#my handsome mountain man of my dreams

[thewanderer-000]

My Big Daddy Jake Cakes

Uh he's ☺😳😍❤❤❤❤

[remiratboi]

Filled

Arranged Marriage Trope ~ 2.8K Words

Wolf-Hybrid!HusbandXHuman!GNFatReader

CW: Arranged marriage, distant relationship, mild bdsm, mild dom/sub vibes, dominant personality more than anything else, masturbation, knotting, size kink, breeding. Honestly it’s pretty tame compared to a lot of my stuff.

It was an arranged marriage. Two powerful families, a long time feud, and a wedding to forge the peace. It wasn’t unique, but it was uniquely awful for you.

Your new husband was a large, stoic wolf hybrid. He was gorgeous, you couldn’t deny that. He was well over 6 feet, and his tight black dress shirts did little to hide the muscles he touted. His fur was dark grey, like a misty mountain range. Sometimes you imagined touching it.

You felt dwarfed, which wasn’t something your chubby ass had experienced much. So that was nice.

But that’s where the positives ended. Yes, you looked great on his arm, a slinky black gown to match his silky black slacks and shirt, but you had no connection.

He seemed uninterested or unwilling to get to know you. You figured, if you were going to have to spend your lives together, you could at least develop a friendship. It wasn’t the love filled marriage you’d dreamed of, but it could still be a partnership, nonetheless.

You tried everything you could think of to seduce the absolute brick of a man. You flirted with him during every interaction you could. You brought him little treats you had baked while he worked. You rubbed his shoulders after a long day. Nothing seemed to make him warm to you.

He seemed comfortable having you around, but also seemed to have no interest in interacting with you, unless you initiated it. It was starting to drive you mad.

You’d noticed little things about him that were more subtle. Things you didn’t realize he’d do. He always protected you when he was around. You were… clumsy to say the least, and the amount of times he’d caught your dumb ass as you were about to fall was kind of comical. It got to the point he always had a hand hovering around you. At your lower back, your hip, your thigh. It was almost like he gravitated around you.

Then there was his eyes. He didn’t express much on his face, in his dangerous line of work, he couldn’t. But that didn’t stop his eyes. You’d learned to read him from watching his eyes. You’d be in meetings together, and without fail you could guess his response. The subtle ways his brows furrowed when he was interested, and listening intently. Or the fire that flashed when he got annoyed.

You noticed his eyes when he looked at you as well. You couldn’t tell what it was, but there was a distinct, unique look in his eyes when he looked at you. And a faint blush to his cheeks when you caught him staring.

You’d started thinking maybe something would come of you two after all, but despite your ever boldening efforts, nothing happened.

Finally, after nearly a year of this new life, you were pent up, and frustrated. You shared a bed, which made any sort of self pleasure extremely difficult. Normally you could time things for when he was busy, or showering. But one night, much later than you would have liked to be asleep, your cunt throbbed.

You squirmed lightly in the large king size bed. He lay mere inches from you, soft snores rising from his chest. His face was serene, calm. You didn’t get to see him at peace very often. You’d begun to cherish seeing him like this.

You couldn’t focus long enough to go to sleep. Your thighs were sticky with your arousal. You wanted to be fucked. It had been so long. Prior to the wedding, you’d been told he’d expect you to fulfil certain… duties. But he’d never touched you in that way aside from a chaste kiss at your wedding.

You’d spent years of your life before meeting him, fearing the tyrant man you’d likely marry, and sometimes, dreaming about the handsome man you’d marry. But you were met with him, something you’d never expected or imagined. Uninterested.

You whined softly to yourself. You were desperate. He was asleep… right? You listened to his breathing. It sounded even. His soft snores solidified your decision.

You turned to lay on your back, a hand snaked down to gently rub your aching clit. You almost moaned out loud, your other hand whipping to your mouth to cover it. He was so close. He was so beautiful. You wanted him. It surprised you how confident you were in that asseratation. You spun your fingers in circles on your small bud while gazing at his face.

You imagined his hands on your body. Those huge, strong hands. What things had he done with those hands? The idea of such violence colliding with your soft, pliable body, had you stifling another moan.

You dipped lower and sunk two fingers into your cunt. You couldn’t help a whimper slipping through. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. You wanted him to fill you, you wanted him to take you. Why couldn’t he just want you back?!

You groaned in frustration, your fingers desperately pushing in and out of you. You were starting to think you wouldn’t be able to cum while staring at his face, wanting him so badly.

“Please…” you moaned his name before you could stop yourself.

His eyes snapped open. You yelped and scrambled to pull your fingers out of your body, your positioning clear.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded, his voice dark, an edge you couldn’t place to it. He turned to look at you, his eyes raking down the thin sheet that covered you. Your pj shorts were pulled to your knees, your tank pulled up and over your chest. All that stopped him from seeing you on full display was that barely there sheet. You felt your nipples harden and his eyes flashed down from yours to stare.

“Answer.” He gave no room for argument. His eyes didn’t leave your chest.

“I, uh, I must have been having a bad dream. Sorry I wo-” he didn’t let you finish. He ripped the sheet off of your body and before you could even react, he climbed on top of you, pinning you down underneath him. He held your hands above your head in one thick fist, his knees in between your legs, holding them open. His other hand lightly caressed your round, soft tummy.

“Do not lie to me.” He whispered into your ear, leaning down so his face was next to yours. “You have one more chance to explain why you are almost naked, moaning out my name like a slut.”

Your cheeks burned. You turned your head and squeezed your eyes hoping maybe that would make it all go away.

His warm breath on your face told you it wouldn’t.

“I… I… I was just…” you didn’t know what to say. I was just fingering myself while desperately thinking about you fucking me?! Yeah… no.

He stared at your face. You peeked up at him, surprised by the slight smirk you could see playing in his lips. You had thought he was furious? But maybe…

“I was touching myself.” You spoke softly. Embarrassed still. Even with your soaking cunt spread open for him.

“What were you imagining?” He replied, not missing a beat.

“You.” You practically whispered. He groaned above you.

“Show me what you were doing.” He leaned back and let go of your wrists. He sat back on his calves, kneeled in between your thighs still. You looked up at him, eyes wide with uncertainty. He nodded curtly towards your exposed pussy. He brought his hands up to massage idly at your thick thighs. His thumbs ran along stretch marks and dimples near your hips.

You squirmed, hesitant to perform such a vulnerable action in front of another person. He turned his face from the flesh of your thighs he was handling, up to yours and caught your gaze. “This is your final warning. Do not push me, love.” His tone, deadly. You found your cheeks burning even hotter at the casual term of affection he’d used.

You couldn’t pull your eyes from his, but slowly lowered your hand down to your clit. You rubbed yourself unenthusiastically.

Your husband who had never seemed as wolf-like as he did now, tsked at you. “I don’t think pathetic movements like those were what made you moan my name.” He reminded you again of your embarrassment.

You whimpered and a shudder ran through him. You reached your fingers further, and pressed two shallowly into your cunt. You were surprised by how much more wet you had become. The fear, the uncertainty of his next move, had you on edge like never before.

“Now, tell me, no don’t stop moving.” He interrupted himself when you paused. “That’s right, now tell me, why were you imagining me while fingering yourself? Why were you staring at my face while trying to make yourself cum?” You thought your cheeks couldn’t have gotten more red and hot until he had said that.

“I, please, just let this go, and we can pretend nothing happened.” You begged him, pleading eyes gazing up at his unimpressed ones. “I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” His tone was threatening. He flipped you over in the blink of an eye, and pressed your soft, round body into the bed. You felt his rock hard cock press into your ass from behind through his pyjamas. Your eyes flew open at the realisation of how turned on he was.

“Does that make you less self conscious, love?” He asked, patronisingly, grinding his hips against you. “You might even get a reward if you’re a good slut for me.” You felt yourself get even wetter, if that was possible.

“I was thinking about you fucking me, because I think I might be in love with you, and you never even give me the time of day, and we are just laying in this bed every night, so close and yet so far and I hate it and I don’t know what to do!” You shouted in a chaotic, blubbering stream. You gasped a breath after the words had finished tumbling from your mouth. You hadn’t really meant to say quite that many words…

For a long moment, your wolf hybrid husband was motionless above you. Your face was pressed into the mattress. Tears began to prick the edges of your eyes with each second that dragged on.

“But… I’m a monster?” He asked quietly. “I thought maybe you were just horny and wanted a quick fuck with a warm body.” He flipped you around, your face inches from his. He stared at you with large, round eyes. The stern, controlling man who held you seconds ago was gone, replaced by a shy puppy. “You love me?” He asked. You could see uncertainty flash through his eyes.

“You’re my husband.” You replied, the doubt clear even as you said the words.

The handsome man looking down at you scoffed. “That doesn’t mean anything. You didn’t choose me. You didn’t get to have a say. I didn’t want to take advantage of our situation. I know…” he trailed off. “I know there are unfair expectations for physical relations in arranged marriages, but I swore I’d never be that kind of man, I’d never push you to do anything. I promised myself I’d never let you know how desperately I wanted you.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realise what he said as he said it.

“You’re my mate, I think.” You spoke softly, uncertain of yourself as well. You reached up and pressed your hand against his face. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into your touch.

When he opened his eyes again, they were solid black. “Those are dangerous words, love.” He smelled your arousal on the hand that cupped his face. You hadn’t registered it was the hand previously fingering your cunt.

“I like danger.” You said despite its cheesiness. It worked. Your mate chuckled.

“You like monsters too?” He asked again. A smirk had replaced his wide eyed surprise. His hard cock pressing against your soft tummy reminded him of your current predicament. You nodded enthusiastically at his question.

“Who would have thought, my precious, little human mate would be a desperate slut for wolves.” You dipped your head at his words but he pulled your chin back up, dragging your eyes to meet his.

“I love you too, I have for a very long time.” He kissed you, long and hard. The first real kiss you’d ever shared. You felt yourself gripping him everywhere, both of your hands touching the others bodies. He squeezed your hips, fingers and claws digging into your flesh.

He nipped down your neck, not breaking the skin, but enough to leave a trail of marks. You felt his hand go to his waistband, and he groaned as he released his cock. You had known it would be big, but big didn’t even begin to describe the behemoth in front of you. You felt your face pale.

The wolf above you licked his lips. “I know you can take it. One of the reasons I like my partners to be a bit thicker, better to manhandle, eh?” He teased you.

You looked between his face and cock, and his apparent disregard of your concern just made you wetter.

“I can smell you, slut.” He looked down at you with smug eyes. “Yeah, you’ll take me alright. Even if it have to make you.” A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes, and you felt the head of his dick at your entrance.

You second guessed yourself. You started trying to protest, but he covered your mouth with one large hand. “Now now, none of that. As you said, you’re my mate. You’ll love it.”

He slowly worked his head into you, and it was already breathtaking. You felt fuller than you’d ever felt, but anxiety at his size rose even further. Before you had a chance to protest, he started pushing deeper.

He wasn’t rough, but he definitely wasn’t gentle. He fucked into you with shallow thrusts, each pushing deeper than the last, until you could feel his knot battering at your entrance. The stretch was overwhelming, but you could feel the shadow of pleasure behind it.

Once he was at his full length, minus the knot, he started fucking you in earnest. He bent your legs up and over his shoulders, and practically folded you in half. It felt amazing to be so easily manoeuvred. Any stress you’d carried about being too big for him, melted away with each desperate caress he gave you. It was like he couldn’t touch enough of you at once.

The pain from his size kept fading, but the pleasure only built. Soon you were loudly crying out with each thrust. He grunted above you. He spoke of filling you with his seed, breeding you.

You could feel your orgasm growing as his thrusts got rougher. His hand snaked up to your neck, and you watched a wicked smile cross his face. He pressed into your neck, squeezing your throat. Your hands raised to his arm, trying to pull him away. It was almost comical, your tiny fingers prying at his thick muscular arm.

You started seeing spots and panic filled you. Your husband stared directly into your eyes as you struggled beneath him.

“Good pet, you can do it, don’t worry.” His comforting words sounded like they were too far away. You felt his knot pushing against your cunt. You tried to scream, but no sound could move past his fist on your neck.

Everything collided at once. Your vision was fading and your orgasm rising in front of you when he slammed his knot deep into your pussy. You screamed, even though no sounds came out. You both came, hard. He released your throat, and peppered you with kisses while you rode out to spasms.

Hot cum poured into your battered cunt as his thrusts turned erratic and staggered. He couldn’t move much due to his knot, but he did what he could. You felt the huge pressure drag up and down the entrance of your pussy. He came for so long, longer than your entire orgasm. You were coming down while he was still filling you up. You gripped each other's bodies, sweat and saliva mixing.

He collapsed to the side, pulling you up and on top of him, his cock still wedged deep inside you. You moaned involuntarily at the movement.

“Hmmm, I hope that was better than your fingers.” He hummed, amused. You grinned down at him.

“Marginally.” You teased. He looked up at you with offence and you winked, leaning down to kiss him again. You didn’t think the excitement of that was going to wear off any time soon.

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Alpha - Logan Howlett x ftm!reader

A/N: Hi! Um, this is my first work within the fandom! This was written with X-Men Logan in mind. Fic is unedited with no use of Y/N. This is so self-indulgent, so please be nice

Please make sure to read the tags carefully! They’re there for a reason

CW: Reader is a wolf mutant; Logan and Reader get off to a tense start; Reader is implied to be pre-op ftm, via the use of sports bras; implied wet dreams; use of the words slick and wet to describe Reader’s arousal; a/b/o dynamics? maybe?; misunderstandings; rough sex; pet play? (Reader is called pup); Reader is referred to as handsome; grinding; fingering; use of the word dick to describe Reader’s parts; overstimulation; no use of safe word; unprotected piv; multiple orgasms; implied aftercare

2493 words

The first thing you notice about Logan is his scent.

Not that you know it belongs to him. But it’s all you can smell as you talk to Jean. Thick and heady and strong. Musky like an animal and cloying like smoke.

Jean, of course, can tell you’re distracted. Instead of calling you out on it, she simply calls him in. Him and Scott enter at the same time, with an air of tension between them. Not that you care for long.

You’re too busy ogling the man in front of you. Rugged and handsome, more like a mountain man than a teacher.

Yet, that’s how Jean introduces him. Logan Howlett. History teacher.

You smile politely. You hold out your hand and try to not get too offended when he doesn’t shake it. You can tell he’s wary of you. Not that you could blame him.

You must be giving off a scent of your own, though you can’t smell it. But you can hear his inhale, feel the way his eyes watch you. You know he knows.

Especially when he straightens up. Lifting his chin and widening his stance. Establishing his dominance in a more subtle way than most other males. Perhaps he’s just that assured in his position.

Either way, you can feel your instincts itching at the back of your mind. The desire to submit. To recognize his authority. It pricks at you like a needle, but you brush it away. You’ve had enough of submitting to men like him. If he wants it, he’ll have to earn it.

Jean rests a hand on Logan’s arm, softly scolding him, probably for what he’s thinking. “Hey, be nice. They’re a wolf mutant.”

“A wolf mutant?” He looks unimpressed.

You stand your ground. Your nerves are starting to buzz from the force of his gaze. You hate stare downs, but you can’t lose this one.

“Yeah.” You answer him yourself. “That’s me.”

He scoffs and looks you up and down. “Yeah, whatever, bub. You ever even see a real wolf?”

You know what he’s doing and you hate it. But at least he’s not mistaking you for a girl and being all overly nice. You’d rather get his blunt side than his fake side.

“No. I’m a wolf mutant, not a real wolf.” You at least try to keep some of the sarcasm from your voice. Trying’s worth something, right?

Logan doesn’t look impressed. He crosses his arms, which prompts Scott to finally step in. “Welcome to Xavier’s Home for—“

“Thanks.” You interrupt him with a smile, but your gaze never leaves Logan’s.

Scott seems caught off guard. “Why… don’t I show you around…?”

Something in you relaxes at the thought of being away from such an intimidating man like Logan. You nod and accept his offer.

On your tour, your thoughts keep drifting back to Logan. Even away from him, your body sets on edge at the thought of him. He’s going to be trouble for you, you’re sure of it.

Most of the mutants at Xavier’s are surprisingly accepting of you. The adults, you mean. You don’t tell the kids.

Maybe it’s because you have Jean and Scott on your side, but most of the adults don’t bother you after learning your secret. Most of them find out when you come to training wearing a sports bra and baggy pants.

A few have questions. Most just leave you alone.

You’ve never been more grateful that Logan wasn’t around than during that particular training session.

The tension between the two of you has only gotten worse. You’re sticking by your defiance to his posturing, even at the expense of your pride. Your nerves hate it as well, practically screaming at you whenever Logan gets too close.

Part of you can’t figure it out. You’ve been around men like him before, but never with this reaction. The other part of you doesn’t care enough.

And yet, you care enough to be relieved that he doesn’t directly know your secret. It’s not a huge deal; you’re pretty sure Jean would’ve told him by now. But it’s still nice that he doesn’t know from you.

Until he does.

The whole day starts with you feeling off. You have one of those good dreams, and wake up in a puddle of your own slick. Definitely a damper to your morning.

Then they run out of your favorite breakfast food, some of your students are late to class, and it goes on and on.

By evening you are pissed. Not just at life but at yourself. Because the one thing you cannot get out of your mind is your dream.

You can remember strong arms. Growls of your name. A thick cock bullying its way between your legs. Delicious pleasure.

But you cannot remember the face. It eludes you all day. Stuck there at the back of your mind. On the tip of your tongue.

It’s not until Logan walks into your classroom after your last class that it hits you. With horrifying, picture perfect clarity.

Logan. It was Logan. You had a fucking wet dream about Logan.

Even worse? You’re not as opposed to the idea as you thought you’d be.

For a moment, you’re just staring at Logan. He raises an eyebrow. “You okay, bub?”

“Uh, yeah.” You hastily gather up your things, hoping beyond hope that he can’t smell the slight arousal you feel.

You know it’s too late when you brush by him and he stiffens. You know he can smell you. It doesn’t help the problem.

“What—“

You make your exit. Very fast. Very undignifying. But he doesn’t follow, so you count it as a win.

Two things change. The first is that you start avoiding Logan as much as possible. The second…

Well, the second is that he features in every single one of your dirty fantasies. Every wet dream. Every random horny thought. All Logan.

And it is infuriating.

Logically, you know why. He’s the protector of the house. The ‘alpha’ of the pack, so to speak. Sooner or later your body would react to his presence. He’s strong, handsome, and gruff. Literally your type.

You still blame it on your biology and pretend you don’t think of him when you get off.

It works for a week. One week, that’s how long you get before Logan corners you in the Training Room.

The moment you smell his musky scent, you know you’re fucked. He smells like anger. And something more that you try really hard to not think about.

But this moment was to come eventually, so you gear yourself up and face him head on.

You know you’re a sight. Sweaty and out of breath, wearing a sports bra and pants. If he didn’t know before, he sure does now.

Logan stops a few feet away from you. He eyes you up and down, frowning slightly. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says gruffly.

You cross your arms and wait for him to continue. Slivers of anxiety spiking through your body.

“Why? Why are you avoiding me?” Logan looks frustrated and it makes you want to cower. Shrink down and beg for his forgiveness.

You hated it. How dare he make you feel this way? All because you’re stuck with a fucking wolf mutation that makes you want to hide like a little puppy from him.

So you push against your instincts. Straighten yourself up. Meet his gaze full on. “What does it matter why?”

Logan blinks. As if he hadn’t been expecting your defiance. Then he rumbles out a growl. “You missed the team training session yesterday. How are we supposed to make sure you’re ready for missions if you don’t show up?”

It’s your turn to blink. To stare. To be confused. “What?”

He crosses his arms, unintentionally making his forearms stand out so perfectly. Not that you’re noticing, of course. Just another pesky side effect of his presence.

“You’re one of the most capable mutants here,” Logan says firmly. “So if you have an issue, let’s talk about it now.”

“Wait, you’re here about missions?”

He nods. Then frowns. “What else would I be here for?”

Suddenly you feel stupid. Absolutely stupid. “So… you’re not here about…” You gesture to your body.

His frown deepens. “What?”

“You know,” your anxiety feels like fire ants in your stomach. “The fact that my body is—“

“I could care less, bub,” he says bluntly. “It’s your body.”

You want to cry. You want to laugh. This whole time you’ve been stressing about Logan, and he hasn’t given a single fuck.

You relax. Your anxiety dissipating so fast it makes your head feel funny. That’s one of your problems solved.

And the other?

Well, it only gets worse.

It all comes to a head on a random Tuesday.

Scott, Jean, and Ororo are off on a mission. The students have all been dismissed from their classes. You’re in the Training Room, working out yet another filthy dream about Logan.

Your fantasies about him have gotten more intense now that you know he doesn’t care about the way your body is. It’s a major, major problem. You’ve started getting dehydrated from the amounts of slick you’re creating.

Which is why you’re in the Training Room instead of getting off. You’re lucky Jean and the Professor haven’t said anything yet, but sooner or later they’re gonna know.

You’re working through your third round of training dummies when a scent catches your attention. Musk and thick smoke. You stop immediately.

“Don’t mind me,” Logan says, a hint of amusement in his gruff tone. “I’m just here to train as well.”

Your hopes for training might as well be ashes in the wind. There is no way you are going to be able to focus on anything other than him.

“Wanna spar?” You ask, false cockiness in your voice.

Instantly your instincts are screaming at you. Challenging the alpha to a fight? You might as well give up your position in the school now. No one challenges an alpha to a fight without a cause behind them.

Excessive horniness apparently didn’t count to your wolf brain. But it did to you.

Logan eyes you. He seems tense; can he smell your light arousal in the air?

“Sure.” You find yourself both relaxing and tensing at his agreement.

You clear the floor and get into your positions. Your instincts start to settle, helping you focus. You take a breath, and move.

The sparring is brutal. Fun and exhilarating, but brutal.

One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know you’re flat on your back. Logan pinning you down. One hand keeping your hands above your head, the other keeping your waist against the floor. His knee nudged between your legs.

You get wet ridiculously fast. You’re panting, gasping for breath, and you can smell your own arousal. You can feel the slick coating your thighs, soaking through your boxers.

You meet Logan’s gaze. Your wolf instincts are mostly quiet for once. Probably because he already has you pinned down. The only thought in your head?

Submit to him.

Logan’s pupils are blown. He’s panting too, and you know he can smell you.

“You into this sort of shit?” He asks, voice hoarse.

You can’t do much against the instincts of your brain. You let your head rest against the floor. “Into you, maybe.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Logan’s voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. The sound goes straight to your core.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls, “and it’ll never have happened.”

“I want this,” you say, a hint of a whimper in your voice. “Logan, I need—“

His mouth smashes against yours. It’s not pretty, it’s not delicate. He kisses you like he’s starving, ravaging your mouth. Nipping at your lips until the tang of blood fills your mouth.

It’s not pretty, but it makes you oh so wet.

You moan into his mouth, struggling against his hold on you. You want to rake your fingers through his hair, buck up against him, really just anything more than what he’s giving you now.

“Settle down, pup,” he growls.

Your body responds embarrassingly fast. You still, panting into his mouth.

“Please,” you beg, “please, Logan, I need you.”

He smirks. Nudges his knee against your crotch. Even the slight amount of friction feels like heaven and you chase it with a moan.

“Dumb little slut,” he mutters. “Bet you’re already soaked for me, huh, handsome?”

You just whine, too busy grinding against his knee to answer. You need more. You need more. Why isn’t he giving you more?

“Logan,” your voice breaks, “Please!”

“Please what?” His fingers ghost along the waistband of your pants. “Use your words.”

“Please touch me,” you whimper.

He smirks, his words dripping with condescension. “Good boy.”

You almost cum just from his words alone. And when his fingers dip under your waistband, sliding into your boxers to circle your dick?

Your vision blurs with pleasure, your body squirming underneath him. He doesn’t let up, just keeps rubbing his fingers against you. It’s torture, pure delicious torture.

“Logan!” You sob. “Too much!”

“Too much?” He mocks. “I can fucking smell you, pup. I can smell the amount of slick pouring out of you. It’s not ‘too much’ till I’ve drained every last drop of cum from your dick.”

As if to make his point, he stuffs two fingers inside you, stretching you out and making you sob. When you start to squirm, he shifts, letting go of your hands in favor of pinning down your waist. Keeping you firmly against the floor.

You burrow your fingers into his hair, gripping tightly to keep from screaming as he curls his fingers against that one spot inside you.

It’s exquisite, mind-numbing, perfect.

He bullies his cock inside you after your third orgasm, stretching you out and making you babble mindlessly. You’re a mess on the floor; fucked out, sweaty, and coated in your own slick.

The sounds are obscene, and you hope to god no one outside the room can hear you.

You can barely feel your legs, lost to everything except the pleasure and the feeling of his hands gripping your thighs as he pounds into you. Over and over and over.

He cums once, and fucks it all back into you. It’s not until you’re literally drooling on the floor that he finally lets up, cumming inside you for the second time.

You whine softly as he pulls out, blearily cracking open your eyes.

“Hush, pup,” he soothes. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He lifts you into his arms and you nuzzle into his chest. Uncaring about how messy you are, or about the puddle of cum and slick left on the floor.

It’s just Logan for now, and you’re content with that.

[wildemaven]

dream with me…

You’ve been with Joel for a few years— not in that sense. You met him somewhere between outbreak day and Boston. Smugglers together under the guidance of Tess.

You were both hardened by the same thing— tormented by the fact that you both lost everything that meant the most to you.

The only difference between you both, you harbored feelings for a man who would never have the same for you.

It was on a failed smuggling operation that your life moving forward would change forever. You fumbled the job horribly, nearly getting yourself killed by a group of runners.

Joel had to save your ass. Wasted energy and time, Joel told you, costing you both to forfeit the rest of the job and head back empty handed.

You knew you fucked up and the tension that simmered upon arriving back was obvious. You attempted to smooth things over, apologize for your fuck up and promising to make up for the loss in any way possible.

‘I don’t care what you do, you almost got us killed. I’d be fine if we never spoke again’ was all Joel said to you before icing you out completely.

Tess tried to convince you to stay. Let everything blow over like it usually does. But you couldn’t bear to stay any longer, feeling like a walking hazard to the group. It was only time before you got hurt or worse— someone else would.

Tommy offered you to join him, as he was leaving in the morning to meet up with a group of fireflies heading west. You agreed, asking him to not tell anyone that you were leaving with him.

You took one last look at what had been home for you since arriving in Boston. Glancing at Joel’s closed door briefly, then slipping out undetected, before the sun even had a chance to shine over the QZ.

‘Tommy!!’

The whole town was stunned by the commotion. Tommy and a newcomer’s reunion on display for everyone to witness. Only to you this wasn’t a stranger.

You watched from behind a wall of people, happy to see the two brothers together again. It’s the first time you’d ever seen Joel smile in all the time you had known him.

Silently, you retreat from the crowd and excitement, hoping to remain undetected for the time being.

Unbeknownst to you, Joel was made aware of your presence immediately. Tommy giving him and the young girl that arrived with him a tour of the fenced in grounds, making sure to point out the home you had been residing in since joining the community.

It’s only a matter of time before your paths cross, but you kept your distance, quick steps and redirection, avoiding any and all interactions with Joel Miller.

One evening you’re making your way home from dinner with friends, knowing you had plenty of time before Joel would be joining Tommy and Maria in the same spot. The air cool and crisp as the sun descended behind the Jackson mountains.

Your name being called out by a familiar voice stops you in your tracks. Your heart nearly beats out of your chest listening to the crunch of gravel beneath his boots as he walks closer.

‘Jus’ wanted to come say hi ‘n see how you’ve been. Seen you around here ‘n there. Seems like you’ve been avoidin’ me though.’

You turn to face him fully. He’s a much older version of himself. Greyed and still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

‘I’m fine, Joel. Just makin’ sure I keep up my end of the bargain— with never speakin’ again and all.’

That’s all you manage to get out before you turn and head up the path to your home and closing the door behind you.

Anywho. This was a dream I had last night and it’s been bouncing around my noggin most of the day. Of course it would end on a cliffhanger like that too.

[thewanderer-000]

My sweet mountain man, I'd kiss that face a million times over and more

ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ

[prythianpages]

Wanna Be Yours | Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand x Reader | When the Night Court and Dawn Court strike a deal, healers in exchange for Illyrian training, you rush at the opportunity to leave your home. You plan to keep a low profile but upon meeting the High Lord of night, your efforts are futile. He takes an instant liking to you and is set on being yours.

warnings: angst, mentions of blood and injury

a/n: This can be read as a stand alone imagine :) but there will be a part two. once again, we have another mini series inspired by a song: I wanna be yours by the Arctic Monkeys. I love when the guy falls in love with the girl first and I feel like it suits Rhys. This takes place before the events of ACOTAR.

The world awakens to a gentle warmth–a tender kiss from dawn. The stars are like a fading dream, bidding their silent farewell and the first tendrils of sunlight emerge, painting the sky in hues of soft pinks and purples. The world seems to hold its breath and so do you.

It’s so beautiful. The way night surrenders to day. The way that no matter how dark it gets, the sun will rise again. It makes you miss home but you don’t miss what waits for you there.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and the world tilts beneath your feet. The edge of the terrace offers a daunting view of the Court of Nightmares–a harsh landscape of rocky mountains that seems to promise a swift but unforgiving descent. A hand grasps your arm, pulling you back from the brink, the force spinning you around until you find sanctuary in a pair of strong arms.

As you lift your head, the world regains its focus, but your breath hitches at the sight before you.

 A man, heartbreakingly handsome, captures your gaze. He has sun-kissed skin and short dark hair, reminiscent of a raven’s feather, that frames features that seem almost too perfect to be real. Yet, it’s his eyes that draw you in–a shade of blue so deep it borders on violet. Flecks of silver dance within those celestial irises, mirroring the stars that had bid their farewell earlier. His gaze is intense, sparkling with an allure that feels both familiar and bewitching.

“Breathe, darling.”

His voice, a velvet symphony, wraps around you like the answer to a question you hadn’t even fathomed to think of yet–a revelation that ignites a feeling you can’t quite discern but it stirs the deepest recesses of your heart. 

Suddenly, you’re pushing away from the male with a deep exhale as a delicate pink that reflects the sky above you flushes your cheeks.

“y/n!”

Your eyes widen at the sound of your name being called.

“y/n.” The male in front of you repeats to himself and you never thought your name would sound so beautiful as it does in this very moment. His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

Alette, your guide, comes into your view. She bends over slightly as her chest heaves and she catches up with her breath. She turns to the male, bowing her head in acknowledgment. “My High Lord.”

All blood drains from your face and your heart skips a beat. High Lord. You just met the High Lord of the Night Court and embarrassingly so. You contemplate whether it’s too late to bow your head or not but the thought of Alette scolding you for not doing it sooner stops you.

“I see you’ve met one of our new healers.” Alette inclines her head toward your sorry state. “I do apologize for her entering your palace without prior clearance.”

Cauldron boil you. You caught a glimpse of him pressing his lips together, as if suppressing something. Perhaps a scowl, frown or smile–you don’t know– because you're swiftly averting your gaze. You’re too scared to move, not wanting to draw more attention to yourself than you already have.

“Forgive me,” you’re saying as you drop to your knees and bow your head. “I didn't mean to trespass. I felt a little suffocated down there and I had no idea this was your home.”

“Where are you from?”

Panic steals your voice and it’s Alette who answers for you.

“She’s one of the few healers that came from Dawn, my High Lord.”

You sense the weight of his gaze upon you, an intensity that envelops you with an almost overwhelming power. Your throat tightens.

“And what of her skill?”

“The best of this year’s cohort.” Alette replies with no hesitation. There’s a subtle fondness in her voice that makes your heart swell with pride. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed.

“You may rise.” It takes a while for you to register that the High Lord is addressing you until Alette is awkwardly clearing her throat. You blink and rise to your feet but keep your gaze low. 

“You’re coming with me.”

You lift your gaze, gaping at his back. Does he—No, there’s no way he can know. The High Lord pauses. 

He turns his head over his shoulder and looks at you in an expectant manner. You look at Alette, who nods her head at you, so hesitantly, you follow after him. Your heart races as you hear him tell Alette to pack your things because you won’t be staying in the Court of Nightmares anymore.

**

Velaris, the city of Starlight, is a breathtaking haven nestled within the Night Court. It’s often referred to as the Court of Dreams. It’s a place of ethereal beauty and enchantment. The stark contrast it presents in comparison to the haunting Court of Nightmares leaves you in awe. 

But what strikes you the most is the High Lord of the Night Court–the master of duality. In Hewn City, where the air is always thick with tension, he wears a cold, stoic mask and every calculated step he takes echoes the weight of his stern authority and great power. This is the High Lord you’ve heard of. So when he told you, you’d be joining him in the city of his private residence, you were terrified.

It was a short lived fear because the High Lord you’ve heard of is not the High Lord you’ve come to know over the past couple of weeks. In Velaris, he sheds the shroud of shadows and reveals a different side to him. A softer side. A leader built from genuine warmth and kindness. 

You’ve come to understand he has a complex role as High Lord of the Night Court. He is a blend that is both harsh and dangerous, yet undeniably beautiful and remarkable, constantly navigating through the delicate balance of power and compassion. 

There is one unchanging thread that weaves through both cities. A thread of charismatic arrogance. He carries it effortlessly, employing it in a charming grace. One that he directs skillfully, particularly, when he turns the full force of his charm on you. You’d be lying if you said you were immune to it.

Upon your arrival, the High Lord–or Rhysand as he prefers you to call him– introduced you to the city’s healer. Madja. Though you’ve undergone extensive training in your home court, it felt little compared to the years of experience Madja carried with her, leading her to take you under her wing as her apprentice. You were a fast learner and given the nature of Azriel’s–Rhysand’s spymaster– and Cassian’s –Rhysand’s general commander– jobs, you had a lot of practice and challenges to hone your skills.

A tired yawn escapes from you as you navigate the halls of the infirmary to Madja’s study with the intention of wishing her a goodnight before retiring to your room. Your stops falter when your ears pick up on the distinct voices of Cassian and Azriel and suddenly you’re wide awake.

“–was ambushed by dark forces–”

“–never seen so much blood–”

“–I should make haste then–”

“–he only wants y/n–”

Shadows slink out from the corners, momentarily dimming the faelight in your hand in a silent greeting. The voices, once animated, hush and then cease altogether. Madja is the first to emerge from the study, with Azriel and Cassian trailing behind.

"The High Lord requests your presence.”

**

Not much can unsettle you, given your role as a healer. You’ve tended to a variety of injuries, seen tremendous amounts of spilled blood and have had to navigate through the sorrow of heartbreaking losses. But this. This feels different. This isn’t just anyone. It’s Rhysand. The male, who despite his shameless flirting, has consistently shown nothing but kindness to you. Though the nature of your relationship is uncertain, the mere thought of him being harmed sends a sharp pang through your chest, an ache that transcends the usual clinical detachment you maintain in your profession.

There’s an urgency in your steps as you approach Rhysand’s weak form on the infirmary bed. His body is extremely pale and shivering. A thick layer of sweat clings to his skin. There’s blood everywhere. On the floor, on the bed. It continues to seep out of the wound at his abdomen.

His lids are heavy, laden with exhaustion but he still manages a weary smile when he spots you. “You’re here,” he breathes in surprise, his words carrying a blend of relief and vulnerability.

“I’m here,” you confirm with a reassuring smile as you brush back the dark tendrils of his hair from his face. Though your touch is gentle, the lines on his face seem to deepen.

The air around you begins to shimmer with a soft, golden light. You cast a keen eye over his abdomen, the golden light dancing around you as you assess the full extent of his injury. The wound is deep and not healing as it should and your nose crinkles as the pungent smell of poison drifts up at you.

Rhysand winces as your healing touch meets his wound. Despite his blood staining your hands, you move with practiced grace, drawing upon the healing energies within you. Each movement is deliberate, an intricate crossing between magic and skill as you strive to counteract the effects of the poison.

Rhysand sucks in a sharp breath. He feels like he is dying but he won’t admit that to you. He doesn’t want to scare you. “It hurts.”

“I know,” you respond, your brows furrowing in concentration. The quicker you work, the less pain he’ll have to endure altogether. “It’s the poison.”

His eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts with agony as you press further into the wound. A strangled whimper escapes from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you frown, halting your movements. You turn your head toward the double doors, where you know Madja waited in her study despite the late hour, in case you required assistance. “Should I go get Madja instead?”

“No,” his hands weakly grasps yours to keep them from leaving him. “I–I’m okay. I only need you.”

You nod and take a deep breath, urging your powers to continue surging through your bones and veins. Charged with vitality, they embody a tender current, eager to breathe life into every fiber of the recipient’s being. You sense the poison recoiling at your touch, prompting another cry from Rhysand. Though you know the poison will put up a painful fight, there’s a sense of relief as you realize it is one you can win.

“It’s going to feel worse before it gets better,” you say, your eyes darting to your makeshift table. “I don’t have anything for you to bite down onto. I’m sorry.”

 “Tell me a story,” he pleads, his voice desperate and raspy. “Anything. Please.”

“Anything?” You say in contemplation, falling into a thoughtful pause as you search your mind for a story to tell.

“When I was a little girl and my parents were separating, my uncle would take me to the countryside,” you begin to share, your voice softening with the weight of the fond memory and in the intimate space between you and Rhysand, a subtle shift occurs. 

“It was my favorite place in all of Dawn. The flowers were always in bloom and the grass was tall and green. We would wake up early to watch the sunrise together. Those were the moments where the world felt so still yet so gentle.”

“One night, as the moon gracefully surrendered its space to the emerging sun, I cried. The realization of the sun and moon being eternal strangers gripped my little heart. The sun, in its golden glory, would never know the tender glow of the moon, and the moon, adorned in silver brilliance, would remain untouched by the sun's warm embrace. It made me sad.”

“My uncle, at first, laughed. He teased me, which made me cry harder. He realized the genuine depth of my sorrow and that’s when he shared something with me,” you continue, a nostalgic smile plays on your lips as you recall the moment. 

Unbeknownst to you, Rhysand’s gaze warms in the gentle embrace of the shared memory. He’s momentarily distracted from the stabbing pain.

"He told me that the moon's glow is but a reflection of the sun's radiance," you explain, the magic of your tale intertwining with the magic of your healing touch. "How beautiful, he said. That the love of the sun for the moon is so pure that he sets down so that people can admire the beauty of her.”

"I was still sad, holding onto that stubborn desire to witness the sun and moon together. That's when my uncle introduced me to the magic of an eclipse—a rare celestial dance where the sun and moon finally come face to face. When the next one arrived, my uncle whisked me back to the countryside to witness it, and for the first time, I felt such overwhelming joy. Tears welled in my eyes but they were tears of happiness. I didn’t know one could cry tears of joy until that moment.”

Still aglow, your hands continue their delicate work. You observe a subtle relaxation manifesting in the features of Rhysand but there’s a weariness that settles over you. You know all traces of the poison are gone because its toxic essence was absorbed by you in your haste to protect him. It takes its toll on you, wearing you down and leaving you feeling slightly unsteady, but all you care about is him.

The gaping wound on his abdomen gradually yields to your skillful touch, and a peaceful serenity settles over his face. His eyes flutter shut, and in the hushed atmosphere, Rhysand's words pierce through, lingering like a delicate whisper in the air.

"I think I might be in love with you." 

The confession tugs at the strings of your heart, urging it to soar, but you swiftly quell the rising emotions. You attribute Rhysand's words to the delirium induced by his pain, knowing he’d forget all about it. You wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot your story as well. You swiftly clean him up and use your magic to replace the bloody sheets with clean ones before taking your leave. Exhaustion tears at your bones and you can only muster a meek smile to Azriel and Cassian, who waited anxiously outside the infirmary doors for an update. You head straight to your room after and collapse onto your bed.

The following night, as you retire to your room from another day of endless work and studying, you find a carefully wrapped gift at your door. There’s no name on it but as you read the note attached, you have an intuitive inkling as to who the thoughtful gifter was. 

To the Sun, in your golden glory, may you always feel such overwhelming joy.

A beautiful embellished trinket box lays beneath the wrapping engraved with two cosmic entities–the sun and the moon. As you open the small keepsake, you're greeted by a soft, ethereal glow that radiates from within. It casts a warm and gentle light and you watch as a projection of the moon and sun dance around you before finally converging into a mesmerizing eclipse. 

**

Rhysand's POV

Like clockwork, Rhysand wakes at the break of dawn with the tendrils of a persistent dream lingering in his mind. A dream that has possessed his nights for weeks. As sleep releases its grasp on his eyes, he reluctantly rises from the bed and decides to get ready for the day, knowing that if he tried, he would not be able to fall back asleep.

He navigates through the familiar halls of the Moonstone palace, mindlessly making his way toward one of the terraces. His steps falter.

There, amidst the soft hues of the awakening city below, stands a feminine silhouette–a vision bathed in the tender light of dawn. You. A sense of cautious curiosity courses through him, eclipsing the remnants of his restless dreams. His gaze lingers on you. There's a nuance in your presence, a fine radiance that hints that you are not from here and though he should be concerned over an unannounced visitor in his home, he can’t bring himself to do so.

 A subtle flutter dances in his chest. He’s speaking before he could even properly think.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and lose your footing. You’re about to fall but before gravity claims its toll, he moves with swift determination. He reaches forward and grasps your arm, pulling you from the dangers of the edge of the terrace and into the safety of his arms instead. You lift your head and a gasp escapes your lips. Your eyes widen as they look up into his.

“Breathe, darling.”

His mind is searching yours with a quiet desperation but all you are thinking about is how devastatingly handsome he is. He doesn’t perceive you as a threat. Yet, there’s something hauntingly familiar about you.

He hears a name being called. Yours. And then it hits him like a sudden gust of wind. You’re the girl from his dreams. The one he’s dreamt of nearly every day this week and as he repeats the name, his lips curve up into a smirk.

He found you and realization dawns upon him like the morning sun. You don’t belong here but not because you’re from a different court. It’s because you belong with him.

a/n: this part came out a lot softer than I thought it would. The quote I used about the sun loving the moon so much came from something I saw on pinterest. I am a sucker for the sun and moon and stars lol

[passivenovember]

Being a dad is something he's always wanted. Call it a cliche, right, the all-American, golden boy who's caught up in the idea of four to six snot-nosed brats looking up to him as they try to make sense of all the big and small things because they have no other choice. You only get one dad, right?

He images them, crawling and then walking and then sprinting through the same ancient, brand-new stages of life. Six months, learning the kitchen-magic of how their fingers and toes bend on command. A year, stumbling Jello-legged down a hallway. Fifteen, slamming their bedroom door only to rush, crying, into Steve's arms when he works up the courage to rap his knuckles on the wood like the dad from Full House.

Maybe. It's all Steve's ever wanted. More than that signed Nicks basketball his own dad sent for him when he was twelve. More than Nancy Wheeler. More than his need for mountains, and oceans, and something else.

But then he meets Billy, and it's like all that other shit goes away for a while. None of it disappears, really, but he's got something to focus on, now. Something to work toward, with someone, and that makes it worse, in a way.

Billy finally lets him fuck, and Steve lays in bed that night with an irritatingly awful douchebag drooling a spot onto his chest, and Steve thinks. Knows--

Look, he won't admit it on the first fuck, but this is it for him. He wants to buy this dude house, and he wants wedding rings around the fat and bone of both their fingers, and. He wants babies, with Billy.

Aches Billy to love him.

He wants a life with this asshole. The whole nine. Steve runs his hand through Billy's hair and falls asleep imagining family Christmases, and vacations, and the fragile, shining hope that Billy will wake up tomorrow and swear that he's in love. That Steve is who he's waited 19 years for. That to each other, they'll always belong.

Obviously, that doesn't happen. Maybe.

If it does Steve wouldn't know, because Billy's not a lunatic. He's gone before the sky's fully blue. Leaves his phone number scrawled on the corner of Steve's mirror in Sharpie.

Steve's in love.

So. Immediately, he wants the impossible, but mostly, he just wants Billy. And by some giant, invisible, choking miracle he gets Billy. His body first, and then his thoughts. His laugh, genuine and biting and whole. Billy shares his memories, like pieces of bread dropped in water for hungry birds, for Steve. Achingly slow, he tells his hopes, his dreams, and.

Eventually, one night with his head on Steve's chest he says, "You terrify me. I never want it to end."

So. It's basically love.

Steve's a loose canon when it comes to this feeling. Pedal to the medal, he shoots through walls with bright red booming firepower until everything is cracked and bleeding and open around them. Until there's room enough to say, "I love you, move in with me."

So, Billy does. Impossible.

Wonderful and joking, even though it's not a joke when Steve's parents meet him on move in day and Steve's dad is thrilled that Billy knows shit about cars, and Steve's mom likes that Billy has a weathered recipe book that was, "passed down from my grandma, back in California," for her to find a place for in their tiny, warm kitchen while she unpacks.

"He's very nice," Steve's mother says, "Respectful. Handsome." In that same wistful, sleepy tone that she used when she first called Nancy wheeler sweet. Beautiful.

"He's a fine young man, son," Steve's dad tells him. "Try not to run him off."

Steve watches them reverse from the ratty, rocky, untamed driveway, with his heart in his throat. Imagines the day he and Billy will leave their kids, supported and loved fiercely, to make that wobbly step toward the brush-fire shore of their lives.

--

Steve's plan for the future lives and breathes in a small, tucked-away corner in his mind for months. He nearly chokes to death on it, several times a day, watching Billy relax into his routine.

Billy cooks dinner every night. They eat on the couch in their boxers, dishes left on the coffee table until Billy kisses him awake in the blue light of the television, "Let's go to bed, baby," he says. Steve always notices that the plates and cups are cleared away, the living room tidy for the dawn.

Billy buys a shovel and digs two holes in their patchy backyard. Steve watches him from the kitchen window, wondering what the cavities will grow with the start of spring.

Billy plants a clothesline. "My mom used to dry our clothes this way," He says, when Steve raises an eyebrow. He tacks sheets and sweaters to sway in the sunlight. Talks about laying a patio out there, so they can grill for people when it's warm.

Steve gets hard from the image of himself, in an apron, grilling hot dogs and hamburgers for their friends, first, and kids. Someday. A total dad.

--

Billy makes use of his library card and checks out every book about homesteading he can find. He learns about gardening, and bricklaying, and how to buff gashes out of hardwood floors. For his birthday, Billy hints at a Better Homes and Gardens subscription.

When Steve forks out the cash and the May issue arrives in the mail two months later, Billy presses a hasty kiss to his forehead and disappears onto the porch. He spends his Sunday afternoons with sticky notes and an overused ballpoint pen from that moment on, circling things that have no rhyme or reason, to Steve.

--

They've been living in their house for six months when Billy says, suddenly, "We should see if we can buy it." Like he's been planning his own version of their future.

It's Sunday, and he's just come up for air from Better Homes and Gardens. There's a cheese plate in his hands. He's parked by the front door, on his way out, looking startled as if the words escaped from a caged area buried deep inside of him.

"Huh?" Steve's more of the lay-around-and-rot-in-his-underwear-on-Sunday's type. He's eating ice cream out of the container, distracted by something Barney Fife says. He laughs.

"We should buy the place," Billy tells him.

Steve blinks, "The house?"

"It's our house," Billy says delicately, with all the weight of the world resting on him.

Steve looks up from the television set, shocked that Billy's hair is wet in some places and drying in others. As if he was being groomed by some large, impatient cat. He peers around Billy, out the screen door. "Is it raining?"

"Sprinkling," Billy says, "I have an umbrella."

"Your magazine's gonna get wet."

"I'm reading The Grapes of Wrath," Billy tells him, pulling a weathered copy out from under his cheese plate.

"Sure, but if the rain picks up, your book--"

"--The characters could use a little water," Billy says, "They're trapped in the dust bowl."

"I'm in love with you," Steve says. Like it's the first time he's ever admitted something like this out loud. So it's a surprise. "I like that you read. I like that you talk about everything like it's real."

Billy pads over to the couch and knocks Steve's legs apart. He settles on the arm of the thing, cold, wet toes pressing into Steve's thigh. Steve winces, sputtering when Billy feeds him a slice of American cheese wrapped in bologna.

He chews. Swallows. "I need to make more money, baby."

"Why," Billy asks, feeding himself.

"Because," Steve chokes on the next round Billy feeds him, heart soaring when Billy smiles, "Because if we're gonna lay a patio and grill for our friends I want to make sure you have decent ingredients."

"I don't mind the cheap stuff."

"You deserve better," Than what I can provide, Steve doesn't say.

Billy shrugs, feeding him another round of cheese and meat. "Well, if we're following through with the patio and the grill--"

"--And a porch awning," Steve says, feeding Billy a slice of cheese, "I'm adding that to the list. You can’t read your book and eat snacks while holding a fucking umbrella over your head."

Billy stares at him, swallowing and red cheeked. "I think any sort of permanent installment has to be cleared through the landlord."

Steve thinks about it, humming low when Billy slips off the armrest and settles, heavily, into his lap. "So, we buy the place."

"I need a better job, too."

"We'll look when the paper comes tomorrow."

They lapse into silence, eating cheese and bologna until it's gone, then they move to the ice cream Steve was working his way through, chuckling at The Andy Grifith Show.

It starts pouring rain, little hammers falling on the roof until the power flickers. "I want to make this house nice for you," Billy says.

Steve looks at him. "It's already nice."

"It could be better," Billy says, fiddling with the hair on Steve's chest. "We could have a garden. And I think the beige walls are boring as shit, we need to get some wallpaper. Or paint, or something."

"What else should we do?"

Billy shrugs, "The kitchen needs a rug. I saw this book at the library about how old men in Russia and China and shit learn to weave rugs on giant wooden looms. Some of them have seaters, and others hang them from the ceiling. Your car needs a new power steering pump--"

"--Sounds like you need a shed."

"Yeah, I guess so," Billy says. He grins, and then his brows furrow. "But. Steve, I want to build us a life, here. I want to start my life with you, I don't want to wait until we move to something we own, because I like this house, and I feel like when we start to grow our family, we can--"

Steve's heart stops beating.

His vision tunnels, all his focus collapsing on the words Billy says. Phrases that sound wonderful and impossible, all knitting together to equal nurseries built from two-by-four.

Billy stares at him cheeks red. "Sorry, I know we haven't talked about any of this. I get excited."

"I'm in love with you," Steve tells him, breathless.

"I know, dumbass, I'm in love with you."

Steve kisses him. Pulls away. "You really wanna buy a house?"

"Yeah. Not a house, this house."

"You wanna have my babies?"

Billy tugs on his chest hair, grinning when Steve yelps. "Maybe you wanna have my babies, instead."

"Sure," Steve tells him immediately, "Yeah, anything you want."

"I'm going back onto the porch," Billy says, "We'll start with the job listings in the paper."

Steve watches him go. Thinks he could be alright at this, being a husband and a father. Someday.

Right now, he's alright at being Billy's.

[thewanderer-000]

I could never, he touches me and he's not getting that hand back 😉😉 ☺😈❤❤❤

Jacob Seed 21/∞

[dashitsxx]

i might just be in lo-lo-love | hawks x fem!reader

summary. Bumping into him one time was an accident then the second time, until it gradually turns to coincidences. Yet, you've never realized to have your heads over heels for this man.

genre. fluff. sfw.

word count. 600+

warnings. none. just pure fluff <3

notes. inspired by so american by olivia rodrigo <3 it was initially supposed to be long but it was slowly diverting to angst for no reason 😭 anw! enjoy this short one shot! <3

A burst of enormous laughter leaves between both of you. The atmosphere dances in the joy of your relationship as grins plaster on your faces. The music on the radio blasts its harmony as you and him sing forth, enacting gestures and movements.

The speed of the car reaches for the wind as it refreshes the both of you.

Keigo looks at you, a charming smile forms on his pretty lips. You were in a joyful mood, bopping your head. To keep up with your energy, he does the same thing you do.

"You look pretty in my clothes," he smirks as he places his warm hand on your thigh. You feel your face burn as your cheeks are soon painted red, and you clear your throat to focus on driving.

"Stop teasing me," you blush. Keigo only chuckled as he squeezed a squish of your fleshy area. You giggle at the his response. Then, hum with the song.

Soon, you arrived at your destination and the both of you got out of the car. You breathed in the fresh air as you smiled widely and your eyes beamed at the scenery before you.

Being on top of the mountain gave you shivers but from exhilaration. The sun is falling slowly to sleep as it emits a glow of golden light. The trees swayed with the wind with its fluff of colourful variants of leaves. After the fence, the city comes into view.

You sprint with giggles towards the fence before grabbing a hold of it, in awe of the city under you.

"Keigo, this is so beautiful! Come, look at this!"

He watches you run forward as he lets out a grin then follows in pursuit, standing beside you. You had your mouth agape as you carefully studied the cityscape.

As a foreigner in an unfamiliar place, you will never forget how you met him initially, he showed you directions to the restaurant you've been dying to dine at. It took a few bumps of coincidence for you to have the courage, and ask him for dinner. Surprisingly, you and Keigo vibed with each other. Thus, the second date is followed by the third, the fourth, the fifth, and so on.

After all the shitty break-ups and worthless exes you've dated, Keigo was the only man who made you feel like you were a dream to him—it sounds absurd but it's true. However, being in this dream, you fear that sooner or later, you'll wake up to a nightmare... and you don't want that to happen.

"Isn't a heavenly scene? Kei, look there—hey, stop looking at me." You tapped his shoulder rapidly as your gaze lingered on the city.

"I am already looking," you shift your attention to your right side, only to find his eyes on you. You felt a rush of red flowering your cheeks instead you pushed his face backwards.

"Stop it."

"Okay, okay, I will," he chortled as he faced forward.

You place your elbows on the fence as you palmed both of your cheeks, trying to calm the butterflies that emerged in your stomach. Your eyes glance at him on your right side. You spot the corner of his lips tilted upwards subtly as a soft gaze crosses his face. The light of the sun adorned him as it gleamed on his golden-brown eyes. His blonde hair was brushed against the wind and his chin held a bit of a goatee, giving him a suave, chill look. Especially with that casual attire; a clean grey shirt and brown cargo pants matched with numerous accessories.

Oh, why is he so damn handsome?

You feel another rush of butterflies swirling in your abdomen as you abruptly look away.

Oh god, it's just not fair of him to make you feel this much. He is so unfair. Finally, a realization hits your mind that explains your wonders as you let out a silent giggle, enjoying the feels of nature.

You might just be in love with him.

all dividers are from @/cafekitsune, thank you <33

[humanpurposes]

De Facto

She can't afford to fantasize over Aemond Targaryen, he's her boss and the Prime Minister... but stopping is easier said than done- this fic now has a part two :)

Main Masterlist

PM!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of SA, questionable power dynamics, politics (putting my degree to good use), unnecessary world building

Words: 7700

A/n: Thanks for the inspo @ewanmitchellcrumbs, sorry it's not Dishy Rishi tho :(

Throughout the whole train journey into Central King’s Landing, she’s sure she’s dreaming. Her body feels strangely light, her hands are restless and her heart is beating steadily in her chest. 

She flows effortlessly with the stream of commuters, along the platform, through the station’s glass atrium, then left towards Conquest Street. She knows her way around this part of the city already, and though she’s never been inside, she’s walked past Hightower House countless times.

This time is different. Now she walks up to the iron gates, pressing her thumbnail into her index finger, because the armed guards are making her nervous. 

She tells them her name and one of them mutters into a radio.

Her eyes run along the gold crest that marks the gate, a shield divided into seven, a sun for Dorne, a rose for The Reach, a stag for The Stormlands, a Trout for The Riverlands, a Falcon for The Vale, a Kraken for The Iron Islands, a wolf for The North, and at its heart is the symbol that unites them, the three headed dragon (although strictly speaking, Westeros abolished its monarchy centuries ago).

Suddenly one of the guards catches her attention. He opens the gate for her, and says she’ll be given a security pass and instructions to use the staff entrance following her official induction.

Hightower House stands proudly before her, an ornate facade of balustrades and columns, order and symmetry, an obvious juxtaposition of the medieval majesty of the Red Keep, just down the road.

It all feels very daunting, but the last five years have led her to this moment, the entirety of her adult life. She keeps telling herself that she deserves to be here, after all, she was the one who made it through the first round of applications, who made it to the shortlist and the final interviews, and she was the only one of hundreds of applicants who received the phone call, offering her a position as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister.

The contract only lasts two years, but it is the most effective stepping stone into a career in politics that she could ever ask for.

The entire morning is spent working out formalities. First she meets the deputy chief of staff, a handsome man named Criston Cole, who she’ll directly report to. He shows her through mountains of paperwork and gives her a brief overview of her role. Essentially, she is to assist the Prime Minister on whatever he deems necessary, policy aims, speeches, media coverage, political rhetoric, public image. 

“You’re a glorified assistant,” Cole says as she reads and signs page after page of her employment contract, “but with a salary to reflect it, so don’t feel discouraged. There will be some admin work which can get tedious, but you’ve been selected for your expertise and your passion for the party.”

That’s the crucial part of the job. Everything she does will be to benefit Mr Targayren as head of the Green Party, still running off the high of their victory at the last general election, just under a year ago. 

She signs her last signature triumphantly, despite the ache in her wrist, and hands the pen back to Cole with a smile. “All done?” she asks hopefully.

Cole grimaces sympathetically. “Not quite.”

There are four people to meet before she’s officially in. She takes a deep breath to soothe herself. It’s all just more formalities, which she can understand, given the weight of this job.

The first is the Prime Minister's private secretary, a glamorous woman with black hair and piercing green eyes, named Alys Rivers. She greets her warmly, having already spoken over the phone with her several times. She also knows her CV off by heart. It’s a little strange having someone know almost everything about her education and employment history when her face is unfamiliar.

The next is a young woman named Maris, the other of Mr Targaryen’s personal advisors. She has dark hair and a look of determination in her grey eyes. She explains that there are always two personal advisors, but hired on alternating years. She was hired at the start of Mr Targaryen’s premiership, and has a year left of her contract.

There are a thousand questions she wants to ask Maris, but before she can even scratch the surface, Cole’s checking his watch and dragging her off to another office.

Otto Hightower is the chief of staff. He’s thin and wiry, but incredibly intimidating. He has tired, sunken eyes that seem to glare right through her, and a passive but severe expression on his face, as though he’s scrutinising, having already decided she’s a waste of his time.

It’s not a great feeling, being looked at like that by a man she’s idolised for years. She knows his career timeline by heart. He earned his bachelors in Politics and Economics from Oldtown, before doing a masters in International Relations at King’s Landing, where he met and befriended Viserys Targaryen. He worked his way to becoming an MP and soon into Viserys’ cabinet when be became Prime Minister.

But things changed when Otto’s daughter married Viserys. No one really knows the whole truth, but Otto resigned from the Black Party, and took over from his own brother as leader of the opposition.

Now he works in the background, the mastermind behind his grandson’s remarkable successes.

Cole explains that Mr Hightower had the final say in the shortlist and determining which applicant would be given the final job offer.

“You had an impressive application,” he says, briefly looking up from a document. “I’m sure you’ll do well with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Hightower,” she says through the slight tremble in her jaw.

Other than that, the interaction is brief, and soon Cole is ushering her out of the room, back to Alys’ office, as richly decorated as the rest of the building. Maris is sitting at another desk, typing away furiously on a laptop.

“Tea? Coffee? Water?” Cole offers her, gesturing for her to take a seat on a green leather sofa.

“Water would be lovely,” she says.

“Maris,” he calls.

She glares up from her laptop. “That’s not my job.”

“No, but it’s courtesy,” he says.

Alys’ slight smirk doesn’t escape her attention.

Maris purses her lips, but she closes her laptop, pointedly slams her hands against the arms of her chair, and marches out of the room, her shiny black heels clicking against the dark wood floor.

“She’s nice really,” Cole says, “just a bit… direct at times.”

“Direct,” Alys groans to herself. 

She feels her brow flicker into a frown but stops herself.

“She’s good at her job,” Criston says like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

When Maris returns, she seems a little less on edge.

She takes the glass of water with a cautious hand, Maris’ eyes lingering on her maroon painted nails. 

“I like your top,” Maris says.

She glances down. It’s nothing special, black and long-sleeved, to go with her long blue and green patterned skirt.

“Thank you,” she says.

Maris hums to herself before she goes back to her desk.

“Do you often work in here?” she asks.

Maris shrugs. “It depends.” She doesn’t care to explain further.

Alys is smirking again.

“Mr Targaryen was in a meeting with the cabinet this morning,” Cole says, then checks his watch. “He has a few phone calls to make, but he should be ready to see you at about 4pm. Maris?”

“Yes?” 

“Will you show her in around then?”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly, “of course.”

Cole shakes her hand before he leaves. “Alys will show you out when you leave. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

She continues to wait on the sofa, restless in the silence that follows once the door has shut. Alys and Maris are both typing, their nails clicking against their keyboards. She starts to bounce her leg and stops herself.

Her mind is racing. The day seems to have gone well so far, but what if she meets Mr Targaryen and it all falls apart? What if he decides he doesn’t like her and sends her packing? 

She’s too lost in her own head to notice the flash of Alys’ emerald green dress as she stands in front of her. That is, until she’s leaning down and waving a bar of chocolate in front of her. “Get a bit of sugar in you,” she says, “and breathe slowly.”

She smiles as she takes the bar and places a single cube on her tongue. She lets it melt, savouring the sweetness and the slight bitterness of its taste.

You can do this, she thinks to herself with every inhale. And then she exhales. You are here for a reason.

The phone on Alys’ desk rings. She checks her own phone. It’s exactly 3:59.

“Yes, sir, Maris will show her in now.”

Aemond Targaryen is on the other end of the line. Her heart drops at the thought.

As the second son of Viserys, it seems like he was always destined for the family business. He differs from his father and grandfather in that he did Politics and Philosophy at Sunspear, before going on to do his masters in History at Oldtown, and then another masters in International Relations at King’s Landing. By all accounts, he is fiercely intelligent, mature beyond his years, with the right balance of intimidating and charismatic to command the support he needed to get in as MP for Rosby, then as party leader.

In fact, it had been his first campaign that inspired her to apply for a degree in politics in the first place. She loved how he spoke, how he managed to strike a balance between grace and passion, and how deeply he cared for his policies. He was poised and perfect, but driven by a genuine want for improvement.

He perfected his craft within a matter of years. With the mess Rhaenyra Targaryen had made of the country, it was all too easy for him to win a majority with a few winning speeches, a hand running through his silver hair, that lazy half-smirk and the intense look in his eyes that just made you want to fall at his feet. And people do. The press adore him, his party worships him, foreign dignitaries often remark on his charm but also his capabilities as a negotiator and a leader.

Maris leads her out of the office, along a quiet corridor. She stops outside a door with gold lettering: Office of A. Targaryen, Prime Minister

Seeing it in front of her, strangely, seems to subdue her nerves. Her chest flutters, but the anxiety is more manageable than before.

Maris taps her knuckles against the door three times.

From the other side of the door she hears a gentle but chilling voice. “Enter.”

She follows Maris inside.

He’s perched against his desk, his long, silver hair falling around his shoulders as he looks over a few pieces of paper. He wears a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks and brown leather shoes.

He looks up slowly, the light of the early Autumn evening beaming through the windows, over the sharp features of his face, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

His eyes find hers, unashamed and curious.

Suddenly she can feel her heart in her throat.

Maris introduces her. “I’m sure Alys already debriefed you, but she’s here for her induction. Cole said you wanted to meet her as a formality and–”

It feels awfully like she’s talking for the sake of it.

“That will be all, Maris,” Mr Targaryen says softly. She can’t help but watch the way his lips move when he speaks.

“Oh, are you sure, sir?” she asks. Her face is twisted into a slight frown but her eyes are wide. “I just thought, for her sake, it might be useful if I’m here to explain everything.”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her skirt as she listens to Maris’ footsteps move towards the door. It opens and closes, and now all she can hear are her own breaths, gently flowing through her nose.

She doesn’t know where to look. At the patterned carpet on the floor? No, it would be rude of her to hang her head. At the portraits that line the wall? At the bookshelves? At the desk? No, that all seems too intrusive. Out the window? No, that might seem like she’s not paying attention.

So her eyes settle on him.

He hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s placed the paper on the desk behind him, leaning with his palms at the edge. His eyes glance over her once, up and down.

Fuck, he’s so much better looking in person.

Then he stands to his full height, and picks up a clipboard from the desk. He flicks through a few of the pages and hums softly to himself.

“You had an impressive application,” he says.

She swallows through the slightly dry feeling in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“And an excellently written cover letter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did your masters in Comparative Politics at Sunspear. Oberyen Martell is still head of faculty there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He taught one of my modules, Security Studies.”

“He’s an interesting character,” he muses, smiling to himself. “He was my supervisor for my undergrad dissertation.”

She already knew that. Dr Martell loved to go on about his star student. She would too if she taught the future Prime Minister.

He flicks to another page. She watches as his eyes skim over the words in front of him. “And you came with glowing reviews from Tyland Lannister.”

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond to that– it makes her sound more like a product than a person– so she just smiles, as delicately as she can, making sure not to squint her eyes too much. 

She had spent the last year as Mr Lannister’s Parliamentary Assistant, at his office in the Red Keep, starting just as he had been appointed as Foreign Secretary. 

“How was he as a boss?” Mr Targayren asks.

Straightforward, she thinks. He took his job seriously and was decidedly not a fan of smalltalk. His office often worked in silence, and even when he was stressed he was efficient.

“No complaints,” she says.

“I’m sure you were all kept busy, cleaning up Corlys Velaryon’s mess after the Stepstones.”

A minor military excursion to defend a few key trading routes, or at least that’s how it had started. Within a matter of months the Stepstones had spiralled beyond control, costing Corlys Velaryon his seat and the Blacks their majority in Parliament.

“If I remember right, it was Daemon Targaryen pushing that particular policy,” she says.

The corner of his mouth curls upward. It could be a smile but she’s not entirely sure. 

“Sir,” she adds, hoping to soften the blow of her unintentional insult; what idiot tries to correct the Prime Minister on their first day on the job? She does, clearly.

He doesn’t seem irritated or angry, more amused. A cryptic “hmm” sounds in his throat as he flicks back to the first document. “And before that you were a campaign manager for the party, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, grateful for the change of subject. “I was working in the Stormlands in the lead up to the general election.” The region was formerly a Black stronghold, but turned Green thanks in part to her efforts.

“Excellent work,” he says.

The smooth, seductive tone of his voice seems to come so naturally to him. She bites her tongue at the image it prompts in her head, of his lips brushing over her ear, his hands resting on her waist, she can almost feel it–

No. That’s wrong. So wrong.

Fantasising about the Prime Minister of Westeros is not a habit she can afford to keep up, not when she’s supposed to be working with him in such close proximity.

But that’s easier said than done.

Cole enters his office, bright and early on Monday morning, before the rest of Hightower House is awake.

Aemond’s routine is the same every day. Up at 5am, run a few laps of the expansive gardens or spend an hour going through his meticulously planned gym routine. He showers, shaves, applies his skincare and haircare products, dabs some perfume on his wrists, dresses, and takes breakfast and a black coffee in his office. By 7:30am he’s ready to work.

He needs the routines and the outlets. They help keep him sane.

He’d seen how this position twisted his father into a tired, irritable and irrational man, how it got to Rhaenyra’s head until she became a liability to herself. He won’t be like them. He has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to claim.

Cole places a folder on his desk. “The background check you ordered, sir.”

He thanks him, quietly and sincerely, and waits until he’s left the room to open the folder.

His new personal advisor intrigues him. He’d made the request for the background check as soon as their meeting had ended on Friday. 

She has no criminal record, which is unsurprising, that definitely would have come up sooner if she had one.

He browses through her education history, a star student at Storm’s End Grammar School, a bachelor’s in history from Rainwood, a masters from Suspear, where she was head of Debate Soc and Amnesty International, while working various internships and retail jobs in between.

The next page is full of articles from student publications, The Importance of Integrity in Politics for the Rainwood Student Journal, Sovereignty in the Stepstones for Red Sun Rising. He reads through them both. Her writing is immaculate, concise and convincing.

The final page is more personal, social media profiles. It’s nothing scandalous, but she clearly has a certain image she wants to project. Her Instagram is full of art and history museums, coffee shops and preppy outfits. She has a few pictures on her LinkedIn of her at the Green Party conference last year, pictured with a group of girls her age and a caption that talks about the importance of representation in politics, with links to various charities and initiatives. In the photo she’s wearing a white silk shirt, open just enough to show off a dainty gold necklace and a hint of the swell of her chest.

She seems perfect. Too perfect for his own good.

The first months go smoothly enough. 

Maris is a practical person. She’s good with numbers, good for bouncing off ideas for economic policies and analysing data for him, even if she is a little overbearing at times.

But she fills the gaps perfectly. He secretly looks forward to their meetings and debriefings, when he asks her to write or edit speeches for him, or run through questions with him before a press conference. Politics is never easy, but she has a remarkable talent for keeping a level head. He likes that she’s always calm and composed. He likes her soft, reassuring smiles and the sharp look in her eyes. 

They just click. She’s always switched on, always knows the right things to say and do, always knows what he needs.

Every moment they are alone feels monumental; the settled quiet of his office when she first walks in and takes a seat on the other side of his desk; when they make an exchange, debriefing papers for an empty coffee cup, and their fingers will brush over each other; when he stands over her shoulder to read the document she’s working on, close enough to smell her perfume and feel a heat simmering under his skin. It’s starting to become unbearable, and yet he craves that feeling.

And then, one morning, he gets a phone call from the Crownlands Messenger. They’re about to publish a story. His brother has been accused of inappropriate conduct by no less than three women.

Fucking Aegon.

The entire country is in an uproar. How can anyone trust their Parliamentary representatives when they do shit like this? Is Aegon an outlier or is this just scratching the surface? What will his punishment be? What else are the Greens hiding? 

There are hundreds of emergency meetings with his grandfather, tense phone calls, bearating headlines, and onslaughts of outrage online. There’s no question about it, Aegon has to resign as an MP, but the damage is done. The polls are turning Black instead of Green. People don’t trust the ruling party, or its leader.

It’s late. Aemond paces his office while a headache pulses in his head. He’s long ditched the coffee for whisky, swirling it about in his glass. He sent Maris home hours ago. He doesn’t have the patience for anyone at the moment. Except for the woman leaning against his desk, flicking through news articles and the pages of notes she’s prepared for him.

Tomorrow is PMQs. No doubt there’s only one topic the Blacks will be asking about. He can already see Rhaenyra and Daemon’s smug faces, the delight they’ll take in watching him fall apart. There’s just no way he’s getting out of this easily.

He feels so restless. His hands are trembling and his lips won’t seem to stop moving, so he places himself against the wall, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes another generous sip.

From the desk he hears a heavy sigh that hums slightly in her throat. “Is there anything else you want to go over, sir?” she asks.

“No, I think we’ve exhausted the hypotheticals,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. He resists the urge to pull at the roots, to take his frustration out on something. “It’s just– fuck’s sake, I’ve been saying Aegon’s a liability for years. But no, Otto always wanted to keep pushing for him. Said it was good for the family’s image.”

She places her phone and the document behind her, and takes a few steps towards him.

He glances down at her, at the way the low light of the lamps and the fireplace glows against her skin, the contented sort of look in her eyes. 

Her eyes flicker down at his now empty glass. “Refill, sir?” Her lips stay slightly parted once she stops speaking.

Then he realises he’s staring.

“No, thank you,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the glass. “I should probably stop now.”

She takes the glass from him with her middle finger and thumb, avoiding touching his hand before she takes it away. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to his head but his heart sinks at the lack of contact.

What is he doing? It must be after 9pm now and he’s still keeping her here without a real reason. 

She’s standing by the drinks cabinet, carefully placing the crystal bottle of whisky away and setting the empty glass out for housekeeping to clean up in the morning.

Instead of thinking about her, the way her hair looks, the way her skirt hugs her waist and the curve of her backside and thighs, he tries to think about how much he hates Aegon. This only makes him more agitated.

He closes his eyes and throws his head against the wall. His heart is racing and there’s a hollow feeling in his chest. He’s craving something, not another drink, not a smoke (he quit once he was first elected as an MP). He wants something else, something dangerous and damning. 

The heels of her shoes tap softly against the floor, until she’s standing in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

She frowns slightly before lifting her hand and delicately placing it on his shoulder. “You need to relax, sir,” she says.

He lets out a low “hmm,” as he weighs out his options. This seems like a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

“That’s not going to happen with you here,” he says.

Her calm, somewhat smug expression falls. She looks so innocent now, so sweet. “What does that mean?” she says.

He leans in closer to her, until the tip of his nose barely brushes against hers. “I think you know what it means, darling.”

She hesitates, before her mouth spreads into an eager smile that shows off her teeth.

Her hands find his, ensnaring him under a soft but commanding grip. She leads him away from the wall, to the sofa by the fireplace. 

He settles on it, leaning against the arm as she comes to her knees before him, spreading his legs apart to make room for herself.

She palms her hand over the hardness that’s been straining painfully against his trousers for hours now. She feels along his clothed cock, pressing her cheek against it and gazing up at him with a look of teasing innocence.

Aemond knows he is done for, jaw slack, chest rising and falling as he breathes. He would have never presumed he would find himself in this kind of position, not after all the work’s he’s had to do cleaning up the mess of Aegon’s fuck ups, not after working this hard to get where he is, and least of all because he believes himself to be a decent man. 

But he doesn’t stop her as her fingers undo the button and the zip on his trousers, and he doesn’t make any kind of protest as she takes his freed cock in her hand and teasingly strokes along it. 

He keeps his hands firmly on the sofa, digging his fingertips and his nails into the leather, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of having her like this for weeks, as if he hasn’t fucked his own hand countless times pretending it was her.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He looks down, his jaw slack, barely containing his strained breaths, and there she is, doe-eyed and eager as she places a delicate kiss to his flushed tip. Her lips barely brush against him before she pulls away, keeping a hold at the base.

His arousal stains her mouth and she fucking grins.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she says, sweetly, earnestly.

He runs his hand against her hair, gently, as if trying to soothe her. It seems to take her by surprise which only serves to excite him further.

She leans into his touch, lips parting, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Until he grips his fist and pulls. He tilts her head up. It shouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to bring her attention back to him.

He decides he won’t tell her what to do, not directly, but she’s a smart girl, she knows what he wants. 

With her eyes wide again, she opens her mouth and inches his cock past her lips. The tightness in his gut starts to burn as she works up and down his length, slowly– excruciatingly slowly. It’s not in anyway relaxing, he thinks, but it’s a nice kind of torture.

He loses himself to the warmth and the wetness of her mouth, her tongue running over the underside of his cock, her lips teasing over the tip before she moves back down, using her hands where her mouth can’t reach.

He chokes out a throaty “fuck,” knowing there’s a security guard outside the door, and probably a few of the staff still lingering about. 

But she looks so beautiful like this, her brow furrowed in determination as she tries to take him deeper and deeper, desperate to please him, happy to make him suffer for it. And the little noises she makes, the gags and the moans. He imagines that she likes this, that she’s been wanting this for as long as he has, and if he pulled her onto his lap and slid his fingers under her skirt, he’d find her drenched.

She starts to up the pace until he brings his hand to the side of her face again, his hand large enough that he can rest his palm against her cheek and tease his fingers through her hair. Her eyes dart up to his, wide and teary. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “nice and slow, just like that.”

She whimpers around him, breathing desperately through her nose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coos, “you started this, didn’t you? Wanted to taste me? Wanted to feel my cock in your mouth?”

She hums in agreement.

“Just fucking take it then,” he says with a clenched jaw, gripping her hair to bob her head up and down, keeping that torturous pace.

The pleasure builds slowly, running hotly through his body, but he fights the urge to clamp both hands around her head and buck his hips up to fuck her throat.

He comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, keeping himself sheathed within her as he paints the inside of her mouth, and pulls her head away to see the last few drops spill against her lips.

She gazes up at him with dazed and glassy eyes. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath. Her forehead glistens with sweat, mascara runs down her face and his spend drips over her chin.

He wipes some of the mess away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “Swallow,” he orders.

Her mouth closes and her throat bobs. He can already feel the tension in his gut tightening again.

If only he could keep her like this forever.

She makes it to Hightower House at the usual time of 8am, despite leaving work so late last night. Despite the hours she spent consumed by thoughts of Aemond Targaryen as she rode the train and dragged herself into her bed. Despite the aching arousal that went unfulfilled. Despite the marks on her knees and the stiffness in her jaw.

When she walks into Alys’ office to sign in, she’s already there, perfectly poised and typing away on her laptop. 

“Morning,” she says brightly.

Alys looks up from the screen. The white light shining from below makes her face look a little eerie. “Morning,” she says with a smug look on her face.

She ignores it, scrawling down the time and her signature beside her name.

“You were working rather late last night,” Alys says.

“Yeah, I was,” she mutters, placing the pen down and straightening her spine.

Alys is staring at her. Her eyes are unnervingly bright. “He never asks Maris to work late.”

Her heart drops.

It’s like she can feel the weight of him in her mouth, the taste of him on her tongue.

“I bet he’s just realised I’m more of a people pleaser,” she says.

Alys hums and smiles. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t have time for this. She hangs up her coat and her bag, and picks up two black coffees from the coffee machine in the kitchenette down the hall.

Aemond is in his office, leaning back in his chair with his mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t react much when he sees her, he just watches her as she sets one of the cups in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in thanks and brings it to his lips.

She imagines the person on the other end of the call is starting to bore him.

“Yeah… yeah… I know… well there’s not much to be done now but get it over with.”

She takes a few sips from her own cup, wiping the corners of her mouth. Aemond follows her fingers as she does.

“I’ll speak to you after. Yes, thank you, grandfather.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto a stack of papers on the desk. “Seven fucking Hells.”

“How did that go?” she asks.

Aemond rolls his eyes and huffs a tired laugh. “He wants to talk through candidates for the by-election in Duskendale. I said I’ll think about it if I survive PMQs.”

She sets her coffee cup down. “What are you most worried about? You’ve prepared for this. What’s worrying you?”

Aemond taps his fingers against the desk. She tries not to ignore the thrill it sends through her belly.

“I’ve never had to deal with something like this. I’ve never been this worried about the party’s image, but that’s usually because I do everything right.”

The whole Aegon situation is beyond his control, and yet he’ll be getting the scrutiny for it.

“People need to be able to trust you,” she says.

Aemond looks up at her expectantly.

“Is Aegon still a party member?” she asks.

Aemond’s expression darkens. “That was discussed. Otto wants him to remain an official member.”

“You’re the Prime Minister. Put your foot down.”

“I can’t,” he says, standing and fixing the rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on his shirt before he reaches for his tie.

“You can’t afford not to. If you go easy on Aegon, Rhaenyra’s going to play to some kind of ‘the Greens are anti woman card.’ Your voters need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“And throw my own brother under the bus?” he says, sternly.

But she can tell he’s still nervous. His hands are shaking as he ties the tie around his neck.

She pauses, wondering where the line is here. Aegon Targaryen will be fine. He’ll be put under investigation and keep getting bad press for a while, but he can live off daddy’s money in the meantime, and in a few years the whole scandal will be forgotten.

She takes a few steps towards him and comes close enough to smell the dark, boozy smell of his perfume, and shoos his hands away.

“What would be better for the country,” she asks, tilting her head and keeping her eyes focused as she fastens his tie, “presenting yourself as a leader who is committed to integrity and respect, or leaving yourself open to further criticism?”

She pushes the knot up tightly against his collar for emphasis.

Aemond just smirks. “You’re very persuasive,” he says.

“That’s my job, sir.”

She gasps as his hand grabs her hip and pulls her against him. His breath runs hotly over her face as he tilts her chin up to look at him. His throat hums as he breathes.

She could fall apart then and there.

Until a knock on the door has her practically shoving him away.

Aemond chuckles and shrugs on his suit jacket. “Enter,” he calls.

She turns her back to the door to hide the flustered look on her face, pretending to look through a bookshelf that she’s never really looked at properly before.

“Car for you, sir,” Alys says from the doorway.

Aemond calls for her by her surname. Fuck– she was supposed to pack his briefcase before he left. She takes a breath and goes about collecting all the pages of notes and briefings he’ll need. 

She brings it to him, and notices Maris standing in the hallway behind Alys. Maris usually goes with him to the Red Keep for PMQs, but today he requests that she accompany him. She supposes it makes sense, she’s been the one helping him prepare after all.

Maris’ face is a storm. Alys looks down at her feet and tries to stifle a giggle.

The next few hours are a blur. She trails after Aemond through the ornate corridors, keeping her eyes on his silver hair, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. Somewhere along the way, Cole and the head of security, a man Aemond greets as “Mr Westerling”, joins them.

They leave through the front entrance, into the sharp September air and into a black car. The hum of the engine and the smell of leather makes her nauseous, but they’re only in the car for a matter of minutes before the door swings open and she’s been ushered towards the Red Keep.

Once a seat of Kings, now the red stone castle seems a little out of place with the rest of the city. This is where Parliament gathers.

As they walk through its halls, Aemond tells her to throw a few questions at him. She has them all memorised in her head, able to recite a few without really thinking about it. Aemond mutters the answers they’ve rehearsed under his breath, smiling politely and waving as they pass by civil servants, MPs, Green and Black party members alike. They even pass Cregan Stark, leader of the Northern Independence party. He whispers all of their names in her ear.

There’s a small room where Aemond waits in before he enters the Great Hall. She can hear the noise and the chatter on the other side of the double doors, engraved with the same crest that marks the gates to Hightower House.

He won’t stop moving, adjusting his tie and his cuffs, tutting and pursing his lips.

She makes sure Cole and Westerling are muttering to each other before she leans into Aemond, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers, “don’t see it as a chance for them to criticise you, see it as an opportunity for you to reassure everyone else of how brilliant you are.”

Aemond turns his head towards her. He’s not touching her but she feels the proximity.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s all perspective.”

Before Aemond is called into the hall, Cole directs her to the gallery, above the benches where the MPs sit.

She and Aemond meet eyes before she leaves. She stops herself from reaching for him, not wanting to leave his side.

“Good luck,” she says.

As if he needs it. She watches everything unfold from the gallery, the MPs sat below her like she’s watching a play in a theatre.

Aemond starts off with an amazing opening speech which, at her recommendation, doesn’t shy away from the issue of the whole Aegon scandal. He affirms his commitment to ensuring that central government is a safe and inclusive working environment, which is when he announces Aegon’s resignation as an MP, as well as his removal from the Green Party.

The chamber in an uproar. A few members of the Green Party make a bit of a fuss, but mostly Aemond’s announcement is applauded, even by a good number of Black Party members.

Rhaenyra, Aemond’s sister and predecessor, is at a loss for words, as is her deputy, Daemon.

Aemond seems to get a boost of confidence from this and takes every question in his stride, using elements from the answers she had rehearsed with him and even throwing in a few one liners which has half the room cheering him.

And he’s fucking hot when he’s cocky.

While he speaks all she can think of is how he sounded while she was between his legs. “Good girl… just fucking take it…” she has to clench her fists and her jaw at the wave of arousal that rises within her.

Afterwards she walks with him to the car. A whole host of Green Party members crowd him as they walk through the hallways, praising him, commending him. He smiles graciously, looking over his shoulder every so often to look at her, to make sure she’s not fallen behind.

The silence of the car is unbearable with Cole and Westerling in the front, and Aemond beside her, drumming his fingers against his thigh and running his other hand through his hair.

She presses her thighs at the obvious arousal pooling at her centre.

Seven hells, she’s acting like she’s in heat.

She follows Aemond back through Hightower House, past Alys’ office, to his own office. When he closes the door behind them, he locks it.

She leans against the desk, keeping her hands on the wood behind her.

Aemond turns back to her with a ravenous look in his pale blue eyes. He reaches into his pocket, effortlessly pulling his hair into a low bun, as he usually does in informal company.

She can’t take her eye off him as he tosses his jacket over the sofa, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he stalks towards her, his chin tilted down and his lips in a tight line, until he’s close enough to paw at her waist. 

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands as they tease over the fabric of the red mini skirt she had picked out this morning, the way she squirms underneath him.

“Oh,” she breathes. One of his hands trails up, untucking her blouse from her skirt and brushing his fingertips against the bare skin underneath. “Just… doing my job, sir.”

He hums to himself as his hand works its way round to her backside, squeezing gently. “Do you like calling me ‘sir’?”

She can’t help but nod, dazed at the feeling of his hands tracing the shape of her body.

“Yeah, I think you do,” he says, leaning in to press a slow, firm kiss to her neck.

Her resolve is shattered. She throws her hands around his neck, pulling herself into him, desperate to feel him against her, to stay close to him.

She almost whines when he moves away, much to his amusement, feeling her mouth fall into a pout.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got a brat,” he says, taking her chin in his hand. “Are you going to be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” she utters.

“See? You don’t even need to be told,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to turn around and lean over the desk.”

She follows his instructions without missing a beat, bracing herself on her forearms, against the surface. She feels her skirt being pushed up over her hips, her tights and panties pulled down in one go, fingertips trailing over her thighs. Then she feels his breath against the wetness of her bare pussy. 

She can’t help but let out a quiet moan, pressing her nails into the wood in anticipation.

“Haven’t even fucking touched you yet, are you that desperate for me?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, trying to look over her shoulder.

Aemond’s hand finds its way against her head, pressing her down. And he doesn’t let go.

His fingers drag through her folds, teasing her entrance and her clit before he slides in a single digit. It feels so different from her own, longer and thicker, pressing into her at an unfamiliar angle. She feels utterly weightless, the obscene sound of him moving in and out of her only adding to her arousal.

Aemond’s voice is dark and husky, as it was last night. “Good girl,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t reply, he withdraws and lands a stinging slap against her cheek, before he pushes into her again. “Answer me,” he says, clearly and firmly.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frantically trying to nod against his hold of her head. “Feels so fucking good.”

He increases his speed, pumping in and out of her until her climax washes over her. It happens gradually, building and building before a pleasant numbness washes through her, to every corner of her body. 

While she comes down from her high, her attention is caught by the sound of a belt buckle and rustling fabric.

The tip of his cock presses into her without warning. He inches further and further in until he bottoms out, the material of his trousers pressing against her skin– the cunt hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes.

He finally relents his hold of her head, grabbing at her waist as he ruts into her. It’s fast and primal, adrenaline pumping through her blood, Aemond’s fingers digging into her flesh, her breath coming out in moans, his belt buckle hitting the desk with every harsh thrust.

“Knew you were a little slut,” he grits out, grabbing at her cheeks and spreading them out to watch his cock moving in and out of her. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back the wanton noises threatening to slip past her lips. 

Suddenly a hand comes to her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. One hand kneads at her breasts through her blouse and her bra, while the other slips between her legs, tracing quick circles over her clit.

“I wanna feel you come,” he rasps into her ear, “wanna feel my good girl clench around my cock.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She clings to his arms and digs her teeth into her bottom lip. She can feel herself hurtling towards her climax, if only he would move his fingers a little faster.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What was that, pet?” Aemond asks, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come!” she whines. “Fuck– please… please, I just want to come, sir.”

She feels him smiling against her as his fingers rub faster over her clit. She can feel how deep he is inside her, how his cock bullies against that sensitive spot, over and over again, until her orgasm tears through her.

She tries to keep her mouth shut but she can’t help the pleading groan that hums in her throat. Aemond holds her as she falls apart, fucking her thoroughly through it all.

Until finally, he reaches his end, hissing through his teeth and pulling out to spill himself onto her pussy. She feels the warmth, how it drips through her folds, for now uncaring of the mess they’ve surely made.

Aemond keeps holding her against his chest. His forehead falls against the back of her head and his hot breath echoes over her neck. “I really appreciate the work you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly. “I think you and I make quite a pair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she mewls, letting her head fall against his arm.

Aemond hums a laugh to himself, it rumbles in his chest and against her back. “So pretty and polite,” he coos, “how did I ever manage without you until now, pet?”

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

A/n: I might do a part 2 to this so let me know if you would liked to be tagged :)

[the-marshals-wife]

Cinnamon Sugar (Colt Seavers x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: A spontaneous Colt fic because I saw The Fall Guy again and I'm hopelessly in love. Someone needs to get this man his coffee, and it might as well be you. ♥

Description: Colt Seavers x Fem!Reader, flirty fluff | Warnings: nada, just Colt being the supportive sunshine he is | Setting: before Jody (or AU without) | Word count: 2,129 | Gif credit: user tay-swifts

Imagine being Colt's old flame and reuniting under unexpectedly sweet circumstances

As it turns out, production assistant was just a fancy name for errand girl. At least that seemed to be the case for you in the nearly two years you'd held the title. Yet after everything you'd been through to get here, you couldn't lose this job. Nearly an hour after you were supposed to, you haphazardly assembled the daily morning coffees for the sound crew on Stage B, and were now rushing like mad across set to make the first of many apologetic appearances for the day.

"Excuse me, sorry," you repeat nervously as you duck around people.

You'd overslept your alarm after staying up nearly all night printing a mountain of forms for the design director. Having never even eaten breakfast, you calculated if you also skipped lunch, you might be able to catch up to your usual routine. You weave between the tents as fast as your legs will carry you, trying not to bump into anyone and lose your cargo of caffeine.

As you cut the corner around a camera truck, you're fixated on the tray of beverages in your hands, and you don't see the person right in front of you. You collide at full speed.

The tray flies back into your chest. You gasp as the lids of two of the cups pop off and pour coffee all down the front of you and the poor soul you collided with. You recoil and frantically try to catch the other two cups, but you're unsteady from the impact. A strong hand grasps your arm and keeps you from tumbling completely to the ground as you attempt to regain your balance and find purchase in the loose gravel. Despite your efforts to recover, the tray and all its contents falls at your feet. You're left drenched and clinging to the arm that's gripping yours.

You gape down at the mess, frozen in horror.

"I am SO sorry," you begin shakily, "Oh my gosh, I'm so so sorry! I'm such a-"

The second you look up, it feels like time stops, along with your pounding heart. You would know those baby blues anywhere, even through the narrow visor of a helmet. He removes his headgear, and you stare in complete disbelief at the rugged, all-too-familiar face before you.

"Colt?"

"Y/N?"

He sounds equally stunned, his eyes filled with recognition.

"It's you," you breathe.

"It's you," he says, flashing a bewildered smile, "Are you alright? Did you get burned?"

"I'm fine. It was lukewarm anyway" you reply, embarrassed, "Are you okay?"

"Perfect," he nods distantly, "Long time."

"Yeah. Furious Seven set, right?"

"Close. Fate of the Furious," he recalls, "Summer 2016. Havana, and Atlanta."

"That's right. I can never keep the order straight."

"No one can," he laughs, lips twisting into a grin, "You look great."

"So do you," you smile.

Somehow, he'd gotten more handsome than the last time you met. Memories come flooding to the front of your dizzied mind. Many of hot summer nights spent by the pool, and even more of sneaking off together to the hotel rooftops to be alone. Even now, you could still feel the warmth of his strong arms wrapped around you while you talked for hours beneath the stars, sharing your dreams and imagining the future. You'd hoped desperately that he would be in both. And here he was, crashing back into your life and looking at you as if he'd never left.

Knowing you were already slipping back under the spell of his lovesome stare, the coffee dripping off your cheek and down your neck brings you back to reality.

"Oh, look at your suit," you despair at the splatters, attempting to wipe them away with your shirt sleeve, "I'm so sorry, Colt. You know me, always the klutz."

"Don't worry about it. It looks like it's water and coffee resistant," he dismisses, gesturing to the helmet in his hand, "I'm the idiot walking around with this thing on. Just trying to slip away for five minutes without someone yelling at me. Director's got a stick up so far up his backside today, I think it's stabbing his brain, if you know what I mean."

"Oh I definitely do," you grin, followed with a sigh, "I think the whole art department has it out for me at this point."

As you swipe away the last of the obvious drops, your hand lingers on his chest. Blinking, you remember yourself and quickly step back.

"Unfortunately, I don't think my getup is as resistant as yours. Probably should swing by costuming next," you laugh, looking down at your soiled, previously white blouse.

"What am I doing?" Colt admonishes himself before shouting over his shoulder, "Uh, can we get a towel over here, please? Or two? Thank you."

Much to your gratitude, another assistant walking by hands you each a towel a moment later, the studio logo emblazoned on the corner. You hurriedly rub the black linen over your face and turn your focus to your ruined clothes.

"Great service around here," he remarks.

"Coffee delivery notwithstanding," you add.

As he brushes the remaining droplets off his shoulders, his expression turns hesitant. "Oh, you uh, missed a spot. May I?"

You pause wiping at your sleeves and nod to him. He delicately brushes away your hair to dab your temple with his towel, and his touch is almost as soft as his gaze upon you.

"There. Good as new," he declares.

"Thank you," you say, proceeding to wipe at your java-stained jeans in an effort hide your flushed cheeks. "I had no idea they brought you on."

"I've only been here about a week," he explains, clearing his throat, "The last guy's wife just had a baby. I'm just filling in 'til he gets back."

Your stomach sinks at the news, and you try to conceal your disappointment as he continues.

"But yeah, we started the shoot for the big chase scene today. Just wrapped up the opening shots."

"Wow, that's great. I can't believe I haven't seen you around before now. Then again, I don't see the set much while the cameras are rolling. I'm mostly behind the scenes, running all over creation bringing this and that. Speaking of which..." You toss the towel around your neck and squat down to clean up your accident. "I know some people on Stage B who are probably wondering where their drinks are right about now."

Colt takes a knee and retrieves the tray for you, and you begin to stack the empty cups and sticky lids.

"You're not going to get in trouble, are you?" he asks, worry in this voice.

You flinch at the thought, "Not much if I hurry up and remake these."

"Let me help you then."

"You don't have to do that, Colt. I'm sure you're busy."

"I'm on break, and you only dropped them because of me," he insists, "Even if I wasn't, what are they gonna do? Start without me?"

You smile to yourself. There was no arguing with him. He was just as charming as you remembered, and twice as stubborn.

"Alright, you win, Mr. Bigtime Stuntman," you tease.

He holds up the last cup and he raises his eyebrow suspiciously at the letters scribbled in marker on the side.

"What does the 'C.S.' stand for? Colt Seavers?"

"Cinnamon sugar, actually," you chuckle, "Vanilla latte with exactly six shakes of cinnamon sugar on top. Executive producer's favorite. He orders it every single day, no joke."

"That sounds good. I might have to try that myself," he smirks, "Is there like a coffee list I need to put my name on? Or do I just...swing by your trailer?"

"Like they give trailers to production assistants," you scoff, standing up.

Before you can pick up the loaded tray, he snatches it off the ground and jumps to his feet. You know better than to try to take it back from him.

Tucking his helmet under his arm, he gives a little bow. "Lead on, milady."

"The machine's in the catering tent," you giggle, walking in that direction.

"Why are you running around getting coffee for people anyway?" Colt asks, following alongside you, "I thought you were writing the greatest paranormal, pseudo-thriller mystery romance movie of all time? 'Lovers of Lives Past.' What happened with that?"

"You remembered," you say, blushing.

"Of course I remember! I love that story! Did you finish it?"

You frown, reminiscing on the hand that fate had dealt you since you were last together. "My mom had a bad fall, and I took off a year to take care of her. She's better now, but when I got back, I couldn't find any work. The studio wouldn't take me back in my old role. Said they 'downsized the crew.' That included the writer's room. I couldn't even get a spot as a proofreader. When this position finally opened up, I had to take it. It was that or quit the filmmaking world altogether," you sigh, crossing your arms, "I don't know, after being away so long, working on the script didn't seem to matter anymore."

"It does matter. If it means something to even just one person, it matters," he states emphatically, "It matters to you, and it matters to me, so that's already two people right there. Look at you go, Miss Bigtime Hollywood Screenwriter."

His words get a snicker out of you. You'd missed that unbridled enthusiasm of his so very much.

"Oh Colt," you say, shaking your head, "I don't think I have it in me to write a real movie. Besides, you know how quick the landscape changes in this business. No one wants the stupidly optimistic, cheesy stuff I write. They all want gritty, dark scripts or things they can make ten-year franchises out of."

He stops in his tracks and immediately faces you. "Now that's where you're wrong. People want the cheesy. They want the hope, even if they don't know they want it. They need it," he insists, "I know you can do it. I believe in you. But that doesn't matter unless you believe in you."

You stare at him thoughtfully, heart swelling. He was wasting no time reminding you of all the reasons you fell for him in the first place. As if you could ever forget.

"You're sweet," you say.

Sweet. Warm. Inviting. Comforting. Your cinnamon sugar.

He smirks. "It's the vanilla latte."

You start walking once again. The catering tent was close up ahead, and the butterflies in your chest were building up with every step.

"So um, where are you heading next? When the other guy gets back, I mean," you stammer.

"I'm not sure. My schedule is actually pretty open after this," he answers, giving you a coy look, "Why?"

"Just wondering," you say, biting your lip.

"I was thinking of maybe hanging around here a bit. Slow down, take in the scenery, see the sights," he suggests, "You know anyone who could show me around town?"

"I might." You fight to suppress your excitement as you sense his meaning.

"Colt!" someone calls out from behind you, "Pyro wants to talk to you about the ramp launch! They're worried about the impact of explosion on the car with you in it!"

Colt comes to a halt and groans, bowing his head.

"This is why I had the helmet on," he says under his breath.

You look over your shoulder and see that the voice belongs to the stunt coordinator. He had been friendly the few times you'd spoken to him while handing out donuts to the crew, but at present, he looked less-than-thrilled to be delivering that message.

"I see you, man! I know you can hear me!"

He finally turns on his heel to shout back. "Alright, just gimme a minute!"

"Chief wants to see you now. They're almost done prepping the next shot!"

Colt pivots back to you, wincing. "I'm sorry. He always gets intense over fire stuff."

You laugh and take the tray from his hands. "You better go. Wouldn't want you to get in trouble either."

"I'll be back for that coffee. Cinnamon sugar, six shakes exactly," he says with a wink as he steps in the other direction.

You give him a thumbs up. "I'll keep the machine running."

Mere seconds after you turn your back, he calls your name, and you're spinning around again.

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Yes, Colt?"

"Promise me you won't give up on your story?"

"Okay," you agree.

"Say you promise," he points a finger at you, walking backwards, "Say the words."

"I promise I won't give up," you concede, grinning, "Promise me you won't blow up?"

"Cross my heart."

[thewanderer-000]

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh-. Ho boi, oh boy

(I need this posted up in my bedroom, now. Right now, please)

new P.E.G. ad poster just dropped!

[the-californicationist]

Welcome to the Masterlist!

Challenge details here.

Remember to check out these amazing fics and leave a comment with your character guesses! You can also show these authors some love with a cheeky reblog. 🩷

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Homecoming by @indigosunsetao3 — When your man gets home from work, he greets you in the most delightful way possible…

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Thanks so much to everyone who is participating! I'm glad you could feel inspired.

Much love!! -- Cali ✌️🩷

[saphirafoxgirlspost1]

(Open Rp) Alternate story Journey to the west 2: Demon strikes back in "Beauty and the Monkey King"

Long ago in a Distant Land, A land With mountains and barrens where no Birds nor creature was stirring except the sound of the galloping Hooves of the Mighty Kirin who wore a Golden Saddles and armor with Jewels on it.. and The Rider is None other Than Princess Saphira lorraina Fox Of Sakutopia and She is On the Journey to the west to Seek the beautiful Oracle herself. The reason why She heads to west is because It's been 5 Months since the Engagement is Called Off On Prince Daniel Jamerson Rooster after He was Caught cheating on saphira with another woman and being expose right in front of everyone including the Jade emperor himself, not only that She grieves on her dead daughter whom he Killed her beloved daughter in cold blood after she was born and made her passed away by abusing saphira when the daughter is in her womb.. Now Saphira made a Vow to Go to the Oracle to Seek out the husband whom he will be worthy for her hand in marriage.. Then at the 5 finger mountain, She hears someone calling for help.. She looked down and saw a Poor old man who's hair is not even grown on the top of his head.. She asked if he's alright and all, then he told her that he's alright. So she Comes down and asked Him who he is and then he answers that he is named "Sun wukong" known as the monkey king but saphira didn't believe him and neither is Saphira's Pet Marmoset companion Name "Mochi", She and Mochi Thought this man was crazy until when she got out of there..Mochi pointed at the lotus, She is amazed and thought she'll pick the lotus and put it on her beloved daughters urns..when she picked the lotus, it began to burn the lotus as she screams..and everything is on fire..as Mochi shrieks and chitters and began to hide in the kimono, She turns and hears the laughing as she began to ask him if he's alright but suddenly the fireball shoots up from the cave as she looked up as it landed right in front of her to reveal Himself, Lo and behold Sun wukong in the flesh as her eyes widen with shocked and in awe, Then he grabbed her by the Kimono and throws her to the air as she fell, he caught her Right on time and saphira was Suprised and before he said anything, 3 demon hunters appears and try to catch him but they were defeated by Sun wukong himself and then he told her this,

"Since you Free Me Princess, I shall make you my queen as an appreciation." But his moment is interrupted by a Monk Name "Master Tang" known as Golden Cicada.. During the battles, Saphira Saw Buddha putting his one hand down on sun wukong. She close her eyes and then Everything went black Until 2 hours later She awaken and looked around, No monkey king, No master tang, Nothing but a rock barren and shattered Mountains. She could've Swore it was just a dream or so, As the Time went by During her Journey and She began to put her white Cloak along with a celestial Fox mask Hidden her beautiful Face when She enters the Carnival and saw the Familiar face, She realized it was the Same Monk That Fought Sun wukong with his Buddha's palm.. When Master Tang Sees the mystery Fox masked woman he asked to pay to see the Shows.. She nodded and Brings out a Best Chest of Gold and silvers as well and She said, "We Meet Again Master Tang, It's been awhile since we last Encounter." Master Tang was Shocked to see the princess again and seeing Her marmoset companion looked at him and tilted her head..and Then Master Tang said that it was a pleasure to meet a princess in person and he told that it's showtime, he introduce her With Pigsy as Pigsy saw her and began to asked who she is and whats behind the mask, She sees him as a man but behind his disguise he is a Pig, Then He introduce him with Sandy The fish man.. Saphira is amazed by him with his freaky ways, then The Monk began to say "And Finally His excellency the-" Then Saphira cut off, " The Handsome Monkey king Himself, we meet at last.~" She said with a giggles..as people was angered because they thought the travelers are Fakes and all, Master tang Begged the monkey king to Perform as Saphira was right under his branch but then he Sluggishly got off from the branch and he Landed on her and his face on her Big Milky breast as she gasp and her face turns red, She takes a look to see if he's really a monkey king and saw a Golden crown on him. She is convinced that he is.. Then She said, "Oh great Sage Equal to Heaven, Please Show Us the Skills. Show everyone Who you and your brothers really are." Then He began to gets up and then did the good tricks alright but it cause alot of damages..and Then Master Tang Said with an Apoligentic face…

[solxamber]

I kinda love my deucey weucey and I would like to request..

A DELINQUENT FIGHT TO THE DEATH!

with delinquent deuce and delinquent reader.

reader challenges the one and only Cauldron Deuce for his title for the top dog!

Definitely because of how good his abs fighting skills are! And how handsome strong he is!

...and so you keep challenging him.

And by some way or another, he falls in love with you.

You don't understand how. He doesn't understand how.

SO PLEASE MAKE MY DREAM COME TRUE LOVELY LOVELY AUTHOR WRITER I LOVE YOUR WORKS SO SLAY AYYSHAHSNAAMS

Delinquent Deuce x reader

hi! thanks for the request <3 i hope you like it!

You were the new kid in the area, and everyone knew that Deuce Spade was the undisputed Top Dog of delinquency. He had the reputation, the glare, the hair. But you? You weren't here to play nice either. As soon as you stepped foot on campus, you decided: That guy needs to be taken down. You had one goal, and one goal only—to dethrone Deuce and become the new Top Dog.

It started with your first challenge, in the courtyard.

“Yo, Deuce!” You yelled across the field, cracking your knuckles dramatically. “I’m taking you down! The title of Top Dog is mine!”

Deuce, confused but intrigued, narrowed his eyes. “You think you’ve got what it takes? Bring it!”

And so, it began—your first epic brawl. It was a battle of wits, strength, and the occasional trash can lid (which neither of you knew how to use properly, but it looked cool). Punches were thrown, insults exchanged, and by the time it was over, both of you lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, absolutely exhausted.

It was a tie.

“I’ll get you next time, Spade,” you wheezed, chest heaving.

Deuce just grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “Not if I get you first.”

The second fight was supposed to be different. You’d been training in secret—running laps, lifting random heavy objects around campus (okay, maybe you were just lugging around Grim a lot, but it counted). You were sure this time you’d win. So, you marched up to Deuce again, squaring your shoulders.

“Rematch, Spade. Today, I’m taking you down for sure.”

Deuce shrugged like this was just another Tuesday. “Fine by me.”

This time, the battle took place behind the school, with more people watching. It was intense, full of grappling, dodging, and a dramatic slow-motion punch that missed by about a mile but still made the crowd gasp. After what felt like hours (but was probably 15 minutes tops), you both collapsed again.

Another tie.

Deuce groaned, clutching his side. “You… you’re tough.”

You grinned through the pain. “Don’t… forget it.”

But as you looked at him, sweating and panting and somehow still looking cool despite being a mess, you couldn’t help but think, Damn, he’s kinda… cute when he’s serious. You quickly shook off the thought. No. Focus. He’s the enemy. The enemy is cute. Wait—no, stop it!

The third fight happened at the cafeteria. This time, it was less about fists and more about a spaghetti-eating contest that devolved into chaos. You both glared at each other over a mountain of food, determined to out-eat the other.

“Loser has to admit the other is Top Dog,” you said, slurping up noodles aggressively.

Deuce nodded, shoveling pasta like a man possessed. “Deal.”

The problem was, you were both terrible at eating quickly. After 30 minutes, you both tapped out, groaning in pain, neither one able to claim victory. Another tie.

Deuce, his face smeared with sauce, gave a pained grin. “Guess it’s a tie again.”

You, equally sauce-covered, muttered, “You… you’re too stubborn.”

He wiped his mouth and chuckled. “So are you.”

You tried not to think about how good that laugh sounded. He’s not attractive. Stop. This is about winning, not—oh no, I’m starting to fall for him, aren’t I? You shoved another piece of garlic bread into your mouth to drown out the thoughts.

The fourth time? Well, that was a foot race. You challenged him at the sports field, hoping speed would finally be the way to break the tie streak.

“First one to the tree over there wins the title,” you declared, determined.

Deuce cracked his neck, stretching. “You’re on.”

The race was neck and neck. Both of you sprinting full force, the wind whipping past your faces, determination in your eyes—and then you both tripped at the same time, crashing into each other right at the finish line.

Another. Stupid. Tie.

You sat up, groaning in frustration. “WHY does this keep happening?!”

Deuce laughed, scratching the back of his head. “Maybe we’re just… too evenly matched?”

But you were barely listening because, at that moment, the sun hit his face just right, and suddenly, you were hit by the realization that Deuce wasn’t just strong and stubborn—he was actually kinda... cute. “Oh no…” you muttered under your breath. This isn’t supposed to happen!

By the fifth fight, you had no idea what you were doing anymore. You kept challenging him because, at this point, it was tradition. And somewhere along the way, the desire to win had slowly morphed into something else entirely.

You squared up to him again, fists ready. “One more time, Spade. This is it. No more ties.”

Deuce smiled, but there was something softer in it now. “Alright. But you’ve gotta admit… we make a good team.”

Your heart skipped a beat. What the heck was that supposed to mean?! Were you blushing? No. Impossible. You were a delinquent! A tough, unyielding, totally-not-falling-for-him delinquent.

“Y-Yeah, whatever,” you grumbled. “Let’s just fight.”

And, as fate would have it, you tied again.

After the fifth tie, the two of you sat on the ground, both catching your breath. You looked over at Deuce, trying to figure out when your challenges had stopped being about winning and started being about just spending time with him. Ugh, feelings! Gross!

Deuce, ever the dense one, blinked over at you. “You keep challenging me… why?”

You hesitated for a second, heart racing, before blurting out the dumbest thing possible. “Because you’re strong!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “That’s it?”

“Y-Yeah! Totally! I mean, you’re also kind of… cool? And, uh…” You bit your lip, realizing how stupid this was starting to sound.

Deuce stared at you, his face gradually turning red as he processed what you were saying. “Wait… Do you like me?”

You froze. Oh no. You’d been caught. Your brain screamed, Run! but instead, you just blurted out, “Yes! No! I don’t know! Maybe!?”

He blinked, as if trying to figure out if this was real. “So… we’re dating now?”

You blinked back. “Uh… yeah? I guess?”

Deuce scratched his head, looking just as confused as you were. “How did that happen?”

You shrugged, throwing your hands up. “I have no idea! I was just trying to beat you, and now I guess we’re… a thing?!”

Deuce nodded slowly, still processing. “Alright then. But if we’re dating… I guess that makes us both Top Dog?”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, that’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But despite yourself, you were grinning like an idiot.

Masterlist

[thewanderer-000]

Uh-huh, please.. 🥵🥰😘

Can I offer you an old man Jacob in his New Dawn caveman era in these trying times?

I saw a picture of Tom Hardy in a loincloth (from the show Taboo) and I knew what I had to do...

When i finally get to the ND AU fic this is very much the vibe for even older old man Jacob (except of course he'll be wearing more clothes lol)

art tag list: @cassietrn @solstheimart @strangefable @stacispratt @shallow-gravy @florbelles @direwombat @v0idbuggy @theelderhazelnut @marivenah @simplegenius042 @kirjanikv6ilill @peppertheferalraccoon @derelictheretic @statichvm @afarcry5fromstraight @strafethesesinners @adelaidedrubman @neverthesameneveranother @josephseedismyfather @kyber-infinitygems @clicheantagonist @testyfestyenthusiast @voidika @roofgeese @nightbloodbix @eclecticwildflowers @aidentheweeb69 @shellibisshe @inafieldofdaisies @luciferstempest @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain

Art tag list here to be added/removed