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lixzey · 9 months ago

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sincerely, yours.

luke castellan x fem athena!reader

summary: in which Luke receives love letters from a secret admirer.

1.4k words

warnings, i guess?: pre tlt!!! reader has a huge ass crush on luke, reader is weird around luke (like any normal person around their crush), love letters, secret admirer, reader is kinda stalker-ish (maybe all athena kids are lol), reader is friends with silena and clarisse, camp golden boy luke!!! reader has GRAY EYES like every other child of Athena, as this is a key note in the story but i'll leave the hair color out for you guys 🫶🏻

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

“Handsome, you're a mansion with a view.”

“Hey, Luke?” Chris Rodriguez calls out to his older brother, brows knitted in confusion, as he walks towards the head of cabin eleven, who was helping their brothers—Travis and Connor—fix their armor for Capture the Flag in just a few more minutes.

“Yeah?” Luke hums, his eyes not leaving the younger Stoll’s as he finishes the strap of Connor’s armor. “What is it?”

“Someone left this on your bed,” Chris answered, pulling out a tea-colored envelope from his pocket and giving it to the older boy. “It has your name on it.”

Luke pats Connor on the shoulder. “Trav, go and get shields and swords from the armory with Connor.” The eldest Stoll nodded, while the youngest opened his mouth to talk, but Luke got ahead of him. “No, Connor, you can’t have a flaming arrow. Now get over there!” He chuckles, playfully shoving the brothers away with a grin.

As soon as the two leave—Connor huffing about the flaming arrow—Luke turns to face Chris. “Who’s it from?” He asks, eyeing the envelope in Chris’ hand.

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know; it wasn't signed. It just had your name.”

“Huh,” Luke grabs the envelope from Chris’ hold, his eyes searching for any information. Instead, a pink heart wax stamp greeted him.

“You got another admirer?” Chris smirks, playfully nudging Luke. “Oh, to be you, huh? Girls here and there.”

Luke glares at Chris. “Shut up,”

“But that’s a first. A love letter. You think it’s from one of the Aphrodite kids?” Chris grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Explains the pink heart.”

“You talk too much, don’t you?” Luke groaned, shaking his head. “Go follow the Stolls; make sure they don’t burn the armory down. I’ll follow.”

Chris rolls his eyes, chuckling slightly. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave you with your love letter.”

“Go,” Luke huffs, shoving his brother out the door.

“Geez, lover boy, stop pushing me!” Chris laughed as Luke pushed him again. “Okay, okay, I’ll go!” He chuckles, raising his hands up in surrender. “See you at the creek!”

Luke rolls his eyes, shaking his head as Chris runs off. He then turns his attention to the envelope in his hand, with his name written in perfect cursive in bright pink. If Luke wasn’t quick to jump to conclusions, he’d assume that an Aphrodite kid probably sent the letter. The pink ink was a dead give-away. But there was a small voice in the back of Luke’s mind saying otherwise.

The Hermes counselor sighs before making his way to his bed. Maybe there he could find anything else related to the mysterious admirer. Luke plopped down onto his bed, torn between ripping the envelope open or gently opening it in fear of tearing anything else that was inside.

With a shake of his head, Luke slowly opened the tea-stain envelope, the smell of old books and jasmine invading his nostrils as he gently pulled the paper out.

Dear Luke,

I love you.

Oh gods, where do I even begin to explain that?

Okay, so I have liked—no, loved—you since I was thirteen and you were fourteen. I know a lot of girls like you, even boys. I’m not even half of those who do. I’m just, well, me. A girl who you’d never give a second glance at.

This is utterly stupid, honestly. Taking the risk to write this letter to you when you and I literally live in camp all year round. But, I guess, who cares? I mean, I’m already here writing this, so why back out now?

I remember the first time I saw you. Handsome, you’re a fucking mansion with a view. You were out in the arena, training with Leon Hayes. It was the day after you and Annabeth arrived at camp. You were so good, deserving the title of ‘the best swordsman’ camp has seen in three hundred years. Your dark curls looked like a halo as you sparred with him, a mischievous look in your eyes as they shined like ambers underneath the golden rays of sunlight. From that day on, I knew I was in trouble. Everything about you captivates me—a secret no one knows.

Every time you’re around, my heart beats too fucking fast, like a pegasus galloping in the wind. You make the butterflies in my stomach flutter like crazy, you make my palms get sweaty, and my words fail me, leaving me a stuttering mess when you’re near and you aren’t even talking to me. See what you do to me? I’ve never thought I would fall head over heels for someone so completely and so effortlessly.

You make the angels in heaven dance and sing hymns. Each time I look at you, wedding bells ring inside my head. You make me want more and more of you. I just can't think straight when you're in my head; even writing your name makes my cheeks turn red. You make me smile in so many ways, to the point that it isn’t even funny anymore. You are my favorite everything. I’ve been telling my friends that since I was fifteen.

I get jealous when I see someone who gets close to you and flirts with you. I just can’t explain how annoyed—angry—I get when they try to get your attention when I have no right to be. There’s just something about you. I can’t pinpoint it, but it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.

Do you think if I wished on every dandelion in the world, you’d be mine? It would be a dream come true, of course. But in reality? You would never notice me. Like I said before, I’m just a girl you’d never take a second glance at. I’d forever be in the shadow of everyone else, hidden far away in the darkness.

You take my breath away, Luke Castellan. I don’t know how, but, fuck, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

sincerely,

yours

Luke stared at the letter for a few seconds, still trying to understand the words he had just read. He knew that girls liked him, but he never had someone send him a love letter, let alone a detailed one.

“Who are you?” Luke muttered, his eyes going back and forth through the letter, wondering who the girl was who’d written the letter. Something about her words made him want to find her, but the letter wasn’t signed. No name, no cabin, no anything. How was he going to find out who wrote the letter?

“Luke, capture’s in five minutes!” Annabeth’s voice snapped Luke out of his thoughts. He quickly folded the letter, placing it back in the envelope, before shoving it under his mattress. He isn’t taking any chances, especially with the Stoll brothers, whom reminded Luke of him and Chris just a few years back.

Luke immediately ran out of cabin eleven, meeting Annabeth down at the steps.

“You still aren’t geared up,” Annabeth observed, brow raised. “I can’t afford another loss, Luke,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Got held up inside, you know, the Stolls.” Luke shrugged, hoping she wouldn't see through his lie. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. He did get held up with his younger brothers, well, minus that tiny exclusion under his mattress.

Annabeth sighed. “Just go and get ready. The conch will sound in a few, and I still have to find Y/n and Malcolm.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Luke chuckled, saluting to his not-so-little sister. “We will win; don’t worry.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “You said that last year.”

“Gotta be positive, Annie Bunny,” Luke grinned, nudging the younger girl slightly.

“Stop calling me that,” Annabeth huffed, turning her heel to walk away.

“What? You loved bunnies!” Luke teased as she walked away.

“I was seven!” Annabeth groaned, walking faster, making Luke laugh.

“See you at the creek in four minutes!” Luke called after the daughter of Athena before turning to walk to the armory when someone collided face first into his chest.

“Woah, careful there,” Luke chuckled, catching that someone in his arms. A girl with the same gray eyes as Annabeth, a little more on the silver side, though still as intense.

“Uh, hi?”

“You okay, pretty girl?” Luke asks, smiling at her, his strong arms still wrapped around her waist for support.

“Uh, think so? Yes? I guess?” she rambled, her eyes not meeting his.

Luke chuckles, helping the girl get back on her feet. “Careful next time, alright?”

“Uh, okay, bye!”

Luke laughed as the girl quickly scrambled away, her long hair bouncing behind her. “See you on the battlefield later, Y/n!”

tags: @lilmaymayy @mischiefmoons

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borathae · 2 months ago

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↳ Index [Day 04 - Nipple Sucking]

Pairing: Brat to Good Boy!Jungkook x Mommy Domme!Reader

Genre: established relationship!AU

Kinks: nipple sucking, breast worship, thigh grinding, clothed sex, vaginal fingering, cumming in his pants, subby boy tears, drool, he accidentally bruises her nipple from being too eager, he is a lil brat at the beginning and bites her nipples jfsdjf, masochist!Jungkook, tongue spanking, hair pulling, subspace, cuddling & praises for aftercare

Wordcount: 3.8k

a/n: this is inspired by anonie’s idea this was actually not planned to be included in kinktober at first but i suddenly felt the unbearable urge to write this and so i did <3 have fun besties i’m a whore for him

You and Jungkook have been arguing. It wasn’t a terrible fight, nor a very burdening one, but it was still a fight. You say that Jungkook was in your magic kitchen and messed up the papers on your desk, while he insists that it wasn’t him. You know for a fact however that it was him and that he is being stubborn. You know because you noticed the ink stain on his shirt from accidentally dunking it into your inkpot.

“I don’t understand why you want to keep up this stubborn farce.”

“It’s not a farce, it’s fact. I didn’t mess up your papers.”

“So you were in my magic kitchen?”

“Ye- No? No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Mhm sure and I’m the queen of the moon.”

Jungkook huffs out air, pouting.

“Even if I was, theoretically, it doesn’t mean I was the one who messed up your papers. Maybe they were already messed up when I got there.”

“We’ve been over this, Kookie. How the hell did the ink stain get on your shirt then?”

“It’s from the love letters I was writing to you.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you. Flirting isn’t gonna work right now”, you say, but chuckle.

Jungkook grins boyishly, closing the distance between you and him.

“What’s a few papers anyway, right?” he says, fluttering his lashes at you.

“No, no stay away, you stubborn walnut.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

“Yes, you are. You’re even more stubborn than I am.”

Jungkook gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls.

“You take that back.”

“I’m taking it back once you admit that you were in my kitchen and messed up my papers.”

Jungkook sits down on the sofa and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He pouts, looking to the side like a sulking baby.

The thing is. You weren’t angry, nor really frustrated. In some weird way, you were amused. The fight is silly and so obviously not taken seriously by either party. In a peculiar sense, it almost feels like flirting. You and Jungkook find yourselves in a weird yet exciting dance of “who breaks first?” and you know exactly how to break him.

You begin opening the front lacing on your dress. Jungkook notices from the corner of his eyes, shifting on the sofa as inconspicuously as possible.

You sometimes like to wear pretty dresses from earlier time periods when at the estate. Your dress today consists of an outer layer and a flowy under dress. You let the outer dress fall to the floor, stepping out of it.

Jungkook shifts again, clearing his throat. He turns his head further to the side, acting as if he can’t see you.

Your under dress is made of a very thin cotton fabric, making it so perfectly translucent at the parts of your body which were more sinful than the rest. Yes, we are talking about your nipples and pubes here. Jungkook has a very hard time not looking at you. The collar of your under dress is closed with a ribbon. You open it as you strut to Jungkook.

You straddle his lap. His meaty thighs tense, jaw tightening.

One skilled move and the dress slips down your shoulders, revealing your chest to him.

Jungkook tries to turn his head even more but you stop him, nudging him to face you with two fingers gripping his chin.

His eyes ghost over your breasts but flit up to stare at your face obsessively. Even now he is stubborn enough not to admit that you have him charmed.

“Do I really have to force you to confess, sweet one?” you say, caressing him under his chin. Your eyes race between his.

“I didn’t mess up-”

“Hush now”, you silence him, stuffing your nipple into his mouth.

Jungkook mewls in surprise, eyes widened and hands stretching from his body. One second, two. He whimpers and sucks, eyes falling closed and hands grasping your waist. His thighs tremble as his body makes sense of the almost drug like effect your nipples have on him.��

“There we go”, you get out, playing with his hair, “now you can’t lie anymore. You’re so much sweeter like this.”

Jungkook breaks away, craning his neck.

“I’m not ly-”

“Pssst.”

You force his head down and shove your other nipple into his mouth. Jungkook keens, sucking on it instantly. He drags his hands up your bared back, tickling goosebumps to the surface.

He feels good. Really good. His touch is so gentle while his mouth is so eager. He is still trying to hold back, to pretend as if he wasn’t utterly into this, but his mouth begins to betray him. He sucks but he also licks. Very sloppily and messily. And whenever he licks, he lets out a throaty purr, thighs tensing under your weight.

Jungkook changes sides, sliding his hands to your breasts to hold them. His tongue darts out, circling your nipple quickly while his fingers knead the flesh.

“That’s good. Your mouth is put to so much better use like this. It’s too pretty to be used for lying.”

“Shut up”, Jungkook murmurs and takes your nipple between his teeth to tug.

“Ah, hey”, you gasp, arching your back.

He grins against you. This little shit has the audacity to grin after biting your nipple.

You can’t let him get away with it. You twist a bundle of his hair and tug. Jungkook’s head tilts back, revealing his boyish grin and cloudy eyes. His lips are glossy from spit.

“Did you just bite my nipple, you little brat?”

“And if I did?”

“Then I might need to punish you.”

His grin turns into a smirk, his eyes glimmer. He slides his fingers to your nipples and pinches them both.

“Ah”, you flinch in surprise.

He chuckles, pinching them again.

“Hey, brat”, you gasp, slapping his hands away.

He laughs, looking so pleased with himself.

“That’s it. Tongue out.”

Jungkook obeys, sticking it out as far as possible. He can’t wait to have your nipples on it. Except that you don’t give him what he craves, you give his tongue a spank.

“Ahng”, he lets out, pulling it back instinctively. So you grab him by his chin and pull him closer, spanking his tongue as you do.

His wet muscle trembles and tenses. He mewls and sticks it out some more, accepting the next spank with a tense of his entire body. It was a tense of pleasure, the kind which builds up fire in one’s stomach.

One last spank and then you soothe it by dragging your tongue over it. Jungkook moans, fingers cradling the back of your head and lips closing around your tongue to kiss you. You kiss him back for one second, two seconds. No longer than that. It makes him desperate. Good. You like him desperate.

“Mhm”, you hum and pull him down into your chest by holding his cheeks between your thumb and fingers.

Jungkook returns to heaven in a mewl and his mouth wide open to take you in. He holds your breasts, wasting no time this round. He sucks as much of your softness into his mouth as he can fit, then moves his head back so you would slip out of him again. He sucks the entire time, resulting in pressure around your nipple so wonderful you sigh his name.

Jungkook purrs, repeating what he did on your other side. His name falls from your lips a second time, your hips grind back and forth on his thigh.

You had a fight once, didn’t you? Jungkook can barely remember. Neither can you. The charged tension which is still present keeps reminding you however. You want each other like crazy yet are too proud to give in already. That’s good though, means that Jungkook can suck on your breasts until you are sensitive.

“So good. So much better than when you’re bratty.”

Jungkook loves being punished though. He has a thing for it. He bites your other nipple and tugs.

You squeal and writhe, instantly pulling him away by his hair.

Jungkook looks up at you, grinning goofily.

“You did that to yourself, Mommy.”

“Do I have to punish you again?”

Jungkook sticks out his tongue and nods his head. Look at him waiting so eagerly. He wants to be punished and you want to punish him, but where is the fun in a punishment that is wanted?

No, you are going to ruin him another way. You lift your butt from his thigh to make up for the difference in height between his lips and your chest. Once in position, you slap your tits on his tongue, watching in delight how his eyes roll back and his mouth goes slack. You lift yourself and slap his tongue again then change sides to repeat it with punishing strength.

Jungkook moans, tongue shaking under your nipple. He curls the tip each time you are in contact with him, trying to get a feel of you that way. It is so good because he is shaking so much when does.

You lift yourself and slam down, pressing yourself closer afterwards to grind your nipple over his tongue.

He gurgles out a sound of need, fingers dimpling your hips as he grips you desperately.

You’ve got him. You wrap your arm around his head and push, smothering him with your breasts. Jungkook moans, sinking his face into them gladly and when you keep him there? He swears he actually spills into his pants. He moves his head from side to side as his eager mouth begins trying to be everywhere at the same time. His tongue is just as restless, wetting your entire chest as he swirls it over you aimlessly. He just loves to be like this. It is so obvious that he is currently worshiping your tits with no goal in mind. All that he lives and breathes for, are your breasts. And that he can use his mouth on them.

“So good, such a good wet mouth you have. So good” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. You rock back and forth, coming to realise that there is something missing. You instantly make up for it by dropping down on his thigh again, pulling his head with you to make sure he wouldn’t leave your chest.

Jungkook lets you move him gladly, mewling into you as he mouths at your tender flesh eagerly. He is so dizzy. You smell so good and feel even better.

You rock your hips, moaning in bliss now that there is finally something that brings you pleasure. Now granted, Jungkook’s mouth already feels like heaven, but you want even more. His warm, wet mouth and his strong thigh in contrast. It is so good.

He is wearing a pair of white cotton pants today, they are oversized and comfortable and they feel so good against your warmth. Just a little rough, but still soft enough, also perfectly thin to let his body heat through. How goddamn addicting.

“Fuck this is so good now that you’re quiet. So good”, you moan, fingers feeling up his scalp and neck while Jungkook mewls into you, licking you eagerly.

He doesn’t even want to be really bratty anymore. Okay, maybe he tries it a little by grazing his teeth against your nipple but one corrective tug on his hair and he already gives up on it, burying his face in your softness with a defeated keen. His tongue soothes what he wanted to bite, his drool runs down your breasts but instantly gets slurped up by him.

“So good, fuck…” you moan breathily, hips dancing on him eagerly.

You didn’t truly think about the concept of grinding for pleasure before you met your lovers. How could something like that be fun? You were wrong. You were very wrong. You could honestly jump them all day every day. It is so addicting to find pleasure this way, to use their bodies until you find your highest peak.

Today is such a day. You can’t get enough of the friction and the pressure and how little movements are enough to build pleasurable tension in your stomach.

Jungkook is gone as well, high on a different kind of drug. He loves quarrelling with you when it is so obvious that it wasn’t serious. He loves it because he can be bratty and tease you and therefore get punished. He also loves the tension and how you look at him when you pretend to be annoyed. He loves it, but he can’t win against your breasts. He feels submissive and stupid and good. So good. As if he never ever wants to be bad again.

He whimpers, glossy lips sucking on your right nipple helplessly while his fingers grasp your hips. He sucks with such eagerness that hot electricity shoot through you.

“Is that nice?”

He nods his head, changing sides because he doesn't want to neglect even an inch from your perfect chest.

“Nice enough to confess your sins?”

Jungkook makes a sound.

You twist his hair and pull, denying him of the only heaven he craves right now.

“No please”, he gets out, looking up at you teary eyed and pouty lips parted. His cheeks are flushed, his dark hair messy. “Please.”

“How much do you want it?”

“So much, please.”

“Then confess.”

He mewls, shaking his head. You stop it with a thug of his hair. You lift your hips, guiding your nipples to his lips. He moans and opens his mouth, drooling in anticipation. He is panting quicker the closer you come.

Stop.

Jungkook tries to make up for the last inch of distance but you hold him in place by his hair.

“No please”, he squeaks out, spilling tears. He looks agonised and tortured, fighting your grip helplessly.

You cradle your right breast in your hand and move it around, showing him what he can’t do right now.

He pulls an expression of pain, letting out a sound which borders a sob.

“Confess and I’ll make all of this go away. The pain, the withdrawal, you can be freed of it.”

“Mommy please.”

“I know sweet one, I know”, you coo, caressing his cheek, “Mommy can help you, but you have to be honest with me.”

Jungkook sobs softly, squeezing his eyes shut. You broke him.

“I lied. I ruined your papers. I, I tried to look for a pen and, and accidentally knocked over the inkpot with my sleeve. I’m sorry.”

“See? Doesn’t the truth feel so much better?”

“Please”, he cups your tender breasts, eyes widening in pleading, “please I did what you asked of me.”

“You did. Go ahead then”, you allow him, letting go of his hair.

Jungkook takes the freedom instantly, burying his face back in your breasts with a loud moan. He squeezes them together in his hands, sucking and nibbling on you hungrily.

“Fuck, that’s so good”, you sigh, rolling your hips against his thigh. You bury your hands in his hair and drop your head against his own head, closing your eyes. “You feel so good, sweetie. Keep going.”

Jungkook agrees with a mewl, slipping his hands under your dress so he could hold your bared hips. No more fabric, he needs the sensation of your warm, soft skin. No panties. Sometimes in long dresses you go pantieless. Jungkook traces the naked paths where normally a piece of cotton would sit with tingling fingers. So soft. All of you.

“Why are you so soft, Mommy?” he mewls into you, lips trembling as they suck on your left nipple.

“You’re so sweet”, you sigh, smiling blissfully. You scratch his scalp slowly, melting in his touch. “Ah fuck”, you breathe, hips desperately trying to search for more friction. You are dripping on him, soaking his pants. It feels good, but starts to feel like not enough. You feel so empty, so goddamn empty.

He notices that you are using his thigh to pleasure yourself. His pants leg became very wet all of a sudden and your sweet scent tickles his nose. He wants to come up for air and ask if you feel good, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to miss even one second of your chest. But he has to. You are restless as if you are searching for more.

“Is it enough?” he asks, mouth barely gone from your chest.

“I don’t know, I ahm.”

“Lift your hips, Mommy.”

You follow his wish. Jungkook wiggles his arm under you so he can rest his hand on his thigh. He turns his palm up and sticks two of his fingers up.

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck, baby, holy fuck”, you babble, claiming what he offers instantly. You sink down on his fingers, pulling him into your chest at the same time.

You yelp in pleasure, Jungkook matches your enthusiasm, moaning into your chest as he takes your nipple back inside. Your walls are throbbing and trembling around his digits, taking him in eagerly.

“Holy fuck, Jungkook”, you croak, arching your back and twisting his hair.

This is finally scratching that itch. You are so stuffed, so goddamn full of him and it’s heaven. You chase the explosions of pleasure with eager rocks of your hips, filling the silence with moans and gasps. Like this, your clit is grinding on his lower arm while your spots inside are grinding on his fingers. They are so long, so perfectly girthy and groomed.

“Jungkook baby. Baby, this is so good, holy fuck”, you moan, dropping your face into his soft hair.

“Mommy”, the word is muffled and barely audible, his mouth is sloppy and restless on your chest. Even more than before. It is as if he was experiencing more pleasure as well, as if this is scratching his itch as well.

Truth is, it feels like that for him. You are so wet and so warm around his digits and so goddamn fucking soft. Jungkook goes insane because of it, lost enough in you that his own mind is betraying him and he swears that he can feel you on his cock. It’s impossible because he is crammed into his pants, but it feels like it. Wet, soft, warm.

“Mommy, soft. Mommy”, he whimpers, curling his fingers desperately.

“Urgh fuck”, you get out and drop into him, forcing his back to fall against the sofa cushions and for your nipple to leave his lips. “Sorry.”

“Is okay”, he mumbles, free hand rubbing your back and eager mouth sucking on your breasts in the new position.

“Curl them again.”

Jungkook obeys, moaning with you when this makes you shake and keen. Your hips move on him sloppily, your pussy keeps tightening around him.

“Fuck baby”, you rasp, grabbing the pillow edge and twisting it.

Jungkook spills tears, thighs shaking under you and cock throbbing in his pants. Your heart is racing like crazy. He can hear it, feel it too. He tries to get to it with eager sucks and wiggles of his head. It not only forces his lips and tongue to grind against your nipple but his nose as well. You are so sensitive at this point, you genuinely can’t feel any difference between stimulation on your clit and your nipples.

“Holy fuck, holy fuck, urgh fuck”, you chant, convulsing and shaking on him. You are close. Dangerously close.

Jungkook knows that you are feeling so ruined by it that he can barely move his mouth. He is ruined, running on nothing but you and everything that happens to your body when you are experiencing pleasure. Your raised pulse, your choppy breathing, your higher body heat and the array of sweet scents. He also swears that your skin becomes even softer than usually, contradicting the spots where the electricity is bundled. Your nipples hard and swollen, your clit enlarged and throbbing, your folds heated and engorged. So soft yet so plump in pleasure. Jungkook swears this is heaven and he promises silently to never ever be bratty again (he will be bratty again).

He curls his fingers and knows that this was it.

“Jungkook, baby”, you get out, tensing up as your pussy begins throbbing and clenching. Your voice pitches, coming out as squeaks and mewls. Your fingers twist his hair and hold him oh so close. This is so intense that you can’t see as it happens. Every single spot of concentrated pleasure was set off, forcing your entire body to be engulfed in flames.

Jungkook’s eyes roll back even closed. He sobs, truly sobs, losing against the warmth. He orgasms in his pants. No touch, no grind, no lick just your breasts and your pussy on his fingers was enough. He accidentally bruises your nipple from sucking too aggressively, free hand leaving a bruise on your waist as well. You don’t mind, riding the waves with him until you both come down together.

“Oh god, baby”, you get out, slipping off his fingers. You nudge them down into a relaxed position, sitting on his hand. You grind as slowly as possible, wanting to enjoy the warmth and pressure just a little longer.

Jungkook calms down in twitches of his body and little whimpers into your chest as he mouths at your breasts tiredly. He is so ruined, head dizzy and vision blurry, and your chest comforts him beyond comparison.

“How…” You clear your raspy throat. “...how are you?”

“Good”, he squeaks and shakes, sobbing softly as he hugs you closer, “feeling submissive.”

“Mhm”, you scratch his scalp soothingly, holding him safely, “good boy. You were such a good boy. Let it happen, you’re safe with me.”

“Mommy.”

“My good boy. You made me feel so good.”

He agrees with a nod of his head, hips twitching up. It calls your attention. You need to check something.

“Can Mommy touch you for a moment?”

He nods his head.

You cup his clothed and softened cock, squeezing it a little. Jungkook whimpers, hiding deeper in your chest to handle the overstimulation.

“Just as I had thought. You came in your pants. It’s soaking the fabric.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, sweetie. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“So much.”

“Then that’s all that counts.” You give his soft dick one last caress then use the hand to ruffle his hair. “My good boy.”

Jungkook tugs his hand free and wraps both arms around you in a tight hug. He whimpers, dimpling your skin as he practically tries to melt you with him.

“I’m sorry for ruining your papers. I want to fix it, please.”

“Mhm, we’ll find a solution together. But for now, hush, okay?”

“Okay, oh god. Can we hold each other? Please, Mommy.”

“Of course, my baby.” You melt into him, resting your cheek on the crown of his head. “Let’s relax like this.”

“I love you so much ”

“I love you too, my baby. So much.“

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moineauz · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅

synopsis: how he experiences the five stages of grief

including: veritas, jing yuan, sunday

side comments: live laugh love angst… anyways, these are all my own renditions of how i think they’ll experience grief. just keep in mind these ‘stages’ are not the same for everyone and can move in order etr. I was going to do blade and boothill but i think I'll do a separate post for that.

extra: gn except for jing yuan, mentions of marriage in jing yuan's, angst, a bit of substance use if you blink, established relationship, can you tell it's my first time writing sunday? favourites: jing yuan word count: 2000+

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Dr. Ratio is a man who took pride in being factual. His entire life was in the efforts of purging the world of ignorance; replacing it with truth. Yet, the hospital's fluorescent lights seemed to push his shoulders down- false. The flurry of movement merged and buzzed until Veritas could feel his ear drum shatter, false. Veritas's throat burned in silence- false. When your pale figure came into view: dressed in that hospital gown you despised, the heartbeat monitor's line flat- Veritas only thought was false.

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Veritas knew anger was the next stage. He was a doctor after all. The doctor who should have brushed his hands over your pale forehead. The doctor who should have heard your final words escape the lips he once traced. The doctor who should have raced to the defibrillator. The doctor who should have counselled and administered your medicine hand by hand, line by line. The doctor who shouldn't have trusted you're tender words and dotting smile. The doctor who should have held you're hand in public when you still could walk. The doctor who should have loved his spouse more.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

Margaret was no longer Dr. Ratio's assistant. Nevertheless, she found herself knocking at his office door, a loaf of homemade bread in tow and a small card bearing her sincerest empathy. Margaret recalled how Dr. Ratio's stoic expression twitched and busted into a radiant smile when you teased him. Similarly, Margaret recalled the coolness of your hands and the frequent coughs muffled in the dark corners of his office where you thought no soul could hear you.

"Dr. Ratio?" calls Margaret; knocking on the office door. "I baked some bread for you, is it possible for you to open the door?"

Margaret waits, however, there is no response. She sighs, gingerly placing the basket on the floor. "( Name ) would not want this of you, Dr. Ratio. Please-" she pauses, searching for the 'right' words, "Please take care of yourself."

Several hours pass, Margaret long gone. Dr. Ratio gradually opens the door, the bread gone cold. He sets the basket on a stack of books as the letter flutters to the ground unnoticed. Veritas resumes his ceaseless work.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

The world seems strangely slow yet incredibly fast. Tangible yet fickle. Veritas blinks; staring at the paper he has been writing for several months, the silence of his office serene. Veritas blinks again, however, his handwriting is a foreign entity in his mind like: a map of unnamed stars. The kind he fails to understand. What was he writing about? Veritas glances into the disorder of his office: papers strewn across the floor littered with empty mugs. What did drink again?

Veritas' eyes return back to his paper. However, the lines seem to blur and the black ink stains his hands. Something wet plummets onto the paper: droplets of salty rain.

For the first time in a year, Veritas wept and shuddered: his broad shoulders quivering.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

For the first time in years, the night is quiet. Nothing stirs him within the boundless expanse of his dreams. Your side of the bed- the one in which the indent of your body still impresses, fossilized until the end of eternity- remains empty. Yet, when the Doctor’s eyes flutter open- pieces of moonlight streaming into the bedroom- a tender smile, under the fragments of yet another year, gaze at your pillow. The place where your head- the one which bore your mind, the mind he praised and eventually sought after in deep ardency- would have been.

Veritas stretches his hand out and sighs, allowing the receding tide of moonlight to consume him.

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Each century blossoms and unfolds like a leaf; curling in on itself, one after another. Jing Yuan- the longest serving general, an immutable stream amongst jagged cliffs and tedious droughts- has navigated each trial and satisfaction with a placid smile and deep-set composure. Steadfast as the strike of thunder. Thus, as your body came to him- wrapped up in silk and satin, dressed for a place he could not reach- he did not waver, did not crumble, did not teeter on the tenacious line of undoing or succumb to an onslaught of hot, burning tears. No, he stood firm, feet planted into the ground, a series of complex roots. A system built from the movement of each dynasty; sailing into infinity.

None of those perdurable systems tumbled down at your cold, pale feet in either great armies of dust or strings of sorrowful defeat. In truth, the arbiter general was struck by another breed of anguish. A demand within himself that drowned in waters of tranquillity.

Why would his eyes not let him weep?

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Rumours are feisty beings, strangely tenacious until extinguished, lighting a spark under every tongue.

"Did you hear? The General's spouse-"

"If the Arbiter General can not ensure the safety of his own spouse, then perhaps it is time he retires-"

"Oh such sad news! I suppose even those with such strength are not privy to tragedy."

"I heard the order was under his command-"

Jing Yuan claws at the various papers strewn across his desk, his fingers twitching, chest heaving, the cord of his spine rattling-

He then breathes and settles into his chair, the whispers still reverberating in his head. The murmurs of others, though, most of his own.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

The infamous name- the Dozing General- could no longer be applied to Jing Yuan it seemed. Even Fu Xuan- in all of her astute and assiduous nature- observed how he toiled senselessly at the Seat of Divine Foresight; attempting to foresee fate and cut its wings before it could fly.

Nevertheless, the cadence of his voice reverberated the same. The winsome smile and regal prudence still lingered when addressing each official.

Yet, underneath- noted Fu Xuan- was a layer of unspoken words and evenings spent with wine and paperwork. While the twinkle, nestled within the golden brilliance of his eyes, dimmed ever so slightly. And perhaps, if seen under the silent beam of moonlight and incense, that same twinkle, vanished.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

A general has no time to weep.

"Are you the General Jing Yuan?"

Jing Yuan gazes down near his feet. There, a child- perhaps no older than seven- stands. Her eyes were large marbles of vast azure: wide, open, hungrily consuming the world around her.

A finite smile reaches his lips. "Yes, I am-" he crouches down to her height- "and you?"

The child giggles, a loud grin stretching across her face. "Do you know where Ms. (Name) is?"

Jing Yuan stops and his throat grows tight. His smile remains. "No, why do you ask?"

"She is going to teach me more about flowers!" bursts the child, stretching her arms out, revealing a small bouquet of chrysanthemums.

"Ms. (Name) said chrysanthemums mean happiness!" she chirps, "These ones are for you. Ms. (Name) often says giving flowers makes people feel good."

'She mixed them up,' muses Jing Yuan, his eyes depressing slightly, 'They are related to sadness.'

"Well... why thank you."

Jing Yuan observes the child run off, a gentle wind brushing against his hair. The bouquet of chrysanthemums clenched firmly in his fist

It is then, does Jing Yuan weeps.

The General is not seen at the Seat of Divine Foresight the following day.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

All existence reaches finality.

And yet, as Jing Yuan stood amongst rocking flowers and a grave of fireflies- their light illuminating the vast expanse of the valley- he heaves a languid, heavy sigh. Thus, muttering a string of inaudible sentences, whisking them away on a foreign planet only known by your flesh and tender bruised heart. Only known by the curve of your smile: as delicate as a moonbeam. And the air of your laughter: rich and gritty. Filled with sanguine songs and velvet kisses pressing and unfurling like the wings of a sparrow.

You took a flight to a distant star while Jing Yuan marked your coming and going. Wrote it on his calendar and etched it onto the tablet of his heart. For he was the dust behind your trailblaze, the chain of your necklace, the wind to your flight, the pause between your sentences. A visitor to your unfettered brilliance: a museum he spent hours enthralled with.

He'll meet you anew, as all existence reaches finality.

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

Sunday does not experience denial.

He spares no time for denial, for moments in which the world spins on its axis, when there is a loss for words, or a deep enlarging numbness yet to be felt. Not a minute is untouched, not a stride wasted. Sunday will peel Penacony apart like the skin of an orange- the kind you delighted yourself in until he silenced the voices and brought justice down at your frigid feet. A mission, a goal, a veil, an excuse to not falter nor sway.

Maybe then- when the curtains close- will he succumb to the gelid embrace of denial.

STAGE TWO: ANGER

Sunday does not experience anger.

Anger- notes Sunday- is a vile entity: flashes of red and spurs of desire and whim. It is neither planned, calculated, or bound by probity and accord nor coiled around the neck: firm and unyielding.

Anger gives birth to chaos, destruction; painting the sky with the distinct strikes of mortal failure.

And yet, the white satin of Sunday’s gloves itch and kindle; rubbing against his skin, akin to burning flesh. He stands alone in the solitude of his office, the door fastened shut, he quivers, shakes, the chair tumbles to the floor, it cracks, shatters, breaks.

It is not Sunday- not the polished reputable image- for this Sunday could crush the Penacony he born from his bare hands, snap its spine in half, and observe it crash and burn: a raging lighthouse to the darkened universe. He’ll paint himself the image of destruction: a portrait bearing his features.

However, Sunday- the visage of a man known by the throng- will never bind himself to such acts.

Perhaps in a dream- within his innermost subconscious- he will.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

Sunday does not bargain.

Sunday is faithful. Streamlined with virtue and prose, his head held a touch higher than the rest; allowing him to dwell beyond the scope of a singular moment. For he peers into the valley of an endless dream.

Yet, does the Order taunt him? Does the Harmony know of his sweet dream? Perhaps it is punishment, a game, a test, a question.

Was that dream- born from a chance encounter, raised by long languid nights, cherished between the crevices of his chest- never destined to be his? Could not a sliver of joy- he pleaded- be made for him?

A selfish pursuit, he noted, even to the Aeons.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

Sunday does not experience depression.

However, Robin deduces otherwise.

The Sunday she knows will not linger around a room- your office to be exact- and trace the bumps and texture of the wall until it becomes embedded into the flesh.

The Sunday she knows will not gaze blankly at portraits, chairs, paperwork, people, the bottom of his glass cup where a hue of auburn glimmers before him. His feathers sulking in the bar's limelight.

The Sunday she knows will not be the image she knew last: not when you swept across Penacony's chess board, shoved pieces aside and allowed the lingering fragrance of freedom to overtake every knight and king. Not when you drew the corners of her brother's lips up into a kaleidoscopic smile; she viewed Sunday in colours she thought he could never be equipped to express. You were enigmatic, riddled with an unbound spirit, the kind which took you farther than any halo or set of wings. Therefore, bewildering Sunday in ribbons of muted laughter and fluttering wings.

It is no wonder she observed her brother- basking in soulglad- whispering your name, muttered in the solemn cadence of prayer.

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

Sunday hopes, that he'll reach acceptance.

Nestled within the ladder of his chest, he still longs for the curves of your body and the shadow of your figure to emerge behind that doorway. For your voice to reverberate across the halls; a string of melodies and bygone memory. That, perhaps, you'll wrap the supple length of your arms across his chest and tilt your head in the manner it had been replayed in his head. While whispering those same terms: your warmth translates from every syllable and sentence.

When the dream has receded, he'll emerge anew. Strike his foot down onto the blanket of the universe, a city of stars and wait patiently, working meticulously, to capture your glowing visage in the golden hue of his iris.

masterlist.

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scealaiscoite · 2 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ one hundred paired prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ a pot of fresh coffee and split knuckles

²⁾ orange peels and a car battery

³⁾ sand dunes and leather boots

⁴⁾ a printer and a knife

⁵⁾ incense and handcuffs

⁶⁾ a crushed velvet sofa and a video camera

⁷⁾ stale cigarettes and cotton candy

⁸⁾ loose change and headlights

⁹⁾ grey hairs and a gold belt buckle

¹⁰⁾ burnt coffee and grass stains

¹¹⁾ cherry cola and blue jeans

¹²⁾ chipped green nail polish and an empty dinner table

¹³⁾ a stack of paperwork and metal music

¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea

¹⁵⁾ a hockey sweater and a two-seater sofa

¹⁶⁾ perfume oil and rolled up shirtsleeves

¹⁷⁾ fallen leaves and guilt

¹⁸⁾ radio channels and a birthday card

¹⁹⁾ ravens and meadowsweet

²⁰⁾ apologies and bitter red wine

²¹⁾ library books and pouring rain

²²⁾ a breathalyser and popcorn

²³⁾ princess plasters and iodine

²⁴⁾ a tote bag with one broken strap and a winding staircase

²⁵⁾ a parasol and a tumbler of straight whiskey

²⁶⁾ fresh honey and a cult

²⁷⁾ wisdom teeth and blue eyes

²⁸⁾ sour cherries and a stolen hoodie

²⁹⁾ the flu and a heatwave

³⁰⁾ a boonie hat and a sunset

³¹⁾ vanilla perfume and a kitchen counter

³²⁾ a buffalo skull and a leather armchair

³³⁾ a throw pillow and a doorway

³⁴⁾ pink fluffy handcuffs and an unexpected guest

³⁶⁾ a package and a divorce

³⁷⁾ a stripper pole and a hangover

³⁸⁾ familiar cologne and a black eye

³⁹⁾ a lit candle and a snowstorm

⁴⁰⁾ an unsealed letter and a fallen pine tree

⁴¹⁾ headlights and footprints

⁴²⁾ a blocked number and traffic lights

⁴³⁾ a racesuit and a countdown

⁴⁴⁾ a butcher’s apron and a phonecall

⁴⁵⁾ battered comic books and a broken window

⁴⁶⁾ cold floorboards and a roommate

⁴⁷⁾ smooth vermouth and gold rings

⁴⁸⁾ a lip piercing and a rough hand

⁴⁹⁾ someone’s spare room and an eclipse

⁵⁰⁾ a game of mahjong and bad jazz music

⁵¹⁾ a jigsaw puzzle and a mortuary

⁵²⁾ a broke-up sidewalk and a knitted scarf

⁵³⁾ a poundshop wig and broken glass

⁵⁴⁾ a bunk bed and a crush

⁵⁵⁾ a red ink tattoo and a dinner gone cold

⁵⁶⁾ a warm palm and a flannel shirt

⁵⁷⁾ fresh basil and a half-empty bottle of arrack

⁵⁸⁾ a nightclub bathroom and smeared eyeliner

⁵⁹⁾ a busted lip and strawberry icecream

⁶⁰⁾ a floral-patterned dress and a looming balcony

⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar

⁶²⁾ a white mercedes and cheap perfume

⁶³⁾ a fwb and a housekey

⁶⁴⁾ a blue sarong and a fingertip tracing over a scar

⁶⁵⁾ a sauna room and a terse exchange

⁶⁶⁾ fried plantains and a briefcase

⁶⁷⁾ dried lavender and a tiled bathtub

⁶⁸⁾ a hotel room and a bouquet of lilies

⁶⁹⁾ sweet mango lassi and a suitcase

⁷⁰⁾ orange streetlights and a nightmare

⁷¹⁾ a crucifix and a thigh tattoo

⁷²⁾ a palm tattoo and the thrum of a heartbeat

⁷³⁾ a champagne room and a police siren

⁷⁴⁾ blue nitrile gloves and a hickey

⁷⁵⁾ a double-wide trailer and shotgun shells

⁷⁶⁾ stitches and pyjama shorts

⁷⁷⁾ karaoke and a snowdrift

⁷⁸⁾ an older man and a twin bed

⁷⁹⁾ chinese takeout and a graveyard

⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens

⁸¹⁾ carbolic soap and a creaking staircase

⁸²⁾ an undercover assignment and wrung hands

⁸³⁾ the back seat of a limousine and bustling night streets

⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards

⁸⁵⁾ a grand prix and a breakup

⁸⁶⁾ a third place trophy and a picture frame

⁸⁷⁾ the last slice of birthday cake and crossed legs

⁸⁸⁾ squashed raspberries and heated cheeks

⁸⁹⁾ pink lipgloss and brass knuckles

⁹⁰⁾ a ghost mask and a late visit

⁹¹⁾ loose bullets and slashed tires

⁹²⁾ a tactical belt and patterned bedsheets

⁹³⁾ a goaltender’s stick and a lonely walk home

⁹⁴⁾ a dog bed and a migraine

⁹⁵⁾ lit billboards and a floor-length gown

⁹⁶⁾ a divebar negroni and a game of pool

⁹⁷⁾ olive trees at harvest time and divorce papers

⁹⁸⁾ a caviar bump and vanilla coke

⁹⁹⁾ a whale tail and pantsuit

¹⁰⁰⁾ legs thrown into a lap and calloused hands

#enjoy my prettiessss #another instalment of trio prompts on the way!!#prompts #paired prompts #aesthetic prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #drabble prompts #drabble meme #writing inspiration #writing inspo

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creationsabyss · 8 months ago

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I was going to post more stuff more often but the, in my opinion, unnecessary drama over Aventurine is making me reconsider things. I made a lot of pieces after I finished the 2.1 quest but I worry about posting them.

I'm sure no one really cares since I usually post once in a blue moon anyway but I still find the drama concerning. Perhaps that just me though.

#ink stained letters #And also pretty ridiculous #Like I'm almost certain this didn't need to happen #Not like this #Not only is it ineffective #It actively harms people #On both sides of the argument #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #If literal death threats were sent to someone who wrote a fluffy ish piece #I would rather not see what they would send to someone who writes angst #By ineffective I mean #People will still write it anyway #And probably with a lot more darker themes than just having a better route

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novaursa · 10 days ago

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Fire Cannot Heal

- Summary: A raven arrives from Dragonstone carrying news dark as its wings.

- Paring: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: A lot of angst and death of the reader who Daemon married along with her older sister Rhaenyra in Valyrian tradition.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in Harrenhal was damp and heavy, a faint chill creeping through even the thickest of cloaks. Simon Strong sat across from him, droning on about the movements of the Hightower forces and their plans to hold the Riverlands.

Daemon Targaryen wasn’t listening.

His thoughts wandered to Dragonstone, to the turbulent seas and dark skies above its cliffs. He imagined the roaring fires of the hearths and the laughter of his sons echoing through the halls. Then, unbidden, his mind conjured the image of you, softer and gentler than either himself or Rhaenyra, seated by the window in your chamber with a hand resting on your belly, your lips curving into a smile as you spoke of your hopes for the child you carried.

Daemon’s hand tightened around his cup as he exhaled slowly, almost in frustration. The child. He had never expected such joy to stem from your union, a marriage of necessity, one he had likened to Aegon and Visenya’s—a duty, a convenience. You knew it, too, and he had seen the knowledge in your eyes even on your wedding day. Yet now…now, with the prospect of this child, there had been something new between you. Something he had not known how to name but had begun to crave.

The door creaked open, snapping Daemon from his thoughts. A messenger, pale and out of breath, stumbled into the hall, clutching a parchment sealed with the black wax of Dragonstone. The urgency in his movements immediately silenced Simon’s voice.

“My prince,” the messenger began, his voice trembling, “I bring word from Dragonstone. A raven arrived.”

Daemon stood without hesitation, his boots heavy against the stone floor as he crossed the room in a few long strides. The parchment was thrust into his hands, and he broke the seal with a swift, impatient motion.

The words swam before his eyes, black ink staining the rough parchment like spilled blood:

Silverwing…Rook’s Rest…Vhagar…Aemond…fallen…

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He read the message again, slower this time, as if the meaning would change if only he looked hard enough. But the words remained the same.

You were gone.

He stumbled back a step, his hand clutching the edge of the table for support. The messenger’s voice was faint in the background, explaining what the letter did not say outright. “The queen sent her…to bolster Lord Staunton’s defense. Silverwing…they say she was torn from the sky by Vhagar…”

Simon Strong rose, concern evident in his eyes. “My prince? What has happened?”

Daemon didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the parchment, his fingers curling tightly around its edges until the paper crumpled. His mind refused to accept the words.

You, with your soft smiles and timid nature. You, who had hesitated even to ride Silverwing into a storm. You, carrying his child—their child—had been sent to battle.

He shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “Why?” The word slipped from his lips, quiet and raw. “Why would Rhaenyra send her?”

“She thought it wise to send your wife…” the messenger began hesitantly, but Daemon’s head snapped up, and the venom in his eyes silenced the man instantly.

“She thought it wise?” Daemon’s voice rose, sharp as Valyrian steel. “She thought it wise to send a woman heavy with child, one whose dragon has never known the savagery of war, against Vhagar and that wretched boy?”

The parchment fell from his hands as he turned away, pacing like a caged animal. His thoughts warred within him. The anger, the grief, the disbelief—they threatened to tear him apart. You were gone. The child, your child, was gone.

His hands clenched into fists. “Rhaenyra…she knew.” His voice was low now, dangerously calm. “She knew Y/N was gentle, too gentle for this. She knew Silverwing was no match for Vhagar. And yet…” He trailed off, his voice breaking for the first time.

Simon stepped closer, his tone cautious. “My prince, perhaps there is more to this. The queen may have had no choice—”

“No choice?” Daemon turned on him, his violet eyes blazing. “No choice but to send her own sister, my wife, the mother of my child to her death? No, Simon, there is always a choice.”

His mind reeled with the implications. The child would have been the first tangible bond of their marriage, something more than the duty and expectation that had defined it. And now…now, there was nothing.

Daemon’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the realization. His anger burned hot and bright, but beneath it was a grief so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “She smiled when I left,” he murmured, his words barely audible. “She smiled and said she would wait for me. She said our child would wait for me.”

Simon remained silent, understanding that no words could soothe this wound.

Daemon’s mind drifted back to you once more—to the way your hand had rested protectively over your belly, the soft laughter that had escaped you when you spoke of names for the child. He had never told you, but he had begun to hope.

Now, that hope was gone, and all that remained was a searing, empty ache.

“Bring Caraxes,” Daemon said at last, his voice cold and resolute. He rose to his feet, his grief now tempered by a cold determination. “I'm leaving.”

The winds howled over the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying with them the salt-laden air of the Narrow Sea. Caraxes’ roar echoed against the walls as Daemon dismounted in the courtyard, his boots slamming into the stone with purpose. The red worm curled protectively behind him, his growls a low, rumbling threat to anyone who dared approach. Daemon ignored the Dragonkeepers and the soldiers that hurried to greet him, his violet eyes fixed on the entrance to the castle.

He stormed inside without a word. The castle’s halls, usually filled with warmth and firelight, seemed cold and dim to him now. Every flicker of torchlight reminded him of the flames that had consumed Silverwing, and every shadow seemed to mock him with the absence of you.

His footsteps thundered through the throne room, where he knew she would be. Rhaenyra was seated on the great black chair, her crown glinting in the faint light. Advisors and courtiers lingered nearby, their whispers dying as Daemon entered, his face a storm of rage and grief.

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Rhaenyra raised her hand, dismissing her attendants without question. Her gaze was steady as she watched him approach, though there was tension in the set of her jaw. She knew why he had come.

When the room emptied, Daemon halted at the foot of the throne, his eyes burning into hers. “Why?” he asked, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained fury. “Why did you send her to Rook’s Rest?”

Rhaenyra straightened, her tone defensive. “Daemon, you know why. We needed—”

“You needed?” Daemon interrupted, his voice rising. “You needed to send a woman heavy with child, one who has never known the horrors of war, against Vhagar? You needed to send my wife, your sister, and her gentle dragon to their deaths?”

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened. “She had a dragon, Daemon. A dragon as powerful as any—”

“No,” Daemon snapped, slamming his fist against the armrest of the throne. “Silverwing was no war dragon. She was gentle, like her rider. And you knew that.”

“She volunteered!” Rhaenyra argued, her voice rising to match his. “She wanted to serve our cause. She knew what was at stake.”

“She was my wife,” Daemon growled, stepping closer, “and you sent her to die.”

Rhaenyra flinched at his words, but her chin lifted defiantly. “We are at war, Daemon. Sacrifices must be made. She knew that as well as any of us.”

Daemon’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Sacrifices? Is that what you call her? A sacrifice?” His voice broke, but he pressed on. “Do you know what I found at Rook’s Rest, Rhaenyra? Do you?”

She said nothing, her gaze faltering for the first time.

“They took her dragon’s head,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less furious. “And her body? There was no sign of her body.” He paused, the words choking him. “Who knows what they did to her? What horrors she suffered before she…”

He trailed off, unable to finish.

Rhaenyra’s face paled, but she quickly masked it with resolve. “Daemon, we still have our sons. You have Viserys and Aegon—”

“It is not the same,” Daemon hissed, his voice laced with venom.

“Daemon—”

“It is not the same!” He roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “Our sons are alive, but she is gone. She was carrying our child, Rhaenyra. Our child! The first thing that was truly ours in this farce of a marriage. And now, there is nothing.”

Rhaenyra rose from the seat, her own anger boiling to the surface. “Do you think this is easy for me? She was my sister! Do you think I wanted this?”

Daemon’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. “You made a choice, Rhaenyra. You may not have wanted this, but you allowed it. You sent her to her death because you thought it was what the realm needed. And now she is gone, and I am left to wonder what I could have done to stop you.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of their shared grief and guilt pressing down on them both.

“You may wear the crown,” Daemon said bitterly, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “But you do not understand what you have lost. She was more than your sister. She was my wife, the mother of my child. And you took that from me.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged, the strength she had tried to project crumbling under his words. “Daemon…”

He shook his head, stepping back. “No. I will not stay here and play the loyal prince when you cannot see the cost of your decisions.”

Without another word, Daemon turned and strode from the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dragon. Rhaenyra called after him, her voice breaking, but he did not stop.

The wind was howling again as he stepped out into the courtyard, where Caraxes waited. The red dragon lowered his head, sensing his rider’s turmoil.

“Come,” Daemon said softly, climbing into the saddle. “Let us leave this cursed place.”

As they took to the skies, Daemon’s thoughts were consumed by one image: your smile, soft and hopeful, as you had spoken of the child you would never hold. He vowed that Aemond, Vhagar, and every Hightower who had played a part in your death would burn for what they had done.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #fire and blood #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #hotd daemon #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #daemon targaryen

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averagewriter-inthedark · 3 months ago

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The Muse 🖌️| Ameond Tagaryen Headcanon

GOT/HOTD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen marrying a noble who sketches/paints would look like:

To no surprise, your union to Aemond was a political alliance between your houses. Therefore you put on a brave face, accepted your duty, and courted the Prince for a short time before the wedding. In that time you learned a few things about Aemond, as he was rather reserved in the beginning, and you were the same. Civilized conversations, setting boundaries and expectations of the marriage, and promising not to cross the others line.

Having fell in love with art at a young age, you were always sketching in your notebook when alone--as your father discouraged your hobbies and expected you act like the rest of the people in court. So, hidden behind the walls of your chambers or in an empty courtyard with a quill or charcoal in hand, you sketched the beauties around you. The Godswood, the Blackwater Bay. The Septa Baelor and the Red Keep. Committing the image of the Iron Throne to memory, you inked a page with the mighty chair.

Beneath your bed you kept a trunk filled with oil paints, brushes, canvases, and other supplies you'd manage to accumulate by sneaking out to Flea Bottom with the one maid you trusted. (Not to mention you paid her a descent coin to keep your secret). All you sketched in your notebook soon took claim to a canvas. Capturing the beautiful scenery of King's Landing, you painted ships sailing in with a dragon flying in the background. Standing for hours from your bedchamber balcony, taking days or even weeks to finish the masterpiece.

With each finished portrait, you yearned for the next. Spending all your coin and pawning off materialist things given on namedays to rather buy supplies. Soon the only person besides your maid who knew of your secret hobby/talent was Helaena. You'd often spend time with the Princess and her children that one day, when asked about things that made you happy, you told her about your art. She instantly became intrigued, requesting to see the sketches/paintings and after thinking about it you eventually did show her.

Helaena was in awe of your work. "I've seen many paintings in the castle, and none have captured the King's Landing the way you do. You have an eye for beauty---I think you'd paint the family portraits better than the man they always hire." Soon your meetings evolved to you sitting by the windowsill sketching while Helaena focused on her embroidery while the children played. As a surprise nameday present for the Princess, you gifted her a portrait of her and the twins flying upon Dreamfyre. "This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever received. I shall cherish it forever and pass it on to my daughter when she's older."

Around this time, you and Aemond's relationship progressed. You two went on walks, talked more and more with each day, and accompanied him to tourneys and banquets. Your admirations for him grew, turning into genuine love roughly four moons into your marriage. Long hours in the library, watching him train, and waiting for the other to arrive at the table before diving into your meal. Quality time became the thing you both valued in your relationship. Growing to compliments and light kisses to the cheek.

Aemond had no idea of your talent. Yet he did often wonder where you'd disappear to for hours. He'd see the ink on your hands and assume you were writing letters back home. Then he noticed charcoal stains and oils on your clothes. Since your chambers were still separate, he had no knowledge of your supplies hidden under your bed or how there was an easel on the balcony where you often painted.

It wasn't until he caught sight of the painting in the nursery that Aemond discovered your knack for the arts. Helaena had been embroidering while the children played, and you were having tea with the Queen, when Aemond asked his sister where she got the painting commissioned. Not realizing you hadn't told her brother, Helaena responded with, "Your spouse surprised me with it on my nameday. They painted it themself---Isn't it lovely?" To say he was stunned was an understatement. Aemond's jaw had dropped, scanning over the canvas with intensity, muttering so low Helaena barely heard him, "It is...exceptional."

On a mission to find you, Aemond hurried the halls with haste, now aware why you always had stains on your clothes and ink on your hands. Why you spent hours in the gardens and looked tired at breakfast. When he did eventually find you, Aemond simply said, "Why did you never tell me you liked to draw and paint?" Of course you were caught off guard, becoming nervous and shrunk under his gaze, "I did not think it was important. I was always told arts and music was not for someone of noble rank like us. I feared you'd be disappointed with me."

Aemond was a little hurt you kept your love for art hidden but understood. And from then on he made it his goal to learn everything he could about the subject. Trading gifts of jewelry for oils, charcoals, and inks. Making sure you had enough parchment and canvases. Aemond never pressured you to show him your work, knowing how personal it is for an artist, and instead asked about your progress. Beaming at the way you instantly light up and spoke with pride.

He had a feeling you sketched him in your notebook. Catching you glancing up at him multiple times when he reads in the library, your hand scattering across the page with ease. Aemond would purposefully maintain his position even when he's finished the book, as to not move and make you mess up. Smiling at the charcoal staining your fingers and silently hoping one day you'd allow him to see what inked your parchment.

Completely unaware he became your source of inspiration. Your muse. You not only sketched Aemond reading, but him training in the yard. Him speaking to his mother, his brother. Aemond with the twins. Aemond watching Vhagar patrol the skies and feeding his horse. You were mesmerized with everything about him. The Prince who conquered obstacles that made you feel like you were the only person on the planet. Aemond was your heart and soul. He was your muse.

And so on your 1-year anniversary, you surprised your husband with a gift he never would've expected. A painting of him and Vhagar. The one-eyed prince, known for his stoic nature, was nearly reduced to tears by the emotion consuming his entire being. His finger trailing over the scales of his dragon, the details of his riding gear and scar. How you managed to make it look like they were flying in the sky. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, "One day, if you allow me, I would love to have you sit for me for a portrait."

And when that time came, Aemond sitting in his pristine clothes, bearing his sapphire eye to you as a proclamation of his love and trust for you, you brought out your finest oils and brushes. Painting the man you loved the way you saw him, a beauty in the eyes of the beholder. A muse to an artist.

#aemond targaryen x reader #Aemond targaryen headcanon #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fluff #ewan mitchell #house targaryen headcanon #team green #hotd headcanon #hotd imagine #hotd

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awritesthings1 · 1 year ago

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Midnight Interlude

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Wife Reader

Summary: You try to convince Tommy, your husband, to come back to sleep.

ao3 link

You awoke quietly in the middle of the night, feeling the weight of your slumber resting beneath your eyes. Too tired to lift your eyelids, you shifted in the bed, searching for the comforting cradle of your husband’s arms, only to find the space beside you cold and empty.

Weakly, you opened your eyes to the dark bedroom. Blinking sleepily, you waited for your senses to adjust while attempting to recall if Tommy had mentioned anything about going on a business trip. Your head ached. Where was that Tommy of yours? You weren’t even able to think because your brain was still buzzing from a peculiar dream. Regardless, you were freezing, and without Tommy to keep you warm, you wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. You cursed, pressing a cold hand to your flushed head. Your nose squirmed at the bitter air.

You weren’t sure how many sleepless nights you could endure without your husband. Lately, he had been going on more business trips than usual and staying up late in his office. You went to sleep before him, and by the time you woke up, he was usually already going about his morning. It was if you married a ghost.

The sheets rustled when you swung your feet to the floor. You stretched your arms awake and rolled your neck to the side, receiving a satisfactory pop in return. Wrapping a silk night gown around your body, you left the bedroom, stifling a yawn as you reached his office, where you heard the cackling of candles and the amber hum peeking through from the crack beneath the door. You twisted the nob slowly, careful not to startle Tommy, and entered the room.

“Tommy? You’re still up," you croaked, rubbing at your tired eyes.

Your toes curled as a shiver passed through your body. The wooden floors of your husband’s office were always deathly cold. And where was that ambitious old soul of his? Hunched over his messy desk, squinting through his glasses as he appeared to be reading over a letter. His marble contours were more sunken each night. His thumbs twitched and fiddled with a fountain pen as if they couldn’t bear to do anything but work. The top buttons of his white blouse (that you were always sure to iron the night before) pealed back to reveal a sliver of skin that you would stare at some nights to ensure he didn’t die working himself to death.

You loved him. God, you loved him. You loved him in a way that certainly would disgust the wives from the country houses down the lane. They loved their husbands in a plain and simple way. Margaret had gushed to you about her marriage and how she had fallen into a timely routine with her husband, dancing around the clock until they fell asleep on a wonderfully fluffy mattress. You stuck your tongue in your cheek. That wasn’t love; that was what men told women love was—a choreographed routine. Tommy was different. He loved you hard. Not just because he was a man and that’s what men were supposed to do, but because he lived and breathed everything he did, even if it killed him.

“I need to write something down." Tommy cleared his throat, too distracted to look up from the letter.

If you were any other woman, you would mistake his tone for annoyance. Not you. The hollow under his eyes spoke for him. Your poor husband never knew when to rest. Even when the moonlight poured in from the window and his hands were stained with ink, that mind of his clicked away into a world only accessible to him. It must be a burden, you think, to have the intellect Tommy had—to be three steps in front of everyone else. Talking to the ladies at the country club exhausted you sometimes because all they seemed to care about was the latest silks and décor from an exotic country or babies with chubby cheeks. It had to feel something like that, like sugar rotting your teeth.

“You’ll have time in the morning,” you insisted, leaning against the doorframe and pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

The candlelight began to flicker as it neared the end of its wick.

Tommy wet his lips. “I have an early meeting out of town.”

Your shoulders fell. You knew who Tommy was and the priorities he had to balance. His work was important to him, and he did it for his family. That included you, too. But at hours like these, when your nightgown wasn’t enough to keep you warm, you craved the comfort of his arms.

“Come back to sleep,” you whispered, crossing the threshold of the office to stand behind him, where he was hunched over on his chair, writing something down.

Tommy relaxed as you began to massage his shoulders. Those eyes that painted you blue on winter nights fell closed for a moment. His hand itched for his whiskey, resting on the icy glass but never raising it to his lips. Several cigarette butts were discarded on his ash tray, some still puffing smoke. He smelled like a mixture of the two. You remember when you were younger how your nose would scrunch up at the scent of his cigarettes. Now, it was oddly comforting.

“I need to finish writing this letter,” Tommy drawled, reaching for the cigarette case that was buried under a file of papers.

As he pinched one out, you grabbed the match box that had been sitting on the windowsill and struck a match to light it as he perched it between his lips. When the end of it lit up, Tommy took a deep drag.

“You’re a man, Tommy, not a god. You need sleep,” you sighed, squeezing his tensed shoulders.

“Not yet." Smoke escaped his mouth in light puffs as he spoke.

You blinked slowly. “Well, I’m going back to sleep.” It was a half-truth. You were never able to fall asleep after waking up in the middle of the night, especially without Tommy by your side.

Tommy’s rough palm covered your hand, which was resting on his shoulder. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

That was never true. Every time Tommy was gone, the room stank of it. His presence consumed Arrow House; it was as if the walls were made from his flesh and bone. And when he was away, it felt like you were living in a stranger’s home. The paintings on the wall were of a random family, and his office sat as if it were abandoned in a hurry. It was only when he returned that the colors bled back into the walls and you realized you were home.

You leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on his sharp jaw. He inhaled sharply through his nose. You noticed his attention had drifted from the letter and was now focused on the chandelier.

“Where’s that husband of mine? Hm?”

Tommy continued to take large drags from the cigarette while the both of you bathed in the crackling of the dying candlelight. Eventually, it burned out, and Tommy tapped the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray before setting it down to lean back on his chair. Now dark, he let you slip your hand from beneath his as you straightened your back and ran your nails through his scalp.

He groaned deep and nasally, fluttering his eyes closed. The tip of his tongue wet his bottom lip, and when your pupils adjusted to the dark, you saw the cogs in his head shutting off.

“Come back to sleep.”

“Alright,” he nodded with a grunt.

Most women would have said it was a miracle, not your Tommy. There was no holy spirit that possessed him to say yes. He chose to do so on his own account.

You rode that thought with a smile, turning his head to the side so you could lay a kiss on his forehead.

God, you loved him, you loved him, you loved him.

He sighed deeply, blinking lazily at his hands, which rested on his knees, before standing up. Both Tommy and his chair groaned at the movement. You hushed him and walked him to your shared bedroom, hand in hand. There, you carefully unbuttoned his blouse and slid his suspenders down his broad shoulders. Slowly but surely, you undressed him while his tired eyes watched you.

When you were younger, those eyes terrified you the same way a duck feared a rifle. What you never saw was the love they held behind glaciers of blue. Tommy made sure you saw it ever since. The ink on his hands was dry by the time they came to cup your face. His affectionate touch made more than your heart throb, but the both of you were too exhausted to do anything about it.

You settled for a kiss that he pressed against your lips. It wasn’t passionate or hungry like it usually was, but tender and firm. You loved it all the same.

“I love you." His breath settled on your skin like a warm blanket.

You closed your eyes and leaned forward, letting Tommy carry the weight of your head between his hands. You hummed when he brushed his knuckles gingerly across your cheekbones.

“I love you, too. Now, let’s get to bed before the sun rises,” you smiled, blinking up at him.

He kissed the top of your head, winding his tired arms around your frame to hold you against his chest. He hummed agreeably into your hair, letting his eyes flutter shut. Your arms wrapped themselves around his waist as he held you. You treasured small, fleeting moments like this. It wasn’t often that Thomas Shelby left his boots on the office floor and melted into a puddle. You think that made it all the more special. Your Thomas Shelby, the decorated soldier, the family businessman, and the hardened gangster could step away and become your favorite thing—a loving husband.

By the time you had both settled into the bed, the sheets were still warm, and the moon was still out. Tommy was resting on his side, with his arm draped around your waist as he snored lightly into your neck. Outside the window, the wind howled and crashed against the pane like winter waves. You felt none of it. Tommy’s body acted as a heater, protecting you from the numbing chill that waited at the edge of the covers, threatening to nip at your skin. You smiled, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. Here in the cradle of his arms, nothing could touch you.

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x you #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #fluff #domestic fluff #fanfic #fanfiction #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic

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divinesolas · 8 months ago

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Sneaking around | 2

Summary: You had thought you finally managed to repair things between you and jacaerys but he seems to have begun avoiding you again and you begin to think the worst, as your wedding approaches you decide to confront him once more.

w.c: 1.9k

c.w: porn with (minor) plot, oral (m!receiving), p in v, jacaerys is a big idiot again, two idiots in love, misunderstandings, not proofread

a.n: part one for context ! hope you guys enjoy <3

dedicated to my lovelie mootie @aegonswife <3

in the beginning you had though you were imagining things. maybe you were just so busy with wedding prep and were so busy and were just making it up. but after two weeks you had realized that it was true. jacaerys was once again dodging you at all costs.

it was not as drastic as it used to be but you can still tell. he says hello to you but quickly makes up some excuse to be excused, he will sit next to you during dinner but will engage in conversation with anyone but you. at first you didn't notice since you and your mother had begin to prepare for the wedding, it started to dawn on you when your mother expressed that she was meeting with jacaerys at a different time other than you for wedding prep.

“he does not wish to join us now?” she could hear the frustration in your voice and sighs rubbing her forehead, “he says it would be easier to meet apart as this is when he likes to train, i had told him we could move the time but-” “he does not wish to see me.” you look down at the ground in frustration and you hear your mother sigh as she walks closer to you and places her hands on your face gently lifting you up to look at her, “he is just scared my dear i know it, you should just ask him.” “but how am i to ask if he avoids me?”

“how did you get him to talk to you last time?”

it is once again dead in the night as you wrap yourself in a familiar cloak and quietly leave you room and head back down the familiar path to his room. you are not as scared as you had been last time. you don't march with a sense of desire in your steps, instead you are angry. you knock on his door harshly this time not caring for making too much noise.

the door opens to a shocked jacaerys who looks at you alarmed, “sister did you need something,,,” his words trail off as you push past him into his room and cross your arms staring daggers at him. “you are ignoring me.”

he pauses for a moment, fiddling around with the quill in his hand. despite your anger your eyes linger down to admire him and notice the spots of dark ink stained into the long flowy white shirt he was wearing. your eyes drift towards his desk where he must have been just sitting at littered with papers, some crumpled and some full but your eyes couldn't make out what they say. he clearly notices where you’re looking and swiftly moves to stand in front of the desk blocking the letters from your view. “i have been busy-” “but you do not wish to plan our wedding with me?” “that is when i train dear sister,” “ah yes mother mentioned that, and she also mentioned that she suggested to switch the meetings to a different time and you said no.” he looks down in defeat and you scoff at his lack of response.

“i had thought you were better than most men but it seems once you had me you want nothing to do with me.” you turn around and wrap your arms around yourself as you finally let your tears of frustration run down your face.

some beats of silence pass with the only sounds being your sniffling, for a moment you even fear he’s left the room but you soon feel his hands wrap around you and his head presses into your shoulder. “sorry is not enough, begging for your forgiveness is not enough it is all my fault, but you must understand there is no universe in which i want nothing to do with you my heart you mean more to me than anything.”

you press your head against his and you feel his arms grow tighter around you reveling in his touch. “i just wish to understand you.” he presses a kiss into your neck and sighs, “i have been nothing but a fool, out of my own tasteless fear i have once again drove an unnecessary wedge between you and i.” you manage to twist yourself in his grasp to look at him, “fear?” he hums cupping your face in his hands and presses his forehead against yours, “i feared that should i spend too much time with you, i would lose my self.” you pull away and give him a confused look, “whatever are you talking about?” a bright red flush covers his face as he turns away from you before he speaks, “i desire you far too greatly that i fear i cannot control myself around you.”

Ah.

An embarrassed heat flushes you as you take notice of him poking against you and you push your head into his neck, “Jace,,” “it is because i am so weak minded i cannot even act like a proper gentleman-” “Jace,,,” “i am sorry i should grovel at your feet and punish myself-” “jacaerys!” you pull away from him and shake his shoulders lightly and he looks at you alarmed. you have a smile on your face and let out a light laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation cupping his cheeks and pulling him close and give him a peck. “i am just happy my future husband desires me.”

The look in his eye completely changes when he hears you call him husband and his hands quickly move to the back of your head to bring you into a heated kiss. due to the very sudden action you gasp and he uses that opportunity to push his tongue in your move and pull you even closer to him. your hands grip the back of his head and tug on his hair to pull him away from you, his dark eyes stared at you laced with desire and need.

“Allow me to please you this time husband.” he groans as you drop down to your knees and begin to work through unlacing his pants, “you do not have to-” “i want to.” his pants hit the floor with a light thud and you grip him in your hands and press kisses up and down him. he throws his head back and lets out a strained moan as he grips your head. “my love,,” you lick and suck at his bright pink tip as he continues to wither above you. for a moment you think about the irony of it all, a future king, your future king, completely bewitched by you at your complete mercy, “please do not tease me my love.”

your inexperience shows its head as you try you best to put him all in your throat but are unable to left to simply stroke anything left. he definitely doesn’t mind as his knees almost buckle and the grip on your head grows tighter, he is a very vocal man endless praise falls easily from his lips occasionally getting chocked up by his own moans and groans. “i love you, how are you so good at this?” you let go of him with a pop and give him a smile, “i guess i just imagined this far too often as one would say.” he if realizes your mirroring his own words he does not say as much, well he doesn’t say much of anything completely lost in his own pleasure.

You too also get lost in your own pleasure. you can feel your own wetness soaking your thighs, if your hands were not stuck on him you would have brought them down to begin to play with yourself. He suddenly pulls you off him and drops to his knees, “did i do something wrong?” he quickly shakes his head and kisses you. “i simply have somewhere else i wish to spend my seed.”

he leans you on your back and hovers above you his hands eagerly pulling up your night gown leaving you exposed to him. “i would take my time with you my love but i fear i have lost all sense of control to you.” he rubs his dick against your folds soaking himself in your wetness and you push your head into his neck gripping his arms, “please please husband.”

He quickly pushes himself into you and groans in your ear, “gods you’re so amazing my love.” unlike the first time where he had started out rather slow he seems to be desperate today quickly rutting himself against you. You certainly have no reason to complain and let him have his way with you. it was odd to see the usually very composed prince seem to lose all sense of composure, acting not of a prince but like an animal, if anybody were to walk in on the two of you now it would certainly be a show.

“tell me you are close my love please.” you nod your head and he brings his hand down to play with your clit, “please please come my beautiful wife and i will spend myself in you please.” he quickly manages to bring you to your release, shaking and bringing your hands to his head and kissing him as he comes inside you.

the two of you stay still for awhile the only sounds in the room being your pants and his heaving. he slides out of you and you let out a hiss he follows with a quiet apology and lefts you up bridal style and carries you to the bed lightly placing you down before he moves to take the place next to you.

for awhile no words are exchanged between you, you lay your head on his chest playing with the fabric while you cannot seem to drop the smile from you face. he makes you so happy you can barely believe you had been mad at him in the first place. you look back at his desk and remember all the letters on it. “jacaerys?” he softly hums in acknowledgement, his hand lightly tracing your back. “what are those letters on your desk?” he freezes and brings his other hand up to his mouth to let out an embarrassed cough, you can feel the skin you’re laying on heat up. “they are vows i plan to make to you during our wedding, i am struggling a bit,,” he trails off embarrassed and you sit up to look at him, “vows?”

he scratches his neck as he gives you a strained smile, “i wish to express my love to you with words but i am struggling to put them on paper for i love you too greatly.” your heart swells and you lean down to give him a peck not pulling too far away from him before you speak. “i love it.” “you do not even know what it says.”

“i love anything you make, because i love you.”

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