates me," Aegon mutters aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. It is not a question. He can see the loathing in the dragon’s gaze, the way her chest rises and falls with each slow, measured breath, as if restraining the full force of her anger. It is a mirror of the feelings he senses in you every time you look at him now.

He takes a step closer, though the chains rattling softly in the wind serve as a stark reminder of the distance between him and the creature. He should feel satisfaction at seeing Tesaerix subdued, knowing that she cannot be used against him again, that you cannot take her and flee to the ends of the earth. But instead, standing before her now, he feels... hollow.

The dragon’s crimson eyes bore into him, and for a fleeting moment, Aegon wonders if she knows what you feel, if she shares in the same grief and fury. Tesaerix has been chained, grounded—stripped of her freedom just as you have been. And now, here he stands, the man responsible for it all.

"You aren’t the only one who hates me," Aegon says bitterly, his voice hoarse. "She hates me too." He rubs a hand across his face, wiping away the tension etched there, though it does nothing to ease the storm in his chest.

Tesaerix lets out a low, rumbling sound, not quite a growl, but enough to make Aegon take another step back. The dragon shifts slightly, her chains clinking with the movement, and her eyes narrow as if daring him to come any closer. She does not trust him, not after what he has done. Just like you.

"I did what I had to," Aegon mutters, his voice quieter now, as if trying to convince himself as much as the dragon. "She would have left. Left me."

But the words feel empty, even to him. He had acted out of fear, out of a need to control what he could not bear to lose. But now, standing here before the chained dragon, watching her watch him with those blood-red eyes, he wonders if he has only made things worse—if the cost of keeping you with him has been too high.

The night air grows colder, but Aegon doesn’t move. He stands there, rooted in place, staring at the dragon who will never be free, who will never forgive him. The silence between them is thick, broken only by the occasional snap of the chains as Tesaerix shifts her weight.

Aegon exhales slowly, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He has won Westeros, but what has he truly gained? A kingdom at his feet, yet the one thing he wanted—your love, your acceptance—remains out of reach.

The sky above Aegonfort is a pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that drift lazily in the wind. Below, in the courtyard, the dragons are being readied for flight, their massive forms casting long shadows over the stone. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes stand tall, their wings rustling, eager for the skies. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys are already mounting their dragons, their expressions focused, their movements practiced and sure.

You stand back, lingering near the edge of the courtyard, your eyes fixed on Tesaerix. She rests at the far end, still chained to the ground, though her posture seems less resigned today. There’s a spark of anticipation in her deep red eyes, a flicker of life you haven't seen in weeks. As your siblings prepare for their flight, you hesitate, your heart heavy as you approach her.

Tesaerix watches you with a quiet intensity as you draw near, her cream-and-crimson scales gleaming in the morning light. The iron chains that bind her wings and limbs seem smaller than they once did, though the weight of them still hangs heavily on her. You place your hand gently on her snout, your fingers brushing the warm, smooth surface of her scales. She rumbles softly, a deep, thrumming sound that reverberates through the ground beneath you. It’s a sound of recognition, of trust, and your heart clenches painfully at the thought of her continued imprisonment.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, pressing your forehead to her head, the words thick with guilt. "I failed you."

Tesaerix shifts beneath your touch, her tail curling slightly, as if she’s trying to reassure you in her own way. The warmth of her breath on your skin, the way she leans into your hand—it’s a small comfort, but it’s not enough to ease the ache in your chest.

The sound of heavy wings beating the air pulls your attention away, and you glance toward your siblings. Aegon is already on Balerion, the Black Dread shifting impatiently, ready to take to the skies. Rhaenys sits astride Meraxes, her face calm, her dark hair lifting in the breeze. Visenya, cold and commanding as always, mounts Vhagar with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times before.

But it is Visenya who surprises you.

Just as you think she will signal for the dragons to take off, she turns her head, her sharp violet eyes locking onto you and Tesaerix. Her expression is hard to read, as always, but there’s something different in her gaze today—something that isn’t purely cold calculation.

"Tesaerix will be unchained," Visenya says, her voice carrying across the courtyard, firm but not cruel. You blink, stunned, as her words sink in. "She will be allowed to fly."

You stare at her, hardly believing what you’ve heard. For a moment, you think you’ve misunderstood, but Visenya’s gaze does not waver. She looks at you as if she knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if she has anticipated every protest, every question.

"Dragons are not meant to be grounded," Visenya continues, her tone clipped, as though stating an obvious fact. "If she remains chained, she will wither. Grow weak. That is not something we can afford."

Her words are logical, practical, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. You meet her gaze, searching for any sign of softness, of understanding. There is none—only the cold, unyielding presence of the warrior who has always put duty above all else.

Still, the relief you feel is undeniable.

"She… she will fly again?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might break the fragile possibility of freedom.

"Yes," Visenya replies simply, already turning her attention back to Vhagar. "For now."

The weight in your chest loosens slightly, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You turn back to Tesaerix, your fingers brushing along her snout once more, your heart swelling with the thought of her finally being free from the chains that have held her for so long. She seems to sense it, the change in the air, and her body shifts eagerly beneath the heavy chains.

"Thank you," you whisper again, but this time, the words are not for her alone.

Aegon, having overheard the exchange, looks at you from atop Balerion, his expression unreadable. For once, he says nothing, perhaps choosing not to interfere in this moment. The three of you have been at odds for so long, the air thick with unspoken grievances, but for now, he holds his tongue.

The chains are unlatched, the heavy iron falling away from Tesaerix’s limbs and wings, the sound of it loud in the quiet courtyard. For the first time in weeks, she stretches her wings fully, the golden and crimson membrane catching the light, glimmering like blood and flame. She lets out a deep, triumphant roar, her voice rising above the fortress walls, echoing across the land.

You smile—an involuntary, fleeting thing—watching as Tesaerix shakes off the last remnants of her confinement. She looks at you, and for a moment, there is a connection between you both, something pure and powerful, something that reminds you that you are not as alone as you have felt.

Aegon signals for the flight to begin, his hand lifting in a silent command. Balerion takes to the skies with a powerful sweep of his wings, followed closely by Meraxes and Vhagar. You watch them ascend, their forms growing smaller as they soar higher into the sky.

You mount Tesaerix, feeling the familiar warmth of her beneath you. With a single word, she launches herself into the air, her wings slicing through the sky, unbound, free. The wind rushes past you, lifting your hair, filling your lungs with the crisp air of the open sky.

For the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of freedom—not just for your dragon, but for yourself.

The sky is darkening as the four of you descend from the clouds, the distant glow of the setting sun casting the horizon in hues of gold and violet. The air is cooler now, and the wind that once rushed past you in exhilarating gusts begins to calm as your dragons lower themselves back toward the ground. Tesaerix lands gracefully, her wings beating only a few times before she touches down, her massive form folding into the familiar courtyard. The echo of her powerful roar, given just before your descent, still lingers in the air.

Vhagar and Meraxes land nearby, their massive bodies kicking up dust and loose stone as they settle. Visenya and Rhaenys dismount smoothly, their faces impassive as they slide from their dragons' backs and make their way toward the entrance of the fortress. They exchange a few quiet words between them, their long cloaks trailing behind as they move inside. There is an ease in their movements, a sense of routine and familiarity. They have done this countless times before, and tonight is no different.

But Aegon lingers.

He remains mounted on Balerion, watching as you dismount from Tesaerix, your fingers brushing the dragon’s warm hide before you step away. Her wings shift slightly, and she lets out a contented huff, clearly enjoying her brief return to the skies. Your connection with her, after all the time apart, feels more solid than it has in weeks. The bond between dragon and rider, though strained, has never fully broken. And now, as you stand beside her, it feels as though some part of you is healing.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable. The towering figure of Balerion stands still behind him, the great dragon’s eyes half-closed as if bored by the day’s events. But Aegon’s attention is fixed on you. His gaze follows your movements as you move closer to Tesaerix’s snout, resting your hand on her once more. The quiet affection between you and the dragon is unmistakable, and for a moment, Aegon looks as though he is wrestling with something—an emotion he cannot quite name.

He dismounts slowly, his armored boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. As he steps forward, he does not call out to you, nor does he try to interrupt your moment with your dragon. Instead, he simply watches, his usual confidence replaced by something quieter, more introspective. There’s a chasm between you, but it feels different tonight—less heated, less full of the bitterness that has tainted so many of your recent interactions.

You sense his presence before you hear him, your head lifting slightly as Tesaerix rumbles softly, her large eyes flickering in Aegon’s direction. She is calm now, her anger toward him seemingly subdued after the freedom of flight. But you can feel the unspoken tension in the air as your brother approaches, the weight of the past weeks hanging between you.

“You’re staying behind?” you ask, your voice low but without the usual bite. There’s no accusation in your tone, just curiosity.

Aegon stops a few paces away, his hands resting at his sides, fingers brushing the leather of his gloves. He looks at Tesaerix for a moment before his eyes return to you. “I wanted to see how she fared,” he says, his voice measured, quieter than usual. “After being chained for so long.”

You glance at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But for once, Aegon doesn’t seem to be playing the king, the conqueror. His words feel honest, unvarnished. His gaze shifts to Tesaerix, who meets his eyes for a brief moment before turning her attention back to you, her focus unshaken by the presence of the man who once imprisoned her.

“She’s strong,” you reply, your voice soft. “Stronger than I gave her credit for.”

Aegon nods, his eyes lingering on Tesaerix’s folded wings, the glow of her golden scales dimming with the falling night. “Dragons aren’t meant to be chained,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. His words carry a weight that you know isn’t just about Tesaerix. He’s speaking of more than dragons now.

You feel something unspoken between you both—he knows what he did was wrong, but admitting it outright is something Aegon rarely does. Still, this moment feels different. It’s not an apology, but it’s close enough.

You look away from him, your gaze returning to Tesaerix, who lets out a soft rumble as you run your hand along her snout once more. “She missed the skies,” you murmur. “Just like I did.”

The silence stretches between you, thick but not uncomfortable. For the first time in weeks, Aegon seems unsure of himself, as if he doesn’t know how to breach the distance between you, even as he stands only a few feet away. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but the words falter before they leave his lips.

You can feel him hesitating, lingering on the edge of something unsaid. Finally, he steps forward, his gaze softening as he watches you with Tesaerix. “I wanted to give you something today,” he says, his voice low. “I thought… I thought letting her fly would show you that I’m trying.”

You pause, turning your head slightly to look at him, the surprise evident in your eyes. It isn’t like Aegon to admit such things. He’s always been the conqueror, the king who takes what he wants. Vulnerability isn’t something you’ve come to expect from him.

“She deserves to be free,” you reply, your tone neutral, though a flicker of something warmer slips into your words. “As do we all.”

Aegon looks at you, his gaze searching, but whatever he’s hoping to find, he doesn’t ask for. He nods, a brief but telling gesture. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, though his tone suggests that freedom is a concept he still struggles with.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the distant murmur of the wind and the occasional rustle of Tesaerix’s wings. Finally, Aegon takes a step back, turning his gaze toward the fortress. “We’ll be flying again in the morning,” he says, though his voice lacks the command it usually holds.

“I know,” you reply softly.

He looks at you one last time, as if he wants to say more but knows there are no easy words for what lies between you. Then, with a final nod, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing against the stone as he disappears into the shadows of the fortress.

The days have grown quieter in the weeks since Tesaerix was freed from her chains, and the anger that once filled the air between you and Aegon has begun to ease, though the distance between your hearts remains vast. The nights are cooler now, the winds carrying the scent of the sea as they sweep through the towers of Aegonfort. The sound of dragons is ever-present, their cries echoing through the stone walls, a reminder of the power your family holds.

You stand by the fire in your chambers, staring into the flames as they flicker and dance. Your thoughts drift, as they often do, to the life you could have had. Winterfell, the snow-covered plains of the North, and Torrhen Stark’s quiet strength. The ache is still there, a dull, constant pain that you have grown accustomed to, though it never truly fades.

A soft knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn, already knowing who it is before you see him. Aegon steps into the room, his movements slow and unhurried, his gaze settling on you with a strange mix of determination and hesitation. He has been visiting you more often as of late, his presence less forceful, less commanding than it once was. He no longer brings gifts or demands anything from you, but simply... comes.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he says, closing the door behind him, his voice low and cautious. He’s always careful now, as if each word could set off an unseen tremor between you both.

“I’ve had much on my mind,” you reply, turning back to the fire, though you know he can read the truth in your silence.

He crosses the room and stands beside you, the warmth of the fire washing over both of you. The heat of his presence, so close yet still restrained, is something you’ve slowly come to tolerate, even accept, though the bitterness of your lost future never fully leaves you.

“You’re thinking of him,” Aegon says after a long pause, his voice soft but heavy with understanding. “Of the Stark.”

You stiffen slightly, your eyes still fixed on the flames. It is rare that he speaks of Torrhen. You’ve both avoided the subject for the most part, as if not naming it could keep it from being real, from haunting what little peace you’ve managed to find. But Aegon is nothing if not perceptive, and tonight, it seems, he is unwilling to let it lie.

“Yes,” you admit, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it. There is no point in denying it—Torrhen is always there, lingering in the corners of your mind, a shadow of what could have been. “I think of him often.”

Aegon nods, though the movement is barely noticeable, his gaze distant now, as if he too is grappling with something he cannot fully understand. “I know,” he says quietly, his tone carrying no anger, no jealousy—only resignation.

You turn to face him, surprised by his lack of hostility. For so long, you had expected rage, had anticipated that his possessiveness would rear its head whenever you so much as mentioned the man who had once been your future. But Aegon has changed, in subtle ways, since you returned to each other’s orbit.

“I tried to take everything from you,” he continues, his voice rough with the weight of the admission. “But I could never take him from your heart, could I?”

The vulnerability in his words surprises you, catches you off guard. Aegon has never been one to admit weakness, and yet here he stands, acknowledging the one thing he cannot conquer—your love for Torrhen Stark.

“No,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t.”

He sighs, and for a moment, he looks almost weary, as though the weight of his victories, his crowns, his conquests have finally taken their toll. “I’ve conquered kingdoms, united the Seven, but when it comes to you, there’s always... something I can’t reach.”

You meet his gaze then, your eyes locking with his. There is something raw in his expression, something fragile and unguarded. And for the first time, you see not the conqueror, not the king, but the man beneath all that—the man who, despite his power, is haunted by the one thing he cannot command.

“You have me now,” you murmur, though the words feel like a compromise, a truth that does not tell the whole story.

He steps closer, his hand brushing yours lightly, as if testing the boundaries of your comfort. “But I don’t have all of you, do I?” His voice is soft, tinged with a sadness that you have rarely heard from him.

You don’t answer right away, because you don’t need to. The silence between you speaks volumes. He already knows the answer, and so do you. No matter how much time passes, no matter how close you become, a part of you will always belong to Torrhen Stark—a part that Aegon, for all his might, will never possess.

Still, you allow his fingers to lace with yours, a small gesture of acceptance. You do not love him, not in the way he wants, but there is a quiet understanding growing between you, a shared sense of loss that binds you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll never be him,” Aegon says softly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “But I’ll try to be what you need.”

The words hang in the air between you, a promise that feels both hopeful and tragic. You look up at him, searching his face for any hint of deceit, but there is none. He is being truthful, as much as he can be. Aegon may never be the man you dreamed of sharing your life with, but perhaps, in his own way, he is trying to build something out of the wreckage of what he destroyed.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He leans in slightly, his forehead resting gently against yours, and for the first time, there is a sense of peace between you. The fire crackles softly behind you, the warmth of it surrounding you both as the night deepens. Aegon may never truly understand the depth of your love for Torrhen, but in this moment, he doesn’t need to. What matters now is the quiet bond forming between you—a bond not of passion, but of shared wounds and quiet resolve.

And though the ache for what was lost still lingers, for the first time, you wonder if perhaps, in this strange, broken way, you and Aegon might find a path forward together. Not as lovers, but as something else—something more complicated, but no less real.

Ending Where Y/N Stays

The night sky is a deep velvet blanket above Aegonfort, scattered with stars that twinkle faintly against the vast expanse. 

You stand by the window, staring out at the dark horizon, lost in thought. It has been a full moon since the quiet understanding between you and Aegon began to grow, since the edges of your shared pain started to blur. The walls you had built around yourself, brick by painful brick, have not crumbled, but they’ve begun to weaken, piece by piece. And tonight, something feels different. Something inside you has shifted, though you can’t name it.

The sound of the door opening behind you breaks the silence, and you don’t need to turn to know it is Aegon. His presence is familiar now, though it still stirs a flutter of uncertainty in your chest. His footsteps are slow as he crosses the room, stopping just a few paces away. The air between you is charged, not of hostility but of something else, lingering in the space between you.

“You’ve been distant today,” Aegon says softly, his voice carrying a note of hesitation, though his usual confidence remains. He stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, though he doesn’t touch you.

You don’t answer immediately, still staring out at the night, your fingers lightly gripping the stone ledge of the window. After a long pause, you turn to face him. His violet eyes meet yours, searching for something he cannot yet name, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t look away.

“I’ve been thinking,” you finally say, your voice quiet but steady. The weight of what you are about to say rests heavily on your shoulders, but there is no fear in it—only the calm that comes with acceptance.

Aegon’s brow furrows slightly, his gaze questioning, but he says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“For so long, I’ve kept you at arm’s length,” you say, taking a slow breath. “I’ve pushed you away because I couldn’t bear the thought of... letting you in.” You pause, your chest tightening with the weight of the truth you’ve kept buried for so long. “But I can’t keep living like this, Aegon. Neither of us can.”

The silence that follows is thick, filled with all the things neither of you have said, all the things you’ve left unspoken. Aegon’s eyes soften as he steps closer, his hand lifting slowly to rest gently on your arm. His touch is light, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid of crossing some unseen boundary.

“What are you saying, Y/N?” he asks, his voice low, barely more than a whisper.

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, though not with fear. You take a step closer, closing the distance between you until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, the heat of his body radiating through the small space that remains.

“I’m saying that I’m tired of fighting,” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m tired of denying what’s right in front of me.”

For a moment, Aegon says nothing. His eyes search your face, as if trying to understand the full meaning of your words, to grasp the depth of what you are offering. And then, slowly, his fingers slide down your arm, tracing a path to your hand, where he intertwines his fingers with yours. His touch is gentle, but there is a quiet urgency in it, a need that has been simmering between you for far too long.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice barely audible, a note of vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual bravado.

You nod, the tension in your chest easing slightly as you look up at him, your heart no longer weighed down by hesitation. “Yes,” you whisper, the word carrying with it the weight of your decision.

Aegon’s breath catches, and for a moment, he simply looks at you, as if trying to commit this moment to memory. Then, without another word, he lifts his free hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. The touch is soft, almost reverent, and the tenderness of it sends a shiver down your spine.

He leans in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away, to stop this before it begins, but you don’t. You close the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that is tentative at first, testing the boundaries of what you are ready to give. But as the moments pass, the kiss deepens, growing in intensity, the pent-up emotions between you spilling over, unchecked and unguarded.

Aegon’s hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss becomes more insistent, more desperate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, holding onto him as if he is the only thing grounding you to the world in that moment. The heat between you rises, and before long, the space that once separated you has vanished entirely.

He pulls away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours as his hands cup your face, his eyes searching yours. “If you want to stop...” he begins, his voice rough with desire, but you silence him with another kiss, your answer clear.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of heat and whispered promises. His hands move across your skin with a gentleness you hadn’t expected, but there is an urgency in the way he touches you, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. You match his pace, your body responding to his with a need that surprises even you.

When the last barriers fall, when you finally allow him to take you, there is no hesitation. No more fear. The weight of the past is still there, lingering in the shadows of the room, but for the first time, it doesn’t define you. In that moment, with Aegon’s arms wrapped around you, with his body pressed against yours, the pain and anger that have haunted you for so long feel distant, like a memory you’ve chosen to let fade.

When it’s over, you lie together in the quiet of the night, the fire in the hearth casting a soft glow over your entwined forms. Aegon’s breath is slow and steady beside you, his hand resting lightly on your waist, his touch still gentle even in sleep. You close your eyes, exhaustion pulling at you, but your thoughts linger on the moment that just passed.

You know he loves you, and in some strange, broken way, you love him too. But the part of you that still belongs to Torrhen Stark remains untouched, a quiet, persistent ache that will never fully leave you. Aegon may have you now, but he knows—as you do—that he will never have all of you. And in the end, perhaps that’s enough.

Ending Where Y/N Leaves

The moon hangs low in the night sky, casting a pale, silvery light over Aegonfort. The fortress is still, the only sounds the distant crash of the waves and the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind. Inside, the corridors are quiet, the courtiers and guards long retired to their quarters. But sleep does not come for you tonight.

The decision has been growing inside you for days, a quiet resolve that started as a whisper and has now become impossible to ignore. The weight of it presses heavily on your chest as you stand in your chambers, your gaze drifting toward the window where the faintest glimmer of stars can be seen.

You cannot stay.

The walls of Aegonfort feel like a cage, closing in around you, and no amount of quiet moments or tender gestures from Aegon can change that. The love he seeks, the connection he so desperately craves, is not something you can give him. You have tried—gods, you’ve tried—but the life he built for you, the crown he placed on your head, is not the one you wanted.

And so, you’ve made your choice.

You move through your chambers with quiet purpose, pulling on a cloak and gathering only what you need for the journey ahead. Your heart races in your chest, not with fear but with a strange sense of calm. This is right. This is the only way. The only way to reclaim a piece of the freedom you lost.

Slipping through the silent halls of the fortress, you avoid the gaze of the few guards posted along the corridors, your movements careful and deliberate. The heavy stone walls seem to press in around you as you descend the steps that lead to the stables. Tesaerix is there, waiting for you, as if she can sense what is about to happen.

The air grows colder as you approach the courtyard, the scent of the sea strong in the night breeze. The dragon stables loom ahead, dark and silent, and for a moment, you pause, your heart hammering in your chest. But there is no turning back now. Not after everything.

Tesaerix stirs as you step into the open space, her golden and crimson scales catching the moonlight as she shifts her massive wings. She is restless, and her eyes gleam in the dim light, locking onto you the moment you approach. There’s a flicker of understanding in her gaze, and as you reach her, she lowers her head, letting out a low, rumbling sound.

You press your hand to her warm scales, your fingers trembling slightly. "It’s time," you whisper, the words barely audible in the stillness. Tesaerix’s breath huffs against your skin, her body tensing as if she, too, has been waiting for this moment.

The saddling is quick, your hands moving through the motions with practiced ease. You pull yourself up onto her back, settling into the familiar seat between her powerful wings. For a brief moment, you glance back at Aegonfort, the towering structure outlined against the night sky. The place that has been your prison, the place where you have been both queen and captive.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and with a quiet command, Tesaerix lifts into the sky. Her wings beat powerfully, carrying you higher and higher, the ground falling away beneath you as you ascend. The rush of the wind in your ears drowns out the last remnants of hesitation, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel free.

The stars stretch out above you, vast and endless, and the open sky welcomes you like an old friend. Tesaerix soars with grace, her wings cutting through the cool night air, and you urge her eastward, away from Westeros, toward the horizon where the distant lands of Essos await.

You do not look back.

The sea below stretches out in endless darkness, the waves crashing silently against the shores you are leaving behind. The life you once dreamed of—Winterfell, Torrhen, a future filled with love and quiet moments—feels distant now, like a memory from a different life. And Aegon, for all his power and his efforts to keep you by his side, cannot follow you here. Not this time.

The night passes slowly, the rhythm of Tesaerix’s flight steady and constant as she carries you farther and farther from the world you once knew. The stars shift above you, guiding you onward, and the distant lights of ships below seem small and insignificant compared to the vastness of the sky.

You do not know where you will land, or what lies ahead in Essos, but for now, that uncertainty is a comfort. It is a reminder that you still have choices, that your fate is still your own to shape.

As the first light of dawn begins to break on the horizon, you feel a strange sense of peace. The path before you is unknown, but it is yours. 

[dismalflo]

Hi Flo, hope this ask finds you well! Saw your post on requests so here is an idea, hopefully you like it.

Everybody decided to head out to a pub for the night. Reader’s tell for being tipsy is the fact that her lips and tip of her nose start to feel numb. After three drinks (and giggling uncontrollably at whatever story Sirius is telling her) bf!Remus asks if shes feeling alright (cause Sirius is never that funny when she’s sober). Instead of answering she asks Remus to give her a kiss (which he obv gives her) and she follows it by a worried smile and a „yeah, i’m definitely tipsy”. To which Remus is just smitten. Idk if it makes sense but hopefully it does!

Hi darling! love your brain for this idea, thank you for requesting! <3

Remus Lupin x reader who is a very giggly drunk ✩ 900 words

cw: drunk reader, smitten remus, fluff

The sofa feels like a cloud beneath you, and the edges of the world are softening, blurring at the corners. But it's nice. It's fun. You’ve thrown yourself down next to Sirius, after an intense bout of karaoke with Lily, and folded yourself over. Back flat against the seat cushions, chin tucked into your chest, you already know tomorrow’s stiff neck will be worth it.

It takes a second to clue in on exactly what Sirius is doing, his arms wide and theatrical as he gestures, and smiling as he speaks. He must be telling a story, probably to James. But when James rolls his eyes and walks off, curiosity tugs at you 

“Sirius, Sirius, Sirius–” whether it's the incessant chanting of his name or the poking in his side that gets his attention, you’ll never know. He's got a lazy smile on his face as he turns and a pink flush to his cheeks that comes along with intoxication.

“Oh! Hi, babe,” he slurs, blinking slowly. “Whatcha doin’?”

“What were you talking about? With, uh, James?” you ask, your own voice syrupy with drink. 

“Telling ‘im my madeira cake joke.” 

It’s a joke that Sirius has told a million times before, a terrible one, something about the prices of cakes. The mention of it is all it takes for giggles to start falling out of you in droves. Sober you would likely have the same reaction as James but the drink flowing through you has made everything a hundred times funnier.

When your laughter prompts Sirius’, the sound of his laughter makes yours all the more intense. You try to sit up for air, but the shift in weight sends you slipping off the edge of the sofa, landing hard on the floor with a graceless thud. Sirius nearly falls off after you, doubled over, wheezing. 

It all comes to a head when your laugh turns into an aching cough. You think, somewhat dramatically, this might be how I die. 

Then a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow, careful circles. The coughs ease. You blink up, tears in your eyes, and find Remus crouched beside you, a small crease of worry pinched between his brows. 

“Hi,” he says softly, when you just stare.

Without thinking, you reach up and gently poke the furrow between his brows, like smoothing out a wrinkle in a shirt. It’s clumsy and heavy handed but meant to be sweet.

“Hi,” you croak at last. “Y’look handsome.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes warm. “Thanks, sweetheart. You okay?”

You ignore the question. “Can I have a kiss?”

Remus doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, one hand steady on your back, the other warm against your cheek. It’s a familiar sort of kiss, full of care and comfort, like the kind he gives you when you're half-asleep. 

When he pulls away, instead of a dopey smile, he sees your face tinged with the slightest worry. Remus opens his mouth ready to speak and possibly placate a drunken breakdown when you interrupt.

“Again, please. M’trying to figure something out.” 

He huffs a soft laugh. “So polite,” he teases, before leaning in to give you another kiss; this one a brief, affectionate peck. You hum against his mouth, and he guesses it's satisfaction.

“Oh,” you breathe as you pull back, a small giggle slipping out. “I’m so drunk.”

“Noo,” Remus responds, drawing out the vowel sarcastically, though not unkindly. “How’d you figure?”

You wrinkle your nose, then tap the tip of it with a finger. “My nose is numb,” you inform him gravely, “And my lips. It’s– It happens.” You say it with wide, solemn eyes, then burst into another fit of laughter. 

Remus stares at you for a moment, and something tender flickers across his face. He doesn’t laugh but his mouth lifts into a soft, amused smile.

“Do you want some water? Or bread?” he offers, brushing a bit of hair out of your face.

You tilt your head back and forth, as if really thinking through the options in your head before you focus back on Remus.

“Can we– Can we go home?” 

Remus nods instantly, like he’s been waiting for the question.

“Yeah, dovey. Let’s get you home.”

He stands and offers you both hands, gently tugging you upright like you’re made of glass. Your limbs wobble underneath you and he steadies you with an arm around your waist. Sirius, now half-sprawled across the sofa with his legs over the armrest, whistles at the two of you and raises a lazy hand in farewell.

“Tell him the cake joke on the way home,” he calls after you, voice muffled into a throw pillow.

“Bye, Sirius,” Remus calls back, guiding you toward the door.

“I love that joke.”

Remus looks down at you, exasperated and affectionate. “You don’t even remember how it goes.”

You press your face into his shoulder as you walk, your feet half-dragging. “I remember it has… Madeira. That’s all you need, really.”

Outside, the air is crisp and cool. It brushes against your flushed skin, sobering you slightly, enough to make you shiver and burrow closer into Remus’ side. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it around your shoulders without a word.

“You’re so good,” you mumble, half into his collar.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re so drunk.”

“Yeah but you love me so…” 

“I do.”

masterlist <3