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toxicanonymity · 1 year ago

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Midnight Snack.

3.4k slasher!Joel x f!reader

slasher Joel masterlist | spotify SUMMARY: Joel has dinner with his Mom, then visits you. A/N: Shoutout to @iamasaddie for the master list mood board magnets, @gasolinerainbowpuddles for the edit and divider, fridge magnet anon ask, @thesummerpetrichor , anyone I'm forgetting? WARNINGS: I8+ dubcon unsafe p in v, creampie, light somnophilia, choking, lewd degradation, home intrusion, manual restraint, spitting, toxic parental issues, angst/insecurity, changes POV, NO Y/N.

“I said I’m good, Ma,” Joel grumbles as his mom puts another heaping spatula of casserole on his plate anyway. He sighs and pushes it around with his fork.

“What’s got ya down, hun?”

“Nothin’.”

“It’s a girl, ain’t it?” She smiles. “Knew it. Last time ya were here, ya had that glow," she nods, then registers his sullen face again. "It's okay, hun. Whatever it is, you'll work it out.".

He hasn't stopped thinking about you since he was there. When he drives, when he showers, when he goes to bed, when he jacks off—he sees the desire in your eyes when you’re pinned against the counter. He sees your dripping hole stretched around his fist. He thinks about you every time he uses his wrench. Still smells like your filthy cunt.

"Tell me 'bout her,” his mom urges.

“Can't,” Joel mumbles. “Don’t got a girl.”

His mom looks at him knowingly. She always sees right through him. He doesn’t like how close they are, but in a way, she’s his only friend. He fails to suppress a little smile, then looks down shyly at his plate and finally takes a bite.

She asks, “How’d ya meet?”

Joel gives her a half-serious cautionary look and keeps chewing.

“Work?” his mom prods.

Joel swallows, nods, and takes a sip of milk. “Gave'r a ride.”

Two rides, really. Although you took the second one all on your own. And damn, it was good. He shifts in his seat.

“Well, great,” his mom lights up. “When ya gonna see her again?” She dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin and stands up.

“I dunno, Ma. . .She’s too good for me.”

She huffs, adjusts her glasses, then walks over. She playfully whips him on the shoulder with the fabric napkin, then puts her finger in his face. “Don’t you ever say that. No one’s too good for my boy.” She takes his glass to the kitchen and pours him some more milk, then sits back down at the table.

“already left me once,” Joel grumbles.

His Mom’s face falls, then sours.

“Then she’s not worth your time." She scoffs. Or anyone else’s."

“She’s different, Ma," he mutters deadpan, then quieter, he adds, "Sometimes I think she likes me," with the slightest lift of his brow.

Mrs. Miller's eyebrows shoot all the way up. "Well, she should!"

"'mixed signals." He’s saying too much, but he can’t stop. It’s not like he has anyone else to talk to.

"Bring'er for dinner," she suggests.

"Ain't like that," he sulks. "We don't-" He cuts himself off and sighs, sitting back in his chair. He puts his napkin on his plate. "Shouldn't'a mentioned it," he mumbles.

His mom reaches across the table for his hand, and he gives it to her. He looks at the delicate, paper-thin skin covering the veins on her hand. It makes him sad. He wants to bring a girl home. He wants to make his Mom happy. He doesn't come by enough. She must be so lonely. And he's the one who. . .no, his father deserved it, he reminds himself for the millionth time in his life. He didn’t love them, his mom said. Resentment begins to overtake his guilt. He doesn’t want to feel sorry for her. He steels himself and decides to feel nothing.

"Look at me, Joel." She looks him in the eye. "You're not gonna get a wife like this, honey." Joel swallows and looks down. She continues, "Don't be a quitter. She's yours if you want her." Don’t be a quitter.

The buzzer for the laundry goes off. Mrs. Miller starts to head to the laundry room, but Joel stops her. "Feel like a loser when ya do my laundry."

She shakes her head in disapproval and starts clearing the table instead. "My son. . .” she picks up both their plates. ". . .Is not a loser."

Joel finishes his laundry, watches some tv with her while she knits, then pulls himself away. His Mom sends him on his way with an old tupperware of casserole. "Go get her," she tells him with a wink.

—-

He wants to make a move. He wants to fuck you again, but he isn’t sure how. How do people do it? He doesn't know how to ask you out, or what you'd do together. Every time he thinks about it, he feels stupid, but he does wanna see you. He wants to be inside you. He wants to make you purr, little sex kitten.

At this hour, you’re probably out whoring, but he might as well drive by while he’s close. All your lights are off, but your car is there. Hmm. He can't bring himself to go home. Don’t be a quitter. He sits in his car at the end of your street. Last time he came over, it went pretty well. You wanted him to fuck you, and he did. You wanted more, and he gave you more. Then he left before you could leave him.

He feels like you’re special, but he really only knows a few things about you. Most importantly, you like the danger, you want the thrill, you want his dick, and you sure can take a cock.

The only thing he can think to do is give you more of what he knows you want. Even if you're asleep, you'll be purring for it as soon as he drags you out of bed and pins you on the floor. He pictures a knife at your throat. Not a big one, just his switchblade.

He gets out of his car and adjusts his balls, spreading his feet for a moment. Then he starts walking to your house. After a few seconds, he goes back to his car for the casserole. Maybe you'll have a midnight snack after he stuffs you full of his cock. He rolls his eyes at himself. That’s stupid.

—-

There's a lamp with a dying bulb barely flickering on your back patio with a couple of moths fluttering wildly around it. Joel looks into your dark kitchen and scowls at his reflection in the glass. He holds the Tupperware under his elbow and picks the lock with ease. After stepping into your kitchen, he quietly slides the door shut behind him. His boots thud stickily as he takes his first steps on the linoleum. Do you ever mop? He holds his switchblade open in the air. He’s headed toward the hall where he expects your bedroom is. He inches through the kitchen--between the counter on his left and the stove on his right, until he gets to your fridge.

The surface of the fridge is peppered with magnets--souvenirs, letters of the alphabet, bottle openers. It's silly. But a piece of paper catches his eye and he stops dead in his tracks. It's pinned to the fridge by a "J," and an "X" and an "O." He blinks and squints, but his eyes don't deceive him. It's his drawing of you, legs spread wide open. His chest flutters looking at his sketch of your cunt hung proudly on your fridge. His dick twitches, and he inhales sharply. His mouth is watering. He dips the tip of his thick pinky between his lips and dribbles a string of saliva on the paper, right between your legs. He tilts his head and admires the way your graphite cunt glistens.

You want him. You really want him. His body relaxes. He closes and pockets his switchblade. He opens the fridge as quietly as possible and puts the casserole on the top shelf, pausing to survey the scant contents. Mostly condiments. Takeout containers. Beer. Expired orange juice. He closes the fridge.

The microwave is hanging down from a cabinet to his left. He steps in front of it and bends his knees enough to push back his hair in the reflection. He stands up again, squares his shoulders, then prowls in silence to your bedroom.

---

The door is open. Of course it is. You want him. His boots are quieter on your carpet. He approaches the foot of your bed but doesn't get closer. You're occupying less than half the bed. You're just as pretty in your sleep. All bundled up. He knew that already. He gets harder, recalling the time he woke you up with his cock inside you. God, you're sexy. How'd he get so lucky that a hot little slut like you wants him so bad?

He goes to the other side of your bed. His side. There’s a chair full of dirty clothes. He sits down on them and takes off his boots. He stands up again and lowers the zipper of his jumpsuit, pressing down on his bulge to get the zipper over it without snagging. Then he peels the sleeves off and brings it down over his ass and meaty thighs. He lets it pool at his feet and steps out of it.

He's left wearing a blue soft wash t-shirt, lighter blue striped boxers, and white socks with holes. He takes those socks off too. He approaches your bed, lifts the covers with care, and sees what you're wearing. You're wearing the shirt–he recognizes its condition. God damn, you really do want him.

Joel gradually lets his weight onto your mattress as he slips under the covers. His heart races and his forehead is damp. His cock is so hard just from being close to you. He lies there perfectly still on his side for a moment, watching your back as you breathe. Then he scoots forward, inch by inch, until his leg hair brushes your bare legs and you jerk in your sleep.

"Shhh. It's just me," he whispers as he wraps his hulking arm over you. He spoons you and lightly presses his hard cock against your ass. You moan in your sleep and push back, then he moans.

You jerk in your sleep again, but this time you don't relax. You startle awake. You gasp and whimper. Your limbs thrash, and his arm tightens around you. You squeal, and his massive hand covers your mouth. He wasn't expecting your feisty side, kitten. He came to give you what you want.

Why don’t you want him anymore?

-----you-----

Pure instinct kicks in when you wake up with someone in your bed. Your heart is pounding, you thrash and kick with all your might trying to get away. He covers your mouth and repeats “It’s me, sweetheart. God damn.” He sounds confused and irritated at your reaction. His voice is familiar, but it takes you a moment to place it, despite thinking about him all the time in waking life. It's like your subconscious hasn't caught up with reality, and can you blame it?

"Would you stop? Damn," he pants, getting more irritated as you continue to struggle and his arm tightens more, compressing your chest. What did he expect breaking into your house and getting into your bed?

You feel his hard dick press against your loose sleep shorts and get butterflies in your core, even as you continue struggling. He backs up for a moment and the pull of his arm forces you onto your back. He pins you with his left forearm on your chest and aggressively yanks down your shorts then kicks them all the way off before getting between your legs. His hard cock lays against your clit, separated only by his boxers, and you're throbbing. Your efforts to free yourself get weaker and weaker until you’re just lying there, staring up at him, your chest getting sore under his arm.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. He doesn’t answer, just breathes heavily.

He’s scowling down at you with a fine mist of perspiration along his hairline. He presses his cock against your mound again. Over a long moment of silence, an electric charge passes between your eyes and his. He slightly tilts his head and looks at your mouth. You reach for the back of his neck and feel the cold sweat under your palm as you pull him down, drawing his face to yours.

Your mouths meet but don't seal, and you find your lips reaching for his, wanting something to hold, something to suck–but he devours you without granting you any bit of control. You whimper as he kisses you hungrily, hard cock throbbing against your aching clit. He kisses you sloppily, biting your lower lip, dragging his tongue across it to the corner where he pauses and presses his teeth into your cheek and grunts with a slow thrust against you. Then he drags his lips and tongue down your jaw as you tilt your chin up.

He latches onto your neck with an "mm" and his hips begin to grind his thick erection against you at a slow rhythm. He grunts and his breath is humid with a moan against your neck before he latches onto it again. You feel the delicate skin bruising under his mouth while your pussy is gushing wet. You tilt your hips and wrap a leg around him. He groans at your slick, throbbing cunt against his cock.

He murmurs into your neck, “God damn, you’re a slut for my cock,” then chuckles. “Aren’t ya, kitten?”

He lifts his pelvis off you to massage your cunt aggressively with his hand. You whine and he gives a low whistle. Then he urgently takes his boxers down and you help him, curling a toe into the waistband once his boxers get down to his thighs. You drag your foot down between his legs to his feet, taking his boxers with you. . He kicks them off the rest of the way. Before he lays his hips back into you, you reach for his balls, longing to feel the heft of them. It sends a bolt of desire through you. Fuck.

"What's wrong with you?" You ask, but you're really asking yourself. You’re asking yourself why you've got this sicko in your bed, someone unhinged enough to break into your house not once but twice and all you want is his cock.

"Me?" He asks. "the fuck is wrong with you?" He wraps a hand around your throat. “Playin’ games with me,” he growls bitterly. “Ya want it, ya don't, ya want it–” you cough under his grip as he reads your eyes, then he whispers, "want it" with a small nod, and takes his hand away.

He notches his tip at your entrance then breathes, "don't ya?--uggghh" As he shoves into you. “Want it, you’ll get it,” he pants as his cock parts your walls. His cock spreads you wide open as he gives you his full length, and you gasp as he bottoms out. He withdraws a few inches and hangs his head to watch you swallow him back up.

"God damn," he murmurs. "Forgot how tight ya were before." Your clit twitches at the thought of the wrench.

Then his eyes come to your chest and the ripped shirt he gave you. He moans at the sight of your nipple poking through one of the slashes and he covers it with his mouth as he fucks you. His wide tongue drags under your nipple and wets the curled edges of the slash in the shirt before his lips seal around your nipple. He brings his hips back and pushes into you again, sucking and moaning into your tit. Your eyes fixate on his triceps nearly bursting out of his sleeves and that’s the first time it hits you that he was already in sleepwear. He undressed and got in bed with you. God, he’s weird. And you. You're. . . You don't know, but your hands are gliding on their own over his muscular back, feeling him flex as he pounds you.

You find your fingers curling under the bottom hem of his shirt and he reaches one hand behind his back to help you remove it. You can't see much, but when the angle shifts, the moonlight catches enough to tell you his body has really been through it. When his head dips to your neck again you watch his hulking back muscles and see lines whiter than his skin. At least a dozen, overlapping lashes. You run your hand over it and the slight change in texture makes you wince with the confirmation. No telling how old they are.

On his front, there’s a short straight line near his shoulder and a longer, thinner one on his side, curving around near his v muscle. Your thumb drifts to that one. Joel shivers at the touch, then slams his hips into you harder. You quickly abandon it, sliding your hand up his side, then to his pec. A wicked smile spreads across half his face as your hand runs across his chest. "Y'ain't scared, are ya?" He asks, breathing heavily with his cock dragging heavily in your dripping wet cunt.

“No.” You thumb his nipple.

He lowers himself and lets the weight of his middle onto you with a sigh, still railing his length into you. You wrap both legs around him, and he breathes "yeah, mmmgg baby, yeah" as he fucks you deeper.

Your nipples go fully erect. "Fuck," he breathes when he feels them. He grinds against your clit as he fucks you, and you feel a climax looming. The thought crosses your mind whether he's going to kill you one of these days and your chest erupts in goosebumps. Your face feels cold.

As though reading your mind, he says, “don’t whore around on me” He reads your eyes then adds, "n' you'll be fine," with a small nod, a brief smile, and harsh thrust.

You can't help but crack a smile at the absurdity of it. The implied monogamy–on your side, at least. When he registers your amusement, his smile fades into a scowl and his eyes turn black. He grabs your jaw, squeezes it open, and spits in your mouth. He grabs your hand off his chest and pins both your wrists harshly above you, holding them there with one massive hand as he fucks you harder, angrier. He looks down where your bodies meet, and he watches you take his cock again, breathing heavily, sighing and moaning.

Eventually his sour mood subsides, replaced by renewed marvel at your body. "Sure can take a dick." Your hips lift into him, seeking more pressure for your clit, near the edge. "Didn't bring my wrench." He glances around your bedroom. You moan at the thought of him shoving something inside you. Your walls twitch, and the deep groan that leaves his mouth is too much. You grab his ass and pull him deeper using your hands and your legs.

"Fuck, Joel," you breathe, and a new softness spreads across his face.

His mouth falls open and he whispers, "yeah, sweetheart." You bite your lip and groan as a huge orgasm seizes you. "Yeah," he whispers and his eyes map your face as your walls clench around him. "oh fuck," he pants as you cum on his cock. "Fuck," he breathes again, "fuckin love this cunt," he looks you in the eye. "Ohhhh," he groans and begins to pulse inside you. He lowers his face to your neck again and you keep cumming, your body jerking into his. "Yeah, fuck," he manages into your neck as his balls empty into you. "Mmmmm" he thrusts slowly one more time like he can hardly stand the pleasure.

He pushes himself back up to look at you and shudders as you squeeze him with an aftershock.

"'s'okay," he whispers and brushes your temple with his thumb. “ruin ya in the mornin'” In the morning? He wants to stay over? "God you're hot," he chuckles, cock still inside you. After a long moment of silence, he slides his cock out of you and you wince at the void. He lays on his stomach and drapes his arm over you. Your heart races and you can only hope he doesn’t feel it. You don’t want him in your bed right now. He's a novelty and he has to stay that way. Yeah it was fun, it’s been fun. It’s fun. You have his stupid drawing on your fridge, like a wild memory, a souvenir. But this. . . this is unsettling.

You can't get attached to this sicko. But you know better than to try to make him leave. He gets that look in his eye sometimes, and you just don’t know. You take deep breaths and try to plot how you’ll get out of this in the morning. You can say you have to work. Yeah, you’ll say you have to work. Eventually, you drift off under the weight of his arm.

------

Thank you so much for reading and engaging! Love you guys.

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spider-stark · 8 months ago

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THE CONQUEROR'S CROWN

Aegon II Targaryen x Niece!Reader

Summary - After being captured by a member of the Kingsguard on your way to Winterfell, Aegon calls for you in the throne room.

Warnings - light smut, oral, kidnapping, blades/blood, possible hematolagnia, eludes disappointed mom!rhaenyra (absolutely no bashing tho), and obvious incest

Word Count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

His tongue traces the subtle curve of his bottom lip, his lilac eyes watching carefully as you waltz into the throne room, escorted by Ser Willis to the base of the Iron Throne. With a slight nod of his head, he dismisses Ser Willis, leaving you to stand alone as the Kingsguard takes his leave.

You have stood in this very room more times than you could possibly count. Your childhood was spent chasing your brothers around the large stone pillars, studying the intricate weaving of the tapestries adorning the wall, and sitting upon your grandsire’s lap atop the Iron Throne.

You were born to stand within this room, born to sit the throne standing before you now. If you focused, you almost swore that you could hear your grandsire’s voice whispering in your ear, bouncing you on his leg as he vowed—someday, my sweet little dragon, all of this will be yours.

But, before it could become yours, it would first belong to your mother—the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

And before it could be hers, you would have to kill the cunt that had stolen it out from under her.

You make a show of leaning into a melodramatic curtsy, playing up the role of his complaisant prisoner, “Your grace,” you practically snarl up at him, a silent challenge gleaming in your narrowed gaze.

Aegon sucks in a breath before hesitantly lifting his arms, gesturing to himself, “What do you think?” It was not the voice of a king that pierced your ears, but the voice of the same scared little boy you have always known—the one you have always loved.

A thousand jagged, twisted blades glimmer in the dim candlelight, all of them forged together to create the infamous throne that had started this godsforsaken war. Your throne, your mother’s throne—a throne that he now sat upon.

While there was no doubt that Aegon lacked the proper cadence, it was undeniable that he looked every bit like the king he pretended to be. Dressed in his finest clothing, woven from a deep-green material so dark that it nearly appeared as black at first glance. A circlet of Valyrian steel rests at his brow, embellished with glittering rubies; the Conqueror’s crown.

“I think,” you begin, holding your chin high, “that you are sitting in my mother’s chair.”

The blow wasn’t unexpected, yet Aegon’s jaw still tenses at the venom that laced each and every syllable.

He knew you would be upset with him—infuriated, actually. But expecting that anger and experiencing it were two very different things.

He wasn’t used to you being mad at him, and he didn’t like it.

Forcing himself to swallow back against the sea of emotions rising in his chest, Aegon pushes himself to his feet, careful not to nick himself on one of the jutting blades. He descends the steps with the same impressive swagger he’s always possessed, walking towards where you stood motionless at the base of the throne.

Your body stiffens at his approach, your muscles tightening, shoulders pulling back, fingers curling into fists. He notices, and you briefly remind him of a cornered animal—captured and awaiting a rescue that may never come, armed with nothing but brazen defiance.

Stopping less than a few inches from you, he realizes that this must make him the predator of your story. The big bad king, whose first act of war had been to steal away his precious little niece, unwilling to go even one more day without her by his side.

When he stretches a hand towards you, you’re smart enough not to recoil from his touch as he glides a finger along the fine silk of your skirts. “You wore it,” he mutters softly, admiring the rich green color of your dress.

“I wasn’t aware that I had a choice in the matter,” you retort swiftly, suddenly aware of the incessant pounding of your heart.

You hate yourself for wearing this—a gown that wasn’t entirely unlike the ones that the dowager Queen Alicent had worn from your entire life, the ones that had been marred by a color you learned to loathe.

But when a few handmaidens came pouring into the room in Maegor’s Holdfast where Aegon had kept you imprisoned for the last several days, you felt as though you had no say as they plunged you into a tub of steaming water, scrubbing your dirt-stained skin until it was raw, only to pull you back out and then wrap you in varying shades of emerald.

He pulls away from the fabric, giving you his usual pouty frown when he asks, “Why would you believe that you have no choice?”

The sheer innocence of his tone had you grinding your teeth. “Must I remind you, uncle?” He winces slightly, unused to the cruel formality with which you now speak. “Remind you of how you have stolen my mother’s birthright? Or of how you ordered your guard to steal me away, and throw me into the Holdfast? Of how you’re holding me prisoner in some desperate attempt to wound my mother-”

“I am not holding you to wound Rhaenyra,” her name sounds like poison on his lips, the taste of it vile on his tongue as he interjects, “nor are you here to be my prisoner, niece.”

Your brows rise alongside your voice as you shout, “Am I not? Then please, Aegon, enlighten me as to why you insist on keeping me here! Tell me why you have torn me away from my family and humiliated me!” You gesture down at your body, to the gown clinging to your curves.

Aegon’s answer came in the form of a growl, “Because you are mine to keep.”

His hands shoot to your wrists, tightly gripping your delicate flesh. A flicker of desire burns in his lilac gaze, a look that you are all too familiar with. It pierces through you, and you can do nothing but curse yourself as a warm feeling spreads throughout your body. “And I refused to sit idly by as your family sold my girl to whichever Lord had the biggest fucking army, auctioning you off like livestock so that they might acquire more men to fight in your mother’s war!”

Disdain laced the word—family.

He spoke it as if it were a plague, a curse, a weakness. But you didn’t miss the way his breath hitched, hidden emotion catching in his throat. You were his family; he had said so himself, repeating it often during your years spent together, sneaking through halls and hiding in shrouded alcoves.

You were his plague. You were his curse. And you were his only weakness, the only thing that could be held over him. The only thing that could make him yield.

It suddenly dawned on you how much it must have bothered him to learn that you were being escorted to Winterfell under the protection of two of your mother’s Queensguard, how infuriated he must have been to find out that your hand had been promised to Lord Cregan Stark in return for his aid. That was why he had sent Ser Willis after you—why he had him kill your mother’s men and bring you here.

Your mouth went dry as you dug your nails into your palms, unable to will yourself to pull your wrists from his touch. “This is your war, too,” you remind him, your voice softer than you wish it to be, your stare wide but never wavering from his.

Aegon shakes his head softly, wavy silver locks spilling over his delicate features. “No,” he tells you, releasing one wrist so that he can reach up and brush a finger along your cheekbone, “I have only ever been a pawn in this game, little love.”

A shiver rolls down your spine as his hand moves lower, his thumb trailing along your bottom lip, tracing the delicate curve.

“But you,” he drawls, his mouth curving into a lopsided smirk that had your pulse sputtering, “you were always meant to be a queen.”

His declaration only stirs confusion in your mind. Your brow creases and you blink at him once, then twice. “What is it that you want, Aeg?”

A sweet sound escapes his throat, a low hum of satisfaction at the simple pet name rolling from your tongue. Your voice was still sharp, still guarded—but all he had needed was that one subtle show of affection to know that you were listening, that you were willing to hear him out.

His thumb tugs at your bottom lip, pulling it ever-so-slightly and revealing a gleam of white teeth. Sensible enough to recognize that Aegon was supposed to be your enemy now, and not your secret lover, you gnash your teeth at him. The display only makes his grin grow wider, a foolish sense of hunger turning his usually pale complexion to a light shade of crimson.

“I want to make you queen,” he purrs, letting his touch fall from your face as he lets go off your other wrist, stepping to the side. He sweeps an arm out to one side, gesturing grandly towards the throne before you. “My queen.”

You feel disoriented, like the room around you is suddenly spinning in circles. A fuzzy feeling settles in your stomach as your gaze flickers from the throne, to Aegon, then back to the throne again.

The look on your face must be one of pure disbelief, as Aegon appears to be laughing at the shock morphing your features.

“But…” You take a series of shallow breaths, shaking your head as you force yourself to ignore the throne, turning back to focus only on Aegon. “But my mother is the rightful queen, not me—not yet!” You object, stuttering over your words as they spill out.

This doesn’t make sense…

The Greens would never allow this!

“Queen Alicent,” you sputter out, realization dawning on you, “and your grandsire, they… They don’t know that I am here, do they? They don’t know that you captured me?”

The pieces began to fall into place in your mind, filling in the gaps of a very long and complicated story. The reason why Aegon had only sent one of the Kingsguard after you, why you had been thrown in the Holdfast rather than the dungeons, why he had waited until the hour of the wolf to finally call for you, having you brought to throne room only once he was certain that it was abandoned for the night.

Aegon hadn’t just captured you. He had kept you hidden—hidden from Alicent and Ott0.

He gives a single, gentle nod as he says, “You, my sweet girl, have become my best kept secret,” there’s a certain eagerness in the way he is looking at you, greedy and expectant, as if he were awaiting praise for his scheme.

“I cannot give your mother my throne, not without risking my own head,” Aegon reaches for your hand once more, and you allow him to lace his fingers through yours, even as you scowl at the possessive language he used—his throne. “But I can give it to you.”

You feel unsteady as you glance down at your joined hands; his grip was tight, while yours was limp—allowing the show of affection, but not returning it.

You draw a breath, “And you plan to do this by… By making me your wife?” Nerves had your voice jumping an octave, and you curse the Warrior for not granting you enough strength to maintain an even tone.

The shift in Aegon’s expression was tenuous, but you knew him well enough to catch even the most subtle changes. You noticed the way his lilac eyes shifted to his feet, the way his bottom lip trembled as his fear of rejection pierced through his chest like a knife.

It was second nature to want to comfort him, to want to reach out as you used to, brushing the messy waves of silver from his face, reminding him that you wanted him in ways that you could never want another.

You resist the urge as best you can, but you cannot stop your fingers from finally curling around his hand, squeezing before you can stop yourself. When he looked back up at you, it was with a look of foolish hope.

“It might be an ignorant plan,” he admits, “but the realm doesn’t need a puppet for a king. It needs you—an iron-willed girl, born for an iron throne.”

It’s not the right choice.

And you know that if your mother were here, she would be disappointed in you for considering such a proposal. If Daemon were here, he would cut you down himself, spouting out allegations of treason over your still-cooling corpse. Jace and Luke would hardly be able to look you in the eye, you reckon, if they found out of your feelings for the uncle they both loathed so desperately.

This wasn’t the right choice, because before the throne should belong to you, it must first belong to your mother, the rightful heir.

And yet…

To take the throne now, to take advantage of the opportunity Aegon has offered, would be seizing a chance to deliver the throne to the Blacks. Taking the throne did not mean that you must keep it—only that you might hold onto it until it could be passed over to your mother; only that you might offer her a clear path to it.

And marrying Aegon…

Marrying Aegon was the culmination of all your wildest dreams, of all of your secret wishes and most desperate desires.

“If you wish to say no,” his voice wobbles, his eyes squeezing shut as he prepares himself for your answer; for your refusal. “Then I will allow you to leave. I refuse to deliver you to Winterfell, but I will arrange for a guard to escort you to Harrenhal. I’ve heard word that Daemon has-”

You refuse.

Refuse to let him finish speaking, having decided that you had heard more than enough to make your decision, unable to care if it is the right one.

In a brief moment of reckless abandon, you tug on his hand hard enough to send him stumbling towards you, his bright eyes shooting open just in time to watch as you rise on your toes, bringing your lips to crash against his.

His muscles went rigid, eyes remaining wide-open as he felt your other hand slip into his hair, tangling your fingers in his messy locks, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

Slowly, he relaxes. Slowly, he melts into the touch that he had missed so much, the one that he had dreamt about every night for the past several months that he had been forced to spend without you.

Muscle memory kicks in, his body abruptly remembering all of your secret encounters over the years, reminding him of all the little ways that you liked being touched, of all the ways that he could drive you wild.

He pulls his hand loose from yours, his palm instantly collided with the outside of your thigh. His fingers knot in the silky fabric of your dress, pulling it higher and higher, until he’s finally able to press his palm flat against the warmth of your skin, sinking his nails into the plump flesh.

“I’ve missed you,” he utters against your mouth, his voice so guttural and delicious that you nearly moan. His other hand slips beneath the fabric as well, ghosting past your abdomen to greedily paw at your chest, “And these,”

A ragged gasp slips from your lips as he kneads your breast. You pull away from his kiss, your head tilting back and exposing your throat as you indulge yourself in the feeling of his hands roaming against your bare skin. His sweet, pouty lips instantly find their way to your neck, suckling and kissing at the sensitive skin.

“Greedy,” you chide, the euphoria flooding your veins leaving you breathless.

“Should I take this as a yes, then?” He croons against your flesh.

You wish to be bold in your response, derisive, even; but as his tongue glides along the smooth column of your throat, you can’t bring yourself to sound anything other than desperate.

“Fuck—yes,” you practically moan the affirmation, yanking his hair and making him hiss.

“In that case,” Aegon’s lips curve into a playful arc, placing another kiss against your throat before saying, “allow me to show you to your throne, my queen.”

The whine that escapes you when he pulls his touch from your skin is something vulgar, and you don’t miss the smug expression that settles on his face. He’s pleased with himself, and you’re not surprised. After all, he had just barely touched you and you were already writhing against him, your months apart having left you so needy that you were mere seconds from begging him to take you right here on the floor of the throne room.

Before you can complain, his hand is swiftly slipping back into yours, tugging you up the stairs leading to the throne. When you reach the top, he motions you to sit.

There is something different about sitting on the throne now compared to when you were a girl—a certain power that warms your veins, sending your blood rushing to your cheeks. There is no time to ponder on the feeling, however; not when Aegon is sinking down to his knees the very moment you settle against the cool steel.

“What are you doing?” You’re practically panting when you ask the question, your pulse thrumming in your ears as you watch him, intrigued.

He’s still wearing a smirk when he lifts a hand, plucking the steel circlet from his brow before stretching out his arm and urging you to lean down just enough for him to place it on your head.

The Conqueror’s crown is nearly too big for you and sits askew, but neither of you seem to care about that as he immediately gets back to work, shoving the delicate fabric of your dress back up your legs.

“Swearing fealty to my queen,” Aegon finally answers, his lips ghosting against the side of your knee. “Taking care of you,” he continues, peppering light kisses along the inside of your leg, moving at a tantalizingly slow rate until he finally reaches the top of your thigh. “And eating as though I were a starved man.”

With no warning, he places his lips against your core, his greedy tongue already swiping against your folds. You fight the urge to throw your head back at the sensation of his warm mouth, trying to remain conscious of the jagged blades that surround you.

You can hardly breathe.

You can hardly think.

You can hardly do anything other than gasp as his palms squeeze against your legs, his nails digging into your skin as he forces them apart, keeping you from squeezing them shut as he devours you.

Shoving one of your legs over his shoulder, his right hand slips from your thigh to begin toying with your entrance, and the way you squirm against his touch only encourages him to shove two fingers inside of you. A lewd sound pours from your mouth, echoing so loudly amidst the throne room that you worry someone might hear and come find the two of you.

As his thick fingers plunge in-and-out of you, his tongue circling your clit, you grip the arms of the Iron Throne without thinking—a yelp tears from your throat as one of the blades slice into your palm.

“Shit!” You hiss, the pain in your voice urging Aegon to pause, his mouth shimmering with slickness as he looks up at you, watching as the blood trickles down your wrist.

His pupils flare, darkness overtaking the lilac in his eyes.

Reaching up, Aegon mimics your accidental movement, allowing one of the jagged blades to tear into his palm, too. “Hen lantoti ānogar,” he mutters the familiar Valyrian vows as he reaches for your hand, his pronunciation sloppy, but his voice tinged with undeniable admiration, “va sȳndroti vāedroma,”

(translation: blood of two, joined as one)

He presses your hands together, and his fingers intertwine with yours as the still-flowing blood begins to mix, binding the two of you together in a bond that transcends all else, uniting the two of you in an oath that could never be broken—not by your family, not by war, not even by death.

Getting lost in his eyes, feeling his blood drip down your arm, you find yourself praying to any God that might listen.

Not for absolution, disinterested in the thought of receiving forgiveness for the betrayal you commit against your mother by even sitting in Aegon’s presence.

But for strength.

Enough of it so that you might be able to play the role of the Green Queen, a gift bestowed upon you by Aegon. Enough of it so that you might grant your mother the victory she desires, the one she deserves. Enough of it so that you might be able to paint the walls red with the vile blood of the Greens.

Enough of it so that you might become their demise.

a/n - considering that I wrote this while sleep-deprived at one am, it actually turned out pretty alright lmao. still can't write smut but o well.

aegon looks pretty in the new trailer <3

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unholyhelbig · 1 year ago

Note

request: single mom reader decides to loan shark from natasha’s mob. when reader can’t pay back the loan, natasha’s men capture and beat her. natasha sees reader among the criminals and drug dealers who also haven’t payed back their loans, and excuses her, forgiving her debt.

Title: The Oversight

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 2799

Warnings: Drug use, kidnapping, guns, choking, threats, blood, horrible grammar.

[a/n: Yeah, I kind of feel like this needs a part two. Let me know what you guys think and if you're interested]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

Each breath you drew in spurred a sharp stitch in your side. They came in rapid succession, even as you struggled to recall the fuzzy details that usually calmed you down. Your first street name. What you called your first pet. The name of your second-grade teacher. They all swirled foggily, unable to recall.

Your mouth tasted metallic cotton and your heartbeat was pulsing through your entire body. Counting the thrums hadn’t helped either, you gave up as you rolled your neck in a snow circle. The dried blood that hardened against the side of your face, your cheek, and down the expanse of your collarbone crackled at the soft movement.

The room that housed you was pitch black. It was hard to tell when you opened your eyes, tears welling up and dripping down your face onto your uniform. Your arms were bound behind your back, shoulders screaming in protest and fingers going numb from the cold. Your small noises echoed. Wherever you were was impossibly vast.

The next breath that escaped you was deeper than the rest. Not necessarily calm, but enough for you to take stock of the situation; there were flashes of you leaving the diner where you worked nothing short of twelves. It had just rained, and the air was humid. You dropped your keys and bent down to pick them up.

Before you could insert them into the lock, something hard had come down on your temple. There was a rush of heat sloshing down your face and a moment later, as you looked up at the sky, the steel tip of a boot took the rest of your consciousness.

That didn’t bother you. You were fine, a little banged up, but fine. Your daughter was left with the sitter. It could have been hours, maybe even a day. Your stomach clenched in hunger, and you drifted in and out of lucidity. They’d left you un-gagged but you didn’t have it in you to scream. You had a sinking feeling that no one would hear you anyway.

You’d flinched when the first 500-volt lamp let out a sharp hiss before flipping on. You shrunk into yourself, blinking away the sudden burst of white light that filled the room. It was directed towards you, and the rest of the space was still a frustratingly thick darkness. You couldn’t see who had turned them on, but they could see you.

The boots that walked across the floor were loud. They echoed like your earlier sobs. A metal chair was being dragged, and the sound was piercing. It did nothing to aide your aching head. You were thankful to see something other than pitch black, however big the danger.

You recognized the man who was in front of you. His outline flickered solidly. He looked rougher than you did; dirty-blonde hair, and stubble. There was a bandage across the center of his nose, on his fingertips, as if he’d fisted the razor while shaving. His purple T-shirt was covered by a dusty-brown leather jacket. His stare was hard, emotionless.

“You’re awfully quiet for a hostage.” He said, straddling the chair he had dragged over. His chest rested against the metal backing. “You can scream if you want. Wear yourself down. It’ll make this a lot easier.”

“What is this?” You asked instead of taking him up on his offer.

He was familiar to you. Clint. He came into the diner every Wednesday and Friday night like clockwork. He’d order a roast beef on rye with Swiss cheese and extra dressing on the side. He’d suck down two beers with his meal and tipped generously.

Sometimes he was with the man they called ‘The Winter Soldier’. You’d always found the name laughable, but the rumors about him were enough for you to hold your tongue. He never ate but would sometimes order a diet coke and sip it while Clint spoke through large bites of food.

Law enforcement wouldn’t’ touch Bucky Barnes, and your boss would typically comp whatever he ordered. A few months ago, you had shared your first words with him behind the diner. The air stunk of rotted food and hardly counted as fresh air. However, it was a few degrees cooler than the kitchen.

He had offered you a cigarette, one already perched between his lips, a zippo lighter at the ready in his other hand. You declined with the shake of your head, and a quiet ‘no thank you’. There was an uncomfortable silence, but it was better than the damp warmth of the kitchen. A sweet, burning scent filled your nose when he lit his cigarette and let the smoke curl around the two of you like a slack rope.

“You work hard in there.” Bucky said, taking a long inhale. He held it within his lungs, voice pinched. “Harder than anyone else I’ve seen in a while.”

You weren’t about to tell him about your daughter, not with his reputation, or the small smattering of pink scars across his chiseled features. So, you nodded instead. The number of tips you got in the broken down, greasy diner was the difference between two meals and one. So, you smiled sweetly and laid on the southern accent even though you’d only spent a short stint in Georgia when you were eighteen. It was easy to perfect.

“I bet you could name my order right now.”

“You don’t order.”

“I don’t trust the food.” He shrugged listlessly, a lazy smile against his lips. You couldn’t help but smile back.

“That’s a good call.”

He laughed at your honesty, and it was a nice sound. He disarmed you and that was worrying. Bucky let the cigarette sizzle out in a puddle at his feet. He used the tip of his steel-toed boot to grind the paper into damp ash.

“You wouldn’t’ have to work so hard if you had some extra cash, would you?”

The question caught you off guard and you couldn’t stifle the vicious glare that you gave him. Your break was almost over, and you could have, should have, walked back into the restaurant to finish the rest of your shift. Bucky lifted his hands up as a peace offering.

“Look, lady, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. All I’m saying is, you’re not blind to what happens in there, the type of people that frequent this place. You’ve always turned a blind eye and that’s something my boss appreciates. Something she trusts.”

“And who exactly is your boss?”

He tsked “I can’t tell you that, sweetheart. But she wants to make you an offer, she wants to offer you a loan. You’re what? Three months behind on rent? She’ll front that for you and the following two.”

You took a deep breath of stale air. It was a tempting offer, even if it came in the form of a seedy enforcer in an even seedier alleyway. You were three days from getting evicted. Three days from ending up on the streets in a neighborhood that didn’t’ have a single safe one.

“What’s the catch?” You asked.

“Catch? There’s no catch. This is a friendly loan. All you’ve gotta do is pay it back when you’re on your feet again.”

It was an oversight, not asking for a concrete timeline. You hadn’t paid Bucky’s boss back yet, and over the next few months, there were stifled threats, and both Bucky and Clint watched you carefully at the job that you still worked like nothing had changed. The feeling of being indebted lingered, but this time, it was to an unknown entity instead of a landlord that was ultimately harmless.

Everything needed to be paid back in full. These were thousands you didn’t have. And now, two weeks after the initial threat, you were strapped to a metal chair with blood dripping down the sound of your face, in despite need of a drink of water.

Clint was harmless compared to The Winter Soldier, but his muscles still flexed under his shirt as he pulled his jacket off and let it fall to the dusty floor illuminated in blue light. “I would prefer not to get that dirty. It’s genuine leather, you know?”

You glowered at him as he stood and took a few more steps towards you. He looked relatively harmless each time you’d seen him in the diner. Sometimes he had a girl with him, a slight thing that was just as littered in scars as he was. She would order a plate of bacon that was cooked to a crisp and split it with a golden retriever that laid at their feet.

When his wrapped knuckles made contact with your cheek, your head clocked in the opposite direction. There was a sharp pain in your jaw, a ringing in your ear. He had slammed into the same side of your face as earlier, and you lost vision for a second.

Blood filled your mouth, and you spit the mix of saliva, bile, and blood onto the floor. There was a drain in the center and that worried you more than anything else. Your breathing came fast and hard and you glared at him, teeth stained pink.

“Is that all?” You asked him.

It was stupid, you knew it was stupid. But it bothered you more than anything that you had gotten yourself wrapped up in this. Your father was no stranger to the mob, and you should have seen it from a mile away. The fear he lived with. Until the day he died, he would look over his shoulder and you refused to do the same.

Clint grabbed your face, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. “You’re a tough chick, huh? I think we both know why you’re here. All you have to do is get the money and all of this vanishes.”

“I don’t have the money.” Your words were garbled between his fingers. “You’re sure as fuck not going to get it if you kill me.”

“Kill you?” Clint unhanded you and let out a laugh. “Kill you, she says. No, we’re not going to kill you, she would never get her money that way… your daughter on the other hand.”

You pulled against the ropes, and they dug painfully into you. The chair was liable to break, but it had been bolted to the floor. It was much stronger than the one he’d dragged over. The mix of anger and fear that had rushed over you pulled away any thought of lingering aches and pains. Be damned to the head trauma.

Your teeth were gritted, voice a low hiss “Leave her the fuck out of this.”

“Did I strike a nerve?”

“I swear to you, I will get your money, I just need time. I’m not… You can keep me under surveillance as collateral, take my car, my apartment- just leave her out of this.”

Clint gripped your throat with his calloused hand, your ability to breathe became more difficult, half-moon nails digging into your flesh. It stung fiercely, and you let out a gurgle in response. “Or she could be our collateral. I think she’d make a great enforcer, with the proper education, that is.”

Is that what happened to the girl that ate lunch with Clint at the diner? She didn’t looked like she was there against her will, but there was an immense sadness to her eyes. Clint hadn’t released you yet and your vison was growing fuzzy at the edges.

“Let her go,”

Your chest was burning at this point and when he pulled his hand back you tried desperately to regain your sense of lucidity. You coughed, nearly vomiting as he took a long stride backwards, seemingly put into his place with a simple sentence.

Over the ringing of your ears, you heard the sharp click of heels. They were confident, and your chin dropped to your chest as you panted in succession, spit dripping in strings from your lips. You didn’t have the strength to look up, your head was pounding.

“I think that’s enough,” Her voice was smooth, just the smallest bit of an accent in her words. You couldn’t place it, but you couldn’t tell which way was up at this point. “You’re dismissed.”

“Oh, come on Natasha, I was just having a little fun.”

“Dismissed, Clint.”

There was a labored sigh and the sound of his footsteps retreating. It brought little relief to you, however. You felt as if you had traded one evil for another. Eventually, you lifted your head to stare at the ceiling. The stranger hadn’t said anything, and the pitch dark above was more desirable to the unknown.

You heard her sit down and felt her eyes watching you. The swimming in your head started to dissipate so you clocked her with a stare. The woman in front of you was angelic, in such a way that you figured Clint’s choking stunt had actually done you in.

Her stare was an unripe green rimmed in gold, her cheekbones carved from marble. There was a beautiful softness to her expression, and her deep red hair flowed over her shoulders in a waterfall of color. She was studying you, not phased by the cold of the room.

The woman wore a black t-shirt, deep slashes of ink peaking from the dip of the V-neck. You didn’t’ let your eyes linger long. It was a marking that you’d seen on Clints bicep and on Buckey’s hand. You hadn’t gotten a chance to clock it on the girl that was kept in their company.

“Is this the part where you come in with your good cop schtick?” You mumbled.

“Darling, Clint is the good cop.”

“Nice, I like it.” You rolled your shoulders back, fighting the stiffness “Bad cop and worse cop is much more effective.”

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you for someone in your position. Thousands of dollars in debt and seemingly no way to pay back my money. It’s not a good spot to be in, Y/n.”

Natasha stood from the chair, her muscles straining at the action. In a fluid motion, she pulled a black standard issue handgun from the space between her skin and her jeans. She pumped the shaft, the sound echoed more than your quickened breathing.

She used the tip to push your chin up, forcing you to look into her unblinking eyes. You were a dead man, you knew that from her cold stare. You couldn’t look away, even if the option was given.

“Baby, I’ve been in this business for a long time.” Her breath was hot on your collarbone, a mix of mint and tobacco. “I know exactly the type that you are. I cater to your kind. More often than not, my clientele need a little bit of encouragement.”

The tip of her gun traced your jaw, her finger loosely on the trigger. It was cold against your collarbone, down the center of your breasts. She held it there, jaw set in stone.

“We’ll keep you here for a few days. Once you dry out a little, I’m sure you’ll suddenly come into the cash.”

“Dry out? You think I’m on drugs?”

The tip pushed hard enough into your sternum to make you let out a grunt of pain. “You hide it quite well, pet. I’m sure it won’t be as simple when you start to feel those withdraw symptoms. Money flows simple in this town when those cravings kick in.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at her, despite the weapon that she was packing. A frown creased between her eyebrows, but she held it in place. “The hardest thing I’ve ever hit is a blunt in a high school rotation. That was your brilliant plan? Dry me out and then what? Search my backyard for jars filled with money. I don’t have it. I make 2.50 an hour at a diner.”

Natasha scrutinized you, eyes hard. She righted herself and pulled the gun away from your center before flipping on the safety and shoving it back into her jeans. She started to pace the length of the light.

“Bucky, he offered me a loan and I took it so I could pay the rent on an apartment for me and my daughter.” You said, voice quiet “I work thirteen hour shifts six days a week, and it’s still not enough. I’m not… I don’t know who you cater to, but I have a feeling it’s not someone like me.”

“No.” she crossed her arms over her chest, “It seems as if you’re an oversight.”

“Great,” you flexed your numbing fingers, “An oversight you’ll let go?”

Natasha shook her head, clenching and unclenching her jaw. “No, I’m afraid not.”

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Mafia Boss Natasha Romanoff #Marvel #Marvel Fanfiction #Clint Barton #Kate Bishop #Bucky Barnes #Mafia au #request

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maomiscorner · 2 months ago

Text

Unbreakable: Love wins all

Background: Your boyfriend's parents don't like you because you're not from a wealthy family like them. You two now live in a cute and comfortable loft apartment together.

Pairing: richbf!Jake x f!reader

Mentions: it can be uncomfortable for some people who are sensitive to screaming and harsh words.

You two just arrived home from a shopping session after working for an entire week.

You: "OMG, finally some rest after our shopping!". You chuckled lightly plopping down on your sofa. Jake chuckled too and settled himself beside you, putting one of his hands on your lap to massage your legs.

Jake: "Are you tired? Do you wanna go upstairs?"

You just sighed looking at him, and putting your hand on his cutely.

You: "I don't know, I think I'll just lie there for a while I guess"

Jake chuckled again and nodded standing up and going to where he had left the bags he started to put the groceries away in the kitchen.

Suddenly the doorbell rang and it made them scared from the jumpscare in the silent house.

Jake: "Damn it. Who is it at this time, in the afternoon?". He said while opening the door while you finally stood up from the sofa reaching him at the entrance.

While he opened the door he was surprised to see that his parents were there looking happily at him.

Jake: "Mom, Dad, what brings you here?".

Mum: "We were just passing by and thought we'd drop by unannounced to say hello and see how you're doing". She said with a bright smile.

Jake: "Oh, well, that's a surprise. Uh, come in, I guess".

He stepped aside to let his parents in, but as they saw you, their bright smile disappeared, switching to a fake one.

Jake: "Make yourselves at home. Can I get you guys something to drink?".

Dad: "No, no, we're fine. We won't stay long".

Mom: "Oh, Y/N! Hi, how are you?". Her fake smile deepened.

You: "I'm good, and you two?". You seated yourself on a chair in the kitchen while awkwardly looking at them.

Dad: "Well, it's good to know. I hope our son is taking good care of you, Y/N". Sometimes you ask yourself how they can be so realistic while faking their emotions, maybe they're some kind of actors?

You chuckled and nodded being tired of answering their fake selves, so you just excuse yourself and go upstairs.

You: "Well, I think that I can leave you talking there, I'll go upstairs". You went upstairs to the loft floor to change yourself to your comfy clothes.

Jake watched as you left the room, his eyes lingering on you for a moment. He then turned back to his parents, his expression a bit more relaxed now that they were alone.

Jake: "Why did you really come here? Is there something you want to talk about?"

Dad: "Can't we just visit our son without a reason?".

Jake's dad chuckled, but there was something in his tone that made Jake suspicious.

All of this situation made him really suspicious about his parents. As you listened to the conversation on the loft floor looking downstairs through the railing without making yourself seen.

Jake narrowed his eyes at his dad's response. He could sense that there was something underlying the surface.

Jake: "Uh-huh... You've never been one to drop by unannounced. Cut the bullshit, old man. What's really going on?"

Dad: "First of all don't call me like that... and second of all, we're here to talk about that girl".

Jake's expression hardened as his dad mentioned you. He steeled himself for the conversation that was about to unfold, crossing his arms defensively.

Jake: "What about her? What do you want to talk about?"

Dad: "For how long will this thing go on huh?"

Jake's dad asked plainly, his expression carefully neutral.

Jake clenched his jaw, his patience growing thin. He knew exactly what his dad was referring to but tried to maintain a calm demeanor.

Jake: "What 'thing' are you talking about, Dad?"

Dad: "Jake, don't play dumb. You know what I'm hinting at."

He crossed his arms, his voice stern. Jake let out a breath, his eyes darting to the side for a moment before he regained his composure.

Jake: "Alright, if you're hinting at my relationship with Y/N then say it straight, old man".

Dad: "I TOLD U TO NOT CALL ME LIKE THAT YOU-". His father stopped himself as he was screaming and you could probably hear them from upstairs.

Jake clenched his fists, and his father's reaction triggered him to raise his voice.

Jake: "Jesus Christ, lower your voice! And I'll call you whatever I want!".

Dad: "Don't raise your voice at me! I'm your father after all."

His father stood up, his eyes narrowing as he stared at his son.

Jake stood his ground, refusing to back down.

Jake: "And your point? Just because you're my father doesn't give you the right to pry into my personal life."

Dad: "I have every right as a parent to be concerned, especially when you bring a random girl into your life!"

His father pointed towards the stairs, gesturing to where you were upstairs. The accusation stung Jake, it was clear that his father had already formed an opinion about you.

You hid yourself as you got mentioned, fortunately, they didn't see you. But you got scared.

Dad: "Listen... I just want u to focus on your work and don't fuck around. We raised u well, not from some poor girl"

Jake's temper flared at his father's words. How dare he criticize you and make assumptions about you, just based on your background and your family.

Jake: "Agh, how can you say that about her? You know nothing about her. She's not 'some poor girl'. She's so much more than that."

Mum:" Even if we helped you set up this house with her it doesn't mean that we're ok with your relationship".

Jake's mother spoke up, her voice softer but no less judgemental. It was clear that she was also against the relationship.

Jake: "You helped me pay the first bills, I appreciate that. But that doesn't give you the right to dictate my life. I thought you would be happy to see me finally finding someone who makes me happy."

Dad: "Your ex was perfect for you, rich family like ours, good appearance and everything. But also happiness isn't the only thing that matters, Son. You need to think about your future, your career."

His father's tone was firm, as he lectured Jake about his responsibilities and priorities. Jake bristled at the mention of his ex. He had broken up with her for a reason.

Jake: "My ex? Seriously? We broke up months ago, and she was far from perfect. I don't want someone just because they come from a wealthy family. And what does my future career have to do with who I'm with?"

Dad: "If you want to pursue a successful career, you can't be tied down by some girl who might just slow you down!"

His dad's voice rose again, his stern expression not giving any room for rebuttal.

You listened to them from above, and you started crying silently trying to not make any sounds, as you seated yourself on the floor hiding your face in your knees.

Jake's expression hardened at his dad's words. He couldn't believe his father thought so little of you and their relationship.

Jake: "I can't believe you'd say that about her. She's not going to slow me down, she supports me and pushes me to do my best. You're both so quick to judge her without even trying to get to know who she really is!".

Dad: "We just want the best for u, Son. There are many pretty girls on this campus, u can get someone better than that."

His dad tried to reason with him, although his words stung Jake's heart. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions in check. Jake clenched his fists tighter, a mix of hurt and anger bubbling up inside him.

Jake: "Better? What do you mean 'better'!? Y/N is an amazing person and she's perfect for me. I don't want 'many pretty girls'. I want HER."

Dad: "But she's not a woman who can satisfy your needs. She won't be able to give you the same luxuries and privileges that you are used to."

His dad pointed out, highlighting the class difference between you and Jake's privileged background.

You clutched your legs tight till they were hurting for the pain trying to divide the distress you were feeling, as his parents were probably right.

Jake was taken aback by his dad's comment. He couldn't believe he would bring up something as shallow as wealth and privilege.

Jake: "You really think that's what matters to me? Luxury and privileges? You don't even know me. I care about Y/N for who she is as a person, not what she can give me."

Dad: "Listen, Son, I know it might seem sweet and romantic now, but these things won't last. When you're older, you'll realize that compatibility, family background, and social status are Crucial in a relationship."

Jake felt his control slipping, his frustration mounting with every word his father spoke.

Jake: "What kind of archaic bullshit is that? I don't care about all those things. I don't care about the fact that her parents aren't rich, or that she doesn't come from a prestigious family. I don't care about any of that! I just care about her!"

Your tears just flew out tremendously as you crawled to close yourself in the wardrobe as you didn't wanted to listen to them anymore.

The conversation between them went on for more than 15 minutes until Jake made them leave out of angriness. Jake was seething with anger and frustration, both at his parents and at the situation. He couldn't believe the conversation had gone so badly and that they had been so judgmental towards you. As he closed the door behind his parents, Jake leaned against it, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He knew you were upstairs and wanted to check on you, but he also needed a moment to cool down first. He took a deep breath and headed upstairs, determined to find you and make sure you were okay.

You were still crying with your hands covering your ears so you didn't know that he was searching for you as you were closed in the wardrobe on the loft floor.

Jake climbed the stairs quietly, his heart heavy with concern. He called out for you softly as he reached the top of the stairs.

Jake: "Love? Where are you?"

Jake furrowed his brow, growing more worried as he searched the loft floor. He looked around, noticing that the wardrobe door was slightly ajar.

Jake: "Love, are you in there?"

He approached the wardrobe, gently pushing the door open further. His concern grew as he saw you sitting inside, crying with your hands over your ears.

As you saw a light appear inside the dark closed wardrobe you opened your teary eyes to look at the person who opened the closet.

Jake's heart ached as he saw the state you were in, tears streaming down your face. He crouched down beside the wardrobe, his voice gentle as he spoke.

Jake: "Love, it's me... Are you okay?". But you just looked blankly at him with your watery eyes.

Jake's heart hurt even more as he saw your dazed expression. Seeing you like this was destroying him. He reached inside the wardrobe, his hand gently caressing your cheek.

Jake: "Talk to me, love... Please."

She broke down again and hugged him tight

You: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...."

Jake wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him in a tight embrace. He felt your body trembling as you sobbed into his chest, and his heart ached to see you like this.

Jake: "Shh, shhh... It's okay, love. You don't have to apologize."

He pulled you closer to him, one hand gently stroking your hair as he held you tight.

Jake: "There's nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one who's sorry for everything. I'm sorry my parents said all those things, they're just ignorant and can't see who you really are."

You: "At a certain point I couldn't listen to them anymore so I just closed myself in here". You whispered in his chest, gripping tight on his shirt.

Jake held you tighter as you spoke, his heart clenching at the pain in your voice.

Jake: "I'm so sorry, love... I never wanted you to hear any of that. I wish I could've protected you from their ignorance."

You: "It's not your fault either". You lifted your face to look at him with your watery eyes. Jake looked down at you, his expression a mixture of concern and affection. He gently wiped away a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

Jake: "I know... But I still feel responsible for making you listen to all that crap. I wish things could've been different". You slowly lifted yourself and circled his neck still some tears falling.

You: "Don't be, ok?". You shook your head softly looking into his eyes.

Jake smiled softly as you cutely looked into his eyes with your pinkish-tinted cheeks.

Jake: "I'll try to not blame myself, ok? Now come here, love". He leaned in and looked at your lips.

You smiled and leaned closer, finally connecting your lips together in an ethereal kiss. It was slow, full of pain and love, a contrast that was mixing up all their emotions. He gently rubbed circles on your back, his touch soothing and comforting. They kissed there for a few moments, just taking comfort in each other's presence. As they backed up from the kiss they leaned their forehead together.

Jake: "I'll promise you I'll fight for us, nobody will take me away from you. I'll never give up on US".

Hope you like it, i tried something dramatic because I only watch dramatic movies lol...

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crazylittlejester · 21 days ago

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here me out cake w/ Da Trio but scenario

1) sky and twilight's choices veer fairly conventionally attractive and wars is unhinged like putting in a picture of candycorm

2) both sky and twilights choices are unhinged the entire way through and wars is trying not to crumple into pieces from laughing

3) they all do THE SAME JOKE by leading with normalcy then coming in WITH THE STEEL CHAIR IS THAT AUNT JEMIMA FROM THE SYRUP BOTTLE???

Imagine this like it’s a tiktok filmed in a kitchen and all of them live together:

Twi would stick like, Ben Stiller from Night at the Museum on there followed by Wars putting a screenshot of the tumblr post about that one merchant who scammed people followed by Sky putting Lady Dimitrescu in monster form followed by Twilight putting the guy from the Lindt chocolate commercials followed by Wars putting a fairy conveniently attractive man but who isn’t a well known celebrity he’s just some guy and while Twilight is busy yelling at him that that isn’t a hear me out, Sky has snuck on several people including Morticia Addams and most noticeably Barry Bee Benson, and when Twi sees THAT (the fictional bee man) he starts arguing that that isn’t a hear me out either (he has not seen Morticia), and then they all start going at each other and Time walks in, sees the cake, cuts himself and Wind a slice, and Wind slaps on a little sign that says “Your Mom” before they leave and that’s how the tiktok ends

#jes ask

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tf2shipswag · 2 years ago

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TF2 SHIP SWAG FINALE

COMING IN FROM THE LEFT SIDE, WE'VE GOT HEAVYMEDIC [ALSO KNOWN AS RED OKTOBERFEST]!

as THE tf2 ship, heavymedic has been one of the most popular pairings within the community-romantic or otherwise-for a VERY long time. the tank and the healer. they have barreled through this competition mostly unscathed. the bloodlust they show in battle has most definitely carried over into this competition<3

many [including myself] have begged for their downfall. they have a LONG line of people looking for revenge, but thus far, it looks like the line of their backers has been even longer. even through their divorce on shork's stream, they've managed to make it through to the finals.

AND ON THE RIGHT WE HAVE SOLDIERZHANNA!

the most insane, naked, honey covered couple of all time. they are both incredibly blunt and you WILL know that they are together. zhanna's necklace of severed human ears didn't come out of nowhere.

though they had a bit more of a challenge than heavymedic, they still breezed through the competition fairly easily. they may be the last ones with a chance to beat heavymedic and avenge the poor souls whomst we've lost thus far</3

y'know. other than zhanna's and heavy's mom and The Steel Chair Tm.

will the inherent romanticism of open heart surgery manage to keep up, or will the combined [and truly patriotic] teamwork and violence that is soldierzhanna manage to take heavymedic down once and for all?

CAST YOUR VOTES, SUBMIT YOUR PROPAGANDA, AND MAY THE BEST SHIP WIN!

#tf2shipswag2023 #tf2shipswagpolls #heavymedic #soldierzhanna #tf2 heavy x medic #tf2 soldier x zhanna #red oktoberfest #tf2 #ship

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respectthepetty · 1 year ago

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Dangerous Romance is peak comedy

I got 99 problems, but Dangerous Romance ain't one. It feels like a Thai version of Another Gay Movie because it is squeezing in all the tropes yet taking none of them seriously, which is not a problem in my book.

Not a Problem #1 - Nava & Guy making everything into a competition including turning on the faucet. They got that Love Mechanics color-coded lighting treatment, and that's all I care about.

Not a Problem #2 - The Poor Boys treating the Rich Kids like the dogs they are by threatening punishment if they act up and dropping "good boy" casually into the conversation when they do good deeds, then rewarding them. It's puppy play meets praise kink, and I approve of it.

Not a Problem #3 - How Sailom's friends, especially Guy, thought Kanghan was trying to poison them, yet still drank with Nava because if he was going to die, he was going to die the champion.

Not a Problem #4 - Kanghan not knowing how to express what he is feeling when Sailom questions him after the kiss and expecting the kiss to speak for itself. He thought he was speaking Sailom's love language, but Sailom is clearly an "acts of service" type, while Kanghan is a "words of affirmation" guy.

Not a Problem #5 - Characters using the bathroom! Every episode, someone goes to the bathroom or uses it as an excuse to escape a dinner where they cannot make eye contact with the boy who kissed him in the bathroom because the kiss was a C- at best and he doesn't know how to tell him that without making him cry since he has a praise kink, and I appreciate it.

Not a Problem #6 - Kanghan saying that he sucks.

Not a Problem #7 - Kanghan stating he has to keep trying because practice makes perfect.

Not a Problem #8 - The tiny smile Kanghan gave when he realized he could go through the bathroom door instead of the front door to get to Sailom. And no, this is NOT an euphemism.

Not a Problem #9 - How Kanghan stood in the light because he finally figured out his feelings and he wanted to be open and honest about them while Sailom still hid in the dark blue afraid of the way he already loves this unhinged Blue Boy.

Not a Problem #10 - The pinky promise to be queer

Not a Problem #11 - The way Kanghan naturally went into Sugar Daddy mode.

Not a Problem #12 - The dumb looks these two kept giving each other in front of Sailom's friends and God as if no one else existed but each other.

Not a Problem #13 - Sailom singing JLo's 2001 hit "My Love Don't Cost a Thing" only for Auto to bring that Golden Era Madonna Energy and tell Kanghan that "We are living in a material world, and he is a material girl"

Not a Problem #14 - Kanghan liking the way Sailom smells. Kanghan wearing Sailom's clothes. Kanghan responding "no-no" when asked if he is a psycho like a cute little puppy. Kanghan's entire existence, and Sailom's annoyance of how much he loves this guy.

Not a Problem #15 - Kanghan being a WEAKASS! My family will give outsiders hot shit without any warning, just to watch them take a bite and cry, so I get a deep pleasure watching people suffer their way through eating spicy foods to save face. Like, just take the L my man, so everyone can know Sailom is superior to you in every way! Hence why I love Eddie from Kiseki: Dear to Me and Palm from Never Let Me Go. They like it spicy.

Not a Problem #16 - Sailom being horny on main when Kanghan took the blame to save Auto.

Not a Problem #17 - Auto being so tiny compared to the group. Auto getting White Girl Wasted. Auto dancing. Auto refusing to snitch on the group. Auto saying his mom is gonna be soooo upset at him like he is a (queer-coded) killer in the original Scream. Auto saying "NEVER FORGET! NEVER FORGIVE!"

Not a Problem #18 - Sailom being a gold-star gay when that girl was trying to dance with him, only for Kanghan to come in with a steel chair and demand she leave his gay boyfriend alone.

Not a Problem #19 - Sailom finally realizing just how crazy Kanghan is when Kanghan wanted to ballroom dance in the bar as a way of declaring to the whole world that they are in love, then Sailom realizing he is VERY into Kanghan's brand of crazy. *see #16*

Not a Problem #20 - Those handmade cheerleader outfits being so camp (read: fugly), that it brought the queer out of my (hidden) girl couple.

Not a Problem #21 - Sailom screaming "TROY!" again for the Wildcats in the audience who are "all in this together"

Not a Problem #22 - Guy not kink-shaming Sailom for his puppy play relationship with Kanghan since he's probably taking mental notes, so he can tame Nava using similar methods.

Not a Problem #23 - Kanghan hugging Sailom so tightly and THANKING HIM after Sailom said yes to being his boyfriend. See what a good dom can do for a brat through affirmation play? "Good boy" *pat his head*

Not a Problem #24 - Kanghan's (Perth's) smile. Sailom's (Chimon's) wavy hair. The boys cuddling up in Sailom's bed because Kanghan now needs constant positive reinforcement for his good behavior and he likes the way his boyfriend smells. Kink is really classical conditioning. Smell of boyfriend + Hugs from boyfriend = Who's a good boy? Who's the best boy? Who's my very good boy? *rubs his belly*

Not a Problem #25 - Saifah being A WHOLE FUCKING PROBLEM all episode! My wild ass theory lives!

God, I fucking love this show.

#dangerous romance #sailom x kanghan #my entire personality #words of affirmation + acts of service #the perfect combo #Kanghan is a GOOD BOY!#this show is a comedy

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