#more in line with his appearance now more also in line with his sister

[thatguyisdrowning]

thoughts on arcane season 2

spoilers below

season 2 was definitely giving "trying to wrap up an insanely large cast of characters stories in only 9 episodes" and none of them were really given the care they deserved. it all happened so fast that it was a little confusing at first.

the entire isha thing feels so manufactured. she just appears, "fixes" jinx, then dies/is implied to have died but we don't actually know for certain because we never see her death. and then there's the entire lack of any proper mention of her in act 3. where did she come from? where did she go? where did she come from cotton eye joe? why did warwick survive but not isha if he was the one to actually get shot?

jinx also seemed to mellow out far too quickly, i think if we had a third season and it was spread out more it would feel more authentic. i was expecting her to lose it again in the aftermath of isha's death but she didn't. yes, grief to the point of not caring about herself anymore and just wanting to get vi (the only person she has left) to safety makes sense however it doesn't match up with anything we've seen from jinx in the past. if she'd had a longer time getting to be happy with her family of 4 and healing herself it'd make more sense but she didn't. i think a downward spiral before some sort of realization that she doesn't want to be like this anymore/doesn't want to harm other children like isha/something along those lines would have been more conducive to a well rounded story and conclusion when it comes to the isha/jinx relationship. but for this to happen, we needed more time.

the way jinx's character was written, the way her story played out, it would have made sense for her to take her own life and been a satisfying conclusion. however, because i know she didn't actually die i'm pleased she didn't commit suicide because i like her, her character, her champion, and her story and i want to be able to see more of it all in future projects from riot. and for that to happen the "death" needed to be a little uncertain. the "oh no the metal beam is breaking, guess i better sacrifice myself to save my sister" trope is very overused and hard to do well because of that, but i did like the way they implied jinx was still alive at the end.

jayce and viktor's story was confusing and rushed, while also being the main focal point and the most fleshed out story of the whole show. if viktor knew he and jayce were meant to be together in every timeline, why was he trying to fuck shit up? again, if we had more time in the form of a third season or perhaps longer episodes in season 2, we would have seen their story explored in more depth and had a greater understanding of it.

vi's character was watered down by the inclusion of a single line: "i am the dirt under your nails, cupcake." as something said in passing it wouldn't have held as much weight, but this was one of the last things she said on screen. it essentially boils her character down to nothing but a supporting character for caitlyn when the entire series began and ended with vi and jinx's relationship.

"are you still in this fight, violet?" what fight? against jinx? no, caitlyn seems to have forgiven her and as far as we know vi still thinks she's dead. against noxus? no, mel's in charge (but is she? we see swain make an appearance...) against the undercity? no, they've made peace and sevika is on the council. against singed? no, he's saved his daughter so will live happily ever after now, right? against jayce and viktor? no, they had some weird story conclusion and also died in the astral realm, killing their earthly bodies but realistically they could have survived. i don't want them to have survived, but they could have. all i can think is either she was referring to their relationship OR to their future as enforcers which would make sense in the league lore.

the death of 4 major characters (not including heimer or jinx i'm 100% sure they arent dead) and what it means for the lore and their champions is just??? brushed over??? their champions almost definitely won't be removed but a tiny part of me wishes they would be for continuity and lore reasons.

i wish we were given more insight into what noxus is like now after ambessa's death. mel is seen to be ruling now but in the league lore, swain is the ruler of noxus. it's common knowledge that arcane lore is replacing league lore where necessary/sometimes where it isn't necessary, so it wouldn't make sense but would be easily passed off if we just didn't see any mention of swain, but we do see him (or to be specific, one of his ravens). while i wish we were given some clarity here, i think it was a smart move to not explicity reveal who swain is because to those who know it all but confirms the villian for the next netflix series set in runeterra, but it also leaves the venue open for the story to take an entirely different path, because arcane only fans won't know who he is, and for the league fans it can somehow be passed off as an irrelevant appearance in arcane.

some other points i don't have fully fleshed out thoughts/opinions on:

i would've liked to have seen more of felicia's story

i don't think jayvik should've kissed, the forehead touch was just as, if not more meaningful

the story of singed's daughter wasn't explored as much as it should have been, especially considering it's a huge part of why shimmer was ever created and of the pre-existing league lore

while there are parts of the story i found unsatisfying, i'm totally in love with all of the characters and the artistry. while almost all of the female leads fit perfectly into specific overused tropes, they turned those tropes on their head and executed them well. the women in arcane are attractive but they all have agency. ekko is the best side character ever written. they wrote the "morally grey" characters really well. it's plain to see the writers spent so much time and energy on creating these perfect characters. the artists knocked it out of the park, arcane is the most visually appealing animated show i've ever seen. arcane is a masterpiece in so many ways and i look forward to seeing what's to come :)

if you've read this far, first of all go outside (kidding of course), and second, let me know your thoughts and if you agree/disagree. if you have any theories on what's to come next, let me know!

[kathlare]

into the spotlight

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie returns to the F1 paddock during the Miami Grand Prix, where emotions run high on and off the track. The buzz surrounding her appearance quickly takes a backseat to Lando's breakthrough moment on the circuit, leading to a cascade of intense feelings and public revelations. Against the backdrop of Miami's vibrant energy, a celebration transforms into a defining moment that shifts the dynamic between the two, marking a turning point in their relationship.

Wordcount: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff, smau, kinda suggestive content

May 5th, 2024 - Miami, FL

liked by drivetouamour, landoislife, and others

amelienation: Amelie has arrived at the paddock for the Miami Grand Prix alongside a friend and her sister, Stella! 💕 She’s here to support Checo, marking her first race appearance of the season. Looking stunning as always, can’t wait to see more of her this weekend! 🏎✨

View all 1,584 comments

fan1: She really said, "Let me slay Miami while casually supporting my bro-in-law." 🔥 → fan2: @fan1 Bro, imagine being this iconic.

f1fanatic32: She’s back in the paddock, and all is right in the world 🌎✨

latinaf1love: Supporting Checo like the queen she is! 🫶 → drivetoamour: @latinaf1love She’s the real MVP. Forget the drivers, I’m here for her.

amieobsessed: Imagine if she dates a driver… I’d die. 😭 → landoislife: @amieobsessed Bestie she’s too good for any of them. Let’s be real.

pinktarmac: Miami AND Amelie?? We’re eating good this week 🥵 → fastfamfan: @pinktarmac Forget the race, this is the main event.

lanmilsupremacy: She’s here supporting Checo... but you KNOW she’s gonna end up in Lando’s garage somehow 👀💅 → amelieupdates: @lanmilsupremacy Friends supporting friends, right? Totally innocent... 👀

landoobsessed: Imagine if Lando and Amelie were actually dating though... that would break the internet fr. 😍 → f1shipperzzz: @landoobsessed Literally waiting for that soft launch any day now 💀

miamilover99: If I see one picture of her and Lando together this weekend, I’m DONE. My heart can’t take it. 💔 → oscarfan45: @miamilover99 Same, but also... I’m refreshing Twitter every five seconds. 😭

oscarfan101: Y’all KNOW Lando’s gonna act suspicious all weekend now that she’s here. 😂 → landosimp23: @oscarfan101 The man’s gonna stutter through every interview, bet. 💀

hatersgonnahate: She’s only here for attention. Like, we get it, you’re famous.

landoismyman: She better not end up with anyone else on the grid. I’m still holding out for my otp. 🥹

--------------

The Miami sun was blazing, the roar of engines echoing through the circuit. Amelie stood in the Red Bull garage with her sister Stella, who was animatedly chatting with Checo's engineer. Amelie’s attention, however, was firmly fixed on the big screen in front of her, where the final laps of the race played out. Her heart was pounding in sync with the commentator's excited voice.

Lando was leading.

The McLaren driver, her Lando, was within grasp of his first-ever Grand Prix victory. She could barely breathe as she watched him expertly navigate the track, holding off Max Verstappen with a precision and calm that had the crowd on their feet.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, not this close to the action. Being in the McLaren garage would’ve raised suspicions, so she’d accepted Stella’s invitation to watch with Red Bull. But now, standing among strangers, the idea of keeping her emotions in check felt impossible.

When Lando crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stand still for a moment before erupting into chaos. The commentator’s voice cracked as he shouted, “Lando Norris takes his first-ever Formula 1 victory in Miami!”

Amelie’s knees buckled, tears streaming down her face before she even realized it. She brought her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle a sob, but the dam had broken.

—Oh my God,— she whispered, voice trembling.

Stella turned to her, a knowing smile on her lips. —Go.—

Amelie hesitated for only a second before bolting out of the garage. Her mind was a blur, her body moving on pure instinct as she weaved through the crowds and dodged security personnel. She barely registered the cheers or the sea of orange-clad fans.

She reached the pit lane just as Lando pulled into the designated spot, his car stopping amid a swarm of jubilant McLaren team members. Without thinking, she pushed her way through the cluster of orange uniforms, earning a few startled looks but no resistance.

The adrenaline of the moment was buzzing in her veins, her chest tight with excitement and raw emotion. Amelie didn’t think. She couldn’t think. All she could see was Lando, his helmet still on, his body emerging from the car as the pit crew celebrated around him.

Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest, it drowned out the noise of the cheers from the crowd. She could feel the warmth of the Miami sun on her skin, but it all faded into the background as she pushed forward, her eyes locked on Lando. He was laughing, his face lit up with joy, but it was when he looked over and saw her that the world seemed to stop.

Lando’s expression shifted instantly from celebration to something softer, something intensely familiar. His eyes widened for just a second, and before anyone could stop him, he was pushing through the crowd, sprinting toward her.

Amelie couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know what she was doing, didn’t know why she was crying or why she’d run here, but the second his arms wrapped around her, the tears didn’t stop.

Lando’s voice broke through the buzzing in her ears. —Ames, baby— he murmured, his hands cupping her face as he pulled her into him. His lips crashed into hers, not soft, but frantic, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment, just like her.

The kiss was everything. His lips were warm and familiar, tasting of the salt from sweat and the intense excitement of his victory. His arms were strong around her, his hands threading through her hair, holding her in place as if he couldn’t bear to let go. And, for a moment, neither of them cared who was watching.

The cameras were already there, catching every second, every desperate kiss, and the crowd erupted in cheers. But for Amelie and Lando, it was just the two of them in the middle of everything. She forgot the world around them entirely as she lost herself in the kiss, her hands trailing up his chest, pressing him closer.

When they pulled back, panting for air, their foreheads rested together, and Lando’s breath was unsteady. —Fuck, Ames, I thought you’d never do that.— He laughed, breathless, eyes wide with disbelief and joy.

Amelie laughed too, wiping the last of her tears away. She could hear the commotion behind them, the pit crew still cheering, but it felt distant. The only thing that mattered was this moment with him. —I didn’t plan this, Lan,— she admitted with a slight chuckle, her hands still resting on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Lando grinned, eyes soft but intense, and kissed her again, this time gentler. —Guess we’re out of the secret club now, huh?—

Before Amelie could respond, she was swept up in a wave of McLaren team members, all clapping him on the back, lifting him into the air in celebration.

Amelie watched, still caught up in the whirlwind of emotion, as Lando was carried by his team, laughter and cheers filling the air. The reality of the moment hit her again. He’d won. He’d really won. And now, everyone knew they were together.

She wiped away another tear, trying to steady herself as she made her way toward the podium area, keeping her eyes on Lando the whole time. She couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe she was watching him, the man who’d been her best friend and then something more, up there on the top step, holding the trophy with the biggest smile on his face.

When Lando finally stood on the podium, her heart swelled with pride. The champagne sprayed, the crowd screamed, and he held the trophy high above his head, looking out at the fans. But all Amelie could see was him, her Lando, standing there, shining in the spotlight. And her tears didn’t stop.

She couldn’t hold back anymore.

Her hands shook as she watched him, the sound of the crowd fading into the background. This was real. This moment, this victory, it was everything they’d both been working for, even if it wasn’t the way they’d planned it. She was crying now, openly, the tears streaming down her face as she clapped and cheered, completely unable to stop the wave of emotion flooding over her.

When the ceremony ended, Amelie stayed back, her heart still racing. She didn’t want to crowd him, not yet, not when he was still caught up in the media frenzy.

She waited outside the McLaren Team Hub, pacing anxiously as the minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The cool evening air of Miami was a welcome relief after the scorching heat of the day, but Amelie couldn’t bring herself to relax.

Her phone buzzed in her purse, but she ignored it, not wanting to be distracted. All she could think about was Lando, and how she’d kissed him, and how this moment—his first win, their first kiss in front of everyone—would change everything.

Finally, she saw him. The door to the team hub opened, and there he was, looking fresh and clean, dressed in a McLaren team shirt, his hair still damp from the shower but that familiar cocky grin on his face.

Amelie felt her heart skip a beat as he caught sight of her. His grin softened instantly, and he walked toward her, his strides long and confident.

—Hey, Ames,— Lando said with a teasing smile, his voice still thick with emotion from the day. —You look stunning. But are you okay? You’ve been crying like a little baby.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across her face. —Shut up, Lan. You won your first race. Of course, I’m emotional.—

He pulled her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a sweet kiss. The world seemed to disappear as she kissed him back, her hands trailing up to cup his face.

When they pulled away, Lando rested his forehead against hers. —Let’s get to the hotel, yeah? I’m ready to celebrate properly.—

—Are you now?— she teased, but the grin on her face was wide.

As they made their way to the hotel, Amelie’s mind couldn’t help but drift to the after-party. They were both ecstatic, both a little tipsy from the excitement and the lingering effects of the champagne. But when they arrived at the party, the energy shifted.

Lando was surrounded by people congratulating him, and Amelie found herself sticking close to him. She hated the way some of the other girls kept throwing flirtatious glances his way, their fingers brushing his arm just a little too long, trying to get his attention.

But it didn’t bother her as much as it would have in the past. Because the second those girls leaned in, Lando would turn to her, his eyes only on her.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, her lips pressing against his ear. —You’re not going anywhere, Lan.—

He chuckled, nipping at her ear in return. —Never, Ames.—

As the night wore on, the party’s energy seemed to intensify. The music was loud, and the lights were flashing in every direction. But amidst the crowd, Lando and Amelie were like a little world of their own. They danced together, laughing and teasing, their bodies moving in sync to the beat. It was one of those nights where everything felt perfect, where the connection between them felt so natural, so easy.

Amelie felt the warmth of Lando's hand on her back as they danced, his touch sending electricity through her. The alcohol had loosened them both up, and their playful teasing grew a little bolder. Every time she laughed, Lando's eyes would light up, and every time she brushed her lips against his, his hands would find their way to her waist, pulling her even closer.

But she could feel the tension between them building—an energy that had been simmering under the surface for months, maybe longer. She could see it in the way he looked at her, the way his hands lingered on her body, the way their kisses had become more urgent as the night wore on.

At one point, Lando leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, his voice thick with desire. —You’re driving me crazy, Ames.—

Amelie shivered at the sound of his voice, her hands tracing the outline of his chest before sliding up to his neck. —Is that so?— she teased, her breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t deny the way he made her feel—the way his touch seemed to light her up from the inside out.

He smiled against her skin, pressing a kiss to her neck that made her pulse quicken. —Yeah,— he murmured, his lips brushing her jaw. —You’ve been killing me with those looks all night.—

Amelie laughed softly, but the sound was shaky, the heat in her chest turning into something more. She felt her heart race as she tilted her head back, giving him more access to her neck. —You’re such a flirt, Lan,— she whispered.

He chuckled against her skin, the sound vibrating through her. —Only for you, Ames,— he said, his voice low and raspy.

But as the night went on, Amelie couldn’t ignore the way her body responded to his closeness, the way every touch, every kiss felt more urgent, more desperate. There was a tension building, a hunger that neither of them had been able to ignore for too long.

Eventually, they found their way to a quieter corner of the venue, far from the noise of the party. Lando backed her up against a wall, his body pressing into hers as his lips crashed against hers once more. The kiss was heated, urgent, as though neither of them could wait any longer.

Amelie felt the heat of his hands on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she responded eagerly, her fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging him closer. Every inch of her body seemed to crave him, and she could feel the same hunger in his every movement.

—Fuck, Ames…— Lando groaned against her lips, his hands sliding down to her hips, gripping her tightly as though he couldn’t get enough. Amelie’s breath hitched in her throat, and she pressed her body even closer to his, feeling the hard heat of him against her.

She pulled away just slightly, her eyes meeting his, her lips swollen from the kisses. —Lando,— she breathed, her voice trembling with the need building inside her. —I think we need to get out of here.—

He nodded without hesitation, his gaze dark and intense. —Yeah,— he said, his voice rough. —Let’s go.—

They didn’t even look back as they made their way out of the party, their hands intertwined, hearts pounding in their chests. Neither of them said anything, but the silence between them was filled with anticipation.

Once they reached his hotel room, the door slammed shut behind them, and it was as if the world outside didn’t exist anymore. Lando didn’t waste a second, pulling her toward him, his lips claiming hers again, more desperately this time. Amelie’s hands found the buttons of his shirt, tugging at them as she kissed him back with equal urgency.

Her heart raced as she felt his hands slip under her skirt, his touch sending shocks of desire through her. —Fuck, you feel amazing,— he whispered, his voice hoarse as his lips trailed down her neck.

Amelie moaned softly, tilting her head back to give him better access, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, the intensity of the moment, and she wanted more. She wanted all of him.

—Lando…— she breathed, her hands trembling as they explored his chest, her nails grazing his skin.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark with desire, before he pulled her top and skirt over her head in one swift motion. The moment she was in just her underwear, he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed nothing. His hands were everywhere, caressing her skin, as though he couldn’t get enough of her.

Amelie’s breath caught in her throat as Lando hovered over her, his lips kissing a trail down her body. She arched into him, her hands threading through his hair, urging him on.

—Fuck, you’re beautiful,— he murmured, his lips brushing over her stomach.

Her body responded to his every touch, every kiss, and she pulled him back up to her lips, kissing him fiercely. Their hands were frantic, pulling at each other’s clothes, desperate to feel skin on skin.

When they finally came together, it was electric. Every inch of their bodies connected, every kiss, every touch, every sigh filled with the tension and desire that had been building for so long. It was messy and intense, the need for each other overwhelming.

And when it was over, they lay tangled together in the sheets, breathless, their bodies pressed close. Amelie’s head rested against Lando’s chest, and he kissed the top of her head, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on her back.

She smiled softly, her heart still racing. —That was… holy shit.—

Lando chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her. —Told you I’d make you feel good, Ames.—

--------------

liked by maxfewtrell, ameliedayman, and others

landonorris: WWE FUCKIJG DID IT. P1 🏆

View all 8,588 comments

ameliedayman: Finally, I get to kiss a winner. 🏆😏 Proud of you, champ. → landonorris: @ameliedayman Oh, I’m winning more than races tonight 👀.

fanspeedy: BRO FINALLY DID IT 🔥😭 WE BEEN WAITING SINCE 2019. → landofanboy69: @fanspeedy King secured the bag ON and OFF the track, no cap. 👀

minniemills: Tears in my eyes! Lando, you absolute legend. P1! 🏆 → landonorris: @minniemills Minnie, don’t cry, I’m barely holding it together myself. 😅

mclaren: And we said it: He’s built different. 🏆

taylorf1fan: Tears are streaming down my face 😭😭 LANDO REALLY DID IT. → lanmelie_endgame: @taylorf1fan He deserves it and we deserve this relationship reveal. 🙌👀

charles_leclerc: About time, mate. Just don’t think you’re catching me in Monaco 🥱 → landonorris: @charles_leclerc Watch me 😉

madisonbeer: KING SH*T 👑 So proud, Lando! → ameliedayman: @madisonbeer Right? I trained him well. 😉 → landoeditz_: @ameliedayman Girl, don’t play with us like that!

landohater69: Great, now his ego will be even bigger. 🙄

hayesgrier: Okay, Lando. We see you, trophy boy 🏆 Don’t forget who was rooting for you before you were cool. → ameliedayman: @hayesgrier Bro, you didn’t even watch F1 until like a year ago 💀 → hayesgrier: @ameliedayman Details.

maxverstappen1: Guess I’ll let you have this one 😉 Congrats, bro! Enjoy the moment. → landonorris: @maxverstappen1 Appreciate it, Max.

landosbiggestfan_: HE’S BEEN IN LOVE WITH HER FOR AGES AND NOW THIS?! I’M LOSING IT

amelieupdates_: Soft launch? Babes, this was a HARD LAUNCH.

[the-raging-tempest]

[sttm99]

Bakugo understands that he spends a lot of money on you for just being his personal assistant. But he can't help it.

You honestly deserve it. You're smart, responsible, diligent. You're a hard worker with principles, and your work ethic is something he respects.

It didn't matter how many people were against him promoting you from secretary to PA so soon in your career. Your work was top notch, and you kept him organised.

Sure, you were pretty as well, a sight for sore eyes, really. But that wasn't his fault, was it? It wasn't your fault either.

It's not like you came into work every day with full glam, diamond earrings, or elaborate hairstyles.

It had pissed him off at first, when people demeaned you or underestimated your work because of your looks, especially when he knew you worked so hard so you wouldn't be considered some dumb corporate bimbo.

But now? Now he loved it. He loved when he had clients over, and they'd do a double take when he sent for you to take notes or deliver documents to his table.

He'd noticed the modesty with which you'd dressed when you first started working for him, how you tried to dim yourself with drab colours that obviously washed you out, or plain hairstyles.

Not like it stopped anybody from being able to tell how pretty you were.

But after, when you'd started garnering his attention and racking up more bonuses from your diligence, he began noticing you wearing nicer things.

Of course, you had to up your wardrobe once you were promoted to the role of Personal Assistant to one of the biggest heroes in Japan. But that wasn't it.

Bakugo loved seeing you walk in with a new shirt or new shoes or new earrings after he'd rewarded you a bonus or a pay increase. There was a sort of high he got, knowing that you took care of yourself with the money he gave you.

Oh, he spoilt you rotten.

Month end rewards became the norm for you. He just closed a hefty advertising deal? Best believe you were getting a cut out of that. He was given a bottle of champagne as a gift? You're drinking it with him in his office.

Sure, it may have seemed a bit inappropriate to some people; him locking the doors and closing the windows, and having you sit on his lap prettily whilst he poured it out into a flute for you.

Sure, it was inappropriate for him to have his hands up your skirt as you recounted the month end figures for him, but you were comfortable that way. He was, too. Oh, so comfortable with your hands inside his trousers and his teasing at the lining of your panties.

He was just taking care of his best employee.

And maybe he did spend a lot of money on you, but you had to keep up appearances. He needed you looking your best when you were next to him.

It wasn't his fault you were so beautiful that brands reached out to him to get you to model for then after seeing you appear in some pictures by his side.

It wasn't his fault that he couldn't get anyone else to come with him to the Hero Gala. Besides, you're meant to be with him during these things to take notes for him. So having you as his date was basically killing two birds with one stone.

"Your assistant's fucking sexy," Kaminari whispered into Bakugo's ear, both of them watching you go to order a drink for your boss.

Bakugo smirked to himself, his eyes raking over your body, clad in the tight fitting dress he'd bought for you to wear. He'd also bought the earrings you had on, and the shoes and the necklace. Sure, it cost him quite a lot, but he just couldn't help it when you looked so good.

"She's single, isn't she?"

Now, that had him snapping his head in Kaminari's direction. "Don't even fucking think about."

Kaminari whined, "But why? She's your assistant, not your sister or your girlfriend."

"She's my assistant," Bakugo seethed, standing up from his seat. "She's my employee, and I won't have you lowering her efficiency." He murmured as he made his way to where you were.

You smiled brightly as you turned around to see him, handing him the second glass of champagne in your hands. "You look like you'd rather be somewhere else." You laughed softly.

He grinned down at you before downing the drink quickly. "I would," he said before dropping his glass back on the bar. "Come on."

He spoilt you rotten, but he couldn't help it. You looked so beautiful in your tight dress and pretty hair and beautiful face.

Sure, being seated on the sink and having your legs spread before his lips in the bathroom at the Hero Gala may have been a tad inappropriate, but how could he stop himself?

You were quivering for him, thighs pressing down and shaking on either side of his head, and your fingers gripping harshly at his hair, pulling him even closer as you rutted your heat against his lips.

He let out a desperate groan, burying his face deeper into your cunt, eating you out shamelessly, hungrily.

"Fuuck..." He growled into you.

You'd been so shy the first time he had his way with you, refusing to touch him, grind on him, behaving so meek and cute.

Now look at you, so selfish and desperate, almost suffocating him as he feasted. He spoilt you rotten, sure, but you deserved every morsel of it.

"Katsuki..." You whined desperately, your back arching off the mirror, the hand not pulling at his hair tightly gripping the edge of the counter. "Katsuki, I'm so close... I'm so fucking close, baby-"

His hands dug into the flesh of your ass, pulling your harsher into him, your clit pressing against his nose as his tongue made a meal of you. He was always so desperate for it, digging the wet muscle so far into your pussy you saw stars.

And he was messy too, his saliva and your arousal staying your thighs, dripping from the marble counter unto the ground as he ate from you.

Anyone who came in after would probably be able to tell from the smell of the bathroom alone. The cum leaking unto the floor would only solidify it.

But the thought of someone finding out that your boss had his face buried deep in your pussy wasn't exactly what you were thinking about when you came for him, hard and rough, your hips shaking and raising off the counter as you rode out your high.

"We shouldn't be doing such during events, sir." You whispered to him as you both walked down the corridors back into the hall where the gala was being held.

He had his large palm over your ass, groping you just in the dark of the hallway, letting go just as you stepped into the crowded hall.

"Just be a good girl and wait for me to fuck you on the way home, hm?" He smirked at you, a small sheen still visible on his lips.

He never cleaned his mouth properly after eating you out during such events. It was inappropriate, sure, but he just couldn't help himself.

[mcrveilles]

just this once // ln4

word count: 2.7k warnings: smut, sexual themes, intimacy themes, secrecy, conflicts of loyalty, romantic tension and suggestive content includes: friends to lovers, fluff, best friends little sister, brothers best friend summary: basically porn with a little plot - sorry. or not? if you don't want to read the explicit part, i've added a red line where it starts and ends

PART THREE previous part - next part

tag list: sltwins sarx164 hadesnumber1daughter fullmugwolffish willowsnook

MINORS DO NOT READ

As you slip into your pajamas, the soft cotton of your loose tank top and shorts providing comfort against your skin, the phone on your night stand buzzes. You sigh, feeling drained from the long night out and the emotional rollercoaster with Lando. You rub at the remaining mascara under your eyes, trying to wipe away any still left. In your softly lit room, a single lamp casts shadows on the walls as you crawl into your bed. It's a cozy escape from the night you’d just had. As you settle under the covers, the warmth of the day lingers on your skin while your chosen movie's gentle hum adds to the soothing atmosphere, creating a peaceful state of mind.

The name on your phone screen, however, makes you freeze when you finally look at it.

Lando: You still up?

Your pulse quickens. After the night you’d just had—the stolen glances, heated touches, Max hovering too close—you aren’t sure you’re ready for more of whatever this was.

You: Just about to crash. Why?

His reply comes seconds later.

Lando: Because I’m out front.

Your heart skips a beat.

You: Are you serious? Why?

Lando: Come find out.

You hesitate, knowing that letting him in will only create more complications. But the memory of his touch and the taste of his lips still linger on your skin, making the decision for you. You throw on a cardigan and walk to your front door. Through the security system's camera, you see Lando leaning casually against the door, dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans and looking far too confident for someone who showed up uninvited at this late hour. Exhaling deeply, you buzz him in and crack open your apartment door. As he steps out of the elevator, his familiar scent fills the hallway - clean, warm, with a hint of musk.

“Are you insane?” you ask him, crossing your arms and cocking an eyebrow.

“Probably,” he answers with a grin. “But I couldn’t just stay home after tonight.”

“You could’ve texted me like a normal person instead of lurking outside my building.”

“Would you have replied if I had?”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your tongue. He has a point. Lando's gaze softens as it sweeps over your appearance, his grin turning lopsided. His eyes linger on your pajamas, taking in the cute patterns and soft fabric. You suddenly feel self-conscious under his scrutiny, but also oddly flattered, “Cute .”

“Don’t start,” you warn, the sound of your voice echoing off the walls as you shut the door behind him. He holds up his hands in mock surrender but doesn’t move from where he’s standing in the entryway. His eyes are fixed on you, studying you with a penetrating gaze, like he’s trying to decipher some deep mystery.

“What are you doing here, Lando?” you ask again, your voice barely above a whisper now.

He shrugs, his usual confident demeanor faltering for a brief moment. “Honestly? I just wanted to see you.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession. The air between you seems charged and heavy, pulsing with unspoken emotions.

He takes a step closer, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “All night, all I could think about was you. The way you looked at me, the way you felt when we danced... And then Max was there, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Lando…”

But he interrupts with a low and sincere voice, “I know we said ‘one time’, but it doesn't feel like enough. Not after tonight.”

Your defenses start to crumble as his words sink in. You want to say something, anything, but before you can, he closes the distance between you. “You drive me crazy, you know that?” He murmurs, gently brushing his hands over your arms. “Right back atcha,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

That's all he needs to hear. His lips are on yours before either of you can overthink it, his hands pulling you closer by your waist. This kiss feels different from the last time - not playful or teasing like before, but deeper, filled with all the pent up frustration and longing.

Your hands find their way to his hoodie, gripping onto the fabric as he guides you backwards towards the couch. When your knees hit the cushions, you both break apart for a moment to catch your breath. “Are we really doing this?” Your voice trembles as you ask.

He rests his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. “If you tell me to stop, I will.” But you don't. Instead, you pull him back into another kiss—your answer clear.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe out, voice low. The atmosphere is charged now, every sensation amplified—the brush of his fingers against your skin like the whisper of a checkered flag, the heat of your bodies close enough to ignite. This moment has an intensity about it, like standing on the brink of a cliff, hurtling towards something that is both unknown and alluring.

You crash your lips against his with a newfound intensity, the decision made and the line crossed. Your hands, emboldened, slip beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie, exploring the contours of a body built by countless hours in the cockpit and gym. You feel every ridge of muscle, every pulse of his quickening heartbeat against your palms.

“Your hands are freezing,” Lando chuckles breathlessly, but there's a thrill in his voice that tells you he doesn't mind the chill. Or perhaps it’s the contrast he enjoys—the fire between you set against the ice of your touch. “Maybe you should warm them up then,” you tease back, your voice a raspy whisper, a green light flashing in your mind, urging you not to stop.

With a gentle tug, his hoodie is off, tossed carelessly into the shadowy corner of the room. There's an urgency now—a need to explore the terrain of his skin, to map out every part of him. Your breaths mingle, hot and fast, as you navigate this new intimacy. The world outside fades away until there's nothing left but the electric current buzzing between you, threatening to short-circuit your self-control.

Lando's eyes lock with yours, dark and intense. His pupils are blown wide, reflecting the dim light of the room. You can see the conflict there—the eagerness entwined with hesitation. “Are you sure about this?” he asks once again, his voice husky. You make a mental note to remember this about this. This carefulness, the way he needs to make sure, you’re sure.

Your answer is to pull him closer, eliminating what little space remains between you. You can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, smell the intoxicating mix of his cologne and sweat. Your fingers trace the lines of his abs, feeling them tense under your touch. “I've never been more sure of anything,” you breathe against his neck before pressing my your lips to skin of his neck, feeling his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands tighten on your hips.

__________________________

Suddenly, you’re falling backwards onto the couch, Lando following, his body covering yours. The weight of him is intoxicating, pressing you into the cushions. Your legs part instinctively, allowing him to settle between them. The friction as he shifts against you sends sparks shooting through your body.

“Fuck,” Lando breathes, his forehead resting against yours. His curls tickle your face, and you reach up to run your fingers through them, marveling at their softness. You arch up, desperate for more contact, more friction, more of everything. Lando groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hands are everywhere—skimming down your sides, slipping under your shirt, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“Too many clothes,” you mutter, fumbling with the hem of your own shirt. Lando helps, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls the fabric up and over your head. The cool air hits your exposed skin, raising goosebumps. His eyes roam hungrily over your body, his gaze so intense you can almost feel it like a physical touch.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with eagerness. His hand traces the curve of your waist, fingertips dancing along your ribs. You shiver, arching into his touch. The moment stretches, charged with electricity. You can hear the pounding of your own heart, see the rapid rise and fall of Lando's chest. The air feels thick, heavy with anticipation. You reach for him, pulling him down for a searing kiss. His lips are soft but insistent against yours, tongue seeking entrance. You grant it willingly, moaning softly as the kiss deepens. Lando's hips grind against yours, the friction sending shockwaves through your body. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, urging him closer. The kiss grows more desperate, teeth clashing, breaths mingling.

Lando's lips trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You tilt your head, giving him better access. His stubble scratches deliciously against your throat as he works his way lower. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice rough with longing.

You nod, unable to form words. Your skin feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending hypersensitive. Lando continues his descent, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of your breasts. His hands come up to cup them, thumbs brushing over them. “Lando,” you gasp, your voice breathy and desperate. “Please...”

He smirks against your skin, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. "Please what?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your chest. You squirm beneath him, desperate for more contact. "Don't tease," you whine, fingers tangling in his curls. Lando chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "But teasing is so much fun," he says, punctuating his words with a gentle nip at your collarbone.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "You," You gasp. "All of you."

He groans, grinding his hips against yours. The friction is delicious but not enough. You slide your hands down his back, feeling the muscles flex under your palms, before slipping them into the waistband of his jeans. Lando inhales sharply, "Fuck, you're driving me crazy,".

"These need to come off," You breathe, tugging at the fabric. Lando nods, his eyes dark with desire. He shifts and fumbles with the button of his jeans. You fumble with your shorts. Then you’re both looking at eachother, panting, "Like what you see?" Lando teases, voice low and husky, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you.

"Shut up," you mutter, reaching for him. He laughs, the sound rich and warm, before leaning down to capture your lips again. This kiss is slower, deeper, filled with a hunger that makes your toes curl. His hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

You arch into his touch, desperate for more. Your fingers trace the planes of his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath your palms. Lando groans into your mouth, hips grinding against yours. The friction is delicious but not enough. You need more. As if he knows, his fingers finally dip between your thighs.

"Fuck," Lando breathes, his voice rough. "You're so wet." You can only whimper in response as he starts to move his fingers. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the sensation, "Lando," you pant, "Please, I need you." He groans, pressing his forehead against yours. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," You breathe. "God, yes." He reaches for his discarded jeans, fumbling with the pocket for a condom. Lando's hands tremble slightly as he rolls on the condom, his eyes never leaving yours. The anticipation builds, an intensity of desire thrumming through your veins. He positions himself between your thighs, the heat of him scorching against your skin. With excruciating slowness, he pushes in, stretching and filling you completely. You both gasp at the sensation, overwhelmed by the intensity. Lando stills, his forehead presses against yours, breath coming in short pants. "You okay?" he whispers, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Yes," you breathe, lifting your hips. "Move, please." He obliges, starting a slow, steady rhythm that has you seeing stars. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, breathless moans, and whispered encouragements.

Lando's lips find yours in a searing kiss as he picks up the pace. You match him thrust for thrust, lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your world narrows to just this - the slide of his skin against yours, the pressure building with each thrust, a burning tension deep in your core. Lando's rhythm falters, his movements becoming more erratic. You can tell he's close. His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. The added stimulation is almost too much. "Fuck, Lando," you gasp, arching into him. "I'm so close." He groans, burying his face in your neck. "Come for me, baby," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and desperate. It's those words that send you over the edge. Your release crashes over you in waves of white-hot pleasure. You cry out, fingers digging into Lando's back as your body shudders beneath him. The pulsing of your inner walls triggers his own climax. With a strangled moan of your name, he stills, burying his face in your neck.

For a moment, you lie there, tangled together, your chests heaving as you catch your breaths. The room feels charged, electric, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. The warm, solid weight of Lando's body pressing down on you creates a sense of security and connection, his skin smooth and warm against yours. You run your fingers through his damp curls, savoring the intimacy of the moment.

Lando lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. There's a vulnerability there you’ve never seen before, a softness that makes your heart skip. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, seemingly at a loss for words. "Hey," you whisper, cupping his cheek. "You okay?" He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "More than okay," he murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "That was..."

"Yeah," you nod in agreement.

As the afterglow fades, reality starts to creep back in. Lando shifts, gently pulling away from you, and you both wince slightly at the loss of contact. He disposes of the condom and reaches for his discarded clothes, his movements slow. You sit up, suddenly feeling exposed, and pull a throw blanket over yourself. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words and lingering questions. Lando runs a hand through his tousled curls, his gaze flicking to you and then away again. "So..." he starts. You interrupt him, "That happened."

__________________________

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Yeah, it did." His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. "Any regrets?"

You pause, considering. There are so many things to consider.

Your eyes lock with Lando's, searching his face. Despite the vulnerability in his expression, there's a spark of hope there too. You take a deep breath, weighing your words carefully. "No regrets," you finally say, squeezing his hand. "But...this complicates things." Lando nods slowly, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I know. Max..."

"Yeah," you sigh, the name of your brother hanging heavy between you. "And our friendship.” The air between you feels charged again, but differently this time. There's a tenderness there now, layered beneath the lingering desire. Lando shifts closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I definitely don't want to lose you," Lando murmurs, his eyes earnest. "As a friend or...whatever this is." You lean into his touch, closing your eyes briefly. "I don't want to lose you either," you admit softly. When you open your eyes again, Lando's gaze is intense, searching.

"So what do we do now?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

[harmonysanreads]

Aventurine loves the boop function, everyone in the Strategic Investment Department and beyond will be a victim of it. He's going to get the badges, break the meter and get the highest boop count out of everyone, in any possible way. His three catcakes and your reputations are on the line, he says. But really, it makes him feel like a child again. Regardless of how competitive he appears to be, he genuinely enjoys it.

Alhaitham… sleeps through it all. He wasn't even aware there was an update, too busy with enjoying his day-off, reading books and lounging around. Think about his bewilderment when he wakes up to your barrage of texts, well, it's just another passing trend. Certainly it's better he missed it — don't give him that look. Okay, if you're going to look so pitiful, he supposes he'll allow you to ‘boop’ him physically. But just once!

Dan Heng needs to be taught how to participate from scratch ; updating the app, how to opt-in, how the boop button works and that he can press it multiple times. Unfortunately, by the time he gets the hang of it all, it's already over and he was just about to send you a super boop, too. Welt noted Dan Heng to be unusually deflated for the next week after this incident.

Dr. Ratio is scrunching his nose, furrowing his brows, pulling his lips down in a frown — this is the latest trend on the internet? Truly, humans don't need anything that complicated to feel that rush of serotonin and, you're hooked on it, too? Psh. He can program an even better, more intellectually stimulating function than this ‘boop’! And off he goes in that endeavor.

Gepard was fine when he was receiving boops from his sisters. But when he sees you in the notifications, with about fifty boops at that, he becomes flustered. So flustered that he forgets to boop you back at all. He was too preoccupied with not selling his dignity through a scream, please don't misunderstand.

Jing Yuan can't put it in words how much he adores it. It's not that surprising considering how much of a cat-person he is. He sends you regular boops, super boops, evil boops, boop memes — you name it. He'll even get matching boop profile pictures with you, his badges proudly presented beside the icon. It's the first time in a while he's felt this energetic, he won't let any of it go to waste.

Mr Reca wasn't that interested in the thing initially, he is a busy director after all. Until he discovered the evil boop and that you're also actively participating in the trend. Thus begins your boop battle with him. If you can adequately match his villainy, he'll be enthralled. Oh the ideas that come to his mind just from this, the universe is not ready for his next movie.

Sunday is too busy to loiter around social sites all the time, as such, you'll need to introduce it to him. He mostly just boops you and Robin for the dopamine that comes with the paw animations and somewhere along that road, he falls in love with it. He's going to send you all the kinds of boops, break the meter, earn the badges, browse through all the memes and buy boop merch. Congratulations, you now have a perpetual boop fan and Sunday has a new love language.

[seresinhangmanjake]

He Will Hope

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: Feyd is obsessed with his bride from the moment he sees her, but on their wedding night he finds out she might not feel the same. (Angst, but hopeful ending)

Warnings/Notes: Feyd POV, pre-smut and smutty-ish intentions (if that makes sense? idk, ignore me), instantly-in-love Feyd, unwanted marriage, baby(heir) talk, typos. Can absolutely be read alone, but also serves as something of a prequel to Do You Love? (same world, but big time skip), so I tried to kind of echo that with specific lines.

Words: 1500

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

You’re so…beautiful. He didn’t expect a peace offering to be this perfect. Yes, he knew his bride would be a daughter of a Great House, but you are one of many sisters and Feyd did not imagine your father would send him the loveliest of his bunch. 

It’s a loveliness that has you sticking out like a sore thumb on Giedi Prime. Hair and makeup and wedding dress styled in the traditions of your home world glue all eyes to you as you walk down the aisle, and he likes that there is so much attention on you. It makes his inability to cease staring more acceptable. 

Harkonnens are not meant to be enthralled by their brides at first glance. Discouraged, even, from caring about their appearance at all. ‘Brides are meant for breeding,’ his uncle told him as a child, ‘It does not matter what they look like.’ But he was not told what to do or how to act in the event the bride makes his heart involuntarily skip a beat. 

Maybe if your heart was reacting in the same manner navigating this new feeling would be less intimidating, but the tears streaming down your cheeks suggest that's far from the case. You can barely look at him and he’s not sure you would be able to speak if it was required of you, but thankfully, verbal agreements are not part of marriage ceremonies on Giedi Prime. 

When he takes hold of your hand and slices your palm with his knife, you give no indication of pain. You are supposed to do the same to him but you seem nervous enough as it is, so he makes the three-inch long slash in his skin for you before pressing his palm against yours. The mixing of blood is a swearing of fidelity from husband to wife and wife to husband; a tradition and promise that wore down with time as concubines became more common. But he will not do that to you. You will be his one, his only, and if he can help it, he will be yours. 

He barely detects the words declaring you married. They're dull and bubbly in his ears as if he's sunk under the surface of his bath water because he's too focused on your mouth. Your plush lips are pink and plump and glistening, and he wants them. So he takes them before he's told to do so.

You taste different than the Harkonnen women he’s had. There is salt from tears, but something distinctly you seeps through. It's sweeter. A bit intoxicating. The kind of taste that collars and leashes the unruliest of men, and he wants more. Much more. But there are too many eyes, some of which are full of relief at the match finally solidified while others are prying and suspicious. If he keeps his lips on yours too long, questions will begin to form from certain witnesses—Does he like her? Does he want her? Can she be used? Can she control him?—and the answer will be plainly obvious.

When he breaks the kiss, your eyelashes flutter with the gentle opening of your eyes and he knows then that nothing—no convincing from advisors, no threats from his uncle, no hatred on your end—could ever have him willing to detach himself and use you for the sake of an heir only to discard you later. You are his wife now, you will be the Baroness upon his uncle’s death, and he will protect you from anyone who values you for the sole purpose of providing a child. 

—

He sees that your assigned servants have quickly learned to manage your hair and clothing. By the time they deliver you to him, the pins have been removed from the twist on your head, letting the strands hang loose to frame your face, and you’ve been unstitched from that heavy gown to be dressed in night clothes from your home. He provided you with a nightgown, so he wonders if wearing the thin dress was your choice or your parents' idea to make you undeniably enticing, but either way, it’s effective. 

What drapes over your body is nothing like the opaque blacks and straight lines of Harkonnen attire. It's intricate both in color and design; flowing fabric that shimmers when you make the slightest movements and, at the moment, does little to hide your shape and curves. 

As you stand in front of him, patiently awaiting instructions, he can only stare at what’s on display. Pebbled nipples, a plane of smooth skin down to your navel, your slit and the folds between your legs—he wants it all. All of you. Now. Here. Wherever he can have you. 

Rising from the chair where he’d been waiting, he dissolves the space between you. His arm snakes around your waist. His hand slides across your cheek to the back of your head. Lips slam into yours, chests meeting despite that sliver of fabric, and he tastes that taste again, instinctually feeling a need to lift his chin, bare his neck, and let you tighten that collar.

It takes you a few seconds but when your lips start to move, he kisses you harder, pulls you closer, weaves his fingers through your hair and lightly tugs. He guides you backward toward the bed, skin warming at the image of sliding the nightgown down your body. That warmth fans into pure fire and he can’t stop kissing you, can’t stop taking from you, collecting what little you’re willing to give him. Two of his fingers tuck themselves under one strap of the nightgown and begin to slip it down your shoulder. 

But then he stops. 

He stops because your lips freeze.

He stops because you're starting to shake under his fingertips.

He pulls back to look at you and it’s undeniable, so terribly undeniable, and he feels a bit ill. “You don’t want this,” he states. 

You don’t answer; you just stare up at him with those doe eyes that he can now see are full of fear, and his heart squeezes. His gut tightens. He suddenly has the urge to throw things, break things, watch things shatter to pieces because you don’t want him. His own wife doesn’t want his touch and he does not like this—not at all—but you’re scared, and he doesn’t like that even more. 

Sighing, he resets the strap on your shoulder, drops his hands from your body, and steps away. 

“I'll leave you alone,” he says. But as he passes by you, you grab onto his wrist. 

“We have to,” you rush out. “They'll know if we don't.”

He shakes his head. “They won't know anything that happens between us unless I allow it,” he tells you.

“B–But they expect an heir.”

“Yes. And eventually, we will have to produce one. That does not mean we have to share a bed tonight if that is not what you want, and it's clear that is not what you want,” he says a little too harshly. He isn’t trying to be snippy, none of this is your fault, but it hurts, and not in the way he enjoys.

You suck in a sharp breath as if preparing to argue, but then something shifts in your eyes. Instead, you say, “Where will you go?”

“The adjoining room,” he answers, nudging his head to the door on the opposite wall: the room for the concubines that he will never take. You turn to get a look.

“Oh,” you swallow. “O-Ok.” 

He grants himself a few more moments to study you, to soak in your soft and delicate features and the swollen lips he cannot have before he walks away, leaving you behind for the bed he had no intention of ever sleeping in. 

When he reaches the door, he glances over his shoulder to get one last look. You’re facing away from him, sitting on the mattress with your head low, your back arched forward and arms wrapped around your middle. You look small like that, slowly huddling into a ball, and he’d do anything to make it stop. Because you are his. His wife. His na-Baroness. He’s well aware he’ll fall for you in no time—it’s already begun—and he wants you to be happy with him. 

But you're not. And that already threatens the predictability of your future together. These foreign feelings he has for you are not guaranteed to be requited; something he isn't sure how to accept, and yet he may not have a choice. He cannot force your affection. He cannot demand you grow to love him. All he can do is try and hope that one day, he will win you over.

So that is what he does.

---

@avidreader73 @alwaysadreamingoptimist @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @workof-a-rr-t

[endless-ineffabilities]

backhand stroke (18+)

tennis coach!Aemond x tennis player!reader

Rivals on and off the court, things come to a head between the two when Aemond crosses the line and sabotages the reader's relationship.

themes : challengers inspired, Art Donaldson is featured <3, a lot of cussing, smut!!! (minors dn fckin i), the reader and Aemond hate each other (but if they hate each other why are they fcking), reader may or may not be a cheating bastard, Aemond has a glass eye + he calls the reader ace

a/n : initially I was about to write a fic where Aemond and the reader are actual rivals themselves, but quickly remembered how tennis works 💀 so in this one, Aemond is a coach and reader is a player 🎾

word count : 8k ▪︎ masterlist

The Westeros Open is the biggest and most prestigious tennis tournament in the country. 

Anyone who wants to be someone in the sport aims to qualify for it. 

For you, it is everything. You have devoted your entire life to tennis. It started as something that stemmed from your parents' neglect. Rich folks who signed their young daughter up for extensive tennis lessons just so they can be free of her and galivant off to wherever. 

You had sat there, staring at your shiny, brand-new white tennis shoes. Holding your unused top-of-the-line racket. Hair kept away from your face with a headband that still smelled like the store. 

Mostly left alone by your family, you gathered your strength, and dragged your weak eight-year-old legs across the tennis court day in and day out. 

Through the years, you found yourself. You found home, and you gave everything you had to make sure you would never lose it.

As luck would have it, you found romance along the way in Art Donaldson, who became your coach after your previous one decided to quit. He used to be a player, until he fell out of love with the game, and chose to coach up and coming players instead. 

You had been wary of getting involved with him, but eventually you couldn’t resist. He turned out to be the perfect boyfriend - caring, sweet, attentive to your every need. He became your partner in both tennis and in life. Truly, you couldn’t want for anything else.

You shouldn’t. 

So why does it feel like there is something missing?

And why is that void one that only Aemond Targaryen can fill?

The gigantic poster propped up in the inner courtyard of the country club lets everyone know that your next qualifying match in the Westeros Open is against none other than Helaena Targaryen. 

Your image looms up to around twenty feet, with Helaena’s lithe figure on the other side. The perfectionist in you can’t help but scrutinise the details in your expression and your form. Was that really what you looked like mid-serve? You laugh dryly, feeling silly at your misdirected concern.

You like Helaena, and she’s always been cordial to you outside of your matches. The issue lies with her more brash and calculating brother and coach. 

Something - or rather someone - shuffles behind you. Close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand on attention. 

"I wish I could say that you look good up there, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Think of the devil and he shall appear. You don't have to turn around to know who it is. 

Aemond fucking Targaryen. Once at his prime, known for his freely expressing his passion and rage on the court, earning him the title 'the bad boy of tennis'. It was this drive, this relentlessness, that propelled his game. Unfortunately, it also served to be his downfall. After a few years as the sport's #1 male player, his career came to an end after an off-court altercation with an opponent that took his eye.

Now he is the coach of one of your top rivals and upcoming match opponent, his sister Helaena. 

Which is why it should come as no surprise to you that he has made it his mission to get under your skin, with all his unwarranted flirty remarks, constant staring, and how he tirelessly interacts with everything you post on social media. 

It used to be tame, by his standards anyway, with things like, ‘You need to work on that backhand’ or ‘I’m guessing Donaldson doesn’t train you well enough.’

But then the messages took a different turn. You once posted a picture of you in a fancy, revealing gown when you attended the annual gala, and he responded with, ‘It’s easy to see that all your training has paid off, ace.’

You chocked it all up to playful aggression. He’s just trying to get you to lower your guard, and distract you. You knew better than to look too much into the apparent interest he gives you. 

He is notorious for being a playboy, after all. Dirty blonde hair perfectly tousled, designer tracksuits he wears with such snobbishness, a presence that can command an entire room. You’ve grown to heavily dislike the seemingly permanent smug sneer on his lips, and how he sometimes treats others like they’re nothing but gum stuck on the soles of his fancy tennis shoes.

A handsome rogue who possesses a lot of talent and who is aware of his status as a hot commodity can be dangerous indeed. If he can say that Helaena Targaryen’s best opponent is nothing but another notch on his bedpost, then he will never let that live down. 

More importantly, you are already spoken for. Aemond knows this - not that he cares - but whatever he thinks about your relationship doesn’t matter. 

“Aemond.” You don’t turn to face him, continuing to scrutinise the gigantic poster. “Is that the best you got?”

He shrugs, positioning himself right in your line of sight, clearly demanding more attention. “You don’t just look good. You look good enough to fucking eat, ace. Too bad about the shitty attitude.”

Hot then cold, nice then nasty. Aemond will never change. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I thought I told you not to call me that. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else training your sister? She’s gonna need it.”

He steps closer, invading your space. You look him directly in the eye like you’re squaring up with an opponent. This has always been your dynamic. Neither one backing down, neither one ever really dealing a blow. 

Just constant dizzying electricity. 

Sooner or later, it will all come to a head. Whether it will be your fault or his, the jury is still out on that. 

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” he patronises, his deep blue almost violet eye sparkling. On the opposite was his glass eye, only adding to his intimidating nature. He hadn’t opted for one that resembled his real eye, but rather a hazy white apparatus, making him appear ghoulish, almost ghostlike. Nestled in his left eye socket, framed by a faded maroon gash, it made him look every bit like the charismatic rogue of tennis that he is known to be. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere receiving instruction from Donaldson? Not that you’ll get much out of it.”

“Art and I are on top of our training, not that it’s any of your damn business. You should concern yourself with your sister’s game.” 

“If only that were actually true, ace, but unfortunately I believe that your sweet Art wastes too much of his fucking time being on top of you.”

“Fuck off, Targaryen,” you respond, trying to push the allure of his scent out of your mind. Pungent cologne and cigarette smoke, a blend that you’ve come to associate only with him. “Stay out of my business, and quit messaging me.”

“You like how we talk.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

“Does Donaldson know?” Fully aware that Art has never had a liking for him, he knows that will hit a nerve. 

Your face falls, like you’ve been caught in the act. Even though you've done nothing wrong. Occasionally caving in and responding to Aemond’s messages surely isn’t crossing the line. What started out as a couple of offhand fuck offs from your end turned into actually sharing private jokes about the other matches and training and - heavens forbid - small talk about the goddamn weather. 

You’ve come to know that his favourite colour is green. Not the neon of a tennis ball, but a bluish-tinted pine. 

Not that it matters. 

Encounters such as this one also don’t mean anything. Never mind however much you find him attractive. Who wouldn’t? You have eyes, and you’re only human. Nothing more to it. 

Never mind how, some nights, in what can only be construed as momentary states of delirium, you have imagined him in Art’s place. 

Never mind just how much he gets under your skin, like no one else can, and how you can’t admit to yourself that you might actually like it.

Oh, you might actually be making yourself sick at all these thoughts. 

“There’s nothing for him to know.” You step to the side, indicating that you want to walk away. But he has you cornered and you both know it. 

He smirks, “Keep telling yourself that, ace. But you can’t deny - ” He steps close again. He suddenly tilts your face toward him with one hand, but you shake your head and his fingers lose their hold. “ - this. Us.”

Damn him. And damn the shiver that just ran up your spine. 

You stand still, entranced by the look he’s giving you. Trick or not, Aemond sure does have a way of looking at you as if he sees you for who you really are. Not the tennis prodigy. Not the public personality. You remain a shell of that broken kid that poured everything she had into this sport, much like he had, only to come out the other end still not whole, still searching for something inexplicably out of reach. And he sees just that - just you.

You feel like Art holds you up on a pedestal, not seeing the flaws that make you who you are. But you’ve always been happy to play the perfect girlfriend. 

Until Aemond. 

But he’s too much. Too forward, too brash, too intoxicating. You can never know what he’s going to do next. You can’t like him. You have to be certain that you don’t.

But then again… love and hate have always been two sides of the same coin.

He whispers, clearly pleased with the effect he has on you, “Match point, ace.”

Match point. You could have him. He could have you. He makes it evident that the next move is all yours. “Don’t go out of bounds, Targaryen,” you warn him lowly. 

“What if I want to?”

You have him. He has you.

And you… have Art. 

Clearing your throat, and your head, you finally step back. His head snaps up to follow you, disappointment evident on his face. 

“See you around, Targaryen.” You spin on your heel, walking away, immediately feeling lighter. Emptier, feeling like your body begs to drift closer to him, two equal magnets. 

“Ace,” he calls to you, walking after you when you don’t turn around. “Wait a second,” he reappears right in front of you, effectively halting your stride.

You grumble hastily, “God, you really have a space issue, don’t you, Aemond?”

“Meet me in the courtyard gardens,” he says, a new intensity lacing his voice, “tonight. After dinner. Or whenever you can. Just - ”

“No.”

“Come on, ace.” His tone is insistent, with no trace of his usual bravado and cockiness. “I think… I need to tell you something.”

Part of you wants to cave in, and just agree to whatever it is that he’s proposing, but that nagging voice in the back of your mind is adamant that it would not be right. What would Art think? But what if Aemond truly just wants to tell you something?

“So tell me now.”

His jaw clenches hard, and you can’t help but admire the taut edges of his face. “No, I want to do this, just you and me. When we’ll be alone - ”

“Aemond - ” you start to shake your head, trying hard to come up with a refusal that he will actually register. 

“Donaldson doesn’t need to know,” he almost pleads. “This is between you and me, ace. You just have to hear me out.”

You take a deep breath, unable to understand just what it is he means. “If it’s something I have to hide from my boyfriend, then it’s not gonna happen. You have to see just how messed up that is, Targaryen.”

Either he can’t hear you, or he just does not want to accept your response. “I’ll wait for you. Right around midnight then, ace? Should give you plenty of time to sneak out.”

Before you can say no, again, he hastily plants a kiss on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, in surprise and perhaps pleasure at the softness of his lips, and when you open them once more, he is no longer flooding your space. 

You spy him entering a set of glass doors, leaving you there stunned.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Aemond kicks at another pebble, the sound momentarily breaking the silence in the gardens.

He’d checked his watch just seconds before, the face of it spitting on what remains of his eagerness. 

Twelve fucking fifteen. 

Either you just got held up by your whiney rat-faced boyfriend, or you’re a no-show.

Aemond doesn’t know which one is worse. He did not know what he was expecting in the first place. Did he actually think that you would do as he says? You never were good at following orders, much less those from someone whom you likely view as something of a nuisance.

Is that really what you see him as? Isn’t there something more at play here?

Something that keeps Aemond up at night, when he can no longer deny that it is not because he dislikes you that you plague his thoughts, but because he admires you. He does admire you, he sees no shame in admitting that. 

As a tennis player. As a competitor. Anyone who feigns ignorance at your insane potential would just be lying to themselves. 

As a woman? A… partner? No. It has to be no, doesn’t it? You hate him, you make it clear now and again. You disagree with him, challenge his views, point out his flaws. Surely, he can’t be attracted to you in a way that commands his heart. You are beautiful, he doesn’t deny this, but so were the dozens of other girls he had run through. 

Each time he watches you perform your signature backhand stroke, with that sensual growl escaping your lips and the lewd grace with which your body bends, Aemond feels his sanity slipping away.

You drive him crazy, but he can't be crazy about you. 

The only reason he asked you to meet him, is because he wants to propose that he replace Art as your coach. Helaena has expressed that she wants to retire, and focus on some other creative pursuits. Something insignificant to Aemond, that he can’t remember what it was exactly. A pottery business? A fucking flower shop? He doesn’t care to know. 

It’s perfect, he thinks, because your game is superior anyway. It’s what first got his attention, and now he can take part in your process. He can direct you, shape you. He can do so much better than Art Donaldson, and he’s sure you know this too. 

Maybe then you might actually open up to him the way you opened up to Art. With your absence tonight, it dawns on him that he might actually have to resort to other measures. Did he seriously think he would be able to simply reason with you about this? 

He sits for another half-hour on a bench nestled among the rose bushes. Surrounded by flowers of deep scarlet, a maroon he distinctly remembers as being your favourite colour. He fools himself into believing that he’s using the time to craft a plan for what’s to come, and not that he’s wasting it on the hope that you might emerge from the tall hedges, out of breath and eyes glinting eager to find him. 

Well, you played your hand. Now he knows what he has to do.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You wake up groggy the following morning, having tossed and turned the entire night, thinking about Aemond.

Had he been out there, waiting for you? Your mind came up with the different possibilities of what he has to say. Or if he had nothing to say at all, and it was all just another ruse. 

You told yourself that you didn’t want to meet up with him, but you had an alibi prepared. One of your old tennis club mates agreed to cover for you and say that you were having drinks together, just in case Art ever checks up. 

But as you were about to deliver the excuse, Art had said something about you and him not getting to spend as much quality time anymore. The past few weeks have been occupied with nothing but tennis, and though it’s a shared activity that you both value, he wanted to stay in for the night with you. He ordered room service, downloaded two films that were on your watchlist, and whispered sweet nothings in your ear until you eventually gave up on meeting Aemond. 

It can wait, whatever it is. 

Besides, isn’t this the right thing to do? Did you seriously consider having a midnight rendezvous with the guy who you claim to dislike the most? Someone who encourages you to keep secrets from your boyfriend? What good could possibly come out of that?

With a heaving sigh, you push all thoughts of last night from your mind. There are bigger things at hand. The biggest tennis tournament of the year, for one. 

You make your way to the dining hall of your hotel. Art had woken up before you, pressing a loving kiss to your cheek and explaining how he had to discuss some matters with your physical team. He wore the skin of a tennis coach as perfectly as that of a boyfriend. 

And here you are, regretting that you were unable to meet up with another man the previous night.

The art deco layout of the lobby extends into the spacious dining hall, the interior of the hotel filled with geometric patterns and rich jewel tones. You once bid Aemond guess what your favourite interior design was, and he got it in two tries, complete with a spiel of how it reflects your personality. Art, on the other hand, had been adamant that your favourite was minimalist. That was the first time you realised that his perspective of you was different from Aemond’s. 

You hadn’t yet reconciled with who is more accurate, lest it shine a light on something deeper. 

The hostess is cheerful and full of pep as she leads you to your table. You know it’s coming - she’ll ask you for a picture in just a moment, and you’re proven right when she reaches in her pocket and her phone materialises inch by inch. She seems shy to ask, ready to turn on her heel with a stiff smile if you refuse, so you do your best to be encouraging.

When the photo is taken and she finally lowers her phone, you spy someone out in the distance and you make it out to be none other than your boyfriend. Leaning by the outdoor terrace, appearing to be speaking to another person you can’t yet make out, their face obscured by the decorative shrubbery scattered across the area. 

You walk to the side to get a better view of who it is. That tall figure, clad in a black tracksuit… a familiar head of blonde hair… and the unmistakable cut of his jawline. Realisation sets in. Art is speaking to Aemond. 

Your stomach sinks, the thought of breakfast no longer enticing. Frozen in the middle of the dining hall, you begin to attract the attention of others. 

Aemond turns his head, perfectly timed for his gaze to meet yours. Like something out of a grim movie, your anxiety spikes as his smug smirk materialises in slow motion. 

If there ever were a match at hand between you two, that smirk makes it clear that he has won it. 

Art follows his gaze, also meeting yours, but without any trace of satisfaction. He looks at you accusingly. You shake your head at him, but you already know. 

This is not going to end well. 

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“Is it true?”

You had wordlessly followed Art back to your hotel suite, the air around you thick with dread and anticipation.

“What did Aemond say?” You stand in front of him as he calmly sits by the window, as if you’re on the trial stand. You just might be.

“Guess,” Art spits mockingly. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know him quite well.” You bristle at his tone. He’s never spoken to you like this before. 

“Whatever he told you, it’s not what it looks like, okay? You know Aemond. He likes to mess around with people, especially us.”

Art shakes his head in disbelief, “He even showed me some of your messages. Some of them you must have sent - what, at 3 or 4 in the fucking morning? When you’re lying next to me in bed? Not getting a lot of sleep apparently. It must be why you’re not on top of your game.”

He’s not playing fair, and you deserve this. 

“There’s nothing going on between us,” you say through gritted teeth, making the statement sound as firm as possible, because it’s not just Art you’re attempting to convince. You want to believe it too. 

“He’s said some things about me.”

“And I defended you.”

“Not well enough,” he shakes his head. “It sounded almost normal for you. Spewing bullshit to each other.”

“It’s just… it’s all just banter.” God, you sound so terrible. “Riling each other up to get into the mindset before matches.”

“All that… all that, I can kind of understand. It’s the other things. The intimate things that get on my nerves.”

“What - ” You can’t form the proper response to that. 

“I missed talking to you, he once said. To which you replied that you do too.”

“That’s nothing.”

“You said that he inspired you.”

“That’s… that… he’s a great talent,” you stammer, as the statements he throws worsen. “He always has been. Even you can’t deny that.”

The argument goes on for an uncomfortable length of time, with Art reminding you of things that you and Aemond had apparently messaged each other, and you trying to play them off as insignificant. 

Gradually, you convince Art that Aemond is just a thorn in your side. That Aemond was just overplaying the messages to get under his skin. That letting this break your relationship would be giving Aemond what he wants. 

But everything he said - the messages he brought back to the surface, the encounters that were brought up - made you realise the depth of your involvement with Aemond. 

You are fooling yourself, just as much as you are fooling Art.

He finally stands, heading towards the door. “I’ve spoken to our physical team. Meet us at the gym in 15.”

“Art.”

He halts, but he doesn’t turn to face you. You’re worried about what you’ll see in his face if he does.

“Are we okay?” you ask.

He turns to the side, and you catch a glimpse of the man you love, his once blithe demeanour reduced to a brief, forced smile. He nods once, and you sag in relief. When he is finally out the door, you collapse onto the bed and press your knuckles to your eyes. 

You feel it all at once. 

Anger. Frustration. That fear of inevitability coming to fruition. This was bound to happen and a part of you knew it was coming.

Aemond screwed you over, and it’s high time you put an end to everything.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The gardens. Midnight. 

The message had been sent. The last one you will ever send to Aemond Targaryen if things go as planned. 

You have it rehearsed and perfected in your mind - how you will give him a piece of your mind, how you will tell him off and tell him to fuck off for good. 

As long as you think of Art…  As long as you don’t lose yourself, then…

“You’re lucky I’m not standing you up, Ace. Not like what you did to me.” The bastard has appeared directly behind you, as per his custom, so close you can feel his breath on the nape of your neck. 

You immediately turn to face him, and he stands calmly in his signature black tracksuit, his lips curled in their usual manner. “I never agreed to meet you that night.”

His smile is derisive, the sight of it sharp and cruel under the moonlight. “I thought we had sort of a code of honour, you and I. That we’d never lie to each other. Never let the other person down.”

“Honour?” you say mockingly. “I call bullshit. Trying to ruin my relationship… is that part of it?”

He looks away, shaking his head at your accusation. “I only did what you don’t have the fucking guts to do. Your relationship with Donaldson was ruined the moment we…” He trails off, brows furrowing. His gaze meets yours, revealing the truth that sits underneath his mask of arrogance. One that only you are allowed to see. He appears to take on a different smile this time, softer and less pronounced. The curses you want to hurl get caught in your throat when he looks to your lips and hums faintly to himself, almost as if he’s forgotten that you are in the middle of an argument. 

You take a step back, and it shakes him out of his reverie. It shakes the both of you out of it. 

“Well? Let’s fucking hear it then.” You raise your arms in a gesture, egging him on. 

“Hear what?” he says, having the gall to be confused.

“What did you want to tell me that night? Tell me now, because you’ll never get the chance again.”

He straightens, getting his thoughts in order. He completely forgot about that issue, and talking is increasingly becoming the last thing he wants to do right now. He wants to put his lips to better use. Something more worthwhile. “Helaena’s retiring,” he finally decides on saying, “and I think I should be your coach.”

You’re dumbfounded for a moment, his proposition whirring in your head. It makes sense, it does. He just gets you. But then again… 

“That’s rich,” you reply. “Do you think I would ever give up Art? He’s always been my coach and he’s damn good at it.”

“You’re not compatible,” he counters, “in the court and out of it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He doesn’t see you,” he affirms. He would never lie to you, and he isn’t about to start now. He repeats, “He doesn’t see you, but I do.”

His words strike true, and it feels as if he’s just pulled the rug from underneath you, and you’re falling, falling… 

Right into his arms. And the impact is jarring, because it’s real. 

“We can’t.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, a reflection of your weakening restraint.

“Yes we can, ace.” He takes a step closer, and he lifts his hand as if on instinct, reaching for your face. But he’s frozen, unsure of how far he can toe the line that already lies fragile between you. “It should be you and me.”

Your eyes follow his movements, because you know you want him to give in and hold you. To touch your face. To kiss you.

And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. 

“I have to go.” Your voice carries no emotion. You avert your gaze at the last second and catch the defeat that flashes across his face. It should come as a surprise that it pains you to see him like this, but then again, you see him as he sees you. You always have. Which renders your next words among the most painful to come out of your mouth. “We can’t do this anymore. Art already doesn’t trust me, and if this goes on, it’s only going to make things worse. I can’t talk to you - ” 

“No.” 

“- and I won’t be responding to anything- ”

“Stop fucking talking.” His anger is fledgling, rising to the surface. There is no way he will calmly accept these terms. “I said no, ace.”

“It’s… it’s the right thing to do,” you murmur, still unable to look at him. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. We run in the same circles. But we can’t be… us.”

“Forget it,” he seethes, trying to catch your eyes, and growling low when you don’t relent. “Forget him, ace. Or do whatever the fuck you want. But not this, I’m not having this.”

You exhale, having gotten the worst of it out of your chest. It’s over now. But it’s not a relief that you feel. It’s remorse. 

“Goodbye, Aemond.” With that, you finally take him in once more, and one glance is enough to shatter your resolve. His heightened ill temper shines clearly across his distinguished features. Under the midnight moon, he resembles a fallen angel, long dark blonde lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. His shadowy, glass eye strangely adding to the appeal. 

Beautiful. And just not yours. 

One last, lingering look - then you walk away. The silence is deafening, and you feel numb all over. Your knuckles are taut at your sides, fingernails digging in your palms to keep those pesky, errant tears at bay. You’ve suffered defeat before, but this is much worse, because it’s coming solely from your own hand. How easily you give him up, someone who was never yours, and how badly it stings. 

“No,” you hear him say again, and you pray he shuts up so you can keep walking. 

He doesn’t. He repeats the word - no - over and over like some mantra under his breath. One second you feel nothing. Nothing at all. But then the wind whooshes around you and you’re being spun around to face him. 

And then, his lips claim yours, and you feel everything. 

Sounds come rushing back to you. His ragged panting against your lips, the pads of his fingertips kneading the back of your head, the wet smacking of his mouth on your own. The empty pit in your stomach is filled with those clichéd butterflies. More so when one of his hands travels down to grasp your waist and press your body against his. 

“Aem - ” Your mind catches up to you, and you try to say his name to get him to pause, but he slides his tongue past your teeth. 

“Shut up and kiss me, ace.” He breaks free for but a second, then hungrily kisses you again. You let him. You give in completely.

“Mmm, Aemond.” Your hands reach up to cradle his face and he takes that as an opportunity to pull back and openly admire you.

“You’re my ace,” he professes, connecting his forehead to yours. “And I’m not fucking losing you.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You rush through the lobby of the hotel, hand in hand and giggling like schoolchildren as you duck your heads so as not to get recognised by the night concierge. 

With reckless abandon, your entwined bodies stumble into his suite, which just happens to be on the floor below yours. You once thought you would have to be inebriated beyond belief to surrender to a sin like this, and in a way you are. You’re high off of him - Aemond in his entirety, six feet of lean muscle, notorious foul-mouthed one-eyed libertine. 

“Fuck, ace.” He has his arms wrapped around you from behind, and he nips at your exposed neck. His touch roams and finds the mounds of your breasts, kneading mindlessly over your shirt. The sound that reverberates from his throat is carnal, and you feel it echo through your whole body. It drives you to press your ass against him, taking full notice of his hardness straining from his sweatpants. 

Feeling mischievous, you do it again, gripping his arms to anchor yourself while grinding against his cock. 

“Foul play,” he whispers against your neck, “you fucking minx.”

“There are no rules now.” You face him, running a finger along his jawline as you walk backward and he follows suit. Stopping at the edge of his bed, you strip out of your shirt, careful to keep your eyes locked on his the whole time. 

The movement is too slow for Aemond, and he desperately needs more. He pushes you onto the mattress and climbs on top of you. He slides your sweatpants off your legs, then lets his hand drag from your ankle to your inner thigh. He promptly undresses, graceless and in a rush, until all his clothes are left in a heap on the carpet. 

His cock stands on attention, taut and goddamn long. You feel an ache below that compels you to rub your legs together, but he beats you to it and slides your underwear right off. “I’ve always wanted to taste you,” he croons. “Bet you taste so sweet.”

You take your bra off and you’re finally left completely bare. He spreads your legs and positions himself in between. He uses one hand to squeeze your breast and the other to keep your legs propped wide open. 

His eye meets yours, before he settles in, lowering his head until he’s breathing cool air onto your pussy. “Match point, ace.” 

You have him. He has you. 

When Aemond’s tongue plunges deep into your throbbing core, swirling inside like he wants to consume you whole, you have to bite your tongue to hold back a scream.

He knows what he’s doing, of course he does, and he’s so fucking good.

“Yes - yes - keep going, baby, fuck -  ” you moan, words breathy and irregular. 

He sticks two fingers into your wetness, using it to spread you wider, leveraging his tongue ever deeper. In and out they go, faster than the fuck, fuck, fucks coming out of your mouth in blissful sputters. 

He suddenly stops, a guttural hmm echoing from his lips, and you look down to see his lips coated in a mixture of his spit and your pre cum. “Not so fast, ace,” he taunts. “You’ll come when I say.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, still widespread and exposed to him. “What, are you coaching me through it?” 

He hums in affirmative and leans in to kiss you, juices still dripping from his chin. 

“You gonna follow my orders, ace?” he asks, and your mind spirals at how utterly lewd it sounds. 

“Wouldn’t you like that, Targaryen?” You let out another moan, biting your lip when he hungrily sucks on your breast. “Let’s see what you got first.”

He smiles at your playful instigation. It’s always come natural, this riffing back and forth. But this midnight dalliance - he wants it to be honest. He needs you to realise how much he wants you. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He gets on his knees, a hand braced on each of your thighs, his hardened cock at the ready. 

“Ma’am?” you breathe, a laugh dying in your throat when you his tip prods at your entrance.

“I can be agreeable under the right circumstances, ace.” He torments you by pushing his cock in but an inch. 

“Fuck me, Aemond,” you cuss in frustration, then, literally, “Fuck me. Please.”

His eyes take you in, one darkened blue and one ghostly pale glass. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says. “You good for it, ace?” He nods once, referring to whether a condom is needed and you take the hint right away.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Perks of having a top-of-the-line physio team. They hook you up on other things too.” Your cocky-athlete way of stating that you are on the pill. 

The lights are dim in the room, but you clearly see the resolve settle on Aemond’s face. He parts his lips like he wants to say something more, and you tilt your head questioningly. 

He feels the need to make some sort of declaration. Something true. It doesn’t seem right to say those damned three words at this moment, no matter how much he means them. You could think he’s trying to trick you in order to get what he wants. A good lay and nothing else. So he doesn’t say anything and lets the silence speak for itself. If you know him as you claim to, then you’ll see. 

You’ll see just how much this means to him.

You nod, and it’s an unspoken plea. 

He thrusts his cock into you with such force, stretching your walls with a sudden and blinding ache, until he is buried to the hilt. He reaches and cradles your face with one hand, the other keeping your ankle propped by his shoulder. 

“Move, Aem.” You buck your hips against him, his cock squelching in and out again.

“Yeah, baby?” He complies with his hips in response. “That feel good?”

“Yes. God yes.”

A switch flicks inside of him, and he almost snarls through his teeth. “You feel so fucking good, ace. Your pussy takin’ me so well…” His hips buck faster, in abrupt snapping motions, burying his cock each damn time. He connects your legs together and turns you to your side, altering the position slightly. 

You look behind your shoulder and see that feral look etched on his face. His grip is tight on the flesh of your hips and the curve of your ass, having it raised slightly for his convenience. He smacks your behind with an open palm, and it elicits a lusty moan out of you. 

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “So beautiful like this, dripping around my fucking cock, huh? My good girl.”

The noises you release as a result are unintelligible. You press your face against the pillow in sheer pleasure, muffling your sounds. 

“I wanna hear you, baby,” Aemond protests. With practised ease, he repositions you so your ass is propped high before him, your body bent forward as you have to lean on your forearms to keep from planting your face on the sheets. 

He doesn’t ease up on his relentless thrusting, and you’re left squirming and cock-drunk. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head, you’re blissed-out on what only Aemond can give you.

“Does he fuck you as good?” he spits in obvious distaste. “I don’t think so, baby. Can’t fuck this pussy like I do.” 

“N-no,” you whimper, without any trace of guilt. “Only you, Aem.”

“Hmm,” he simpers. “Come for me, ace. Be a good girl now. Come around my cock, yeah?”

“Mhhmm,” you pant, growing weaker and weaker at his statements, your walls tensing for that release you crave.

“You’re mine, ace. Mine.”

Your whimper comes out sudden and unrestrained as you let go, and feel your warm juices leaking down your thighs. The sounds of his cock growing noisy and sloppier. He releases not long after, with a few sharp spasms, decorating your insides with his cum. 

Marking someone who is not supposed to be his. 

But nothing else matters as he crumples against you and pulls you into his arms. If something is to be reconciled with, it won’t be for tonight.

With these things, regret always comes along with the sunrise.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“40 - 30.”

The crowd cheers at the umpire’s announcement. You can barely make out the faces morphing together into one homogeneous mob, but you’ve observed enough to know that Aemond isn’t among them. Rivulets of sweat drip down your face and you walk to the side as another break starts. 

Helaena nods at you from the opposite side of the court, and you respond with a terse smile.

She resembles him so much - the one you’ve been avoiding for the past three days. With that same distinct shade of blonde hair and deep blue eyes, but possessing an aura of tenderness about her. If Aemond wasn’t lying about her plan to retire, then it makes perfect sense. She seems too good for the sport, too pure, whereas you fit right into its cruel constraints.

What sort of person would have done what you did, some nights ago, and be able to walk with their head held high? You want to believe that you regret sleeping with Aemond, that you would reverse your actions, given the chance. But the pain that eats at you is that you might have fucked things up for good, abruptly leaving before he woke up that morning. 

It’s ironic - you may just get what you said you wanted. To end things. Never to be the same with him again. 

You slump in your seat, wiping at your face with a towel, pushing all thought of Aemond from your mind. 

From your periphery, you catch Helaena gesturing to you. She smiles, and you think that your emotions must show so clearly on your face that she feels bad for you. 

She nods, and tilts her head to the side, so that you follow her gaze. Standing courtside, partially hidden in the corner just behind the barriers, you see Aemond closely watching you. 

He came after all. You turn back to Helaena, unable to hide your surprise, and she sends another smile your way. She knows. Of course she does. 

With renewed excitement, the match continues. It only takes one more point, one final ace, and you emerge triumphant. The court fills with cheers and sounds of celebration. It is declared that you are advancing to the next round of the tournament. You meet Helaena in the middle and she firmly shakes your hand, exhibiting no sign of disappointment. 

“Congratulations! Very well played.” She drops her racket and grasps your hand with both of hers. She leans closer, and adds, “You know, I also consider it a win for myself, because my last ever match is against the girl my brother is in love with.”

You forget where you are, the revelation rendering everything else moot. The cheering crowds disappear, and it’s just you and Helaena as she dips her head comfortingly, assuring you that you heard her words true.

“I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she lets go finally, with a cheerful, “go celebrate!”

You feel yourself being whisked away, cameras flashing from all sides. Art appears in front of you and he pulls you into an embrace. Several onlookers gush at the sight. You barely take notice of them, your eyes already drifting to where Aemond was standing. 

There he remains, casually leaning against the barriers. Some audience members realise that the great Aemond Targaryen stands among them, and one by one a small crowd forms around him, asking for pictures and autographs.

He continues to hold your gaze, his usual smirk making an appearance, ignoring a guy waving a camera at his face. You shake your head at the scene, a genuine laugh bubbling from your lips.

You nod to each other, as if acknowledging the absurdity of it all, and leave it at that. There’s a lot more to be said, for another time. Art wraps his arm around your waist, and Aemond takes it as his cue to look away, relenting to the eager fans surrounding him.

You direct your gaze to your boyfriend, immediately seeing the recognition in Art’s eyes. He’s seen everything. 

He doesn’t need to be as acutely perceptive as Helaena to realise the truth. That of the one-eyed rogue and his ace. You’ve been drifting from him for so long, that it was only a matter of time. 

He was your friend first, and he always will be. You’ve watched each other grow, through endless mistakes and challenges, and there’s a fire in you he cannot match. 

But Aemond can. He knows this now. 

He extends a hand out to you, one which you accept with poorly masked caution. He understands how woeful it must be, to tear yourself apart from being in love with someone else. The shame and uncertainty that must entail. 

For both your sakes, he decides that he has to be the bigger person and do the right thing. 

“What do you say?” Art offers to you. “Post match treat?” he asks, referring to your tradition of sharing a large strawberry sundae after games. 

“Okay.” Your smile is sweet and unguarded, and it reminds him of when you first met, nearly six years ago. That day, he knew he had made a lifelong friend. 

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“I wish I could say I’m happy to see you here, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Aemond swivels toward the sound of your voice, cigarette smoke billowing from his lips. 

“Vile habit, Targaryen.” You wrinkle your nose, and he just shakes his head and crushes the butt of his cigarette under his shoe.

“Yeah, well.” He merely shrugs. He was dead set on quitting, but something came up the past couple of days, causing his anxiety to reach new heights. When you ignored him after the night you shared, he can’t fault himself for reaching for depraved solace in nicotine. But no substance would ever be enough to erase the precious memory of watching you come undone. 

“Not happy to see me, ace?” he refers back to your greeting, not bothering to hide the hurt he feels. 

You walk closer to him, trying to hold back a smile. “Well, I lied. But it’s not like I haven’t lied before.” You stop when you’re right in front of him, the remnants of his smoke making you feel woozy. “I also lied when I said that we can’t keep being us anymore. When I said goodbye.”

“Hmm,” his lips curl at your confession. “Judging by how wildly you fucked me after you said that, I could already tell.”

You roll your eyes, but you already feel so much better, like things are falling right back into place. All it took was some teasing from the apparently callous, sharp-tongued, ambitious-to-a-fault boy standing before you. 

A boy who revealed the true depths of his compassion only to you. He let you thaw out his cold heart from its confines and declared it yours. 

“Something more to say, ace?” he asks.

“You first.”

“Are you kidding? Why don’t you play this game with your boyfriend?”

You share a lingering look, effectively answering his question. The unabashed shit-eating smile that breaks out on his face is enough to tell you just how he feels. 

“Don’t gloat,” you warn him, but he’s already pulled you flush against him with both arms. “I also need a new coach.”

“Mhmm,” he nods, not really in response to your statement. “Save that for later, ace. Please shut the hell up and kiss me.”

He can’t help but smile through kisses, his lips chasing yours when you make an effort to pull away and say something more. 

“Aemond, will you - ”

“Fuckin’ - ” a cuss slips from him when you manage to break apart, depriving him of your lips. He answers impatiently, “Yes of course, I’ll be your coach, ace. Of course. Happy? I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

Before he leans in once more, you say, “Don’t you dare fuck this up, Targaryen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”

You lean back in mild surprise.

He laughs, “I mean - ace - or my love. Either one applies, really.”

"I... I prefer ace," you say weakly.

"Now, now, my love. I thought we promised not to lie to each other?"

taglist (all who commented on this post - surprise double feature incoming!) : @odeioemail @sapphossongbird @toodlesxcuddles @sinistersnakey9419 @fan-goddess @jhroseok @diannnsss @dixie-elocin @tostadasdetinga @1-800shootmeplease @goldyfishsstuff @pineappleicelostmary @raging-panda

Should you wish to be added to the Aemond (or Daemon) taglist, please comment on this post!

[moonstruckme]

“Wow,” Morgan sighs happily, “I don’t know which one of you is more whipped.” 

i'm so obsessed with this line from one of your recent spencer reid works and i would loooove to see more of this dynamic if you're interested in doing it 💗 maybe more moments of them being soft/whipped for each other and the team noticing it? thank youuu!!

Thank you lovely!

cw: mention of kidnapping (more a backdrop than anything)

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 1k words

Spencer really wishes he’d remembered his gloves. The air is biting, fresh powder glistening on the deep green spruces whose boughs stoop under its weight. It’s picturesque, and yet the snowfall couldn’t have come at a worse time. It’s impeded their search party by hours, potentially dooming the kidnapping victim they’re all braving the weather for. Spencer keeps his hands stowed in his coat pockets. 

“Hey.” 

He turns as you and Emily come up behind him. You’re both dressed better than he is, actual winter wear as opposed to the tweed coat he’d worn into the police station that morning. Even so, your cheek and nose are look chilled as you smile at him. You carry a disposable coffee cup in each hand. 

“Hi,” Spencer says, taking the one you extend to him. His numb fingers are grateful for the warmth of it. “I thought you guys were interviewing the uncle?” 

Emily’s shaking her head before he’s finished speaking, mouth pulling in discontent. “That was a dead end. He and his sister have been estranged for years. He doesn’t know anything.” 

A frown tugs at your features as Emily talks but you perk up quickly when you feel your boyfriend’s gaze. “We figured we’d be more helpful here,” you say brightly, “and also that you might want some liquid reinforcement.” 

“Thanks.” He does a little toast with his disposable cup and regrets it immediately, but thankfully you smile. Spencer isn’t sure how he got so lucky; it seems like he can get away with any number of weird things and you’ll find them endearing every time. “There hasn’t been much progress here either. If they left any sort of tracks, the snow covered it up. I’m not…” he lowers his voice, angling his head away from the others in his group. “I’m not sure we’ll find her alive in this.” 

“We’ve still got eight hours,” Emily points out. 

She’s right, he tells himself. There are eight hours left in the forty-eight hour window. But that’s also just a statistic. And as someone whose brain is packed full of statistics, Spencer knows that they’re not always reflective of reality. The eight hours his team has left might be more for hope than anything else. 

Emily drifts ahead of you in the group and you bump your shoulder lightly into his, forcibly derailing his train of thought. He looks over at you. Your lips are tipped up, just a little. Not faking anything, but understanding, a quiet promise that regardless of how today turns out, you’ll be in it together. He finds it easier than expected to return your smile. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Your hair curtains your face as you look down, unzipping your jacket to dig something out of the interior pocket. “You left your gloves at the station.” 

“Yes.” You laugh at his eagerness as he takes them from you. “I can’t believe I forgot them, thanks so much for bringing them.” 

“Of course, it was no problem.” Your eyes skim the trees. Spencer suspects that if your face weren’t already so pink it’d be coloring now. “I figured you might need them, so.” 

“You were right.” 

Your gaze flits to his as you grin, then falls to where he has his gloves held bunched with his coffee cup. “Oh, do you want me to take that so you can put them on?” 

“That’d be great,” he says, relieved. 

He holds the cup out to you. You reach for it, but when your fingers brush his in the transfer, you gasp, covering his hand with yours. 

“Spence,” you say softly, remonstrance gentled. “Your hands are freezing!” 

“They’re not as bad as they were before. What are you doing?” 

You’ve taken one of his hands in yours and appear to be inspecting it closely. “Checking if your fingernails are blue.” 

“They’re not,” he laughs, though he lets you finish your perusal until you’re satisfied. “I would know if I had frostbite. I’d be able to identify the symptoms early on.” 

“They’re just so cold,” you fret. “I’ve never felt skin that cold before.��� 

The tops of his hands are still freezing, but his palms and the pads his fingers have warmed from the coffee cup. “I’m not sure they’re colder than your face,” he says, pressing his free hand to one of your cheeks. 

Unsurprisingly, your skin is cool to the touch, but you smile warmly as you push your cheek into his palm. 

“Okay, you two,” Emily says without turning around, “less fraternizing on the job. 

You straighten immediately. “We were just—”

“Being cute and coupley?” Uncannily, Morgan appears on Spencer’s other side. He has no idea when his nosiest coworker had drifted back from the front of the group. “We know. But could you save it for the hotel later? Even all the sparks flying off you two can’t melt all this snow, and I want to get out of here sometime before dark.” 

Spencer suspects his face is about as red as yours as he looks down to pull on his gloves. Morgan relishes in it, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“And don’t think I didn’t notice that you brought pretty boy here a coffee and not me.” He tsks. “I didn’t expect such blatant favoritism from you, sweetheart. I’m disappointed.” 

“I was carrying yours,” Emily says, her tone conveying an eyeroll so effectively she doesn’t need to follow through with the action. She pushes a disposable coffee cup into Morgan’s chest. 

He doesn’t look one bit sheepish as he takes it, though Spencer notices you trying to repress a grin that’s bordering upon smug. 

“This has lipstick on the lid.” 

Emily shrugs. “I finished mine in the car.” 

“So you started on mine?” 

“I sampled.” 

“You’re lucky I exhibit such blatant favoritism,” you say quietly to Spencer under their bickering. “I finished mine in the car too.” 

He raises his eyebrows, and you shake your empty cup as proof. Spencer takes your hand, wrapping it around his coffee cup. “We’ll share.”

[xjulixred45x]

OKAY MY LAST INVINCIBLE POST BEFORE DEDICATING TO REQUESTS FOR THE REST OF THE MONTH DON'T KILL ME! THIS TIME IT'S FLUFF!

Mark Grayson/Invincible x Starfire!Reader

Imagine being an alien similar to DC's Starfire, you can follow the original line of the character (I follow more than anything the one from the comics or the 2003 series) where your planet was conquered by another race (thanks to your sister) Or you can go the more "family friendly" line, which is that you decided to explore the world outside your home planet but ended up in the hands of some kind of intergalactic trafficking network.

I imagine that if it is the first case, it is most likely that your race has been conquered by the Viltrumite themselves, which caused a MASSACRE to occur from which you and your sister were miraculously able to escape.

Regardless of what you choose, you ended up on Earth, although having gone through great traumatic events, so when you see this new world, with a strange species, you begin to attack by mere instinct (like what Starfire did in the first chapter of Teen Titans)

That's when Mark or rather INVINCIBLE appears.

He tries to fight you at first, get you away from the civilians, that is until he realizes how scared you are (especially if we're talking about the case of the Viltrumite invasion and you realize that Mark IS a Viltrumite). So he tries to change his strategy and try to calm you down as much as he can.

When he succeeds, he ends up taking you to the Globe's guardians to see what to do. I imagine that you are a little different than the original Starfire, you are more scared and defensive in this situation, at first you only trusted Mark.

For this reason, Cecil decides that you will stay in the Pentagon until they know what to do with you. Mark helps you learn the "normal" things of the Earth and show Cecil that you are not a threat.

(if you had to learn the human language by "lip contact" the whole team definitely makes fun of Mark a little for being in love now).

Imagine Mark and Eve bringing you clothes to try on!🥺Eve probably just created it out of nowhere, but she also brings clothes that her parents give her that she doesn't want and for some reason you like.

Mark offers to help you train! At first he tries to go easy on you, but when you almost knock him out with your laser beams, he learns his lesson.

He definitely takes you out to eat junk food! More when he realizes that the Pentagon's food doesn't help you much because of your big appetite. Mark was surprised at how much food you could eat but luckily Cecil pays for it (just don't tell him yet🤫)

Definitely one of Mark's favorite things about you, when you're over the trauma, is your innocent attitude, even after all, you're very bubbly and friendly. which is at least difficult to find in your line of work, so he wants to keep that part of yourself as much as possible.

Mark definitely took you to meet his mother, at first he was a little nervous that she wouldn't accept you after what happened with his father, but surprisingly Debbie took it very well.

Thanks to this you were able to learn more about the culture of the Earth, you constantly asked Debbie about the places she had seen, what they were like and their culture (even some anecdotes about Mark when he was a child), and with your bubbly and youthful attitude she did not It was difficult for Debbie to warm to you easily.

Apart from that it helped you fall in love with the Earth quite quickly, see its beauty for yourself, which encouraged you to be your own version of a hero.

When you want to become a heroine, Mark enters into an internal conflict. On the one hand, he KNOWS very well that you don't want someone to make decisions for you, he respects that, but on the other hand, he is TERRIFIED by the possibility that you will get hurt, captured, or lose COMPLETLY your being or worse, DIE.

It is probably thanks to this conversation that you two become a couple.

In general, at first Mark tries to do your first patrols with you to teach you the basics, then he lets you do whatever you want, and he is SO PROUD when you beat someone.

"THAT IS MY GIRL!" kind of proud.

He definitely really likes flying with you and just wandering, at least he feels like there you two have more privacy. Apart from that he likes how you look in your element. according to him.

If you talk about the first case of origin that I mentioned at the beginning and your sister comes back, Mark sees through ALL the red flags and will be the first to warn you about her, since he went through something similar with his family, you don't want to go through that.

If both fight together, POWER COUPLE. LITERAL. You have certain skills that Mark doesn't, so they complement each other very well.

If Mark gets hurt, you go into RAMPAGE MODE and honestly? Mark doesn't know if he should be scared or more in love. or excited.

If YOU get hurt GOD HELP US, MARK IS ANGRY---someone is going to have a bad time. And You a Lot of cuddles.

Overall, both of them are like two Golden Retrievers being happy together.

@clemberryfriends

Shares, reblogs, and comments are very welcome

[lovexjoe]

how wwould armando react if he is in love with the reader, but she shows no sign of feeling the same way, (he's so devoted when it comes to the reader) And he'd like to know if she feels the same way, I wish it would end in a passionate way (you know what I mean) 🔥

New follower 💗💗♥️🌷

Amor Prohibido

A/N: This was meant to be short, but I took the idea and ran with it. I hope you guys enjoy🤍 I also flip around with pov; sorry in advance.

Warning: Forbidden love, angst, violence, smut (idk what else im missing 😭)

Music to listen to while reading:

Fuck Love - XXXtentacion ft Trippie Redd.

SAD - XXXtentacion

John Redcorn - SIR

Y/N has been working with AMMO for 2 years now.

Kelly was the firecracker and you were the reserved sweetheart. Just don’t let nobody cross a line cause you’ll turn into an explosive real quick.

Mike and Marcus loved having you around, you brought the balance to the squad.

Being Kelly’s little sister, you were protected by everybody, including your least favorite person: Armando.

You didn’t understand him at all. Stone cold killer trying to turn a new leaf? I don’t think so

The moment Mike brought him into Kelly’s house unannounced was the first time ANYONE has seen you explode.

“What the fuck is he doing here?! He needs to leave NOW” Kelly points her gun directly at Armando.

Without even a hesitation you pulled your pocket knife out and slammed Armando against the wall. Shoving the knife up to his neck, close enough to draw blood.

“I know who you are and if you’re working with us. Do not make us regret it or you WILL be my first body count” Y/N spoke with venom. She couldn’t stand that Captain wasn’t here because of him. All the trouble he's caused. Everyone stops and stares at the two of you.

“Holy shit! Since when did Y/N turned into a Cobra?” Marcus jokes causing the air to lighten up a bit.

“Puedes confiar en mi” (you can trust me) Armando says as he takes in how beautiful her eyes are. He fully understood where she was coming from. He knew he had to show everyone that he wasn’t a stone cold killer: it was his mother who trained him.

From that day forward Armando could not stop thinking about you.

Kelly with hesitation moved Armando into the guest bedroom, across from Y/N room. Y/N wasn't too happy about it, but she gave him a chance to redeem himself.

He was quiet, respectable and kept to himself. Observing everyone like he always does. Observing his new favorite person, you.

8 months later

Armando was up late after a mission with AMMO. He was on standby as Y/N flirts with the drug dealer to distract him. She looked beautiful under the club lights. Her tan skin was glowing and her curly hair framing her face. The dress she was wearing took his breath away. He's never seen her in this light. She's usually in a tomboy attire just cause it was comfortable and convenient. This was the first time she wasn't on tech duty, Dorn's therapist recommended he took a rest from the action so Y/N volunteered herself. He was happy she was here, but it drove him crazy that she had to flirt with this old fuck. The man trailed his hands along her exposed back. It took everything in Armando not to put a bullet through his head and accept whatever consequences that came with it. Shortly Rita appeared along with Mike to arrest the drug dealer, putting an end to his torture. Y/N headed back into the van with Armando following behind her: watching her back just in case. Mike took notice that he never left her side. He knew his son, because they were exactly alike and hoped Y/N could bring a softer side out of him. Their friendship was forming, Y/N saw a side to Armando that nobody else did and she finally trusted him. She would never admit to it though, because with that trust comes with other feelings she wanted to lock away. It felt wrong to her. More like forbidden.

After they got home, everyone parted ways to their designated space. He's been thinking about her in that dress all night. It was 3am and sleep was definitely not in the air for tonight. He started to collect the dishes he had scattered around the room, irritated he let it get a bit messy. As he exits his room he notices the door to Y/N's bedroom was open. The kitchen light was on, the sink running as Y/N was clearing up the dishes that piled up the sink for over a week. The whole house was slacking on cleanliness.

"Can't sleep?" He asks as he sets his dishes on the counter next to her. Now leaning against it as she shook her head looking up at him. His heart skipped a beat taking in her nightly attire. A baby blue silk nightie that hugged her curves. Her curly mane was up in a messy bun and her glasses set low on her nose as she didn't bother fixing it.

"I've been so restless for the past two weeks" She shook her head, trying to make sense of why. She signals her head for him to put the dishes away as she washes; He complies. Armando would comply to anything that you said honestly. He loved that it was just the two of you right now with no interruptions. They never talked much, just enjoyed each other's presence. Maybe tonight could end differently he thought to himself.

"You did a great job tonight amor. It was nice having you away from the computer." He places the last dish in the cabinet and proceed to grab a bottle of alcohol walking over to the couch. Everything in you was screaming to go back to your room and not entertain this conversation further, but your body was already seated next to him. He took a sip from the bottle without even a struggle, handing the bottle off to you. You took a huge gulp knowing you need some liquid coverage if you're gonna stay up with him at these hours. You knew why you were restless for the past two weeks, it was the exact time when you started developing these other feelings for Armando. The best thing you can do is DENY DENY DENY. After all he's still a bad person right? A few months doesn't mean anything...right? Yet you trusted him entirely, none of this made fucking sense.

"Qué estás pensando?" (What are you thinking about?) He studies her worried face, deep in her thoughts; wishing she'd let him in. She turns her body to completely face him, her bare legs resting on his.

"Are you happy here?" Your eyes searched his, hoping to find something...a soul maybe? Some reassurance that he's on the path of making himself a better man.

" Happy? I don't know what that is fully. But I can say, when I'm here with you I'm at peace." He spoked openly for the first time, his hand grazing against your exposed leg. At this point you were just looking into each other's eyes, wishing one of you would make the move first. He took his whole being not to show you how much he worships you on this couch, but he does not want to disrespect you in any way. Your body felt so hot, yearning for his touch. Slowly your head was leaning in, both of you breathing uneasy, his hand resting on your cheek; lips so close but not touching just yet. You never felt this way about anyone before. Relationships, feelings all of that love bullshit was so new to you. Love? Do you love him? No it definitely can't be. You shoved the thought away as you pulled away.

"I-I have to go" You set the bottle down, hurrying to your room and locking the door. Armando curses to himself for even entertaining what had happened. You were curled up in bed when you heard the front door slammed. He had left to god knows where and you hugged your pillow wishing it was him.

1 week later

The two of you have not spoken a word to each other since the almost kiss.

Armando had returned at 10am that morning with no emotion towards Y/N at all.

She went back on tech duty until today.

The tension could be cut with a knife the whole team noticed.

"You two lovebirds are fighting aren't you?" Mike teased.

You rolled your eyes as you prep your ammo before you made it to your destination. This is something Armando already had done for you anytime you were on a mission with him; today was not that day.

He felt guilty as he watched you out of his peripheral but he felt like it was time he stop pursuing this. If you wanted him you would have kissed him that night: not run away.

Callie has been kidnapped along with Mike's wife. We received coordinates on where they were being held hostage.

As you reached the destination, both you and Armando scooped out the scene. You felt something off about the coordinates.

Once you two made it inside, you heard crying that sounded like Callie. Armando signals you to stay as quiet as possible as you guys make your way through the abandon building.

Once you guys got closer to the voice, you both realize it was just a recording.

"Its a TRAP!! BOTH OF YOU ABORT NOW" Mike and Marcus yelled over the intercom.

Before you could even try to escape there were already men surrounding you guys. Gunshots being the only sound that filled the air. The both of you, took as many men as you could, with the help of the drone assisting. Armando hated more than anything to see you shed blood, but those combat training days you two had was worth it. You could hold your own. Your surroundings got quiet, as you shove a knife through your enemy's neck. You turned around hoping to see Armando following you, but you froze in your steps. Mcgrath had his gun pointed at you ready to shoot. You guys were out of ammo, the drone gave out and any slight movement Mcgrath would kill you.

Everything slowed down, you felt your world stopped as Armando jumps in front of you causing Mcgrath to let out 3 shots. Armando taking the impact of all of them. You heard the rifle go off after, Mcgrath being taken down by a headshot. You immediately wrapped your arms around Armando, trying to find any way to stop the bleeding. This can't be happening right now. No no no no. You applied as much pressure as you could.

"Armando please stay with me, I can't lose you. Please" You cried and screamed for help. Mike and Marcus rushed in helping you take Armando into ambulance. You REFUSED to leave his side. The nurses had to pry you and Mike off of him so they could take him into surgery.

Armando started off hated by everyone, but over the past few months he truly became family. You sat down on the floor of the lobby, looking down at your bloodstain hands and your heart broke. Will you ever get a chance to tell him how you really feel? He jumped in front of a gun for you with no hesitation. Callie and Mike's wife was safe, the rest of Ammo took care of the mission while you and Mike were on standby waiting for Armando's results.

3 hours later

You laid next to Armando's bedside, holding his hand waiting for him to wake up. Mike left a few minutes before, thanking you for staying with him as he returns to his wife.

"I love you so much" You whispered against his hand, placing a soft kiss against it.

"I love you too mi amor. Más de lo que jamás sabrás" (More than you will ever know) He says softly, squeezing your hand reassuring that everything is okay. With no hesitation you pressed your lips against his, both of you moaning into each other's lips.

"I had to get shot 3 times for you to finally kiss me mami" You both started laughing.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

4 months later

Armando was finally healed and better than ever. Rita released both of you on a well needed vacation. The two of you avoided any of "those" activities till the doctor cleared him. Everyone was finally relieved to see you two engulfed in each other; the angst was truly unbearable. You guys had the house to yourself after returning from your romantic dinner. His lips immediately on yours after he locks the front door. Melting into his touch as he pushes you against the hallway of your bedroom, leaving hickeys on your neck and he didn't give a fuck.

"Mando" You let out a soft cry as he sucks on your weak spot right below your ear.

"Recién estoy empezando princesa" (I'm just getting started princess) He whispers as he slips his fingers under your dress, rubbing you through your underwear. Your little cries only ignited his dominate side even more. He rips your underwear causing it to fall to your feet, teasing you with one finger.

"You're so wet" He works a second finger in causing your legs to weaken. He pumps his finger harder and faster till your pussy started to make a squelch sound.

"Baby! Im squirting I'm squirting please!" Your orgasm dripped down his hand, he smiles to himself taking in his view. His girl, completely weak in her knees for him and the night just started. He wraps your legs around his waist carrying you into the bedroom.

"You came like a good girl for me baby." He gives you your well deserve praise as he lays you down, removing your dress and his clothes. His size and length definitely matched his attitude. The kisses were hot and messy as you aligned him with your entrance. As he slips in, you both couldn't help the sounds escaping from your mouths. His thrusts were slow and deep causing your eyes to tear up from the intense pleasure. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder for a better angle. The sound of pants and skin slapping was all that could be heard in that room.

"I love you" You both said in unison as you came as the same time. He collapse on your chest and you played with his hair. You didn't speak for a little bit, just enjoying each other's presence.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"Estoy feliz aqui" (I am happy here) He says as he kisses your chest.

The End

[afewfantasies]

I don't know why but when I first started reading feyd fanfics, in my mind feyd would dye/paint his teeth every day because he thought it looks intimidating and now there will forever be the image of feyd sitting at a vanity every morning meticulously coloring his teeth black

"Black Smile"

OMG, I love this so much. We know Feyd loves to put on a show, so this fits. Anything to add to the persona, the intrigue and the pageantry of it all. Here's a little Feyd X Reader imagine with this premise. Feyd is also the current Baron.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 575

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Feyd X Reader (Established relationship w/ children)

ᴘʟᴏᴛ: Feyd's painting his teeth to prepare for a public appearance. His small children see it for the first time.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: None, this ones fluffy 🖤

"Black Smile"

Turning Feyd stops painting his smile at the sound of little feet, casting a look over his shoulder he stops seeing his children. His daughter scrunches her face up stopping dead in her tracks. He prepares for the worst but thankfully there are no tears.

“Daddy what’s that?” She asks amusing him. She only knew daddy, not Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. “Daddy I don’t like it” she adds coming closer. Seeking him for comfort in spite of his look being the reason for her uncertainty.

“Me neither” His son says both sets of little eyes pairing at him. Feyd turns again as you enter the bedroom. It brings back memories of your first meeting, when it was the only way you knew him. Black teeth to add to the terror.

“Your mommy likes it” Feyd says and both children turn to you in shock..

“They were coming to say goodbye and wish you a safe voyage” you explain running your hands over your babies heads. Feyd nods.

“Mommy you really like it?” Your daughter asks skeptically and you nod.

“C’mere” he growls playfully sending both kids screaming before he can give chase. You smile as they run out the chambers.

“Missed a spot” you tell him pointing to a white streak along one of his teeth. He finishes up the job leaving all of his teeth smooth and black before curing them with so it looks natural and lasts.

“How do I look?” Feyd rasps adapting the voice and the terrifying persona of his reputation.

“Like a Harkonnen” you respond.

“Daddy?” Your son calls running back into your room. Feyd raises a brow.

“Can I have it too, I want to scare my sister” your son bounces. Instead of saying no Feyd picks your boy up sitting him on his lap. You laugh knowing your little girl will be next in line.

“I’m not sure I like this” you confess looking at your son’s black teeth and gums as Feyd cures the paint. Your kid hisses at you and you laugh thinking it must be hereditary. He runs back out the room and you listen out for screams. Sure enough a blood curling scream proceeds hysterical laughter. Running hard your daughter re-enters bouncing.

“Daddy, Daddy, me tooo!” She bounces and Feyd picks her up indulging her request. He’s so good with the kids it’s unreal, it warms your heart more than he could ever know.

“Mummy, how’s it look?” Your daughter says giving you a black grin.

“Interesting” you smile and she runs out to terrorize her brother and the staff no doubt. You turn to Feyd in amusement and he pats his knee.

“Your turn” he says.

“No thank you,” you respond having a seat on his knee. Looking at him in the mirror you try to picture him for the first time, you try to remember how he made your heart palpitate, how weary you were of his black smile, how terrified you were of him. “Smile?” You ask and he obliges leaving you to shudder. “Terrifying papa” you wink at him in the mirror earring a smile. 

“Good” he nods and you chuckle holding back your smile. It never ceased to amaze you the lengths Feyd would go to to serve maximum horror. There was a sense of pageantry and exaggeration that you found ironic and amusing. Of course he’s never needed the black smile to be intimidating but it adds a little je-ne-sais-quoi. 

-----

Authors note: thanks for the idea anon, genuinely never considered this possibility - its been fun to ponder 🩶

[lullabyes22-blog]

Hi lullabyes, would u mind sharing your take on the flashback with young Silco, Vander, and Felicia? :O

It's adorable. It's touching. It's sweet. It's a serene moment of intimacy and family (or polycule) bonding in an otherwise deeply frenetic season.

It's also so surreal it may as well be a fever dream.

I should note, at this stage I've shut off my cognitive reasoning about Arcane and begun approaching this as if it's a series of exquisitely crafted, animated short films that are all about to collide into a beautiful disaster.

Because that's what it is.

S2 has thrown a lot of the intelligent plotting out the window to embrace the chaos.  Whether due to time constraints, intellectual fatigue, or creative indulgence, I feel like we have a show that's now just hurtling breakneck towards the finish line. Previous story threads that once held weight and were the driving force behind character arcs and subplots, have since been abandoned. Nuanced motivations and character growth are being tossed to the wayside for the sake of action, montages, music videos, and a cavalier, anything-goes approach to world-building.

And yet, it's still such an incredible spectacle to behold.

@ravenkinnie delightfully noted that she is now watching this show with her pussy.

I agree 100%. S2 is a full-body experience, and one I find myself wholly consumed by. It's like a one-night stand you weren't expecting to be so fucking good. And when the sun comes up, you know it's going to hurt to say goodbye, and there'll be no follow-up call.

But damn, you enjoyed the shit out of that experience.

So yeah, the flashback was fucking adorable. I love the genuine emotion and closeness between the three characters. I adore the idea of Felicia, Silco and Vander being childhood friends (or, again, a very messy polycule) and both men sort of falling apart without her Manic Pixie Dream Girl presence in their lives. It's a nice little character arc.

However.

I cannot reconcile this scene with the rest of S1. It feels completely disconnected from the reality of the show and the world around them. The flashback has absolutely no impact on the current events, nor does it have any foreshadowing. The flashback exists solely to provide us with a glimpse into the past, with sweet little parallels to serve as bonbons that make us coo and sigh. It completely glosses over Silco's deeply, blackly visceral hatred of Vi in S1, reduces the class struggle culminating in the Day of Ash to "Oh, Silco. If only you've protested for your basic civil rights in a peaceful manner instead of tossing a molotov cocktail, you'd still have your family, a place in the community, not to mention your eye," does not really explain why Benzo reacted to Silco's appearance by calling him an animal, and, most importantly, gives the lie to the entire dynamic between Silco and Jinx.

We were led to believe that Felicia's death was the catalyst for Silco and Vander's falling out.  That if Silco had found Vander's letter in their little Brokeback bunk, they would've worked out their differences and found peace together. That they'd have raised Felicia's anklebiters side-by-side as the Zaundads of the revolution.

Except Silco is also the man selling Evil Anime PCP (Shimmer) as an economic cheat-code to earn respect for his people, and Vander is basically Captain Centrist and traumatized by war, and there is NO WAY they would've seen eye-to-eye on their respective methods. There's no way they would've come to any sort of accord. And there's no way Silco would've forgiven the man who mutilated and left him possibly sheared of half his lifespan, any more than Felicia's children would forgive the man who killed their mother.

It's such an incongruous narrative beat.

Which brings me to the other point:

Silco and Jinx.

imo, while I love the idea of Silco carrying either a secret torch for Felicia, or seeing her as a sister he'll always love, and while I absolutely treasure the idea of Jinx being a daily reminder of what he's fighting for - "I'm doing this for us, Jinx." - it sort of cheapens the key connection between them. In S1, Silco and Jinx's arc is, in my eyes, one of the best things about the series, and so incredibly well-written and executed. Silco is a monster, yes, but his monstrosity is the product of systemic and individual trauma, and the inextricable bleedthrough between the two. Finding this little girl and bringing her up under his wing, he has the chance to be the steadying hand and safe harbor he lost after Vander's betrayal. His monstrousness is not something he inflicts on her; it is something that, rather, grows on JInx like a kudzu vine, as the terrain of her damaged mind is already fertile for his worldview and methods to take root and thrive.

He is, perhaps, the best example of nurture triumphing over nature, even if his nurturing is rather, uh, extreme.

But if their bond is predicated on Felicia, rather than two strangers finding each other in the wilderness of heartbreak and learning to let their black hearts beat, messily entwined, as one family unit, and if Silco's obsession with Jinx is merely a projection of his guilt for killing her mother, and, by extension, a projection of his love for Felicia onto her daughter...

It's just.

Do y'all remember those uncomfortable frames that the showrunners admitted were deliberate, despite the evidence in the written text suggesting a familial bond? The subtext that, all the way into S2, carries the implication of a romantic relationship between a father and his daughter?

Well.

The implications now threaten to melt into explicit text, and the uncomfortable frames have turned into Unfortunate Implications, and I am not sure how I feel about this.

 It's not giving Lily and Snape; it's giving Sansa and Baelish.

It's giving the showrunners a big, fat "YEESH" rating from CPS.

And it's giving us the same, old, tired trope of a monstrous man unable to form an attachment unless it's through the lens of prior attachments, that whole 'You remind me so much of her' and the like.

 (I also admit I am the world's biggest hypocrite as the entire premise of Forward but Never Forget/XOXO is that the core foursome of Vander, Silco, Lika and Sevika knew each other, and that those ghosts haunt the machinery of the present day. But I try my damnedest to make plain there's politics buffeting all these relationships, and despite all their efforts to claw at self-sovereignty, reinvention and a new order, the past is a stubborn bitch that refuses to let go.)

(Also in FnF, Silco is triggered by Lika rather than into her in any affectionate or romantic way, because they're so similar: pragmatic survivors who aren't above rule-bending to get their way, and at their core just want a smoke break, a stiff drink, and a nap. It's a mutual respect rather than an affection, which is why she bestows on him the dubious honor of mercy killing her if she's too wounded on the Day of Ash to continue on.)

(He's the one person who could, and would, do her the service. It's kinship, and Jinx is the bright torch of their shared ambitions and ingenuity given both wing and voice.)

But anyway.

The flashback is a fever-dream. The kind you have when you're high on cold meds and can't think straight, and the world is a blur of sensations and memories that seem vivid in the moment but melt away into madness when you're better. It's a scene meant to be savored rather than interrogated. And I think if the showrunners had the time and inclination, we would've gotten a second episode solely dedicated to the flashback, rather than shoehorning it in. But since they're clearly trying to tie everything up with a neat bow before the finale, I don't blame them for having to skim past it and focus on the vibes/emotional resonance rather than the substance of a meaningfully written scene.

But hey.

Fanfic writers will have a field day with the open-ended dynamic and the fandom will never fucking stop, so that's nice.

Also we got loads of fantastic gifs of Young Silco. Bless.

<3

tl;dr: I've switched my critical brain off and decided to just enjoy the ride. It's so fucking epic. 

Also, Felicia was delightful and I hope her brotherhood/polycule/whatever with Silco and Vander gets its own spinoff, a la Road to El Dorado (or Zaun.)

[yuyusuyu]

the princess treatment chronicles!

pairing. non idol! best friend! song mingi x non idol! fem! reader

synopsis. the five times you accidentally completed the steps that would make mingi swoon also known as the five times you accidentally gave him princess treatment and he kept falling harder for you each time

warnings. mentions of food, getting sick, fire (someone get mingi away from the grill), cursing (wooyoung naur)

genres. romance, fluff, comedy, best friends to something more

ft. non idol! ateez

wc. 3k

pt 2. here !

a/n. happy birthday to our lovely mingi :( (this was supposed to be posted in two days wtaf 😭 guys pls just ignore and pretend it was posted on his bday 😭 my queue os my biggest enemy now)

reblogs and comments are appreciated! helps with not getting shadowbanned!

MINGI has a list. it's a special list to him, one that speaks volumes about him.

speaks volumes about a step-by-step process on how to make him, song mingi, fall in love with someone.

now, this list is hidden in his notes app, and the physical copy of this is hidden in one of his math notebooks from high school. he is the only person to know about this list, other than his best friend, of course (only because yunho accidentally saw him writing it out instead of doing math homework with him).

yunho calls it 'a step-by-step guide to the princess treatment' but mingi likes to correct his friend, telling him that it's actually called 'the way to song mingi's heart.'

yunho likes to call it otherwise.

but what does that have to do with you? well, for starters, mingi met you through yunho. it was completely accidental. according to yunho, he was never going to introduce you because you're like a little sister to him and you might end up stealing mingi from him by being your lovable self. instead of that happening, you two had instantly clicked and the three of you became a little trio, one that somehow always managed to spend time with each other everyday.

crazy.

how mingi and yunho managed to keep the list a secret from you, they have no idea (and yunho has no idea why mingi doesn’t want you knowing. the three of you tell each other everything to the point that it can be seen as oversharing at times), how they’ve managed to keep this list hidden from you for so long—three years, to be exact.

until now, that is.

STEP ONE TO MAKE SONG MINGI FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU: RUN INTO A PUBLIC PLACE IN A DRAMATIC MANNER WITH SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE TO MINGI ! (IT SHOWS THAT YOU CARE VERY MUCH ABOUT HIM TO THE POINT OF NOT CARING ABOUT HOW OTHER PEOPLE SEE YOU)

mingi frowns as he looks down at his phone, eyebrows furrowed when he looks up at yunho. “she’s ten minutes late.”

yunho nods, also frowning. “maybe something came up and that’s why she’s running late?”

slumping down in his seat, mingi sighs, grumbling, “yeah, but she would’ve texted us by now if something happened. you know how yn is…”

the bells of the café entrance chimes, signaling the appearance of a customer. mingi, at this point, has given up checking if every new customer that walks into the café is you. he folds his arms on the table, resting his head as he pouts.

“oh yn!”

and then he immediately perks up in his seat, excitedly turning around to face you. yunho gets up, giving you a hug before ushering you into the seat next to mingi’s.

“i’m so sorry,” you wheeze, “i was going to text the group chat but then my phone died.”

yunho tilts his head. “your phone died? you don’t usually use your phone while you have a shift at the restaurant.”

“i don’t,” you say, running a hand through your tousled hair. “but i forgot to charge my phone before i left my place, and then when i went to that doughnut place, the lines were ridiculously long but i was already in line so i decided to suck it up and—"

“woah,” laughs mingi. “slow down.”

“sorry,” you mumble, sighing and taking in a breath before continuing. “i went to the doughnut place that just opened up. i read on a forum that wednesday afternoons are usually the slowest, so i decided i’d stop by before coming over to the cafe to study with you guys. when i got there, there was already a line that was about to start wrapping around the store, so i had to beat this lady next to me that wanted to get in line.”

“a lady,” yunho repeats, chuckling. 

you hum. “yeah. i beat her to it, by the way. anyway, i was checking the time and saw it was already nearing the time we decided on, so i was in the middle of sending a text when my phone died.” you take out your phone from your tote bag along with a box.

it’s then that cogs in mingi’s brain starts working when he eyes the cursive lettering on the box.

“oh, isn’t that the doughnut place mingi’s been wanting to try out?” yunho asks, hands stretching out to grab the box.

you slap his hands, earning a laugh from the taller male as he brings them back to his side. “yes,” you reply, side-eyeing yunho. “meaning this isn’t for you.”

grabbing the box, you sheepishly smile at mingi, handing it over to him. “i know you’ve been trying to find the time to go over and try their doughnuts, but since my workplace is closer… i mean, why not?”

“excuse us for a second,” mingi mumbles, leaving you confused as he grabs yunho’s arm and drags him over to a corner in the cafe. once you’re out of earshot, mingi clears his throat. “what the hell was that?”

“what was what?” whispers yunho, blinking as he watches mingi glance over at you. you’re in the middle of trying to tame down your wild hair.

“she just completed step one.”

yunho gasps, turning mingi around by his shoulders. “no way,” he says. “did you tell her about the list?”

“what? no!” he cries out. “how did she even do it? yunho, i swear if you told her—”

“that’s not my secret to tell!” yunho whisper-shouts. “listen, this was probably a one time thing. there’s no way she even knows about it. plus, maybe she was just feeling a little generous today towards you!”

mingi slowly nods. “yeah,” he mumbles. “yeah, you’re right. let’s head back before yn starts asking questions…”

yunho was not right.

STEP TWO: IN MINGI’S TIME OF NEED, DO WHATEVER YOU CAN IN ORDER TO MAKE HIM FEEL HAPPY (THIS IS TO SHOW THAT YOU WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HIM NO MATTER WHAT TIME IT IS OR WHAT YOU’RE DOING)

mingi grumbles as he kicks his shoes off and drops his things on the floor by the door, closing it and shuffling over to his room as he angrily sends a text to the group chat.

it’s already one in the morning. yunho is most likely gaming and you’re most likely already sleeping. regardless, mingi still sends a text and doesn’t bother waiting for an answer as he flops down into his bed face-first.

he barely manages to make out the sound of his phone ringing. he blindly searches for his phone until his hand finally finds it. grunting, he brings it to his face, his eyes squinting at the screen from the brightness in comparison to his dark room.

yn: you still have your spare key in the same place, right?

mingi: i thought you had my spare after last time?

he sees that you’re in the middle of typing, so he waits until you finally send another message.

yn: oh

yn: yeah, you’re right. just found it on my keychain 

mingi: i’m always right

yn: mmmmmm i wouldn’t say that but sure…

mingi: bruh

again, the typing bubble pops up on his screen before it disappears. mingi’s a bit confused, he won’t lie. he thought you would already be sleeping, but you weren’t. he snorts. “she asked me about my spare key instead of what’s wrong…?”

he shakes his head, stuffing it into his pillow. “whatever,” he mumbles.

mingi swears he’d only closed his eyes for a brief moment when the sound of his door unlocking fills the air. he stiffens in his bed before scrambling off, fumbling to find something to protect himself. he unplugs the lamp by his nightstand and grips it tightly, quietly tiptoeing towards his door.

“mingi?”

“yn, what the hell?” mingi groans, stepping out of his room and walking into the living room area of his apartment.

you narrow your eyes in confusion, pointing at the lamp he’s still holding. “why do you have a lamp in your hand?”

“the real question here is why are you here?” he huffs, leaning down to put the lamp on the floor. mingi then crosses his arms over his chest, “and why aren’t you sleeping?”

“i was about to sleep,” you say, walking past mingi and into his room. he follows you, his mouth open in surprise. “but then you texted that you had a shit day, so here i am.” you drop the bag you’re holding onto his bed, turning around. “now why the hell did you have a lamp in your hand?”

mingi clears his throat. “i, uh, thought someone was breaking in…”

you snort, sitting on his bed and patting the space next to the bag. “that’s funny, mings. no one is going to break in if you’re a broke college student.”

huffing, he grumbles as he sits down on his bed, bringing his knees up to his chest. “shut up.”

“mhm,” you hum. “now tell me about why you had a shit day while we eat some of your favorites, yeah?” you stick your hand into the bag and take out one of his favorite snacks, opening the bag and handing it over to him while you shift around to face him.

he thinks his heart started beating a little too fast for his liking.

STEP THREE: WHEN MINGI IS STRUGGLING TO DO SOMETHING, JUST DO IT FOR HIM WITHOUT EVEN ASKING IF HE NEEDS ASSITANCE (THIS IS TO SHOW THAT YOU NOTICE WHEN HE IS STRUGGLING)

you look between yunho and mingi. yunho’s trying so hard not to laugh, but his smile gives him away. he obviously finds mingi struggling to light the grill amusing. 

“c’mon,” you slap yunho’s arm, earning a whine from him. “don’t be a bully.”

“yeah, yunho,” mingi says, looking up for a brief second to glare at him before looking back at the box of matches in his hand. “don’t be a bully.”

you gently take the box away from mingi’s hands, taking out a match and striking it against the box, a flame appearing. you grab the lighter fluid and pour some on the charcoal before  chucking the match into the grill, a fire immediately coming to life.

mingi gasps and hides behind you, startled. yunho laughs at the sight. “no way you’re hiding behind yn right now,” he says, wiping tears away from his eyes. “she’s literally so short compared to you.”

“shut up, jeong yunho.” you point at him. “or else i’ll change my netflix password.”

yunho gasps. “you wouldn’t dare!”

as you and yunho quarrel, mingi sighs, hiding his face in his hands when he feels the back of his neck grow unbearably hot.

you are doing a number on him.

and he’s a little scared.

because you’re his best friend.

and he can’t believe that his best friend, of all people, would be completing his five-step-guide in making him fall for someone.

he has to talk to yunho soon about this.

STEP FOUR: WHEN MINGI IS HURT, HELP AND CODDLE HIM (THIS IS TO SHOW THAT YOU CARE A LOT ABOUT HIM)

he never got the chance to talk to yunho about this.

after your impromptu bbq day at yunho’s place, mingi ended up getting sick. he didn’t tell anyone, not wanting to bother anyone and burden them with taking care of him. so here he is, laying in his bed, shivering and clutching onto his blankets for dear life.

he hears his front door clicking open, and he groans. “go away!” he croaks, sneezing afterwards. “i have nothing to offer you, you thief!”

you laugh. “seriously? you think i’m some robber again?”

at the sound of your voice, mingi’s heart skips a beat. he clears his throat. “no… what are you doing here? i seriously need to take my spare key away from you…”

“yeah, yeah,” you say, walking into his room and raising an eyebrow when you see the state he’s in. “why didn’t you tell yunho or i about this, mings? we would’ve come running to you.”

he sneezes. “i didn’t want to annoy anyone,” he says, lowering his blankets from his face just to see you.

you click your tongue and walk to the side of the bed, pressing your hand to the back of his forehead. “don’t be silly, mingi. you know we don’t find you annoying… at least i don’t find you annoying,” you mumble, straightening your back and walking out of the room. “i’m going to make you some soup, you weakling! don’t get up!”

mingi lets out a weak laugh, sneezing afterwards. “yes, ma’am…”

“what was that?”

“yes, ma’am!” he yells, his voice cracking. mingi hears you giggle to yourself.

he huffs, pulling his blankets over his head.

when you’re done making the soup, you carry a bowl and some cough medicine into his room and find that he’s asleep. you set the bowl on his nightstand, shaking him awake as gently as possible. “mingi,” you whisper. “mingi, i have the soup. i need you to wake up so that i can feed you.”

“feed me?” he asks, whispering.

you hum, opting to card your hand through his hair that’s been growing out recently. “yeah, i need to feed you.”

“feed… feed me?” mingi screeches, abruptly sitting up. you gasp, almost falling off the bed.

clearing your throat, you reach out to grab the bowl, placing it in your lap and grabbing a spoonful, blowing on it slightly before leaning away. “here…”

mingi stares at you, wide-eyed.

you purse your lips. “mingi, i need you to eat so that you can get better.”

“right!” he says, his voice an octave higher than usual as he moves to eat the soup. when he leans back, mingi sees you smiling at him.

his stomach does some summersaults.

STEP FIVE: TAKE CARE OF MINGI (THIS SHOWS THAT HE IS VERY IMPORTANT TO YOU)

mingi puffs his cheeks out, trying not to laugh as he takes out his keys.

“yunho, i need you to carry the cake… actually, never mind, jongho can you please carry the cake?”

yunho gasps. “yn, do you not believe in me and my capabilities to carry a cake?”

“...no, i don’t.”

“what the—”

hongjoong claps once. “stop fighting!” he says. “mingi’s going to be here any minute now—”

“actually,” pipes up seonghwa. “it says that he just arrived.”

“what the fuck!” wooyoung screams. “guys, hurry the fuck up! he’s coming!”

“wooyoung… stop screaming… you’re giving us away,” yeosang says.

“yeah, what my boyfriend said.” san says.

“san, dude, how many times do i have to tell you that i am not your boyfriend.”

mingi takes in a deep breath before shoving his keys into the lock, the noise going on on the other side immediately stopping. he can hear you all shuffling around until someone whisper-shouts at jongho to go shut the door.

“what the—but i’m carrying the cake?” jongho sounds baffled.

“give me the cake and go stop mingi from coming in! yunho hasn’t finished hanging the stupid banner!” you cry out.

mingi assumes jongho’s laying his weight on top of the door because he can’t push it open.

“did you just call me stupid, yn?”

“no, but i will if you don’t hurry up!”

“guys,” hongjoong sighs, and mingi can bet that he’s rubbing his temples. “i think mingi can hear you.”

he sure can.

“okay, jongho come back!”

mingi snorts, pushing the door open and flicking the lights on. yunho’s awkwardly holding the end of a birthday banner up while the other end is taped onto the wall. hongjoong and seonghwa both sigh in unison at how badly the surprise is coming along, and wooyoung and san are trying to push each other out of the way so that one of them can stand next to yeosang, who is rolling his eyes and trying to shuffle away from the two. jongho stands to your side, the only one who is actually smiling at him—oh, he’s lying.

you’re smiling at him while holding a birthday cake.

“suprise, mings!” you say.

everyone yells happy birthday to him, and somehow he finds himself getting shoved by wooyoung towards the small table he has by the kitchen. you’re standing next to him, laughing as you put the paper party hat on his head, making sure that the thin string is secured underneath his chin before moving to get the knife.

“let mingi cut the cake!” wooyoung yells.

“he could get himself cut, and the birthday boy shouldn’t have to do it unless he wants to,” you chide, glancing up at mingi through your eyelashes. “do you want to cut it, mings?”

he swallows the lump in his throat, shaking his head afterwards. “no,” he breathes out, licking his lips. “you can do it for me, if that’s okay.”

you grin at him, carefully cutting up the cake. you place the slices on plates, making sure that the biggest slice goes to mingi.

oh no, he thinks.

you’ve officially completed his five-step-guide to his heart.

“um, yn?” mingi leans down to whisper into your ear.

you hum in response.

“can we talk for a sec?”

nodding, you let yourself get dragged by mingi into his room. after closing the door, he looks at you and you notice that his ears are very red.

“are you okay?” you ask, pointing at your ears. “your ears are red.”

mingi whines, covering his face with his hand. “can you turn around real quick?”

“okay…”

mingi peeks through his fingers, sighing in relief when your back is facing him. he clears his throat and wipes the palms of his hands on his jeans. “i, uh… would you like to go out for dinner sometime this week?”

“as a date?” you ask, fighting the urge to turn around to look at him.

in a small voice, mingi replies. “yeah… as a date.”

“i’d like that.”

[inkmonster21]

Short n’ Sweet💋

Hugh Jackman x Fem!Sister!Reynolds!Reader

Warnings: smut (oral)

Part 07

Series Masterlist

Paintings With His Tongue

💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋

The first thing Ryan expected to see on his phone was anything besides what he saw. He opened his phone, went on safari, and before he could even make his search article after article began appearing. All with clear photos of you and Hugh. KISSING!

Ryan's anger was beyond describable when he saw the pictures captured by the paparazzi. The images of you and Hugh locked in a passionate kiss outside your apartment building fueled his fury to unprecedented levels. He seethed with anger, unable to contain his frustration.

Ryan's anger reaches its boiling point, and he slams his hand onto the table with a loud thud. His voice booms throughout the room, filled with a mix of rage and betrayal.

"I FUCKING KNEW IT!" he roars, his words laced with a sense of vindication. "I knew something was going on!"

Ryan, fueled by anger and betrayal, storms out of his trailer with purpose. His footsteps are heavy and determined as he searches for Hugh, a man on a mission to confront the object of his intense disapproval.

You and Hugh sit together, going over your lines and discussing your characters' roles. The light and joyful atmosphere is a stark contrast to the impending confrontation with Ryan. Laughter and conversation fill the space between you, the bond between you growing stronger by the second. But the laughter is cut short as the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the peaceful moment. Ryan's heavy footsteps approach, signaling his arrival. The mood shifts instantly, the atmosphere growing tense and heavy with anticipation.

“Hey, Ry.” You smile, “This Sabrina chick is so out of pocket. I love it.” Instead of responding to your cheerful comment about the character Sabrina, Ryan bypasses you completely. His attention is solely focused on Hugh, and in a quick, unexpected move, Ryan swings his fist directly at Hugh.

The impact of Ryan's punch sends Hugh staggering back, surprised by the unexpected attack. The room falls into silence, the air thick with shock and tension. Hugh rubs at his jaw, his expression a mix of surprise and bewilderment. Ryan's voice is filled with outrage and betrayal as he hurls insults at Hugh. His words ring out with a mix of anger and disappointment. "You mother fucker!" he screams, his words filled with disdain. "You're a lying, sick bastard!"

Hugh remains silent, his jaw clenched as he absorbs the barrage of insults and accusations hurled at him by Ryan. His body language is taut and guarded, caught off-guard by the unexpected attack and the intensity of Ryan's anger.

Ryan's voice thunders through the room, his anger directed at Hugh like a laser-focused on its target. The realization of the age gap between Hugh and you seems to fuel his rage even more. "She's 30 years younger than you!" he seethes, disbelief and disdain evident in his tone.

Your yell cuts through the air, the one-word command directed at Ryan. "Stop!" As you speak, he turns towards you, his focus shifting from Hugh to you. The change in his attention is obvious as his eyes lock onto yours.

As Ryan's gaze falls upon you, it becomes evident that his anger is not solely directed at Hugh. The disappointment and betrayal in his eyes are also aimed at you, his sister. The realization that you're not immune to his wrath sinks in as he stares you down. The room remains tense, the atmosphere heavy with emotion. Hugh stands a few paces away, his jaw tender from the attack, while Ryan stands before you, his eyes burning with a multitude of emotions – anger, sadness, and disappointment. The three of you are now caught in the whirlwind of this unexpected confrontation.

Ryan's finger is pointed directly at you, his words filled with disbelief and disappointment. "And you," he says, his voice rising with anger. "You know better. I told you, several times, no! You are too young!" The pain and betrayal in his eyes as he gazes at you are palpable, reflecting the deep concern and protectiveness he feels as your older brother.

Your protest rings out, your voice filled with a mixture of defiance and frustration. "I'm 24 years old, Ryan! I'm not a child!" The truth of your age hangs in the air, a stark reminder of your adult status and the autonomy that comes with it.

But Ryan's expression remains stern, his disapproval etched on his face. He shakes his head, his words laced with a hint of skepticism. "You're 24, but he's 54! It's a 24-year age gap!" The sheer magnitude of the difference in your ages is not lost on him, fueling his argument against your relationship with Hugh.

Your response is firm and resolute, your voice filled with determination. "I don't care!" You meet Ryan's gaze, refusing to back down from your feelings and choices. The defiance and conviction in your eyes match Ryan's intensity, signaling a battle of wills between siblings.

Ryan's voice drips with venom as he glares at Hugh, his words laced with a warning. "You fucking will." His tone is harsh and unapologetic. "When he breaks your heart, you’ll care." The warning hangs in the air, a dire prediction of the heartache he believes you will experience in your relationship with Hugh.

The aftermath of Ryan's outburst leaves the room in a state of quiet tension. The remaining crew members finish up their tasks, their murmurs hushed as they go about their business. The show is over, but the emotional fallout of the confrontation lingers in the air.

Your voice trembles as you speak, a mix of anger and emotional turmoil evident in your tone. "It's too early for this shit," you curse, your words punctuated by the tears welling up in your eyes.

Hugh's hands find their way to your shoulders, his touch gentle yet comforting. His voice is soft and soothing as he murmurs words of reassurance. "It's okay, baby," he whispers, his expression filled with concern and affection.

You turn towards Hugh, a look of concern etched on your face. Your hand reaches out to cup his jaw, your touch tender and caring. "Are you okay?" you ask, your voice filled with worry and tenderness. The altercation with Ryan has left its mark, but your primary concern at this moment is for Hugh's well-being.

Despite the pain and discomfort, a hint of humor laces Hugh's response. "He hits like a bitch." The comment is laced with a mix of pain and sarcasm, but there's a twinge of amusement in his voice.

With the truth now out in the open, there's no more need for secrecy or furtive meetings. The reality of the situation, however, means that you will both have to face the consequences and deal with the anger and disapproval of Ryan.

A look of bewilderment crosses your face as you ask the question directed at Hugh. "How’d he find out?" Your voice rings out, curiosity and confusion coloring each word. You hope for an explanation, for some insight into how Ryan discovered your relationship.

As Hugh scrolls through his phone, the barrage of headlines and images greets him. Tabloids and paparazzi pictures of you and him together, capturing the passionate moment when he kissed you outside your apartment building. The sheer number of articles and photos is staggering, a visual testimony to the public exposure of your relationship.

Hugh turns his phone screen towards you, revealing the plethora of tabloid headlines and images chronicling your relationship. With a mix of frustration and resignation, he remarks, "That would be my guess." The overwhelming presence of the media's attention on your private lives feels like a violation, a stark reminder of the price of being in the spotlight.

Despite the annoyance at the invasion of privacy, you can't help but smile as you look at the pictures on Hugh's phone. A small chuckle escapes your lips as you observe the images. "We are cute though," you concede, the hint of begrudging admiration evident in your voice.

A wry smile tugs at Hugh's lips as he responds to your comment, his voice filled with affectionate agreement. "Yeah, baby, we are," he chuckles, his words infused with a touch of humor and a hint of pride. The situation is far from ideal, but the undeniable chemistry and attraction between the two of you is portrayed in the pictures, a visual affirmation of your connection.

The relief of no longer having to hide your true feelings for Hugh washes over you. Although the circumstances leading to this revelation are far from ideal, there is a sense of liberation in not having to keep your relationship a secret any longer. It's a small comfort amidst the chaos and disapproval.

Hugh becomes a constant presence in your life, accompanying you to lunch dates, and dinners at restaurants, and attending your shows and rehearsals. He follows you like a devoted puppy, eager to be by your side for every moment possible. The public display of your relationship is both thrilling and nerve-wracking, with Ryan’s ever-present disapproval lingering in the air when you three are together on the set.

The excitement and determination fill the air as you arrive at the studio to record the final tracks for the album. This is the culmination of months of hard work and collaboration, and the knowledge that you are so close to completing the project is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

As you step into the recording booth, you feel Hugh's gaze upon you like a warm caress. His eyes are filled with a mixture of love and admiration, a look of pure adoration on his face as he watches you prepare to record the final tracks. It's as if time stands still for a moment, the connection between the two of you palpable in the room. Though you're focused on the task at hand, your heart beats with a mix of nerves and excitement. Hugh's presence outside the booth provides a sense of comfort and support, knowing that he is right there, watching and supporting you every step of the way.

As you deliver the final lyric of the last song, a wave of accomplishment washes over you. The feeling is almost overwhelming, a mixture of relief, pride, and a profound sense of having poured your heart and soul into the project. The culmination of countless hours of hard work and dedication has led to this moment, a monumental achievement that leaves you filled with a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.

Your gaze scans the studio as you speak, a smile on your face. "I guess that's it," you say, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders. The realization that the recording process is now complete, and the album is finally finished, fills you with a sense of both pride and accomplishment. The journey has been long and challenging, but here you stand, at the end, with a completed work of art that you can be proud of.

As you step out of the recording booth, Hugh's arms immediately encircle you in a tight embrace. His muscular frame envelopes you, pulling you close as he holds you in a protective and loving hold. Hugh's voice fills your ears, his words a chorus of praise and admiration. "You are amazing, so talented, so beautiful. I'm in awe of you," He says, his voice filled with pride and love. His words flow like a melody, each syllable laced with genuine appreciation and devotion.

Your manager and team observe the display of affection between you and Hugh, unable to suppress the smiles that spread across their faces. Megan, in particular, has witnessed your struggles and past heartbreaks, and seeing you now, embracing someone who adores you, fills her with a sense of contentment and joy.

Your manager takes the lead, laying out the plan for the album's rollout. "Right, our top priority is getting the music video for 'Please' filmed and released as soon as possible," he says, addressing the team. The focus is now shifting towards the visual aspect of the album, and getting the music video out first is crucial in generating buzz and anticipation for the upcoming release.

Your manager's gaze falls upon you as he speaks, the pen in his hand gesturing in your direction. "Ryan called me and mentioned he wanted to direct the video.” You nod in confirmation. Your mind drifts to the thought of your brother taking on the director role for the music video. As you lean back against Hugh, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, you pat his chest affectionately. "And I've got the perfect leading man right here," you say, the pride and affection for Hugh is evident in your voice. His presence, charisma, and the undeniable chemistry between you two make him the ideal choice for the role of your on-screen lover in the music video.

Hugh's eyes widen in surprise as you make the suggestion. "Me?" he repeats, a mix of disbelief and excitement in his voice. The idea of starring alongside you in the music video tantalizes him, and the thought of being the 'leading man' in your creative vision further fuels his enthusiasm. You chuckle at his surprise, your words laced with affection. "Of course. It’s about you," you remind him, a soft smile playing on your lips. The connection between the lyrics and your relationship was one of the main inspirations for the song, and having him play the lead role would make the music video even more poignant and personal.

The team members exchange approving smiles, appreciating the idea of casting Hugh as the lead. Your manager taps on his phone, getting ready to make a call. "Awesome! Let me just go ahead and give Ryan a call and get everything scheduled," he says, confirming the plan.

Your manager holds the phone to his ear, dialing Ryan's number. As Ryan picks up, your manager responds, "Hey man, just wanted to let you know that we're good to go with filming the music video for 'Please.' And guess who's gonna be the leading man?" The idea of Hugh playing the lead in the music video fills you both with excitement and anticipation. You exchange a knowing smile, visualizing the success and impact the video will have. With Hugh's acting skills and the emotional connection between the two of you, the video promises to capture the hearts of many viewers, making it a definite hit.

“Don’t go making any decisions. I’ve already called Barry. He’s happy to do it.” As Ryan responds on the line, his voice filled with annoyance and determination, your heart sinks.

The tension between the two of them has reached new heights, and Ryan's actions are intentionally meant to undermine and dismiss Hugh's importance in your life.

Your voice rings out, assertive and resolute, as you stand your ground. "It's my video, Ryan. I want Hugh to be the lead,” you state firmly, the conviction in your tone undeniable. The argument between you and Ryan plays out over the speakerphone, your determination to have Hugh in the video clashing with Ryan's opposition.

Ryan's authoritative tone, “Well I've already put the money down so you’re going to accept that Barry’s going to be the lead. Let’s shoot for Tuesday. We have a table read on Monday for DW.” The call ends abruptly, leaving you and Hugh in a mix of frustration and resignation.

Frustration and anger continue to simmer within you as the day progresses, fueled by the conversation about Ryan. You vent your feelings to Hugh, expressing your irritation with your brother's actions and insistence on having someone else lead the video. Your ranting continues, with each word laced with resentment and disappointment.

Your voice, filled with anger and a hint of sarcasm, resonates in the room as you vent your frustrations. "Who the hell does he think he is? It's my friggin' music video," you exclaim, frustrated by the situation. "He's doing this on purpose, the goddamn dickheaded dumbass," you add, tossing clothes around in your growing anger.

As you continue to angrily rant and throw clothes around in frustration, Hugh stands up from the edge of the bed. With a calm but firm demeanor, he walks over to you and gently grabs your wrists, bringing your hands down. With a soft voice, he utters, "Come here.”

Hugh's voice, calm and reassuring, cuts through your angry outburst. "You need to relax," he says, the words a gentle reminder of your frustration. He continues to guide you, leading you to the bed.

“Lay back and let me take care of you," he murmured, guiding you towards the bed.

You did as he said, your heart racing as you anticipated what was to come. You lay down, feeling the soft sheets beneath you, and watched as Hugh began to undress. He slowly removed his shirt, revealing a toned chest. His hands went to the button of his pants, undoing them slowly, teasingly, as your breath quickened.

"You like what you see, darling?" he asked, his voice husky. You could only nod, your mouth suddenly dry as your eyes took in his muscular body. Hugh stepped out of his pants, standing before you in nothing but his boxer briefs. The outline of his hardening cock was visible, making your pussy throb in anticipation.

With gentle hands, he helped you out of your clothes, taking his time to admire your body. His fingers traced the curves of your breasts, the dip of your waist, and the swell of your hips. You shivered as his touch ignited a fire within you, your skin tingling with desire.

Once you were both completely naked, Hugh positioned himself between your thighs. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on your inner thigh, his breath warm against your sensitive skin. You let out a soft moan, your hands clutching the sheets as you anticipated his next move.

"Such a beautiful pussy," he whispered, his hot breath sending shivers through your core. He dove between your legs, his tongue finding your clit. He licked you slowly at first, his tongue teasing your bundle of nerves. Your back arched off the bed.

Hugh continued his oral exploration, lapping at your sweet nectar as you squirmed and moaned beneath him. His tongue slid inside your pussy, tasting your essence, before flicking back up to circle your clit. He sucked and nibbled gently, driving you wild with need. Your hands tangled in his hair, guiding him closer, urging him to devour you completely.

"Mmm, you taste so fucking good," he hummed against your pussy, his voice vibrating through your core.

Your hips bucked uncontrollably as he ate you out with passion and expertise. His tongue worked your pussy relentlessly, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Your breath quickened, your moans filling the room as you neared your peak.

"Oh, Hugh... I'm... I'm gonna cum," you gasped, your body tensing up. "Let it go, baby," he urged, his fingers joining the action as he slid two digits into your dripping wet hole. "Cum all over my face."

His dirty words sent you over the edge. Your orgasm washed over you, intense and mind-blowing. You cried out, your body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Hugh didn't stop, continuing to lick and suck, drawing out your orgasm until you thought you couldn't take anymore.

Finally, you collapsed back against the bed, your body spent and satisfied. Hugh slowly made his way up your body, his lips kissing a trail along your stomach and between your heaving breasts. He looked into your eyes, his face glistening with your juices, and smiled.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his voice filled with satisfaction.

You nodded, your face flushed and your body still tingling from the powerful orgasm. "Much better," you replied, your voice hoarse with desire. "I needed that."

Hugh leaned in, his lips claiming yours in a passionate kiss. You could taste yourself in his mouth, and it only added to the eroticism of the moment. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts and squeezing gently as his tongue danced with yours.

As you kissed, you became aware of his hard cock pressing against your thigh. It throbbed with need, and you wanted to return the favor. Breaking the kiss, you pushed him onto his back, a mischievous glint in your eye.

"Now it's my turn to take care of you," you whispered, your hands wrapping around his thick length. You stroked him slowly, enjoying the feel of his cock in your hand. Leaning down, you swirled your tongue around the head, tasting the first droplets of pre-cum that formed there. Hugh moaned, his head falling back as you took more of him into your mouth.

You sucked him greedily, your hands pumping his shaft as you took him deeper. Your lips slid up and down his length, your tongue teasing the sensitive underside. You wanted to make him feel the same pleasure he had just given you.

"Fuck, you're amazing at that," he groaned, his hands threading through your hair. You looked up at him, your eyes sparkling with lust. "You like that, huh?" you teased, stroking him faster.

"Fuck yes," he growled, his hips bucking slightly as he tried to thrust into your mouth. "Keep going, baby."

You obeyed, sucking him harder, your mouth working in unison with your hands. You deep-throated him, taking him all the way down until your nose pressed against his pubic bone. You swirled your tongue, relishing the feel of his cock throbbing in your mouth.

It wasn't long before Hugh was on the brink. His breathing quickened, and his grip on your hair tightened as he neared his climax.

"I'm gonna cum... oh God, I'm gonna cum," he warned, his hips bucking wildly.

You didn't let up, wanting to taste his release. With a final, fervent suck, you felt him explode in your mouth. Rope after rope of hot cum hit the back of your throat, and you swallowed eagerly, milking him dry.

Collapsing onto the bed beside him, you smiled, your lips still glistening with his essence. Hugh pulled you into his arms, kissing you tenderly. You snuggled into his embrace.

Your frustration and irritation toward filming with Barry come through in your words as you two lay together. "I don't want to film with Barry," you say, the annoyance clear in your tone. As you speak, Hugh's arms remain around you, providing a sense of comfort and security.

Hugh listens intently to your words, his expression empathetic and understanding. "I know you don't," he responds, his voice soft yet firm. He can sense your displeasure and disappointment, and he continues to hold you close, offering support and comfort amid your anger.

Despite your initial resistance to acting with Barry, Hugh reminds you of the positive aspects of the situation. "But you have to admit, he's a great actor," he says, acknowledging the talent of Barry. "The video will turn out great. Ryan knows what he's doing," he adds, attempting to soothe your frustration and reassure you of the potential success of the project.

As your gaze meets Hugh's, you ask in a hopeful tone, "Will you come to set?" The thought of having Hugh's presence nearby provides a sense of comfort and reassurance, and you wait anxiously for his reply. Hugh's expression softens as he gazes back at you. He can see the vulnerability and uncertainty in your eyes, and his response is gentle and affirmative. "Yeah," he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Of course, I'll come to set.” Regardless of whether it was a good idea or not, Hugh would be there for you.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

in asoiaf, what is the order of succession for nobles and for the throne (as i’ve read they are different)?

They are indeed different. In most of Westeros, they use traditional Andal succession, known in our world as male-preference primogeniture. This puts women at the back of the line, so to speak, but does not exclude them. A lord's eldest son inherits, even if he has older daughters, followed by the remainder of his sons by age, and then his daughters, and then would move up to the previous generations with his brothers and then his sisters. "A daughter comes before an uncle," as they say. For example, with the Starks, Ned's succession is Robb-Bran-Rickon-Sansa-Arya. (Benjen is excluded for being a man of the Night's Watch; Jon is excluded by being a bastard and a man of the Night's Watch. But of course there's complications.) This succession also includes the heirs of the heirs, so for example Hoster Tully's succession is Edmure-Catelyn-Robb-Bran-Rickon-Sansa-Arya-Lysa-Robert-Brynden.

Note there are exceptions to this, even after King Jaehaerys I Targaryen codified the laws across Westeros. Sometimes these exceptions appear to be cultural. For example, somehow House Stark has never had a ruling lady in all its reported 8000 years of existence, and the time we know they should have, Cregan Stark's eldest (and late lamented) son Rickon's eldest daughter Sansa was (forcefully?) married to Cregan's eldest son from his third marriage, her half-uncle Jonnel, who became the lord instead. Another example - after Balon Greyjoy dies, a maester insists that "By rights the Seastone Chair belongs to Theon, or Asha if the prince is dead. That is the law", and Aeron Greyjoy dismisses it contemptuously as "green land law", and thinks the Iron Islands will never follow a woman.

Sometimes these exceptions appear to be just plain misogyny - like when Big and Little Walder Frey discuss the succession of the Twins, they don't count the women in the line. Mind you the Walders are children and may not know true details; but time will tell if Edwyn's daughter Walda will inherit or if her uncle Black Walder will seize the Twins. (Probably the latter.) Of course little Walda also has the problem of being a child heiress, but child heiresses have become ruling ladies before -- like Jeyne Arryn, whose inheritance was contested multiple times by her male cousins -- or like Cerelle Lannister, who inherited at the age of 3 and ruled for a year before dying suddenly and her uncle Gerold became lord. Um. It's hard out there for a girl. 😭

And in Dorne, they use a different form of succession entirely -- Rhoynar tradition, what we call absolute primogeniture. Much simpler, there the eldest child inherits regardless of sex. So Doran's heirs are Arianne-Quentyn-Trystane-{Elia}-{Rhaenys}-{Aegon}-Oberyn. Of course, Dorne has its own exceptions: per GRRM, a few houses in the mountains, least affected by the Rhoynar, may sometimes follow Andal tradition instead, which is likely the reason why Cletus Yronwood was considered the heir instead of his older sister Ynys. (Mind you, Cletus is dead now, and Anders Yronwood only has daughters left, so sucks to be a man compared to Criston Cole, doesn't it?) And Arianne was worried that Doran was going to have Quentyn inherit instead of her, but she didn't know that Doran was actually planning to make her queen of Westeros, which would take her out of the Sunspear succession (in the same way that Myriah Martell married Daeron II Targaryen and her younger brother Maron became Prince of Dorne).

Now. The Targaryen succession to the throne is a different matter. For them, they've had the competing issues of tradition, king's choice, sexist lords voting sexism, even more tradition, and politics. (Sooo much politics.) Putting the rest of this behind a cut because it was already a long post but it got longer:

From the start, as far as we know the pre-Conquest Targaryens in Westeros used traditional Andal succession. (It's unknown how succession was handled in Valyria, or if there was a difference between the dragonrider families and any others.) There is a brief mention that Aenar the Exile's grandchildren, Aegon and Elaena, ruled together, but every other Lord of Dragonstone was indeed a lord, and hardly any daughters are even referred to. By the time we get to the Conquest trio, we know that Visenya was the eldest child, and yet her younger brother Aegon was Lord of Dragonstone. And later, Aegon was the king, with his sister-wives as his queens (though unlike later queens, they sat the Iron Throne and handled day-to-day governance of the realm).

The first time we see an issue with this succession tradition was when King Aenys died and his half-brother Maegor usurped (and later killed) Aenys's eldest son Aegon. By Andal tradition, Aegon and his sister-wife Rhaena's eldest daughter Aerea should have succeeded after Maegor died (he considered her his heir until he had children of his own), but instead Aegon's younger brother Jaehaerys became king. Political issues there: Jaehaerys actually successfully contested Maegor's rule, he was a strong teen boy with a sword and a dragon where Aerea was a girl of six who'd been in hiding most of her life, her mother Rhaena had been forcefully married to Maegor and had few supporters, Aerea had been named heir by Maegor specifically to cut out Jaehaerys, etc. Though note Aerea was considered Jaehaerys's heir... until he had children of his own. And as for Rhaena (Aenys's eldest child), she never actually vied for the throne after Maegor's death, but later in her life she bitterly told Jaehaerys "you have my throne, content yourself with that."

As for Jaehaerys and his children, from the start there were problems, when Queen Alysanne expected their eldest child Daenerys to be queen one day (why Alysanne expected the throne to follow absolute primogeniture at this point is unknown), and Jae was like, sure, our second child Aemon will be king and she'll be his wife! But Daenerys died as a child, and as for Aemon, he died too, albeit as a father of a grown daughter with a child of her own on the way. And there you have Jae sexism part 2, instead of naming Rhaenys as his heir, he instead named his second living son, Baelon, as his heir. So here's the precedent where the throne deliberately denied Andal succession tradition, and instead went with king's choice.

Then 9 years after Aemon's death, Baelon also died, and Jaehaerys held the Great Council of 101 AC, for all the lords of Westeros to decide between all of Jaehaerys's potential heirs. In the end, the final choice was between Aemon's daughter Rhaenys's son Laenor (Rhaenys herself was also in competition, though her claim was dismissed early) and Baelon's son Viserys. By a large percentage, the lords chose Viserys. According to maesters,

In the eyes of many, the Great Council of 101 AC thereby established an iron precedent on matters of succession: regardless of seniority, the Iron Throne of Westeros could not pass to a woman, nor through a woman to her male descendants.

This female-exclusive tradition is known in our world as agnatic primogeniture, or Salic law. However, this "iron precedent" was not that iron even from the beginning. Viserys and his wife Aemma only had one living child, Rhaenyra, so Viserys's brother Daemon was considered his heir until a son was born. And, well, if you've seen the first episode of HOTD you know what happened, because of Daemon's fuckup Viserys deliberately dismissed him, "disregarding the precedents set by [...] the Great Council in 101", but used the precedent of king's choice to name Rhaenyra as his heir and make all the lord of Westeros vow to obey that decision. Again, you've seen what happened next -- Viserys then remarried and had sons, whose grandfather used the Andal tradition to try to make Viserys name as heirs, but he refused to bypass Rhaenyra. In the end, though, when the Green Council formed after Viserys's death,

Ser Tyland pointed out that many of the lords who had sworn to defend the succession of Princess Rhaenyra were long dead. “It has been twenty-four years,” he said. “I myself swore no such oath. I was a child at the time.” Ironrod, the master of laws, cited the Great Council of 101 and the Old King’s choice of Baelon rather than Rhaenys in 92, then discoursed at length about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, and the hallowed Andal tradition wherein the rights of a trueborn son always came before the rights of a mere daughter.

So the law cited to name Aegon II king was one king's choice vs another king's choice, as well as Andal tradition and the "iron precedent" of the Great Council. And thus we got the Dance of the Dragons, Rhaenyra vs Aegon II.

But what about afterwards? What does Fire & Blood say about Aegon III, how did the maesters decide he inherited, through Aegon II (as his only living male relative), as Daemon's son, or as Rhaenyra's son? Well, it doesn't actually explain this point! The moment Aegon II died, Corlys Velaryon's men were freeing Aegon the Younger from his hostage prison, and then when the late Rhaenyra's (finally) winning army showed up at the gates of King's Landing, we just have Corlys saying, "The king is dead, long live the king." No maester commentary on the precedent at all, much to the frustration of backseat lawyers and historians in the fandom, who keep arguing one way or the other, or the various fandom teams, who keep arguing which side actually won.* 😅

*The answer is nobody. Nobody won.

And note that because Aegon III had no known living male relatives at the time (his brother Viserys was missing and presumed dead), his half-sisters Baela and Rhaena were considered his heirs, again despite this supposed "iron precedent". Leading to one of my favorite quotes from F&B:

Yet it was Grand Maester Munkun who put an end to the debate when he said, “My lords, it makes no matter. They are both girls. Have we learned so little from the slaughter? We must abide by primogeniture, as the Great Council ruled in 101. The male claim comes before the female.” Yet when Ser Tyland said, “And who is this male claimant, my lord? We seem to have killed them all,” Munkun had no answer but to say he would research the issue.

Though Aegon III's council and regents really wanted Baela to have a proper son, and when she rejected their (fat old guy) intended husband and instead eloped with a legitimized bastard, they wasted no time getting her sister Rhaena married to someone suitable, though she actually chose her husband, an older knight she'd become friends with in the Vale. And then Unwin Peake killed off Aegon II's daughter Jaehaera in order to marry Aegon III to his own daughter, and Baela and Rhaena did an end run with a new wife for their brother, a very young girl he didn't touch for 10 years... Of course, all this plotting came to nothing when Viserys did show up alive, so the lords could be satisfied with no need for an icky girl queen, the very idea.

The next time we see any competing issues of precedent for the succession to the throne was after Aegon III's second son, Baelor the Blessed, died without any children. By rights, per Andal tradition, his successor should have been his sister (and ex-wife) Daena. However, because Baelor had imprisoned Daena and her sisters in the Maidenvault for 10 years, they had few supporters, complicated by the fact that Daena had also recently had a bastard and refused to name the father. And of course, the Dance was still on everyone's mind as it had ended only 40 years before. So,

The precedents of the Great Council of 101 and the Dance of the Dragons were therefore cited, and the claims of Baelor's sisters were set aside. Instead the crown passed to his uncle, the King's Hand, Prince Viserys.

And Viserys II was followed by his son Aegon IV and so on. After this point, we do not have any real questions about gender and succession for a while. (Though some wonder, when Daemon Blackfyre vied for the throne, if he ever cited his mother Daena's stolen claim, in addition to being the unstated choice of his father Aegon IV. Also Aerys I named his niece Aelora as his heir after her brother-husband Aelor died, but she also died before Aerys did.) By the time of the Great Council of 233 AC, the claim of Vaella, only child of Maekar's eldest son Daeron, was dismissed immediately, though note she was also considered "simple", and Maekar's fourth son came to the throne as Aegon V.

And then in 283 AC, Robert Baratheon took the throne from the Targaryens. While many believe he took the throne by conquest (killing King Aerys II Targaryen's heir Rhaegar, while Aerys was killed by Jaime Lannister), maesters cite the fact that Robert was the grandson of Rhaelle Targaryen, daughter of Aegon V! So where is that "iron precedent" now, with Robert as the descendant of a Targaryen woman? And Robert's brother Stannis considers his daughter Shireen to be his heir, and people in Westeros in general consider Robert's daughter Myrcella to be his heir (after her brothers Joffrey and Tommen). Not to mention the fact that (claimant king in exile) Viserys considered Dany his heir, naming her Princess of Dragonstone.

So. Theoretically by the time of the main books, this "no women allowed ever" precedent for royal succession is still out there. In practice, however, the throne currently either follows Andal tradition of sons before daughters (but yes, including daughters), or the "whoever has the larger army" tradition of old. And that will be what truly decides the question of Aegon (or Jon) vs Daenerys, whether Rhaegar's line was disinherited by Aerys II or whether any maesters pop up to say "but iron precedent!" or what. Fire and blood, as always.