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aeyumicore · 1 year ago

Text

what's mine

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: zayne x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with plot, not canon events (completely fictional)

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 10.7k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, first time sex with zayne (not virginity loss), jealous!zayne, dom!zayne, zayne slightly loses control of evol, furniture breaks, lot’s of teasing, fictional characters, size kink, vaginal sex, oral sex f!receiving, tongue fucking, fingering, unprotected sex, creampies, slightly drunk sex (not really), tummy bulge, posessive/claiming behavior, let me know if i missed anything!

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3

━ ✧.˖ A/N: helloooo writing for my fav zayne again <3 would you guys believe this is actually the first lads fic i ever started but i put it on hold because it was way too elaborate and i didn’t want to make a whole like multi chapter fic? i actually cut out a lotttt of it, it probably would’ve been more like 30k words if i kept the same writing style/detail i had originally, and i just could not do that to myself

also the matthew/intern mentioned in the fic is completely made up and fictional, he is not a reference to any characters! i couldn’t bring myself to use greyson for the purposes of the plot bc i think he and zayne are so cute LOL god i love the jealous angsty feelings trope

pls enjoy hehe i luv u guys <3 also come interact with me on twit @/aeyumicore :’)

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

"Will you go to dinner with me?”

You whip your head around to see where the unfamiliar voice came from, coming face to face with one of the surgical interns of the Akso hospital. You’d run into him several times before when visiting Zayne at work, but never quite got his name.

"Me?”

The intern chuckles at your dumbfoundedness, which he thinks is adorable, "Yes, you’re Y/N right? My name is Matthew. I'm one of the surgical interns here. So, will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow?”

Zayne chokes on his rice from the seat beside you, patting his chest a few times to clear his throat. You’d decided to have lunch with Zayne after your check-up today; well more like you’d forced him to the cafeteria with you against his will. You’d desperately wanted to try the infamous mint chocolate chip jello the hospital cafeteria served, even though you knew it’d be disgusting. And so you both sat at a table in the cafeteria, you with your jello and Zayne with a homemade bento box you’d made for him, along with some of his favorite pastries from the bakery down the street.

At his coughs, the intern’s eyes snapped to Zayne’s and it was like he’d just then realized Zayne was there, the surprise and anxiety written all over his expression. Zayne was always someone who commanded respect and fear from his colleagues and subordinates, so much so that Matthew had turned pale as a ghost.

"Oh! Dr. Zayne, I'm so sorry I didn’t realize–” but Zayne cuts him off with a simple wave of his hand.

"It’s fine. Continue your conversation.” You’re a bit taken back by Zayne’s nonchalance. Sure, you were just childhood friends but it would be nice if Zayne had any reaction at all to being asked out right in front of him. You yourself couldn’t deny the attraction you felt towards Zayne but it was seeming more and more that it was completely one sided.

"I, um…” you’re at a loss for words, not knowing how to let the handsome intern down. Matthew was honestly very attractive, and seemed kind enough, but you had hoped to spend your friday night with Zayne, though you hadn’t had the chance to ask him yet. He’d been swamped with surgeries and patients the last few days and you hardly got to see him at all. And you missed him thoroughly.

"I actually had plans with Zay– I mean dr. Zayne,” you glance at Zayne, hoping he’ll get the message, but the expression on his face is dark and unreadable.

"No we don’t. You should go,” Zayne’s tone is cold and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Despite yourself, your heart clenches in disappointment. You know Zayne could be obtuse but he was also extremely intelligent and perceptive. He undoubtedly knew you wanted to spend your night with him. But it was becoming more and more apparent he did not want to spend his with you.

"But i–”

"I have plans anyways.” Your eyes can’t help but sting as he avoids looking at you. So you try to steel yourself; you were a big girl and a little bit of unrequited affection would not destroy you. Keeping your voice steady and blinking back unshed tears of frustration, you look up at Matthew, his eyes lighting up at you expectantly, and you try to give him your best smile.

"I...I would love to go to dinner with you!”

You don’t notice the deep scowl on Zayne’s face as a dark icy storm brews in his green eyes.

–

You stumbled out of the taxi, your way-too-high heels catching on the foot step almost causing you to trip headfirst into the pavement. You sigh as you catch yourself on the cab door and glance at your hunter watch and see that it’s already 1am.

"Get home safe miss, and no more drinks, you hear me?” Your cab driver reprimands you teasingly.

"Yes sir,” you mock salute him as you wobble onto your feet, thoroughly drunk, "Thank you so much! Please drive safe. Good night sir!”

"Good night miss!”

You turn towards your apartment building, sighing in exhausted defeat. What an absolute disaster of a night.

The date was unexpectedly wonderful. Matthew was handsome, kind, funny, and a complete gentleman. He brought you to a very fancy and expensive restaurant downtown, so you wore one of your most elegant dresses, not that you had many. It was a simple satin black mid-length evening dress, with a slit that exposed just up to your mid thigh and an open back that accentuates your figure. You’d normally never wear something so sensual on a first date, but you couldn’t deny that the way Zayne had reacted, or not reacted, stung your heart. So maybe you did go a little extra tonight because you were hurt. So what?

After dinner, Matthew and you took a leisurely stroll at linkon park, with enough time to catch the sunset. As you watched the sun melt into the sea of golden yellows and dusky pinks, Matthew kissed you. It was passionate, slow, and soft. The perfect kiss.

Except when you moaned out Zayne’s name.

And so the night ended as quickly as it began. Matthew was as understanding as he possibly could have been, but you could tell it killed anything that could have happened between the two of you. Matthew was a surgical intern, so with what little free time he had, he said he couldn’t chance it on a girl who was clearly already in love with someone else, especially if that someone was his boss and mentor. He’d offered to give you a ride back home but you refused, saying you’d grab a cab instead.

So you found yourself at a bar, downing shots of soju to numb the mortification of your blunder but also the feeling of utter patheticness. Hours went by as you wallowed in your emotions. You’d had feelings for Zayne for as long as you could even remember. And still, you couldn’t tell him or move on from him.

But maybe you would have the guts to tell him if it didn’t feel like he literally could not give two cents about you, beyond as a patient and as his annoying childhood friend. It was literally like pulling teeth to get him to spend any time at all with you lately.

So here you were, stumbling into your apartment building at 1:37 am: drunk, exhausted, and empty. The night breeze raised goosebumps on your exposed thighs as your heels clicked on the pavement in the dark.

You headed toward your apartment, through the main entrance and up the lobby elevator, the alcohol still making your brain swim. Luckily you no longer saw double, and your eyelids no longer felt like a ton of bricks.

The elevator door dinged open and you trudged toward your unit, your toes screaming in protest in the confine of your heels. You forced your vision to cooperate with you as you tried to punch in your door code. The error buzz sounded out, again and again, and you groaned in frustration.

In the blurry edges of your vision, a large and slightly scarred hand reached over yours. Yelping, you whip yourself around and reach to grab the gun you always had strapped to your thigh. But from the icy cold touch against your fingers and the scars littering the pink skin, you realize exactly who it was.

"Zayne?” You did your best not to slur, trapped between him and your front door. You don’t miss how he swears under his breath as his eyes trail down your body, lingering at all your exposed skin, before snapping back up to your face. You can’t even imagine how wrecked you must look right now, mentally kicking yourself for not touching up after the bar. Your gloss was undoubtedly smeared from the kiss and the copious alcohol, your hair a bird’s nest from the night breeze, and your mascara smeared from the stray tears of your drunken emotions.

You didn’t do a very good job at steeling your voice because Zayne saw right through you, his eyes narrowing as they absolutely drank you in, "You’re drunk?” His voice holds a dangerous edge, as if mad that you’d have the audacity to be drunk. He deftly types your access code in, and gently ushers you into your apartment. You stumble in your heels against his body, and Zayne wraps his arm around your waist to catch you before you fall. You flush at the way his hands palm the exposed skin of your lower back.

"M’not drunk,” you protest, swatting his hand away, not wanting your body to give any of your feelings towards him away, but Zayne only grips you tighter, fingers flitting between the soft satin material of your dress and the goosebump ridden skin of your back. His arm on your waist feels so right, threatening to make you melt right into his embrace. But you fight the urge, trying to hold onto your annoyance.

You can’t see his eyes but you know they’re rolling in their sockets at your obvious drunkeness. He gently guides you through the threshold of your home and then kneels down before you. The sight of him on the floor in front of your feet makes you reel, hoping the furious blush is masked by the flush of alcohol in your blood.

"W-what are you doing?” You try to step back, but your knees wobble and Zayne grips your thigh in place. You shiver at his cold touch on your sensitive skin, a little too high for you to keep any semblance of calm.

"Do you want to stay in these deathtraps?” He murmurs as he starts to slip the strappy heels off of your aching feet. His fingers around your ankle tingle as he softly massages the red skin of where the straps dug in.

"Zayne? Why are you here? Did something happen?” Your voice wavers still, but Zayne’s cold touch is starting to sober you up and clear your vision as your mind tries its best to focus on him. Zayne doesn’t respond as he lifts your other foot and slips the other heel off. His fingers linger on your bare legs before he slips your house slippers on your feet, standing back up to tower over you.

"It’s almost 2 in the morning, and you’re just now coming home,” his voice is hard and stern, it’s clear he has things he wants to say but you’re in no mood for a lecture on sexual safety, stds, and stranger danger.

"I was busy,” you snap, your emotions running extra high from everything that had happened today, especially Zayne’s nonchalance. But he’s incredibly patient with you, as he always is, taking you by the waist nagain and leading you to your living room couch. You’re too tired to resist, and you desperately need to get off your aching feet.

"How was your date?” Zayne sits you on your couch and then heads to the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water. His question reminds you of how royally you screwed up today and your mood sours even more.

"Fine,” you mutter, trying to keep from snapping at him again. Zayne sits beside you and brings the glass of water to your lips, tilting it for you with his fingers on your jaw. You take deep gulps, the cold water soothing your entire sore body. Sinking further into the couch, your mind wanders back to your disastrous screw up. You’d called Matthew Zayne. It literally couldn’t get more mortifying than that.

Zayne stares at you and you know he doesn’t believe you, so you murmur again, "It was fine.” But as his intense eyes bore holes into you, your voice cracks under all the feelings you’d stuffed deep down today.

He was here now and it confused you to no end. You’d wanted nothing more than to spend your day with him, but he’d pushed you away. Were you really that blind that you’d developed feelings for a man who did not feel even slightly the same way?

Your eyes well up with tears at the thought and you try to subtly brush them away by pretending to scratch your cheek, but as always Zayne sees right through you.

"Did he do something to you? Did he get you drunk?” Zayne’s voice is calm but hard and threatening.enough to scare you if it weren't for the way he softly gripped your chin, forcing your eyes back to his, using his free thumb to catch the tears before they can slip down your cheek

But through it all, you register the implication of his words. "Wh-what? No!” You exclaim, "Matthew was a complete gentleman.”

His eyes track yours, unwilling to let go of your gaze, "Then why are you crying?”

You blink back your tears before more can fall onto his thumb. Your voice wavers as you stare into the hazel green ocean of his eyes, and you answer his question with a question of your own, "Why are you here Zayne?”

"I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” Your chest constricts with unrelenting emotions, but your drunken haze makes you even more steadfast in your stubborn resolve.

"Well I'm home, safe,” you avert your eyes, knowing if Zayne keeps staring at you with that intensity you’ll start to unravel and confess everything.

"Why did you take a cab home?”

Your eyes snap to his, "How did you know I took a cab?” And this time Zayne’s eyes refuse to meet yours, "Zayne? How long have you been waiting for me?”

Zayne doesn’t respond, instead brushing the tangles out of your hair. You try to get his attention by tugging at his tie, the alcohol making you feel much bolder than you normally ever would.

You can see his adam's apple bob as he lets himself be drawn in, only slightly, towards you. At your pout, he sighs in defeat, prying your hands away so he can loosen the tightened hold around his neck, "I’ve been waiting for you…forever.”

Before you can respond, he clears his throat and continues, "I got here at 9 and waited in my car when I knocked and you didn't answer.”

At your bewildered expression, he sighs and elaborates, "I just wanted to see you get back home safely. But when I saw you get out of that cab I needed to come check on you.”

Your brows furrowed as your sobering self tried to do the math in your head. Zayne can practically see the steam coming out of your ears and smiles lopsidedly, chuckling under his breath at how adorable you were being.

"You waited for 7 hours?!” You exclaimed, eyes wide.

His grin deepens and you can see his eyes sparkling with laughter , "You are drunk. Why are you drunk?”

You purse your lips shut, unwilling to speak. With all the overwhelming emotions swarming your mind, you knew if you started talking now you would surely never stop.

At your silence, Zayne prods gently, "Talk to me, Y/N.” His voice is deep and commanding in a way that almost always gets you to listen to him.

You zip your lips shut and turn away, doing your damn best to not give in. But Zayne’s touch, still on your cheeks, forces you back towards his eyes.

"Be a good girl,” he demands softly, his eyes searching yours for answers.

Blowing out your cheeks like a child, you’re unwilling to give up the attitude, "I’m drunk because I was drinking.”

"Did Matthew take advantage of you?” Zayne’s jaw is locked and the intensity in his eyes is blinding, damn near dangerous.

"No! Zayne, no. I went to a bar to drink alone, after our date,” you try to hide the embarrassment from seeping into your voice.

"Why? Did he do something to you?” His voice is still threatening, and you sigh at the unrelenting questions. You knew Zayne well enough to know he wasn’t going to let up, so it would just be easier on you if you told him everything that happened.

"Matthew was amazing,” you don’t notice the way Zayne’s eyes darken at your praises for the intern, "The date was fantastic. And after, we saw the sunset.” His expression is still unreadable and you start to fidget under his intense gaze, not knowing in the slightest what he was thinking.

"And then he kissed me. We kissed. And that was it. I went to the bar and he went home. End of story.”

Zayne’s fists ball so tightly his knuckles turn white, but he keeps his gaze steady. He doesn’t speak, and you’re scared of the tense silence that falls between you two.

"He couldn’t at least accompany you? Make sure you were safe?” You can tell Zayne is angry by the way his feet taps uncharacteristically erratically against the floor, "Driven you home?”

His questions make it impossible for you to forget about your horrifying mistake today and you just feel so incredibly bad for Matthew. The regret and embarrassment gnaw at your mind like parasites. And so against your better, albeit slightly still drunken, judgment, you finally blow.

"He left because I was thinking of you, okay? Matthew was a gentleman, he was funny, kind, and charming. And yet I was thinking of you the whole time. And so he left and I went to a bar and got drunk all on my own, okay?”

"You were thinking of me?” Zayne’s voice is an annoying mix of bewilderment, intrigue, and what sounds like mockery, which just infuriates you.

"I am always thinking of you Zayne! I thought about you at dinner, I thought about you when we watched the sunset, and I thought about you when he kissed me,” you burst, your drunken lack of inhibitions leaving nothing unsaid.

Zayne’s face is unreadable again, but there’s a heat in his eyes that makes you tremble in your seat, "You were thinking of me when he kissed you?”

Unable to bear his unrelenting repetitive questions anymore, you explode, "Yes Zayne! And when he kissed me I called out for you!” The confession tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think twice about it. It takes you a second to realize what you’d just blurted out and you bury your face in your hands, wanting nothing more than to scream at the top of your lungs. Unfortunately it was 2am and you had neighbors that most definitely would not appreciate that.

You feel his strong hands grab your wrists gently, prying your hands away from your face, wanting to see you, "You called for me?” His tone is as amused as it is intrigued and it frustrates you to no end, the shame weighing heavily on your mind.

"Don’t tease me right now Zayne,“ you warn weakly, "I am always thinking about you. But you…” your voice trails off to a shallow whisper, "You don’t seem to think about me.”

Zayne is silent but his eyes are as intense as you’ve ever seen them, staring into your soul. The silence is thick in the air as you refuse to be the one to break it.

Finally, he speaks, voice clouded with indiscernible emotions, "Is that what you really think? That I don’t think about you?”

"Do you really think I waited for 5 hours, in my car, for you to come back because I don’t think about you?” Your breath catches in your throat at the pure and raw growl in his voice.

Before you can respond, he continues, "I think about you every second of every day. I thought about you all day, thought about you on your date with Matthew.”

Zayne shifts so that he can cup your face with both his hands, drawing his face closer but not close enough, "I thought about him getting to hear your voice, getting to touch you…to kiss you. It drove me insane.”

Your feelings churn in your stomach and into your chest, making it hard to breathe. The way Zayne is looking at you, his hands holding your face so possessively, threatens to stop your heart altogether. You’re drawn to him all over again, only this time it feels like he might be drawn to you too.

"W-why?”

Zayne doesn’t speak, and you watch as his eyes flutter to your parted lips as you pant out your breaths, eyes fighting to stay open amidst all the tension enveloping the two of you.

"Why did you push me to go with him then?”

His eyes force themselves onto yours, as if unwilling to leave your lips, "I made a mistake.”

His revelations quickly sober you up, and you’re left feeling vulnerable but bold. You softly grab a fist full of his tie, pulling him closer. You can faintly hear him groan under his breath, but he lets himself be guided towards you. Your lips are so close to each other that you’re inhaling each other in, and you beg gently, "Kiss me, Zayne.”

Zayne wastes no time at all, threading his fingers from your cheek into your hair, pulling your face the remainder of the distance to his own.

Your first kiss with Zayne is nothing like you’d daydreamed it would be. You’d imagined the patient and reserved surgeon to be soft, gentle, taking his time with you. You’d expected it to be passionate but reserved, like the handsome raven haired man himself.

And while the passion was undeniably there, what you didn’t expect was the bruising claiming heat that came with it. Zayne’s soft lips marked you as his own, a lifetime’s worth of emotions evident in the way he molded himself against you. With every twitch of his lips, Zayne laid claim to what was his. He kissed you like you might disappear at any moment, as if this was all a dream.

And when his tongue swiped across the parting of your lips, asking for permission to enter, you gladly relented control and authority. After all, you were his. You think you had been for some time.

You hadn’t expected your first kiss with Zayne to be like this, and yet it was everything you wanted and more.

When you shift yourself to climb on top of him and straddle him on your couch, Zayne reluctantly pulls away, hands still gripping the back of your head, "Y/n, we should stop.” But he can’t stop his hands from leaving your soft hair and resting on your hips, almost like a reflex. His words say one thing but his hands just can't seem to pry themselves off of you.

You’re taken aback by his words, unable to stop the insecurity and hurt that paints your face. Zayne notices instantly, one of his hands leaving your hips to stroke your cheek, hooking some of your hair behind your ear. You lean into his hand, the whiplash starting to exhaust you as much as it kept you on your toes.

"I want to,” he whispers hoarsely as you squirm on top of him, answering your unsaid thoughts, "I can’t even convey how much I've fucking wanted to. But you’re drunk. And the first time I finally take you...I want you to feel every second of it.”

Your eyes flutter at his words, stomach clenching in anticipation. Having fully sobered up a while ago, before he even kissed you, you can’t help but beg a little, "I’m not drunk anymore. And even if I was… I want you. I’ve wanted you…forever.”

Zayne swears, his eyes going full doctor mode, and you can tell he’s inspecting every inch of you to try and discern if you’re truly sober or not. You fidget nervously under his intense stare, to which his hands grip your waist painfully tight to keep you in place.

"Stop,” he grits out forcefully, as if in pain. You do your best to still in his lap, and that’s when you feel the unmistakable bulge of his erection underneath your parted dress that had ridden up to bunch at your hips, right against the pantyhose against your cunt.

"Are you sure this is what you want?” He groans as your body presses deeper into his lap, "Because once…we start I won’t be able to stop.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, the heated warning doing nothing but arousing you to your core. Through your hooded eyes, you nod eagerly at him, "M’sure Zayne. Won’t want to stop.”

He smirks at you, a heart stopping smile that melts your brain and cunt simultaneously into a leaking mess, "You asked for it love.”

Before you can even have the chance to physically combust at the affectionate pet name, Zayne whisks you into the air, scooping you under your exposed knees effortlessly. You yelp, clutching onto his neck as he carries you like a bride into your bedroom, navigating your apartment like he owned it. He bent down to capture your lips with his again, like he couldn’t physically wait to get you to your bed before claiming you again.

You feel the cold press of your sheets against your spine as Zayne sets you down gently, and settles in between your thighs on top of you. His eyes absolutely devour you whole, raking up and down your exposed satin clad skin, "You look beautiful. I’ve been wanting to tell you all night.” His praise is throaty with desire and it makes you squeeze your thighs together against his body in anticipation. Your face heats at his words, and you run your palms up and down his abdomen, the material of his dress shirt feeling like silk against your burning skin.

Zayne grins and chuckles, mostly to himself, but the sound catches your attention and you find yourself pouting in self-consciousness, "What’s funny?”

Zayne’s long fingers trace the outlines of your body under the satin dress, eliciting soft moans from you that please him to his core, "You just look so beautiful.” His fingers reach the bottom of your dress and begin to stroke the fabric of your pantyhose, inching up under your dress, so torturously slowly, "You wore this for him, yet I'm the one that’s going to tear it off you.”

Your body trembles at his words, the pool between your legs growing wetter. You can feel yourself growing impatient, only wanting his body to press onto yours, to suffocate your.

"Zayne please, don’t make me wait any more,” you murmur as you sit up on your elbows, pressing your forehead against his. You heartbeat is quick and your rapid breaths fan across his face.

His eyes darken at your pleas, the hazel hues appearing almost a light brown, "Fucking hell Y/N, you’re going to drive me insane.” He sits up on his knees, loosening his tie before undoing it completely and discarding it on the floor next to your bed. You bite your lip as you watch him undo the top three buttons of his shirt, his toned chest on display under it.

Leaning back down, he presses a bruising kiss against your swollen lips. His hands wander to the thin straps of your dress, gently tugging until they slip off your shoulders, letting him tug your dress down until your breasts are exposed. His tongue against yours is unrelenting, marking every inch of your mouth as his.

Detaching himself from you, he buries his face into your neck, his cold lips incredibly soothing against your lust burned skin. You cry out when you feel his teeth softly sink into the skin of your pulsepoint, as he suckles on you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

"Zayne,” you gasp out, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to have your mind filled with nothing but his mouth on you, "Please.”

He trails down your neck and collar, inhaling you into his lungs at every opportunity. You feel his smile against your skin as he reaches your breasts, your nipples pebbled from the lust. He voice is muffled against you, "Please what, my love?”

"I…” you’re too mortified to say the things you want him to do, so the silence overtakes you. Unhappy with your hesitation, Zayne bites into the supple flesh above your pert nipple, eliciting a string of moans and squeals from you. He’s instantly using his tongue to soothe the pain away, quickly replacing it with waves of raw pleasure.

Zayne lifts his head, staring at you expectantly, "I can’t continue if you don’t tell me what you want.”

His unrelenting teasing drives you to the edge of madness, your arousal evident by the way it leaks through your panties and your pantyhose. But you’re stubborn, still refusing to speak.

"Good girls listen to their doctors don’t they?” He places fleeting kisses onto your goosebump riddled areolas, careful to purposefully neglect your increasingly sensitive nipples.

"Should doctors really be this intimate with their patients?” You retort like a brat, wanting to dish back all of his incessant teasing.

He smiles at you, thoroughly amused at your insolence, "I suppose not, but am I really just your doctor?” With that he captures your waiting nipples into his mouth. You cry out at the incredible feeling of his cold lips on your breasts but his warm tongue on your nipple, your lower body thrusting up uncontrollably into his crotch.

He groans into your chest as you brush against his throbbing erection, restricted by the confines of his pants. Against the heat of your womanhood, Zayne hardens impossibly further, feeling like he might actually explode against the constraint. The sounds of your pleasure and your cries for him make it difficult for him to concentrate.

Switching to your other nipple, Zayne uses one hand to undo his belt, letting it fall to the ground with his tie. He undoes the button and zipper his pants, yanking them down with such feral urgency. When his cock was finally free, he broke away from your chest, hissing in relief. You look down and you’re met with the realization of why he was in so much pain.

Zayne was large. In a way that terrified you to your very core. You could imagine that the restraint of his briefs alone would be uncomfortable, painful even, when holding something like that back.

Zayne catches your stare and he grips your chin between his fingers, guiding you to his eyes instead, "It’ll fit baby, don’t worry.”

You fight to keep your lip from quivering, trying not to get lost in his green eyes, "Will it?”

"I'll make it fit, but first let me prepare you love,” he says Matter-of-factly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose. The certainty in his voice turns you unbelievably on and you find yourself needing to please him. Your hand seeks out his erection, grasping it firmly into your fingers.

He groans at the slightest touch, knees buckling into the bed beneath you. You start with languid and deliberate strokes, feeling every vein pulse under your fingers. Your thumb finds his large engorged head, already leaking with pre cum, feeling every smooth surface of his cock under your touch. While Zayne writhes on top of you, you revel in his glorious manhood, everything about it utterly perfect and terrifying.

As you touch him, Zayne leans into the crook of your shoulder, laying claim to your sensitive neck. He marks every inch of bare skin he can find, leaving a trail of red and wet bruises in his wake.

Your entire palm is wet with his leaking arousal, as he moans so closely into your ear. Gently, he pries your palm away from him, sitting back up onto his knees, smirking satisfyingly down at the marks he’d left, "God, I've waited so long to have you.”

You reach down to shimmy out of your pantyhose and black evening dress, leaving you in your black lace thong, naked, willing, and pliant before him. You see him gulp harshly, his eyes hazy with need, and you sit up to level with him, "So take me Zayne.”

A low growl rips from his throat, as he pushes you back onto the bed, setting your head against your wooden headboard. Zayne tortures you, kissing down your collar, your chest, your naval, and finally down the soft mound of your pelvis.

Zayne seems almost feral as he looks at your lace covered cunt and back up at you, "Did you really wear this for him?”

"N-no,” you whine, "I wouldn't have ever l-let him. He wasn't you.”

Zayne seems somewhat placated by your response, hooking his cold fingers into the waistband, his voice a low grumble, "That’s my good girl. No one will ever see you in or out of these, but me. Right?”

Your brain fogs over as he slips your soaked panties down your legs, his breath hitching seeing the string of clear slick clinging to your cunt.

"Fuck.” He’s lost in his stares, in absolute awe of the meal before him, carving every single perfect centimeter into his memory. You squirm under his intense stare.

"Zayne please don’t make me wait anymore,” you wine, crying out as he bends down and his lips graze the apex of your slit.

His voice is incredibly smug, "You are so beautiful when you beg for me.” You sigh in frustration as his lips and fingers continue to just barely graze your needy body.

"Zayne, please,” your body thrusts into his, but he holds you back down, almost impatiently.

"Behave yourself, Y/N. You can do that for me, can’t you?” His voice is full of command, making you back down instantly, shivering at the suspense of his words.

"I didn't wait this long to have you just to rush all the things I want to do to you,” he all but purrs, as his lips find your soaking slit.

The room is filled with your lewd cries as Zayne’s tongue licks a stripe from your clit to your throbbing hole. As your doctor, Zayne knew the ins and outs of your body but you never expected him to know you like this. Like his tongue was designed for nothing else but to deliver you the most unimaginable pleasure in this world.

Zayne groans when his tongue enters you for the first time, the quivers resonating straight to your core. His nose brushes against your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, the vibrations of his own lust filled grunts bringing you closer to releasing all over his skilled mouth.

Your thighs clench against his face, and you almost worry you might suffocate him. You try to pry them away from him, but he only grips them with his strong hands, bringing them closer to his face, wanting nothing more than to be yours, wholly and irrevocably.

"You taste better than I ever imagined,” he moans out, staring into your eyes from between your legs. You blush at the filth of his words and the glistening slick smeared across his lips and chin.

"Did you – ahh hah – think about me often?” You tease between the sounds that spill out of your mouth uncontrollably.

He doesn’t answer, instead capturing your entire clit into his lips, sucking in earnest. You feel his smirk as you squeal out, hands digging into the fabric of your sheets and tugging hard. His hands knead your ass as he continues to eat, positively starved.

"Z-Zayne I-I can’t take much more,” you slur, your toes curling against his sides as he goes back to spearing his tongue in and out of you, using the tip of his nose to massage your clit, inhaling the smell of your arousal into his lungs.

"Yeah? Is my girl gonna make a mess for me?” He breathes into you, his hands reaching up to toy with your nipples. You cry in response, feeling the coil in your gut tightening beyond belief, the pleasure threatening to make you explode.

"Cum into my mouth love, let me taste you,” he whispers breathlessly into your cunt, slipping his middle finger inside of you, the wet sounds of his skin pounding into yours filling the room. You come done instantly, screaming as your back arches off the bed and you release all over Zayne’s waiting mouth, hands ripping at his soft hair.

"That’s it baby, look at you cumming from just one finger,” he muses, working you through your orgasm with just his middle finger. You let out a stream of broken moans, unable to form any words.

"Fuck you’re this tight around just one of my fingers?” He murmurs before dipping back down to devour everything you give him.

He laps up your spend eagerly and diligently, not letting a single drop go to waste. Refusing to relent against your twitching clit, Zayne devours you until the overstimulation lights your pussy on fire. He’s always had a sweet tooth and it looks like he’s found his absolute favorite dessert, unwilling to give it up any time soon.

"Such a messy girl,” he mumbles to himself, the clear strings of arousal sticking from your wet thighs to his chin.

Your thighs tremble at the discomfort of overstimulation, doing your best to back away from him, "Mmm Zayne, s’too sensitive. No more, please.”

He relents reluctantly, looking utterly displeased with having his treat taken away. As he sits up, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans forward into you, tapping your lips with his thumb.

"Open,” he commands forcefully, bringing his soaked middle finger up to you. You part your lips obediently, welcoming the taste of you on his skin. His eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a deep heated moan at the feel of your tongue on him, tasting everything he got to taste. His cock literally felt like a ton of bricks needing to be pleased.

Releasing his finger, you reach for his length again, "I-I want to make you feel good too.”

Zayne presses his cold lips to yours, simultaneously undoing the buttons of his shirt. He pulls aways to shrug the clothing off his broad shoulders, giving you an eyeful of his glorious physique. He shivers, letting you jerk his erection up and down, but pushing you down when you try to get on your knees before him.

"Next time. We have all the time in the world,” he whispers, pushing you against the headboard, holding your cheek in his large hand, "But right now I need to be inside you.”

The smoldering fire in his eyes makes your mouth dry, and you nod meekly. The promise of a ‘next time’ is enough to have you ready for him again. Your cunt still quivered, recovering from your previous orgasm, but pooling at the hoarse need in his tone.

As your head lays on a pillow against the headboard of your bed, Zayne lifts you from the small of your back and shoves another pillow behind you, so that you’re elevated towards him, served on a silver platter.

"Spread your legs for me,” he growls, the urgency in his voice leaving little room to protest. And so you obey, widening your legs for him, watching as he admires the area between your thighs like it was

His hand reaches to cup you, clit caught against his palm and fingers toying with your hole, "Who does this belong to?”

But you can’t hear him through the searing pleasure of his touch against your over sensitive body, the blood pounding in your ears like drums. Looking at where his hand meets your body, you cry out at his ministrations against you, your thighs trembling in shivers.

With his free hand Zayne grabs your chin, slipping his thumb into your mouth, harshly forcing your eyes to his, "Don’t look away. Be a good girl and answer me.”

Although his words are driven with lust, they remind you of the emotional turmoil you’d been weathering because of your feelings for the man in front of you.

"M’yours Zayne, always been yours,” tears well in your eyes and you hope he can understand the weight behind your words, behind all the lust and arousal filled craze.

Zayne stares back at you, and his eyes hold an entire galaxy of emotions that match the colors of his irises: desire, devotion, awe…and love.

"And I am yours,” his words strike your heart and you lean up to slot your mouth against his. As he kisses you, he lines up his thick length with your cunt, teasing your clit with his engorged tip, his pre cum mixing with your spend that still leaked out from your prior climax. You cried into his open mouth at his teases, your back arching off the pillow and further into his cock. At your movement, his head catches onto your throbbing and waiting hole, eliciting a deep grunt from him.

He pulls away, groaning, "So impatient, you want it that bad?” You whimper, burying your face into his neck and latching onto his pulse point to save yourself from having to answer.

"P-please…” you whisper into his ear. He groans, fishing through the pocket of his pants as he pulls them off of his legs.

"Please what, love?” He smirks at you, pulling his wallet out, now just in his briefs pulled down to let his massive erection free.

You gulp, staring at the way he stands so proudly against his naval, reaching comfortably to his belly button. His girth rivals that of at least three of your fingers.

The rustling of plastic snaps you out of your shameless ogling. Zayne places a condom packet between his teeth, tearing it with one hand. You gulp at the sight of him, but you protest, "I–i um,” you clear your throat, trying to work up the courage to vocalize what you want, "You don’t have to use that.”

Zayne’s dark eyes catch yours, and the edge in his voice is dangerous, a warning, "Don’t tempt me. I need to protect you.”

Your face burns as you try again., "W-what I mean is, well as my doctor you know I'm clean.” You do your best to stop your voice from wavering, "And I-I um I'm on the pill.”

Zayne’s eyebrows quirk as his irises darken with heat, "How come I didn't know that?

"I’ve been using an online service for a few months,” you say sheepishly, "S-so you don’t have to use that.”

Zayne catches on, a satisfied smirk gracing his features, "Is that so?” He teases his entire length on your slit, practically fucking you along the lips of your womanhood. Using his swollen tip, he taps your clit forcefully, eliciting a throaty yelp from you.

"Tell me what you want.” You shiver at the pure feral domineer in his voice.

"P-please Zayne, I want it. I need it.”

"What do you need baby?”

You groan in frustration, but give into his demands, "I-I need you Zayne, need you inside. Need it so bad.” The way you can see his breath hitch in his throat fills you with confidence, so you lean closer until your bottom lip brushes against his, "Need to feel you inside, please Zayne.”

His jaw locks as he grits out forcefully, "I will give you everything.”

Zayne holds his cock with one hand, lining it up with your entrance. His other hand grips the wooden beams of your bed frame, "Can you take it Y/N?”

If you’re being completely honest, you’re not sure you can. Though you weren’t a virgin, you had never even seen a man so large, let alone attempted. But at Zayne’s expectant expression, you nod eagerly, "Y-yes I can, I-I can try.”

"Good girl,” he mutters, before sinking himself into you. The stretch is so much worse than you imagined it would be, practically splitting you in half. You squealed, clawing at his biceps as he did his best to enter you. Feeling so incredibly stuffed, you look down only to see he’s barely just gotten his tip inside.

The vein in Zayne’s forehead throbs as his jaw slackens, a string of swears leaving his lips, "Jesus you’re like a vice down there. I need you to loosen up love, or else I'll never be able to get inside.”

You pant against him, not knowing what to do but to watch the way he stares intently at your tummy. The heat and desire in his expression arouses you beyond belief, and you unconsciously squeeze your velvet walls in excitement.

Zayne’s knuckles turn white as he grips the headboard for support, the veins in his forearms bulging as he groans out, "Fuck baby please. Are you trying to squeeze it off?”

"Sorry, m’sorry. S’too big,” you wail, hands gripping his shoulders for support. The stretch is nothing like you’ve ever felt, and you don’t know if you can take much more than what’s already inside you. "Z-Zayne it’s too big I c-can’t,” you pant, doing your best to relax and loosen up your muscles.

"You can, you’re doing so good for me Y/N,” Zayne huffs out, pushing deeper into you, the slick from your forming arousal and his pre cum starting to make the stretch easier. The drag of his cock against your gummy walls starts to feel so torturously delicious, like your body was made to take him in.

Finally, he eases into you, eyes unable to look away from where your bodies connected.

"If you could see how – hah – beautiful you look like this, spread out for me,” he grunts, being as gentle as he can manage, when all he wanted was to ram into your warm and tight cunt, squeezing him so tightly.

"Been waiting for the day I could – shit – finally be inside you. Drove me fucking insane thinking about you and Matthew.”

His words are enough to have you leaking all over your joined bodies, the slick dampening his pelvis and your thighs. As he seats himself in you as deeply as he can, his tip brushing against your womb, he lets out a shaky breath of ecstasy.

"Is this what you – hah – thought about? When you were with another man?” His words are claiming, making butterflies explode in your gut and your cunt to flutter around him. You can only moan and drool as his body thuds into yours, over and over.

"Sweetest little princess cunt I've ever felt,” he swears, languidly withdrawing from you before pushing back in, knocking the breath out of you. With your head leaning against the back of your bed frame you can see every second of his glistening length burrowing in and out of you, like it absolutely owned you.

"Z-Zayne,” you moan, nails digging into his shoulders, "Please.” You don’t know exactly what you’re begging for, but you can’t stop the words from coming.

"Hah, if you want something you have to – fuck – ask for it love,” he pants, doing his best not to get lost in the pure pleasure of finally getting to be inside you.

His words send you reeling, the ecstasy increasing with each deliberate and hard drag. You fight through the fucked out haze, vision blurred from your hooded lids, "Hah - harder please.”

At your request Zayne stutters for a brief second, your cunt squeezing so tight he could barely move, "Anything for you.”

With his hand clutching the frame, he uses his other hand to rub harsh circles onto your swollen clit. His pelvis smacks against your thighs and ass so hard that the bed posts knock into the wall repeatedly, the skin slapping sounds mixing with the sounds of the wood against the plaster.

At the added stimulation your eyes roll into your brain, your eyelids weighing down heavily. Zayne leans in until his chest presses against your breasts, your breaths heaving in tandem. His eyes follow yours, forcing you to hold eye contact with every deep thrust into your soul. Against your will, your eyelids flutter as the pleasure starts to overcome your fighting consciousness.

You can vaguely make out Zayne’s smirk, as his hand leaves the frame to cup your chin in his palm, "Don’t tell me you’re already worn out, love.” His fingers flick against your clit.

You yelp out, nails digging into his back with one hand while the other hand smacks his shoulder gently. You pout, "You’re so mean to me.”

He leans down to kiss your shoulder, his pace never faltering. He chuckles against your skin, "But you can take it, right? You always take me so well.” The double meaning of his words makes you clench in excitement, the praise making your chest tighten.

He groans as you clench down onto him, threatening to make him blow, "Hah so fucking tight. You like that huh baby? You like it when I praise you?” He thumbs your clit with more intensity, wanting to see you come absolutely undone for him.

You bite your lip to keep from screaming, nodding eagerly in response to his words. Zayne’s thrusts only grow in intensity, as if he’s trying to reach your esophagus from your cunt. You’re a mess of uncontrollable moans and mewls, unable to stop your eyes from rolling back and your tongue from hanging out as he fucked you into oblivion.

"Look at you,” he grins arrogantly, voice husky with desire and raw possessiveness, "Going on a date with my intern just to end up with my cock stuffed in you.”

You whine at his words, simultaneously not wanting to think about Matthew but also being so turned on by the dominating undertone of his words. His fingers abandon your clit, much to your disappointment, to trace the bulge his cock makes in your tummy. His other hand pulls your chin down so you can watch him.

"Look how deep I am, love,” he grunts. You watch in awe as the small bump in your stomach bulges and disappears with the rhythm of Zayne’s thrusts. With every withdrawal, Zayne’s impressive cock glistens with slick, the throbbing veins bulging enough to make you drool. Absolutely entranced, you fit your hand under his to stroke at his cock as it pushed through your tummy.

Zayne swears as you caress his cock through the bump in your tummy, throwing his head back to catch his breath. His hand goes back to paw at your clit, trying to stop himself from blowing his load into you right there.

As the climax builds in your gut, you throb around his impossibly hardened length spearing in and out of you, to which he twitches inside of you. The sounds of your combined whimpers and grunts, the lewd smacks of his damp slick dampened skin against yours, and the bed slamming against the wall overwhelm your brain until you can only think about Zayne, his cock inside you, and the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving you.

"Zayne, I-I’m close,” you cry, hand abandoning your stomach to loop around his neck, digging your nails into his damp skin.

"Fuck – I know love, I can feel you trying to squeeze it out of me,” he grunts, body slamming into yours so hard that your body smacks against the headboard.

"I’m gonna – gonna cum,” you cry, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back.

"No,” he demands, and you do your best not to gape at him. He gasps through his next strokes, "Be a good girl and wait for me. I want to feel you finish all over me when I cum inside you.”

"O-okay,” you say, but you’re honestly unsure if you’ll be able to wait, the waves of pleasure crashing into you so roughly it threatens to overtake you right then and there.

"That’s my girl,” gripping your chin, Zayne leans in to kiss you again, his tongue claiming your warm and waiting mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut and your body tenses as you try to quell the raging tides of the impending climax, moaning endlessly into Zayne’s mouth.

You pull away to breathe, your lungs needing as much oxygen as possible to withstand the ecstasy. Zayne’s hand grips the wooden beams above your bed again, his knuckles turning white as he watches the pleasure contort your beautiful face.

"I-I can’t – ”

"You can, baby. I’m – hah – almost there, just hold on a little longer for me,” he grunts. The pleasure and pain of his edging threatens to knock you unconscious, but you nod and throw your head back as your eyes roll backwards again.

Through your fucked out haze you can vaguely see a strange icy sheen forming on the wooden beams of your bed’s headboard. You follow the path of luminous crystals and realize they’re forming from Zayne’s hand that grips against the frame so tightly his knuckles are pale and taut, as he comes closer to exploding inside you.

Unable to shake yourself out of the pleasure, you can’t find the words to warn Zayne. You continue to watch in awe as the beautiful iridescent flakes frost over the dull old wood. His palm is covered in a layer of snow white frost, the tiny snowflakes dancing around his skin as it grips the furniture so forcefully. You realize he’s losing control of his evol, because of you. And the idea of that threatens to push you head first into your second orgasm of the night.

It happened so fast. As Zayne bullies himself in and out of you, thrusting as if his life depended on it, the wooden beams of your headboard cracks in his hand, the wood turning brittle against his icy evol, and shattering under the force of his bruising grip.

Zayne shields your body with his own as frozen wooden splinters fly everywhere, his thrusts stuttering as the sound of cracking wood pierces the air. You can tell he’s scared, constantly worried about losing control of his evol around you like this. His hands clasp together, massaging his wrists and trying to calm the unpredictable storm of his evol. You can feel him about to pull away, to get away from you and keep you safe.

You hug him close to you as he tries to pull away not wanting him to stop, not caring the least bit about the splintering wood falling into your hair. The worry and disgust with himself is evident in his eyes, and it tears at your heart so you do your best to comfort him, "S’okay Zayne, it’s not a big deal, I promise.”

But his eyes are far away, thick with emotions that make your chest lurch. You hold his face in your hands trying to get him to look at you and not the splintered mess of furniture above you. You lock your knees around his waist. "Zayne baby,” you soothe gently, "Look at me. Look at me please.”

His frantic eyes meet yours under the guidance of your palms. You watch as the storm in his eyes calms down ever so slightly when they meet yours. You brush your thumb against his cheek, whispering, "Don’t stop, please. M’so close. I need you.”

But Zayne is hesitant, only filled with worry for you, his thrusts halting altogether but still thick and solid in you. His jaw clenches down, "Did I hurt you?”

"Not at all,” you reassure, hand stroking his anguish laced face, "I don’t care, please make me cum Zayne, want to cum for you s’bad.”

Zayne continues his thrusts slowly, trying to shake away his anger at himself, "Hah – I'm so sorry Y/N, I'll buy you a new one, okay?”

"Y-yes whatever you want, but please just fuck me,” you plead, not wanting your climax to slip through your fingers, "Please don’t stop.”

Your begging is enough to have Zayne going feral again, slowly regaining the vigor in his thrusts. His hand dusts the wooden fragments away from your hair. Your head sinks deep into the pillow, and falls back to peer at the gaping hole in your bed frame, slightly in awe of his sheer primal strength. It honestly turned you on unbelievably, edging you closer and closer.

"Zayne I c-can’t wait anymore, m’sorry m’cumming,” you wail, your nails digging through his back as the ecstasy explodes in your body, from the tips of your curled toes to your fucked out brain. Your walls flex against Zayne’s vigorous thrusts as he continues to chase his own high, briefly forgetting about the furniture he’d ruined in his brief slip of control.

Your eyes pull away from the snowflakes melting on the splintered headboard and fixate on Zayne’s eyes as your vision spots with fireworks, his cock pistoning in and out of you relentlessly.

He lifts your thighs up until they press against his chest, your muscles aching in protest. Your ankles rest on his shoulders as he drives himself into your guts at this angle. He leans down and your body screams at the stretch in your muscles but he hits you so deeply like this you can’t feel anything but pleasure. He hits your g spot at every thrust, your body barely recovering from the previous orgasm as he steers you straight into another.

"Sh-shit,” he groans, his eyes hooded as they bore into yours, "Squeezing me so fucking tight, are you trying to milk me? If you keep clenching down like that I'm gonna – fuck!” He swears at your nails digging into his broad back, dragging deep scratches into him as he fucks you roughly through the pleasure.

"P-please Zayne I want to feel you,” you cry, "Cum inside me, please.” As Zayne pounds into you with no semblance of mercy, stars blur your vision, your body doing your best to accommodate him and the endless waves of overwhelming ecstasy. Your wet release splashes against your skin with every thrust of his hard muscular body.

"F-fuck I'm gonna cum so deep inside you baby,” he groans with his eyes intently staring into yours, "This pussy is all mine.”

"You’re mine,” his voice is intense, a primal growl of urge and possessiveness, claiming you as his with both words and with his body. He bends back down, pressing a wet open mouthed kiss into you, tongue intertwining with yours needily. Both his hands threads through your hair, tugging gently as he rocks into you. He groans into your mouth, body shuddering as he finally releases into you.

Zayne rips away from your lips to rock onto his knees before you and carry you onto his lap, wanting to be able to hold you as close as possible as he emptied rope after rope inside of you. The angle allowed him to literally fuck his spend up into you. Your legs wrap around his waist and your hands around his neck, unable to even squeal at the sudden movement, only able to drool out against the crook of his neck.

His spend is so deliciously hot inside of you, as your pussy quivers at the warmth, squeezing him even more. He forces his tongue into you again, wanting to be attached to you in every way as he pumps every thick rope into your waiting womb. As he tugs on your bottom lip, body still pressed on top of your legs, cock hitting your sweetest spots, you release all over him again.

Your eyes squeeze shut as your cunt pulsates uncontrollably, pulling more and more of his essence into you. Zayne’s thick muscles shake under you, the waves of his orgasm rocking his entire body into yours.

You pant as his bounces slow, his unending stamina finally coming to a halt as his sweaty chest heaves against your trembling breasts. He presses gentle kisses to the deep hickeys he’d marked onto your skin, using his broad hands to caress your bruise splotched throat.

The sound of satisfied pants and soft moans blankets the two of you as you snuggle into him, never wanting this moment of post sex bliss to end. Your collective spend begins to leak down onto Zayne’s lap, your poor cunt physically unable to hold the copious amount of spend inside of you.

As his member softens it begins to slip out of you uncomfortably, so you squeeze in an effort to keep him in you as long as physically possible.

Zayne swears, his eyes heated and his gentle grip on your throat tightening just slightly, as he warns you darkly, "Behave. Unless you want me to take you again.”

And though the idea of him bringing you to orgasm again, and many times after, sounds like heaven on earth, you don’t think your poor cunt can possibly handle any more pleasure for tonight. He chuckles when you ease up, stroking the curvature of your naked spine with his icy fingers.

"I’m sorry about your bed, my love,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, falling softly backwards onto the bed and guiding you down with him until you rested on top of his hard muscular body, his softening erection still nuzzled deep inside you. He’s careful to lay the two of your joined bodies away from the destroyed headboard, holding your head protectively against his chest. "I will buy you a replacement tomorrow.”

His free hand roams every inch of your body, from twirling the strands of your hair to gripping the supple flesh of your rear.

"S’okay Zayne, it’s not necessary,” you murmur sleepily, tracing the contours of his taut muscles, "I don’t need a new frame.” Honestly the idea of Zayne breaking your bed in pure primal lust was enough to have the heat collecting back in between your thighs.

"I would rather you take me on a date,” you smile into his skin, "Since you ruined the one I had today.”

Zayne chuckles, the sound so warm and beautiful to your ears you think you might melt right into his solid frame, "I suppose I did. Will you let me take you out tomorrow?”

You lean up so that your chin rests on his chest and you can peer at him through your lashes, giving him your best begging face, "Only if you beg.”

He looks up at you, the amused lopsided smile on his face just begging to be wiped off, "Please? Let me take you to dinner.” He lifts your chin off his chest with his index finger, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He smirks when you shiver at his fleeting touch, watching you bend to his very will.

"And then after…” he trails off, fingers leaving your face to trace against the side of your exposed breasts, and up to your hard nipples. You bite your lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of moaning out.

As he incessantly fiddles with your skin, you finish his thought with a joke, "After you can come destroy my new bed frame too.”

Zayne’s eyes darken with mischief and amusement, "You shouldn't write checks your body can’t cash, my love.”

The filthy promise in his words coupled with his cold fingers pressed deliciously into your pebbled peaks rip the whimper you’d been holding back out of your lips, your cunt clenching in anticipation despite your crippling exhaustion.

But it seems Zayne knows your body as well as you do. "But for tonight, just sleep,” he mumbles into the top of your head, pressing his lips into your hair.

"Mmm stay here with me, please,” you murmur into his chest, letting the sleep take root in your pleasure numbed mind.

"I'll be here when you wake up,” he reassures, his voice falling deeper and rougher with exhaustion and hands shifting to cover your bodies with your comforter. His hands then wrap around your waist, holding your body against this, as if scared you’d disappear from his arms. "I won’t ever leave you.”

Your heart flutters as the unconsciousness claims you. "G’night Zayne,” you mumble, kissing his chest.

"Good night my love.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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heavenlybodies333 · 25 days ago

Text

Psychoanalysis and Other Forms of Foreplay -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Spencer slumped in his chair, shoulders curled forward, fingers twitching against the edge of his desk. His screen had gone black. He didn’t notice. His fingers toyed with a paperclip, twisting it into unfamiliar shapes. By the time he realized he had bent it into a crude spiral, Penelope Garcia was already leaning on the edge of his desk, silently watching.

Across the bullpen, Garcia appeared in a flurry of lemon-yellow and rage.

“Okay,” she said, not even bothering with a hello. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you play innocent with me, Dr. Disaster. You’ve been cranky, broody, barely forming full sentences for like… months.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I thought it was just you being you. But I saw you turn down Olivia from accounting today.”

Spencer looked at her like she’d spoken Martian. “She has a boyfriend.”

“She also has working eyes and a pulse and was very into your whole tortured genius thing,” Garcia snapped. “But you looked like she handed you a hand grenade instead of a phone number.”

He sighed. “It’s not that I’m not interested in dating.”

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “So what is it?” He hesitated.

“Spencer.”

He stared at his hands. “I can’t… finish.”

Garcia blinked. “Like… your sentences? Or—”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sexually. I can’t come.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Not since—” He cut himself off.

“Oh my god. Since her?” He winced. “Oh my god. Spencer, no.”

He exhales. “It’s just her.” Garcia stared, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “So your… tool of quantifiable pleasure is emotionally monogamous?”

“I’m not doing this for fun, Penelope!”

“You’re not doing this at all, apparently!”

He glared at her. She softened. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But, Spence—listen to yourself. You’re literally telling me the only person who can get you off is Hotch’s daughter. The girl whose heart you broke. The girl you left because her father said to. You realize how messed up that sounds, right?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t leave because he said to. I left because she asked me not to fight him. She didn’t want to make it worse. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to hurt her more by pushing.”

“Yeah,” Garcia said, folding her arms. “And now you want to go crawling back to her. For what, closure? Round two? Post-nut clarity?”

Spencer runs a hand through his already chaotic hair. “That is not how I’d describe it. But yes.”

Penelope stares. “So you’ve tried?”

He nods, miserable. “Hookups. Dates. Paid for dinner. Tried not paying for dinner. Switched hands. Switched porn. Nothing.”

She squints. “And you think this is a… medical issue?”

“No. It’s psychological. I know exactly what it is. It’s her. My mind won’t let go of her, and my body’s catching on.”

She gave him a long, hard look. “Do not use her like some kind of sexual Drano, I mean it,” she continues. “You don’t get to show up at her door hard and hollow and expect her to patch the leak. That girl loved you. And last I checked, heartbreak wasn’t an aphrodisiac.”

Your Apartment, 11:02 PM

You opened the door without checking the peephole. Rookie move. But you’d been expecting a food delivery.

Instead, it was Spencer.

And he looked like hell. You crack the door, arms crossed, hip leaning into the frame. “You lost?”

He looks like hell. Not in the tragic, gaunt, ex-addict way—no, this is emotional hell. Shirt wrinkled. Hair a little too curly. Mouth parted like he’s not sure how to start.

“I… needed to talk.”

You sigh and open the door fully. “You’ve got two minutes.”

He walked in like he’d forgotten what your apartment looked like. Eyes flicking to the couch you used to fuck on, the blanket he’d wrapped you in when you cried watching Dead Poets Society, the half-read book on the coffee table with his annotated handwriting in the margins.

“Did you come to sightsee or spit out whatever dumbass reason brought you here?”

“You look good,” he offers, like it might soften the blow of whatever he’s about to say.

You blinked arching an eyebrow. “You look like shit. And I know that’s not why you’re here.”

“I tried,” he added quickly, like it was a confession. “And it just… doesn’t work. I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“Finish.”

Your mouth went dry. “Spencer.” You stare. “I’m sorry?”

“I haven’t been able to orgasm. Since… you.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Because what the fuck is this?

“You’re seriously here to tell me that no one else can make you come? And what, you thought I would fix that for you?” You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “For fuck’s sake, Spencer.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, stepping forward. “I just—I’ve been trying to move on. And I can’t. It’s like my body knows what my brain keeps denying.”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to feel bad for you?” Your tone was acid. “Because it sounds like you came here to make your problem my problem.”

Spencer looked wrecked. “I don’t want to use you.”

“Then don’t.”

“I just—” He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s you. It’s always been you. And it’s like my body knows it before I do.”

Your breath caught. Because that’s the thing—he always knew what to say when it was already too late.

You turned away from the door, arms tight across your chest. He didn’t follow you right away. Maybe he was waiting for the invite that wasn’t coming. Or maybe he knew better than to push.

“So what now?” you asked, voice carefully flat. “You tell me that your dick misses me, and I’m supposed to be flattered?”

Spencer flinched. “That’s not—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘what this is about.’”

He shut his mouth.

You crossed the room and leaned against the kitchen counter, curling your fingers around the edge like it might hold you in place. “Do you know how sick it is that you showed up here because no one else can get you off? That’s a you problem, Spencer. Not mine.”

“I know that,” he said quietly.

“Do you?”

He looked down. “I don’t expect you to fix it.”

“Then why are you here?”

His eyes met yours. “Because I can’t pretend it doesn’t mean something.”

You stared at him. “You left me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you did. You let him make the call for both of us.”

He stepped closer, slowly. “You asked me not to fight him.”

“I thought giving you space was respecting your boundaries,” he said finally. “I thought leaving was the least selfish thing I could do.”

You swallowed. “You were wrong.”

A beat. Then another. “Do you want me to leave?”

You looked away. The worst part was—you didn’t. Not yet. “…No.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding it since he got in the car. “Then can I just… sit down?”

You nodded once, sharply. He crossed to the couch and eased into it like the memory of you was still warm in the cushions. You watched him from the kitchen, heart hammering.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” you said, even though he hadn’t asked.

He nodded. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You scoffed. “You already did.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped, caught himself. “You’re right. I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

You were quiet a long time.

“I’ve tried to stop missing you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “It’s exhausting.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.” He laced his fingers together in his lap. “But I thought you should know.”

You moved closer, slowly. Stood across from him, arms crossed. “So what is this, then? You show up, tell me your body won’t cooperate with anyone else, and what—expect me to just… hold that for you? Be honored?”

He looked up. “No. I’m asking if you still miss me too.”

You blinked.

“I’m asking,” he said carefully, “if I’m the only one who feels like there’s a version of us we never got to finish.”

You didn’t mean to cry.

It just… happened.

Hot tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them, before you could tell your body no. You turned away fast, back to the kitchen sink, chest rising too fast.

Spencer stood—but didn’t cross the room. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

You nodded, barely. “I know.” You blinked slowly. “So what now?”

“I don’t know.”

Another pause. And then you said it. The question that had been burning your tongue since he walked in.

“Is this about sex? Or is this about me?”

His jaw tensed. “It’s both. But I swear to you, if I could want anyone else—if I could feel this way with anyone else—I would.”

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“Not because I don’t love you,” he said quickly. “Because it would be easier if I didn’t.”

You stared at him. “You’re pathetic.”

“I know.”

“I should tell you to leave.”

“You should.”

“But I’m not.”

He moved first—close enough to feel your breath catch. His voice was barely audible. “If I kiss you, will you hit me?”

“Probably.”

He didn’t move. But you did. You grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down into you like it was instinct, like some part of your body still remembered.

You backed into the couch without breaking the kiss, tugging him with you until your legs hit the edge and you dropped into the cushions. He followed instantly, his knees bracketing your thighs, weight caging you in. That kiss didn’t stop—not even when your fingers started undoing the buttons on his shirt with more aggression than skill.

“I hate you,” you muttered between kisses, your breath catching as he dragged his mouth down your neck.

“I deserve that,” he mumbled back, nipping at your collarbone. “Say it again.”

“I hate you.”

“You still want me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Please.”

You shoved his shirt off his shoulders with trembling hands. He made a sound in the back of his throat when you scraped your nails down his chest. It was rougher than you used to be.

“Tell me this means something,” he whispered, voice cracked.

You dragged his belt free and tossed it to the floor. “It means I need you to shut the fuck up.”

He dropped to his knees. Palmed your thighs. Rested his forehead against your hip like he was praying.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured.

You pushed him back. “Lie down.”

Spencer obeyed like it was instinct—like your voice bypassed logic. He sank back into the cushions, legs spread, eyes dark and waiting. Watching you like he didn’t know if this was real or punishment.

You climbed into his lap slowly, deliberately—straddling him, knees pressed to either side of his hips, your thighs bracketing the tension he was barely holding back.

Your hands framed his jaw. You kissed him again—slower this time. He moaned into your mouth when you rocked your hips forward, grinding against the hard line of him. There was nothing polite about it—just friction and desperation, your thin panties soaked through already and his cock straining beneath his boxers like it couldn’t wait to be touched.

You reached between your bodies and tugged them down just enough, freeing him. He was thick, flushed, already leaking—and he cursed under his breath when you wrapped your fingers around him.

“Still can’t come for anyone else?” you asked, stroking him slow and steady.

His head fell back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut. “No one but you.”

“Good.”

You lifted just enough to tug your panties aside and lined him up with your entrance. His hands gripped your hips like he was trying not to beg. You sank down, your slick slipping against his throbbing cock.

Spencer shuddered. A deep, guttural sound tore from his chest like it was the first breath he’d taken in months. His eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You—you feel—”

“Better than anyone else?” you finished, lips curling into something mean.

He nodded like he was drowning. “So much better.”

You set the rhythm—slow, grinding circles that forced him to feel every inch of you.

He was falling apart underneath you. Hands trembling where they clutched your thighs. Breathing erratic.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, desperate and glazed.

“You came here thinking this would fix something.” Your nails dug into his shoulders. “But it won’t. It’ll make it worse.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice raw. “I want it anyway.”

You rocked harder now, angling your hips just right, the drag of him inside you hitting every spot that made your legs shake. You clenched around him and he whimpered.

“Jesus—baby—please—”

“You close?” you asked sweetly, tightening your grip on his jaw.

He nodded frantically. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” you said, breath hot against his cheek. “You came all this way, Spencer. Don’t you dare fucking stop now.”

He let out a strangled groan—head tipping back, mouth parted, eyes glazed like he was already coming apart from just the threat of it.

“I’m gonna—I can’t—fuck—”

His hips jerked beneath you, chasing every desperate ounce of friction, hands flying to your ass like he needed to ground himself. You were soaked, clenching hard around him, rhythm never breaking.

Spencer spilled into you with a shudder so intense it almost knocked you both backward. His hips jerked helplessly, mouth slack, eyes glassy as he came harder than he had in over a year, burying his face in your shoulder like he couldn’t handle the sound of it, let alone the feeling.

You came with a gasp, your entire body clenching around him, nails dragging down his back, hips still rolling through the aftershocks.

You were both breathless and trembling, locked together like neither of you could quite bear to be apart.

Spencer held you. Tight. His breath was warm against your neck.

You felt the words forming before he even said them.

“I love you,” he whispered, ruined. “I never stopped.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet. But you didn’t let go, either. And he knew. He’d just made the biggest mistake of his life all over again. But this time—you weren’t going to let him walk away without a fight.

a/n: limerence is going to kill me

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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chilumi-shipper · 8 months ago

Note

A prompt came into mind.. up to you if you're interested.

So, character and reader got married but character cheated because he said he doesn't love the reader anymore. They're technically done, but haven't finished doing the divorce files (because it's expensive and takes a long long time). But.. character got into an accident.. which made him forget everything that happened recently, and only remember the days he loved the reader. Reader's conflicted, the mistress that character has doesn't know what to do either. Character was confused on why he would marry anyone else when he has the reader fo begin with.

I think this fits your styles.

Btw, I LOVE ALL YOUR STORIES! I RE-READ THEM EVERYDAY-

Someone Better

Childe x Fem!Reader

Summary: Childe was a wild spirit, so when he got bored of your relationship, he sought the excitement of another woman. You were heartbroken, ultimately asking for a divorce. But just as your connection was almost severed, he got into an accident, losing every memory of his infidelity and returning to the man that made you fall in love him.

Tags: Cheating, Amnesia, Pining, Angst/No Comfort

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You were staring at the tremendous amount of divorce paperwork sitting on the desk of your hotel room.

It was very complicated, five years of marriage with joined insurance, property, bank accounts, and now you have to meticulously separate all your joined assets, all while constantly on the verge of a breakdown.

Not to mention you had no family to stay with in Snezhnaya. There's absolutely no one you could talk to about everything, you've left your homeland thinking your future in the cold nation with the love of your life would be nothing less that fantasy.

As you rest your head on the desk and closed your eyes tightly to ease the headache, your ears perk up as loud knocks hit your door.

With a groan, you got up and opened it to reveal your two of Childe's older siblings.

"He's looking for you." The older sister said, Alevtina, her seriousness evident, looking at you somewhat panicked.

"I know, big si-" I paused for a moment, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. "I'm working on the assets, I'll send it as soon as possible."

"No." The chilly tone of the older brother, Alexei, sent shivers down your spine. "You need to come with us."

...

"Big sister Y/N is here?" You hear Teucer's innocent voice as you enter their home. The younger children laid their eyes on you, seemingly eager to come closer, but perhaps they've been told that now would not be the time.

"Honey... Thank you for coming..." Their mother embraced you warmly, still accepting you with motherly affection. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry..."

"Mama, has he calmed down?" Alexei asked from behind you.

Your mother-in-law parts from you slightly, looking at you tenderly. "She will definitely help."

You put your confusion and questions aside, seeing the somewhat tense air within the house.

"Stop staring." You weren't looking at him, but you felt his eyes watching you set down a tray of soup and medicine on his bedside table.

Childe lets out a chuckle. "Sorry, love, I can't help it..." His eyes never faltered, containing a look of admiration that you've been unfamiliar with for so long.

"After the avalanche, I got a pretty bad head injury. When I woke up, you were the first thing on my mind. And when Mama said you weren't here with me, I freaked out."

You sat down on a chair next to his bed, your eyes observing the bandages wrapped around his head. "What did the doctor say about your injury?"

"I'm gonna get some very bad headaches, and I also got a bit of amnesia, I think." Childe looks as if he's in thought. "Do I seem like I forgot something?"

"Maybe some things..."

"But I love you just the same! So I bet what I forgot wasn't even that important!"

...How cruel.

Having to take care of the man that broke you apart, even worse, a version of him that you loved too much to despise.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

It was painful, staying with him.

Childe would keep you close, call you his different pet names, cuddle up to you, all while you were under the pitiful gaze of his family that knew of his infidelity.

On the other hand, he's been feeling the cold responses his advances have been receiving. But to him, he thinks he can solve it by smothering you in more of his love.

He is pretty observant, he's put it two in two together that he may be missing a memory in which he had done something wrong. He just didn't know how much it had hurt.

Though, not only from you, Childe had also felt that his younger siblings seem distant as well, no longer asking him to play snow games outside, or looking up to him as some sort of hero.

One early morning, when he walks up to the kitchen to see you cooking for the whole family, a smile formed on his face.

He steps closer, wrapping his muscular arms around your waist. "Hmmm... Morning, honey..." He basks in the feeling of you.

You remain quiet, letting him do as he pleases. The ginger frowns, however, feeling unsatisfied by your lack of reaction.

"Babyyyy... Loveee meee backkkk..." He whines, nuzzling his face on your neck.

"Ajax, come on..." You stifled a laugh, moving slightly away as his action tickled you. He hears the slight giggle of your words, smiling against your skin.

You compose yourself, pushing him away from you. "Stop." He lets you push him away, and you feel him freeze slightly at the harshness of your tone.

His blue eyes looked at you worried. "...Hey," He starts. "I'm sorry, darling, did you not like that?"

With a sigh, you looked down. "When the others wake up, tell them I already made breakfast. I have somewhere to be."

You walk pass him, but you did not miss the hurt tone of the faint call of your name.

...

You come back to his family's home after doing some more paperwork for the divorce that your husband doesn't even remember, feeling your head pounding as you ready yourself to face him again.

What you don't expect to see this late at night is Childe sitting on the porch with a lantern next to him, his head hung low as if he's thinking deeply.

"Childe?"

He looks up, but he frowns at you. "Ajax, darling..." He reminds you.

Standing up, he pulls you into his warm embrace. "I love you... I missed you..."

His words take you aback, as you reluctantly wrap your arms around him.

"I've been thinking about this morning, about you. You hate me."

"I know I must've done something... you can tell me." He kneels in front of you, staring at your eyes while his sparkle with the light of the lantern. "And even if I don't remember, I'll make it right..."

As you look down at him, you see the fiery passion of love that burned in his eyes as he knelt down to ask you to marry him so long ago.

It scares you...

You might not be able to control yourself...

"It's just hard to take care of you sometimes." You smile ever so slightly, yet his frown only deepens as tears start to escape your eyes.

He stands, his hand finds its way to your cheek. "Love..." His eyes held such conviction that you've not seen for years. "I'm so sorry..."

You close your eyes to hold in the tears, shaking your head and swaying his hand away. "...You're not."

Despite the tears, you tug at his arm. "Come on, let's head inside."

He's filled with questions, but seeing your sad face makes him set all those aside and focus on you for now.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

"Teucer, hey, little man." Childe calls for his little brother.

The little boy looks at him wide eyed. "I don't want to talk to you." He crossed his little arms, turning around to leave with a displeased look.

"What...? Oh come on..." The harbinger pouted, getting down on his little brother's level. "What did I do wrong...? All our siblings are acting so mean to me..." He whined, frowning as he tries to persuade the little ginger.

"But you were also very very mean!" Teucer refused to look at his older brother, the one he used to look up to the most. "We don't like you anymore!"

Childe's playful facade faded as his expression contorted to a confused one. "Hey, what do you mean...?"

"You're so mean to Y/N, you hurt her! She doesn't deserve tha-"

"Teucer!" Just as his brother erupted to a crying mess, screaming at him with all his little heart, their mother walked into the room, grabbing the little boy.

"Don't talk like that to your elders!"

"But it's true, Mama!"

"That doesn't matter, say sorry to-"

"What does he mean, Mama? Why did I do?" Childe looked at his mother expectantly, his voice starting to shake as he saw the fit of rage Teucer had because of him. "W-What did I do to Y/N?"

HIs mother shook her head, trying to ease her expression with a smile. "Nothing..."

"It's not nothing, Mama!" He raises his voice by accident due to his frustration. "I see it, the way she looks at me, it's different. The way you all look at me, like you have a monster inside your house."

Teucer forced his way out of his mother's hold, running to his older siblings room all teary eyed. Childe felt bad, but he desperately needed answers from his mother.

"Mama, please, I need to know why Y/N doesn't... love me anymore..." It hurts him to say, but based on the way you're acting, he could only make the assumption that your feelings have wavered.

"Oh, Ajax... it's not like that..."

The ginger then felt a sharp pain in his head, making him fall down onto the couch. He groaned as he clutched his head.

"Hey... where are you heading off to so late at night?" He hears your soft voice in a static audio playing in his head.

"Out." He then hears himself replying coldly.

"Ohh, when will you-"

He's out the door before you could even finish your question.

"Ajax, honey!' His mother's voice was a hazy blur as he keeps his eyes closed to envision what he's hearing in his head.

He tries to shake the feeling away, but his mind is flooded by fragmented memories.

"You've been going out a lot more recently." Your concerned voice entered his ears.

"I've been busy."

"Busy where?"

He then hears shatters of glass and yells as you sob while trying to talk to him.

He pictures your face, your crying, begging face, asking for some sort of salvation from his cold and merciless actions.

"T-There's someone else?"

"Someone better."

"H-How could y-you do this?"

"When I look at you now... I feel... nothing."

Childe opened his eyes, not realizing that tears had started to flow to his cheeks. "Mama..."

"Y-Yes, dear?"

"I hurt her..." He was in a state of disbelief. "I-I... Why...?"

His tears fell faster, looking at his mother for answers. "W-Why, Mama? Why was I so stupid? Why did I choose to lose her?"

"I don't know, dear, but that's simply what happened, and you could never make her forget that, even if you forgot."

His breathing started to accelerate, feeling like he wanted to punch himself. As his head started spinning, his vision turns black.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You took a deep breath as you walked into the house, feeling everyone's eyes on you as you entered.

"Honey..." Your ex mother-in-law embraces you once again, holding you tight. "I'm so sorry... I didn't want to make it difficult for you..."

"N-No, no..." You returned her hug, sniffling as you start to tear up. "I readied myself for this, I'm just here to drop off the final papers..."

"Could you talk to him?" Alevtina suddenly asked, looking at you hesitantly. "I know he's been a jerk... but he won't eat unless he talks to you."

You parted from their mother, feeling the pressure of their request.

"It's okay to curse him, or to scream, or rough him up, I'll even help you." Alexei placed his hand on your shoulder to comfort you.

You nodded, sighing as they guided you to his room. And as you entered with a heavy feeling in your chest, he immediately sat up, alerted by your presence. You stare at each other for a bit before you muttered a word.

"Hi." You greeted him shortly.

"Hey..." His voice was soft, and his eyes followed you attentively.

"I'm sorry to intrude, I'll make this quick." You breathe deeply, trying to relax yourself. "I finished the papers, split the assets, got the lawyers."

"I talked to her, y-your woman..." You looked down, fidgeting with your hands. Childe seemed unfazed by it, though his gaze seem to falter at the mention of 'his woman'.

"She... umm... wasn't really interested anymore after the accident..." You breathe heavily, feeling small under his gaze. "But... your family's here to take care of you..."

Clearing your throat, you continued. "I do have one request, if I could... I would like a safe boat ride back home." You stepped closer, intending to hand him the envelope that contained all the paperwork to finalize your divorce.

"Take it all." You stopped in your tracks as he spoke.

"The house, the mora, the boat. It's all yours..." He lays back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Would you also do me a favor?"

You looked at him, encouraging him to speak.

"Carve my heart out and take it with you."

"...Can we be serious for a second?" You sighed.

"I would like to stay with you. I think that would be a good way to do it without constantly wanting to punch myself." You noticed that his eyes started to flood with tears.

"Ajax... I'm sorry this happened to you..."

"No, Y/N, I'm sorry... I'm sorry for everything." He sat up again, tears falling from his eyes as he looks up at you with genuine eyes. "I don't know why I did that. And I... I regret it so much..." He reached for your hand, and you let him hold onto you for strength.

"Every tear I had in me I already cried when you left me for her." You smiled bitterly, though you remained soft, making him even more guilty as you try to stay strong. "But I appreciate the apology..."

You pull your hand away from him slowly, feeling that he was reluctant to let go.

"I-I still love you..."

You gave him a final smile. "You'll love someone better than me... Childe..." You back away, leaving him alone in his room still yearning for the days where his memory only consisted of loving you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Hiiii again after quite a while! I think I've been noticing that my recent fics have been angst, I guess I just feel like hurting you guys this season of giving (I give pain :D)

Anywayy, anon, I think at some point I went my own direction and didn't fully stick to your request (I'm sorryyy TvT) but I hope you like it anyway!

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin angst #childe angst #childe x reader #genshin impact childe

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sunseed-fandump · 5 months ago

Note

If events in the Silver Kingdom happen, where do they play? Did they sneak into Pure Vanilla Cookie's flying boat to Beast Yeast?

I have a feeling SMilk is gonna be playing hard mode on the trio's anxieties and trauma.

I'm not 100% certain how certain parts of the Silver Kingdom Episodes would play out, but they definitely snuck onto Pure Vanilla's Air Ship in an attempt to catch him alone and to snatch the Soul Jam. But then the ship gets attacked and they crash land.

PV manages to convince the kids that it would be the best survival method to stick together. After all, this is unfamiliar territory with even more unfamiliar dangers. Pure Vanilla would appreciate the back-up they could provide, and he's sure they would appreciate a Healer in case things start going south.

Besides, if they stay close to him, then it just gives them more opportunities to take his Soul Jam and run once they have a safe way back to Crispia.

(Really though, he just wants them to stay close so he can lend a hand if they need it.)

They weren't totally convinced at first, but then the Light of Freedom reached out to PV and he began finding and piecing its fragments back together. With the possibility of getting TWO Soul Jams for the price of taking down One Ancient, the kids decided to comply with a temporary truce.

They were not thrilled about the Faeries turning out to be servants of the Witches. As a result they were very tense during their meeting with Elder Faerie Cookie. Though he didn't regard them with any hostility, they still felt uneasy about him.

They also weren't too thrilled about the idea of White Lily Cookie still somehow existing. I don't think she and Gingerbrave would have the talk they had in Canon. At least, they won't have a conversation like that yet. Maybe later.

The story about the Beasts wasn't as much of a surprise to them, considering Wild Strawberry's knowledge of other timelines and Wizard's extensive research. They were surprised however, by seeing how powerful one Beast was first hand. Second-hand accounts and ancient history doesn't really put that level of devastating power into perspective.

As for the events after the Silver Kingdom. The Kids decide not to stick around the Faerie Kingdom. They vanish after the seal gets repaired by White Lily, causing Pure Vanilla some distress.

I can't imagine they'd feel comfortable hanging around a witch-worshipping kingdom for any longer than they have to. Besides, with White Lily revived, that means they'd have to fight Two Ancients for those Soul Jams. The three of them working together can barely keep up with one Ancient as is, so having to try to fight two at the same time? Too much of a risk.

Better to back off and set up a new plan of action, than sticking around and risk getting crumbled or winding up on a Witch's plate.

#ask #kaitou spectre #bad batch #my art #wizard cookie #gingerbrave #strawberry cookie #wild strawberry cookie #pure vanilla cookie

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miss-vanta-likes-to-write · 2 months ago

Text

In an angst mood. So you all get to suffer. Enjoy.

Life Line

Pairing: cheater!John Price x wife!reader

CW: cheating. mention of miscarriage. 18+

You're my lifeline, and you're trying to kill me. If I wasn't me, would you still feel me? Like on my worst days?

You sat quietly at the kitchen table. Glass of wine empty and dry, and you've been drinking right from the bottle. Your children are in bed, tucked in for the night after spending the day being spoiled. You went all out today, deciding that your daughter Iyana and your son Jackie could use the fun. After all, depending on how this conversation went, their lives were going to be changed drastically. On the table is your prenuptial agreement, something you thought you'd never have to get out and look at. Next to it is a manilla folder, and in that folder is the photos.

Photos and records of everything the private investigator had uncovered. You had this folder for two weeks before you opened it up. It wasn't because you were afraid of what was in it. No, it was because you didn't want to go crazy right away and leave your kids orphaned because you were liable to murder Captain John Price. Your husband of ten years.

You'd met him by chance. His task force had been assigned to working with the task force you provided contracted work with. You weren't some fancy soldier or government operator. You were just some woman who was good with numbers and analytics and noticing patterns. So it was inevitable that you would notice the pattern of your husband cheating.

It started small. He would be staying at work a bit later than usual sometimes. Maybe he would be out with his team at the bar a bit later than usual. But why would the bank statements not match up those nights? Two charges, one on the card and then a withdrawal for cash from an atm? He normally paid for his team after missions, so the first charge made sense, but the cash withdrawal not so much. Maybe it was for tips after drinking? No, because the withdrawal happened often, and from the account, that was his mad money. The account you only checked when you wanted to slip him money for something nice and fun, in the same fashion that he would do you. And it was always for the same amount, 600 pounds each time.

It spiraled from there. He was careful not to get unfamiliar perfume on him. Didn't get lipstick stains on shirts. What he didn't think you'd do was check his milage on his truck. From home to base was only 20 miles. Base to bar 10 miles. On Thursdays, when he works late, he comes back, and the miles are off for the week.

Patterns is what made you decide to hire a private investigator. And right after, you locked everything down. No sex on the account of your gynecologist saying "Mrs. Price, we're just worried about your cervical health. We need to monitor it."

John Price took it for what it was.

I don't care about the lights or the beams. Spend my life in the dark for the sake of you and me

The front door opens, and it's a Friday night that won't be soon forgotten. You hear John lumbering about. He's on the phone letting Simon know he got home just fine. You feel your insides curdle, and you wonder if Simon, who was the best man at your wedding, knew about this.

John walks past the dining room, putting away his phone, and he stops when the light flicks on. He looks like a deer caught in headlights as he stares at your carefully composed form. "Sweetheart?" He smiles that handsome smile of his. "You didn't have to wait up for me."

"I know John." You say, voice devoid of emotion. Despite the alcohol in your system, you don't slur your speech. "Have a seat. We we need to talk." You watch as his eyes flick down to the wine bottle and then back to your impassive face.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" He comes close and places a hand to your shoulder. His eyes finally land on the prenuptial agreement and the folder and he knows something isn't right. "Love, you've been drinking, let's get you to bed." He gently tries to urge you up and away from the table.

Instead, he hears the safety of a gun go off. And slowly, you press it to his side. "It's loaded. Now either you sit down and we talk, or I swear John we are about to see how serious we take those vows 'till death do us part'."

Even he knows not to test a civilian with a firearm. He glances towards the steps that lead to your children, and he decides its best to go along with this. He doesn't want the kids waking up. "What's this about?" His voice is calm and sturdy. He's in Captain mode, the version you first met.

"Open that folder, John, and tell me what you see." You finally look at him. Really look at him and see him for what he is. A liar, manipulator, and the man you gave 12 years of your life to, and pushed out 3 kids and suffering a miserable miscarriage while he was deployed.

It takes a moment, but he opens the folder, and the pictures spill out. It's photos of a woman, pretty and younger than you. Body still tight, never having to push out a kid and go through gestational diabetes. She's vibrant and young and looks similar to what you used to look like. The color drains from his face and his eyes snap up to yours.

"Sweetheart -" He says, trying to figure out where the photos came from. He's a captain in the S.A.S. He's always got his wits about him. "I don't know -"

"Keep looking John." You say and cross your legs. And there are photos of him with this woman, holding hands and kissing. He was careful to be nowhere near the frequent haunts you and him and the kids had. Her social media screen shots are amongst the photos along with bank statements with regular weekly withdrawals of the 600 pounds.

Your eagle eyes watch him closely. He sits down the photos and meets your gaze. At least he has the decency to do that. It's so quiet you can hear a a fly wash it's face. Your martial home knows that this is the eye of the storm. Next, you open up the prenuptial agreement, ignoring his excuses. They go in one ear and out the other.

"John Price. Remember when you said you wanted a prenuptial agreement since that first marriage was such a mess?" You ask. You flip to page 4 out of 5, and scan the page for lines 15.

"Sweetheart, you're drunk. Why don't we talk about this in the morning?" He moves the take the gun from you and you point it at him. "Put it down Love-"

"I swear I'll kill us both. Do you think I won't?" You say. "Now shut the fuck up and listen."

It's tense, and he really doesn't want to hurt you or have you shoot if he disarms you and wake the kids. He is the hostage for once in an actual hostage situation he has no control over. He lets out a deep sigh and scrubs a hand down his face. "Fine."

"Now. We have a clause that says, if either of us cheats, the offending party gives up 70% of all assets earned during the marriage plus child support and alimony if there is proof."

He visibly gulps. There's sweat on his forehead.

"There's the proof. I have copies with my sister." You say. "Now, either we can renegotiate the rules to our marriage or we can get divorced."

"Love, why don't we try therapy?" He asks, voice quiet. "I know it's no excuse but work-"

"Work is hard for you huh?" You say with a dry laugh, "you get shot at. Shipped off to fuck all nowhere on the regular."

"Sweetheart that's not what I mean. Things have just been different with us."

"When did they become different?" You ask. You already knew when. Last year, when the miscarriage happened. You became a shell of yourself, and when he got back from his disastrous mission, you comforted him. It was three months of hell. You had post partum depression with no baby to show for it. Your sexdrive nonexistent due to the antidepressants. The stress of taking care of the two kids you did have. Dealing with tears and meltdowns and crash outs while he was playing hero.

As expected, he stays quiet.

"John Price. I became a stay at home wife and mother at your request. Put my career on hold because you wanted the kids to have their mother home, so you wouldn't worry about us and our safety. Twelve years, gone just like that." You shake your head. "I know appearances are important to you and your military circle of higher-ups. I know this clause in the prenuptial agreement will ruin you financially. You and I both know you wouldn't want to explain why you're getting divorced to your family and why you have only visitation rights to your kids. So here's what we are gonna do." Your grip on the gun tightens. You pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand.

"I still think we should revisit this when you're sober Love." He whispers. The shame is thick in his voice, in how he holds his shoulders.

"No. Your choices are we stay married and things appear normal. You can have your sugar baby or whomever she is to you. She doesn't meet our kids. You keep her out of our house. We won't share a bedroom or a bed. We still parent our children together. You have your fun, I'll have my fun. The same rules that apply to you also apply to me."

You both know that John is possessive. He never liked sharing. There have been times in your early stages of the relationship where her had proven as much. Mid-day fucking in his office, with him leaving marks that couldn't be hidden by your blouses. All because Allen, your coworker, got you an iced latte, or Drew smiled too long at you during information briefings. His jaw clenches and works, most likely grinding his teeth at the thought you being wrapped up in some other man's arms.

"No." He says, "That's not happening."

"Then you need to go and get you a divorce lawyer that can argue your case pretty damn well." You move to stand. "If you want to sleep on it. Do it on the couch or your office, but you need to have an answer for me tomorrow night after me and the kids get back from my parents."

You don't say anything else as you disappeared up the steps.

You don't see how he places his face in his hands and tries to fight back tears.

a.n: not sure who to tag... but I think you all would want to read. @gazsluckyhat @leahnicole1219 @uraeus56 @ilostthewar @lostintransist @lay-z

idk may do a part 2 that focuses on the fallout if there is a desire for it.

Part 2 (I ain't) Sorry

#surprise drop #captain john price #john price x reader #john price x you #cheater!john price #call of duty fic #cod fic #call of duty fanfic #angst #black!fem!reader #black reader #john price #captain john price x reader

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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago

Text

Retiring the US debt would retire the US dollar

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

One of the most consequential series of investigative journalism of this decade was the Propublica series that Jesse Eisinger helmed, in which Eisinger and colleagues analyzed a trove of leaked IRS tax returns for the richest people in America:

https://www.propublica.org/series/the-secret-irs-files

The Secret IRS Files revealed the fact that many of America's oligarchs pay no tax at all. Some of them even get subsidies intended for poor families, like Jeff Bezos, whose tax affairs are so scammy that he was able to claim to be among the working poor and receive a federal Child Tax Credit, a $4,000 gift from the American public to one of the richest men who ever lived:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-secret-irs-files-trove-of-never-before-seen-records-reveal-how-the-wealthiest-avoid-income-tax

As important as the numbers revealed by the Secret IRS Files were, I found the explanations even more interesting. The 99.9999% of us who never make contact with the secretive elite wealth management and tax cheating industry know, in the abstract, that there's something scammy going on in those esoteric cults of wealth accumulation, but we're pretty vague on the details. When I pondered the "tax loopholes" that the rich were exploiting, I pictured, you know, long lists of equations salted with Greek symbols, completely beyond my ken.

But when Propublica's series laid these secret tactics out, I learned that they were incredibly stupid ruses, tricks so thin that the only way they could possibly fool the IRS is if the IRS just didn't give a shit (and they truly didn't – after decades of cuts and attacks, the IRS was far more likely to audit a family earning less than $30k/year than a billionaire).

This has become a somewhat familiar experience. If you read the Panama Papers, the Paradise Papers, Luxleaks, Swissleaks, or any of the other spectacular leaks from the oligarch-industrial complex, you'll have seen the same thing: the rich employ the most tissue-thin ruses, and the tax authorities gobble them up. It's like the tax collectors don't want to fight with these ultrawealthy monsters whose net worth is larger than most nations, and merely require some excuse to allow them to cheat, anything they can scribble in the box explaining why they are worth billions and paying little, or nothing, or even entitled to free public money from programs intended to lift hungry children out of poverty.

It was this experience that fueled my interest in forensic accounting, which led to my bestselling techno-crime-thriller series starring the two-fisted, scambusting forensic accountant Martin Hench, who made his debut in 2022's Red Team Blues:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The double outrage of finding out how badly the powerful are ripping off the rest of us, and how stupid and transparent their accounting tricks are, is at the center of Chokepoint Capitalism, the book about how tech and entertainment companies steal from creative workers (and how to stop them) that Rebecca Giblin and I co-authored, which also came out in 2022:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Now that I've written four novels and a nonfiction book about finance scams, I think I can safely call myself a oligarch ripoff hobbyist. I find this stuff endlessly fascinating, enraging, and, most importantly, energizing. So naturally, when PJ Vogt devoted two episodes of his excellent Search Engine podcast to the subject last week, I gobbled them up:

https://www.searchengine.show/listen/search-engine-1/why-is-it-so-hard-to-tax-billionaires-part-1

I love the way Vogt unpacks complex subjects. Maybe you've had the experience of following a commentator and admiring their knowledge of subjects you're unfamiliar with, only have them cover something you're an expert in and find them making a bunch of errors (this is basically the experience of using an LLM, which can give you authoritative seeming answers when the subject is one you're unfamiliar with, but which reveals itself to be a Bullshit Machine as soon as you ask it about something whose lore you know backwards and forwards).

Well, Vogt has covered many subjects that I am an expert in, and I had the opposite experience, finding that even when he covers my own specialist topics, I still learn something. I don't always agree with him, but always find those disagreements productive in that they make me clarify my own interests. (Full disclosure: I was one of Vogt's experts on his previous podcast, Reply All, talking about the inkjet printerization of everything:)

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/brho54

Vogt's series on taxing billionaires was no exception. His interview subjects (including Eisinger) were very good, and he got into a lot of great detail on the leaker himself, Charles Littlejohn, who plead guilty and was sentenced to five years:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/charles-littlejohn-irs-whistleblower-pro-publica-tax-evasion-prosecution

Vogt also delved into the history of the federal income tax, how it was sold to the American public, and a rather hilarious story of Republican Congressional gamesmanship that backfired spectacularly. I'd never encountered this stuff before and boy was it interesting.

But then Vogt got into the nature of taxation, and its relationship to the federal debt, another subject I've written about extensively, and that's where one of those productive disagreements emerged. Yesterday, I set out to write him a brief note unpacking this objection and ended up writing a giant essay (sorry, PJ!), and this morning I found myself still thinking about it. So I thought, why not clean up the email a little and publish it here?

As much as I enjoyed these episodes, I took serious exception to one – fairly important! – aspect of your analysis: the relationship of taxes to the national debt.

There's two ways of approaching this question, which I think of as akin to classical vs quantum physics. In the orthodox, classical telling, the government taxes us to pay for programs. This is crudely true at 10,000 feet and as a rule of thumb, it's fine in many cases. But on the ground – at the quantum level, in this analogy – the opposite is actually going on.

There is only one source of US dollars: the US Treasury (you can try and make your own dollars, but they'll put you in prison for a long-ass time if they catch you.).

If dollars can only originate with the US government, then it follows that:

a) The US government doesn't need our taxes to get US dollars (for the same reason Apple doesn't need us to redeem our iTunes cards to get more iTunes gift codes);

b) All the dollars in circulation start with spending by the US government (taxes can't be paid until dollars are first spent by their issuer, the US government); and

c) That spending must happen before anyone has been taxed, because the way dollars enter circulation is through spending.

You've probably heard people say, "Government spending isn't like household spending." That is obviously true: households are currency users while governments are currency issuers.

But the implications of this are very interesting.

First, the total dollars in circulation are:

a) All the dollars the government has ever spent into existence funding programs, transferring to the states, and paying its own employees, minus

b) All the dollars that the government has taxed away from us, and subsequently annihilated.

(Because governments spend money into existence and tax money out of existence.)

The net of dollars the government spends in a given year minus the dollars the government taxes out of existence that year is called "the national deficit." The total of all those national deficits is called "the national debt." All the dollars in circulation today are the result of this national debt. If the US government didn't have a debt, there would be no dollars in circulation.

The only way to eliminate the national debt is to tax every dollar in circulation out of existence. Because the national debt is "all the dollars the government has ever spent," minus "all the dollars the government has ever taxed." In accounting terms, "The US deficit is the public's credit."

When billionaires like Warren Buffet tell Jesse Eisinger that he doesn't pay tax because "he thinks his money is better spent on charitable works rather than contributing to an insignificant reduction of the deficit," he is, at best, technically wrong about why we tax, and at worst, he's telling a self-serving lie. The US government doesn't need to eliminate its debt. Doing so would be catastrophic. "Retiring the US debt" is the same thing as "retiring the US dollar."

So if the USG isn't taxing to retire its debts, why does it tax? Because when the USG – or any other currency issuer – creates a token, that token is, on its face, useless. If I offered to sell you some "Corycoins," you would quite rightly say that Corycoins have no value and thus you don't need any of them.

For a token to be liquid – for it to be redeemable for valuable things, like labor, goods and services – there needs to be something that someone desires that can be purchased with that token. Remember when Disney issued "Disney dollars" that you could only spend at Disney theme parks? They traded more or less at face value, even outside of Disney parks, because everyone knew someone who was planning a Disney vacation and could make use of those Disney tokens.

But if you go down to a local carny and play skeeball and win a fistful of tickets, you'll find it hard to trade those with anyone outside of the skeeball counter, especially once you leave the carny. There's two reasons for this:

1) The things you can get at the skeeball counter are pretty crappy so most people don't desire them; and ' 2) Most people aren't planning on visiting the carny, so there's no way for them to redeem the skeeball tickets even if they want the stuff behind the counter (this is also why it's hard to sell your Iranian rials if you bring them back to the US – there's not much you can buy in Iran, and even someone you wanted to buy something there, it's really hard for US citizens to get to Iran).

But when a sovereign currency issuer – one with the power of the law behind it – demands a tax denominated in its own currency, they create demand for that token. Everyone desires USD because almost everyone in the USA has to pay taxes in USD to the government every year, or they will go to prison. That fact is why there is such a liquid market for USD. Far more people want USD to pay their taxes than will ever want Disney dollars to spend on Dole Whips, and even if you are hoping to buy a Dole Whip in Fantasyland, that desire is far less important to you than your desire not to go to prison for dodging your taxes.

Even if you're not paying taxes, you know someone who is. The underlying liquidity of the USD is inextricably tied to taxation, and that's the first reason we tax. By issuing a token – the USD – and then laying on a tax that can only be paid in that token (you cannot pay federal income tax in anything except USD – not crypto, not euros, not rials – only USD), the US government creates demand for that token.

And because the US government is the only source of dollars, the US government can purchase anything that is within its sovereign territory. Anything denominated in US dollars is available to the US government: the labor of every US-residing person, the land and resources in US territory, and the goods produced within the US borders. The US doesn't need to tax us to buy these things (remember, it makes new money by typing numbers into a spreadsheet at the Federal Reserve). But it does tax us, and if the taxes it levies don't equal the spending it's making, it also sells us T-bills to make up the shortfall.

So the US government kinda acts like classical physics is true, that is, like it is a household and thus a currency user, and not a currency issuer. If it spends more than it taxes, it "borrows" (issues T-bills) to make up the difference. Why does it do this? To fight inflation.

The US government has no monetary constraints, it can make as many dollars as it cares to (by typing numbers into a spreadsheet). But the US government is fiscally constrained, because it can only buy things that are denominated in US dollars (this is why it's such a big deal that global oil is priced in USD – it means the US government can buy oil from anywhere, not only the USA, just by typing numbers into a spreadsheet).

The supply of dollars is infinite, but the supply of labor and goods denominated in US dollars is finite, and, what's more, the people inside the USA expect to use that labor and goods for their own needs. If the US government issues so many dollars that it can outbid every private construction company for the labor of electricians, bricklayers, crane drivers, etc, and puts them all to work building federal buildings, there will be no private construction.

Indeed, every time the US government bids against the private sector for anything – labor, resources, land, finished goods – the price of that thing goes up. That's one way to get inflation (and it's why inflation hawks are so horny for slashing government spending – to get government bidders out of the auction for goods, services and labor).

But while the supply of goods for sale in US dollars is finite, it's not fixed. If the US government takes away some of the private sector's productive capacity in order to build interstates, train skilled professionals, treat sick people so they can go to work (or at least not burden their working-age relations), etc, then the supply of goods and services denominated in USD goes up, and that makes more fiscal space, meaning the government and the private sector can both consume more of those goods and services and still not bid against one another, thus creating no inflationary pressure.

Thus, taxes create liquidity for US dollars, but they do something else that's really important: they reduce the spending power of the private sector. If the US only ever spent money into existence and never taxed it out of existence, that would create incredible inflation, because the supply of dollars would go up and up and up, while the supply of goods and services you could buy with dollars would grow much more slowly, because the US government wouldn't have the looming threat of taxes with which to coerce us into doing the work to build highways, care for the sick, or teach people how to be doctors, engineers, etc.

Taxes coercively reduce the purchasing power of the private sector (they're a stick). T-bills do the same thing, but voluntarily (they the carrot).

A T-bill is a bargain offered by the US government: "Voluntarily park your money instead of spending it. That will create fiscal space for us to buy things without bidding against you, because it removes your money from circulation temporarily. That means we, the US government, can buy more stuff and use it to increase the amount of goods and services you can buy with your money when the bond matures, while keeping the supply of dollars and the supply of dollar-denominated stuff in rough equilibrium."

So a bond isn't a debt – it's more like a savings account. When you move money from your checking to your savings, you reduce its liquidity, meaning the bank can treat it as a reserve without worrying quite so much about you spending it. In exchange, the bank gives you some interest, as a carrot.

I know, I know, this is a big-ass wall of text. Congrats if you made it this far! But here's the upshot. We should tax billionaires, because it will reduce their economic power and thus their political power.

But we absolutely don't need to tax billionaires to have nice things. For example: the US government could hire every single unemployed person without creating inflationary pressure on wages, because inflation only happens when the US government tries to buy something that the private sector is also trying to buy, bidding up the price. To be "unemployed" is to have labor that the private sector isn't trying to buy. They're synonyms. By definition, the feds could put every unemployed person to work (say, training one another to be teachers, construction workers, etc – and then going out and taking care of the sick, addressing the housing crisis, etc etc) without buying any labor that the private sector is also trying to buy.

What's even more true than this is that our taxes are not going to reduce the national debt. That guest you had who said, "Even if we tax billionaires, we will never pay off the national debt,"" was 100% right, because the national debt equals all the money in circulation.

Which is why that guest was also very, very wrong when she said, "We will have to tax normal people too in order to pay off the debt." We don't have to pay off the debt. We shouldn't pay off the debt. We can't pay off the debt. Paying off the debt is another way of saying "eliminating the dollar."

Taxation isn't a way for the government to pay for things. Taxation is a way to create demand for US dollars, to convince people to sell goods and services to the US government, and to constrain private sector spending, which creates fiscal space for the US government to buy goods and services without bidding up their prices.

And in a "classical physics" sense, all of the preceding is kinda a way of saying, "Taxes pay for government spending." As a rough approximation, you can think of taxes like this and generally not get into trouble.

But when you start to make policy – when you contemplate when, whether, and how much to tax billionaires – you leave behind the crude, high-level approximation and descend into the nitty-gritty world of things as they are, and you need to jettison the convenience of the easy-to-grasp approximation.

If you're interested in learning more about this, you can tune into this TED Talk by Stephanie Kelton, formerly formerly advisor to the Senate Budget Committee chair, now back teaching and researching econ at University of Missouri at Kansas City:

https://www.ted.com/talks/stephanie_kelton_the_big_myth_of_government_deficits?subtitle=en

Stephanie has written a great book about this, The Deficit Myth:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/14/everybody-poops/#deficit-myth

There's a really good feature length doc about it too, called "Finding the Money":

https://findingmoneyfilm.com/

If you'd like to read more of my own work on this, here's a column I wrote about the nature of currency in light of Web3, crypto, etc:

https://locusmag.com/2022/09/cory-doctorow-moneylike/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/21/we-can-have-nice-things/#public-funds-not-taxpayer-dollars

#pluralistic #mmt #modern monetary theory #warren buffett #podcasts #pj vogt #billionaires #economics #we can have nice things #taxes #taxing billionaires #the irs files #irs files #jesse eisenger #propublica

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loveriotss · 1 month ago

Note

plzzz plzzzz aizawa bf texts...save me aizawa bf texts....aizawa bf texts if you can hear me save me please... (no I'm sorry ik this is annoying but like aizawa bf texts request plz 😭)

HCS + TXTS WITH HIM AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ⸻ shota aizawa

INCLUDES — gn! reader, slight suggestive towards the end!, fluff, crack, headcannons, social media au

main masterlist — mha masterlist ༊*·˚

: ̗̀➛ click here to read other character versions

not the quickest replier, but he does give priority to your texts! (you're pinned)

prefers calls over texts when he's busy or tired so he can just prop up his phone on his desk or face while speaking to you.

he's the type to get to the point with his texts.

no double texting or anything just everything dumped into one message.

uses proper punctuation but always texts in lowercase.

the only emojis he uses are '👍', '👎' and '❤️' (specially reserved for you only).

any other emojis are unnecessary to him for conveying messages.

not the biggest jokester but will show you sarcasm sometimes.

his social media is so dry.

i'm talking private account, default pfp, no bio, no posts, simple user + display name and only follows you and some of his coworkers.

(this made it very easy for the class to find his instagram and now there are 20 follow requests sitting in his inbox).

whenever you post yourself, he'll write short and sweet comments under it.

'cute' , 'pretty' or a heart if it's a picture of the both of you.

he would never admit it to you but he sometimes goes through your followers list, squinting eyes whenever he sees an unfamiliar person.

NOTE — #needthat

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solxamber · 5 months ago

Text

Caught in the Crossfire || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, partners in crime, find that the line between business and pleasure is thinner than you'd like to admit when you can’t outrun the feelings that come with sharing a life together

Or: Mafia Boss! Vil x Mafia Boss! Reader

The eggs are perfect. Light, fluffy, with just the right amount of seasoning—not too overpowering, but enough to whisper of extravagance. The coffee is dark and rich, paired with a delicate pastry that crumbles just right under the pressure of a silver fork.

It’s the kind of meal that makes a person momentarily forget the bloodstains on their cufflinks or the fact that their bank account balance looks more like the GDP of a small country than a personal savings figure.

Across from you, Vil sits with his usual effortless elegance, wearing a suit so sharp it could cut glass. His long fingers tap against the rim of his teacup as he listens to you talk about the new shipment coming in tonight—an assortment of weapons, high-grade, the kind that people don’t just buy, they invest in.

He nods along, occasionally stirring his tea with slow, deliberate movements, because of course Vil would find a way to make stirring tea look like a power move.

“Do you need backup?” he asks.

You consider it. Technically, your men have it handled, but technically, your men also said they had it handled last time, and then one of them accidentally blew up an entire warehouse because he thought a grenade pin was “more of a suggestion than a rule.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you say, sipping your coffee.

Vil hums approvingly. “I’ll send a few of mine. Not the new ones, obviously. I refuse to be represented by incompetence.”

And honestly? You respect that.

The city outside is a hellscape of crime and corruption, an urban jungle where power is measured in blood, influence, and how well one can survive a fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone in this godforsaken city understands the rules.

The café doors slam open with a force that makes the entire room go silent. A group of unfamiliar thugs strides in, their boots scuffing against the pristine marble floor, and you can feel the collective eye twitch of the waitstaff.

These guys are new—young, eager, dressed like they learned everything they know about organized crime from bad action movies. One of them, some overconfident idiot with a stupid amount of gel in his hair, swings a gun around like a prop in a school play.

You sigh.

Vil sighs.

The staff also sighs because they’ve clearly worked here long enough to know how this is going to end.

“Alright, listen up!” the leader barks, and wow, his voice is nasally. “We’re taking over this joint, you hear me? Hand over your wallets and—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Because by the time he utters the words hand over, you and Vil are already moving. It’s practically second nature at this point—the quiet efficiency of two seasoned professionals dealing with yet another group of morons who have no sense of self-preservation.

Vil moves with the precision of a man who has choreographed his entire life. One swift motion and his cup of scalding hot tea is in the face of the closest thug, who shrieks as if he’s been dunked into the pits of hell itself.

You, meanwhile, grab your fork—your lovely, silver, overpriced café fork—and embed it in another guy’s hand before flipping the table for cover.

The entire thing is over in five minutes.

By the end of it, the floor is littered with groaning bodies, a few broken noses, and one unfortunate soul who got knocked unconscious with a plate of eggs benedict (rest in peace, you perfect, fluffy breakfast delight).

The remaining patrons barely react. The waitstaff steps over the bodies to continue serving, because they, too, have adapted to the reality of running an establishment in a city where mafia heads hold weekly brunch meetings.

Vil fixes his sleeves with a look of mild irritation, as if the real crime here was the inconvenience. “Honestly,” he mutters. “Didn’t their mothers ever teach them basic manners?”

You shake your head, dragging your chair back into place. “I swear, the new generation has no sense of etiquette.”

And just like that, the two of you sit back down and resume your meal.

Vil’s office is immaculate, as always. A glass desk, perfectly arranged décor, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air like it pays rent. If someone walked in without context, they’d assume they were entering the workspace of a world-renowned fashion mogul.

Which, technically, isn’t wrong.

Except instead of discussing upcoming collections or brand endorsements, the two of you are currently overseeing a money laundering operation disguised as a high-fashion venture.

And Vil is not impressed.

“This,” he says, voice dripping with disdain, as he gestures at the collection laid out before him, “is an atrocity.”

You glance at the designs, then back at him. “Vil, it’s crime. Who actually cares what it looks like?”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The glare Vil levels at you could freeze over the entire eastern seaboard. You’re not a weak person—you’ve stared down rival bosses, assassins, and law enforcement without so much as flinching—but something about the sheer disgust in Vil’s expression makes you reflexively sit up straighter.

Across the room, Epel, who had made the grave mistake of being in the vicinity, excuses himself immediately, because the last time he witnessed this level of ice-cold judgment, he had nightmares for a week.

“This—this mockery—is a crime against fashion,” Vil continues, gesturing sharply at a particularly offensive garment. “Look at this cut! Look at these fabrics! The stitching alone looks like it was done by someone having a seizure!”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Vil. We are actual criminals.”

“Yes, and even criminals should have standards,” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Honestly, what’s the point of laundering money through fashion if it’s going to be this hideous? I refuse to be associated with whatever this is.”

You don’t have the energy for this argument. Not today.

“Fine,” you say, standing up. “If it bothers you that much, let’s go shopping.”

Vil’s expression flickers, then settles into something vaguely victorious. He snaps his fingers, and in seconds, his coat is draped over his shoulders like a royal mantle. “Finally, some sense,” he mutters.

You blink. “Wait, now? I meant, like, later—”

But Vil is already walking out the door, and you have no choice but to follow.

You are a mafia boss. A feared, respected individual whose name carries weight in every criminal circle. You have made decisions that have shaped the underworld itself.

And yet, here you are.

Standing in an absurdly expensive boutique, dressed in an outfit that costs more than the GDP of a small country, while Vil meticulously adjusts the buttons on your cuffs.

“How,” you say, staring at your reflection in mild disbelief, “did I get here?”

Vil doesn’t even look up as he smooths the fabric on your shoulders. “Because you had the audacity to suggest that fashion doesn’t matter while standing in my office.”

You exhale slowly. “I meant for money laundering purposes.”

“And I meant for every purpose.” Vil steps back, tilts his head slightly, then nods in approval before turning his attention back to the racks of clothing. “Now, try this one.”

You look at the garment he’s holding up. “That’s the exact same color and design as the last one.”

Vil shoots you a withering look. “It is not. The cut is completely different. Honestly, I pity you sometimes.”

This has been going on for an hour.

An hour of Vil forcing you into one designer piece after another, adjusting your collar, critiquing your posture, and making you question every life decision that led to this moment.

“I run an entire criminal empire,” you mutter under your breath as Vil hands you yet another outfit.

“Yes, and you dress like you just rolled out of a getaway car.”

That’s not even an insult. That’s just factual.

You glance at the boutique’s security cameras and briefly contemplate faking an emergency to get out of this. Maybe start a small fire. Stage a kidnapping. Something.

But then Vil fixes the lapel on your coat, his fingers brushing against your collarbone, and for a brief, dangerous second, you forget that you’re supposed to be annoyed.

“…Fine,” you grumble. “One more outfit.”

Vil smirks. “I knew you had some sense.”

There are a few unwritten rules when it comes to surviving in your organization. They’re not complicated. In fact, they can be summed up rather succinctly:

Don’t talk back to the bosses unless you’ve got a death wish.

Don’t disrespect Vil's design choices unless you really have a death wish.

Don’t, under any circumstances, assume Epel Felmier is weak.

The third rule, in particular, is the one that most fresh recruits fail to grasp. Which is why you and Vil are currently seated comfortably, sipping on expensive coffee, watching the inevitable unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Epel is standing in the middle of the training yard, casual as ever, looking every bit like the deceptively polite farm boy he used to be. Across from him, a new recruit—one of the unfortunate ones with more bravado than brain cells—grins like he’s just won the lottery.

“Didn’t think this family let kids in,” the idiot sneers, cracking his knuckles.

Oh, you wish you could say you were surprised.

You glance at Vil. He exhales, already unimpressed, and gives a small, imperceptible nod.

And just like that, Epel moves.

It’s not an elaborate attack, nor is it the kind of long, drawn-out fight scene you’d see in a movie. No, it’s fast.

One second the recruit is standing there, cocky and smirking, and the next—CRACK.

His jaw—his entire jaw—is just gone.

You don’t even think Epel used that much force. He just twisted his wrist, landed a clean hit, and now some poor fool is lying on the ground, making the kind of wheezing sounds that definitely mean you’ll have to call a doctor (or a mortician, depending on how bad the damage is).

The yard is silent.

Some of the other new recruits shift nervously. The smarter ones make a mental note to never, ever say anything remotely condescending to Epel.

You, meanwhile, casually check your watch.

“Four minutes,” you announce.

Vil sighs, already reaching into his coat.

“You thought he’d last fifteen minutes?” you ask, grinning as he hands you his card.

“I had hope,” Vil says flatly. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

Epel dusts off his sleeves, looking more annoyed that his knuckles got dirty than the fact that he just sent a guy to the hospital.

“Any of y’all got somethin’ else to say?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Silence.

Smart.

You pocket Vil’s card, smirking. “Well, that was entertaining. Dinner?”

Vil nods. “Dinner.”

And with that, you leave, stepping over the still-twitching body of the idiot who learned the hard way that Epel Felmier does not take disrespect lightly.

In the world of organized crime, certain unspoken rules govern the way things operate. Territory lines must be respected. Alliances must be upheld—until they aren’t. And when the time comes to commit heinous acts of violence, one must do so with a sense of style.

But above all else, there is one sacred, immutable law:

Do not disturb dinner.

Every week, without fail, you and Vil sit down for an elegant, civilized meal. A small, fleeting moment of luxury amidst a life otherwise filled with extortion, backroom deals, and the occasional high-speed chase through the city.

It is a time to unwind, to drink expensive wine, to complain about incompetent subordinates and how—for the love of all things holy—does one completely botch a simple shipment of illegal arms?

Which is why when your phone rings—you’re already irritated.

Vil barely spares you a glance, swirling his wine in one hand, as if waiting to see whether he should be entertained or bored by what happens next.

With a long-suffering sigh, you pick up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a brief pause, the sound of someone clearing their throat, and then a voice that is clearly trying (and failing) to sound intimidating says:

“We have your man.”

You blink. “My what?”

“Your man,” the voice repeats, a little less sure of himself now.

Vil raises a perfectly sculpted brow, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“…I don’t have a man.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Yes, you really do.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god. Who?”

The voice hesitates. Then, like he’s dropping the ace up his sleeve, he announces:

“We have Rook Hunt.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Vil exhales slowly, lips twitching into something resembling amusement. He looks as though he wants to offer the poor idiot on the other end a moment of prayer.

You, on the other hand, have to suppress the sheer urge to cackle. Instead, you take a deep, deep breath and say, in the flattest tone imaginable:

“Oh noooooo. Not Rook.”

The guy picks up on the sarcasm, but it’s too late to back out now. “Yeah, uh—he’s terrified.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Begging for his life. Real mess.”

“Sure.”

“Crying, actually.”

You glance at Vil, who lifts his glass again, the universal sign for let’s see how long this idiot keeps digging this grave.

“Okay, listen,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Do me a favor real quick.”

“…Yeah?”

“Check who the actual hostage is.”

There’s a moment of absolute, ringing silence.

Then, far too faint to be directly into the phone, you hear:

“Wait, why does he still have a knife? Why does he still ha—OH GOD—”

And then, screaming.

Absolute, visceral, panicked screaming.

The kind of screaming that can only come from realizing, far too late, that you were not, in fact, the hunter but the very stupid, stupid prey.

The line goes dead.

You lower the phone, considering your options. Then, still grinning, you turn to Vil.

“Should I have warned them he carries extra knives?”

Vil takes a slow sip of wine and, without missing a beat, says, “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

And oh, they do.

Because exactly thirty minutes later, Rook strolls in, positively beaming, covered in blood (that is definitely not his), and carrying a suspiciously thick folder of intelligence on who, precisely, had the brilliant idea of kidnapping him.

Vil doesn’t even look surprised. If anything, he looks slightly disappointed that Rook let them die too fast to give a proper monologue.

You, meanwhile, are just sitting there, staring at the bloodied mess of a man you call an associate, and thinking:

Yeah. They figured it out.

It was supposed to be simple.

A mission so straightforward that you almost felt insulted having to do it yourself. But no, apparently this was too delicate to leave to your subordinates, so here you were—sitting in a dimly lit bar, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey, and attempting to charm some information out of the city's most indiscreet criminals.

And in theory, this should have been easy.

You and Vil weren’t just mafia bosses; you were masters of persuasion. Your entire existence revolved around the ability to manipulate, deceive, and seduce when necessary. You could talk a man into selling his own kneecaps if you wanted to.

But there was one glaring problem this time.

Vil.

Because for some godforsaken reason, he seemed dead set on sabotaging this mission at every turn.

The moment you leaned in to flirt with a target, flashing your best smirk, Vil’s hand clamped onto your wrist, yanking you back as if you were about to throw yourself into traffic.

When some well-dressed (if mildly repulsive) businessman slid up beside you, whispering something undoubtedly sleazy in your ear, Vil scoffed so loudly that the man flinched.

You kicked him under the table. He kicked you back—harder.

And when you tried giggling—the universal signal for “yes, I’m interested, please tell me all your criminal secrets” —Vil exhaled like you had personally betrayed him.

It reached a boiling point when you were about to land the final hook—batting your lashes, trailing a hand over your target’s sleeve, just a few seconds away from getting him to spill everything—when Vil, in an act of sheer malice, suddenly pulled you into his side and drawled,

“Apologies, darling. They have an unfortunate habit of attracting the wrong sort of people.”

Your target, now looking incredibly alarmed, muttered something about needing the restroom and fled.

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. Considered murder.

Then, with a saccharine smile that probably terrified half the bar, you grabbed Vil by the arm and dragged him into a private back room before slamming the door shut behind you.

“The hell is your problem?!” you hissed.

Vil looked utterly unbothered. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re blowing the mission!”

His arms folded gracefully across his chest. “You deserve a higher class of admirer. Not some low-life with a cheap watch and a bad dye job.”

You stared. Your hands twitched with the overwhelming urge to shake him senseless.

“Vil,” you said, very slowly, “I am not into that guy. This is a mission. You know, the thing we do instead of dying?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s still demeaning to—”

You shook him.

Physically grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Vil let out a strangled sound of protest, looking utterly offended, but you didn’t care.

“I AM HERE TO MANIPULATE A MAN INTO TELLING ME WHERE THEY’RE STORING THEIR SMUGGLED GUNS,” you all but shouted. “I AM NOT HERE TO DATE HIM.”

You shoved him away, storming back out of the room with all the fury of someone whose mission had just been single-handedly ruined by the world’s worst wingman.

Vil stood there, unmoving, watching you leave.

Something bitter welled up in his chest. Something unpleasant and sharp, something he didn’t want to name.

But instead of examining it too closely, he merely smoothed down his suit, exhaled, and begrudgingly followed you back out.

You had learned, over the years, how to let things go.

You had learned that sometimes, no matter how much something tugged at your mind, demanded an answer, it was better to step back, breathe, and let time sort things out.

Which is why you didn’t press Vil about whatever the hell was going on with him.

It was easier to not acknowledge the way he kept interfering with your missions.

Easier to not question the sharp looks, the lingering stares, the way his voice would curl around your name like it was something precious when he thought no one could hear.

It was easier to not ask why his irritation felt personal.

Because you knew, if you asked, you might not like the answer.

So instead of adding to whatever storm was brewing inside Vil, you sent Rook and Epel to finish the job.

And yet—despite your best efforts—you still found yourself in front of Vil’s office door, knocking lightly before stepping inside.

It was just tea. Like always. A ritual built over time.

Except—this time, you were bruised.

Your knuckles were raw, shoulders aching from the kind of fight that couldn’t be avoided, no matter how skilled you were at maneuvering through this world. You had faced worse, of course. It was nothing.

But Vil took one look at you and his expression—once neutral, if a little distant—collapsed.

His cup slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. Neither of you acknowledged it.

The next thing you knew, his hand was on your wrist, grip firm but careful, urgent.

You didn’t fight it when he dragged you to the bathroom, not saying a word, the tension in his body wound so tightly you thought he might snap in half.

He forced you to sit on the counter, hands moving automatically to pull out a first-aid kit.

“Vil,” you started.

“Be quiet.”

There was no bite to his voice, but the quiet urgency in it stopped you all the same.

You huffed. “I can just call my medic—”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and whatever he was feeling—whatever he was holding back—made your words catch in your throat.

You let him work in silence.

The press of antiseptic against raw skin, the brush of his fingers as he wrapped your wounds, the careful tilt of his head as he studied his handiwork—all of it felt unbearably tender.

Too gentle for the world you lived in.

When he finished, he exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself. Then, to your shock, he leaned into you.

His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone. His hands—once poised, always careful—clutched at the fabric of your shirt like he was holding himself together.

“Never do this again.” His voice was quiet. Almost pleading.

Your stomach twisted. “Vil, I’m a mafia boss too. What do you expect me to do? Knit sweaters and run charities?”

He lifted his head then, and when his eyes met yours, you understood.

This wasn’t just frustration. Wasn’t just exasperation over your recklessness.

It was fear.

It was something far deeper, something he had never said out loud, something you had ignored every time he pulled you back at the bar, every time he scoffed at your flirting, every time he lingered just a little too long when adjusting your tie.

The realization hit you like a bullet to the ribs.

You swallowed hard. “...I’ll be a little more careful. If I can.”

His shoulders sagged, and he nodded. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he let himself lean into you again.

You didn’t stop him. You just held him, his arms around your waist, your hand cradling the back of his head, feeling the way his breath finally evened out.

And in that moment, you understood—Vil hadn’t just been acting like a jilted lover.

He felt like he was one.

The plan had been brilliant. Carefully orchestrated, every detail accounted for, every possible hitch considered.

Yet somehow, somehow, you had managed to go from one of the most feared mafia leaders in the city to someone currently hiding in a safe house with Vil fucking Schoenheit, hiding from both law enforcement and some very, very powerful enemies.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

"Explain it to me again," you sighed, pressing your head against the wall. "How exactly did everything go to hell in under three minutes?"

Across the room, Vil sat on a chair, legs crossed, looking far too composed for someone who had nearly been arrested, shot at, and insulted all in the span of an hour.

“Simple,” he said, inspecting his nails like you weren’t on the verge of losing your mind. “The deal was never going to go through. It was a setup. A trap. Which, if you’d just listened to me in the first place—”

You groaned. “Oh, please. If you knew it was a trap, why did you even agree to go with me?”

He flicked his gaze up then, sharp and assessing. “Because you have an appalling habit of running headfirst into danger, and someone needs to be there to drag you back out of it.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then promptly closed it, because, okay, fair point.

Still. It was one thing to walk into a trap, knowing it was a trap. It was another thing entirely to somehow piss off some of the most powerful figures in the city and get half the police force on your tail.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Rook and Epel had managed to escape somehow—how, you still didn’t know, but you were too exhausted to question it. The last thing they had said before vanishing was a quick assurance that they’d “fix it soon.”

Which, coming from them, could mean anything.

Great. Fantastic.

And that left you and Vil, holed up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere, waiting for things to blow over.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “This is not how I thought today would go.”

Vil hummed, stretching elegantly. “Yes, well. Adaptability is an important skill in our line of work, isn’t it?”

You shot him a flat look. “We are literally in hiding. This is not a power move.”

Vil tilted his head, giving you a slow, deliberate once-over. “It’s only hiding if you look desperate.”

You did look desperate.

There was a smear of dirt on your cheek, your shirt was torn, and you were pretty sure you had a bruise forming on your ribs from when you’d had to dive behind a car earlier.

Vil, meanwhile, looked like he had just stepped out of a high-profile photoshoot. Despite the chase, the chaos, and the very real possibility of getting arrested, he somehow managed to remain immaculate.

You hated him a little bit for it.

You groaned, slumping down onto the couch. “At this point, I’d rather get shot than deal with your attitude.”

Vil let out an amused hum. “Dramatic as ever.”

There was a beat of silence. You let your eyes close, just for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts.

Then—softly, almost too quiet to hear—Vil said, “Are you hurt?”

The question made your eyes flick open. You turned your head just enough to see him watching you, expression unreadable.

“…I’ll live,” you muttered.

He exhaled sharply, then stood and walked toward you with measured steps. Before you could protest, he reached out, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face slightly to the side.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured.

You hadn’t even noticed.

His fingers were gentle, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Then—he leaned in slightly, gaze flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before his expression hardened.

“Be more careful,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You swallowed. “Vil, I can take care of myself.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer before he pulled away, stepping back.

“Of course you can,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

The safe house was nice. Too nice.

It was one of your better ones—a sleek, modern apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fully stocked bar, and furniture that looked like it belonged in some high-end magazine. The kind of place designed for luxury, not hiding.

And now you were stuck in it. With Vil. For two whole weeks.

You stared at Rook’s message again, rereading the words like they would magically change into something better.

It’ll take about two weeks to fix everything. Hold tight, mes amis. I’ll pick you both up soon.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of living with Vil.

Fourteen days of pretending like you didn’t know exactly how he felt about you.

Fourteen days of not thinking about how you felt about him.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling slowly.

This is fine.

You were a professional. A leader. You had spent years navigating crime syndicates, surviving betrayals, outplaying enemies who wanted you dead.

You could handle this.

Vil sighed dramatically from across the room, pulling your attention back to him. “If we’re going to be trapped here for two weeks, we’re going to need ground rules.”

You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”

He folded his arms. “Yes. Firstly, you will not track dirt into the house. Secondly, if you insist on ruining your diet with instant ramen at ungodly hours, do not expect me to partake. Thirdly—”

You tuned him out.

Two weeks.

You were so screwed.

You should have expected this.

The moment you stepped into the bedroom, you knew. There was only one bed.

You stood there, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. Vil, standing beside you, let out the longest sigh of his life.

“Of course.”

“Why is there only one bed?” you asked, because surely if you kept asking, reality itself would shift and reveal a second one hidden somewhere.

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Perhaps because this is a safe house, not a five-star resort?”

You scowled. “Still. You’d think there’d be at least a couch—”

“I am not sleeping on the floor.”

You crossed your arms. “Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

A tense silence.

A battle of wills.

Finally, a compromise.

The bed was big enough. You could share. You would be adults about this. You would put a pillow barrier between you, and that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t the end of it.

The first time you woke up was because you felt something warm in the crook of your neck. You blinked blearily, still half-asleep—only to realize Vil had somehow migrated across the bed, an arm draped around your waist, his face tucked against your throat.

He was softer like this, relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You could feel his steady breaths against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful, like for once in his life, he had let go of everything. The weight of expectations, of appearances, of the cold ruthlessness that came with being a mafia leader—it was all gone.

You could wake him up.

You should wake him up.

But you didn’t have the heart to move.

You just lay there, staring at the ceiling till you fell asleep again.

The second time you woke up, it was different.

It was the feeling of wetness against your collarbone.

Vil was crying.

Silent, broken tears, his body trembling against yours. His fingers curled slightly into your shirt, barely holding on, like he wasn’t fully aware of it himself.

Your chest ached.

You had never seen Vil cry. Not once.

Should you wake him? Should you just hold him and hope it chased the nightmare away?

But then, before you could decide, he suddenly jerked awake with a sharp breath. His hands shot up, covering his face as he turned away from you, shoulders rigid.

You hesitated only for a moment before you moved, shifting across the bed to sit closer to him.

“Vil.”

“Go back to sleep.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You ignored him, reaching out to rub slow, soothing circles on his thigh. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles were taut like he was barely holding himself together.

Finally, after a long moment, he let out a shaky breath and met your eyes.

“…Promise me something,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

“Hire a bodyguard.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Stop throwing yourself into fights. Just… just run your turf without brawling, please.”

Your instinct was to protest. To remind him that this was just how things worked. You were a mafia boss, you couldn’t just sit on the sidelines—

But then you saw the way he looked at you.

Wrecked.

Like he had already lost you a thousand times in his nightmares.

The words died in your throat.

“…Okay,” you said instead. “I’ll try.”

He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath, and slowly leaned into you. You shifted slightly, letting him rest against you, arms wrapping around him without a second thought.

He fell back asleep like that, curled up in your hold, like you were the only safe thing in his world.

And you—

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long you were both going to pretend you felt nothing.

Morning came, sluggish and unkind, dragging in the weight of everything unspoken.

Vil was seated at the dining table with his usual elegance, flipping through the morning paper as though nothing had changed. His hair was sleek, not a single strand out of place, his makeup flawless even in the early hours. If not for the faint redness around his eyes, you might have thought you had hallucinated last night entirely.

But you hadn’t.

You could still feel it—the ghost of his weight slumped against you, the quiet tremor in his fingers, the way his voice had cracked when he begged you to stop getting into fights.

Meanwhile, you looked like you had crawled out of a shallow grave.

The bags under your eyes were so deep they should’ve been classified as emotional baggage, and you felt like you had spent the entire night being run over by the concept of feelings.

Vil was ignoring it.

You could see it in the way he didn’t so much as glance at you, the way he casually sipped his tea as if the two of you hadn’t shared something unbearably raw just hours ago.

Fine. If this was how he wanted to play it, you’d let him.

But you were going to make him break first.

The first move was subtle. Elegant. A test of control.

Vil had just finished cutting his breakfast into perfect, bite-sized pieces, his every movement effortlessly precise. You watched as he lifted a forkful of omelet to his lips, gaze still fixated on his newspaper, when you struck.

“Can I have a bite?” you asked.

He barely looked at you. “Then take one.”

And so you did.

Only instead of reaching for your own fork like a normal human being, you leaned over and took a bite straight from his.

Vil froze.

You chewed slowly, deliberately, your eyes locking with his over the rim of his teacup.

“Not bad,” you mused, as if you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of social treason.

There was a long, painful silence.

Then, very, very carefully, Vil set down his teacup.

“Do not step into my personal space.” His voice was calm, measured, betraying only the faintest trace of strain.

You hummed, tapping your fork against the table. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

His fingers tightened around his utensils.

You smiled.

Point, you.

The second move was bolder. Personal.

Vil was seated on the couch, a book resting delicately in his hands. The warm afternoon light spilled through the windows, painting golden edges along his profile, catching on the fine lines of his perfectly manicured fingers.

Without hesitation, you walked over and collapsed onto the couch, resting your head directly in his lap.

Vil stiffened.

You tilted your head up, looking at him with a lazy grin. “Comfy.”

He stared at you, utterly still, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, contemplating whether to jump or push you off first.

The moment stretched, long and uncertain, and for a second you thought maybe he’d shove you away.

Then—slowly, painstakingly—he inhaled.

And turned a page.

Didn’t acknowledge you. Didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t move you.

You grinned.

Point, you.

The third move was cheating, really.

Vil was cooking dinner, standing at the stove with an almost infuriating level of grace. Even in exile, even in a safe house, he carried himself like a king in his palace—untouchable, unreachable.

So naturally, you did what any sane person would do.

You walked right up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, and leaned into him completely.

Vil jerked.

You felt the sharp inhale he took, the way his shoulders went taut as you pressed against him.

Then, with the ease of someone who had made a career out of pushing buttons, you tilted your head so your chin rested on his shoulder.

“Smells good,” you murmured, voice warm with amusement.

Vil did not breathe.

Then, with painstaking care, he raised his spatula and flicked it back toward your face.

You dodged it, laughing. “What, no taste test?”

“What is wrong with you today?” His voice was sharp, an edge of something dangerously close to exasperation.

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you mean?”

Vil turned, and finally—you saw it.

The tightness in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly where they gripped the spatula.

For one, breathless second, you thought—

But then he let out a slow breath, stepping away from your hold.

His voice was cool, measured. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Your fingers twitched.

So close. So close.

You stepped back, watching as he turned back to the stove, his grip on the spatula tighter than necessary.

Fine. You could wait.

But Vil was going to break.

And when he did—

You weren’t going to let him run.

Somehow this was his breaking point.

Not the stolen bites of food, not the way you laid your head in his lap, not the way you pressed against him while he cooked. No, it wasn’t any of those things that made Vil finally shatter.

It was this.

The moment was so casual, so simple, that for a split second you thought you had gotten away with it.

You had leaned over, plucked his juice from his hands, and taken a slow, deliberate sip from his straw—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in days, Vil did not react with cold, cutting silence.

No, he reacted violently.

Before you could even lower the glass, he was on you.

A sharp inhale. The scrape of a chair against the floor. Then suddenly, you were caged against the wall, his arms bracketing you in, his breath warm against your cheek as he loomed over you.

His usual icy composure was gone.

And in its place—

Raw, unfiltered emotion.

“Are you having fun?” His voice was low, rough, his usual clipped elegance ruined by the way his words trembled with frustration.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, lips still parted from your sip. “Vil—”

“No.” His hands slammed against the wall beside you, cutting off your escape. His whole body was tense, vibrating with barely restrained emotion. “Answer me.” His voice cracked, his breath uneven. “Are you enjoying this? Playing with my feelings? Toying with me like I—”

You stilled.

He wasn’t just mad.

He was hurting.

You opened your mouth, a thousand things on the tip of your tongue, but before you could speak, his expression twisted into something desperate, something almost—broken.

“Do you think this is a game?” His voice was sharper now, his hands clenching into fists against the wall. “Do you enjoy making me hope? Every time you throw yourself into danger—every time you let me hold you, let me want you—you make me believe that maybe—”

His breath hitched.

Then he tore his gaze away, his jaw tightening like he was swallowing something down.

“Why do you do this?” he whispered, raw and vulnerable. “Why do you make me hope when I know you’re going to leave? This is unbearably cruel, even for you.”

The words slammed into you like a gut punch.

“Vil—”

“I know how you are.” His voice was unsteady, his fists trembling. “You live for chaos. For danger. You chase after thrills like you can’t survive without them, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t—I won’t be left behind.” His voice cracked. “Not by you.”

Something inside you wrenched at the sheer grief in his voice.

He had been holding this in for so, so long.

And you had pushed him too far.

Slowly, carefully, you reached out.

Your hands found his face, fingers brushing over his cheekbones, tracing the fine tremble in his jaw. He flinched—once, like he was afraid to believe in your touch—but then he melted into it, the fight in his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Vil,” you whispered, letting your thumb stroke against his cheek. “I’m not playing with you.”

His eyes flickered up to yours, uncertain, vulnerable.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.” Your voice was steady, sure. “Who else could match me like you do?”

Vil swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You leaned in, so close that your breaths mingled.

“I don’t intend to run,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me for life, you know.”

He broke.

A shattered breath—then his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was messy, desperate, perfect.

His hands dug into your back, pulling you impossibly close, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your fingers tangled into his hair, anchoring him, grounding him, whispering without words: I’m here. I’m not leaving.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged. His eyes searched yours, like he needed to confirm it, to believe it.

And then, with a rough, shuddering exhale, he grabbed your wrist—

And pulled you toward the bedroom.

You didn’t resist.

Because some things weren’t meant to be said.

Some things were meant to be shown.

The moment Rook and Epel stepped into the safe house, Epel froze.

It was comical, really—the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth fell open, the way he looked at you like he had just witnessed a crime far worse than anything you’d ever committed.

Because, well.

No coat could hide the marks Vil had left on your neck.

They weren’t subtle.

Not in the slightest.

Epel’s expression was caught between horrified and deeply impressed. His lips moved, but no words came out, and you could see the moment his brain short-circuited.

So naturally, you grinned at him and winked.

Epel made a noise that could only be described as distress.

Meanwhile, Rook—oh, Rook—

He was delighted.

His eyes sparkled, his entire face alight with unrestrained joy, as if the mere confirmation of your relationship was the greatest artistic masterpiece he had ever laid eyes upon.

“Ah, l’amour! The greatest conquest of all!” Rook clasped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “Such passion, such fervor! I knew this would come to pass—what is fate, if not an arrow that flies true to its mark?”

Vil, to his credit, only sighed, adjusting his sunglasses as if they could somehow shield him from Rook’s theatrics.

You, on the other hand, laughed.

And maybe it was because you were happy.

Because for once in your life, you weren’t running.

The drive back to Vil’s base was filled with Rook waxing poetic about the beauty of love, Epel staring out the window as if trying to erase the past ten minutes from his memory, and you, leaning against Vil with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide.

When you arrived, when the car door closed behind you, when the others left to give you both a moment—Vil turned to you.

His gaze was steady, unreadable.

And then—softly, carefully—

“Would you consider moving in with me?”

Your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an invitation.

A silent plea that meant stay.

Stay with me.

Stay, even though you have every reason to run.

Stay, even though we’re both tangled in this life of chaos, of crime, of things we can’t undo.

Stay, because I love you.

And you—

You laughed.

Because it was so Vil to ask something like that with all the grace and poise of someone discussing a business deal, despite the warmth in his voice, despite the way his fingers lingered against yours.

You laced your hand with his, squeezing gently.

“Of course,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me forever now. Crimes and all.”

Vil exhaled—relief, affection, something deeper.

And then, just before pulling you in—before pressing his lips to yours, before kissing you like he meant it, like he had no intention of letting you go—

He smiled.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x you #vil

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acid-ixx · 2 months ago

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Future Posts Lineup (in no particular order of when to be posted) (uc)

a/n: some of these were also taken out from my planned fanfics post a few months ago whilst some are new ideas. just know i already have drafts written for all of these, hence why i decided to post this for anybody curious on further updates. anything labeled as uc means I'm too lazy to add a proper description yet.

Chapter 6, Part One - Part Two: Where the family finally gets to relive memories of you long buried, further deepening the deep-seated guilt and shame for just how much they've left you out. Whilst on the other side of the city, you get a new, feline friend you named Mr. Stinky who seems to be too just cranky for his senior age, and a new guy to crush on, Conner, whose flirting has you distracted from the watchful pair of eyes following you from when you left the alleyway where you found the cat. You realize after your lovely call with Conner, though, that your newfound motivation to leave Gotham wasn't as easy as planned, and that you couldn't possibly do it alone.

All Eyes on the Prize, Part Two: Bruce should've never left you, not when he now realizes how frighteningly great of a parent you are when him and his children find you smothering both Jon and Conner affection under the watchful public eye, and how brightly you glow beside Clark who's set on showing everybody that you already belonged to him. Your ex-children aren't also too keen on how their envy makes them wish that it was them being so closely monitored and scolded by you instead of those two, new 'self-proclaimed' kids of yours.

Confessions of the Damned and Unwanted: A day spent sitting beside you, silent and distant, unnervingly watching the rainfall patter on the silken grass with empty eyes has Bruce desperate to repair whatever love left you had for him as a father— it made him spill words he never meant, made you retaliate with details of your life far beyond what he could've comprehended. And under the watchful eyes of the fog encapsulating both your broken confessions does Bruce realize just how deeply the emotional cuts he inflicted on you were, just how much he never had been a father to you even after all the time he's spent with you after you've been unwillingly taken away.

Family Dinner: Silly, old you can't seem to stomach the fact that they're all looking at you now at the elongated table when months ago you were a mere ghost in their eyes whilst they chatter happily amongst each other. Unfamiliar with how communicating with a family who estranged you works; you end up having a panic attack in the middle of dinner when Damian attempted to hug you.

Once Your Son, Always Your Son: Your routine with your beloved son, Jon, leaves nothing else to be desired as you set about your usual nightly schedule of helping him clean up, fix his bed, and read him bedtime stories— something you've grown accustomed to love naturally as being a parent does. But when Damian comes to visit you once Jon falls asleep, he enviously demands you do the same to him and to return to the manor where a better family is waiting for you.

Flowers on My Grave: Flowers don't only bloom inside your lungs when you're rejected by someone you love romantically, they can also manifest through platonic love unrequited. Vomiting a bouquet of yellow carnations and an arraw of purple and blue hyacinths, you set to sever the bond of love you once felt for them once and for all.

Paper Weights (UC): (Loving Family, Unpalatable Desire oneshort too which you try to serve Bruce divorce papers disguised as a contract for designer items you pretended to want. It's only when it's the next day where Damian angrily stomps all the way to Bruce's study with Alfred in tow does he discover his idiocracy and why you seemed so intent on having him hurriedly sign the papers. One of your new posts on your private account with a new wedding ring attached to your finger also stirred plenty of drama online).

Nightmares and Consolations (UC): (Again &. Again. Fluff oneshot where you get nightly terrors and they scheduled periodic breaks to comfort you every night through your sleep paralysis. The mission? Get you to sleep properly. The task? Failed successfully, because they instead end up awake throughout the night with you just trying to bond with you instead)

The Night Cryptid (UC): (Horror/NSFW series. Where a new, heartless monster introduces itself into the heart of Gotham City and induces a new kind of fear into its citizens. Except Batman and his team of kids end up smitten with this creature (and how they don't want to admit their curiosity upon whatever those tendrils of yours can do to them)).

Like Him, Redo (UC): (Yandere Batfam x Reader. Where your mother's resistance against having you be introduced to Bruce both made and broke you once you realized just how misdirected your rage towards Bruce was).

What Money Can Buy (UC): (Yandere Batfam x Broke Reader. Where you're dirt poor and go to the same school as Damian, became a friend of his, and also ultimately had to resort to criminal activity which captured the attention of his family and made them insist on having you work them. Except you refuse because you don't want to be seen as a charity case (They see you as a new addition to the family instead)).

The list will be updated occasionally.

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swordgrace · 1 year ago

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𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

synopsis: in aemond targaryen’s eyes, you have far exceeded anything that he could’ve imagined. during a moment of solace, you indulge in the prince’s growing affections.

———————————————————————————

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 7.1K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, biting, scratching, switch!aemond, fingering (f!receiving), groping, lots of kissing, hair pulling, vulnerable aemond, melancholy aftercare, slight power imbalance, possessive aemond, talk of insecurities, begging, etc.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: finally ,,, an aemond fic! I am currently looking for requests for this account, and hopefully this is a good showcase in terms of getting people interested! This was so fun to write and helped me get into the Aemond headspace, I so look forward to sharing more of my work with all of you!

𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 the skies over King’s Landing, bringing with it a sense of wariness and discomfort. Rumors and whispers grew of an approaching war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and King Aegon Targaryen — a war between kin that would surely plunge the realm into a great darkness.

Bloodshed and the mere thought of violence caused you to shiver, goosebumps prickling along the length of your spine. The evening was a touch colder, the air bitter and misty with the first inklings of a nighttime deluge. Raindrops smashed into the courtyard, against the castle walls in a steady sheet.

Sworn to serve Lady Alicent Hightower, the dowager Queen, she had dismissed you quite suddenly, citing that she preferred to be left alone this evening. You found it intriguing that Ser Criston Cole so vigilantly guarded the former Queen’s chambers with wandering eyes, but it was none of your business.

The halls of the Red Keep were warm with the glow of torchlight amongst the illumination of the moon, clouds bringing down rain and the low rumble of thunder. You were prepared to make the venture down to the Servant’s Quarters, until you were stopped by a guard somewhere down the corridor.

“My Lady,” One of the Kingsguard, Ser Cargyll, addressed you nobly, even if you were just a handmaiden. “The Prince Aemond is searching for you. He is requesting your presence.”

Prince Aemond — a name not unfamiliar to you.

You felt the subtle hitch within the depths of your throat at the mention of Aemond Targaryen. The Prince was rather acquainted with you, in ways that many would consider uncouth and sinful, but it was a budding relationship. If anything, you found him to be a being of mystique and repression, in your experience.

Under the guise of mere duty, you nodded, curtsying before Ser Cargyll. “Thank you, Ser. I will make my way to his chambers.” You kept your voice hushed, ensuring an air of respect for those who slumbered within the Keep’s walls.

Carrying bundles of fresh linens within your arms, you made your way to the Prince’s quarters, a path that you were somewhat familiar with. Your encounters with Aemond weren’t often, but whenever they did occur, it filled you with a certain thrill and exhilaration. You never imagined yourself to be desirable, the object of a Prince’s infatuations, yet here you were.

A sharp clap of thunder caused you to gasp, nearly losing your footing as you traversed through the darkened corridors, passing by the occasional fellow servant or patrolling knight. Something about this night felt unusual — as if there was an ominous presence lingering around the corner.

Thunderstorms had a horrible habit of making you incredibly paranoid — tonight was no different, it seemed. With a deliberate pace, you ascended the grand flight of steps toward Aemond’s chambers, noticing the lack of protection outside. The Prince wasn’t fond of being hovered over, a notion that you could understand.

The set of ornate, mahogany doors were equipped with iron knobs fashioned into the heads of dragons — quite fitting, considering his heritage. You knocked thrice, stepping back as you waited for the Prince himself, or his summons.

With bated breath, you wrung your digits into the silk and linens clutched within your arms, awaiting the Prince to allow you inside. The suspense was nearly unbearable — sometimes he called you inside, and other times, he greeted you himself with a sly curl of his mouth and that glittering, violet eye of his.

To your delight, the door creaked open, groaning in protest as Aemond stood within the gap, regal and svelte in his leather tunic and fine regalia. His hand perched along the edge of the door, lips tilting into that familiar countenance of his — cunning yet tinged with faint hints of amusement.

“My Lady,” Aemond’s voice was a lull, like the purr of a great cat as he beckoned you inside. He cared little for prying eyes, allowing you to step into the warmth of his open chambers before he latched the door behind him. “You came rather swiftly.” He stated — a mere observation, but it was most accurate.

“Is this not an urgent matter?” To keep appearances, you sometimes asked redundant questions — but Aemond enjoyed them nonetheless. He let out a brief hum, violet hue raking over you as it had several times before. There was something reverent there, a silent appreciation that happened to scream if someone looked close enough.

With a brief hum of amusement, Aemond ogled you, head canting slightly to one side. Blackfyre sat soundly atop his hip, bound in the finest sheath and belt that hung atop his narrow waist. “I suppose not,” He reached out, gently swiping his fingers across your jaw. “I merely wanted to see you.”

Warmth fluttered within your breast, spreading like ivy across the rest of your body. The bulk of the heat settled within your features as you struggled to maintain your composure. “And I you, my Prince.” It was enough to make Aemond’s stare sparkle. “Any word on what will come of the growing conflict?”

Aemond stepped toward the large table, scattered in maps and scrolls, the largest of it being a cartographic description of Westeros. Coins were scattered atop it, meant to resemble garrisons of their forces. “Not yet.” He replied, circling the table before he looked at you. “It is hard to plan for a war that you’ve no counsel in.”

From what Aemond had told you during previous trysts, he was not on the small council — and his brother, the King, seemed more content on drinking and letting others run his kingdom for him. A piece of Aemond spited Aegon for this, for his lack of propriety and sense of duty.

The Prince’s woes weren’t unfamiliar to you. In fact, he had placed his head within your lap and recounted the multitude of misfortunes that had befallen him on many occasions before he had any desire to touch you. Perhaps it was this gesture that had given your budding relationship such a firm foundation.

War was on the horizon, and Aegon hadn’t the slightest clue of what to do — which left Aemond to stew and plot away, to strategize where there wasn’t any inkling of it. It would always fall upon him, the more responsible sibling.

You trailed after him, curious to see such a large map of the continent. If anything, you were more perplexed by the different kingdoms and sigils on coins than the war. “You mean to strategize without the King?” You inquired, noticing the scoff that emerged from Aemond.

“It is nothing new. I only wish to serve the King and my house.” He replied, expression becoming pensive before he sank down into the cushioned armchair, the one placed before his sea of maps and books. Candles danced atop the table, listless and bright.

Aemond was a learned individual, with a thirst for books and tomes, alongside the blade. You admired his desire for more, his desire for knowledge. There was a stark duality to Aemond that you had caught glimpses of during the course of your endeavors — from sharp and cold, like steel, to a hint of warmth.

The Prince’s chambers were spacious, surrounded by an ocean of quiet, with a high terrace and an open wall. You watched as the rain fell, providing a gentle ambiance to your surroundings. A flash of lightning split the sky, and the thunderous gloom of the night raged on.

With a soft exhale, you approached the terrace, lined in a thick bannister and a row of columns. If you extended your hand out far enough, you could catch the rain, feeling the chill of the droplets glide across your palm. It was soothing, enough to ease the heat that had made permanent residence within your skin.

In silent rapture, Aemond watched you carefully, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glow of moonlight framed your features in silver, accompanied by the twinge of orange — it made you look like a goddess, a beauty incarnate standing before him. His fingers tensed into the arm of his chair, desire beginning to fester inside of him.

Initially, he thought little of you — the lowborn girl that dutifully served his mother, yet the night you’d found him strewn about in his quarters, wounded and wistful, he’d changed his mind. Aemond fell swiftly, and he fell hard — many nights were spent with you in his bed, his head within your lap. It inevitably transformed into desire and the first blossoming of affection.

“Thunderstorms used to terrify me as a child,” You broke the silence, recoiling until your palm was pressed close to your chest. “Now, they seem to make everything ominous, as if there is a lingering dread.” You let out a chuckle, seemingly embarrassed. “It isn’t much different than being afraid.”

Aemond tucked a hand beneath his chin, leaning some of his weight against it as he listened to you. “What do you fear, my Lady?” He questioned, as if attempting to pick you apart, crawl beneath your flesh. You enticed him, evoked a sense of intrigue that he seldom felt in the presence of noble women.

A rather heavy question, but you decided to answer honestly, depositing the stack of linens onto the lounge in front of you. “Being locked away in a cage, perhaps the darkness.” You trailed off. “War.” You grimaced, gaze flickering toward the map on his table yet again.

You always feared war more than anything — it always brought worse things with it. Bloodshed, famine, death, the feeling of no sanctuary or peace.

With a soft huff, Aemond’s violet eye flickered away from you and to his map, surveying his growing plan for any imperfections. He remained quiet for a moment, and decided that he had little desire to talk to you on the topic of war — not when there were plenty of other things he could do.

“War is inevitable, like so many other things in life,” Aemond’s voice carried an indiscernible edge to it. After a brief pause, he continued. “I would keep you safe.” Sometimes, you had difficulty detecting sincerity with the Prince, but you could see it now, even if it was subtle.

If it was meant to be a flattering or sentimental statement, it happened to work, prompting you to dip your head. Sheepishness settled into your features, causing you to tether your hands together. “You honor me, my Prince. I did not know that the life of a handmaiden meant something to you.”

At last, his head angled toward you, lilac hue dancing with light as he leaned back within his chair, the wood groaning in protest. “Come here.” He waved you forward with a flick of his fingers, desiring to feel your warmth, be close to you. Aemond’s lust for you was subtle, but when it sparked to life, it burned like a dragon’s fire.

Your heartbeat fluttered like the wings of a bird, stirring beneath your breast as you obeyed the Prince’s command. Stepping closer, you felt Aemond’s hand trace the swell of your hip, coaxing you into his lap. Without a word, he rested his cheek against your sternum, feeling your fingers rake through his silken tresses.

“Your life is worth a great deal.” Aemond stated, breath fanning out across your collarbone. The Prince savored the sensation of your soft flesh beneath him, heart loud enough to ring within his ears as he pressed close to your chest. Wordlessly, he planted a kiss against the column of your throat.

A shiver rolled down your spine, a sensation that left you aching for more. You never imagined yourself becoming the object of the Prince’s affections, enough for him to state that your life had meaning beyond the station of a servant. “Then it is a mutual feeling.” You uttered, nails lightly scraping against the nape of his neck.

Aemond had often been deprived of affection — even in his dealings with whores, it was originally Aegon’s design, his will enforced. There was no shared connection with a woman seeking coin and a boy, barely thirteen. He preferred you above all else, warm and tender within his grasp, with no desire to use him to further your station.

He used to believe that the only solace he could find was in himself — until he began seeking you out.

What originally began as an arrangement of convenience, purely lust and instinct, had now spiraled into something more. He shared his past with you, treated you to the inner machinations of his splintered family, and in rare instances, became quite vulnerable. Sentiments be damned, Aemond was beginning to feel affectionate towards you.

The growing connection he shared with you, albeit unorthodox and unexpected, outweighed any previous experience he had. You were his — a precious creature that he intended on savoring forever, if he could. Not many would approve of his hunger for a lowborn girl, but Aemond cared little for it.

Above all, known or unknown, he wanted your love.

Aemond’s lilac eye drifted to your visage, drinking you in as he had many times before. The way you cradled his skull within your hand, your other palm planted firmly against his chest — it was intoxicating. He sank closer, finding comfort in your warmth.

He listened to your heart — the way it excitedly galloped for him, pounded within his ear like the deep lull of a drum. The Prince kissed your collarbone, shifting some of your robes away to reveal the soft expanse of your skin. Perhaps, he hadn’t made it known, but you belonged to him — it would stay that way.

A slight chill caused you to press closer, seeking the warmth of the Dragon Prince. Rain continued to pour outside, with thunder rattling the black, cloudy skies, as powerful as a dragon’s cry. Your hand found his shoulder, digits gently massaging into the broad, sinewy muscle of his clothed shoulder.

The sharp ridge of his nose brushed along your neck, lips following suit as he planted several deliberate kisses against your jugular; underneath your jaw. “Cold?” Aemond inquired, able to feel the icy bite of your flesh as it brushed against his. He felt you shudder — but he wondered if that was from something else.

“Slightly, my Prince.” You confessed, though your body’s physical responses were from his lips, in-tandem with the misty chill from the thunderstorm. The flicker of candlelight danced across his features — narrow and defined, beautiful beyond comparison.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed, dragging his lips around the curve of your jawline, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. His scent filled your nose — spiced herbs, smoke and leather, intermingled with that of a dragon. “Shall I remedy this misfortune?” He uttered, his voice crackling with desire.

He nearly smirked at the sound of your breath hitching within your throat — a delicious response to his shameless flirtation. Aemond’s hand crawled along the length of your leg, grabbing at the end of your robes before slipping underneath. His narrow digits danced along your calf, before finding the pliant meat of your thigh.

“Aemond,” You whispered, shifting within his lap as the Prince continued to kiss your neck. The garment you wore was shoddy and somewhat ill-fitting, and you longed to have it removed. You pressed a kiss against his brow, the one that had the beginnings of a scar. “Please.”

The sensation of your lips against his scar nearly drove him into a frenzy — it did the last time you coupled. Aemond let out a brief huff, detaching his mouth from your throat as he hungrily sought your lips. The kiss was overflowing with desire, his hand slithering against your inner thigh.

His slender digits found the apex between your thighs, swiping over the slick heat of your cunt. It was feather-light and tantalizing, meant to make you squirm, a promise of more to come throughout your night together. You whimpered, feeling his thumb ghost around your clit, splitting past your folds.

You reciprocated the kiss with a flurry of passion, tilting your hips forward toward Aemond’s hand. The playful curve of his mouth was tangible as you kissed him again, reaching to cup his face. The pad of your thumb traced along his cheekbone, feeling his teeth graze along your lower lip.

Aemond shivered beneath your palm, finding the sensation of it to be foreign, yet comforting all the same. He hadn’t removed his eyepatch before, during your previous trysts — the thought of you seeing it somewhat unnerved him. It was often used for intimidation, to terrify others into subservience, but it wasn’t like that with you.

As you pulled your head back just slightly, you pressed a tender kiss against Aemond’s jaw, and then against his cheek — another secured itself atop his eyepatch. You felt the Prince’s breath hitch, a subtle noise that left you wanting more.

His hand stilled between your legs, the other holding just underneath your breast. “It would be unwise to remove it.” Aemond uttered, voice as smooth as silk, and just as tantalizing. There was something forlorn about him, as if he were afraid of you glimpsing upon his face.

“I would never insist upon it, Aemond. Just know that I would never pass judgment,” You replied, tucking several strands of pale, silky hair aside. “You are still just as handsome, just as perfect.” Your soft-spoken reassurance made him flustered, yet he was unwilling to reveal that side of himself.

Admittedly, he considered taking it off then, but he decided against it, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. Your hand drifted to the front of his tunic, lined in an impressive array of metallic buttons, bearing the Targaryen sigil. Aemond found your sentiments to be sweet — just like the rest of you.

Wordlessly, the one-eyed Prince coaxed you to your feet, bringing you toward the roaring hearth, beside the light of a crackling fire. The ground beneath you was covered in the layered pelts of various game, from stags to the thick hide of a bear, cushioned enough to provide a safe landing for the both of you.

Aemond towered over you, svelte and broad-shouldered, hand coming to cup your chin as he kissed you. It was slow and unusually sweet, but much to your disappointment, it was short-lived. His hands moved to the front of your robes, tugging at the rugged laces to loosen the bodice.

He watched you hawkishly, enraptured as the both of you maneuvered the shoddy fabric aside. You pulled it over your head, tossing the garment somewhere behind you. It landed on the stone floor with an unceremonious thud, leaving you bare before the Prince.

It was an exchange, one that Aemond silently complied with as he peeled aside his own tunic, lips twitching into a smirk as you pushed away the leather and fine linen of his undershirt. He was all sinewy muscle and narrow limbs, with a pale musculature that seemed to glow whenever the light touched it.

The both of you gazed at one another, your breathing significantly more labored than his own. Your excitement was palpable, the anticipation stirring within your stomach as arousal pooled between your legs. Aemond hungrily consumed your mouth in a blistering kiss, hands grabbing at your hips and chest.

You reached for his shoulders, arms tossing themselves around the back of his neck, digits raking through his hair. Aemond’s tongue greedily slipped past your parted lips, allowing you to taste him. A low hum of approval rumbled within his throat as you submitted to him, chest blossoming with warmth.

It was all tongue and teeth and want — a dance that finally gave way to carnal desire and primitive instincts. You felt Aemond’s hand grope at your haunch, feeling your pliant flesh as he nipped at your lower lip. The flame of desire glistened within his lilac hue.

“Lie down,” Aemond uttered, his voice becoming a touch gravelly, saturated with lust. He watched as you obeyed, sinking down onto the furs with a flustered expression. He stood over you, reveling in the sight of your body, kissed by fire, legs pulled up at the knee. “You are perfect.”

Perfect — you shuddered, stomach churning with liquid heat as you propped yourself back upon your elbows, palms idly running across the soft furs. Aemond sank down, pressing a hot, needy kiss to your lips before he knelt between your thighs, mouth hungrily returning to your throat.

“Aemond,” You moaned, the noise soft and simpering as he assaulted your neck in passionate kisses. Teeth and tongue worked together, leaving behind a handful of marks, some glaringly obvious. He continued his descent, kissing your collarbone, and then your breast. “Please keep going.” A breathy whine left you, then.

His lips twitched into a smirk as he planted a series of hot kisses around your breast, the other palm preoccupied with groping and kneading into the soft flesh there. Aemond felt your body arch into him, knees squeezing at his narrow hips.

With a stroke of his tongue, the Prince began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. The heat from the flame crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot. Aemond’s actions did little to soothe it, igniting the fire within your belly.

Your hands flew toward his crown of pale tresses, digits digging in toward the nape of his neck. The furs brushed against your back as you reclined, stealing glimpses at Aemond, who methodically and reverently worked his way along your body.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke,” Aemond purred, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh below your breast, as if to ensure his point was made. That singular lilac hue caught your heady gaze, prompting him to continue his descent. He abandoned your breast with a lasting kiss, mouth traveling along your stomach and hips. “Ñuhon.”

Listening to Aemond’s enchanting High Valyrian made you shudder, allowing it to encompass you. His voice was nothing more than a lascivious purr, meant to entice and tempt you — you were beyond elated to oblige. You watched with doe-like eyes as Aemond kissed your waist, and then your thighs.

His incendiary stare never faltered, and as he pushed his shoulders between your legs, he held it throughout. Aemond listened to the delicious hitch within your throat, the way you preemptively curled your nails into his shoulders — it was intoxicating.

In an unexpected maneuver, Aemond gingerly abandoned the fine leather of his eyepatch, revealing the glistening, sapphire eye, marred-over with an age-old scar. You were dazzled, perplexed by his beauty and the vibrant gleam of the jewel that was permanently socketed into his eye.

As a display of reassurance, your fingers crept from his shoulder to his face, gingerly tracing around his countenance, from eyebrow to cheekbone. Aemond’s subtle exhale of delight signaled his approval, and without warning, he raked his tongue across your cunt.

Your lips fell apart, unable to smother the pleasured whine that escaped you. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

Those dextrous, spindly hands of his found the pliant flesh of your thighs, hooking underneath to provide a place of rest for your legs. He squeezed slightly, signaling his presence there as he pressed forward. His mouth greedily lapped at your cunt, gliding from the hood of your clit to your entrance.

“Aemond!” A wanton moan tore past your lips, back beginning to arch into his ministrations. The Prince slowed, sharp nose brushing against your mouth as he dipped forward, tongue briefly pushing inside of you. The subtle sensation made you whine, nails dragging themselves across his shoulder.

You were perfect — flesh velveteen beneath his palms, physique begging for more, your pleasure coming to fruition. You were at his mercy, but fortunately, Aemond was feeling most gracious this evening. The echo of the thunderstorm shook the walls a time or two, but it all became atmospheric, simply background noise.

With one hand fisted within his platinum tresses, the other scratched haplessly at his shoulder, nails leaving behind reddish crescents as he flicked his tongue across your clit. The sensation was fleeting, but he sought to drag it out, lips greedily pursing around the pearl of your cunt.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His throat echoed with a low growl, hands grabbing at your thighs. He traced his tongue around your clit, teasing you with feather-light jolts of bliss. You let out a whine, occasionally writhing atop the furs, head lolled back in a display of pure ecstasy.

Aemond’s subtle groan of delight reverberated throughout him whenever you tugged on his tresses, forcing him further into the warm embrace between your thighs. He pressed a string of kisses along your clit, as if he were worshiping you. He enjoyed your greed — if anything, he wanted to indulge you.

The warm lick of the hearth danced across your flesh, seeping into your very bones. Perspiration dotted your brow, jaw tight as Aemond ogled you from between your legs, like a svelte predator, poised for the kill. “You’re perfect, Aemond.” You exhaled, noticing the subtle twinkle in his lilac eye.

That familiar cheshire smirk of his returned; your sweetly-spoken compliments and shower of praise clearly satiated Aemond. He kissed your thigh, breath hot as it fanned across your aching core. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” His voice was cajoling, playful as he nipped at your hip.

You squirmed, becoming desperate for a release, one that your Prince seemed to dangle before your eyes like a carrot on a stick. “Please,” You moaned, digits tightening within his tresses, a subtle signal to continue. “Please, Aemond!” With such an urgent plea from a sweet mouth, Aemond couldn’t resist you.

It seemed that begging would get you places — Aemond thoroughly savored every second of it. Your lust mirrored his own, perhaps subdued, but it was a raging desire nonetheless. He placed another string of kisses against your inner thighs, gazing at you with an incendiary fondness.

Sluggishly, he descended to your cunt once more, dragging the flat of his tongue along your slit in one broad stroke. With a shiver, your hips rolled forward, eased into submission by Aemond’s hands, which happened to lock you into place as he swarmed forward.

He drank you in, tongue greedily flicking between your weeping core and clit, until he began to apply that same pressure as before. His thin lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on the clutch of sensitive nerves until it drove you mad, back arching from the furs.

By the Seven, the things Aemond did to you.

There was a fervor in his ministrations, a ravenous hunger that threatened to tear you asunder. His tongue lapped at your core, interchanging with those brief moments of his lips latched around your clit. You whimpered, thighs pressing on either side of his head.

“Aemond,” You sighed with passion, fisting his silky tresses until you tugged him closer, burying his face within the warmth of your cunt. Aemond didn’t seem to mind, treating you with another barrage of suckling and kisses until you were spent. “Fuck.”

Your unholy mouth made Aemond shudder, groping at your thighs as he brought you to climax. Your release was bittersweet upon his tongue, the most sinful taste imaginable — yet he never claimed to be a pious man. He worked tirelessly to clean you up, cock aching within the confines of his leather trousers.

As you rode the pleasurable high of your release, your body unfurled, the tension within your stomach coming to a halt. A molten bliss wept between your legs, soothed by the cool lick of Aemond’s tongue. Your tryst was far from finished — you had more left to give.

In a coiled, poised fashion, Aemond moved from between your legs, prepared to untie the strings of his trousers and sink himself into you, but you stopped him, placing your palms against the plane of his chest. His musculature was lean and narrow, almost spider-like.

Aemond did not make a sound, watching as you rocked up onto your knees, thighs quivering as you eased him down onto his back — the same position you had been trapped in moments prior. He was enraptured, lilac eye glued to you as if you were heaven sent, a goddess coming to claim him for yourself.

You tossed one leg over him, thighs straddling those spindly hips of his, palms dragging across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen — wherever you could reach. Aemond shivered beneath the intensity of your embrace, lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk, a look of perplexity to mask his desire to submit to you.

“Tell me you want this,” You whispered, nails lightly raking themselves toward his breeches, not daring to go any further until Aemond offered you his consent on the matter. He was often on top of you, domineering and incredibly energetic, but this was different — for him, and for you. “Say the word and you can have me elsewhere.”

The subtle bob of his throat wasn’t easy to spot, masked by shadow, one half of his countenance basked in the glow of the firelight. His sparkling sapphire gazed at you for an eternity, the other drifting across your supple physique, seated atop him as if you’d mounted a stallion.

His hands came to rest atop your thighs, splayed out, possessively groping your pliant flesh. “I want you,” Aemond uttered, his voice a delicious purr, an octave full of an unrestrained lust. “In whatever way that is.” He quite enjoyed this position — he liked seeing you in all of your beauty, bared before him.

With a gentle smile, your digits began to unravel the ties of his trousers, gracing across his hip bones. It was enough to make him shudder, even if the action was barely noticeable. Together, you and Aemond removed the rest of his clothing — and there he was.

He was a beautiful creature, all lanky musculature and pale flesh, stringy and angular. Everything about him was sharp, like the edge of a blade. Aemond was charming, enchanting to you whether he realized it or not. It was enough to prompt you to lean forward, pressing a string of kisses along his collarbone.

“My Prince,” You murmured into his skin, your nose nuzzling underneath the sharp slope of his jaw. You kissed him there, listening to the hitch in his throat. Aemond hummed, lips curling into something of a perplexed line as his hands wandered about your frame, ensuring to touch and caress every curve, every part of you. “My Prince.”

Aemond turned his head, the movement precise and not at all coincidental. His lips captured yours in a feverish kiss, his cock eagerly pressing against your slick cunt. You gasped, feeling the length of it tempt you as he had several times before, but this time, he grabbed your chin, ogling you with his lilac hue.

He wanted to watch your face as you sank yourself onto him, briefly grabbing his cock in order to guide it to your aching slit. The pleasure that blossomed across your countenance was a sight to behold, and you were met with the familiar tilt of his mouth, a fire smoldering within his gaze as he bucked upwards.

His cock speared you with a suddenness, causing you to moan as you adjusted yourself, rocking up onto your knees. Aemond’s palms held your thighs, and he was more than willing to do some of the work, unwilling to let you tire yourself.

It was mesmerizing to see you on top of him like this, breasts full and lovely, softly jostling with each movement. Your flesh was velveteen, pure perfection cast in the sienna glow of the hearth. The fire was dying, but the lust between you and Aemond was far from extinguished.

Your palms fell flat atop his abdomen, finding your purchase there as you began to ride him. It was sluggish and erratic, at first — you let out a soft moan whenever Aemond moved too, using his strength to meet you halfway. His hips lurched forward, cock thrusting into your cunt several times over.

A string of wanton whines and moans escaped you in droves, feeling his grasp on your thighs tighten. He was quite enamored with you, especially like this — there was no sweeter feeling. He continued to buck up into you whenever he could, sheathing himself inside of you, possessing you from below.

Aemond’s visage contorted into one of shared satisfaction, shifting from indiscernible to pleasurable. He sat up just enough to be within reach of you, hips pushing up to meet the downward fall of your body, his cock buried deep inside of you.

“Aemond,” You exhaled, tossing your arms around his shoulders, feeling one of his hands wander from your thigh to your waist, colliding into you with a passionate fervor. The pace you set was sporadic and needy, wanton with desire as you rode him, your movements attempting to temper themselves. “Kiss me.”

That breathy plea of yours was enough to make Aemond submit, lips claiming yours again in an achingly slow, heated kiss. The feeling of your tight cunt around him, slick and warm, made him groan. He was desperate to keep a rhythmic pace, if that were even possible.

Flesh collided against flesh, and you felt Aemond’s mouth pry itself away from yours, creeping toward the column of your throat. He kissed your jugular, face buried within the hollow between your neck and shoulder. You continued your conquest, rocking up and down along his length, nails digging into his shoulder.

Aemond coaxed you backward, wanting you on your back for the final moments of your coupling. You were swift, slumped back down within the furs as the Prince seized your haunch, spreading your legs by bullying himself between them as he had before.

His thrusts became a touch rougher, chasing after a release as he began to rut into you, cock reaching the threshold as he filled your cunt. Strands of pale hair fell around his face, brow glistening with a thin layer of perspiration.

You gasped, back arching as you hitched one leg around his hips, grabbing at his biceps. Aemond’s pace intensified, turning into something carnal and primal, need outweighing sensibility. Lewd noises filled his chamber — the clash of flesh, the sound of your entangled panting and groans of ecstasy.

Wordlessly, he sought your mouth, kissing you with a blistering force that made your head spin with delirium. You reciprocated with passion, feeling his tongue split past your lips, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Your teeth snagged across his lower lip, enough to make Aemond’s throat echo with a faint growl.

Between the tangle of teeth and tongue, bodies becoming one, you rolled your hips in-tandem with Aemond’s sharp, brutal thrusts. “Don’t stop.” You whispered, wanting him to chase after his release, feeling the pleasurable pulsations between your thighs.

Aemond let out a soft grunt, cock burying itself within you over and over again, precum slathering your insides. The sensation of your cunt around him was perfection — he wanted more of you, all of you. You felt his hand snake around your throat, cupping beneath your jaw as he squeezed just enough to make you whine.

He was relentless, pounding into you with an obvious desperation that only furthered your desire for him. You gripped his shoulders, bringing yourself as close as you could, any sliver of distance beginning to dissipate, eclipsed by conjoined bodies and shared bliss.

At last, his countenance contorted into one of complete and utter pleasure, pale brows furrowed in concentration, violet-colored eye closing for just a moment. His cock throbbed inside of you, brazenly spilling himself wherever he saw fit. He pulled out halfway through, painting your thighs in a sticky sheen of glistening seed.

With a huff of finality, Aemond kissed your jaw, removing himself from you long enough to retrieve one of the many blankets draped across the foot of his bed. You watched him in rapturous silence, the way his physique moved, sinewy muscle highlighted by the flicker of a fading fire.

You cleaned yourself up, feeling Aemond return as he draped the blanket within your lap. As the hearth began to die, the chill of his chambers became evident, thunder rattling overhead, accompanied by the onslaught of a cold deluge. He rekindled the flame, wordlessly slinking down to curl next to you.

Strewn beside the fire, Aemond’s head came to rest atop your sternum, arm draped across your midsection. You held him, kept him close — it provided a sense of vulnerability that made you truly believe that he was yours. You stroked his hair, surprised that he hadn’t asked for you to leave.

“Whenever you wish for me to depart, say the word, my Prince.” You uttered, feeling him tighten his hold upon you. Aemond gazed listlessly into the flames, lilac hue half-lidded as you continued to caress the crown of his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

“No,” Aemond’s command was sharp and punctuated, despite the softness of his tone, something that demanded you yield to him. “I want you here.” He uttered, shivering when your other hand traced along what expanse of his spine you could reach.

Prepared to make your vigil beside Aemond, you settled, leaning into him just as he careened into you. The silence was eerily comforting, lulled by the atmospheric backdrop of the thunderstorm. You always enjoyed the aftermath — you enjoyed holding Aemond, most of all. It made you feel cherished in a different way, one that others might not have understood.

You shifted forward, burying your lips atop the pale crown of Aemond’s skull, letting it linger beyond the boundaries of chastity. He exhaled, body fully curled against yours, half of him reclining against you, the other half left to soak in the crackling warmth of the fire.

As your digits tenderly traced the muscle of his forearm, Aemond finally broke the silence once more, happy to let you stroke his hair. “I have always been different, teased and ridiculed,” He lamented, a twinge of melancholy within his voice. “Underestimated, most of all.”

It was a rare glimpse into the window of Aemond’s being — the man that craved love and affection, longed to be thought of as important. After Storm’s End, his mother had cast her frustrations and scorn down upon him, condescending and detached.

A gentle exhale escaped him as you stroked along the angular slope of his jaw, turning his head away from the fire and toward you. You looked down upon him, this man capable of ruthlessness and cunning, and saw the threads of a shattered youth — of someone who longed to feel a tender touch.

“Those who’ve attempted to slight me have always fallen so short of the mark,” Aemond uttered, a vague reference to the Velaryon boy that he had wrongfully slaughtered. He had some regrets about that one, but he hoped that it would cement his strength — he was the rider of Vhagar, and even then, it never felt like enough. “Hm.”

He seemed incredibly comfortable like this, pressed into your warmth, his cheek nestling against your collarbone. You continued to trace along the smooth plane of his musculature, allowing your digits to finally brush underneath his scarred, sapphire eye.

“You feel cold,” You hummed, noticing the way in which he absentmindedly leaned into your palm, allowing you to fully cup his face. “You are strong, Aemond — resilient and cunning. It is not my place to speak of your family, but I’ve come to know you, and I know that you are stronger than all of them.”

Bristling underneath the sweetly-spoken purr of your praises, Aemond kept his arm draped around you, the other coming to rest underneath your breast. The pad of his thumb graced your silky flesh, and he wanted to stay like this forever, if he could.

Aemond regarded you with a forlorn intensity, one that still danced with a subtle frustration, intermingled with his growing sense of possessiveness towards you. He kissed your palm, and then placed a kiss against your chest, ear pressed to the beating swell of your heart.

“I do not feel different with you,” Aemond uttered, able to listen to the little flutter within your chest, the steady gallop of your heart. “I do not want that to change.” His tone became solemn, and you simply coaxed him closer, allowing him to use the crook of your elbow as a place to rest, fingers raking through his hair.

“It won’t change, my Prince.” Your reassurance was gentle, as saccharine as the finest honey. Aemond’s hum was one of contentment as he crawled forward, head resting against your shoulder instead, allowing him to better hold onto you just as you held him.

Silence passed between you, accompanied by the brief crackle of dried tinder atop the logs, the light of burning embers dancing before you both. He kissed your jaw again, the slope of his nose brushing around your neck as he peered towards the flames.

Again, you felt your breath hitch when Aemond held tightly to you, lifting his head just enough to gaze down upon you. Your countenance was captivating — beautiful beyond compare, awestruck of his appearance. His lilac hue flickered across your face, drinking in the doe-like look you had before he hummed.

The ghost of an indiscernible expression fluttered across his features — incredibly subtle, yet present nonetheless. “I certainly hope not.” He murmured, lips molding themselves to yours, and then to the corner of your mouth before he resumed his former position.

You kissed the top of his head once more, cradling him as you would something fragile. You knew that Aemond’s insecurities resurfaced often, but now, they seemed far more prevalent. Regardless, your affection for him wouldn’t waver — you worried that he wouldn’t feel the same for you, however.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond already possessed you, body and soul — and that was more dangerous than any blade or any dragon.

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