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endless-ineffabilities · 8 months ago

Text

backhand stroke (18+)

tennis coach!Aemond x tennis player!reader

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

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

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

word count : 8k ▪︎ masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t.

So why does it feel like there is something missing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just constant dizzying electricity.

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

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

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

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

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

“You like how we talk.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

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

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

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

Not that it matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Aemond.

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

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

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

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

“What if I want to?”

You have him. He has you.

And you… have Art.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“So tell me now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

Twelve fucking fifteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

It can wait, whatever it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not going to end well.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“Is it true?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s said some things about me.”

“And I defended you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s nothing.”

“You said that he inspired you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Art.”

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

“Are we okay?” you ask.

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

You feel it all at once.

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The gardens. Midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful. And just not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have him. He has you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, and it’s an unspoken plea.

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

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

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

“Yes. God yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mine, ace. Mine.”

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

Marking someone who is not supposed to be his.

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“40 - 30.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Aemond can. He knows this now.

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

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

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

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

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond, will you - ”

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

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

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”

You lean back in mild surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen oneshot #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen au #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

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petpenname · 10 months ago

Text

Heartache

pairing: Ellie Williams [brother's best friend] x fem reader c.w. : smoking summary: you have had your eyes on your brother's best friend and band member forever, but you'd never think she would actually talk to you? a/n: this was a submission + I'll make more parts if it gets a good response!

The air in your room hangs heavy with humidity. A slight breeze from your open window blows through, fluttering your various posters and decor hanging on your walls. And over you, sprawled across your bed, flipping through social media, you were honestly bored out of your mind. Three weeks into summer and your closest friend was away for vacation, leaving you alone… and bored.

Cycling through your socials again you get fed up with the lack of entertainment and toss your phone on the floor with an exacerbated sigh. You lay on your bed, wondering what you should do to fill the void of dopamine when the sound of music begins to fill the house. A mixture of rock, indie, and midwest emo songs rang out from your garage, conveniently positioned directly under your room.

Your brother's band got around to practicing, you assumed. You didn’t even realize your brother was home, he had gone out earlier this morning after your parents left for work. The music got louder and you suddenly had an idea of what you wanted to do, and it wasn't staying here and listening to your brother's shitty garage band. You gather your sketchbook, some pens, headphones, and a few other things into a bag, throw on a hoodie and a pair of shoes and head downstairs. You were headed to a river spot in the woods near your house. It was a commonly frequented spot by you, and your friends but not known to many. Perfect for a little seclusion and wading in cool water.

You walk down stairs and almost instantly are hit with the strong earthy smell of smoke. You linger for a second and decide that your trip would be improved with a joint, hoping your brother would front you something, you enter the loud garage.

Your brother and his band mates, all two of them, were unaware of your entrance. They were playing as loud as possible (maybe not as well as possible) but they were producing sound! Your brother slamming away on the drums while the guitarist, and bassist/singer were in their own worlds.

“Hey!” you yell over the trio.

“HEY KAI!” You shout once more at your brother. Who, without skipping a beat or stopping, yells back.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

This got the attention of the other two band members who did stop upon seeing you standing there, amps silencing to white noise feedback.

“Can I get a joint?” you ask.

“You got money for a joint?” Kai laughs.

“Can you just front me one?” you reply back flatly

“Why should I?”

“If you give me one I wont tell mom you were smoking in the house again.” You counter.

“It’s the garage so technically not the house and whatever you know they wont do anything”

“She can have one of mine?” a voice sparks up behind Kai, drawing your attention to the guitarist. A girl named Ellie. She and Kai had been longtime friends and bandmates. You barely knew anything about her other than she was in Kai’s grade, one above yours, but you knew her. You knew her eye color, her favorite flannel she wore a little too often. You knew she got a new guitar last year, and a fresh tattoo this year that shined under the garage light as she held up a joint in your direction.

You also knew that this was one of the only times she had ever spoken to you. Not like you were around each other often but you almost felt like she would try to avoid you when she was over. Shocked, but with adrenaline pumping you took your chance, walking over to Ellie. She still had her guitar hanging around her, flannel sleeves rolled up, her hair was a bit disheveled from playing, strands falling out of her half up hair do.

She hands you the joint with a sideways smile, and her eyes glint a bit.

“Thanks, you’re so much nicer than my brother” you scoff, giving her a smile back. You turn to leave, flipping off Kai as you bound out the door, leaving the band members commotion in the garage. Not seeing Kai chuck a drumstick at Ellie who dodges it with a laugh.

The success of getting a joint over shined the butterflies fluttering in your stomach from that look she gave you. The sun hit your face as you got outside and you were only looking forward to your solo date in the forest.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was setting slowly, but from where you were in the woods shade had taken over your spot. You had smoked, worked on your art, and walked along the water looking for rocks. Hanging out in the forest for a few hours always rejuvenated you in a way you couldn’t explain. But you started to get cold and decided now was a good time to head home. While packing up you realized you had pretty bad cotton mouth from the joint, so you planned to stop by the corner store.

It wasn’t a long walk but by the time you got to the corner store it was dusk. Street lights started sparking up like stars in the night sky. You opened the glass door and walked in, perusing the aisles for any snack or drink that could satiate your munchies. You were contemplating between an iced tea or a soda when the doorbell rang as someone walked in the store. You barely noticed the bell, or the girl walking up behind you until she spoke.

“Did you enjoy your smoke?”

You jump, previously lost in your thoughts, you turn around to see Ellie standing there. She was wearing a hoodie now, her guitar in its case strapped to her back.

“Oh my god you scared me!” you say, almost dropping the bottles in your hands.

“Sorry! Didn't mean to!” Ellie laughs, moving around you to open the fridge door next to you and grab a coke. “Funny running into you here” she says, a little awkward you note.

“I mean my house is only a few blocks away,” you laugh.

“Mm ya i guess so, you getting both of those?” Ellie looks down at the bottles in your hand.

“Oh um, I'm getting this one.” you hold up the iced tea & go to put back the soda. Before you could think Ellie takes the iced tea from your hand and starts walking towards the front of the store.

“Hey wait!” you look at her confused.

“Oh do you want something else princess?” Ellie turns back to look at you with a smirk.

Sparks ignite in your stomach, confused but now flustered, your mind swirling. You finally get a word out, “no, just that” and Ellie turns back to walk towards the cash register.

You follow her, not really knowing what to do or how to act. Ellie and you had barely spoken to each other before this. And now she's acting so casually around you, and what did she call you? Everything happened so fast you barely caught it but reflecting back now, did she call you princess?

Ellie pays for the two drinks and you walk out together, taking your ice tea from her once outside.

“Thank you, you didn't have to do that” you say, unscrewing the top and taking a refreshing sip.

“Don't mention it” Ellie says, “So are you going back home now?”

“Mhm yeah, what about you?”

“Yeah I was, but it's getting dark now, i’ll walk you back home first” Ellie says with a smile.

“Who said chivalry was dead” you joke, it was a nice gesture, as much as you were confused by Ellie’s sudden intentions you couldn’t help but feel a type of way when she looked at you. Her green eyes danced over your face like she was memorizing your features. You wondered if she always looked at you this way?

She had. Ellie for the past few years had been keeping such a distance from you because when you were around she felt her whole body tense up. She felt like she was on fire if you looked in her direction. And god help her if she tried to speak around you, she ended up tripping over her words and losing her train of thought. Truthfully, she didn't know what magical queer fairy blessed her with the confidence to talk to you today. But she had taken in a chance earlier in the garage, and when she saw you in the store she knew it wasn't a coincidence.

The walk back to your house was short, only a few blocks. You and Ellie joke together and talk about summer plans in the meantime. Both of you slightly high still, making your balance shifty, occasionally you would brush shoulders, sending sparks down each other's spines.

When you get to your house you stop at the walk way, a little awkwardly since you knew Ellie had been in your house before.

“Thanks for walking me home! And buying me this, um and the joint '' you say, taking in all of Ellie’s courtesy today, a little unsure what to do with yourself.

“Any time!” Ellie says with a smile, she fidgets where she stands for a second before reaching her hand up to your face. She tucks a small strand of hair behind your ear, without breaking eye contact.

“Have a good night y/n” and with that she turns around and walks away, putting up her hood.

She left you solidified on the sidewalk, body unmoving but nerves on fire with a simple touch. You float for the next hour or so, barely registering going into your house and up to your room. Trying to make sense of what had just happened, and why now? And why so suddenly?

Later that night you receive a notification on Instagram

* @www.ellie followed you *

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams smut #ellie smut #the last of us

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deminetly · 29 days ago

Text

✶ ACTIVITIES FOR SHIFTERS ✶

(mostly in your cr)

……………………………………………………………

journal as your dr self

make a collage about your dr self (face claim, hair claim, body claim, hand claim, pets, room, house, style, general vibe)

write love letters to your s/o

watch storytimes of other ppl shifting to ur dr

make your social media profiles (twinote)

make moodboards for your drs/people in your drs

design your outfits (everyday, red carpet etc)

make a uquiz called “which one of my drs are you”

think of a trend to start in your fame dr

make up slang that people in your dr use

make shifting memes

make your dr room in roomsxyz

design your dr camera roll (from pinterest or go for a walk and take the pictures yourself)

go out and take pictures of places that remind you of your dr

draw/make picrews of your dr selves/friends

fill in pinterest templates about your dr self and your dr friends

make up a holiday and script it in your dr

make your own notion script template

make your own timetable for your school dr (make up new classes)

make a shifting bingo card of things you want to do in your dr

make posters about your drs (movies you acted in, your band, your school etc)

make yourself look like your dr self

go on google maps and walk around the area you want to shift to/serach up a yt video of someone walking around that place

organize your wardrobe and outfits (pinterest, combyne)

make up the whole film lore for your actor dr

write down (or even make up new) foods you would like to eat in your dr

make a playlist about your s/o or just dr in general

make up shifting methods

write down shifting methods, try them out and rate them

research the void state

make new places ans their lore for your dr, find pictures

watch documentaries about shifting

scroll through shifting tumblr and reddit

write down what a typical day in the life looks like for your dr self and follow that schedule for a day

write articles about your fame dr drama

script in a new tiktok trend you can do with your s/o

plan a halloween group costume for your dr self and friends

make a vision board for each dr

invent your own currency system for your dr

design a flag for the place youre shifting to

design merch for your fame dr

give random memes a twist so they would be about your dr

script a secret society (a hidden group in your dr with its own rituals, symbols and purpose)

design and script in tattoos for your dr self

write fanfic about random people in your dr/you and someone else from your dr

create new seasons for your dr

invent new amusement park rides to ride in your dr

invent a new zodiac system for your dr

make a board game based on your dr (locations, inside jokes etc)

script in a new restaurant and menu specifically for you

start a tumblr blog just for your dr (post things like day in the life of me, haul of what i just bought, new concert announcement etc)

make comics about your drs

make your own shifting school system (script: schedule, homework, building, uniform, topics you study, friend group, foods they offer during lunch, dorm room etc)

make a wikipedia about your (fame) dr self

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting antis dni #shifting #shifters #shift #shifting script #shifting motivation #shifting community #shifting blog #shifting consciousness #shifting diary #scripting #desired reality

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averycutesalamander · 21 days ago

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i have extremely neutral opinions about SMAUs (social media AUs) but i just thought about what Boothill's role would be in one and im kind of losing my mind about it.

his account handle is @.silvergunshura and he literally only posts clumsy nature photos and occasional pics of his gun. a handful of videos that are just the sound of the wilds. never puts any captions or tags on his posts. extremely long unacknowledged absences with no schedule. double-digit amount of followers at an absolute maximum. absolutely no interaction with his audience. or anyone else on the platform actually. quite frankly he doesn't pay any attention to his following in the slightest. bro simply cannot be bothered. for all he cares he is sending these photos to the void and there are no other users on the platform.

and then he posts one (1) video of him at the shooting range nailing bullseyes left and right like it's nothing. barely half of his body is in frame and most of his face is covered by his hair. someone with a decent following shares it and his entire fucking profile EXPLODES because people will NOT stop talking about how hot he is and it kinda snowballs from there. people go through his entire backlog only to find ZERO other posts with his face or body in them. the best they get is little snippets of his arms. people are frothing at the fucking mouth trying to figure out who he is and nobody knows because he literally hasn't said a single word in his entire posting history. people make theory posts, which obviously gets more people invested in this new mystery. his comments are filled with people speculating about who he is and what the fuck he's doing. someone posts a massive spreadsheet detailing all of the identifiable locations in his posts, and they're literally all over the galaxy. immediately afterwards they're cancelled for some vague allegations about them being a shady intelligentsia guild member guilty of multiple human rights violations and everybody completely forgets about the spreadsheet.

Boothill posts a single blurry photo of his hand feeding a chipmunk and people lose their goddamn minds. he follows this up an hour later with a photo of the same chipmunk sitting on his shoulder that is somehow even blurrier than the last and it briefly trends on the front page. a week later he uploads a video of him playing a harmonica by a campfire, once again barely in frame, lit only by the flickering fire. people brighten the video in a desperate attempt to get a better look at his face, but there's nothing identifiable. someone posts a slightly unhinged video examining the tiniest pixels in every screencap of him that they can find, claiming that he's definitely a halovian because of some extremely blurry details, and you technically can't deny it as a possibility because there are no clear shots of where his halo or wings would be. naturally this severely divides fans, and several other theories about his species pop up over the course of a few days. many people are called morons from all sides.

the REAL drama comes when he posts a picture where he's holding what looks suspiciously like an extremely precious meteorite-formed gem that was stolen during a private IPC auction two weeks ago. this post is also notable because it's the first time he's used a caption and it's literally just "lol". naturally people quickly connects the dots and realize that he's BOOTHILL, that crazy motherfucker with the vendetta against the IPC, and why the fuck is he posting nature photos and videos of him feeding birds and shit. silvergunshura fans are instantly divided by discourse about whether or not it's ethical to be a fan. "silvergun fans dni" and "silvergun antis dni" become staples in the bios of people invested in the drama. a bunch of fans start using his substitute swears, and whether or not this is ironic is extremely debatable. the business of cyborg modifications has a moderate boom. anti-IPC sentiments have a notable increase, but now the people doing serious exposés and earnest discussion about the humanitarian crimes of the IPC that are concealed from the public are constantly called simps. there's a brief stint with a handful of Boothill copycat crimes that are all solved within the week.

people unsuccessfully try to hunt down any other potential socials to no avail, but this does spawn a massive wave of fake accounts on a million different platforms, which obviously successfully baits a ton of people. the drama gets even spicier when the moderators shut down his account. one of the mods gets doxxed by an outraged fan. even more fake accounts pop up. Boothill comes back less than a week later as @.silvercowboy244 like nothing happened. his returning post is a crooked picture of a sorta weird looking tree, and he's pointing toward the top left of the frame. the caption is just "bird?" and nobody can figure out what the FUCK that's supposed to mean, because there's no bird visible in the picture, nor is there a bird nest in the tree. conspiracy theories and decoders are immediately chomping at the bit trying to figure out if it has some kind of secret meaning.

tons of people try to use his posts to pinpoint his location for clout or the bounty money or to find him in person and beg him to let them give him head, but he never posts them exactly when they're taken, and nobody can figure out what the fuck logic he's using to pick his next destination. there's an IPC investigation. his accounts keep getting banned but he keeps coming back like a cockroach. dedicated fan archives are made to preserve all of his shitty photos. he never acknowledges any of the drama.

if you're fortunate enough to know Boothill personally and you ask him about all of that weird shit with his socials, he just shrugs and says, "yep, i keep gettin' locked out. can't remember passwords for shirt." if you ask him what he thinks of all the drama surrounding his online presence, he gives you the most bewildered expression you've ever seen on his face. "what the fork are you yappin' about?? what do you mean i got "band" ?? disk horse??? docksing???? i think you've got a few screws loose buddy" and he promptly forgets about the entire ordeal and goes back to posting blurry nature pictures like literally nothing happened.

edit: here's part two-ish lol

#i don't know why this concept captured me so thoroughly but imagining this was so funny #part of me feels like he would feign ignorance just to fuck with people #like i don't think he'd be all that invested but i could absolutely see him doing it-#just to check in on it once in a while to have a chuckle #it's also an extremely funny and annoying way to fuck with the IPC #like “hey morons im literally leaving you a breadcrumb trail.”#“can you send more of your employees to investigate. it's easier to shoot them if they come to me y'know”#utterly unconcerned because he's the perfect balance of confident and sly #sal.drabbles #boothill #hsr #honkai star rail #sorry i feel like this is too funny not to put in main tags #maybe that's too much of a self-brag actually. whatever lol #sal.smau

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demontonic · 2 years ago

Text

Ethan Landry - Perverted

There will be undoubtedly a part 2 since i realized this was hitting 2000 words and i wasnt about to make you guys wait another three days till i put out the smut so take this background as a starter so i can finish the rest! Also let me know if you want to be on my taglist for part 2

Word Count: 2274

TW: Blood, Knives

Ethan had always been quiet around you, unless you were with the others but even then there was very little interaction. At first you thought he didn’t like you, then you thought maybe I’m too loud for him- but that couldn’t be it. If that were true he wouldn’t like Chad, and he was worse than you. Countless possibilities rushed through your mind every time you saw him and it slowly tumbled into a sick infatuation. You started to take note of who he talked to, especially if it was another girl. Watching even the smallest of mannerisms and remembering what his body language meant. At some point you decided to ask for his social media from Chad, of course he teased you about it immediately making sense of why he caught you staring at the nerd. After that Mindy found out and of course told Tara who told Sam and Quinn, nothing could stay a secret for too long in this dysfunctional family.

The gang decided to help your seemingly innocent crush on the curly haired brunette, however they had no idea what you really thought about him. You had always been one to get too involved with the people you had liked. Sure it was a long running joke that girls had the skills of FBI agents, but combine that with no social life… it’s almost concerning. You had always gotten weird vibes around him, call it intuition but you had never imagined your feelings to be remotely correct. One night you were out late, making a short walk back from the small market on the corner of your street. You decided since the gang went out -and you had zero social battery left- you would simply drink by yourself tonight. You stuffed the plastic bag filled with a few medium sized bottles of vodka and some cheap berry blend juice into the small backpack you had. Going to the small pizza restaurant and picking up the pizza you ordered for when you inevitably got the munchies. It was a short walk back to the apartment, maybe 15-20 minutes at most. Besides, you had done this many times before but what you were about to encounter would change the course of the next month.

Most of the surrounding apartments housed students from Blackmore University, it was afterall a close walk to the college. If your music hadn’t lagged when it did you would’ve missed the noise coming from the dark alley. What a cliche. You and Mindy were horror fanatics and after Woodsboro you knew better than to go into the pitch black void filled with shuffling noises. The cool air that racked against your exposed arms only added to the adrenaline that began to pump through your veins as you finally came to the realization that you had been standing and staring into the alleyway for a minute now. The small pizza box now being set on the top of a dumpster as you paused the music blasting in your eardrums, placing the small earbuds in their case so that you were now fully aware of your surroundings.

You pulled out the butterfly knife you had trained yourself to be moderately skilled with in times like these. The purple handle being grasped tightly in your fist as you crept slowly towards the sound you had yet to find the source of. There was a corner about mid way through, a small light illuminating that portion as you peaked your head around the corner. At first it took your eyes a second to adjust to the sudden change but once you did you realized that the boy you had been truthfully stalking was more than met the eye. He was crouched next to a dumpster, his surprisingly toned torso lightly splatter with specs of blood. Black jeans and doc martens being the only thing on him besides a black wrist watch. However upon squinting you see a blade entirely covered in blood, the crimson liquid falling into a small puddle between his legs. A Ghostface mask hung on the edge of the dumpster, the usually white face having the same crimson adorning it only in the shape of a handprint. You wanted to believe that maybe it was a costume, but you knew he would never do that with the people he associated with. You watched, frozen, as he wiped the blade on his thigh to rid it of blood before shoving it into a backpack. He pulled out a blue polo shirt, slipping it on as he shoved -what you could only assume was the rest of the Ghost face robe- in before placing the mask on top and zipping it closed.

You took a few steps back, going to hide yourself behind the few trash bags that were leaned against the walls next to you. It was too dark for him to notice you, wearing mostly black you blended in with the shadows. He turned the corner, walking out the way you had entered only he paused. Ethan didn’t turn around to face you, not his body or even a slight turn of his head. You held your breath, your heart pounding in your chest, you felt like he could hear it.

“Stalking someone you don’t even talk to isn’t a good look,” his voice sounded like he was smiling, it held pride and darkness. Your eyes widened as you readied your knife, preparing yourself for the worst case possible. He took a few steps back, stopping right in front of you as he dropped his backpack. A hand grabbed at the wrist that held the small blade, pulling you to your feet as he stared at you with empty eyes.

“Being covered in blood isn’t exactly a good image either,” you scowled as he only looked at you with a smug expression plastered on his annoyingly perfect face. “You’ve had plenty of time to try and gouge my eyes out, kick, scream, grab your knife with your free hand and yet you stare at me- now that’s a bad look Y/N.” Ethan was right, you swallowed the lump in your throat as you snatched your hand from his grip, slicing his palm open in the process. He hissed lowly as he retracted his arm, assessing the wound before licking it. Your mouth gaped open as you stared at the seemingly psychotic man in front of you. “Did you know your saliva can help the healing process for wounds? I’m sure you’re thinking I did that for show but there's a reason behind everything I do. I’m surprised you didn’t find me out sooner, considering you never stop following me, watching me.”

“Yeah well that was before I knew you were a killer, so take that with a grain of salt-“

“So you think it’s justified? Stalking an innocent college boy- or nerd as you love to call me.”

“Innocent isn’t exactly how I’d describe you, but if it helps you sleep at night,” what are you thinking? He’s a serial killer, a COPYCAT of someone who almost killed you. Your conscience was bellowing inside of your head, however here you stood face to face with the guy you’d been drooling over since the start of the year, with full knowledge of his true agenda. “What helps me sleep at night is knowing that someone as sick and perverted as you can be so stupid as to stay here and chit chat with someone who’s quite literally trying to kill your friends.” You scoffed… you scoffed “Real smart revealing your entire plan-“

“How desperate are you? How insane are you to stand here and hold a conversation with me? Or am I just that hot-“

“Shut the fuck up you are so full of yourself I’m surprised you’ve gotten this far-“ Sirens. Police had begun to pull up to the apartment buildings, your heart beat picking up as this scene looked very sketchy. You talking with the killer calmly in the alleyway outside of a crime scene wouldn’t hold up well in court. Ethan groaned as he took off running the opposite side of the alleyway opting out on a long way home rather than the route you were taking. Without even processing what was happening you emerged from the alley, grabbing the pizza box and walking home. You wish you could say it was peaceful but your thoughts were consumed by the interaction… and the rush it gave you.

The next morning

It was a weekend, you woke up around noon, the pizza box being thrown to the floor and your bottles tucked away in the crevice between your bed and nightstand. Your head spun lightly, a slight headache setting in but nothing you couldn’t handle, you were practically a pro at handling hangovers. At first you ran through your morning routine like normal, mind fuzzy and not fully recalling the events from last night. That was until you walked back into your room realizing there was a small gift bag on your nightstand. The gift was black and covered with white ghosts, tied with a red ribbon. “What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath before opening it. The contents poured on to your stand, your knife accompanied by a small piece of paper fell out. You stopped breathing for a moment as reality crashed down on you; he was in your room while you were sleeping. You opened the small note, reading the neat writing in red ink.

you’re stupid enough not to notice that I took your knife? and that was before you were shit faced, you were out pretty cold, you almost looked cute.

p.s. thanks for the free pizza❤️

For a second you let yourself forget everything you just read, reverting back to your sick infatuation with the seemingly quiet nerdy boy. He called me cute. You knew you were twisted when your heart fluttered while reading the note like it was some stupid middle school crush. He called me stupid and broke into my apartment. You crumbled the note up, going to throw it away but you hesitated, why are you second guessing this? You didn’t know, but you flattened it out, folded it, and placed it back into the bag and left it in your nightstand. As for your knife you placed it back into your bag before getting dressed to hang out with your friends, unfortunately they still think you’re head over heels for Ethan. As you emerged from what they referred to as ‘your cave’ Tara and Quinn greeted you.

“Seems like you had fun last night, did you have any company over this time?” Quinn interrogated before sitting down on the white sofa. “You know I never-“

“We heard someone in your room last night, did you finally make progress with Ethan?” Tara, surprisingly not fumbling her words, questioned as she shook you by the shoulders enthusiastically.

“Oh come on guys you don’t seriously think… you heard someone in my room and didn’t say anything?” It finally dawned on you that they heard him, while you were passed out and thought you were fucking, great.

“What if it was ghostface? I could be dead right now!” Tara folded her arms, her mood noticeably more dull, “Did something happen that we should know about? Did you get a call?” Again, you froze, standing there with your mouth gaped open as you looked into the eyes of someone you considered family.

“No I just- come on you guys know I’d never have someone with me. I was probably just drunk and stumbling around my room looking for something.” You rambled before walking into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, still questioning why you hadn’t told her. Yes you had a small obsession with the boy, but it was much more than that now. Your face turned a light shade of red when you read his note, your heart swelled at the thought of him sneaking into your room to return your knife. The sight of him staring down at you in the cold dark alley, you could smell the blood and cologne on his skin from how close-

“Earth to Y/N! Hello Hi sweetie we need to get going, we’re meeting up with the boys for lunch.” Quinn said as she waved her hand in front of your face before walking towards the apartment door where Tara already stood. You quickly grabbed your water and followed the two girls out of the door trying to ignore your internal moral battle.

You waited in the mostly empty quad at a bench, Sam had yet to turn up and Chad had gotten here shortly after Mindy and Anika. Only one you were missing was the person you were sweating bullets about. You sat patiently, quietly, observantly, until your phone dinged. By now the group was over their usual paranoia but when you saw it was from Ethan you swiped it away at first… instantly regretting it.

“It’s rude to ignore people,” a whisper from your right side startled you, causing you to jump forward. By the time you turned around and the group noticed his presence he was standing up right, acting innocent like he didn’t scare the shit out of you.

“Ethan! Took you long enough shit, were you jacking off in the shower?” Chad joked as he slung his arm around the now quiet boy.

“Oh- ew! Grow up, can’t you talk about anything besides your dicks?” Mindy expressed quite passionately before beginning to lead the group to a small restaurant.

Sorry to end it so abruptly i genuinely needed to put this out so i could take my time perfecting the last half so hoped you like it let me know what you would want in part 2 i might take some notes. heres my masterlist if you wanna check that out!

#fanfic #ethan landry #ghost face #ghostface x reader #ethan landry smut #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry x you #ethan landry x reader #ghostface smut #ghostface ethan #ghostface x you #Spotify #demontonic #D3M0NT0N1C

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piscesirko · 2 years ago

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omg bella angst with a happy ending, they're good friends, reader likes him, there's rumours about bella with a girl, she's upset and keeping distance, bella trying to figure out what's wrong, something like this if possible?

ty for the request!!!! this is a little longer than i expected but who cares! enjoy some bellaaa:)

-hurt/comfort, bit of angst, pining, cliche confession lol, fem reader

it hurts you to ignore her this way.

she’s your friend.

best friend. for god knows how long.

and best friends are supposed to be there for each other. to help, and support, and care for one another when no one does. it's the principle — and you shouldn't want for more.

(you shouldn't want to hold her hand when you'd walk side by side. you shouldn't want to push the stranded curls off her forehead and stare deep into the umber of her eyes until everything dissipates and you're both left floating into this void; you shouldn't want to kiss him suddenly when he smiles. and you definitely shouldn't want to wake up beside him every morning and tell him that you love him.)

the thing is, they're normalized now. everyone does it when they know everything remains platonic. but you don't want to hurt yourself that way knowing he didn't feel the same. you couldn't bear the heartbreak.

so when you dawned upon that realization, or maybe when you've come to terms with the fact that the devil on your shoulder was right—that you're in love with him—you'd gone insane. your mind filled to the brim with possibilities of what might happen if you told him the truth. and each one increased the anxiety in your chest even more.

you tried to act like everything was okay. you acted normal around them . you talked like you used to. hung out like you used to. bella would hang an arm around your shoulders, rub her knuckle on your hair and laugh with you like you used to.

up until last week.

the picture of him with some girl on social media and articles. bella with a smile so bright it's familiar, and you realize that she’d only smile that way when she’s with you. and god, she’s laughing with a girl. a pretty girl; it's mind fucking to be hurt this way by just staring at an un consented image.

you drowned in unreasonable jealousy. because why should you be jealous if he's not yours? why should you be jealous in the first place? you fool yourself. you're only jealous because he didn't spend time with you, not because he was with some girl.

some girl.

some pretty girl.

and while you wallow in self-pity, you ignore them. for both your sakes. before you do something that could ruin everything.

bella does their nightly texts — hey! how are you? and you'd respond curtly than go on a long rant. obviously he'd wonder what's wrong, but he'd let it go on the first night.

hey, what's up?

hey can we talk?

hey i miss you :(

until three nights later when you flat out ignored her and it had gotten to the point she started texting your friends. and the same reason was used: you're busy. you're asleep. your phone died. you're out of town for work.

you're in love with her and got stupidly jealous at the sight of her someone else.

so it brings her here.

a week later, outside your door with nothing but questions formed from his confusion and frustration. bella knows you're by the door looking through the peephole by your shadow beneath the minuscule gap beneath the door. you see her sigh heavily, holding back an eyeroll.

"i know you're there, (y/n),"

"fuck," you whisper, standing back on your heels and let your hands fall and raise between your side and the doorknob.

"just— let me in, please? i just want to talk." you hear him sigh faintly. "please?"

you take a huge deep of breath, hand shaking as you twist the doorknob. you're first greeted by the cold air from the hallways, before your eyes land on bella’s hunched figure. covered solely in a pair of blue sweats and a white shirt, her chain hung on her neck.

"hey," he exhales, relieved. "thank god you're alive. thought someone might have kidnapped you and pushed you off a cliff.

you frown. "well, that's specific."

bella comes in when you step aside to make way. he removes his shoes, placing them beside the door as he wipes his feet on the mat. "i was worried." he says. "until i saw you hanging out with our friends while you were ignoring my texts."

it's amusing how quick her tone changed, almost as if she hadn't been worried in the first place as she quickly returns to being irritated by your ignorance. you shrug. "i- i was busy."

"busy with what?" despite the irritation, their voice remains soft, their patience speaking for them.

"work," you laugh a little, tone pitched as you hand waves in the air. "i was busy with work. and- and catching up with others. that's all." bella furrows his eyebrows. "sorry if i ignored your texts. i'm...i'm sorry."

"that's okay," he murmurs. "just wished you would have told me. i thought that i might have done something to make you mad. i was worried."

he's only saying that because he's my friend. best friend.

"sorry," you say again. "just got caught up with things,”

"yeah with partying," it's obvious that he's bitter. and somehow, it pisses you off that he's pissed off for being ghosted. "didn't even bother to invite me,"

you scoff, turning around. "why would i invite you if you're with some girl?"

it was a sarcastic remark, your mouth speaking before you could think. your voice meant to fool her into thinking that it meant nothing. but bella knows what's up—especially with the strain in your voice as you said the last word that was followed by a sardonic chuckle. her face falls, furrowing her eyebrows at you.

"what are you talking about?"

you clear your throat, scratching your forehead. "i dunno. it's social media bella. one day you're in a famous show and the next people with cameras follow you around."

bella frowns. "what?"

"come on," you spin around to face him again, laughing incredulously at him. "people saw you with a girl. who you've been with for the past week. so why would i invite you?"

"because i'm your friend!"

"you were with some girl!"

"that doesn't even make any sense!"

their voice raises, but not loud enough that it hurts your ears. your face wrinkles, throat swallowing your words that the only thing that leaves your mouth are defensive scoffs as your hand drops to your side, turning back around to walk somewhere. "you- you were busy."

"bullshit—hey!," bella pivots his way in front of you, blocking your way to your bedroom, hands on either side of the doorframe.

"don't lie to me, (y/n). look- if i did something that hurt you, or made you pull away from me, just tell me. please?"

she’s desperate now, affliction in her plea. a heavy rock rises to your throat, hands to a fist on your sides. bella’s eyebrows raise, leaning down slightly as if to encourage you to speak. confined with the difficulty to choose between the truth or not, and you sigh heavily.

"you did nothing, okay?" you shrug his hands off, your index finger picking at the skin beside your thumbnail. "everything's fine. it's my fault. "

"then talk to me," he adjures, his hands clueless as to where it should be. "please? if—if you want some space for whatever it is that happened, fine. just tell me, and i'll give you that space.”

her patience makes your heart ache, because you feel guilty for lying to the person so tolerant and understanding. you hear the desperation in her voice. loud and sad as it yearns for your truth to feed his clueless mind, worried of the wrong she didn't do. you look away from bella, at the wall where you trace its small bumps, and you huff.

"it was because of the girl,"

bella’s back straightens, his bottom lip jutting out slightly as his eyebrows return to its place. and suddenly he's perplexed. "oh. why?"

"i—"

"do you not want me to hang around her?" he asks. "are you jealous that i spent the week with her...?"

"no! no, i don't want to be telling you who you should hang out with. and no, why would i be jealous?" the white face paint's beneath the sink, and there's a red wig in your closet, 'cause you look like a fucking clown.

bella scoffs. "then what is it?"

"god, okay, maybe i was a little jealous," you quip, throwing your hands in the air. "maybe- maybe i got upset that my best friend's with another girl. but not because she's taking up his time, but because she's pretty! pretty enough that i'm jealous of you? no, but could be 'cause she is hot. but yes, i could be if i didn't like—“

you pause, your brain telling you you've been talking too much, because bella’s got her head ducked and eyebrows raised to listen. and if you looked closely, her lips are twitched up slightly in bemusement. you close your mouth, glaring at her.

"if you didn't like?" he smirks. "you like someone."

"no i don't."

"yes you do."

"what makes you say that?"

"you said it."

"like can mean anything. i mean, i like your mom because she's nice. i like you because you're my friend. like doesn't mean like like, because i like anyone. and liking anyone doesn't mean i like like them."

"what?"

"fuck!" there's a boulder in your throat, hard and prevents the air from slipping through. you don't find his amusement entertaining, and you're trying to swallow that rock down your throat while he's looking at you like that.

— all innocent and happy, eyes wide as they stare at you like, like you're important.

like they’re in love with you.

they’re not.

bella’s smile falls, noticing the tears at your waterline that makes your eyes all glossy.

"hey. what's wrong? is it something i said?"

"no," you push him aside, stepping into your room and sitting on the bed right in the middle. "it's not your fault. it's never been your fault," the heel of your palms are pressed against your eyes. you hear him shuffle until you feel him kneeling in front of you, gentle hands wrapping around your wrists.

"then what is it?"

you whimper. and when she tugs your hands off your eyes and replaces it with her own thumbs, letting your fat tears wet her calloused skin, it makes your heart hurt even more, with the fact that she’s so gentle and caring.

"i like you,"

three words. something he's heard before but not in the way that he thinks. "yeah, i know. i like you too."

"no, bel," you close your eyes, nails lightly scratching at the bracelet on his left wrist. "i like you."

there's a soft sigh that leaves them that begins the silence between the two of you. the way their hand stays on your face but weakens in the slightest; the way her eyes narrow in anxiousness as they waited for your confession. you mistake this his silence as disgust — that you'd liked your best friend as something more. and you wonder what would have happened if you told her that you loved her.

you didn't have to. because you spoke again. "i...love you."

it's what makes him fully remove his hands on your face, feeling the burn his touch left behind (or maybe it was just the sudden sweat on his palms). he sits down on the carpet, cross legged, a soft thump of denim to wool. bella breaks his eyes away from you to look at your knees in a quiet state of shock. his lips parted in the slightest.

"oh..."

"you know what," you sniffle, licking your lips as you stand up, wiping your tears with the side of your hand. "i'm just gonna go."

bella, who's still processing everything, looks up at you. "you live here."

"i didn't say i was gonna leave for good, dumbass—"

you're startled with the sudden feeling of her lips on yours, befuddled with her speed from sitting to standing. bella holds your face in his hands, flesh rough but touch gentle as he keeps you close to him. and your eyes are open, sense of touch heightened that you can feel every fibre of her as she pressed her mouth harder against yours that it renders your eyes shut and your hands on the softness of her hair.

his mouth opens to part yours, his breath fanning on your face and some into your mouth, his forehead resting against yours. bella’s thumbs drag across the dark circles beneath your eyes, his eyebrows furrowing before he lets out a chuckle.

"i'm sorry," they murmur. “i just kissed you,"

you open your eyes. "it's alright,"

your hand drags from his shoulder to his chest, watching as he slowly looks at you.

dark eyes bright with glee, a ring of doting arousal on the corner of their irises. bella angles your face back, neck straining slightly so they’d get a better view of you. "i like, well, i love you too."

they chuckle when a slow smile comes to your face. "really?"

"fuck yeah" he wrinkles his nose. "i've loved you since that first chemistry read"

before you respond, she kisses you again, a deep inhalation of your scent as her nose dig on your face. her lips are soft, cherry, hot and feverish when they move with yours and break in a soft click.

"you're amazing," she murmurs. "beautiful," a kiss, "smart," another, "unfathomably lovely," and a last. "i love you. that girl you saw? she's just a friend. she's nothing compared to you."

you shake your head, laughing. "christ in hell, bella."

"i love you," he repeats. "yeah? i'd post it on instagram or whatever. i love you."

"i get it—"

"i love you."

"i know," you kiss his nose. "i love you too."

#bella ramsey x reader #bella ramsey blurb #bella ramsey #bella ramsey fluff #bella ramsey angst

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