#in book 1 he’s given more of a presence

[duskcowboy]

Halfway through The Hunger Games audiobooks and can I just say, I am Josh Hutcherson’s #1 fan, but man they really did Peeta dirty in the movie😅😅

[missarchive]

cognitive dissonance pt 1 - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ part two

who? tutor!spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: fluff, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dry humping, fingering

word count: 5k

a/n: scheduled post as i am away at a new years music festival with my friends :] i will be back with you all in a few days <3

The first time you saw Spencer Reid was during a lecture hall mix-up in your second week at the university. You had rushed in, clutching your notebook and hoping to secure a spot before the professor started, only to find yourself in a room filled with students much older than you. At the center of it all, there he was—leaning casually against the podium, flipping through a worn-out book with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur around him.

He wasn’t the professor, but he might as well have been. His sharp, confident voice cut through the murmurs as he corrected an older man’s calculation on the whiteboard with such precision that the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You’d learned his name that day from the whispers: Spencer Reid. The prodigy. The genius with more degrees than anyone knew what to do with.

From then on, he became a background character in your university life—a distant figure who seemed too brilliant, too out of reach, to exist in the same world as you. You heard the rumors, the awe-filled anecdotes: he’d started college as a child prodigy, aced every test like it was nothing, and was now juggling multiple Ph.D. programs.

Your own academic pursuits felt mundane in comparison. Sure, you worked hard, but you struggled. Like now, for instance, staring at the red marks slashing through your latest assignment—a problem set for your advanced statistics class.

“You’ve got potential, but you’re missing the fundamentals,” your professor said when you approached him after class, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m assigning you a tutor.”

“A tutor?” you echoed, your stomach dropping. Group study sessions were bad enough; working one-on-one with someone felt like an invitation for them to witness your shortcomings up close.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ve paired you with one of the best.”

You didn’t know what to expect as you walked into the library that afternoon, clutching your notes so tightly your knuckles turned white. The email from your professor had given you nothing but a time and a name: Spencer Reid.

Your heart raced as you reached the designated table tucked into a quiet corner of the library. There he was, surrounded by open books and a tower of index cards, his familiar mop of brown hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a notebook. He looked up when you approached, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze in place.

“You’re here for tutoring?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected, though no less confident.

You nodded quickly, struggling to find your words. “Y-yeah, I’m… I’m Y/N. My professor said you’d be helping me with stats?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for you to sit. “Let’s get started, then.”

As you settled into the chair across from him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into another universe—one where Spencer Reid wasn’t just the untouchable genius you’d admired from afar but someone real, someone tangible, someone who, for the first time, was looking directly at you.

You weren’t sure what you expected Spencer Reid’s tutoring style to be, but it certainly wasn’t this. You’d assumed he might be aloof, perhaps brisk, throwing around jargon you’d struggle to keep up with. Instead, he was patient—meticulously breaking down concepts into manageable pieces while his pen skated effortlessly across his notebook.

Not that you could focus on much of it.

His presence was… distracting. The way his long fingers tapped thoughtfully against the edge of the table, the faint crease between his brows when he explained something particularly tricky, the way his lips pursed as he considered your answer before gently redirecting you to the correct one. All of it sent your mind spiraling into a whirlwind of thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics.

“Does that make sense?” Spencer asked, tilting his head as his hazel eyes searched yours.

You blinked, realizing too late that you hadn’t heard a single word of his explanation. Heat rushed to your face as you fumbled for a response. “Um, yeah! Totally. Makes sense.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Really? Then can you explain why we divide by the square root of the sample size in this calculation?”

Panic flared in your chest. “Oh, uh… because it… balances the equation?” you ventured weakly.

Spencer set his pen down, leaning back slightly as he studied you. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through the flustered exterior you were so desperately trying to hold together. And, knowing Spencer Reid, he probably could.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly, but with the clinical precision of someone stating a fact.

Your breath hitched. “What? No, I’m fine!” you lied, your voice raising an octave.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “A lot of people feel overwhelmed during one-on-one tutoring. It’s a different kind of pressure.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you or trying to make you feel small. If anything, he seemed… concerned.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he continued, his voice almost soothing now. “Because if you’re too focused on feeling self-conscious, it’s going to be harder for you to process the material.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. Spencer smiled—a small, reassuring curve of his lips—and slid his notebook closer to you.

“Let’s try this,” he said, switching tactics. “Instead of diving into the calculations right away, let’s talk about what you’re struggling with conceptually. No pressure, no judgment. Just a conversation.”

That did help, marginally. His calm demeanor and methodical approach were like a balm to your frazzled nerves. But every now and then, he’d catch you staring at him for a beat too long, your mind wandering to thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics. Each time, his gaze would flicker with amusement, like he knew exactly what was going through your head but was too polite to say anything.

By the time the session ended, your brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge—not just from the math but from the sheer effort of keeping yourself together in his presence. As you packed up your things, Spencer handed you a few pages of handwritten notes.

“These should help,” he said, his voice still as calm and steady as ever. “And if you have questions before our next session, feel free to email me.”

You nodded, clutching the notes like a lifeline. “Thanks. I’ll, um… I’ll do that.”

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, warm and curious. And though you were mortified at how obvious your flustered state had been, a tiny part of you couldn’t help but hope he didn’t mind.

You were determined to be better this time. You’d spent hours poring over the notes Spencer had given you, even rewatching a few recorded lectures for good measure. If you couldn’t control the embarrassing way your brain short-circuited around him, the least you could do was come prepared.

But as you approached the table in the library’s corner and saw him already seated, legs crossed, pen twirling lazily between his fingers, you realized preparation could only take you so far. He looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes lighting up briefly in acknowledgment.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice sounding far too breathy for your liking.

“Hi,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips as he motioned for you to sit. “Ready to dive in?”

You nodded quickly, lowering yourself into the chair and flipping open your notebook. Spencer wasted no time launching into a review of last session’s material, but as he began sketching out a new problem, you felt your focus slipping again.

It wasn’t your fault, really. Who could concentrate with him looking like that? His hair was slightly messier than last time, a few stray curls brushing against his forehead. He chewed absentmindedly on the cap of his pen as he thought, the motion inexplicably captivating. And when he leaned forward to jot down a formula, the faint scent of his cologne hit you, warm and woodsy, leaving your thoughts spiraling once more.

“Did you catch that?” Spencer’s voice cut through your haze. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring—again.

“S-sorry. What?” you stammered, gripping your pen like it might anchor you to reality.

His lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I was asking if you understood why we’re using a t-distribution here instead of a z-distribution.”

“Oh! Uh… yes?” you said uncertainly.

Spencer chuckled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach dropped, and you immediately ducked your head, cheeks flaming. “I’m not lying,” you mumbled.

“You are,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable confidence in his words. “Your body language gave it away. You looked down and shifted in your chair when you answered, which is a pretty common tell.”

You groaned softly, mortified. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why we’re using it.”

“See? That’s progress.” He grinned, and you could swear there was a hint of mischief in his expression. “But I can’t help noticing that your attention seems… elsewhere.”

Your head snapped up at that, your wide eyes meeting his. “What? No! I’m paying attention.”

Spencer tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. “Really? Then why do you keep staring at me?”

Your heart practically stopped. “I’m not—I wasn’t—I mean—” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a flustered mess, and his grin only grew more pronounced.

“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, cutting off your babbling. “I just couldn’t help but notice. You’ve been doing it since last session.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t staring,” you lied weakly.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and far too knowing. “You were,” he countered, his voice low and teasing now. “But I’m curious—why?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were only digging the hole deeper. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “About the statistics, or something else?”

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “The statistics,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and almost smug. “If you say so.”

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, and you felt the air shift between you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. People observe things they find interesting.”

The words hung in the air, and you swore your pulse echoed in your ears. You couldn’t tell if he was being matter-of-fact or if there was a deeper implication in his statement, but the knowing glint in his eyes kept you from relaxing.

“Let’s try again,” he said after a beat, tapping his pen against the notebook and effortlessly shifting the conversation back to math. But the playful smirk that lingered on his face for the rest of the session made it clear: he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

When you arrived at your usual table in the library, Spencer was already there, meticulously arranging his materials. His long fingers smoothed out the corner of a page in his notebook, and he glanced up as you approached, offering a small smile that made your stomach flutter despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, sliding into your seat.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Ready to tackle some more statistics?”

You nodded, pulling out your notebook and pen. He scooted his chair slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you could feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. You froze for a moment, unsure if it was intentional, but Spencer didn’t react.

“Okay,” he began, leaning toward you to sketch out a problem. As he wrote, his shoulder nudged yours lightly. The contact was brief, but it left your skin tingling.

“Let’s start with this,” he said, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. “We’re calculating confidence intervals today. Do you remember the formula from last time?”

You stared at the problem, willing yourself to focus, but the warmth of his proximity made it difficult. “Uh… I think so?”

“Let me jog your memory,” he said. His hand moved toward your notebook, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted it to face him. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to yours for a moment. “Didn’t mean to invade your space.”

“No, it’s fine,” you replied quickly, your voice higher than usual. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that the contact had been accidental. But then he leaned even closer, his arm grazing yours as he explained the formula.

“See how the standard error fits into this part?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. It was impossible to concentrate with the way his sleeve brushed against yours, the subtle movement sending a ripple of awareness through you.

“Let’s work through this part together,” Spencer continued, his tone patient. He slid his hand over the notebook, his fingers brushing against yours again as he pointed to a specific number. The touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but his expression remained neutral, as though he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if you were imagining things. Either way, the warmth radiating from him was making your thoughts hazy.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.

“Yeah! Totally fine,” you said quickly, though your face felt like it was on fire.

He smiled, his expression soft but unreadable. “Good. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

You nodded, gripping your pen tightly to ground yourself. But Spencer didn’t make it easy. Every time he reached for the notebook or gestured toward your notes, his hand would brush against yours. Once, he leaned forward to grab a pen, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours for a moment that felt both casual and deliberate.

By the time the session was over, your nerves were shot. Spencer handed you a fresh set of notes, his fingers grazing yours yet again as he passed them over.

“These should help,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing better than you think, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the notes to your chest.

“Same time next week?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.

You nodded, too flustered to say much else. As you walked away, you replayed the session in your mind, questioning every subtle touch, every quiet moment of proximity. Was it intentional, or were you imagining things?

The worst part was that you couldn’t tell—and that you didn’t really mind either way.

You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to have Spencer tutor you at your place. The library felt safer somehow, more neutral. But when he’d suggested it—citing the possibility of fewer distractions—you’d found yourself nodding without a second thought.

Now, as you sat across from him at your small dining table, you were second-guessing every decision that had led to this moment.

“Nice place,” Spencer said as he set his bag down and took in the cozy, slightly cluttered room. His eyes lingered on a stack of books by the couch. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” you replied, fidgeting with your pen. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company, so it’s kind of messy.”

He gave you a small smile, his gaze warm and easy. “It’s fine. Ready to get started?”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that Spencer Reid, in all his impossibly distracting glory, was sitting in your home.

For the first few minutes, you managed to keep things professional. Spencer explained a complex concept with his usual precision, and you actually managed to follow along. But then he leaned closer, pointing out a detail in your notes, and you felt that now-familiar flutter in your chest.

“You’ve got the right idea,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just need to be more precise here.”

He tapped the edge of the page, his hand brushing yours in the process. The contact was brief but enough to make your breath hitch.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with those impossibly perceptive eyes.

“Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, though your voice betrayed you.

Spencer’s lips quirked, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours under the table. It felt so casual, so natural, that you couldn’t decide if it was intentional.

For a while, he kept his focus on the notes, but his proximity seemed to grow with each passing moment. The air between you felt charged, like static electricity, and you could feel your resolve slipping.

“So,” Spencer said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and studying you with an intensity that made your pulse race, “how are you finding these sessions so far?”

“They’re good,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Really helpful.”

“Helpful,” he repeated, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “You sure about that?”

“Of course,” you replied, glancing up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours, and the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. “You seem… distracted sometimes.”

“I’m not distracted,” you said defensively, though the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise.

Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped slightly, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Are you sure? Because I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than the math.”

Your stomach flipped, and you looked down, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s not true,” you muttered.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone soft but insistent.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers grazing yours as he took the pen from your hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it left your skin buzzing.

“Relax,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just helping.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. He leaned closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice shaky.

“Yes?” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest of moments.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Spencer’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, the touch lingered, deliberate and unmistakable. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice low and steady.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your body betraying you before your mind could catch up.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a slow, careful movement, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hand resting lightly on yours as he tilted his head. The kiss, when it came, was soft and tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, your heart pounding as you let yourself get lost in the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“Still distracted?” he asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words hung in the air. You couldn’t decide if the heat coursing through you was from the kiss or the way he was looking at you—like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.

“Very,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smile widened slightly, but it wasn’t the smug grin you expected. It was softer, almost tender, though his eyes still carried that flicker of mischief.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost inviting.

You nodded, your breath catching as he stood and motioned toward the couch in the living room. You followed him, your nerves on edge but your body moving of its own accord.

The moment you sat down, the tension between you snapped like a rubber band. Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though giving you one last chance to stop him, before leaning in again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips met yours with more certainty, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew more fervent.

Spencer shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours as his free hand settled on your waist. The pressure was light, grounding, but it sent a shiver down your spine all the same. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded circle against your side, and the simple motion made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to angle the kiss more deeply. He responded immediately, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, leaving only the heat of his body and the intoxicating pull of his lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Spencer’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“I think,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than usual, “we’ve officially crossed into not studying territory.”

You laughed softly, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “You think?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. His fingers lingered on your waist, and the way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Me?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who—”

Before you could finish, he kissed you again, effectively silencing any protest. This time, it was slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. You sighed against his lips, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you gave in to the moment.

Spencer’s hands, steady but careful, slid down from your waist to rest on your hips. He shifted closer, and you felt the subtle press of his body against yours, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his knee nudged between your legs, your breath hitched, the pressure sparking a warmth that spread through you like wildfire.

You froze for half a second, unsure if the movement had been intentional, but Spencer didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips moved against yours with more intent, and his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, guiding you just enough for the tension between you to crackle and deepen.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders more tightly as you let yourself lean into him.

Encouraged by your response, Spencer deepened the kiss, his knee pressing more firmly between your thighs. The sensation was maddeningly slow, his movements deliberate and measured as though he was testing every reaction. You gasped softly, and he swallowed the sound with a small, satisfied hum.

His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs just beneath the hem of your shirt. The touch was gentle, but the heat of his palms against your skin left you trembling.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “I’m going to ask you a question from one of our sessions. If you get it right, I’ll keep going. If you don’t…” His hands stilled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk growing. “Well, I’ll have to stop.”

Your mouth went dry. Was he serious? The challenge in his eyes told you he absolutely was.

“Spencer…” you started, your voice shaky with anticipation and a tinge of frustration.

“Hm?” he prompted, his hands sliding down slightly but remaining just beneath your shirt, a silent reminder of what was at stake. “What’s the formula for calculating a confidence interval?”

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to recall the formula you’d seen so many times in your notes. But all you could focus on was the way his fingers were still, waiting, as though they held the key to your ability to think.

“Um,” you began, your voice faltering. “It’s, uh, the mean… plus or minus… the critical value?”

Spencer’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though he was considering your answer. “Close,” he said, his hands retreating slightly. “But not quite. Want to try again?”

“No, wait!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to focus. “The mean plus or minus the critical value times the standard error?”

He hummed softly, his fingers resuming their slow circles. “There it is,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “See? You can focus when you want to.”

Your heart pounded as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the underside of your bra. The sensation was enough to make your breath hitch, but you barely had time to react before he spoke again.

“Next question,” he said, his tone taking on a slightly firmer edge. “What’s the first step in solving a regression problem?”

Your brain felt like it had been set on fire. How were you supposed to remember academic concepts when his hands were touching you like this?

“I—I think…” you stammered, biting your lip as you tried to focus. “The first step is… identifying the variables?”

Spencer’s brow lifted, his expression a mix of amusement and approval. “Good,” he said, his hands sliding back down to your waist. “But don’t forget to check your assumptions first. Details matter.”

You let out a soft whine of frustration, but the sound turned into a gasp as his knee pressed gently between your legs again, reigniting the fire building in your core.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he spoke. “But I think you can do better.”

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his attention.

“What’s the difference between Type I and Type II errors?” he asked, his tone almost clinical despite the heat radiating from him.

“Type I is… rejecting a true null hypothesis,” you managed, your voice shaky. “And Type II is failing to reject a false one.”

Spencer grinned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Excellent,” he said softly. “You’re such a quick learner when you try.”

The praise made your heart race, warmth blooming in your chest as his words sank in. You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slid lower, resting on the bare skin just above the waistband of your pants.

“You deserve a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“A reward?” you managed, your voice breathless and unsteady.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving to your neck, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. “For all your hard work,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers toying with the elastic of your waistband. “Don’t you think you’ve earned it?”

Your only response was a soft, shaky nod, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Good girl,” he said, the words barely above a whisper, but they sent a jolt through your entire body.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his touch deliberate and teasing as he traced the edge of your panties. He paused for a moment, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with certainty.

That was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your panties to find your most sensitive spot. The first touch was light, almost experimental, but it was enough to make you gasp softly, your body arching into him.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to leave you trembling in his grasp. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly so he could capture your lips in another searing kiss.

The contrast between his steady, controlled movements and the growing intensity of his kisses was intoxicating, leaving you completely at his mercy. He broke the kiss just long enough to study your face, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a surprising tenderness.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

The praise made your cheeks flush, but before you could respond, his fingers pressed more firmly against you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “So responsive. So perfect.”

His words and touch combined left you completely undone, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. All you could do was cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

taglist: @opheliahotchner

[thef1diary]

🐎 new nonnie here

What if the reader discovers an old photograph of ghost!max and she started to touch herself at the photographand ghost!max was watching 🤭

— hi nonnie! Welcome welcome, hope to see you drop more filth in my inbox soon since this idea had me reeling for a while, holy fuckkk 😵‍💫 18+ content below

The attic was almost suffocating, its air thick with dust and the scent of aged wood. You hadn’t intended to stay long, just long enough to see if there was anything worth saving among the forgotten relics. Most of it seemed unremarkable—tattered books, dusty bookshelves and old trunks that were filled with items you didn’t have the energy to sort through just yet. But then you found it, tucked under a heavy cloth that caught your attention for reasons you couldn’t explain.

Your fingers trembled as you pulled the fabric away, uncovering an ornate frame, gilded in a way that spoke of another era. Your breath hitched once you spotted the engraving, your pulse quickening as you read the name etched in bold letters at the base: Max Verstappen.

You hadn’t known what to expect beneath the cloth, but it wasn’t this. The photograph beneath the glass was still crisp, almost haunting in its clarity. You sucked in a breath as you took him in—standing beside a sleek Formula 1 car. His race suit was unzipped, resting on his hips while the fireproofs stretched tightly across his body, showcasing his athletic build. His hair was a bit disheveled, as though he’d just pulled off his helmet, and his expression was pure arrogance, the smirk tugging at his lips sharp enough to cut.

But it was his eyes that held you captive. Blue and impossibly vivid. You’d never pictured them when you’d met him as a ghost; the faint outline of his presence had never given you such details. Yet now, staring into the photograph, they were unforgettable, piercing through time and space as though he was staring directly at you.

Your fingers brushed over the glass, tracing the curve of his jaw, the line of his smirk. A warmth spread through you, pooling low in your belly as you imagined what he must have been like in life—cocky, confident, utterly magnetic.

“Guess I always had a feeling you’d be hot, but not this hot,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.

Your gaze lingered on the photograph, forgetting about the reason behind your attic visit as you felt the heat of arousal curl through you. The longer you stared, the harder it was to resist the pull of him, the fantasy that began to unfold in your mind. He was beautiful in a way that shouldn’t have been fair, and you cannot believe you hadn’t gotten a chance to see him, to feel him when he was alive.

Before you could think better of it, your hand slid beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers seeking the ache building between your thighs. You circled your clit slowly, your breaths growing heavier as your gaze remained locked on his image.

“Max,” you whispered, a plea as you slipped a finger inside yourself, imagining it was him. You could’ve called him, could’ve felt his ghostly fingers bring you over the edge just like you wanted. But you didn’t. No, this moment was for you and Max—the “real” photographed Max. You pictured how he’d smirk and how he’d look down at you as he took you apart.

The room grew colder, a chill that prickled your skin, but you didn’t notice. You were too far gone, too caught up in the way your body responded to your own touch, your mind lost in the fantasy of Max’s physical presence.

What you didn’t see was the faint outline that formed in the corner of the room, the way the air shifted subtly, charged with energy. He was there, watching. Silent, still, his gaze fixed on you as you writhed on the floor of the attic, your fingers thrusting inside yourself, your breathy moans filling the space.

He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. The spirit box you used to communicate with him was downstairs, forgotten. But he didn’t need words. His presence was tangible, even if you hadn’t noticed him.

Your movements grew frantic, your free hand clutching the frame of the photograph as though grounding yourself in the image of him. Your thumb brushed his engraved name again, a whispered, “Max,” falling from your lips as you teetered on the edge.

He watched as your body arched, as your cries filled the room, your orgasm washing over you in trembling waves. His outline flickered in the corner of the room, the air crackling faintly with unspoken energy, as though he was responding to your pleasure in the only way he could.

When your breathing finally slowed, your hand fell away, trembling with the aftershocks. You glanced at the photograph one last time, searing Max’s blue eyes into your memory for when you feel his ghostly presence again.

Even as the waves of satisfaction ebbed, leaving your body warm and languid, an ache remained—a deeper, sharper yearning that settled in your chest, because now that you knew what he looked like, you knew you could never truly sate the hollow ache of never having met him, never feeling the heat of his flesh against yours.

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[halemerry]

On Crowley, memory, and identity.

So full disclosure first, I am not someone who is particularly interested in having Crowley's angel name on screen - personally I rather like the idea of never having an answer to this question - but I also do think it's interesting and fun to speculate and we got quite a few hints at this throughout this season soooo

Obviously part of this is that we meet him. The angel that would become Crowley is the first person on screen this season. We confirm a lot about him here. He confirm that he is powerful enough to start the engine of the universe. We confirm that he can control gravity and time and space and light. We confirm that he is the being that says let there be light before the beginning. We also confirm that he consulted with the concept designer of the universe and that he's very comfortable with the idea of questioning authority. We are also given Aziraphale's anxiety as a contrast to this and as proof that that is not a universal trait for early angels.

Now, we have always had evidence that Crowley is powerful. He's done some things that seem impossibly big. He stops time very casually and seemingly without effort - even at the end of season 1 it doesn't even seem to give us the same strain on him that holding the Bentley together does. This is a thing that we only ever see Crowley do and notably a thing that you would think other beings would mess with to their advantage if it was possible. Which means they either literally can't or that it never occurred to them that they could. Or as is becoming increasingly clear: perhaps it's a bit of both.

But that's not the only implication of power we get in season 1 either. We get Crowley seemingly in tune with the universe in a way many angels and demons aren't. Which, makes some sense if he helped make it. This manifests in all sorts of ways. He's constantly aware of Aziraphale's presence. He can smell when the world state changes like when Adam names Dog. He holds the Bentley together through utter destruction. He notices that there are different books in the bookshop - something I always assumed was meant to convey he was familiar with the shop's contents but after learning he didn't even know Jane Austen was a writer I wonder if it's actually more to do with him being in tune with reality. He also can apparently quite literally feel when there are eyes on them.

We're given even more of all these things this season in some really interesting ways. Crowley literally tests the air to check if a miracle has happened - another thing that we don't see anyone else do despite Heaven literally assigning someone to Aziraphale to check for a specific miracle. This particular beat is also something we are shown twice this season. Both here and in 1941, when Furfur uses the miracle blocker on Aziraphale. Here Crowley tests his miracles and despite getting nothing of the sort when Aziraphale tries a miracle literally the beat before this, we are given both a visual and an auditory effect. It ripples out with a watery sound effect from Crowley's finger. It's like he's prodding at reality.

There's also several instances involving the recognition or lack thereof of angels and demons. Crowley feels that the demon army is arriving before it does. Neither side seems to be able to track Gabriel - one of the most powerful beings in existence - at all once he leaves Heaven. We also see countless angels fail to notice Crowley himself both as Bildad the Shuhite performing literal miracles right in front of them. And this happens again as he prances about Heaven after Muriel. Aziraphale can't tell Shax is a demon despite Crowley recognizing she's manifested behind him nearly as soon as he answers the phone. Aziraphale can't even recognize that he himself is still an angel at the end of the Job story.

He also. Quite literally. Brings someone back from the dead???? Like waves a hand casually on the street and reconstitutes Mr. Brown like he'd never been dead at all. Mr. Brown returns with no memory of what happened to him holding a newspaper that seems to have literal bite chunks coming out of it. It's not framed as a huge miracle or anything strenuous either - just a casual snap.

And that's not even getting into the parallels with Gabriel. First of all. We get the color purple. It's purple when Aziraphale and angel that would become Crowley start the engine of the quadrants of the universe and it's purple when they miracle to hide Gabriel. This color is associated with power and, historically in the language of this show, with Gabriel himself. Them using it together twice speaks a lot to the power they have together.

But that's not the only symbolism historically tied to Gabriel that has found its way to Crowley this season either. Most flashy of all is the lightning. This is how we see Gabriel arrive on earth at the end of season one and it is something Crowley apparently just Does when he gets too mad to contain himself.

This alone wouldn't catch my attention except. Except the way Crowley reacts to Gabriel's memory problems is... interesting to say the least. He's angry and understandably so. Part of this is him being mad and protective of Aziraphale - he says as much himself to Jim directly. And yet, weirdly, it's the kind of mad that reminded me of something else.

This is the mad he tends to gets at his plants. Do it properly. Think hard. You can do better than that. Grow better. It's the kind of angry that's steeped in projection. It's he kind of angry that is undercut with the occasional weird undercurrent of understanding. And so much of his dialogue with Jim around this is framed like he does actually understand. Jim says it hurts and he says he knows. Jim starts talking about it feeling like being an empty house that still remembers where the furniture is and Crowley immediately latches onto this and understands ah it's looking at where the furniture isn't.

And there's a few other conversations that center around this issue that I find really interesting from a projection perspective. There's the conversation that happens when Crowley goes to have an alcohol fueled chat with Jim. He says "You're Jim now. Got everything just the way you wanted?" This doesn't make a whole lot of sense for him to be addressing Gabriel with. As far as he knows all Gabriel would want was the end of the world.

And then there's the particular way he asks Jim to eliminate himself in this scene. Climb out the window. In other words, have a fall. Something he pretty immediately retracts and clearly feels guilty about no matter how much he hates Gabriel.

And then there's the first conversation he gets to have after learning about Gabriel. Crowley opens this conversation, thinking out loud. He's staring out, not talking to Az yet and the very first thing out of his mouth is, of all things: "He's going to be okay." A weird start for a statement about Gabriel in itself but then Crowley goes and adds what at it's core is his own trauma narrative to the end with, "We can just take him somewhere and leave him there."

Now the real fun bit: Crowley also has memory issues that are out very prominently on display even as far back as season 1.

He has inconsistent memories of his Fall. The answers he gives us to why he Fell change slightly - even when he's alone with himself. He doesn't seem to understand why exactly he Fell even though he clearly has some vague idea of the pieces in play. I always thought to some degree that this was just a trauma response, but season 2 drew even more attention to this and now that we know that memory alteration is how Heaven handles powerful angels I can't help but to wonder if there's more in play here.

Crowley can't remember Furfur - who he apparently literally fought next to during the war in Heaven. Crowley can't remember building a nebula with Saraqael. Crowley doesn't remember why they decided gravity was a good idea.

But he does remember bits and pieces here and there. He remembers doing some of the starmaking. He remembers how to access clearance locked files. He's missing pieces and also seems to have an understanding that Gabriel's memories ARE in there. Almost like he's done this work on himself before.

This narrative itself is also far more concerned with the angel Crowley was this time around. It teases his rank a few different times. Most notably is him having access the files only available to Dominions and above.

Now angel hierarchy is a bit of a messy area depending on what sources you're using but given Good Omens tendencies in the past we can assume that this leaves us five ranks. Dominion, Throne, Cherub, Seraph, and Archangel.

I might break down why I think Dominion, Throne, and Cherub feel kind of odd to me later if there's interest - now available here - in that but given the current length of this meta I just want to focus on that last one for now.

Crowley was an Archangel is far from a new theory and I've honestly historically had some fairly mixed feelings about it. But the parallels between Jim and Crowley lend some interesting connective tissue to a lot of those theories. And. There's also some interesting camera work and script writing tied to Crowley and that term outside of the scenes about Gabriel's memories specifically.

Firstly, during Crowley's chat with Beelzebub he says it's a big universe with plenty of places for an archangel to hide. Like Alpha Centauri perhaps?

Then we get Aziraphale and Crowley both presenting Hell and Heaven respectively the idea that it could have been them that did the archangel class miracle. Aziraphale gets scoffed at and yet. Shax is the one who says the miracle was archangel level and Crowley's response is "how do you know I didn't do it?"

Then later as she's prowling about the shop we get this interesting shot of Crowley in the doorframe and Jim in the background. Crowley grins and offers to let Shax look in and see if she can see any archangels in there while he's framed dead center and Jim himself is blurry in the back of the frame.

And most fascinating in my opinion is this shot that happens when Crowley and Muriel are accessing the classified files. Nearly every shot in this sequence is group shots or shots of Gabriel. The camera is focused in the plot and the way the archangels function as a group and on Gabriel himself. But we get one single shot in this entire sequence of Crowley by himself and it is immediately following Gabriel saying "I am the only first order archangel in the room - or, well, the universe."

And then in the end. We get the Metatron who goes out of his way to avoid using Crowley's name. He calls him demon (and insists correctly that Crowley would recognize him even when Michael doesn't) or refers to him as Aziraphale's friend. He only ever uses that name when trying to use him as a bribe for Aziraphale. That combined with the dark look he gives Crowley implies a familiarity that only the Metatron has with him.

So who is he then? There's plenty of old meta out there about why certain archangels fit or don't and I won't reiterate them here. They're interesting and definitely worth poking around at and very fun to read! Personally I'm not as interested in naming the someone he used to be as I am in examining the places that ghost of this angel has started to poke through the narrative so I'll end this here. It's spiralled into something far longer than I ever meant it to be anyway.

[astradyke]

please never stop talking about loverboy phil

anon i do everything for you

thinking abt how phil was there when dan dropped out of law school. thinking abt how phil argued to bring dan on the jamaica trip that dan was not supposed to be on originally so phil could be with him. thinking about how dan comes to the lesters for the holidays, "tagged along to a lester thing", how dan came to phil's family home and how phil's family accepted dan with open arms. how hyper and annoying dan is in some of the younger era videos (like old cooking videos, the tree etc) and how it makes phil smile. how phil bought him a tonberry and bought him that fancy candle and won him a plush from a claw machine. how phil keeps bringing up dan's solo work not even just in the videos focused on them (think haircut vid, dan is leaving me, etc) but in all other videos-- like dan's book kept getting brought up by phil. an underrated moment in wdapteo 2 that i think about CONSTANTLY is the fact that at the end phil plugs some of dan's merch too and does his little smile as he does. "for treating us with your presence". how in the date night video when asked what animal dan would be phil immediately went with bear. wdapteo 3 where phil is wearing one of dan's viewers pick my outfit sweaters, and how we would see years later that phil took like 100 silly photos of dan in the minion fit from that video (which proves my belief that half of phil's camera roll is just dan). how dan walks faster and ahead of phil but phil takes photos while dan is walking like the one in türkiye. how phil made him spaghetti when he was ill. how constantly phil talks about dan needing to wear color. him hyping up gay but not proud (and also BEING in gay but not proud). him being in the audience of dan's one off comedy routine about being gay. him being in the we're all doomed audience. him probably being dan's first subscriber. love eyes lester which is SO LETHAL it's so lethal. how dan will ramble and get annoyed at phil and phil will just giggle and laugh. phil playing with dan's hair. "you > everyone in the universe." the recent press the button video where phil said (when given the option to live forever alongside all of his now immortal loved ones) that dan would be immortal. "i haven't seen you for 10 hours i wanted to tell you about my lexicon". texting dan nonsense in wdapteo 4 for 3 days straight and not receiving a reply and pouting about it. taking the photo outside his window when dan asked to see if he could see him. being endlessly the no.1 sister daniel fan, accepting dan's experimentation with sister daniel relentlessly. there's so many more. there's so many more.

i'm really normal about htis by the way.

[primofate]

Death and Regrets - Alhaitham

Notes: This has been written for quite a while. It will be part of my next Genshin book "Primofate's Angst Anthology Volume 1" I was planning on keeping it exclusive to the book, but I hadn't posted in such a long while that I felt that I had to give you guys something. Grateful to all of you who are still here and please look forward to the release of my next book! I'm planning for it to be out late 2025 on Amazon!

Word Count: 2316 (yes, the death and regrets in my next book are quite long)

Others in the series: (Scaramouche and Kaeya Version) (Thoma, Xiao, Diluc and Zhongli)  (Itto, Gorou, Albedo)

Death, Regrets and Second Chances [An Alternate Ending to Death and Regrets]: (Kazuha, Childe, Scaramouche, Kaeya)

Warnings: not proofread, YOU DIE, no comfort

Characters: gn! reader x Alhaitham

It was not that your relationship with the Scribe was a secret, it was simply because the two of you were private people. There’s no reason to go around telling everyone that the two of you were dating, in fact, it would be rather unprofessional to do that, seeing as both of you held high positions in the Akademiya.

Even before that, however, when you were merely students, there were a few countable times in which Alhaitham and you crossed paths.

“What’s a Vahumana student doing reading a book about ancient runes?” He was a handsome, young man. As he was today. But he was less guarded, less critical of others in his younger years. You had no idea whatsoever that this encounter with him would lead to a blossoming romantic endeavour.

You stared up at him, rather enchanted by his eyes, book held in your hands. You took one look at his uniform and immediately knew he was Haravatat. “…We’re going on an expedition into the Hadramaveth Ruins soon…” you explain, just waiting for him to leave.

He stands in front of you for a good 5 seconds before sighing and exclaiming “…I suppose I can let you have the book for a few more days,” he starts to walk off, adding a brief “Let me know if you’re done with it,” signalling to you that he probably wanted to borrow the book.

It was weeks later that you handed the book over to him, your left arm bandaged up and in a sling. He glanced at the book, then at your arm. “…What happened to you?” it was merely an offhanded question. He was just curious what kind of accident you got into.

You didn’t seem the reckless type.

“Just some trouble in the ruins,” you shrug.

You thought that leaving the book with him was the last you would see of Alhaitham. But, days later, struggling with a broken arm and in a cliché scenario of being unable to reach a book on the highest shelf, it was him who leans forward and retrieves it for you easily.

“…Alhaitham,” he says it with a bit of uncertainty. As if not knowing if he was making the right decision.

“Huh?” You instinctively let out.

“My name. It’s Alhaitham,” You make a sound of understanding, and give him your own.

What happened after that was a whirlwind of intense and exhilarating experiences. Somehow he had made it part of his routine to lend you a hand in the library. Those little butterflies in your stomach start to flutter, wondering why he made such effort for you, when you secretly knew the answer yourself.

Those same butterflies start to fly, flitting about in twists and turns in your stomach when you find yourself sitting side by side with him, studying separate subjects, yet together in each other’s presence.

Until, even when the sun set, the butterflies are awake and alive within you, seemingly escaping your gut and now fluttering with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump in your chest while the two of you meet in the secret corners of the dormitories, head to shoulder, whispering and talking about anything and everything you could think of.

You excelled in your school, as did he, and before long, the two of you were given important roles within the Akademiya. Him as the Scribe, and you, as Vahumana’s Assistant Sage.

“Y/N?” there was a knock on your study door, voice as familiar to you as your own.

“Come in,” you stand as the door pushes open. Alhaitham slips in and just as easily closes the door with his foot, striding over to meet you at the middle of the room.

Knowing that there was no one there except the two of you, both of you walk the full length, up until he opens one arm, and up until you walk into his warmth. His arm wraps you tight for a few seconds, his eyes closing, nose diving into your hair for a quick kiss, before releasing you completely and stepping away from each other.

Just a quick greeting.

Always a quick greeting, in case someone decides to come in.

“Your message…” Alhaitham trails off, he had been out on some sort of task for a few days and the only way to reach him had been through a messenger. The message you sent was clear. Grand Sage Azar was planning something devious, and he had to be stopped. “…are you sure?”

“…At the very least, Azar is suspicious,” you recount how it seems like the Grand Sage had been scheming something. That there was an important project the sages had been working on. That Cyno had suddenly quit his post as General Mahamatra. “…They’re tampering with the Akasha System, and I haven’t seen Naphis in weeks,” you end, face carrying a grim expression.

Alhaitham, as always, remained calm and collected. You had long known that he had been a person of logic. That he was smarter than the average person, his mind always seemed to be working faster than others’ did.

“…Even then, there’s nothing we can do at the moment, without any evidence,” he closes his eyes when he says this, possibly going through all the information that you’ve given him.

“Alhaitham,” you press, words suddenly taking a more assertive edge. “It’s not natural for Naphis to disappear like this. Furthermore, all the other sages assure me that he’s merely busy working on the project.” And it’s here that he detects a hint of your pleading tone. “but he opposed of the project, Alhaitham. They’re hiding something,”

He holds back a sigh, you see it in the way his shoulders tense and his face attempts to remain neutral. “If we don’t have anything against them, then there’s nothing we can do,” he repeats and you almost feel like you’re talking to a wall, but he continues. “I’ll scout around, but there are other things I have to do. We can’t just go by your intuition alone,”

“You’re saying I’m making this all up?”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it. You’re letting your frustration get the better of you, Y/N,”

You bite your lip. He’s right. As he always is. Patience is a virtue, that was always what he said. If he wanted to do something, it had to be mapped out and planned perfectly. It wasn’t his style to go rushing into something, including accusations of people.

“We’ll talk about this a bit more tomorrow. Just cool off, for now,” he leaves with only a nod, knowing that the two of you just needed some time to think and gather your thoughts carefully, before hatching a plan. Together, the two of you could easily do it, Alhaitham had always valued your opinions and intelligence.

Early morning the next day the same messenger you had sent to Alhaitham finds his way to your study. Karman, his name was.

“Assistant Sage Y/N,” he respectfully hands you a letter, bows his head and steps away.

The letter is addressed to you, from Alhaitham.

I was on a separate task to the Hadramaveth Ruins and found traces of the sages “project”. I did return to the Akademiya but hadn’t the time to seek you out before leaving for another assignment. I left my letter to Karman. I’ll make quick of my task, and meet you at the Ruins shortly after daybreak.

Karman only watches as you drop the letter on your desk, quickly packing essentials to travel to the ruins.

Pity. He thought to himself. Such a young talent going to waste.

“You’re free to go,” you hurriedly dismiss him and he nods, taking a last glance at the fabricated letter on your table.

Alhaitham wakes far too late to stop the tragedy from happening. When he slips into your study, your door being slightly agape was his first clue that something was amiss. The second was the letter on your table.

‘I didn’t write this,’ was his instant reaction.

‘Y/N’s in trouble,’ was his second,gut-wrenching realization.

He sprinted without a second thought towards the ruins. His legs, as practiced and trained as they were from doing assignment after assignment, burned with a speed that he had never attempted to reach before. He hears his laboured breathing in his ears, hears his heart going faster than he had ever felt it go.

All the while he berated himself. How could he not have seen this coming? Why had he not taken extra precautions?

The desert is brutal, even to him. It was harder to press on, his feet stamping on soft sand, making it difficult to propel forward. He sees the ruins in the far horizon, the doors shut tight.

I can make it! He thinks to himself, pushing his strength to the last limits. You must have been inside,all he had to do was—

BANG!

In a sudden, quick explosion of sand the entrance to the ruins erupt in a lick of flames. And then, one after another bombs set off. The ground shook at the intensity, Alhaitham swayed, tipped over, and fell forward only to push himself up and keep going, his eyes determinedly glued to the ruin entrance despite the sand kicking up everywhere.

I’ll make it. I’m coming.

Explosions were still going off, ringing in his ears. His worst nightmare descended upon him when the ruin doors burst into thousands of pieces, in smithereens and mixing with the sand. The rest of the structure stumbled and caved in, it was sinking so fast into the sand.

Alhaitham pressed on.

There’s no way.

He scrambled forward as the pillars and rocks crumble and sink. For a moment he thinks he hears someone calling his name, but all he can think about is your face.

Your face. In every corner of his life. Now sinking into the sand, trapped for eternity, never to be seen again.

Y/N…!

“Alhaitham!” He’s suddenly jerked backwards, equally strong arms are holding him back, preventing him from going any further into the disaster.

“Y/N!” Alhaitham finally bellows, the sound of his voice echoing through the desert. He struggles against the hold, pulling and heaving himself forward. When he realized that the person holding on to him was just as stubborn as he was, he swerved around with a glare. “I have to go! What’re you doi—” he stopped short, and saw that it was Cyno.

Cyno who had a pained look in his eyes. “It’s too late,” he said as a matter of factly.

Alhaitham stilled, he could hear the structure still crumbling, yet to him it sounded like the whole world falling. He jerked away from Cyno’s grasp, turning towards the crumbling structure, and finally fell to his knees.

His hands grasp on sand, palm stinging at how hard he was gripping on to them. “—Can’t be,” he murmurs something into the wind, only bits of it audible. His frame crumples forward, arms keeping him from falling face first into the sand. “It can’t be…It can’t. can’t. can’t. CAN’T be!” His fist pounds into the sand with each angry word, eyes squeezing shut and wracking his brain for a solution. This can’t be it. Y/N was smarter than that, you might’ve found a way to avoid it.

To Cyno, who had never seen Alhaitham unravel in such a way, who had no idea that the man could even be in such a state, only silently watched. Unaware of what he could do for him. “Alhaitham…”

The Scribe suddenly stood, as if he hadn’t been mourning just a few seconds ago. By now the storm had settled, and where the ruin doors once stood was now just a mound of sand, as if it had never been there before. “Y/N could still be around,”

Cyno could only see his back, now tall and proud. The General Mahamatra watched as Alhaitham picked his arm up, laid it over what would be his face and dragged it, slowly, from left to right. Cyno wasn’t sure if it had been sweat or tears, but the taller man stood there for a moment, and with a hint of a tremble, said “I have to bring Y/N back…”

That’s how Cyno knew, that Alhaitham was conscious of the world, was conscious of the tragedy that had just happened.

But that didn’t stop him from coming back to the ruins every single day, holding out on whatever hope he had, the pain of “We’ll talk about this a bit more tomorrow. Just cool off, for now,” repeating over and over and over again in his head, keeping him awake at night.

How could that have been his last words to you?

How could he have passed on the chance to wrap you in his arms, like all those times the two of you shared in your younger years, and passed on the chance to tell you how much he adored, missed and loved you instead?

The worst part of it all was the fact that he had nothing left. Not even a last look of your face, not even a tombstone to visit. Not even a safe space for you to rest.

All of a sudden it didn’t matter how much he had succeeded in life up until this point. He had failed you so miserably.

What had he been doing for the past few years?

What was it all for?

When all was said and done, when the sun set and the tasks were completed, he came home to you.

And now, there was no home to be found. For a while, he would come home and collapse on the cold, hard, floor. It was so, so quiet and all around the four walls he saw your face and your smile, haunting and piercing his soul.

There was no home here.

Only sadness, and solitude.

I’ve published The Ruthless Prince (Reader x Scaramouche) on paperback. Click here.

Consider supporting me to read some exclusive fics:

Ko-Fi

buymeacoffee

Here’s the masterlist:

Masterlist

[selineram3421]

*spaced out*

Courting Pursuit

Part 1

Prologue

Alastor X Deer Reader

Warnings ⚠

⚠ (gn) gender neutral reader, mule deer reader, assuming alastor is a marsh deer, flustered alastor, Spanish translated, food mention-not specific, italics= thoughts, mentions of dismemberment ⚠

You had gotten Alastor's attention after that peck on the forehead.

It annoyed him though.

How dare some demon think to kiss him, the frightening Radio Demon, who slaughtered other Overlords to get to the top. He should be feared!

But after that day all you did was give him gentle smiles and what he assumes are compliments in Spanish. He's had to get a dictionary to translate them, not wanting to go to Vaggie every time.

After learning how to properly translate in his radio tower, he's left with a flushed face.

Damn that sleepy eyed deer- He huffs and tosses the book away.

Then he starts to notice more things about you. Mostly because he's trying to figure out a way to get you back for daring to touch him.

You look sleepy, almost all the time.

Noticing how strong you are when you lift one of the couches for Niffty to clean under it. How big your antlers are and how often you have to lower your head in order to enter a room without hitting your antlers on the door frame. Damn Angel for pointing out your big build and chest.

A button has shot out and broken a glass at the bar, the thread having finally snapped from the constant tension.

"Holy shit!", Angel laughed and turned to the white haired demon. "Hey vagina! You owe me a twenty!"

He learned the proper shirt size for you so that it wouldn't happen again.

Then he's noticed that you like to stand near him when given the chance. Sitting on the chair next to him when having dinner with everyone, sometimes following him to the bar, and then watching him cook.

It annoys him.

You still don't fear him.

Another night, another meal to be made and you're watching him cook again. The Radio Demon finally speaks up about your presence in the kitchen.

"If you aren't going to contribute in making the food, then leave.", he glances over his shoulder with a slight glare.

The mule deer stays leaning against the door frame for a second longer before pushing themselves off, walking over while rolling up their sleeves.

"Te ayudaré." (I will help you.)

It is quiet in the kitchen, save for the occasional ask for spices and other ingredients.

You are quite skilled with a knife.

He watches from the corner of his eye as you mince the vegetables.

After everything is done, you get the plates and set them down on the counter before starting to serve some the food one one of them.

"Who are you serving?", he questions.

You don't reply, instead you finish piling food on the plate before offering it to him with the same smile you always show him.

"Eat."

The Radio Demon was confused but took the plate anyway. It was the cook that ate last, it's always been that way.

"I don't really understand why you served me first. The others are in the dining room.", he said.

Before he could put his plate down, you stopped him and gave him a utensil.

"Please, eat. Has trabajado duro, así que come y relájate. Yo serviré.", you flashed another smile and gathered up the other food filled plates, balancing them on your arms as you made your way over to the door. (You have worked hard, so eat and relax. I will serve.)

He stood there as he watched you leave the room, taking a glance at the plate in his hands.

What exactly were you trying to do?

Later in the week, Alastor decided to pay a visit to Rosie and brought some food that you had made after finding out where he was going.

He sat on one of the arm chairs as the woman across from him complimented your food.

"I need advise for a problem."

The black eyed woman lifted a brow.

"You? Now this must be something good. You never ask for advise unless something has really stumped ya.", she said and dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"It's about that mule deer I brought with me last time, the hotel guest.", his smile strained slightly. "I don't understand why aren't scared of me like other sinners. Hell, even the Princess knows to be wary of me but the damn demon just smiles at me."

This gets her attention and she sits up a bit straighter.

"Go on.."

"Not only that, they dare to peck me on the forehead.", he looks away. "I hate that they aren't afraid. They sit close to me, compliment me, follow me around sometimes, helped me in the kitchen just a few days ago. Served me a plate even!", he raised a hand up in annoyance. "I've ripped demons apart in front of them but they still act so strangely around me! I don't understand! Why are they so odd!?"

Rosie laughs as she places her elbow on the arm rest, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand, wearing a knowing smile.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're being courted."

Alastor turned to look at his friend.

"A what now?"

You..courting him?

How absurd! Laughable even.

"Hahahaha!", he wiped a tear away. "I didn't think you'd make such a ridiculous joke, ha.."

The woman crossed her arms and stared him down with a look.

"Surely you jest.", he says.

Rosie sighs and stands from her seat. "Dear old friend, what are the ways to court or show interest in a person?"

"Ah..well. You know I've never-", he begins but is cut off.

"The most popular ways to court someone are to give the person of their interest compliments, attention, gifts, acts of service, and often treated in a respectable manner.", she lists off and she walks over to stand next to his chair. "And the oh so famous line of reaching a person's heart is through their stomach.", she says and pokes his mid section. "It sounds a lot like what that big darling deer is doing for you."

Alastor left, not knowing what else to say after his friend laid out the evidence so plainly for him to see. Once he arrived back at the hotel, he noticed the mule deer sleeping in the lobby on one of the couches.

"Everyone else is asleep in their rooms.", Husk spoke up fron the bar.

The spider demon is at the bar drinking a maroon liquid from a martini glass in his hand.

"Why are they..here?", the Radio Demon gestures to you.

"Said something about making sure to welcome you when you got back. I don't know why they'd want to though.", the cat demon serves himself a drink.

"Gentle Giant is real sweet, that's why.", Angel places his cup on the bar counter. "Damn, I'd want some hot demon to welcome me back home.", he says before leaning closer to the bartender. "Oh Husk~"

Husk just rolls his eyes and drinks his alcohol.

"They gotta sleep in their room. The couch is not that comfortable.", Husk mentions.

Not too long later, the two demons at the bar leave to go to their rooms to retire for the night.

Alastor now left with the task of waking you up.

He goes over and places a hand on your shoulder, beginning to shake you slightly.

"Wake up. You have to go to your room.", he says.

You slowly blink your eyes open and stare at him for a second. Then that soft dopey smile forms on your face.

"Bienvenido de nuevo.", you mumbled out. (Welcome back.)

". . . . . . . . ."

Shit.

He made sure you didn't hit anything on your way back to your room. Immediately walking away after your door closes to think over a few things.

Fun fact: Female deer can also have antlers but it is very rare and only occurs when there is a hormonal imbalance of testosterone/regulation issues.

~Seline, the person.

Part 2

Taglist@

@c4rved-pumpk1n @scary-noodlesblog @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @lbcreations-blog @ducky-died-inside @kiraisastay @pooplyface1423 @line-viper @117s-girl @spiderlegsling @alastorsgoldie @repentant-repeller @kcsketches @lofasofabread @kotaleee @im-coolrat @superzombiewho @speckle-meow-meow @jammcookie @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @trashbin-nie @koioli @fatherlesschild2 @mmik3yy @just-here-reading @nealeart @hudiexiaoying @crystal-multiplefandomlover @glowinggoldfish0 @tiredgamerhere @fluffy-koalala @valenfawkes @willowshadenox @aria-tempest @alastor-simp @nonetheartist @gallantys @i-3at-kidz @luxky-aish @wat4r @lustylita @sleep-7372 @+?

ML II Alastor🎙 | CP ChL🦌

[p1astr81]

in disguise -op81

in which: Oscar’s classmate invites him—well, himself and spider-man—to her New Year’s Eve party where things take a turn for the worse for him. (au)

pairing: spider-man!oscar piastri x reader

warnings: use of y/n, alcohol consumption, cursing

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

‧‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Weeks had passed since that first day on the rooftop. Oscar would meet you everyday he could, on the same rooftop, around the same time.

You found yourself waiting for him, longing for his presence, searching the skies for a blur of blue and red. And you found yourself smiling every time you heard him drop down behind you and joined you on the ledge.

Tonight was no different.

Half an hour had passed but it felt like seconds. “What if someone was being robbed while you’re sitting up here with me?”

Oscar laughed with his chest, folding over himself. “Then I guess I’ll be getting a call from Mr. Stark about my avenger title being revoked.”

You chuckled, but the sound was all air. “Uhm, speaking of not doing your work…” you started, staring down at your swinging feel. “Do you think you could get New Year’s Eve off? I mean there’s going to be cops all over the city anyway.” Your face was flushed, a tinge of pink coloring your cheeks. You were nervous, an emotion Oscar didn’t even think you were capable of.

“I don’t know if superhero’s ever get a day off but perhaps I could cut my hours short?” He grinned under the mask.

“I just- I’m having a party and I think it would be really cool if you could come.” Your voice was small, scared of rejection from Spider-Man. That kind of rejection would be enough to kill a person.

The anxiety was lifted from your shoulders when he spoke, “yeah, I’ll definitely make some time.”

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

Oscar shuffled through his books, stashing the anatomy one in his locker and exchanging it for the calculus book.

“Hey,” the voice unmistakably belonged to you. You stood beside Oscar’s locker, a hand laxly holding onto the metal door, your bodies nearly touching.

Thinking you couldn’t possibly be talking to him, he turned in the other direction, but no one was there. “Yes I’m talking to you, Oscar.” You laughed.

He met your eyes with his own, now blown wide. “Well don’t look too shocked yet.”

Oscar awkwardly adjusted his posture and fixed his expression to a more neutral one. Your smile did well to hold back your laughter.

“Listen, I’m having a New Year’s Eve party and I want you to come.”

Of course, Oscar was already invited as spider-man, and said yes as spider-man. But to turn down a party invite from you would be insanely stupid of him. “Yeah, I’ll be there.” He nodded.

Your smile brightened. “Great! Uhm but if I could get your number so I could send you the address that would be good.”

Scrambling through his locker, Oscar was searching for the pack of sticky notes he swore he had. “Here,” you spoke, a light pink sticky note held delicately between your fingers. Oscar scribbled his number onto the paper and handed it back to you, fingers brushing past each other as you plucked it from his hand. “Perfect. Looking forward to seeing you there.” You winked before walking off. Just from that single muscle movement, Oscar’s face felt far too hot.

“Ha. What are you blushing for?” Logan poked Oscar’s shoulder. “I was just invited to y/n’s New Years Eve party.” He spoke, a level of bewilderment in his voice.

“No fucking way!” He hit Oscar’s shoulder with far too much force, jolting Oscar back to reality. “You’ve gotta bring me with you.” Still half in a haze, Oscar nodded.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

“Mr. Stark?” Oscar called out, cautiously venturing further into the compound.

Tony called him not long ago. Not much explanation was given except for that it was an urgent matter and Oscar absolutely had to rush over to the compound.

“Mr. Stark is in his lab.” Friday’s robotic voice informed from above. Face turned towards the ceiling, Oscar gave a small “thanks” before rushing off to meet Tony.

“Mr Stark?” Oscar called, catching himself on the doorframe to throw himself into the room, having been running far too fast.

As his gaze was locked on the large holographic screen ahead of him, Tony gestured for Oscar to come closer. They both watched as one man—dressed in what looked to be a comically large fur-lined cape—hovered over a bridge, freezing over the whole structure. A giant snowball was conjured from the air, and quickly turned to a solid block of ice. It was then smashed into the side of the bridge, obliterating the concrete walls and sending cars down onto the—now frozen—water below. They crushed on impact.

“Oh my god.” Oscar breathed out in horror. Head hung low, Tony paused the clip. “His name is Ryder West, but goes by subzero.” Tony flashed a photo of the man out of costume. “As you saw, he has freaky Elsa powers.”

Oscar felt the familiar feeling of fear creeping up on him, raising goosebumps along his arms despite the heated suit. “And… you want me to take care of this? Don’t you think this is more of an avengers level threat? What does this guy even want anyway?” He stuttered out the list of questions, looking at Tony like he was insane. “I mean, that guy can crush me in two seconds with one of those ice balls! And how was he even floating?”

Tony put a hand up to stop Oscar’s never-ending questions. “You can handle this, kid. I know you can. And as for your last question, I believe he can manipulate water, and was using that ability to help him float.”

Oscar’s brain couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. “Walking on water? That like- that defies the laws of physics.”

“Oscar, there’s a wizard who can manipulate space and time. I don’t think physics means much these days.” Tony sighed.

“How can I fight a guy who defies the laws of physics? Man this would be a really good time to have someone on our side who’s made of fire or something.”

The look on Tony’s face was not even remotely amused. “Kid, you’ve fought a witch before. This should be a piece of cake.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder before exiting the room.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

Oscar changed his outfit three times. A fact usually not paired with him. But tonight had him digging through his closet to find the perfect outfit, one that was the most flattering on him. He settled for a maroon t-shirt and a somewhat loose pair of jeans.

He figured everything out. He would show up first as himself, then after about half an hour, he would sneak off and change into his Spider-Man outfit. Had his nano-suit not need fixing, Oscar’s task of playing two roles would have been infinitely easier, but alas, he was left with his other suit, which he was to manually put on and take off.

Oscar dropped by to pick up Logan. They’d asked Fred if he wanted to come along too but he politely declined in favor of his games.

When Logan and Oscar arrived, the party was already very lively. Loud music reverberated around the big house, shaking the floor if you got too close to the large speakers.

Regretfully, they found a very drunk, and very energetic Lando when they neared the kitchen. He threw an arm around Oscar, his grip loose. “Hey! Oscar! I didn’t know you’d be here! Didn’t think this was your kind of crowd!” Lando shouted in Oscar’s ear, and he had to jerk his head away to spare his eardrums. “Not usually, but when Y/n invites you, you’d have to be insane not to say no.”

“Awe thanks!” You appeared from behind him, leaning up against the counter across from him. “I’m honored that you broke out of your comfort zone for me.” Your bottom lip was caught delicately between your teeth as you reached out to land a soft hit to his bicep. Alex came rushing into the kitchen, Carmen trailing right behind her. “Come on it’s our song!” Alex shouted, dragging you back to the living room, presumably to dance.

“Dude what the fuck!” Lando gasped. “She’s totally into you!” Had Lando not been drunk out of his mind, Oscar may have been subject to his jealousy. But for now, it was total excitement on Oscar’s behalf.

Oscar chuckled nervously. “I’m not so sure about that one.”

“If you don’t want her, then can you put a good word in for me?” Logan nudged Oscar’s shoulder with his.

Him and Logan managed to get away from Lando’s clingy self, and proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes making awkward small talk with their drunk classmates.

He grabbed Logan by the shoulder, leaning in close to his ear. “I’ll see you later, I’m gonna go… change.”

Thankfully, because of the chilly December air, there was no one outside. So Oscar’s task was a lot easier. He climbed onto the roof, and got to changing. At one point, while Oscar’s suit was half on, a couple came out of the house, and he had to quickly drop down to his stomach to avoid being seen.

Eventually, Oscar got the Spider-Man suit on, and dropped down right in front of the main door.

He let himself in, and immediately the atmosphere shifted. All eyes were on him, the chatter ceasing, though the music still blared. You came around the corner. “What’s everyone- Ah! You made it!” You cheered, the crowd making a perfect walkway for you to reach him. You stopped right in front of him to turn and face the party-goers. “Well, get back to partying! Don’t mind him.” And they miraculously did as you suggested, the loud chatter quickly resuming.

“Seems like heroes do get a day off after all.” Your mouth split in a smile, the party lights reflecting off your bubblegum pink lip gloss.

There was a Christmas tree in the entry room, and a certain ornament on it caught Oscar’s attention. He padded over to the tree and you followed. He held the ornament with delicate fingers, keeping it still handing from its branch and pointed to it. “Big fan of me?”

Your head was thrown back as you laughed. “The biggest. But my dad hates it. Tried to get rid of it completely.” Oscar frowned and your smile widened. “You know, your mask moves with your expressions. It doesn’t hide much.” His lips curved into a grin, and you clapped your hands together a single time. “ah that’s one I know well! You’re smiling.”

You grabbed hold of his risk with nimble fingers, the pressure of them light. “It’s too loud down here, how about we go somewhere quieter?” You gave him no room to answer, leading him up the stairs as soon as your words are out. Though Oscar would have agreed anyway, as he willingly follows you.

You reach the top of the steps and venture down a hallway to the very end. You extend an arm to the top of the doorframe, extracting a small key from the ledge. Unlocking the door, you led yourself and Oscar in the room before closing it behind you. “Sorry, I lock the doors cause I don’t want to clean up any… residue.” You explained, shivering at the mere thought.

Oscar assumed this was your bedroom. The lighting was dim. A single lamp lighting the whole room. But Oscar could still make out the posters of various artists hanging on the walls and the piles of books that lined your bookshelves. It was undeniably the room of a teenage girl.

You laid on the plush bed, pulling Oscar with you. He sat on the edge while you sat up against the headboard. “So how was your New Year’s Eve shift?” You smirked, though your mind couldn’t stop thinking about how he still had yet to pull away from your entwined hands.

“Did you bring me up here just so we could have a rooftop chat?” You chuckled at the way the eyes of his mask shifted as if he was lifting a brow at you. “Yes. I love our chats.”

“But it’s so close to midnight. Wouldn’t you want to be down there with everyone?” You shook your head. “Surely there’s someone down there you want to kiss at midnight.” Oscar gave a light tug on your hand. You smiled softly, now unable to meet his eyes, your gaze fixated on your hands. “No. There’s no one down there I want to kiss.” You were suddenly shy with your words, the confidence fading with the fantasies of kissing the one and only Spider-Man at midnight running through your mind.

“Oh?” Oscar quipped, and you looked up at him through you eyelashes. “What about you? Surely a superhero like you has someone special.” The tip of your finger tapped the back of his hand. Oscar shook his head. “No girlfriend.” He replied.

You acted shocked, though you already presumed as much. “Really? Color me surprised.”

You reached for the remote on the bedside table, and turned the channel onto the live stream of the ball drop.

“We are just one minute away from dropping into the new year, and…”

You tuned the television out, straightening up and sitting directly in front Oscar. His breath began to come in shallower waves.

“Ten!”

You reached up to his neck, fingers slipping under the fabric of the mask. Your fingers ghosted over the bare skin of his neck and shivers shot through the both of your bodies.

“Nine!”

When no protests came, you continued on.

“Eight!”

Oscar tried to talk himself out of this, to grab ahold of your hands and stop your movements.

“Seven!”

He couldn’t bring himself to stop you.

“Six!”

Your anticipation wanted to tear the thing off, but you wanted to give him a chance to pull out of this if he wanted to.

“Five!”

Oscar’s breathing ceased when the mask rode past his chin.

“Four!”

You searched the eyes of his mask for any micro expression that would alert you of discomfort. There was none.

“Three!”

Oscar finally grabbed hold of your wrist when the mask passed his lips. You got the message, letting go of the fabric and leaving it to rest on the bridge of his nose.

“Two!”

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand remaining cradling your cheek even after the hair was secure.

“One!”

By his hand on your cheek, he pulled you close.

“Happy New Year!”

He took on the responsibility of making the first move, closing the gap between you, capturing your lips with his.

There was a desire in the way you moved together that was unmatched to anything either of you have ever felt before.

Your hand slid up the front of his suit, stopping to rest on his chest. Wherever your hand went, Oscar’s body buzzed.

Greed drove Oscar’s movements as his hand slid to the small of your back, and drew you closer. The shock of the movement had you gasping into his mouth, “oscar,”

His eyes flew open, and he jumped away from you. He stood across the room, yanking his mask back down. “Wh- what did you say?” Oscar was breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was in total disbelief, swearing he must have heard you wrong.

You stared at him in shock. “I’m—fuck—I didn’t mean to do this now.” You hid your face in your hands, embarrassed and afraid for his reaction.

“What do you mean? How did you— who told you?” He tried to be demanding, but his mind was racing with ten different emotions at once. Elation, confusion, fear, anger.

Lifting your head, you met his eyes, shaking your head. “No one. I figured it out on my own.” Your eyes darted around the room, and he could tell you were scared. Hell, he could feel your fear, radiating off of you in profuse waves.

He took a deep breath. “Should’ve known you’d figure it out.” He drew the curtains closed and sat on the end of your bed. Slowly, he removed his mask. “What gave it away?” Oscar’s voice was low and airy, nearing the point of whispers. He couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes, rolling his mask between his fingers instead.

“It wasn’t one thing. More like a couple.” He stayed silent, allowing you to continue. “It started with that first day, when you got my purse back for me. Your voice was familiar but I couldn’t figure out who it belonged to.” You watched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “All that fancy tech in that suit, but not enough room for a voice changer.” You tried to lighten the mood. It half worked, earning an airy chuckle from Oscar. “I’ll talk to Mr. Stark about that one.” He said.

You smiled and continued. “Then the next day at school, I connected your voices when I asked you that question in anatomy. And your face got red too, which tipped me off a little.” He nodded. “And then tonight really sealed it. When I noticed you’d disappeared then Spider-Man came along not much later.”

Oscars head hung low, his tongue darting out between his lips. “So…” he sighed. “Did you kiss me just ‘cause I’m spider-man then?” He reluctantly asked.

“What?” The accusation made you defensive. “No. No I- Oscar I like you for you. You’re funny, and smart, and an amazing person to be around. You make me happy.”

He finally met your gaze, searching your eyes for any sign of fibbing. Everything about them was genuine. Oscar shook his head. “You shouldn’t know. It can put you in a lot of danger.”

You shrugged. “Well you can’t change that now.” A half-hearted chuckle left your lips.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, he hardly blinked either. You scooted closer to him, not quite touching him yet. “You okay?”

Oscar made a feeble attempt at nodding. “This just gets scarier with every person who finds out, I guess.” He muttered.

Then you decided to take a risk, reaching around his neck to give him a hug from the side. It wasn’t tight or anything, just a gentle, physical reminder that you weren’t going anywhere. You didn’t spend three weeks freezing on a rooftop every night on your break for nothing.

A hesitant hand of Oscar’s raised slowly, and stopped to rest around your wrist. The two of you sat like that for approximately fifteen minutes before you spoke up, “I think I should probably get back to the party. Make sure nothing breaks.” You slowly peeled yourself away, Oscar saying nothing but giving you a soft smile and a small nod.

When you tried to open the door, it snapped shut. Looking up, there was a web sticking to both the door and the frame. Your gaze found Oscar, who was now standing and had a sly grin on his face.

Another web was shot, this one landing on your wrist. Yanking his arm roughly, you came stumbling toward him, crashing into his chest. “Quite the romantic.” You laughed.

Oscar dipped his head, taking the lead once again to connect your lips. He wasn’t so greedy this time, he was delicate. He took his time, holding you as if you were made of glass. His touch had you like putty in his hands, subject to his control when he started to direct the both of you back to the bed.

When the back of your legs hit the mattress, you pulled away from him with a hum. “I should really get back.” The way he looked at you was so dizzying, you couldn’t even meet his gaze. “Yeah, yeah.” He nodded, his words airy as he tried to catch his breath.

He plucked the mask from the bed, letting his smile grow when his back was to you. Mask slipped over his head and tucked into place, he followed you out of the door.

Halfway down the staircase, a photo caught his eye and he paused. “Who’s this?” He asked, knowing full well who it was, he did his best to hide his nerves.

“Oh, that’s my dad.” You waved a hand through the air. “He’s some sort of weather scientist. I think you two would really get along.” You smiled.

Oscar was sure that wouldn’t be the case, as he was staring at a picture of none other than Ryder West.

[temis-de-leon]

Shy gn!reader confesses to the Dateables

Characters: Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon and Simeon (x reader, separately)

Masterlist

Part 1 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Demon brothers version

Anon request: Could I request headcanons for Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon, and Simeon react to shy gn crush confessing to him nervously?

.

A/N: I made this so the Dateables were already crushing on the reader for a while, but it's the reader who confesses. Once again, Simeon gave me no inspiration and yet his section was the one I enjoyed the most

.

Diavolo

He’s used to loneliness and sacrifices, dedicating his limited free time to a small inner circle that he’s unable to expand. The rest of his devotions goes to his dreams and his duties, and that includes, above many other things, the student exchange program.

The only human he personally knows is Solomon and everybody is aware of the sorcerer’s peculiar personality, so he’s quick to accept that you’re going to be different from everything he’s ever known.

He just didn’t know how much.

You build a friendship with him, treating him without inhibitions while still respecting him. You accept and join his childish whims, ask for his advice in more serious matters and speak your mind without fear.

You make him feel normal, helping his love for you grow slow but steady over a strong foundation.

But then your behaviour around him changes and he feels completely lost. There’s a sort of restraint he’s never seen in you, your recent silence and your avoidance to look at him in the eye making him wonder in hurt if you finally know enough about him to be afraid.

Diavolo feels his heart sink when you ask to speak to him in private and he’s willing to accept he has lost you.

How wrong he is.

Your confession leaves him speechless, but the more you talk with a stammer while twisting your fingers, the more he feels his cheeks blush.

He doesn’t confess back. He directly asks you out on a date.

Barbatos

His duty to the Young Master doesn’t feel like a sacrifice to him. It’s an honour he’s glad to act in, so, although he likes to keep some free time for his private life, Barbatos is more than happy to set Lord Diavolo above everything else.

He doesn’t pay you much attention at first, given that there’s little to no connexion between you two. In fact, the first few times you hang out together outside official matters it’s always organized by someone else, mainly Luke.

The young angel enjoys baking and even his prejudices decrease upon the demon’s talents in the kitchen.

He also enjoys spending time with you.

So he combines both of those things. That’s how Barbatos gets to know you better.

He revels in the discovery of your resilience and your kindness despite what surrounds you. Your smile while measuring ingredients with Luke, your attentiveness at his teaching.

He knows Lord Diavolo appreciates him and thanks his presence, but you’re the first one to treat him so… highly? You admire him, you hear him, you seek him.

His busy mind and busy schedule give him almost no time to ruminate his feelings, but he can’t run away for much longer.

It’s around the same time he finally accepts his need to be with you that you start to fidget around him. He sees you looking at him under your lashes, timidly smiling and looking at him when you think he isn’t paying attention.

Your feelings are obvious to him, but he lets himself enjoy the situation for as long as possible. It’s too adorable to let go.

When you finally gather the courage you need to confess and it’s his turn to be sincere, his words are worth more than a hundred romance books.

Solomon

At the beginning, his interest in you is entirely academic. A regular human living amongst the most powerful demons of the Devildom? Now, that is something worth his while!

Witnessing first-hand how your humanity is put to the test on the daily is fun at first, but then again… You still have humanity. Once lost, it wouldn’t come back.

He ultimately decides to side with you. It makes him feel a little better too.

Although you both have a cordial relationship, barely a friendship, he isn’t your priority. To be fair, you aren’t his either, so he can’t complain.

But then time passes and his infatuation starts to grow.

You remind him of better things. Those he lost long time ago and those he knows he’s incapable of reaching. You make him want to be better, to try and to be someone that you could be prouder of.

He uses his vast knowledge to compete for your attention. His stories and his studies, his vulnerability slowly showing to you. It’s difficult, but you’re worth it.

He knows it’s working when you go out of your way to spend time with him, a difficult task when half of your roommates, if not all of them, don’t trust him at all. That makes him elated, but insecure at the same time.

He doesn’t know how to move things forward without spoiling them, so he waits until you make the first move. When the moment comes, he forces himself to memorize every second of it.

Solomon doesn’t want to forget your timid expression or the way you can’t decide what to say to put your feelings on display. He doesn’t want to forget the wide smile you show when he reciprocates your affections.

Simeon

He cares for you since the beginning, even before forming a friendship. It’s in his nature to be kind and caring and he can’t help but to act on it with you.

Your personality immediately draws him closer. How positive you are despite your situation as well as your determination to keep going forward, proving the demons wrong.

Simeon feels a strange satisfaction whenever Lucifer’s brow twitches at your misdeeds.

It’s thanks to Luke, who wants to keep two of his favourite people close, that he gets the chance to know you better.

He enjoys every occasion you visit Purgatory Hall. Sometimes you’re invited by Luke to help him cook, study or even make puzzles; and other times is Simeon himself who asks you to spend time with them.

The evenings you manage to have dinner with them are the most fulfilling for him.

He’s never felt a love so strong before, but he’s a world renounced writer and a romantic at heart, so the only thing he’s capable of doing in this situation is to pour his affections and hope for you to accept his heart.

The conclusion reaches an end when he manages to reset his DDD yet again.

Luke, although irritated at him, manages to call you before going to the castle to hung out with Barbatos, but Simeon doesn’t mind. More than that, he prefers it.

The sole idea of being alone with you brings warmth to his heart, after all.

He knows you feel the same too. Seeing the light in your eyes, the curve of your smile and the tenderness in your shy-filled whispers is enough for him to know.

You don’t even have time to confess on your own.

Simeon asks with a sweet voice if his interpretations of your feelings are correct. If they are, bless his heart, he feels the very same.

.

.

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[iamnmbr3]

There's so much drarry content to comment on in this passage I hardly even know where to start.

1) Harry's animosity is all for Snape. The only time we really see him feel true anger towards Draco is at the end of 4th year. Otherwise he's rarely deeply angry at him. It would certainly be unsurprising if Harry blamed Draco for what happened, even if Snape struck the killing blow. But he doesn't. Quite the opposites in fact. He feels sympathy for Draco's plight and actively worries about him. Because he knows Draco so well that he can see right through him to the kind of person he really is - not a willing acolyte of Voldemort. And because Harry is drawn to and cares about Draco a lot more than his is willing to acknowledge, even to himself...

2) The thing Harry picks that he still blames Draco for is...his infatuation with the Dark Arts. Not his role in Dumbledore's death. Not anything he's ever done to Harry. Harry's nice but he's not usually THIS forgiving. Certainly not with people he doesn't care about or dislikes... And for all that Harry claims to dislike Draco he spends an awful lot of time worrying about him. Both here and in later passages as well as in book 7. In this section of book 6 he also claims Crabbe and Goyle look "lonely" without Draco but given the interactions we see between them in book 7 it's pretty unlikely they miss him so if anyone misses Draco and feels like his presence is something that has always been part of his life and that it's strange with out him...it's probably Harry.

3) It's also notable that even though Draco only had the chance to lower his wand a little bit Harry is utterly sure he wouldn't have killed Dumbledore. And instead of thinking about how Draco missed his chance to come back to the Light and now will fall deeper into the Dark, he worries about what Voldemort is "making" him do. Thus accepting that any further acts Draco carries out on Voldemort's behalf are against his will. He really understands Draco. And cares about his welfare. A lot more than an enemy or casual acquaintance would.

4) As an aside, it's also pretty hilarious that Harry's like 'Draco Malfoy? No I haven't thought about him much' *proceeds to spend an entire paragraph thinking about him and worrying if he's ok and then brings him up again a few paragraphs later*

[fanaticsnail]

i just wanted to say i really liked your garp fic and i was wondering if you were going to do a part 2?

Bonnie Lass (2/2)

Masterlist Here, Part 1 Here.

Word Count: 7,925

Synopsis: You finally meet with the handsome older gentleman at the other end of the den-den-mushi. He promises a night you will both not forget in a hurry - will it live up to that expectation?

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ You have been warned, smut, p in v sex, oral afab!receiving, bonnie lass - wee bonnie - lass - bonnie gendered terms used, afab! reader, "The Garpening", flirting, supportive boss Mihawk, den-den-mushi calls, both are shameless, age gap, unprotected, creampie.

Notes: This fic was brought to you by a bottle of wine, long chats with @carrotsunshine, @since-im-already-here, @sordidmusings, and @feral-artistry, my incessant need to write for older men, and an overbearing need to know exactly where Garp's appetite leads him.

Apprehensive and Apologetic Tag list: @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @cinnbar-bun @i-love-myself-xd @the-reas0n-is-y0u

The seabreeze whipped through your hair, the gullsong serenading you as Mihawk’s vessel made to dock at the Marine port. You squint your eyes up, staring at the bleached stone walls of the large building that held the promise of good food and pleasurable company. Hanging on the words Vice-Admiral Garp last spoke to you, your body immediately felt compelled to wander forward to exit the ship and gleefully skip towards the mighty doors.

But you knew better. 

The presence of your boss, Dracule Mihawk, fell beside you: his bicep brushing with the pointed tip of your shoulders as he physically began rumbling a low growl. He despised attending meetings held by the World Government, meaning he would likely require additional resources to get him through the week you were to remain docked at harbor. 

“My lord,” you addressed him, turning your body with a curt nod to him. He hummed in response, unbreaking his eyes away from the headquarters of the world government. With a small exhale of breath, you regained your composure and began relaying his itinerary for the day to him.

“An hour after we dock, your presence is required to partake in a meeting of the warlords of the sea,” you began, elevating your clipboard and scanning the paper pages for the next item on his agenda, “Afterwards, you have a brunch with Boa Hancock and Jinbei - to what end, I was made unaware. After that, you’ll be given your assignment to rid the outer ring of the ‘unruly plague of piracy’ the World Government deems important enough for your skill - likely to be completed over four days of battle, given the numbers,” Your brows furrowed, searching the pages for further information, “Then you are to meet with your tailor, just before your new headshots are to be confirmed by den-den-mushi.”

Mihawk clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as the marines roped his ship into port. The more you spoke, the more agitated he became. Not agitated at you, never agitated with you - he despised these meetings, and hoped that bringing you along would ensure a safe and swift encounter. He always struggled with managing his agendas and itineraries with these encounters, almost electing to bring you along simply for moral support if nothing else. 

“And then?” Mihawk spat through his clenched jaw, fists balling at his sides. 

“And then,” you confirmed, placing your clipboard under your arm and smiling up at your boss, “You have been booked into an onsen for a private spa, a massage and hot stone session in the hamam, and,” you stepped further towards Mihawk, adjusting his overcoat and soothing over his shoulders to rid the material of fray, “After that, I have sent a bottle of Rosso, and asked for for the next book in that romance series you have been indulging in to be awaiting you in your personal suite.” 

Mihawk exhaled a sigh of relief, clapping a hand over your shoulder in a gesture of appreciation. You smiled up at your boss, nodding at him to affirm your notion of providing his relief. You turned away, bringing your attention back up to the top of the building, and focussed your pointed gaze at the silhouette glaring over the balcony of the highest point. 

“And while I am distracted by a good book and a bottle of wine,” Mihawk’s taunting purr cracked into your ear, “Where will you be, my dear?” You drew a sheepish grin up to your lips, a faint flush igniting your cheeks 

Mihawk leant down into your ear, his breath tingling and hot against your flesh as he uttered his warning into your ear.

“Wined and dined by an old man?” he taunted down, his smirk visibly present in his tone, “Keeping me at bay while you enjoy a few stiff drinks, before being railed by something else stiff-.”

“Lord Dracule Mihawk!” you scolded him, turning to join your ignited gaze against his playful, honey-colored orbs, “I am first and foremost your assistant.” Mihawk’s lips twitched at the corners, indicating his amusement as close to a smile as he would ever publicly display. You huffed out your breath, shaking your head while adding, “I have never met him in person, and he is yet to extend a formal invitation to join him for dinner. I will be busy all day tending to your affairs, as I always am, Sir.” His amusement never lessened, only growing on his lips with another twitch.

“And after the day of your duties?” Mihawk’s brow twitched in interest, “What then?” 

“What then,” you shoved your index finger into his chest, scraping it up to tap the tip of his nose, “Is that I will be tucked safely within my bedsheets after a long bath and a hot meal. I am here to serve you, sir. I am your assistant, and I am a damn good one.” 

“That you are, dear,” he confirmed, placing his other hand on your shoulder, holding you in place, “Which is why, after today, I have given you three days paid shore leave.” Your stunned silence only propelled him on further to add, “Buy yourself a new pretty dress, and enjoy the sights,” he leant forward with a small wink, his darkened lashes kissing against the waterline to hide his brilliant amber eyes briefly, “And then, get the old man to roar your name in the thralls of joint ecstacy. By my orders, dear. You have earnt it.”

The warm rise of warmth held against the apples of your cheeks all day, constantly repeating Mihawk’s comments in a circular swirl within your mind. From the moment your temporary office was welcomed by a pink-haired cadet, to filling in a variety of paperwork, to taking various den-den-mushi calls, to clocking out for the day - the flushed heat held firm against your cheeks. 

No whisper of a word, nor scroll of a calligraphed note, graced your temporary office with its presence. You honestly thought you had been forgotten, neglected in the knowledge that you had journeyed long beside Dracule Mihawk to be within close proximity to the man who held your undivided attention every day for the past year. 

Just as you were packing away your desk for the day, the den-den-mushi began to roar to life on your wooden countertop. The reverberation of its guttural grunts and gurgles had you satiating its tone by answering the call. 

“Lord Dracule Mihawk’s den-den-mushi. State your intentions, and make it quick-,” you growled, your professional tone wavering in agitation due to the proximity of your shift ending. 

“-Oh, sweet bonnie lass. I dinnae mean t’keep ‘ye waitin’,” the soothing drawl of Vice-Admiral Garp purred through the transponder. You huffed out an exasperated breath, your brows furrowing further against your forehead as you navigated through your swelling mind. 

“Vice-Admiral,” your warning tone cut through the air, halting all further conversation with a concluding utterance of, “My office hours have concluded for the day. Should you desire to reach Dracule Mihawk for any need, you may try again at-.” Your words were stolen from you by Garp’s tone cutting through them like a knife through hot butter.

“-Please, lass,” his plea cracked through the den-den-mushi, holding you hostage to his words, “Please dannae brush me aside. I have been in meetin’s all day, and I have been trying to claw my way to you from the wee hours of the morn, to the quiet moments of the noon.” You rotated your neck, relieving tension found within the tight bands of your muscles. 

“Vice-Admiral,” you began, interrupted once again by his rumbling brogue growling through the mouthpiece of the den-den-mushi, “I have had a long journey at sea. My only welcome being more work at the bequest of my employer. I do not have time to entertain you over the transponder today. If you desire to speak further, you can try again tomorrow, Vice-Admiral-.”

“-Garp, lass. It’s Garp, please,” his breathy voice gasped through the speaker, “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I should’ve been down by the docks waiting - up to my knees in sea water to reign your ship in with my bare hands.” You hummed at the thought: a high and mighty Vice-Admiral of the marines lowering himself to the duties of a simple cadet at the chance of meeting his eyes with your own in person. 

You took a moment's pause, contemplating his words and mulling the thought of him demonstrating his strength and stamina to you while shepherding Mihawk’s ship into port. Did he have old navy tattoos on his biceps? Did his advanced age hinder his ability to perform such a task? Gathering he was the one who suggested such a notion, and him being a man of high honor, you gathered he would be up to such a muscle burning task. 

“Alright, Garp,” you hummed into the transponder, leaning back into the transponder and purring through your vocal challenge, “Make it up to me.” 

A shuddered groan sparked through the mouthpiece, your own giddy joy elevating in your chest and igniting your body with soft tingles. If he had this much sway over you with just a small growl of his voice, you were unsure of where the next few moments were to bring you. 

“Meet me at the docks in two hours, Bonnie Lass,” his tone was hushed enough to draw you in closer, your ears pricking to catch every syllable granted to you, “And I’ll treat you to a night you willnae forget in a hurry.” Your broad grin split your face, a small squeak of joy threatening to escape your lips with a soft hum.

“And how should you like me, Garp?” you asked him, your taunting purr calling further into the receiver end, “Should I prepare my wardrobe for an outdoor activity,” you questioned, your foot tapping lightly within the air while hooking over your knee, “Or should I just throw a coat over some lingerie and call it a night?” 

Several cracking objects bent and broke, echoing throughout the den-den-mushi transponder; something akin to wood snapping and nails tearing through mahogany. You rewarded such a sound with a melodic giggle, only producing more creaking wood noises in consequence. 

“Wear something dainty for me,” a low rumbled growl purred at you, “What you choose to wear under it is your prerogative.” 

“Aye, Sir,” you confirmed with a curt nod, “Two hours, and I’ll be all yours.” 

“All mine,” his low drawl parroted back to you, the giddy chirp of his voice endearing in your ears. At the click of the receiver, you sprung immediately into action and hurried out of the office doors. 

You bid a cheery farewell to the cadets loitering in the hallway, thanking them for arranging your office, before leaving the washed-stone building of the World Government headquarters. Your smile never left your lips, the promise of meeting the man who held your romantic affections weighing heavily on your mind and fluttering harshly within the pit of your stomach. 

While bathing, cleansing your skin and hair, and ensuring every part of you was styled and scented with the sweet and sultry persona you had presented yourself to be, your thoughts turned to pondering unspoken questions. Will he enjoy the way you present yourself? Will he behave like the perfect gentleman? How should you act: the way you shamelessly speak over the den-den-mushi, or poised like a lady? Would he like this particular color on you, or on the floor beside you? 

You shook your head to rid them of the spiraling doubts, soothing over your tight dress and hooking your coat over your forearm while exiting the suite you had organized for yourself. Clicking and locking your door behind you, your eyes briefly met with Mihawks: a book tucked under his arm and wine bottle within his grasp, twirling the cork with his screw and filling his wine glass in the window. He shot you a knowing look, mouthing the words: “make him roar.”

Your cheeks flooded with the heat of scorched oil, flash point igniting in your eyes at the final utterance of support from your boss. Shaking your head, you made your way briskly to the docks. The dimly lit lamplight illuminated your path, the click of your heels tapping lightly on the solid sandstone pathway. The flap of gulls wings shepherded your final steps atop the docks, your eyes meeting with a truly unique sight you were not expecting in the least. 

In the middle of the pier stood a highly decorated marine, silver hair backlit by the radiance of the moon and standing with his wrists clenched behind his back. His beard was neatly cropped, his eyes fixed on your approach, his lips exhaling a shaky breath he prayed you didn’t notice. As your feet carried your body closer, you halted a few feet away from him, tilting your chin and pursing your lips playfully up at him. 

“Vice-Admiral,” you purred up at him seductively, your eyes wide and innocent to contradict your expression.

“Bonnie-Lass,” he gruffly commented in response, a smile painted brilliantly on his lips. A delightful shudder flew up your spine at his undistorted voice finally meeting with you. You flit your eyes hastily over him, examining his stature inquisitively - a gesture he returned with gusto, eyes hovering over your meticulously cared and styled hair and outfit. 

“May I invite ‘ye aboard, lass?” Garp’s softness in his tone pulled you in, his arms waving behind him to gesture towards his impressive ship, “I ‘kin understand if being on a ship again after so much time on the water might no’ agree with ‘ye-.”

“-I would love to see your ship, Captain,” you remarked gleefully, stepping past his arms and following his gesture to the broadwalk, “I adore sea travel, and enjoy the rocking of the waves. I find it comforting.” 

As you stepped past, your intoxicating radiance graced Garp with the aroma of your sweet perfume. The way your presence called him immediately to follow you, his feet falling in tow with your every step, was not something he ever accounted for. 

The moment your voice picked up the receiver of the den-den-mushi, Garp’s sour mood was immediately stifled under your comforting tone. The first time he called Castle Kuraigana to relay orders to the broody warlord of the sea, he was ill-prepared to be met with a tone so honey-sweet and kind. He was immediately smitten, often calling the castle with any excuse he could muster to hear more of your sweetness pouring onto him through the speaker of his den-den-mushi. 

But now you were here in person, Garp truly had no idea how to handle you. He did not know if you would allow him the luxury of holding you against himself in a warm and welcoming embrace. He did not desire to lean down and claim your lips with a kiss, only to be met with a turn of your cheek and an utterance of, “You’re too old for me,” falling from your lips. He truly did not know what to expect from you, and the unspoken anxiety was eating at his stomach and clouding his mind. 

“Garp?” you called over to him, halting your advance onto his ship and turning to face him, “Are you going to guide me along your vessel, or am I to find my own way without you?” Garp snapped his eyes to meet with yours, his winding thoughts pausing as he bore his intense gaze into you. 

“Although I do enjoy exploring new areas, I would prefer to be ushered in with the pleasure of your company,” you continued, a coy smile springing to your features, “After all the promises you made to me of the many months we’d been speaking,” you took a step back, falling closer to his larger body, “I would prefer you to keep your word.”

“And which word might that be, lass?” his gruff whisper crooned down at you, his eyes half-lidded and lips parted in desperation, “I had promised ‘ye an array of mischief, if ‘me old mind serves correct.”

“Considering I’ll be on, I’m assuming, this ship for the next few days while Mihawk completes his assignment,” you contemplated, darting your focus between his two eyes, “Would you show me to my quarters so I may send for my belongings to arrive on the morrow?” 

“All work an’ no play, lass?'' he huffed a small laugh down at you, “An’ here I thought you’d want something more playful the first time we met in person, or perhaps something a little more-...” His thoughts trailed off, his tone almost disappointed at your formal conversation. He took it as his first rejection from you, opting to not push his expectation and desires onto you should it make you uncomfortable. 

You exhaled through your nose, your smile not leaving your lips as you shook your head at him. As Garp allowed his spiraling thoughts to plague his mind, fully trapped within his misguided notion you had rejected his flirtatious advances, he didn’t feel the grip of your fingers around his teal tie until his body was thrust forward by the strength of your forearm. 

Drawing all of the power you could muster, alongside the courage you felt you needed to complete such a feat, you claimed the lips of the decorated Vice-Admiral of the marines beneath your own. You set a bruising pace, turning your head and standing yourself up on the tips of your toes to reach more of him. Your other hand found his broad chest, dropping your coat to the floor while fisting the material of his outer coat beneath your palm and cradling him closer to yourself. 

Stepping backwards onto the ship, you ushered his hulking body aboard while unbreaking from the passionate embrace. As your knees knocked with a hard benchtop behind you, you ushered the larger man to turn, forcing his body down to sit himself down on the bench. You opened your mouth, your tongue raking against his bottom lip. 

A groan fled from his lips, Garp’s needy hands grasping at your flesh over the material of your dress. Fistfulls of the material was claimed within Garp’s hands, the hemline of the material being shimmied up your thighs to grant more of your flesh to be exposed to him. He opened his mouth, allowing you to seek out his tongue to brush against your own with expert and practiced precision. 

As the material continued to ride up your body, you hooked your knees either side of his broad thighs and straddled his waist. The split side of your dress strained beneath the grasps of Garp’s hands, stretching the material harshly before your ears pricked at the harsh ‘rip’. You squeaked in Garps mouth, drawing your lips away from his with a frown.

“You tore my dress!” you exclaimed, your accusatory reprimand mixing with a hidden smile beneath your frown, “It was my favorite!” Garp paid your chastising tone no mind, peppering your neck with several, open-mouthed kisses.

“I’ll buy ‘ye twelve more,” he gasped, nipping and sucking at the exposed flesh of your neck, “All the colors you desire,” he raked his teeth against your jaw, “All the patterns in the world.” You keened a small moan into the air when he found a sensitive piece of flesh between your throat and your pulse. 

His hand dipped between the material of your dress, raking his fingertips over your thigh to hold your hip only to pause while held in complete shock. 

“You’re ‘nae wearing anythin’ beneath this dress, bonnie lass,” he growled against your jaw, his teeth catching on the bone and clamping over your soft skin.

“You said it was my prerogative,” you gasped, turning your head to seek out his lips with your own, “Why do you think I wanted you to show me to my quarters, Sir?” You pressed a long and heavy kiss against his lips before tearing yourself away once more. “But it seemed as if you couldn't handle the uncertainty for a moment longer,” you kissed his whiskered cheek, “So I am improvising.” 

Garp immediately responded by raking his broad hands beneath your bare ass, barely covered by the material of your dress, hoisting you into the air and marching you throughout the corridors with heavy and intentional steps. You giggled at him, weaving your hands over his shoulders and massaging his scalp with your fingertips, and nuzzling down into his neck. You inhaled deeply, committing his cologne to memory while nipping and sucking on his exposed flesh close to his collar.

“It’s against protocol to leave visible marks above my uniform,” Garp growled, leaning his head back and exposing more of his skin to you, “If you litter my skin with any bites, I’ll see to ‘ye punishment personally.” In response to your rough, peppered kisses along his neck and bearded jaw, Garp slapped his hand on your right ass cheek before kneading it within his fingers and palm. 

“I am no marine, Garp,” you confessed, wrapping your lips around his pulse and sucking at the skin with fervor, “And I’d like to see you try.”

“Y’ell do as ‘yer bloody told, lass,” he growled, leaning away from your lips. As his eyes met with yours, he squeezed the flesh of your ass with a warning pinch. You squeaked in delight, Garp’s hearty laughter pleasantly echoing within your ears. 

“I’ll do as I bloody please, Garp,” you taunted in return, biting a crescent shaped mark against his pulse, soothing over the mark with your lips and tongue. You sucked at the mark, hearing a hitch in his breath as he continued to lead you towards the guest suites. 

Tearing your lips away, you hummed at the heart-shaped mark you pressed into his skin. It was a medal of lust, visible to all who see it - and see it, they will. Garp’s pulse was elevated further, his passionate advances leading him on with heavy and intentional steps. His boot heel kicked in the door to cabin quarters, your anticipation only growing as Garp lowered you onto the freshly made bed. 

Your back hit the plush mattress, your hair sprawling out on the sheets as he lowered his head against your neck. He pressed a few intentional kisses against your exposed flesh, his hands desperately raking over your chest to knead your breasts slowly and sensually. You sucked in a soft groan, your brows furrowing up as his thumb and index finger rolled over your puckered nipples. At your small gasp, he took it as encouragement to continue stimulating your breasts with his left hand, as his right rose the hemline of your dress over your hip. 

Hastily, you shot your hands forward, fumbling over the buckle of his belt to rid it of its hold on his pants. Just as quickly, Vice-Admiral Garp surged forward: claiming both of your wrists within his circular grip to halt your advance. You furrowed your brows as he pinned your wrists beside your head, your wide eyes meeting with his mischievous grin. 

“What are you-,” you began, silenced by a heavy and open-mouthed kiss pressed against your lips, claiming you beneath him with rough bites and soothing caresses. He groaned against your lips, leading your hands with his to wrap around his shoulders and weave into his hair once more within your fingertips. 

“Let me taste ‘ye first, bonnie,” he growled against your sensitive skin, You gasped a sigh of affirmation, nodding against his smiling lips, “Let me make it up to ‘ye for ‘me surliness earlier. Please let me have ‘ye like this.” 

Trailing open mouthed kisses down your neck, halting briefly at your breasts before trailing down your stomach; Vice-Admiral Monkey D. Garp made his intentions incredibly clear to you as he shimmied the line of your dress higher over your body. 

“Let me show ‘ye how much I’ve been craving the sweet call of my name from those pretty lips o’ yours,” Hooking your knees over his shoulders, he scraped his bearded chin over the sensitive inner flesh of your thighs before grazing his lips over the top of your core, “I’ll have ‘ye cryin’ and whimperin’ for me before ‘ye even see my cock.” 

He tested your sensitive flesh: flicking the tip of his tongue out to brush against your swollen clit. Immediately, your back arched up and a soft cry flew from your lips before you could stop it. Garp chuckled, looking as your pulsating core was welcoming more of his touches, giving away your arousal with a pool of your sweet essence pouring from your contracting entrance. 

“You are so beautiful, bonnie lass,” he pressed a sweet kiss against the top of your groin, his smile felt against your flesh, “And ‘ye finally all mine.” After allowing another chuckle to fall from his lips, he advanced forwards and skillfully licked a clean and expert stripe along your glistening walls. 

Vice-Admiral Garp was known for many things: His brutality in war, his aggression while training cadets, his calculated advances on the battlefield, his impossible strength, and his insatiable appetite. This appetite was now displayed to you as he hungrily and desperately lapped at your core like a man on death row, consuming his last meal while awaiting execution. The balance between savoring the flavor while horking down like a man starving had your eyes rolling back and hands fisting at his cropped hair to hold on tightly. 

“O-Oh fuck,” you cried, your eyes now tightly clamped shut as you relished in his skilled ministrations. The roll of his tongue, the mouthing of his hungry lips, had you physically quaking against his face.

“Shakin’ like a leaf, lass,” he taunted, nuzzling into your aching core, “‘ye want ‘te see what else I ‘kin do?” Your toes curled as he prodded your entrance with his tongue, his nose circling your clit and spreading your arousal throughout your core. Skillfully thrusting his tongue in and out of your desperate and delicate slit, you felt as if you were going to explode in ecstasy the moment he began vibrating his tongue with a deep, rumbling groan. 

“G-Garp. I-I don’t know if I-I can-... hnnng-... I c-can’t last m-....mmmn-... m-much longer,” you cried, your thighs clenching on his neck and shoulders to hold him in place. Your body reacted against your will, arching your back off the mattress while desperately riding his face. You felt the band winding tighter in your abdomen, each area of your body desperately shooting sparks, teetering on the edge of unravel. 

Two firm hands clapped over your thighs: one holding down your stomach and pinning you against the bed, the other kneading over your thigh. Garp pulled his face away from your needy cunt, hovering his hot breath and breathing puffs of cool air over your hole. You whimpered in desperation, wriggling against his wide-spread fingers to get any stimulus to conclude your high. 

“W-Why-,” you cried, a slap on your bare ass halting your words and having you throw your head against the pillow. 

“-Because I warned ‘ye nae t’ leave a mark on ‘me body. It’s against protocol, lass,” he chuckled, his whiskered chin scraping over your thigh as his smiling lips pressed a kiss against the outer corner of your crotch. You growled, leaning up on your elbows, staring into his eyes with a dark agitation.

“And after all those promises of making it up to me?” you spat, your nose scrunching, lips pursing and brow furrowing. Garp rose from his low position against your exposed flesh, a foreign desperation depicted in his wide eyes. 

“Were they all empty words?” you uttered. You knew, for a fact, that Vice-Admiral Garp was mad for you, but that only made you want to taunt him more, “All an act to get me to open my legs, just to leave me disappointed like the rest of them?” A stuttered gasp flew from his lips as he crawled up the bed, weaving his clothed torso through your legs to meet at eye level once again. In turn, you shimmied your body away from him, turning your face away in an attempt to hide your smile.

You knew how desperately he wanted you. The moment your lips collided with his above deck, you felt just how much he absolutely adored you. Considering he held you on the edge of ecstasy, only to pull away from you as you were about to unravel , you decided it would be more entertaining to watch him grovel for you. 

“Perhaps you were only interested in leaving a sour taste, teasing me with your pretty brogue and taunting me with your dream-like promises,” you continued, lips pouting and brows triangulating up in the center of your forehead. Garp staggered in his movement, his hands reaching out in an attempt to grasp yours, only met with you pulling away. 

“L-Lass, I didnae mean t-,” he began, halted by your melancholy sigh in an attempt to stifle a rising giggle in your chest. 

“-You said I’d beg and plead for your hands and lips to be in a few key places, if I recall correctly,” you pouted, playing into your role, “How disappointing, only having me beg and writhe beneath you to pull away at the crescendo.” 

“P-Please, lass. I’m sorry. I am a cruel, cruel man,” he confessed, claiming your left hand within his right and peppering the flesh with a flurry of kisses, “What can I do t’make it up to ‘ye, ‘me bonnie lass. Tell me,” he trailed his kisses up higher, halting at the inner flesh of your elbow, “Order me, dictate me,” he continued spreading kisses up to your shoulder, soothing over your scorching flesh, “I beg ‘ye to reconsider your withdrawal. I am ‘ye humble servant, wee bonnie.” 

Your smile broke through your pouting expression, your head snapping over to meet with his. His eyes were wide and frantic, desperate to know he had not lost you by enacting his cruel punishment. 

“Off the bed,” you ordered him, a twinkle of mischief sparking to light in your surly expression, “And strip yourself, slowly.” 

“Aye, bonnie lass,” he stumbled over his words, immediately staggering backwards and falling to the side of the bed. He began unbuttoning his overcoat and shaking it from his shoulders hurriedly, prompting a giggle to break through your practiced character. 

“I said slowly, Garp,” you purred at him, sitting up and moving your left calf along your right, “I thought you would be good at following orders, considering your title as a marine.” He halted his hasty undress, opting to silently follow your orders by unhooking the clasps of his belt and unbuttoning his pants. As the hem lay limply on his hips, he slowly popped each button of his shirt and raked his index finger along his torso to separate the fabric. 

Shamelessly following each movement with a bite of your bottom lip, you reclined on your side and encouraged him to continue with your sultry and beckoning eyes. His heart fluttered, feeling so small beneath your predatory gaze. After speaking with you for so long over den-den-mushi, and desperately seeking your approval with his choice words, he was certain he knew what to expect when he met with you.

He had never been so pleased to be proven wrong in his life. 

As he released the final button of his shirt, you clicked your tongue at him and pointed your index finger at the teal sash decorating his neck.

“The tie stays on,” you spoke through narrowed eyes, testing his resolve to follow your orders. He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head as he peeled his shirt away from his skin - leaving the teal tie around his neck. He shimmied off the fabric before hooking his thumbs through his belt hoops, slowly pulling the material over his hips and down his muscular thighs. 

Hungrily and awestruck, you followed each taut flex of his impressive muscles: his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders, his pectorals, his abs, his thighs - nothing was hidden from your eyes as he continued to slowly undress himself before you. His head-shot from the World Government truly did not do him justice - a man dignified and refined, muscular and carved from slated marble. He was a sight to behold, and was anxious to receive your approval at each passing moment. 

Stepping away from his pants, Vice-Admiral Garp was standing before you in naught but his teal tie and tight undershorts. The growing pole to tent the center of his trousers had your mouth watering beneath your stoic and sultry expression: keeping your hand close to your chest to not reveal your desperation for him. 

“Does this please you, lass?” he whispered below his breath, the corner of his mouth ticking with his melancholy expression, “An old man far from his prime, humbling himself before the delicate flower of Kuraigana. Is this all ‘ye dreamed of?” His small sigh caught your ear, prompting your brows to furrow in deep thought. His eyes were focussed on the floor, unable and unwilling to tear them away to meet with your exploratory eyes. 

Vice-Admiral Garp was self conscious. He found himself unworthy to be at the receiving end of your interest, a fact that had become clearer and clearer the more the night flew on. 

“Take off your undershorts, Garp,” you ordered him, slowly rising to your knees on the mattress, “And lie back on the bed.” You witnessed as his cock twitched beneath his pants, a growl purring in the chasms of his chest as he hooked his thumbs around the hemline of his undergarments. 

Slowly shimmying down the elastic, his impressive cock sprang above the surface, slapping his abdomen with his shining mushroom tip on his belly. The slit was dripping with precum, the veins throbbing with anticipation while he bashfully lay his back down on the mattress. His cock stood to attention, knob throbbing while his shaft was hoisted in the air. He was neatly cropped, every follicle of his happy trail meticulously maintained down his stomach. 

Without much warning, you eagerly straddled his waist with a giggle of joy. A gasp of shock fled from his lips, followed by a huff of laughter as you eagerly threw your dress off your body and looked down at his reclined form. There was a hidden uncertainty within his eyes, a hopeful sheen sucking you within his orbs each moment you gazed into them.

“Now what, lass?” he questioned you, eyes searching yours as he reached up his palm to cradle your cheek, “You’ve got me pinned and helpless beneath your thighs. Does this please you? D-Do I-...” his voice trailed off, remaining uncertain as his eyes sought out deeper, unspoken desires within your own, “...-Do I please you?” 

You sighed, flipping your hair over your shoulder and looking down at him through half-hooded eyelashes. Your soft smile drew up over your features, a secret and hidden kiss’ shadow rising within the right-hand corner of your mouth - a place that immediately held Garp rendered defeated under your beautiful features. 

What began as mild lust had blossomed and flourished into something more sacred. Garp was indeed smitten with you, desperately wanting to both treat and tease you, but now that he had you - he was clawing at being a worthy partner for you to couple with. He knew you were beautiful, he knew you were intelligent, he knew you were wise - but he did not expect, upon meeting you in person, to be rendered helpless upon seeking your approval. 

Wordlessly, you sought out the tip of his glistening cock with your needy hole, slowly circling the knob without welcoming him fully into your walls. He gasped at the contact, surging forward to grasp at your thighs over his waist. Your arousal coated his tip, painting it with your own lust and propelling his sinful desires on further. 

“You’ll please me by letting me ride your thick cock until you can’t take it anymore,” you purred down at him, angling your lips to almost brush against his own, “You’ll please me by splitting me open and filling me up with every inch you’re willing to give me. You’ll please me-...” you leaned your torso down, your breasts brushing with his pectorals, nipples circling his own in a sultry dance as you hovered over his cock, “...-By allowing me the luxury of cumming on your cock, my pussy milking you of your thick load and splashing back onto your cock once it meets with my cervix.” 

Garp held his breath, furrowing his brows as he felt you inch down to claim his shined knob within your entrance. He focussed on the hitch of your breath, the swell of your heart rate, and the small whimper in your voice. He focussed on the twitch of your closed eyes and your parted lips as you sank further along his shaft. 

Although his appetite was insatiable, he would never rush you in adjusting to his girth and length. He relished in every stretch your walls made to accommodate his impressive size, focussing on how your brows knit together and breath hitched at every small move. He tried to hold back the twitch of his desperate cock, trying not to lose himself within the feeling of your cunt fluttering to adjust for his cock to fully sheathe itself within you. 

As the hilt of your crotch met with his, his cock disappearing within your fluttering cunt up to the brim, he finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief at being sheathed completely within you. Grinding yourself down, you suppress a strangled moan within your throat as you feel your walls adjust and accommodate to his impressive size. Testing a small movement, you inched yourself upwards and slunk down against his shaft - a sigh mirrored within Garp’s lips as he restrained himself from fucking up into you. 

You began to slowly rake your walls up, before slamming your body back down against his groin: mutual cries of bliss falling from each other's lips as you focussed on riding his cock. You hastily drew up speed, setting a rhythm that had his hips rolling beneath your own. Your mewling cries of his name were rising into the air each time you felt his knob touch the edge of your cervix. 

His hands gripped firmly against your thighs, ushering you to bob, grind and gyrate against his cock to chase your own ecstasy. Your clit brushed with the small tuft of hair remaining at the base of his shaft, stimulating the small bud each time you drew yourself down to his crotch. 

He stared up in disbelief at the way your body responded to him. He was mesmerized at each whimper of your voice, each flutter of your eyelashes, and each slam of your aching cunt welcoming his throbbing cock within his walls. He couldn’t get enough: you were intoxicating and addictive with each writhe against him. 

Your rhythm began to get more stuttered, your body responding to the elevation of your ecstasy. Your walls began to thump against him, wringing his cock and clamping down on it as your approaching orgasm began to shudder against his shaft. His breath hitched, his own brow furrowing as he felt every pulse within your walls ushering him into his own bliss. 

As you continued to grind against him, Garp struggled to hold back against his own desires of flipping you over and stapling his hips against your own by railing your body into the plush mattress below. He did not want to destroy his good standing with you by completing such a lewd act, reacting in penance from drawing himself away from cumming into his awaiting lips, and simply chose to take each moment you gave him as a gift. 

The flutter of your cunt began squeezing his shaft, the sensitive spongy underside of your clit meeting with his knob propelling you further in the release of your incoming ecstasy. Your whimpers and cries of his name falling freely from your lips had both Garp’s cock and heart swell in pride that his body was granting you such bliss.

“G-Garp, I-I’m gonna-...” you called, clenching your eyes shut as you continued to gyrate and grind down against his cock. 

Garp’s iron will snapped, immediately hooking his arms around your waist and tackling you against the bedsheets. He caged you beneath him, plowing greedily into your shuddering walls with an eager snap of his hips. You shrieked in shock, your ecstasy being ushered in further by Garp stampeding you both towards your ends with a heavier and more controlled rhythm.

Each heavy rake of his cock within your cunt had his balls slapping against your puckered ass. At this new angle, you cried out, desperately clawing at his back and shoulders to draw him in closer to you. 

He hoisted your knee over his hip, latching his lips onto your neck and sucking a deep, angry, mark into your porcelain flesh. You cried for him, every ounce of your flesh ignited by the sparks of untamed ecstasy as you thrust your hips upwards to meet with every sharp snap of his rhythmic hips. 

“Cum for me,” he purred at you in a gruff growl, “Cry out my name.” His rhythm began to weigh heavier with each deep thrust, heavier and heavier with every staggered slam of his hips. “I want the entire base t’ know I’m makin’ ‘ye feel good. Want ‘ye fookin’ boss t’ know you’re becoming unraveled by my thick cock, ‘me bonnie lass.” 

At the mention of your boss: Mihawk’s verbal warning of having Garp cry your name in bliss echoed back to you. In a final ditch effort of having Garp cry out for you, you latched your lips onto the mark you created a few hours prior and teased the flesh with your teeth and tongue. Garp knit his brows, growling through yelping barks below his breath at how truly good you made him feel. 

“O-Ohh f-fuck, Garp. I-I’m-... ahh-... I’m c-cumming,,” you called, clawing and gnawing at his flesh like a lifeline anchoring you to the earth. He sucked in a breath feeling the twitch of his end spurting the first few moments of his orgasm within your walls. As much as he desired to pull away from your eager cunt to not risk his seed finding purchase within your walls - he simply could not help himself. He immediately began plowing harsher into you, his cock spurting his cum within you like a valve turning to release hisses of pent-up pressure. 

His voice became elevated with each staggered thrust, each subtle whimpered cry of his name coinciding with you grinding and writhing beneath him to chase your mutual highs. At one final bite of his flesh, and a particularly harsh snap of his hips, the two of you began experiencing the first realms of joint ecstasy.

“F-Fuck bonnie lass, I cannae pull out,” he roared your name, gyrating and pumping his seed deep within your cunt: splashing back spurts of his load within your needy, throbbing cunt. 

“D-Don’t you dare t-try,” you scolded him, eyes rolling back in bliss as he chased his orgasm within you. The walls of your pussy began contracting against his thick cock, shepherding him into releasing hot ropes of sticky cum within your eager walls. For every thump of your walls, you were granted by a spurt of his release within them - milking him of every fiber of his essence. 

As you both rode through your highs, the hums of your voices and gasps of your breath caught up with you. He snapped his hips forward, remaining sheathed within your glistening walls, as he raked his fingers through your hair. Your strands stuck against your forehead, your pupils blown with lust as you gulped back another cry of ecstasy as his cock throbbed within you. You sobbed, hiding your forehead against his chest as you attempted to come down from your high. 

Taking a moment to each gulp in oxygen to fill your lungs, Garp rolled from caging you beneath him, unsheathing his cock from within your pussy slowly. He looked down at your entrance, watching as it clenched to chase his retreat from your body with an eagerness he was yet to witness in some time. You were a masterpiece, a body unraveled and glistening within the realms of the afterglow in unbridled lust. He adored you. 

“You alrigh’, lass?” he asked you quietly, his lips grazing your temple as your lungs refilled with oxygen. You smiled up at him, eyes closing while your body chased his lips to feel his wired whiskers against your skin longer. You hummed at him, rolling over to your side and grazing his chest with your open hands. 

“Never better, Garp,” you cooed back at him, feeling your energy supply depleting the longer you remained comfortably within his arms. He cradled you against himself, feeling the soft song of slumber calling to him each moment you remained nestled against him. 

“And what of t’morrow?” Garp asked, his brow cocking up at the corner while he fought to keep his eyes open, “‘Ye got duties to attend, I’m sure.” 

“Dracule Mihawk has allowed me the luxury of a few days' shore leave,” you confessed, sleepily, “I don’t think I’ll be returning to my station any time soon, Vice-Admiral-.”

“-Garp, bonnie lass. It’s Garp, remember?” he cooed down at you, shimmying his body down to locate the plush duvet and nestling you both beneath it, “When you’re with me, it’s always Garp.”

“Alright, Garp,” you purred up at him, eyes hooded and feeling serenaded by sleep, “Will you stay by me tonight? Show me you still want me in the morning?” He huffed out a breath of disbelief, cradling you further against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“Rest assured, Bonnie Lass,” the rumbling drawl of his voice cooed down at you, his fingers brushing over your hair and smoothing over each strand, “I will still want you every morning.” 

Both of your warm smiles clung to your cheeks as you fell into the arms of sleep, feeling calm and at peace while clinging to one another. You had never been so pleased to be relieved of duty, your legs and body remaining blissfully numb by being plowed into by Garp’s throbbing cock. 

An apology for his rough actions came in the form of caging your hips against his face, his arms weaving over your thighs, and him welcoming you to ride his head until your voice grew hoarse from the sheer number of times he had you cry his name on his eager tongue. Enthusiastically lapping at your glistening cunt with the fervor of a man being granted the feast of a lifetime, he refused to part his lips from your glistening walls until you violently shook with a scream of his name.

When riding down your high and sobbing through your ecstasy, you looked down at his eager eyes: twinkling with mischief. Upon meeting his gaze, he kissed your thigh and cooed up at you: “Just one more? One last time before I let you go, ‘me wee bonnie lass?” for the fifth time that morning. After all, his appetite truly was insatiable.

[evagreen-stories]

Mother of the Realm | (Daemon x f!noble!reader) (part 1/?)

Summary: Left behind after the blacks take King's Landing, Aemond’s Lady-Wife finds herself striking a certain arrangement with the rogue prince to guarantee her and her children's safety, though strange occurrences should change the conditions of this arrangement drastically.

Warnings: dark!themes, dubcon/coercion, warcrimes, dark!daemon, age gap, time typical gender roles, lactation kink, breeding kink, p in v, throat fuck, canon typical behaviour, slight degradation, mentions of noncon/forced pr0stitution, mentions of violence, mention of arranged marriage

Non-Canon Storyline: : two years into the civil war, reader (young Lady of house Celtigar) married to Aemond, the war drags on for longer than in canon

Disclaimer: This Fic is written on the basis that most of what mushroom says is true! The story came to me in a fever dream and I felt like typing it out lol. This storyline is mixed of book  / hearsay / imagination; I tried to write it all out in a way that makes sense and is easy to follow.

Divider @targaryen-dynasty

my masterlist series moodboard series masterlist

It's the dance of the dragons, the war has been going on for two years and has escalated to new dimensions of destruction and violence, with the blacks now having invaded and taken over Kings Landing and the Red Keep where you, the lady wife of Aemond Targaryen, live as well.

Married a year before the dance of dragons began, you have given him two sons already; a young boy of 26 months old, Rhaegar, and a babe of 11 months, Baelor, and are with your third; four months along, the maester’s presume.

Most green supporters were now locked in cells while you and your children were imprisoned in your chambers; a privilege you received as you are the only daughter of Lord Bartimos Celtigar, a loyal supporter of the blacks.

Who knows, had your father not been swayed by the sweet words and reassurances of queen Alicent, hadn’t fallen trap into accepting the marriage proposal to Aemond in an effort of hers to sway your house’s loyalty in favour of her side, perhaps then you would now be standing on the other side of this door as a free woman. 

Instead, your own husband had kept you surveilled at all times ever since the war began, in fear you would run away and join the blacks, and had forbidden you from leaving the Red Keep ever since his return from Storm’s End where he had gone to secure a betrothal for his younger brother Daeron to one of the Baratheon girls; an endavour that would end with the death of Lucerys Velaryon and jump-start the most brutal civil war seen to date.

Followed by at least one kings guard as soon as you stepped out of your chambers, the presence of your husband and the freedom to roam the gardens and halls had made it easy to forget your new house rules on most days.

With the confinement you had found yourself in ever since the war began you had turned all your attention and efforts into becoming the best and most loving mother you could be. A desire perhaps fueled by the clear preference of your own mother towards your brothers.

You wanted to be better than that. You studied books and listened to old wives' tales ever since you had flowered, knowing it wouldn’t be long until you would be wed off to fulfil your duty as a proper lady-wife.

And fulfil your duty you would. Unlike most other nobles you had taken to not employing a wet nurse or nursemaids at all.

Being made prisoner in your own home freed up all your time to be able to do so. Your sons would sleep in your chambers and be on your lap all day long. Both had only ever drank your milk, knowing no other chest but their mother’s.

And yet, what had once been a cage with thin, golden bars and a nice view, had now turned into one of thick stone walls, the confinement of your chambers only being eased by the presence of your two young children.

The days were long alone, yet more peaceful for you than you had expected them to be. Even if your father had not come to see you once, you did speak to your trusted servants, listening to the tales they would tell you about just what was going on outside the very wooden door you would stare at daily. 

And by the sevens, was it horrifying.

Rhaenyra, now dubbed ‘the cruel’ and ‘Maegor with teats’, had ordered the forceful taking of the two queen's Alicent and Helaena to a pleasure house, their services to be sold to whoever could afford it; at least those are the rumours that have been spread around the castle grounds.

Any woman would think this fate horrifying but even more so you: as wife of the prince regent at the court of the usurper you certainly were an easy target for the mad queen’s wrath. Worry of being made to share the same fate consumed you more with each day; a fear that would eventually make you request an audience with Rhaenyra.

Instead of her, you now find yourself with her husband the rogue prince – or now, the king consort – Daemon standing in front of you.

“I requested to speak to Rhaenyra.”

“Yes. And now you’ve got me. Speak before I change my mind.”

You stay silent for a few moments, pondering how to ask the question. "Is it true what they claim? About Alicent and Helaena, the pleasure house?"

"Oh it is true," Daemon said, walking slowly towards you as he spoke, his eyes roaming you from your head to your feet. He stopped a few feet before you and looked into your eyes, the smell of sweat and ash surrounding the dragon rider. 

"Alicent is not a hostage nor a political ploy - she is a traitor, guilty of high treason, and will be treated as such. The usurper queen may say otherwise but we all know the truth."

“What about Helaena?” You say, almost pleading, Alicent and you had clashed often over the past two years, your differences in mothering and you not being devout to the faith being a frequent cause of argument; but Helaena – oh, sweet Helaena – is a different story.

Another victim of powerful scheming. You had to watch her suffer tremendously from the effects of blood & cheese, something that too shook you to the core. The son of your dear friend, slain so horrendously right in front of his mother and siblings. 

"She had no choice in any of it, she is innocent."

"Helaena," Daemon said, scoffing at the mention of her name. Of all the greens, Helaena was the only one that he didn't really hate. "She may be innocent, but she knows what kind of people her mother and brother are and she remains loyal to them. What does that say of her?"

"Helaena never had a choice, neither did I. We are not like your wife Daemon; we did not have the blessing of having a king as our father that would let us do however we pleased. We were all forced into this." You protest, frustration now evident in your voice. "You have already killed her son. Beheaded him infront of her own eyes. Is that not enough?"

“We did not kill him; we simply avenged our own.” Daemon's scowl deepened as you spoke, though he had to admit you were right, at least somewhat. "Fine. It seems you are the only one who wants to plead for her safety. I will speak to the rightful queen, perhaps she won't be entirely opposed to your request of freeing Helaena.."

Daemon paused for a moment, gaze lowering to your bump, before speaking again. "Tell me. Who is the father of the child you are carrying?"

You look down your small bump at his words, laying a hand on it reflexively. "My husband, Aemond, of course. Why?"

Daemon took note of your movements as your hand went to your belly, a flicker of hatred in his eyes when you said Aemond's name. "Just making an observation. How old are you now? 20? And already three kids at your heels…”

"I will turn 19 soon. Yes, I’m carrying my third child. What of it?" you tilt your head slightly, taken aback by his change of topic and his increasingly intrusive questions.

"Three children, at nineteen." Daemon seemed almost impressed. He looked at your belly again.

"I don't know of what concern my husband and I's private matters are." Your voice betrays you, sounding way more hostile as you intended it to.

Daemon looked at you in a way that made you uncomfortable. He was eyeing your body up and down, and his silence made you feel his gaze prickling your skin. "Does your husband like seeing you pregnant?"

You stare at him silently, mouth agape at the shock of such an intimate question. "Yes..." You admit reluctantly.

A smirk broke through Daemon's frown, as a low chuckle came from his lips, eyes still lingering on your stomach. "He keeps you as his broodmare. You're clearly a fine one as well; babes not even out of the cradle before you’re with child again. I don't blame him."

"He is my husband. It's his right to have children with his wife." You say defensively; repeating the words you have been taught all your life.

"It is indeed." Daemon said, taking a step closer to you, invading your personal space. He took a deep breath through his nose, taking in your scent. This close, he could see his own reflection in your eyes. "His right, and your duty. You must be a good wife to please him so thoroughly."

You stare at him silently again, before shrugging timidly. "He doesn't complain." You don't want to risk saying too much, so you continue with the question you had been planning to ask all this while.

"Rhaenyra... What is she planning to do with me? With my children? I heard she has rewards out for Maelor…"

"She has no intention of killing you or your children. Though you may still be stripped of your title as princess." Daemon paused a moment before continuing. "As for Maelor... There is a bounty on his head, yes. He is the only remaining son of the usurper. Since he is so young she will let him live; but only under her influence." 

He raises his hand to tug a strand of hair behind your ear. "She contemplated selling you to the pleasure house as well, you know? But since you're gravid and played no instrumental part in their schemes, I could persuade her not to do so."

You look at him wide-eyed, feeling a pit form in your stomach, as if your worst fears had been confirmed. "What- a-are you jesting?"

Daemon took note of your reaction. He was still close, he could see the outline of a dimple in your cheek and smell the sweet scent of your milk surrounding you; a smell still clinging to your body as you had just finished feeding your youngest before he entered the room. 

"Indeed. Rhaenyra is not like other women. Much less merciful and the men that surround her even less so." He said, still smirking. His hand had found its way to your waist now, his fingers running along your side. "But a good word from me and I could persuade her not to do so. You should thank me."

You stare at him, your hand moving to hold onto his arm, ready to push him away. You study his face, recognising an unsettling darkness in them. "You wouldn’t do this just because. What is it you want from me?"

"Hmm..." Daemon took another deep breath, your scent was really strong with this one. Different notes were in your scent as well. He wondered if those were remnant of your perfume you had applied in the morning or perhaps an oil youve applied to your hair.

He let out a sigh as he tried to keep it from affecting him. He lowered his head towards yours and spoke slowly, every word a whisper. "No, you're right. I wouldn't do it just because. But for you, I could make some exceptions. You've always had my attention, you know that? The pretty little thing that you are, wed to my maimed nephew."

"What are you saying?" You try to sound brave but the quiver in your voice betrays you.

Daemon chuckled as he noticed your nervousness. He could tell from your shaking body that you were afraid. He put a hand under your chin, moving your head to look into his eyes. He spoke slowly and quietly.

"Let me have you and I shall guarantee your and your children's safety."

You stare at him bewildered, stunned silent for several long moments. "Are you mad? I will not betray my husband!"

Daemon chuckled, amused by your naivety and innocence. "Oh my sweet lady... Do you have any idea what you're in now? You're in war, taken hostage by your enemy. Your husband will be happy so long you don't die. I cannot sire a babe on you anyway, so there is nothing to worry about." Daemon smirked, looking at your stomach, and your body, that sweet aroma that surrounded you, drawing him closer and closer.

"Give yourself to me and I shall guarantee yours and your children’s wellbeing.” He doubles down.

You stare at him, trembling slightly in fear and anger, your voice growing quieter the more you struggle to contain your emotions. "You can't be serious. If... If my husband won't have my head for this, then your wife will."

He raised an eyebrow as you spoke, a smirk gracing his face. He was still holding onto you, close enough to kiss you if he wanted to. His gaze was fixed on your lips as well, and your scent was just so... Irresistible to him. 

"Rhaenyra won't care. In our marriage we are free to seek pleasure wherever we like as long as our loyalties don’t falter. The things I can do to you, you will enjoy them alright..." His voice became low and quiet again as he spoke the last words, the hand that previously rested on your waist now slithering around your back and ascending lower and lower with each passing moment.

You stare at him in disbelief, fear and anger boiling inside you. Just when you want to protest yet again, the loud sounds of something collapsing startle you, your head snapping to look around Daemon's wide frame with urgency.

Your eyes settle onto Rhaegar. The wooden tower he was building had collapsed, an inconvenience the toddler quickly moves on from by starting to build it anew. Baelor sits not far from him, abandoning his own toy to crawl over and investigate his brothers doings.

The anger you had been feeling subsides immediately, replaced by worry and an urge to cry as you worry for whatever their fate will be as this war continues.

You don't want this.

You do not want to let him touch you, but it might be the only way to protect your children from harm, especially considering how cruel rhaenyra has proven herself to be. Your stare is focused on your oldest still, watching as his tiny hands wrap around each block and meticulously place one onto the other.

So innocent, so fragile.

"What about them?" Your voice as soft as a whisper.

Daemon didn't take his eyes away from yours. His gaze burning into you as he studies every expression you make. Your scent, your warmth, almost driving him crazy. "They will be taken care of. I told you I wouldn't let them come to harm." He said as he ran a hand through your hair, the curls of your hair wrapping around his fingers. "Don't worry, sweet girl, all will be well. If you agree to my terms, that is."

He can watch your jaw clenching and eyes gloss over before hearing the ever so soft word he has been waiting for leaving your lips. "Fine."

Servants had been sent by Daemon to take your children to bathe them and play with them. You did not miss the sympathetic look they gave you. Perhaps being able to tell what will happen to you purely based on his instructions to not return until he tells them to. 

You’re standing at a window looking out at the city taking note of the sun lowering on the horizon, dressed in nothing but a simple silk robe, when the door opens and Daemon walks in without knocking.

He steps inside, wearing the same clothes from before; sword and dagger still at his side. He comes closer and takes in your appearance, pleased at the sight. He approaches you with a calm step until your bodies are mere inches apart, bringing his hand up to caress your arm.

"You’re trembling," Daemon spoke, his voice smooth and dark. His eyes were examining you again, taking in your appearance. You had changed from the last time he saw you, you looked more womanly now.

A mother to two already, with a third growing inside, the outline of your small bump visible through the loose fabric. His movements were precise and confident. You could tell he was trying hard to contain himself.

For now.

Your gaze follows the movements of his hand as it runs up and down your arm. You can feel his large calloused hand and cold skin through the thin fabric of your robe. It’s a stark contrast to your soft and warm skin, unmarked and unblemished from living sheltered all your life.

In a small voice, barely more than a whisper, you ask, “Can we just get this over with?”

Daemon nods, taking note of your trembling once more before he turns and walks over to a nearby table, taking off his sword and dagger and placing them onto it. His head tilted as he looked at you from where he is standing.

"You were quick to give into me so easily. Were you that desperate? Does your husband not satisfy you?" He said with a smirk, beginning to undo his tunic.

You tighten your jaw, upset at his words that, to you, sound accusatory of promiscuity - a sin for a highborn lady. A married one especially.

“Desperate to keep my children safe, yes. My husband always kept me well satisfied.”

"Hmm..." Daemon huffed. His body language shifted a little. He seemed more agitated and tense, not liking that you brought up Aemond's name, much less so that you praised him. He walked back towards you now, closing the distance slowly and taking a good look at you.

His eyes kept darting to your stomach as you spoke of your husband. With every movement you make you entice him even more. “I don't know what he does to you to satisfy you, but I assure you I can do it better."

You roll your eyes at his words; he had always been cocky.

"He and I are very compatible in that regard. Now, can you just do what you need to do? I'd prefer to get this over with soon." It was the truth. Aemond’s and your intimate life was very well. Three children in three years of marriage served as proof of that.

Daemon's blood was running hot at this point.

"Compatibilities. I see..." Daemon said, his words filled with mockery. "Well, there's nothing I'd prefer more right now than to be inside of you, so I guess we're compatible as well." He approaches you quickly, now dressed in nothing but his breeches, eagerly tugging at the belt holding your robe closed, watching as it falls open and reveals your bare body underneath.

He took a sharp breath as he took in your figure, almost letting out a moan of desire at the sight of your body, his gaze roaming your body eagerly.

“Gods, you’re stunning.” His gaze settles on your breasts, swollen from all the milk inside them. “I heard you don’t employ a wet nurse. Why is that?”

You stare ahead blankly, trying not to make any sound or expression when you can feel his hand rest on the curve of your waist. “I don’t believe its good for the mother-child bond. That mothers should nurse their own children, or they will bond with the wet nurse instead.”

Daemon smirks at your response, thumb caressing over your delicate skin as he now looks at your face. “Is that so? Does your husband enjoy watching you breastfeed?” He asks with a low chuckle before pulling you in, his hardened length in his pants now pressing against your belly as He holds you close with both arms wrapped around your waist. “Or does he enjoy tasting your milk himself? Do not lie to me, woman. You won’t like the consequences if you do.”

Your hands rest on his chest, you’re fighting the urge to push him away with every fiber of your being, your head hanging low as you do not dare to look at him directly. You take note of his skin; scars and healed burns covering his muscular form. The body of a battle-hardened warrior.

Reluctantly you admit, “Both…”.

“Oh… you’re even more of a little whore than I thought, aren’t you?” he whispers into your ear. “What an eager to serve little thing you are. You’ll make a good little toy for me after all.” One arm wrapped still around your waist the other moves to your front, his large hand stroking over that small bump of yours.

“Almost makes me sad you’re with child already. I’d have loved to pound my own into you.”

Your head snaps up at him now, huffing in offense you exclaim, “Daemon!”

He simply smirks, amused by your objection. Leaning in close he whispers into your ear, his hot breath burning on your skin. “You may be carrying my nephew’s child now but there is always a next time. A few more months and I could still make you mine.”

He turns around with you in his arms, leading you backwards towards the bed until you feel the mattress on the back of your legs. A small push of his makes you sit down on it. Knowing your duty, you take it upon yourself to scoot fully onto the mattress.

He watches with a smile on his lips as you do so, happy with your compliance before reaching down and spreading your legs open for him to look after he noticed you keeping them shut.

He takes a good look at the treasure between them, groaning out when his manhood twitches at the sight of it. He stands up straight again, taking off the breeches that held him contained until now as his intense stare moves up your body once more.

You feel so vulnerable and exposed for him, completely bare and spread wide open for him to examine as the intensity of his gaze only intensifies. He does not look like a man now. With his pupils blown wide he resembles more a predator ready to pounce its prey than anything else.

His gaze fixed on your cunt, as if in a daze, he reaches out tentatively, his rough fingertips grazing along the sensitive flesh for painfully long moments.

Tracing along the form of your fleshy lips again and again, your breathing is but nervous gasping as one shiver after the other runs over your skin.

Suddenly the sensation fades as he climbs between your legs, one hand on your thigh to keep you spread open for him as he starts pushing himself into you without any more preparation, blissfully surprised to find your cunt wet and welcoming for him.

He can’t hold back a low groan as he pushes himself all the way into you, leaning forward and lying fully on top of you. His face is mere inches from yours as he slowly starts to move his hips, deeply penetrating you at a slow pace while he studies your every expression.

Grunting, your hands move to hold onto his sides as his knees dip into the mattress on either side of you. You clench your jaw tightly, trying to stop any sounds from escaping your lips while you struggle to accommodate him.

Aemond was more than enough to satisfy you, but Daemon was a whole lot more man than him – in all regards.

He knows this, too. Its easy for him to tell by the way your nails dig into his skin as you struggle to get used to him.

“How come you’re so eager, sweet thing? Do you enjoy a man taking charge of you?” A wicked grin on his face his movements become more powerful, your body rocking back and forth with the force of it.

You want to say no, to deny every second of it and not give him the satisfaction of watching you enjoy his touch, but when he starts to hit an all too familiar spot inside of you, you crumble immediately. Not being able to hold back your moans anymore you can barely manage to answer him with a weak “…yes”.

“No wonder my nephew wouldn’t stop breeding you. You’re the perfect little plaything.” He pushes his body into yours, pushing you into the mattress while he whispers into your ear. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. I will violate you properly and make sure you enjoy every second of it.”

With that, his thrusts quickly grow rougher, starting to pound you with such force the entire bed rocks with it, all while watching every expression on your face.

His breathing heavy and rasp he soon shifts his attention down to your breasts, that are bobbing up and down with each forceful clashing of his hips into your. He tried to control himself, he really did, but he just cant anymore.

A hand cupping your breast he leans in, taking the sensitive nub on it between his lips. Just a few soft movements of his tongue over it and he can already taste it. Feeling the warm and sweet liquid dripple onto his tongue makes him humm contently as he starts indulging himself in the sweetness of you. His hips grind into you deeply but at much more humane pace than before.

Your eyes shut in pleasure, your own hands moving by themselves as they embrace him, moving into his hair and caressing his back. This is what Aemond liked, your dear husband.

Oh, if you would ever see him again…

Daemon is surprised, you embracing him was the last thing he expected, even less so you pulling him in more, but he loved every second of it.

He would swear he is in heaven. The warm embrace of his cock while the sweetness of your milk covers his tongue driving him crazy. It could have been hours of him doing this or mere seconds, all he knows is he finds himself spilling his seed into you way sooner than he wanted to, his relentless thrusting an expression of his frustration as his loud moans fill the room, shameless and utterly unafraid of how much the guards outside your door will hear of this.

His slow and deep grinding into your cunt continues as he stays suckling on your breasts, his spend soon clinging to both of your hips and pulling long white strings whenever he pulls away only to push back in with even more force. His antics only cease when he is sure he has drank all of what you can give, both your breasts feeling comfortably light while a throbbing sensation in your cunt would stay with you until the next day, you're sure.

He collapses onto you, still deeply buried inside, squishing your breasts under his weight while his heavy breaths right in your ear send shivers down your spine. Your arms travel by themselves again, wrapping around him and holding him close. Just how Aemond has always demanded you hold him.

“You’re a very good fuck… really good.” Daemon growls right into your ear.

A few moments later, he rolls off of you onto his back, laying next to you and catching his breath while studying your side profile.

This quiet moment gives you the first chance to gain back your senses, a wave of guilt washing over you as the sensation of another mans spend spilling out of you and running down your skin onto the mattress makes you realise the severity of what had just happened. Eyes fluttering, trying to ignore the burning sensation in them, you say, “I think… I think you should leave now.”

Had you have looked at him, you would have noticed his smiling face turn to stone in an instant.

This was the worst thing you could have said.

To command the dragon to leave your bed. He could not leave that be.

“Stay quiet. You have no say in this.” His voice is stern now and he rolls onto his side, leaning over your body and staring daggers into your skull, his hand grabbing your chin harshly and making you look at him. “If I want to abuse your pretty little cunt all night I will do so. And you will take it.”

“Don’t... don’t you have somewhere to be?” Your voice is shaky, your fear heightened by the anger you can see burn in his eyes. A desperate attempt of yours to sound considerate for his valuable time is only pouring more oil into the fire.

“Don’t try to tell me what to do. I have all the time in the world to play with you.” His fingers twitch slightly, as if holding back the urge to choke you. “Stop acting like a baby. You know the way of our world. You know when a woman is better off just taking a cock and shutting up.”

“Damn it, I need a break.” He sighs, it sounds almost like a growl as he tries to control his anger. He lets go of you, shoving you away slightly, as he gets up of the bed and takes a few deep breaths. “You got me all riled up, whore.”

You sit up in the bed, hugging your legs as you look at him. His large frame, the burn scars all over his back, his temper flaring and the sheer power he holds over your fate make you fear for the consequences.

You didn’t mean to upset his highness.

“Don’t call me a whore…” It slips out quietly under your breath, yet he hears it anyway. You weren’t used to such language. Despite his acts, Aemond would never say a foul word to you. 

Oh, Aemond…

“Shut up, whore!” Daemons raised voice take you out of your thoughts. He barks, closing in on you rapidly and pulling your head back with a tight grip on your hair. “Would I send you to the pleasure house being called a whore would be the least of your problems! Show me some gratitude!”

Daemon‘s anger takes over, mixed with his still pressing need in his cock, he drags you off the bed and pushes you to your knees in front of it, the bedframe pressing into your back uncomfortably.

“Perhaps I was too nice to you.” He growls, hand still in your hair as he makes you look up at him, ignoring all your pleas and apologies.

“Let me show you your new place in life. Open wide.” He commands, his other hand having a firm grasp on his cock as he traces the form of your lips with it.

For the first time ever since his first visiy earlier today, genuine fear overcomes you. Not daring to oppose him, you open your mouth as commanded, gagging immediately as he shoves himself into your mouth.

Aemond enjoyed the mouth pleasures as well yet had been far gentler than he was. Your hands move to Daemons thighs on their own, trying to push him back just a little, but when his second hand too moves to your head and holds it in place, all hope for ease is lost.

Tears start burning in your eyes in an instant once the thick head of his cock hits the back of your mouth, even more so when you can feel it push in deeper, forcefully flattening your tongue underneath as he made his way into your throat.

The room fills with his sounds of pleasure, guttural moans and growls, your desperate gagging and struggle drowned out by the volume of his.

The bed behind you and his hands in your hair make any escape impossible and you thank the gods when after what feels like an eternity he finally pulls out of your throat, a string of saliva connecting him to you as you gasp desperately for air.

“Fuck, that’s it,” his voice is deep and raw with lust, “That’s a good girl, finally.”

The praise does little to make any of it easier as he thrust himself back into your mouth and down your throat before you even had a chance to wipe your now freely flowing tears.

Daemon soon loses himself in his depravities, the fleshy pouch on his stones slapping harshly against your chin with each thrust. Your face a mess of tears and spit you’re unable to do much more than dig your nails into his thighs and take all he wants to give.

By the time he shoves himself all the way down your throat, his hips flush with your face as he tightly holds your head in place and spills what else he had left in him into you, you’ve near lost all grasp on reality.

Your back and knees aching near as much as your jaw, you can finally breathe in relief once he separates himself from you once and for all, leaving you collapsing forward with heavy breaths as he stumbles backwards a few steps, groaning in satisfaction as he studies your pitiful state.

“This is where you belong from now on,” he says after a while, “On your knees for me, whenever I want. Do you understand this now, whore?”

On your hands and knees, still breathing heavily and coughing occasionally, you take a few moments to find your voice again. Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, “…yes.”

“That is no way to talk to your king,” he objects, “Speak properly, whore. You’re a princess, you know how to.”

Defeated, you make no more attempts to be willful. Looking up at him, you answer, “I understand now, my king.”

A wicked smile on his face he approaches you, petting your head a few times. “That’s a good princess. Now clean yourself up. You would not want your spawn to see you like this.”

Leisurely walking back to where his clothes lay discarded, he starts dressing himself as if this all had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Adding “I will be back for more once I feel like it.”, he grabs his swords and disappears out of the door just as swiftly as when he had arrived, shutting it with a loud thud.

You were still on the floor, your back now resting against the bed as you spread out your aching legs in front of you, hoping for relief in this much more comfortable position.

A thousand thoughts run through your head yet not a single one stays long enough to grasp.

With no idea just how much time has passed it is the sound of commotion in the halls outside tour door that draws you out of your blank stare. It was late in the day now and the sky barely lit. It was suppertime for most, and undoubtedly, the maids would soon return with your sons and serve your own meals.

You had hardly managed to throw your nightrobe back on, wipe away the remnants of him with the nearest piece of cloth and open the windows, hoping to ease the smell of sex in the air, before the knocks echo through the room.

Just as predicted, here were your sons, in the same carefree mood they always were. Happy to see their mother and now ready for a meal. Supper was served not long after.

While you had received only stew and bread before, the table was now set with the first mouth-watering meal ever since you’ve been made prisoner. While you sit there, little Baelor on your lap and Rhaegar on a high chair next to you, you watch them intently.

The way each of them indulges in their meals, digging into the food with their bare hands and making a mess that no doubt would require a second bath before bed, your heart aches and you struggle to hold back the tears.

They are so innocent, completely oblivious to the death and suffering surrounding them. Their helplessness stands out to you. Unable to even feed themselves without help, they very much depend on you.

As you go on about the evening, taking the time and enjoying the presence of your two loved ones, by the time you lull the little ones to sleep, you’ve made your decision.

You will do all it takes to keep them safe. All it takes to keep them from harm.

And if that means submitting to Daemon’s every vice without complaint, then so be it.

Authors note: This story is currently halted as I focus on my Aemond and OC works for a while but will eventually continue. Follow me for updates or comment to be put on the taglist for this fic in the future!

View this series masterlist and moodboard for extra content.

[wisecura]

Pretty

Suguru x fem-reader p.4 p.1 ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ p.3

summary: You're Gojo's cute little sister.

AN: now how long did it take me to send this one out? thank you for continuing, these are still under edit so please be aware.

Warning: Yandere behavior oncoming please continue with caution

Summary: You're Gojo's cute little sister.

Butterflies

Suguru had managed to keep you all to himself on that porch for hours.

With no Satoru around to interrupt, he had free rein to tease, talk, and simply enjoy your presence.

And enjoy it he did—far more than he expected.

He felt a strange, insatiable need to hold your attention, to keep your eyes on him and only him, even as your yawns became more frequent and your eyelids grew heavy.

What surprised him most was that you didn’t seem to mind. If anything, you gave him that attention willingly, your focus never wavering.

The two of you stayed there until the sun began to peek over the horizon, its soft light creeping across the garden. Sitting inches apart, both of your legs swung off the edge of the porch, your hands so close they nearly brushed.

Suguru found himself talking about things he rarely shared—bits and pieces of himself he usually kept hidden. But with you, it felt easy. Natural. He wasn���t sure if it was because you were such a good listener or because your relaxed expression made him feel like he could tell you anything.

You talked, too, more than he’d ever heard you speak in one sitting. About little things, big things—anything and everything. He hung onto every word, marveling at the way you opened up to him.

And as the conversation flowed, Suguru felt an overwhelming urge to keep you there, to keep the moment alive. He wasn’t ready for it to end, wasn’t ready to let you go, even as the first rays of sunlight began to wash over the world.

The situation felt unnervingly intimate—just a little too close for a guy and his best friend’s little sister. But it would’ve been stranger to say Suguru wasn’t one of your close friends by now. Although, you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about calling him that. Friendships weren’t something you’d had much experience with, and with Suguru, things always felt… different.

If you were honest, though, if you had to pick anyone to settle down with someday, Suguru would be at the top of your list. He was passionate about his role as a sorcerer, even if you’d noticed hints of resentment toward some parts of it. Despite that, his care for his fellow sorcerers was undeniable, and his quiet strength and thoughtfulness drew you in more than you’d ever admit.

But the idea of actually dating him? That was impossible. He was Satoru’s best friend, first and foremost. Crossing that line wasn’t just risky—it felt like breaking some unspoken rule. And yet, as the sun rose higher, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

If you did want to date Suguru, what could you even do? He was like your first crush, sure, but what did you really know about relationships anyway? Books, movies, and the occasional online post had given you a general idea of how it was supposed to work, but theory was far different from reality.

Satoru, of course, had always made it clear he wouldn’t let you date anyone without his approval. And you had the sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t want you dating at all—approval or not.

But even if Satoru miraculously gave his blessing, there was still Suguru.

How did he feel? He seemed to treat you much like Satoru did—affectionately but firmly, with no hint of flirtation in your conversations. Did he see you as an extension of your brother? Another little sister to look after?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Maybe you were reading too much into things, hoping for something that wasn’t there.

And it wasn’t like you could ask Suguru how he felt—not without bracing for the consequences. What if he thought it was just a naive schoolgirl crush and brushed you off with that teasing smirk of his?

What if he outright rejected you, called you some spoiled, snot-nosed kid for even thinking about it, and made you feel foolish for harboring those feelings at all?

Or worse, what if he got uncomfortable, distanced himself, and left not just you but Satoru too?

Suguru Geto was unpredictable, and that alone made the prospect of confessing anything feel like walking a tightrope. Too many outcomes, too many risks, and not nearly enough certainty to act on how you felt.

"Looks like it’s time for bed," Suguru said, letting out a loud sigh that broke the quiet. You blinked, finally noticing the soft hues of the rising sun. Exhaustion hit you all at once, and you realized you probably looked as tired as you felt.

“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” you said, your voice thick with drowsiness, tinged with apology. “But I really appreciated the company.”

He didn’t reply immediately, but the smile on his face said more than words could. It was a smile reserved just for you or Satoru—so warm, so affectionate, it left you unsure of what to make of it.

As you stood, his eyes followed your movements, trailing over your form without hesitation. When you glanced down, you found him already watching you, his dark gaze unreadable. Your heart pounded in your ears, the heat rising to your face impossible to ignore.

Backing away clumsily, you nearly tripped over your own feet, breaking the moment. Suguru shifted, ready to catch you if needed, but you steadied yourself before he could move. Embarrassed, you kept your eyes fixed on the ground, mumbling a quick, flustered excuse as you made your way to the door.

Pausing just before stepping inside, you turned slightly, your voice soft, barely above a whisper.

“Good night, Suguru.”

You didn’t wait for a response, disappearing into the house before he could recover from the shock.

Suguru sat frozen, utterly speechless, the sound of your voice—his name spoken with such quiet affection—lingering in the air like a ghost.

Behind your bedroom door, you leaned against it, hands clutching your chest, your heart hammering as if it might burst. The exchange had been wordless yet heavy with emotion, and you hoped you’d conveyed even a fraction of what he’d shown you with that smile.

You felt breathless. Vulnerable in a way you’d never been before.

Sure, it might not have meant much to him, but to you, it was everything. Suguru was the first person besides Satoru you’d ever let yourself get this close to.

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your lips.

Damn it.

You really were like a little schoolgirl confessing to her crush—running off like that, all flustered, just from saying his first name. It was so embarrassing.

The initial giddiness faded as you lay on your bed, thinking about how silly it was to get so worked up over something Suguru probably thought was meaningless. You stared blankly at the wall you shared with him. His room—the previous guest room—was right next to yours. You hadn’t given this much thought before, but now you were acutely aware of how close he was.

Satoru’s bedroom was farther down the hall, naturally having claimed the master suite, but that wasn’t comforting. It didn’t change the fact that Suguru was right there.

You groaned, turning onto your side. Whatever. Summer would be over soon, and once school started back up, you wouldn’t have time to dwell on this.

The sound of floorboards creaking outside your door pulled you from your thoughts, followed by a soft thunk, signaling that Suguru had returned to his room. You exhaled deeply and let your head sink into the pillow. Within seconds, you were out, completely unaware of the chaos you’d left behind.

Suguru sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall that separated him from you. His mind reeled, replaying that moment over and over again.

The way your lips had shaped his name—Suguru, not Geto—was enough to knock the air from his lungs. You’d said it so softly, so fondly, with a warmth he thought was reserved only for Satoru.

He felt weightless, like he’d drifted into some dreamlike state where everything felt too good to be real. Was it exhaustion playing tricks on him? Or had you really said his name like that?

Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to end. He could listen to you say his name for hours, days, maybe even forever.

For the first time in a long while, Suguru felt light, as if the weight of the world had lifted for just a moment. Even with Satoru, he’d never felt this... enraptured.

And he knew then—he was gone.

p.3 ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ p.5

come home

I will also be posting updates here:

https://www.tumblr.com/communities/obsessedjjk

[daltonsluvr]

IN THE COMPANY OF THE STARS

pairing: theodore nott x gn!reader

summary: amongst the peaceful covering of the astronomy tower, you find an unlikely comfort in the presence of none other than theodore nott. (1.2k wc)

authors note: first little drabble to bring me back out of my writers slump - and who better than boyfriend no.1 to do so??

"Is this seat taken?" You turned around at the voice, to see none other than Theodore Nott standing behind you, his hands in his pockets, indicating at the space next to you.

Technically, the seat he wanted wasn't a seat at all. It's a part of the Astronomy Tower floor, of which you were sitting on, your feet dangling over the edge. You had a book in your lap, which had been left long forgotten as you looked ahead of you at the stars which danced upon the night sky. It really was the prettiest place in all of Hogwarts.

Slowly, you shook your head, and he nodded in response, taking a seat beside you. It's strange, you thought to yourself, watching him closely as he too dangled his legs out in front of him. The two of you knew each other from classes and such, yet had only interacted a couple of times, usually to ask for a quill or something along those lines.

You realised then just how weird you must have looked, watching him so intensely, and so you forced your attention back to the landscape around you, focusing on the trees ahead.

A few beats. 1, 2-

"You come here often?" he broke the silence first, turning to look at you. You hadn’t noticed until that moment just how startlingly beautiful his eyes were - dead, but with a softness behind them. It was entrancing, to say the least.

"Yeah," you answered, meeting his eyes. "The stars don't ask too many questions, so they're pretty great company when I need some peace." You hadn't meant for the comment to be funny, yet you watched as a chuckle escaped his lips: a beautiful sound, really.

"Didn't think you'd ever be a quiet person," he half-laughed, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Anyone could hear your voice from a mile off."

"Even the loudest of us need some quiet, sometimes," you responded, shrugging your shoulders, and swinging your feet slightly. "This must be a regular spot for you then, huh, given your notorious 'Mr Silent' status?"

The statement was true - this was the most you had ever heard the boy spoke, to anyone. It was his turn to now shrug, before leaning back on his hands. "You could say that."

You assumed the conversation had reached its natural end, and so you took the book you had on your lap and opened it to the page you'd bookmarked, and began reading.

"Romeo and Juliet?" A voice from next to you read, and you turned once more to see Theodore now reading the cover of the book, raising a brow in your direction. "You read muggle literature?"

"Shakespeare is one of the greats, I'd be stupid not to," you answered. Upon seeing the look on his face, you continued, "Don't tell me you've never read Shakespeare."

He shook his head, and you laughed, endearingly. "You are seriously missing out, Nott. Muggle or not, he's amazing. A real genius."

"Well, talk to me, then," Theodore looked down at you, his eyes piercing through your own. "Tell me about this guy and his books."

"They're plays, really," you started, almost unsure as to whether or not to continue. But he looked at you, almost daring you to continue, and so you did.

It was unusual for you to find someone so interested in talking to you, especially about something as niche as the works of William Shakespeare, but then again, Theodore Nott really wasn't like anyone you'd ever met before.

"-this book was one of the first my mother gave to me, and so its always been my favourite," you finished eventually, your voice growing slightly hoarse from talking so much. "Sorry for talking your ear off."

"No worries," he said in return, sending a small smile your way. "The b-play, certainly sounds interesting."

Looking between him and the book, you reached out to him, book still in your grasp. "Here, take it. To borrow."

He looked at you, almost questioning you with his eyes. "Why?"

"Everyone needs to read Shakespeare at least once in their lives, and I'm guessing none of your friends own any of his works, right?" He shook his head once again, and you shook your own in mock exasperation. "Honestly."

You coaxed him once again until he took the book from your hands, and you watched as he felt the cover of it. "It's a bit battered, because it's the one my mother got me when I was younger. And I have written inside it, so you may want to ignore that as well."

You got up, book officially out of your hands, and you dusted off your robes. Finally ready to go, you made to leave, until he called out your name. You turned around to look back at him.

"Thank you." was all he said, a smile lighting up his features with genuity.

"No problem, Theodore-"

"Theo."

"Theo. No worries, Theo," it was your turn to smile as you turned to leave, leaving the Slytherin boy alone.

— —— — — —

"A boy left this for you." A small first year girl approached you no more than a week later, a box in their arms, which they had outstretched towards you. You were sat by the window in your common room, Transfiguration homework in your lap as you worked through the questions McGonagall had set you.

"Did the boy leave a name?" you questioned, looking cynically at the box in front of you, which you had taken from the girl.

"No, he said you'd know who he is." The girl gave you a small fleeting smile, before skipping off, presumably to go and sit with her friends.

The box was noticeably small, and could be carrying nothing more than a couple of things, you thought to yourself, as you carefully opened it.

As soon as you saw the contents of it, though, a smile spread across your face, and you had no doubts of who the box was from. You had never pegged Theodore Nott to be one for dramatics, so you couldn't understand why he had decided to return your book in a box, but nonetheless you appreciated the sentiment.

You picked up the battered copy, the pages just as beautifully crumpled as before, and you found yourself smiling again. A note lay underneath the book, and you picked it up to read what it said.

The play was great - you clearly have good taste. Shakespeare truly is one of the greats. Astronomy tower at 8? — T.N.

Delicately folding the note and putting it in your robe pocket, you took back the copy of Romeo & Juliet in your hands, and began to flip through the pages.

His chicken scratch handwriting tattooed the pages - not overlapping the actual text or your writing, but still written as nearly as he could in numerous corners of the book.

You laughed as you read through a few of them, most of which were his sardonic comments about Romeo's idiocy, and in turn Juliet's naivety.

Eventually closing the book, you set it aside, and smiled to yourself. You weren't exactly sure how you'd found a friend in Theodore Nott, but you were certainly glad that you had.

[megapteraurelia]

comfortable silence — part 2.

summary | kozume kenma and gn!reader are just really bad at tiptoeing around their feelings for each other, tbh. warnings | none! just super fluff if you don't have a sweet tooth. (the barest tiniest grain of molecule of angst if you squint hard enough) word count | 1360. a/n | i still very much love kenma. i actually didn't plan on the ending but then decided to roll with it :o i hope that this holds up with what anon wanted T_T so sorry if i completely butchered it!! please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´- part 1 to be found: here.

“you forgot your book.”

the muscles in your hands locked as you were leafing through the documents the teacher had given you. you were staying behind after the last class of the day — most, if not all, of the other desks, were cleared off the other students’ belongings.

you knew that kenma was supposed to be at volleyball practice, yet there he was at the entrance of your classroom, still in his school uniform. you didn’t even hear his steps when he came closer to drop the book onto your desk, even though you were watching him shorten the distance between you.

and just like that, the air suddenly felt awkward and charged. 

you refused to look at him but felt his gaze trained on you, roving from the top of your head over your hair to your neck and shoulders, going further down to your fingers to note how tightly you gripped the sheets of paper.

you knew that if you reclined your head and looked up to the side, you’d meet the curious and vigilant widening of his pupils, the little cock of his head, his blonde-coloured hair crossing his field of vision like a curtain. 

but you also knew that if you were to look at him, you’d want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. his eyes would remind you of how he averted his gaze every time you looked at him after you had entered his personal space and kissed his cheek, of how he had grown quieter than usual. 

“thanks, i didn’t mean to...forget it,” you mumbled, fingertips caressing the paper for a change of sensation, to forget the tension in your pulled-up shoulders.

“yeah.”

he didn’t move. you didn’t move. it was embarrassing. it was intimate. 

it was the way he was standing close to you, neither of you talking; the air pregnant with even more things left unsaid than before, the afternoon sun shining through the windows, painting everything in a light that said i’m here to make memories. the opened window sent a light breeze and the clock ticked in the background, the bell chiming in harmony to signal the start of a new period, yet he made no moves to get to practice.

instead, the only thing that changed in motion was a steady blush crawling over your skin at the silent presence next to you, at the golden sheen on the paper in your hands that made it difficult to escape the golden of his eyes.

“kenma.”

“hm?”

you forced your eyes shut, forcing the words through your lips, every letter burning your tongue and wishing to be left hidden, “i didn’t mean to do that. it kind of...just happened. i didn’t mean to make it weird or anything.”

you couldn’t even mention the stupid kiss, and you don’t think you needed to. you were sure that kenma was more than capable of understanding what you meant, yet he still didn’t say anything, still close enough for you to smell him, still just standing there, hands twitching at his sides as he gripped his phone tightly yet kept it closed and turned off lest anybody of his teammates could try to spam him with calls to get his attention.

you hesitantly glanced up a little bit, seeing the open collar, the lazy knot of his tie, and just a bit higher: the sharp line of his chin, the soft caress of the tip of his hair strands, the uncertain press of his lips together — and just as quickly as your gaze was going to search his, as fast it dropped again at the reminder.

another avalanche of nonsense tumbled through your mouth and out into the world, “i mean, i was just— i don’t know. i wasn’t thinking and then i’ve already— i don’t— and i’m making this super awkward, n—ugh.”

your face was burning, teeth digging into your lower lip. there you went and made a whole fool of yourself, and would the ground please just open up and swallow you?

“uh, it’s fine,” came the response, soft-spoken and nervous, almost too quiet in comparison to the thunderous beat of your heart, so you had to look up to him if only to connect his words with the movement of his mouth. 

meeting his eyes and knowing he was studying you intently with his eyes, catching each shiver running down your back, each whitening of a knuckle, the gulp of your throat swallowing despite your mouth completely dried out — it sent another flash of mortification through you. the golden of his eyes were competing with the rays of the sun, attentive as usual.

hesitantly, you asked, “are you uncomfortable?”

“not really.”

again with that assured tone of voice, yet still carrying elusive words, evading questions and assumptions. the wind blew softly again, hugging your skin, but it made no difference to the heaviness sitting between you, didn’t blow away the expectations racking up for something you weren’t even sure existed outside of your head. 

your neck started hurting at looking up from the side, so you went back to staring at the long-forgotten documents in your hands, the book he brought to you — just another pretense, another excuse that felt safe to hide behind. 

your voice was still meek, “really?”

in lieu of an answer, he instead moved from your side to stand in front of you, leaning forward in such a certain manner that seemed so at odds to the usual lethargy he carried around. your perception was long used up to note all the tiny details and minimalistic gestures that you barely had any left to understand what was happening until it was happening. 

a timid meeting of lips and skin again. the corner of your mouth warming up at the contact, the closeness of his face, his half-lidded eyes reading you, his nose kissing yours, and then he stepped back again, one hand going up to rub his neck to relieve his nervousness. 

he took your breath away. 

kenma in normal lighting was already pretty, but flustered kenma bathed in the sheen of the afternoon glow with deep pink stealing itself on his cheeks and across his nose, eyebrows drawn over intense gold, teeth worrying his mouth was gorgeous. his voice murmured, almost sheepishly, “i guess i’ve been thinking about it too.”

you stared at him; your face in the same shade of red, breathless, heart stuttering like mad. by his accelerated quiet breathing you could only guess that the same type of adrenaline was rushing through him. 

a beat of silence, and then both of you blurting out at the same time:

“i have to go—” 

“i like you. lots.”

like a deer caught in headlights, he finished his sentence dazedly as his ears registered your words,”—to...prac...tice.”

more silence with the leaves rustling outside. more staring at each other as if blinking would make this real. more of red cheeks, red ears, red necks, red, red, red. the air was brimming with all the vibrations of emotions ready to spill over, and before you could scramble to apologise, to run away, to destroy the bud of a flower before it was even able to bloom, kenma reached out and took the book on your desk.

he used it to point towards the door, yet glanced away from you, the blonde strands falling into his eyes; his voice quiet and hesitant, “i forgot what you just said. you also forgot this book at my home. so, you have to— you— should come pick it up later. when practice is done.”

you blinked, and then nodded, “okay then.”

he left in a hurry unlike him, similar to the way you rushed away from him in search of water a couple of days ago at his house. head bowed with golden eyes studying the ground, wiping his hands on the grey pants, a small and unbelieving smile hidden behind the curtain of blonde, skin on fire, though you weren’t better off. 

leaning back in your chair, hiding your face from the world, you thought that water would be really good right now.