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flowerandblood · 7 months ago

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The Fall from the Heavens (23)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: masturbation, sexual tension, smut, angst, manipulation, blackmailing and threats ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Alys had always known that, like any bastard child, she could only rely on herself. Her existence was merely an unfortunate accident to her father and brothers, with which they nevertheless came to terms, and she, in their minds, should be grateful for being allowed to stay and serve in Harrenhal.

Indeed, she never considered herself to have been significantly harmed by fate.

Compared to women who had to sell their bodies for money in order to survive, her function as herbalist and wet nurse completely satisfied her.

Milk filled her breasts along with the baby that one of the guards had put inside her. When he pressed her against the wall and lifted her gown, panting that he had desired her for a long time she did not stand up to him, even helping him by bending over and spreading the folds of her womanhood before him so that he could more easily hit the right spot with the thick tip of his length.

This particular man never aroused her desire, however, he supervised her chambers, and since she allowed him to enjoy the pleasures of her body, he closed his eyes to when and where she went out, giving her more freedom.

His wife, however, was not comforted by the fact that her husband had a mistress.

She could not conclude that her husband was a good lover; his hands only clenched greedily on her firm breasts, his thrusts violent, fast and deep. She knew that as he chased his fulfilment hissing that he would fill her with his seed, it did not even cross his mind to touch her between her thighs or ask what would give her pleasure.

She did not, however, resent him.

She recognised that this was how men were.

Although she tried not to think about it, the sight of his wife, one of her father's servants, filled her with remorse, for although she knew that this woman did not love him, she humiliated her every time she took away what belonged to her.

She had nothing to justify it, but she knew that if she told him to stop she would arouse his anger and his behaviour towards her would change.

He might want to take revenge on her for rejecting him.

She couldn't allow this to happen.

What he didn't know was that he wasn't the only man she allowed to sink between her thighs for the benefit; it was easier and sometimes even more enjoyable than trying to bribe them with money, which she didn't have much of anyway. What she was able to do perfectly was to observe people from the sidelines − their reactions and desires, coming to her own conclusions about what they needed and wanted.

Usually these men wanted not only sensation and elation, but also reassurance, a warm word and understanding; they lay with their faces cuddled between her breasts, muttering for her to stroke their heads, and she did so, allowing them to turn from men into innocent children for a moment.

The women in the fortress began to whisper among themselves that the ease with which she seduced men and with which she maintained her beauty despite her age was due to the fact that she was a witch.

She smiled piteously as she strolled through the corridors of the fortress, overhearing their conversations from afar, hearing about the potions she gave to poor, unaware men so they could not forget her, that she bathed in milk and blood to keep her face young and bright.

She did not deny the accusations, because she derived satisfaction from the fact that they feared and avoided her.

Fear, however, also tended to provoke interest and curiosity, and the young, newly arrived servants who were just learning their trade could not tell what they thought of her.

When she needed a break from the men's sweat and their aggressive, deep thrusts she sought peace and solace in the arms of young girls, much more gentle and understanding when it came to the nature of female fulfilment, their sweet moans and surprised expressions as she caressed them made her feel a pleasant pulsation between her thighs.

Although the prospect of becoming a mother did not fill her with particular joy, when she woke up one morning, feeling a pool of wetness under her thighs and saw blood, the squeeze in her throat and the tears she felt under her eyelids were proof that some part of her hoped she could love this innocent creature that was growing inside her womb.

This did not happen, however, and she, not wanting to waste her milk, from which her breasts had already swollen, decided to feed the children whose mothers had too little nourishment.

She considered her life quite prosperous and peaceful until her father and half-brother died in a fire.

Until Larys became the Lord of Harrenhal.

Everyone, including her, feared him.

He was like a writhing viper, tightening slowly around the necks of those who aroused his suspicions, his gaze black and completely blank, as if he experienced nothing, felt nothing inside himself.

He could not be seduced, appeased, pleaded with, persuaded.

He was like a stone, merciless, cruel, taking satisfaction in domination and power.

She never got in his way.

One evening, however, he summoned her to his chamber, and she feared what he desired.

When she stepped inside he was sitting at the table, having just eaten his evening meal. He smiled slightly at her in a way that made her feel the cold sweat on her back; his eyes remained indifferent, glowing mischievously in the firelight.

"Sit down, sister. I wish to discuss something with you." He said softly, and she swallowed hard, keeping an indifferent, satisfied face, looking at him from under half-closed eyelids. She sat down opposite him in one of the chairs, spreading out comfortably in her seat, sighing quietly and nodded for him to speak.

"We will have guests of honour. Prince Aemond and his wife will be arriving here within two days to spend the night here and then head off the next morning to meet Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon." He said calmly, putting a few pieces of cake from the tray onto his plate, with a hand gesture he encouraged her to eat as well, but she shook her head, analysing his words quickly.

She had heard of them.

Prince Aemond had married and taken his niece's maidenhood on the same night he chose Maris Baratheon as his wife.

His brother the King, to save the situation, married them in the eyes of the Seven before an enraged Borros Baratheon could arrive in King's Landing demanding justice.

There would not have been all the commotion if Prince Aemond had taken her as his second wife, but he clearly only wished to have one, therefore, Maris was sent away with only a dowry and humiliation.

Her half-brother continued, seeing the lack of response on her part.

"I want you to host them well. Both of them, if you understand what I have in mind. Myself and his grandfather do not believe in the success of their mission. Like most of the kingdom we know how it will end: with a war. A war we wish to win. However, our Prince, if I may say so, does not think with his mind now, but rather with what he has between his thighs. He gives in to his wife and her persuasions to bring about a reconciliation. I know you are well acquainted with human nature and will surely win both her trust and his heart."

She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief as she looked at her fingers, trying to hide the horror and squeeze in her stomach she felt.

He wanted to expose her, to put her head under the Prince's sword if it turned out that her attempts would only enrage him, and he could wash his hands of everything.

"In any case, in a few days' time the matter of the succession will resolve itself with the help of my birds in the Eyrie. They know what to do. Of course, I'll let our Prince believe that his decision matters, however, everything is already arranged. I hope this should settle the matter. With the help of the gods, the girl might try to take her own life for the second time. Let us raise our cups for that." He said lightly, as if indeed such a course of events would please him the most; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking that she had not even noticed when he had become such a disgusting creature.

A monster that, like a black, empty hole, was consuming everything around him, destroying it and crushing it.

She wasn't in a position to refuse, and he knew it.

That was why she walked out with him to greet their guests, thinking she would simply do what he ordered her to do.

She blinked as the figure of a petite, pretty girl jumped down from the shimmering blue and silver dragon, her long, dark hair of a shade similar to hers tied into a braid, its unruly strands dishevelled by the long journey through the skies.

She stepped out in front of them, breathing heavily, her eyes big, full of curiosity and uncertainty, her gaze warm, kind, her cheeks all flushed from exertion. She stopped in front of them and forced herself into an innocent, almost childlike smile, from which she felt a squeeze in her gut.

Gods, have mercy.

"Your Grace. What a joy." Said her brother. The girl blinked, not knowing for a moment what to answer, shifting from foot to foot.

"My Lord Strong. Thank you for being willing to host us." She muttered at last, clearly tense − her was voice pleasant, melodious, soft, the kind that gives comfort with ease, brings peace of mind.

They all turned their faces towards the approaching figure as they heard his footsteps; Prince Aemond in his long black leather coat and black eye patch indeed looked like someone menacing, commanding, as powerful as the great dragon he was riding.

What immediately caught her attention was that as his gaze traveled over their faces he stopped at his wife, assessing her figure from afar as if quickly examining whether she had suffered any damage after such a long journey and whether she was well.

He must have evidently concluded that she was, for his gaze turned after a moment towards her brother.

"Lord Strong. Take us to our quarters."

The Prince and her brother moved first, followed by his wife, looking around the interior of their fortress with genuine curiosity, not even listening to what her brother was saying.

She didn't even notice that her uncle was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, checking that she was near and in no danger.

She thought he would sooner stab her in the heart than take her to his bed.

Her brother opened the door of the chamber that had been prepared for him, the largest in the entire fortress, not coincidentally located close to hers. The Prince, however, did not look impressed; his lips pressed into a thin line in disapproval when he heard that Lord Strong had assigned his wife other quarters.

"No need. My wife will spend the night in my chamber." He said coolly, as if the very suggestion was offensive and insulting to him.

He had kept her with him the whole time, she thought in disbelief, glancing out of the corner of her eye at the girl standing next to her.

She stood, gazing at her uncle as if she were looking at a statue of one of the gods; her bright, shining eyes large and filled with affection, devotion, longing, even though, after all, he was standing in front of her, at her fingertips.

She realised, swallowing quietly, that he had not taken her by force the night he married her or any night after.

How long had they looked at each other like this?

"As you wish, my Prince. However, I will leave the rooms I spoke of at your wife's disposal for her own convenience. I have also assigned her a servant to ensure that while we men are conversing, she will have company. There are several matters I would like to discuss with you." Her brother replied.

Prince Aemond then looked at his niece with a gaze as if he was about to explode − his wife pressed her lips into a thin line, immediately understanding what the expression on his face was meant to convey to her, her look of understanding and sigh was meant to add to his patience.

His gaze softened and after a moment he nodded, letting her go.

The girl looked at her, so she smiled quickly and pointed with her hand the way they should go to her quarters. Before moving behind her she looked at her husband, the Prince leading her away with a cold, sharp gaze.

Overwhelmed by this revelation, no longer knowing herself what she thought of it or what she should do in such a situation, she simply followed her into the room, closing the door behind her. She watched quietly as the prince's wife walked to the window, placing her hand on the glass, and smiled slightly, noticing something outside.

Had she been like this all the time?

"Do you desire to change into something…more comfortable, Your Grace?" She asked finally, recognising that she needed to start any light conversation, to try and understand who was standing in front of her.

The girl shuddered and blinked, as if forgetting her presence for a moment, turning to face her. She nodded, forcing herself to smile, unsure and embarrassed, playing with the fingers of her hands in a nervous reflex.

"Yes. What do they call you?" She asked lightly and kindly, willingly shortening the distance between them, which surprised her.

Usually women of her ilk took satisfaction in calling her Lady Rivers, reminding her every time that she was a bastard.

But she, even if she was married to the Prince, was also one.

She was her relative, her brother's daughter.

She swallowed hard at that thought, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

"Alys, Your Grace."

She lowered her gaze, as if pondering something for a moment, and then her bright eyes looked at her again.

She thought with pain that she was like a small flower, a daisy or a forget-me-not, which one picked to weave into one's hair, to feel as innocent as a little child again.

"I would not wish to… misunderstand who you are and what you have in common with Lord Strong, Alys." She muttered with some sort of embarrassment, from which she involuntarily burst out laughing.

Good gods.

"I am not his mistress. I am his relative, though I do not bear his name, as any bastard would." She said softly, amused; her gaze shifted, her brow furrowed in concern and curiosity.

She knew what she was going to ask her, she could feel it in her bones.

"Did you know my father?"

She named him as her father even though she was officially Laenor Velaryon's daughter.

She admitted to her that she too was a bastard without a grimace of embarrassment.

"Yes, Princess."

Her whole body tensed, her hands clenched into fists.

"His death wasn't an unfortunate ordeal, was it?" She asked in a trembling voice, and her lips involuntarily lifted in a dangerous smirk at the thought that her directness was surprising her.

Was this how she spoke to her husband?

Was this how she forced her way into his heart?

"There are no such thing as unfortunate ordeals, Your Grace."

A silence fell between them filled with the weight of their words and what they meant; she licked her lips involuntarily, feeling that she was incapable of denying herself the pleasure of having to see her reaction to her words.

To see if she was right.

"After the word has reached us here all the way from King's Landing, I have been looking forward to our meeting with impatience, and while I will admit that it is not what I expected, I am beginning to understand your husband's desperation." She said with amusement, feeling a tingle in her fingertips and in her lower abdomen at the sight of her flushed cheeks.

"What do you mean?" She mumbled quietly, embarrassed; however, it was not shame feigned and exalted, but more an expression of genuine surprise and excitement at her words.

"Men are easily driven to desperation, though it usually takes time. They like to gain and take pride in what they have conquered; the greater, in their mind, the value of what they enclose in their embrace, the less they are willing to let it go." She said calmly, turning her head away, immersed in her own thoughts.

"Your husband follows you with his thoughts even when he is not looking at you. His head, even when he is not speaking to you, is directed towards you so that he can see you out of the corner of his eye. When he feels discomfort, he involuntarily seeks your face to experience understanding and comfort."

She looked at her, wanting to see her reaction, and sighed almost imperceptibly, feeling heat in her lower abdomen at the sight of her parted, plump lips, her dreamy, hot gaze.

She knew that she had felt something at her words, that it had taken deep root in her heart and made her return with her thoughts to her husband.

Was this how she had looked at him when he made love to her?

She could not imagine that he could take her maidenhood brutally and cruelly, that he would allow her to cry beneath him in pain.

No, she thought − he surely took her with slow, lazy thrusts of his hips, letting her get used to his shape deep inside her, assuring her in a whisper that just a little more.

She felt a strong throbbing and tickling between her thighs at that thought and licked her lips, looking up at her again − her gaze lowered meekly to the stone floor, a soft, thoughtful smile on her face.

She decided on second thought, helping her change into one of her gowns, touching her soft skin, smelling the wonderful scent of vanilla in her nostrils, that she would braid the most elaborate hairstyle she could think of on her head, just so she wouldn't have to leave her chamber before supper.

She knew that her half-brother expected her to then take the opportunity to venture into the Prince's chambers to make sure he was not missing anything.

Therefore, she began to braid her soft, long, dark hair, creating a beautiful, complicated hairstyle surrounding her head.

She escorted her to the proper quarters and bowed, Larys gave her one impatient look.

She felt a cold sweat on her back, leaving immediately.

He was not pleased.

She thanked the gods that the Prince's wife had summoned her herself, wishing her help with her bath, giving her another reason not to head to her husband's chambers.

She thought that if she went on like this perhaps the situation would work out in such a way that she simply wouldn't have the opportunity to do anything, though even if she did she wasn't sure Larys would believe her.

As she walked into her chamber she saw that she herself was trying to untie her bodice, so she approached her, undoing the tangles with ease, looking at her face with curiosity.

"Was the Prince pleased with his wife's appearance, Your Grace?" She asked softly, noticing from the corner of her eye that the girl had lowered her gaze, ashamed and saddened.

"Yes. Though he expressed his opinion that he prefers it when my hair is loose." She said with resignation, and she couldn't stop the smile that appeared on her face.

Of course, she thought.

The sight of her loose hair reminded him fondly of how it had been spread in disarray around her head, shining in the darkness of his chamber as he fucked her greedily.

"Oh, that's understandable. He surely associates it with your intimacy and closeness, as any man would. The entwined curls and braids are for those around you, meanwhile the softness of your hair, the smell of them, the sight of them spread on the bed is something meant only for him." She replied lightly, for some reason wanting to lift her spirits and comfort her; she heard her move in place, the sweet blush appearing on her cheeks again.

She was embarrassed, she thought with disbelief and tenderness, as if she were looking at a small child.

She was so innocent.

Was that what attracted him to her?

The idea that he was surrounding her with himself like a dark cloak, devouring her again and again?

"You know a lot about men…don't you?" She heard her uncertain, curious voice; she looked at her in the reflection of the mirror, noticing that she immediately lowered her gaze, as if she could not bear the intensity with which she was looking at her.

"Yes, Princess."

"Have you seduced many yet?" She asked intrigued, and she smiled again involuntarily.

"Yes."

When her gown finally fell to the floor she saw her girlish, pleasing curves peeking through from under her nightgown. She watched as, with a light, confident step, she walked over to the bath and bore herself into the hot water, tilting her head back, sighing in relief, her head still adorned with the braids she had woven herself.

Such a pretty little thing.

"I would like to … make my husband happy tonight. I know he needs relief from what's about to happen tomorrow. However, I can't do it, at least for now, in the way I usually do." She mumbled out at last, looking at her with those big, warm eyes of hers, seeing in her apparently her guide, someone who could help her with these complicated and intimate matters.

She felt a pleasant squeeze in her lower abdomen at the idea that popped into her head.

"The easiest thing to do in that case would be for you to use your mouth." She replied amused, drawing out of her exactly the reaction she wanted − her cheeks turned scarlet, her gaze fled downwards, her tiny long fingers clenched into small fists.

She was wonderfully embarrassed, so sweet that he would have gladly shown her everything, step by step.

"I'm…inexperienced in these matters." She confessed with shame, and she involuntarily licked her lower lip with her tongue, feeling the throbbing between her thighs at her words, her nipples hardening under the material of her gown.

Gods.

"I see." She muttered, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad as she moved slowly towards her, her surprised gaze lifting to her as she knelt right next to her tub, cupping her wrist in her hand.

Her skin was as soft as silk.

Her gaze escaped involuntarily to her breasts, now perfectly visible through the wet material of her shirt clinging to her bare flesh; she felt a tickle in her swollen lips at the thought that she longed to lick and caress them.

She was sure that as he teased and sucked her nipples she moaned sweetly beneath him, begging for more, and he always, always gave in to her.

Because how could he refuse her?

"I can show you how you should do it, if that's what you wish, Your Grace."

She saw her pupils dilate in disbelief, her lips parted as she swallowed hard, her chest beginning to rise and fall in accelerated breaths.

"…How?"

She couldn't stop the smirk that appeared on her lips, nor what she did next.

She heard her sigh quietly, surprised and thrilled when her lips ran over her pointing finger, enveloping her skin with her hot breath.

"Imagine that this is his manhood. Men don't say it out loud because pride won't let them, but they adore it when a woman shows them with gentle, tender caresses." She whispered, running her swollen lips up and down her finger leaving a sticky, warm trail of her saliva on it, surprised at how wet it made her between her thighs, how wonderfully arousing it was, how obscene it was.

She heard her draw in a deep breath without moving away, but as she guided the tip of her finger between her lips, teasing and licking it lightly with her tongue, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her thighs clenched in some helpless, subconscious reflex.

What other reactions could she draw from her?

"− and then − when he begins breathing faster − when you feel he's completely ready −" She sighed quietly as she suddenly slipped her whole finger deep into her mouth, feeling her swollen folds pulsate hard again and again as she began to suck it in slow, steady movements with the quiet click of her saliva.

She heard her gasp on the verge of a moan as her tongue began to trail over her skin with her low murmur of satisfaction, her free hand involuntarily sliding down to the material of her gown, wanting to slip under it and bring herself to fulfilment with her own touch.

She slipped her finger out of her mouth with a loud plop and looked up at her − her face all flushed, her gaze dreamy, hesitant and warm, as if she herself didn't know what she felt or why.

Something in her gaze made a pleasurable heat spill over her lower abdomen as she dug her own fingers into her fleshy folds, all sticky with her moisture, pulsing aggressively with her every stroke in pleasure.

"− you pretty little thing − it’s usually him taking care of you, isn’t it? − he can’t deny himself − I can’t blame him −" She whispered, trying not to move her hips so that she wouldn't notice anything; she lost the battle with herself as she felt herself getting closer and closer to fulfilment, pushing against her own slit with the tips of her fingers.

Unfortunately, it turned out that her husband was more vigilant than she thought.

When he burst into his wife's chamber she barely had time to remove her hand from under her own skirt and let go of her, standing quickly and bowing before him.

"My Prince."

"− get out −" He growled, and she walked out obediently, grateful in spirit to the gods that he hadn't stopped her to question her, that he hadn't noticed the glistening wetness on her fingers.

Or he saw it and it infuriated him, she thought with amusement, feeling her heart pounding like a mad in her chest.

She finished what she had started in her chamber, bringing herself to fulfilment with sure, swift strokes of her fingers, driving their tips into her sensitive, fleshy womanhood, able now to afford to moan and rock her hips, imagining her body peeking through from under her wet nightgown.

She imagined that she knelt before him to lunge and soothe him, that she barely fit his fat cock in her small mouth, all swollen from the desire she had always aroused in him, that this proud, dark, cold man whimpered before her like a small, innocent boy when he finally gave in, thrusting again and again deep into her warm throat.

She came with a low moan of relief, panting heavily, hugging her face into the pillow, rocking her hips for a while longer, slowly coming down from her peak.

She was sure that as she lay half asleep, feeling a blissful, pleasant peace, she heard their moans in the distance and grinned involuntarily.

Of course he forgave her.

He always did.

She often had dreams whose meaning she did not understand; she saw people she had never met before, observing events that might as well have happened in the future or in the past. That night, however, her dream particularly troubled and worried her, as she had no idea what it actually meant.

Two streams of blood finally merging into one, flowing like a river, which then, however, became a lake that reminded her of a dragon's head in a crown, only to spill over after a while, and she saw nothing but red.

Was this what was about to happen?

Would Princess Rheanyra and Prince Daemon be murdered and another dragon's reign begin upon their blood?

She swallowed hard, thinking of that young, cheerful girl, of how obvious it was that she was not aware of anything, that whatever her uncle-husband knew, he had not shared it with her.

She thought that if he betrayed her, she would wilt like a flower, fade like the sun in a setting sky.

She stood up and headed for his chamber.

His gaze expressed nothing less than disgust and rage at the sight of her. He reached for his tunic, dressing it hurriedly, tense and pale, knowing full well what was to happen if the negotiations did not bring the results he hoped for.

She wondered if he realised that even if he didn't give the order, they would be murdered anyway.

"You will betray her." She said indifferently, and he threw her a quick, horrified look, his nostrils quivering in disbelief.

He knew perfectly well what she was referring to.

She thought that sometimes all it took was a gentle push, putting a mirror in front of someone's face to make them think carefully again about whether they were ready for the consequences of their choices.

"You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most. You will break her. You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again. You will come back here to face your nephew and you will take me, because you will decide that I am similar to her enough to satisfy your pain and longing. You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death."

She said and grinned, seeing that he shuddered all over, that his mask had cracked, his lips parted as if he wanted to groan in despair.

She knew he saw it in his mind, felt it in his heart, and she left his chamber without a word.

She let out a loud breath as she walked down the empty corridor, thinking with some kind of hope that her words, the vision she had invented to break him would terrify him enough to make him fall to his knees before his wife and confess everything he knew.

And if he doesn't, if in fact he betrays her, it will prove that he was never worthy of her.

She had come to her summons when she wished to clothe herself; she saw, crossing the threshold of her quarters, that she too was frightened and anxious, only for completely different reasons.

She wished for them to come to an understanding.

She believed it was possible.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought, at the realisation that she was alone in a world where everyone but her craved war, craved power, craved the throne.

She did not look at her face, at the clear command of her husband not allowing herself any closer proximity to her, which she accepted with understanding.

After she had fastened the buckles of her leather coat, however, she allowed herself to take her soft hand in her own, stroking it with her thumb.

She hesitated and furrowed her brow, but before she could move away, she began to speak, forcing herself to whisper, fearing that her brother's servants might have heard her.

"Do not return here. Fly from the Eyrie straight to King's Landing. I saw in my dream a river of blood taking the shape of a dragon's head wearing a crown. I saw red flooding everything around me." She said quickly, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

She thought in disbelief that she pitied this girl.

"This warning, these words, are my gift to you. Look after yourself. Trust no one."

312 notes · View notes

k0yaz · 4 months ago

Note

hey can you do a clorinde fanfic, where there’s a party in Fontaine and she gets like jealous of the amount of attention we’re getting from other people. And she like takes the reader to a private place to blur out her protectiveness but we like tease her about being jealous so she ends up confessing😻 (sorry this was long af💀)

sweet nothings.

Pairings: clorinde x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, jealousy, alcohol mention, weird guy trying to hit on u idk, teeny tiny bit of clorinde getting violent woah, protective grape lady awawawawa, uh oh she gets mad at for a sec, confessions idk??? GIRLS KISSING WEEWOOOWEEWOOO, navia is so lucky fr ngl, not proofread

A/N: WAAA IM OUT OF TEA 🕯️ oooo I like this emoji also navia is so lucky to have this woman I’m crying

Indistinct chatter circled the room of the banquet hall upon entering, making your eyes glance from side to side to observe the lavish interior of the hall. Each corner of the luxurious enclosure was packed to the brim with crowds of well dressed men and women, all standing upright in a distinctive manner, almost seeming insincere in their sophisticated habits. You blinked as you felt a shoulder push up against yours, brushing your silk clothing from behind. Clorinde made her way beside you, gently pushing her way through the congested crevices of the crowd.

“Mm. It took you long enough.” You snickered, earning an unamused scoff from Clorinde as she folded her arms to observe the atmosphere of the space. Despite being the champion duelist of Fontaine, Clorinde was never a huge fan of posh celebrations with many people. It wasn’t that she reserved from crowds or sheepish when interacting with other people, as being the champion duelist often would include public display before many.

Rather, it was the nagging feeling she would experience whenever some rich snob would enthusiastically speak with you, brushing his or her hand along your shoulder with a noticable covetous look in their eyes. The disgusting intentions behind their friendly demeanor made her want to circle her arm around your waist and pull you flush against her, making it clear for said person to take their hands off of you. Plus, the crowds furnishing said area would bring a sort of unease to her in a way, discomforting her when seeing the off-putting facades of others to keep up their image.

You immediately grasped Clorinde’s gloved hand, squeezing her palm flush against yours as your fingers locked between hers. Feeling her tense hand relax, you flashed her a sweet smile, attempting to reassure her that she wouldn’t have to worry about anything. That this party was just going to be a quick come and go event the two of you were invited to. She reluctantly nodded, bringing her free hand up and pushing her hat back to crease her forehead slightly.

“Sorry. There’s nothing you need to worry about. You can just enjoy yourself, (Name).” She replied, trying to uphold her stoic front in an attempt to hide any strong emotions. You shrugged in response, letting go of her hand as you decided to not look too much into Clorinde’s words. After all, she hasn’t been the most expressive person around. Yet nevertheless, she was your friend whom you cared so deeply for—so it wouldn’t hurt to keep a quick eye on her every moment or so to make sure she was fine. After all, you didn’t want anyone trying to snatch up your charming lady.

“If you say so, Clorinde.”

You forced your way through the cramped groups of people in the hall, finding your way to the alcohol station on the other side of the room. Looking over your shoulder, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy wrenching your chest upon seeing Clorinde already partaking in a conversation with a stranger. You shook your head, pushing your way to the alcohol station in order to concern yourself with how you were going to spend your own time here.

A thin glass of champagne suddenly slid your way, slightly hitting your elbows situated on the table. You perked up, a little perplexed at the sudden glass filled with freshly filled champagne before you. Did this hall have some sort of strange automatic serving system?

“I’m up here.”

A low voice called out, placing a hand on the table before you as you heard the click of a tongue. Looking up, you were met with the sight of a seemingly wealthy man eyeing you as he poured himself another glass of champagne. You paused, raising an eyebrow before delivering him an awkward smile, shrinking back slightly as he gave you an uncomfortably friendly grin. “Ah. Thanks for the drink.” You hesitated, bringing the glass to your lips as you sipped the alcohol, averting your eyes from the strangely amiable man.

Before long swarms of people circled around you, showering you with attention and flattery as you let out a hearty laugh at their praises. Your face was flushed from the drinks that you had, your….sixth? Seventh..? You didn’t even know which one it was as you let out a laugh from everyone speaking to you with such a profound interest in you. All of a sudden, you noticed that same man who slid you that drink about an hour ago push his way through the array of people bundled up before you, shouldering past them until he stood directly in front of you with a rather odd expression you couldn’t put your finger on.

You raised an eyebrow as he took your hand abruptly, his own face flushed as well. The crowd seemed to part themselves from the two of you, with others on the side also noticing the exchange between you two. Raising an eyebrow, you squinted your eyes as you felt his other hand rest upon your shoulder, a sort of unsettlingly craving sense present in his expression. “What are you even doing…?” You drawled out, not thinking to push him off immediately due to your senses still being foggy. He just let out a hum as his fingers tightened into your shoulder, making you wince from the slight ache.

Your eyes flickered with a slight twinge of distasteful revulsion as he leaned in uncomfortably close to your face, trying to close the distance every time you repelled back from his face.

All of a sudden, he skidded backwards against the floor, being driven back away from you as a shocked expression adorned his face. Your eyebrows raised in slight surprise, not expecting to see Clorinde directly behind him, fingers firmly grasping the back of his collar. Her deadpan eyes pierced into him, leaving a hanging silence in the whole hall upon seeing the whole fiasco pan out before them.

After what seemed like centuries of silence among the party, Clorinde’s low voice broke through the silence as you could sense her annoyance from the way she glared down at the man—who was pathetically scrambling away from her to his own safety. “Get. Away from her.” She hissed, her tone laced with venom. You felt her hand grasp your arm and yank you away from the center of the crowd, hundreds of eyes still fixated on you and tracking your movement as Clorinde dragged you outside the banquet hall.

Once outside, Clorinde rested her arms along the stone lining of the balcony, the cool air grazing your skin as the continued chatter resumed behind you. The muffled noise resounding from the banquet hall was the least of your worries as you saw the duelist reclined against the balcony, eyes aimlessly focused on random sights below the elevated platform. Not understanding the sudden protective action she took, you staggered over to her, step still slightly wobbly from the alcohol in your system.

“Pfft..are you still gonna act like you didn’t just drag me out like a jealous girlfriend-?” You beamed, face tinted a muted red as you leaned against the railing on one arm to grin in Clorinde’s direction. She only huffed in response, lowering her hat bashfully and avoiding eye contact with you.

“He was forcing himself onto you.”

“Ha! No he just thought wrong. I would’ve pushed him away if I wasn’t screwed up right now.”

She grit her teeth in irritation, grasping the white-rocked stone railing. Taking notice of this, the corners of your mouth only raised into an amused smile as you decided to tease her further. “Jeez Clorinde, you’re acting like you’re in love with me or something from how jealous you are-!”

“Because I am!”

She suddenly snapped, looking over at you with a hardened scowl scrunching up her face. You flinched slightly, not expecting the upfront and straightforward expression. Clorinde took a moment to herself, hissing out a frustrated sigh to compose herself as she pinched her nose.

“Hold on. You love me..?” You began with a perplexed look written all over you, slowly pointing your finger toward yourself as if you were trying to affirm that it was in fact you. She let out a sigh of resignation, finally being able to meet your eyes as she took your hands in hers. The breeze swayed her deep purple hair along her face, making her look absolutely breathtaking as her violet eyes softened. Her hold on your palms grew firm, yet tender as she murmured out.

“I do. I don’t know how long I’ve felt like this toward you, (Name). But I do love you.”

The words fell from her lips in a velvety voice that echoed in your mind, making you take a moment to process the sweet statement Clorinde had just uttered. It took a moment to collect yourself. Your face was still bright red, but you weren’t sure it was still from the alcohol now.

“Ugh..why didn’t you just tell me?! I love you too, Clorinde..” you scoffed. Unbelievable. There’s no way she hid this from you for so long. “And I’m not just saying that. The guy was ugly anyway.”

A soft chuckle escaped Clorinde, making her finally smile as her face was dusted with a soft hue of red as well. Without hesitation, her breath fanned against your cheek as she leaned in, dangerously close to your face. Unlike with that odd man in the crowd, you didn’t back away from Clorinde’s touch. Instead, you only leaned in, eyes fluttering shut as you felt the warm embrace of her breath hitting your flushed skin.

Your eyes shot open as she pecked a quick kiss to the corner of your lip, a slightly skeptical look crossing your features as you expected more.

“In what way was that fair-?” You huffed, only causing Clorinde to stifle an amused laugh in reply. “Maybe when we get home, love.” She affirmed, making your mind race for a brief moment at her promise. You giggled and cupped her cheeks as her nose brushed against yours, closing your eyes in bliss as the wind delivered a relaxing cold breeze. You sighed softly, pulling away as you straightened your ruffled clothing and hair and took Clorinde’s hand in yours. Both of your gentle expressions harbored a palpable romantic atmosphere between the two of you, the looks on the two of you being equivalent to whispering sweet nothings.

You hummed to yourself as Clorinde brought your hand up, pressing a soft kiss upon your rigid knuckles.

“Let’s just go home, yeah?”

A/N: IM SORRY IT WASNT EXACTLU WHAT YOU REQUESTED I READ IT WRONG also my hair is so oily rn I need to wash it

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact fluff #genshin writing #genshin #genshin clorinde #clorinde #clorinde x reader #Genshin clorinde x reader #clorinde x reader genshin #clorinde genshin #clorinde genshin impact #genshin impact clorinde

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rebeliz7 · 1 year ago

Text

HER

Request: Natasha Romanoff mile-high club on the Quinjet?

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Agent!Reader

…

“You’ve never? Really?” Your question hangs in the air for a couple of seconds, before Natasha shakes her head in a negative way.

You observe her quietly, the stupidly attractive smirk on her lips distracting you as she tries her best to keep the upper hand in this particular exchange.

She knows how to work her better assets, you’d give her that.

“You want to?” You ask her playfully, and her smirk turns devilish. Almost too distracting for you to concentrate on anything beside her lips, or how incredibly attractive she is.

You’re on the jet, flying on your way to Clint’s farm for his wife’s birthday party and you’re already running a little late since you were left behind by your teammates. Natasha’s the only one who stayed to wait for you to finish your hair.

“Want to, what?” She retorts, her voice a deep throaty thing that sends inexplicable shivers down your back. She’s good, very good.

“Join the mile-high club.” You shrug and watch as she almost looks away from you, but she’s not really the type of woman that shies away from this type of talk now, is she?

She clicks her tongue and raises her eyebrows, her fingers picking at the leather of the armrest of her seat, a clear sign that this conversation is slightly out of her comfort zone.

But you know that she’s letting you see this. You are under no pretense here, this is the Black Widow you’re talking to and you haven’t forgotten that.

“You have, then?” She asks back and you shrug your shoulders delicately, it’s not that big of a deal for you.

Your life as a spy has taken you to a lot of places, you’ve met many people and you’ve slept with a fair share of your targets in a lot more interesting places than a plane.

“Who hasn’t?” You smile, teasing her, and she chuckles lightly. “You’re missing out, Romanoff.”

“On joining the mile-high club, or sleeping with you?” She asks, her eyes locking you in but you’re ready for this question and you lean in a little closer to answer it.

“Both.” You tell her, you voice only above a whisper and she takes a deep breath.

“Someone thinks very highly of themselves.” She teases you but there is real hesitance behind her words.

“No one’s ever complained.” You shrug again and she actually laughs at that, and the sound of her laughter makes you smile in return.

She doesn’t laugh very often, she’s quite a reserved individual almost all the time and you get it, you’d be too if you allowed yourself to remember all the things you’ve done and that’s been done to you in your line of work.

Natasha works differently from you in that aspect, she chose to accept and atone for her sins, while you are still just trying to keep going without the weight of your actions crashing you down, or drive you mad.

You are willing to do good and you don’t expect anything in return for it. That’s all. You’re not here because you want to clean your slate, that’s not how you operate. What’s done is done and you’ll have what you have when you have it. Nothing more and nothing less.

“Are you serious?” She suddenly asks and you shrug again.

“I’m messing with you.” You assure her and she raises a single eyebrow in a silent question. “Don’t get me wrong. All that flirting is one hundred percent real. I do like you and I wouldn’t exactly say no to help you join the mile-high club.”

“Ass.” She slaps your arm in jest and you laugh.

“You are very doable, Romanoff.” You laugh again and she slaps your arm again in jest. “I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”

You’re joking, well, mostly. You do like her and you have been flirting with her a lot, but that’s mostly because she flirts right back and her quick wit is something that you’ve come to sincerely enjoy.

You and her have a lot in common though. You were both taken as children by the wrong people, forced to become what you are and done more damage than good in this world.

You are not someone who wants a relationship because you were taught to never let your guard down, never trust, never look back. Neither one of you talk about your pasts, but you are almost certain that she’s not the relationship kind of woman either.

When she slips out of her seat and straddles you with the grace of a ballerina in yours, you’re not truly surprised. That’s exactly what you’d have done if someone was teasing you like this.

“You talk a lot.” She tells you, her hands on your cheek and collarbone.

“I thought you liked it.” You smile at her as you settle your hands on her thighs where her green dress has ridden dangerously up.

She doesn’t have a quick reply for that, at least not one that involves words.

Her lips are far softer than you imagined but she kisses exactly like you hoped she would, fully and without a trace of doubt.

You kiss her right back, your hands instantly moving to grab a handful of her ass and pull her impossibly closer to you.

“You’re gonna wrinkle my dress.” She gasps against your lips, but there’s that devilish smirk on her lips that tells you that she doesn’t really care.

“You can punish me for it if you’d like.” You tell her and when she kisses you next she makes sure to bite your lower lip in revenge.

It goes rather fast after that bite. Maybe you’ve been building up to this for the last year and a half since you joined the Avengers, and began to flirt relentlessly with her, or maybe it's the challenge that you presented her with that’s making it go like this.

Whatever the reason, you’re actually enjoying quite a bit.

“You’re gonna leave a mark.” You tell her when she sucks on your neck hard enough to hurt.

“It’s cute that you thought I wouldn’t.” She says and the sound of her voice makes you want to growl in return, but luckily you manage to tame that particular desire.

“Fuck, I want to hear you moan.” The words are out of your mouth before you can fully process them in your brain, and she chuckles close to your ear as you finally push her panties aside and thrust two of your fingers inside of her without a warning.

She moans, loudly.

But God! She’s so wet that your fingers slip inside her without an ounce of resistance and she’s so warm that the thought of doing this again suddenly showers your mind with pictures of taking her in a bed--in a kitchen counter--in a pool--in the damn meeting lounge.

“Yeah, just like that.” It’s your turn to smirk, but her arms are wrapped around you so tightly that you can’t see the expression on her face.

She does thrust her hips against your hand and you feel her trembling around your still fingers though.

She doesn’t beg, even though you can practically hear her pleas in the way her hips move involuntarily, and her breath keeps catching.

“All talk. I knew it.” She says against your ear, her voice throaty and breathless, and you’re pulsating between your legs just by hearing it.

“Look at me.” You ask her and she leans back slowly, her cunt tightening around your fingers as she moves until you can see her face and her smudged lipstick, and the pretty blush that’s covering her cheeks and chest.

God, she paints such a pretty fucking picture. “You’re gorgeous, Romanoff.”

“Yeah?” She asks, her chin trembles as she licks her lips, her hips thrusting softly against your fingers as she tries to fuck herself on them when you continue to deny her. “You really think I’m pretty?”

“You own a mirror, don’t you?” You tell her and she moans when you curl your fingers inside of her as a warning.

You want her, not the person that she is with her targets.

“Would you just fuck me already?” She practically growls in your face before kissing you hard. You want to tease her some more, point out who desperate she is to be fucked in this seat, but instead you just do exactly as she demands.

You grab a hold of her throat as you begin to fuck her with your fingers, hard and fast.

She takes a hold of your dress with her fists, her eyes locked on yours as you thrust in and out of her with possessive force.

It’s an uncomfortable position to be doing this in, but you manage to pull down the straps of her dress and free her breasts so you can suck on her nipples as she buries her hands on your hair.

You can feel when she’s close and she wraps her arms around you when her walls begin to tighten. You use both of your hands then, your mouth on her neck and just when she’s about to come you add another finger inside of her, and she not only moans but she screams your name when she orgasms.

You wrap your arm around her waist as she holds onto you with trembling hands.

“You messed up my hair.” You tell her, and she raises her head from your shoulder to study the damage.

“It’s fine.” She says and she actually whines when you pull your fingers free.

She hands you a paper towel to clean your hand with and you’re only a bit disappointed that that didn’t lead to some fantasy inducing licking, but you still smile up at her anyway.

“Now everyone will know what we’ve been up to.” You tell her and she cracks a smile that you haven’t seen before on her lips, one that makes you take a pause and just watch her.

She really is beautiful, and you wouldn’t exactly mind doing this again.

“Oh, they’ll be so jealous.” She jokes as you help her with the straps of her dress and she combs your hair back with her fingers in return. Your hair is a goner though, there’s no fixing it now.

“Welcome to the mile-high club, Miss Romanoff.” You say and she cups your face with her hands, as a look that you also haven’t seen before crosses her features.

Maybe she’s seeing you for the first time, it certainly feels like it.

“I’ll return the favor some other time. We’re about to land.” She says, and then stands up from your lap and you give her a light shrug.

“Fine with me.”

“Now try and not look at me while I walk away.” She says, but before she can do that you grab a hold of her arm and pull her down for a kiss.

She moans into your mouth and you think that you do too, but God! If there comes a day when you really do become an addict to anything you think that this might be it. Her.

You tell yourself that you won’t look at her walk away, but the second she’s walking your eyes are glued to her body, and you catch the light smirk she throws your way above her shoulder just before she enters the bathroom.

You smile to yourself.

...

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #black widow imagine

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eldrith · 25 days ago

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ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

ᴄʜɪᴠᴀʟʀʏ ғᴇʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜɪs sᴡᴏʀᴅ ;

words: 8.4k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: happy halfway! we're only a few weeks from halloween & im getting excited that this story is at its midway point. i hope those who read this enjoy it. it's as always for my muses @useralba and @dipperscavern ... my co authors frong!! chapter warnings: active and willing denial on jace's part tbh. themes of corruption, spooky visions, smut; masturbation, dry humping, heavy petting, finger sucking, hint (?) of choking [v brief], sort-of under the influence activities so - dubious morals in this one [youll see]. eating as sexual imagery, sin/shameful thoughts, religious themes & symbolism, temperature play-ish?, blood & injury depictions, brief mentions of…consuming blood…lightttt manipulation[:D], angst, grief, discussion of death. & some fluff. this is so unedited series masterlist. main masterlist.

THE CHAMBERS OF MAESTER GERARDYS ARE TINGED WITH DRIED HERBS AND DAMP PARCHMENT.

It is a smell which rather permeates the air through the corridors of the castle on the more inclementing days – even when he was younger, Jacaerys found himself passing by the smell of feverfew and steamed stinging nettle on his way to lessons in the bowels of the stone drum.

Thick tears of rain slide down a weathered pane. Jacaerys reclines in a small chair; In front of him, a poultice is mixed by steady hands.

His head pulses with a familiar ache; the one which has plagued him for days, rendered him rather restless and jumpy on the best of days, irascible and brusque on the others. There is a slow roll of thunder outside; it rattles the weakened pane beside him – faintly, he can nearly hear the call of some childish laughter warbled in the storm outside.

There are no children left on the island now that his brothers are gone with Rhaena; with them, it seems, has gone the sun. The days have been plunged into dreary rolls of high clouds and low sheets barreling down with coughs of spitting sleet; The nights remain the only time the air is relatively clear of that wetting dark, and yet still clouds slink under silvery slivers of waxing moon.

Agitated, Jace watches Maester Gerardys pour some oiled ointment, warming it between his palms; straightening his spine to a more respectable position, Jacaerys tilts his jaw for the man to begin to massage the ointment into his temples.

A sigh of relief. “It’s only getting worse,” He murmurs, eyes fluttering shut at the sharp scent of peppermint. “-The head aches, the knots in my stomach.”

Maester gerardys hums as he pulls away, returning to the poultice as he glances attentively at the prince – though he says nothing, and Jacaerys is prompted to fill the silence once more.

“I suppose getting air has helped… Aegon’s Garden is not nearly as taxing to the senses as flying on dragonback these days.” He observes absently, watching another onslaught of rain slam against the window, “… and your oils, of course - though, they’re quite strong in the bath. I find the blooms to be rather pleasant now. I don’t know if you recall, Maester, but I was quite sensitive to plants when I was a babe.”

Below on the grounds, a flicker of blue through hedges of green; Jacaerys jumps only slightly, blinking – and the figure is gone. He must be going mad.

Though in a moment of odd silence, the grind of the mortar has stopped.

Gerardys’ eyes flick up to his own, leaking with a flicker of wariness. “Yes, the…garden.” He repeats slowly, straightening his back. “My Prince, I’ve… noticed you’ve been spending quite some time there recently.”

Jacaerys, not used to such suspicion from the man, bristles immediately. Some desire, perhaps, to protect the sanctity of the garden - to protect you.

“And?” He wonders stiffly.

Maester Gerardys sets the mortar to the table, voice cautious. “It is not my place to pry, but… we must be wary not to… become distracted in such times. The dragonseeds arrive late on the morrow, and the efforts of war demand the entire island’s attention.”

Offense bristles through Jacaerys’ chest as he levels a sharp gaze at the man before him. Without hesitation, he rises from his previous seat, patience more than frayed. “Do you think me not focused?”

At the following silence, his voice tightens. “I am not a boy, Gerardys. I know what is at stake - better even than you. And it will do you well to remember who it will be to lead the charge when the time comes.”

Gerardys does not flinch at the sharpness of Jacaerys’ tone, but nods briefly. “Of course, my Prince. My apologies.” Jacaerys moves to make his exit, though Maester Gerardys’ voice stops him once more., “Though… It is my duty to keep you in good health. You’ve mentioned before a girl, in the garden - pardon me, but there has not-”

“Enough!” Jacaers snaps, pushing off the table. His temper has flared - though tipped over the cliff by his words, it is not Maester Gerardys who aggravates him so; rather, a heavy impending doom has settled upon his stomach at the damning reminder of the dragonseeds which crawl their way from whatever villages or flea’s bottom they come from now to chance a life of riding a dragon. Of some inkling that, in some way, Gerardys’ words are right; and Jacaerys lashes, a cornered hound.

“You forget yourself, Maester.” He exhales sharply through his nose, “You are here to help aid my ailments. That is all you need to do."

Gerardys bows his head, “Of course.”

He is nearly to the threshold when Maester Gerardys’ voice carries - soft and unsettling as an owl’s stare in the pitch of night. “Just remember, my Prince. Sometimes, the things which ease the mind… might mislead the heart.”

Jacaerys stops before the chamber door, hand clenching into a fist at his side; a nerve has been plucked, struck, ripped - some small growing doubt in the back of his own mind, one that festers and yearns to bloom with kindling of another’s words. Worry eases through him, though there is no time for that; more pressing matters loom.

The dragonseeds arrive on the eve, it seems.

He is gone from the chambers without another word, ignoring the fading needle sting of Maester Gerardys’ odd words as they dissolve into the large bow of day.

IT IS OF LITTLE IMPORTANCE WHEN JACAERYS HAS HIS BATH DRUM MOVED.

Though it is a simple request, an innocent one - brought up while breaking fast one morning, watching with concealed fluster as three servants drag his bath drum towards the windowsill. Though it is indeed blameless and simple, he feels rather horrid for it.

It is a twist of disgust that blossoms into some equally thrilling bloom in his chest. A transfixion, to keep gaze upon the expanse of a sea beyond his scope, of all that will one day be all his own to rule. To prove, perhaps in some twisted way, that it is he who will sit on the throne when his mother has finished her long reign; that those mules with silver hair and names of sand or snow do not come to delude themselves into making a claim of their own.

To watch over the baileys below, to see the fishing villages, mere specks in the distant shoreline; to see ships smaller than fleas sail to and from, to see the rustle of wildgrass upon the pathway to the garden below.

To watch Aegon’s Garden.

It is not, he tells himself, in any off-chance that he might catch sight of those silky tresses, of that smooth and wintry skin, of your curling smile. Jacaerys simply enjoys the views of sky, sea, mountain - and if he were to catch a glimpse of your beautiful visage, whispering to the flowers and laughing as if the blooms could whisper back? Perhaps that would simply be a welcomed favor.

The water in his bath steams; oils of rosemary and peppermint mix in a rather sharp smell upon his skin, though the tendrils of steam curl into his head and ease the sharpness of his mind’s ache.

Reclining back, eyes half-lidded, Jacaerys sighs into the heat of the water.

Lithe, tense muscles ache with the tension of the day - though it is morning, he knows he must rouse soon; but in the hour ahead that he has to bathe and break fast, he will allow himself to slip away from life, into the recesses of his mind - to where only you exist.

You.

Jacaerys allows for his fingertips to brush absently along the water’s surface - so similarly to how they’d traced the curve of your neck, tangled into your hair. It’s been far too long since he visited you last - two nights past since he was tugged through the hedges once more, hiding a grin, ducking under low-hanging vines, gasping into kisses stolen by your wanting lips.

There is no such flame that perhaps has ever burned hotter than the memory of your touch; an icy one, a chilling touch that sends the cold aches of the North to shame; though it burns so hot in his mind’s eye.

You, a world apart from the suffocating smoke of war - an endearing, true girl; the way your smile tugs at the corner of your lips, some glint in your gaze that beckons him closer - deeper.

Eyelashes kiss his cheeks when he shuts his lids, and mercifully he sees it - you, head tilted in the sunlight, shadows of the garden dancing along the stretch of your soft skin, the icy breath of shade a cool respite from the despotic sun.

And that heady, rich scent that clings to your skin - the figs, the juicy skin, the pinking bud of flesh inside, your lips so divine, wrapped around them, tasting, licking, biting-

His breath hitches; without thinking - or perhaps, telling himself instead not to think - his palm slips beneath the water.

Jacaerys’ groan is quiet into the empty chamber; but his calloused palm is softened by the warmth of the water, and his mind is hazy in the visions of you, staring at him, lips wrapped around that fruit.

Its scent, the lingering taste of it upon your lips, so sweet - you, so sweet.

And he did not try a taste then, but gods how he had wanted to; how he still wants to. A taste - of that flesh, dripping with sweet juice and marbled skin of ripe fruit - and of every inch of you, each breathless hitch of a moan, every whisper of his name from your lips. Pleasure curls down the base of his spine as he allows his fist to move; broad strokes, as languid as the slithering shift of your skirts around corners, as sharp as your gasped giggle when he makes you laugh.

And it’s you; he nearly believes it is you, wrapped around his cock so snug - pleasure lapping at core, water kissing his chest as he stirs in the bath, stuttering breaths that leak a few spare whimpers into the quiet morning air.

There is a breeze through the open window that sends Jacaerys’ bare chest to shiver against the steam of hot bath; A familiar chill, wrapping and curling around him like the winds of winter - settling at the nape of his neck, but dripping lower to pool at the very base of him, where his fist moves, desperate and seeking.

And though he pretends it does not happen, he knows his fist curls and moves to the rhythm of your sighs in his memory, how you’re always so eager to press into him, to kiss him, to taste him; desperate and hungry.

Hunger – that glint, dangerous and unknown in your eyes; a flicker of a grin too wide-pulled, the sliding of a gaze that feels ancient. It’s not proper, he knows; but the pleasure mounts anyways – because of it, perhaps – and that sickly smile sends himself further to the edge, grip shaking as his hips buck against nothing.

Water splashes from the basin. A bite on the plush of his lip as he suppresses a shuddering moan; his abdomen has tensed in such curling pleasure - an ice against the fire in his veins, intoxicating, arresting.

The pressure always builds - not just this pleasurable kind, though his body insists to his mind he should be focusing on such things - and in the last few desperate days that he’s spent far from you, you who truly understands him - it is in these times when he seeks such salacious relief.

It is your name whispered from his lips, breathless - too many times to admit in the past weeks of knowing your company. It is some distraction from the clawing talons of fate; when his palms are warm against his cock though he finds himself wishing to feel your own - that chilling touch which lures him so.

His desperate, soiled lips - groaning your name, falling from his tongue as the whisper of a phantom, some half-formed prayer to gods long-forgotten, squeezed with the very last of air which lived in his lungs. Licking at his skin, curling into his blood like the shade under which you’d kissed him.

The phantom feeling grasps at him, pressing against the thrash of his heartbeat in his chest, bringing the sting of overwhelm to his lashline, coaxing gasps through his lips and tickling a flush to his cheeks.

He can almost feel you when that same shivering peak leaves him panting, gasping as his ecstasy rolls through his entire body, his head lolling back against the tub basin as he whines your name into the empty chamber.

And in those moments, just like now - as his chest heaves and knuckles turn white, as he spends himself - he can think of nothing else.

It is only you.

Though when he steps from the bath and stretches his bare muscles into the bright of day, eyeing the line of constellated freckles which sprinkle over his pectorals and gather in pools upon his shoulders and bridge of nose, he feels the slow recovery of what had slipped so easily from his conscious - pain.

And just as it disappeared, so it appears once more; with a sharp wince, Jacaerys jolts from his haze, gasping at the heavy ache which throbs in the back of his head.

With flushed cheeks, he watches the garden below for any sign of life; It swirls with tantalizing greens, the scent of dahlias and gardenias blowing in even this high into the tower through the open casement. A sigh falls secret and unbidden from his lips as curls are raked back upon his head with a shaky palm.

As always, the pull is there.

The lull, some sweet melody that spins the strings of his heart, warming the blood pulsing in his chest and gathering below his abdomen; which soothes the ache of his mind and whispers his name in the soft breeze.

It is melancholy, in the way life has been without Lucerys. Shadows swirl darker under the attention of morning sun – petals curl beneath the breath of frost, melting back into themselves in the first whispers of day. The blooms smile up at him, and he longs for the embrace of something he can never have.

The garden breathes below.

Across the bailey, the dragonseeds take up arms - measly children playing at a game they know nothing about; Jacaerys’ jaw clicks when he glimpses the regal posture of his own mother across the way, speaking with Maester Gerardys and Addam of Hull. The pierce of his mind’s ache is sharper - the garden’s breeze sends a breath of loneliness through him.

He shuts the window without a second thought.

IT IS ONLY SO MANY HOURS UNTIL HE FINDS HIMSELF IN THE GARDEN ONCE MORE.

Misery flutters in Jacaerys’ mind with every ragged gasp he takes; a creeping nightmare, rousing him from sweaty sheets - clammy and with half a scream lodged in his throat, he’d stirred.

Visions of white, some restless churning that’d grown from dirt of dreams and sprouted a blossoming nightmare - at the top of that ancient, towering wall of ice, the words falling from Cregan Stark’s lips. A fate worse than death.

The loss of his brother; the face which echoed in so many ways his own. The end of a life - of a lifetime - and he still wakes up from restless slumber every night, gasping dry air, yearning for the days of sparring, of fixing wrinkled folds of rich doublets, of teaching lessons, of laughs concealed painfully at supper.

Though tonight, after being roused from sleep by a scream that did not sound like his own, Jacaerys had stood from his mattress, slamming the empty chalice of water upon his table as he calmed his breaths, watching the hedges swirl and blow in the night’s breeze. He’s grown used to the figments of his sleep-hungry mind – young men running past statues, laughter bubbling far away. But tonight, he saw you in a flash of white dress and a rumble of ancient hunger, some need to be in arms which trust and do not quite question.

And so, he ran.

Still clad in his tunic and sleep-trousers, he stumbled past the iron gates, gripped in a chilling bout of tedious familiarity; how many times must he find himself here, searching for comfort - to be haunted by life, by loss?

Why had he not, instead, sought out his mother? Baela? Lord Corlys is often awake at such ghastly hours these days, staring at the sea from upon his balcony…

It is admittedly not the first time he has sought you out in such turmoil; indeed, in the weeks of knowing you, scarcely has past two days where he has not ventured into the gardens; where he has not sought your eerie quiet, your soft words, your gentle palms upon his glistening cheeks.

There is in you perhaps that innocence so lost in people like him - people tainted by the burden of duty; and in your smiles, your whispers, your laughs, your tears - he has come to know you and to love you separately, to be transfixed by you and to crave you.

He supposes it is indeed some rebellion of his own - any breath of you is swept behind by those he has known his whole life; his mother, with no bat of her eye over your name in passing, though if she had scarcely an idea of what he did with you when there was nothing but the swirling trees and falling petals… lips on soft lips, hands on plush curves...

And Jacaerys knows, quite deep in his mind, why he could not speak with them. So often he finds words falling on deafened ears; those who do not understand, or who simply do not wish to. Unlike you – wise beyond your years.

In the pitch dark of night, the statues grow warped - blackened by the hatred of weather and neglect of island; it is darker than he’s ever seen the Garden, with a nearly full moon concealed by thick clouds of dread.

Blindly he stumbles into a statue - grasping once more unto the familiar young maiden’s thigh for balance; though the serpent which encircles her is coiled higher over her hips than he recalls.

Fingertips trace over the scales of the snake, and with a distinct desire in his throat, he presses his forehead to the cool stone of the stone woman’s dress skirts; a momentary comfort upon the stone lap.

It is only moments before his breathing calms; lips, pressing to the stone he rests upon - and that visage that watches down at him - stone and lifeless in the dark, eternally you.

IT TAKES HIM NO TIME TO FIND YOU DEEPER IN THE GARDEN.

It is odd, perhaps, that his feet find their way to you each time he seeks you out, as though they have a memory of their own - though he still feels lost in the ever distending garden itself.

Under the olive tree, as you lurk in the shadows, some ancient beastly predator awaits the hare; but you are no foe.

He stands numbly, the loneliness that grips his chest and fosters growing insecurities and fears within his mind dissolving under your beaming smile.

You’re against him in only a moment, pulling him by the wrists into your embrace; he feels odd, as though he floats when you tug him nearer.

“Jacaerys,” You whisper, eyes wide - startled, perhaps, at his visit in such an unseemly hour; though you, too, are here in the garden. It is beyond him to wonder why you so choose to spend your nights here, when he lies so sleeplessly in his own chambers each night wishing for the embrace of the garden.

The knot in his chest unfurls just under your touch - and you seize him in a shy kiss, leaning on tip-toes to seek his warmth.

He gasps into it, overwhelmed by the cold of your lips against his own; but he melts into the intoxicating simplicity of being wanted - and wanted by you, gods - and kisses you back deeply. Soft tresses tickle his forearm as he slides his arms around your back, tugging you into him - as if he could perhaps drown himself in you; as if he could forget the weight of the night, of the troubles that always come when morning breaks.

His hands find your waist as you pull away, though not too far - he keeps you close, to see the breath that falls from your lips and raises the goosepimples upon his neck, each flutter of every single eyelash.

“You’ve returned,” And you speak the words breathlessly each time he visits, without fail; as if you truly fear that each time he leaves, it will be the last time.

But your smile falls at the state of him, leaning closer to tuck your palm under his jaw.

“What troubles you, my love?” You wonder softly, a cold breeze of your palm brushing away his curled tresses - and he tries not to keen into the touch, swallowing thickly at the concern, at the empathy that drips from your words. He does not recall when you began to levy him with such sweet words – gone is my prince, taken up with far more intimate, kind titles; And, in return, when he whispers such devoted titles into your ear, into the breath of the garden – you bloom, a small smile growing evergreen upon your visage.

Your name is whispered from his lips with a shake of his head, the emotions crawling back to the forefront of his mind, dragging his weary bones down towards the earth.

And, devoted as always, you go with him; sinking into the thick soil, running your fingers through his hair as he breathes heavily, using his best effort to resist the tears which brim in his vision. He feels a fool; though you would not ever hold him in such contempt.

His voice is tight. “I wished to see you,” He admits, “I… saw you, from my chambers.”

Your lips curl into a soft grin; your eyes are dark - knowing - in the concealed moonlight, and it stirs that same odd crazed feeling within his bones. And no matter how tight his grasp on your arm becomes, you do not wince; you instead pull him with a soft caress and practiced words, curled under the statue of the dying lovers.

It is there he lies, head cushioned on the soft chill of your lap, blinking back syrupy eyelids as he spills his mind to you.

His mother, the dragonseeds; heirs, bastards, the colour of the very locks your fingers card through so gently.

His words whisper, curling up through your own hair and floating into the limbs of the tree behind you; your eyes are large as he confesses to you each and every thing that has infected him, has let fester within his mind for so long that now it rots and oozes from his lips with a bitter hatred.

Your words whisper in return, dripping from honeyed lips and soothing the sore and bruised bones that lie so weary beneath skin so thick.

It is in no effort to convince him of one thing nor another; Your words are for him, and that is it - your words are simple, kind, understanding. A balm over festering wounds of family, of fate.

“Jace?” You ask into the quiet of the night - and the tug on his heartstring of your delicate use of his sobriquet fosters a gentle, dreamy smile to his lips. He hums into the quiet garden, his fingers slipping through the tresses of your free hair, billowing around his head like a thick curtain; he leans up and steals a soft kiss from your parted lips, laughing gently at the blush that creeps over your countenance.

Not a breath later, a pressure slides soft against Jacaerys’ face and he jumps slightly. Though you laugh at his misfortune, you straighten; the curtain is pulled, and Jace blinks in the moonlight to find the creature that’d slinked its way into your privacy.

Jacaerys’ gut twists – the cat.

A gasp of excitement from you. “Shadow, darling.” You purr affectionately - Jacaerys, wary and uneased, sits himself upright from his pillow in your lap, spine uncurling into regal posture once more.

It bunts its small head against your palm and Jacaerys is claimed by a faint memory – Baela feeding Sȳndor a foraged fish; You sigh in disappointment, shaking your head down at the cat. “I have none with me this evening, I’m afraid.”

The cat hisses; he feels his spine straighten even more, hair on end.

“Jacaerys,” You hum; your hand is outstretched, and with a disoriented blink, he wonders when you’d risen to stand. He rises, hand in yours as you smile against the pitch-black of night. “I’ve something I would like to show you.”

The deeper into the garden you lead Jacaerys, the longer the silvery shadows of statues cast; wrath, visages weathered and greened by spoiled coils of vines - they leap at him when he passes. Earth and dying leaves hang in the air; but in the rotting turns and bends in the far end of the garden, where he’s never been, they give way to something sweeter, richer.

It’s a slow crawl - in a breeze, in a short laugh from you, in the sway of your loose tresses when you turn a corner too quickly for the prince to keep up. A cat-and-mouse game.

Though it grows - a smell so intoxicating that when you finally arrive, Jacaerys is stopped dead in his tracks.

Bewilderment, some serious dip in his gut in alarm at the monstrous silhouette that just barely looms in the shadows of night. His neck has to crane to see them: Figs – plump, ripe, hanging heavy and dripping from gnarled branches easily the size of himself.

It is a tree twice the size of the olive tree - a feat of its own - and possibly more; the fruits drip with nectar that shimmers as if caught in the light that does not find the rest of the Garden.

Massive.

The tree backs up and towers over the stone wall at the end of the garden, fog swirling in a small blanket that conceals the thick, rising roots emerging from the earth.

And at first, Jacaerys believes the heat rising within him to be hunger; his stomach growls quietly, churning at the alluring scent of fruit - but with a glance at you, hand still in his - a different hunger claws at him.

The heat spreads through his veins.

It tightens his chest, mouth watering at the thought of a bite of that sweet fruit, its gentle juices as they slide over trembling, pure skin; his hunger grows, some famished beast clawing at his chest. And a taste of you - that intoxicating you, ever-present and sweet in his mind.

Gods, this is ill done. He does not ask before tugging you gently with him towards the tree, the overwhelming scent pulling him deeper under its yawning canopy.

His hand only slips from yours when he reaches the base of the tree; staring up at the sprawling web of branches above, he lets out an incredulous laugh that is deafened immediately in the sedated air around you.

“It’s enormous,” Fingers brush against bark, ancient and rough, “Why haven't I seen it before? It feels…” He trails off, searching for the words; but he’s gone rather hot in sudden desire. You’re behind him - he feels your freezing breath trickle down his nape, your hand ghosting over his spine; though the shiver that follows is not just from your lips. “...Hidden.” He finishes absently.

Jacaerys turns into your touch, but you are not behind him - you remain a few paces away, bending to feed the cat a fig you’ve plucked from a lower branch.

The presence he’d felt behind him is gone; With a blink, unease churns in his gut.

His question lingers - but too does the heat. That overwhelming scent, as the cat leaps to rip voraciously into the flesh of the fruit. He watches, torn between horror and captivation as the little beast tears at it, releasing some faint growl that sounds nearly like a purr.

His own fingers reach up shakily to pluck a fruit laced in shadows – and in the moonlight, the flesh is nearly purple.

“Perhaps the garden hides what it wishes to keep.”

He startles only slightly – you’re in his ear now, voice laced in that way that stirs heat within him. His fingers clutch the fruit desperately, breathing heavy to regain whatever strength he has lost in the battle against desire. Your whisper sends curling arousal over the ridges of his spine, “The soil is rich here, you know. Fertile, in ways men think it shouldn’t be. The Dragonmont’s deposits do little to stop such delicious fruit from blossoming – it is foolish to think this land cursed.”

Cursed, his mind whispers – and his brows furrow, your words stirring unease in the back of his mind; It is so difficult to think clearly at such a late hour, with the hunger stirring so deep, with the fruit and your hand so soft in his own.

Cursed – but you eat them; and as he gazes into your glinting eyes in the dark, your bare toes dug into the very soil upon which you stand – hunger gnaws at him, blinding his sight from whatever shadows curl in the dark. He doesn’t mind, he decides.

Cursed, or blessed – it is often quite hard to tell the difference.

And his hunger crescendos; with a small press of your lips to the sensitive patch of his neck, the grazing of teeth sharper than the blade forgotten in his chambers, his hand twitches; his thumb splits the seam of the fruit open.

At the movement, the pad of his finger slides into the flesh, its juices dripping into his palm; you let out a small whimper at this, your hands curling in a grasp around his arms – the noise sends heat through him, coiling at the base of him.

Your eyes are alight with hunger – eyes wide, some shrouded smile growing upon hungry lips as he stares down between you and the fruit.

He yearns for something; all his life, for something. To feel alive, a voice whispers - the Garden is alive, you are alive. You are.

His hand drops the fruit.

For just a moment, your face flickers – but he brings his thumb to hover over your cheek, the air thick with the smell of its juices. He is hungry; insatiable. Your breath stutters as you stare up at him, and he down at you, breaths puffing between parted lips, shaking with unspoked craving.

“Gods,” he murmurs; and then, your tongue darts out – his throat tightens, goosepimples roving through him as you gently lick the pulp of the fig from his thumb, leaning further towards him.

He leans; Gods, he can’t help himself – and then his lips are on yours, rapacious, greedy.

You press with cold hands into him, and he stumbles back into the bark of the tree, thicker than himself three times round the trunk; your tongue prods his own, and he can’t help the groan that tears from the back of his throat – the taste, ambrosial.

Some remnants of the fruit linger upon your lips, and he’s unable to quench himself of the desire that spins his head; that sinks him low once more into the soil, that tugs you daringly atop him.

Jacaerys blinks back a bout of dizziness when his eyes adjust – reposed below the fig tree, temptations swirling around his mind as you slide into his lap coyly.

How he got here, he cannot recall; but you’re real and touching him – an icy palm upon the juncture of his neck, your slender thumb slipping to curl over the base of his throat as he keens towards you, plush lips seeking the thrill of your skin against his mouth.

Dress shifts; his tunic rustles, the leaves fall and the fruit lies in the earth, split open. Perhaps it is the hour - or it is the stare you give him; he is overwhelmed with the sense that you know every part of him; every fear, every weakness – and still you lie in his lap, eager and blushing as the day you first met. His mind flashes – in that numb way, as if he is on the precipice of some crucial understanding.

Your own lips sink into his, pressing away any melancholia, replacing it with a boiling hunger - an icy groan from him as you shift in his lap, his stirring arousal quick and heated with your sweet proximity.

Your hips stir upon his own – it lights arousal through him, tensing each muscle in his body as he coaxes you to do it again, again, again; until he is numb but for the sensation of you, willing and hungry and his.

His fingers clench; one palm, grounding himself with a grasp on the junction of your hip - the other, tracing the outline of a nearby root, feeling the thrumming heartbeat which seems to come tandem from both your flesh and its own.

The kiss he pulls you into is careful, hungry, exploring – overwhelming, as your fingers slide into his curls and tug gently; a hiss of desire from him that arches his spine into your cool skin.

He takes your sighs, your curves, the tremble of your hands as you palm at his own pliant body as if it’s a proof to himself – he is a man, he is alive – he, more than a playpiece in his mother’s endless efforts, more than a name which will be written leatherbound parchments of history to come.

He is more than it all; because he is yours.

“Jace–” Your voice is breathless, and it nearly kills him.

In a short whimper, you shift your hips upon his own, driving yourself over the line of his hardened cock – and he hisses, biting hard into the plush of his lower lip.

Near immediately, your tongue soothes over him; and a small noise of pleasure – nearly missed, though your eyes flash as you lean away from his mouth, a smattering of his own metallic blood upon your lip.

Your eyes are blown wide; a chilling sight, reveling in the taste of his ichor – and your hand, cupping his jaw with that frosty command as you hum, eyes taking him apart, putting him back together. Staring through his soul. Gods, you’re divine.

“Is this okay?” You whisper - your lips brush against his in a chilling shiver of pleasure; in which he nods enthusiastically, eyes wide and begging and willing. “Yes, please–”

And he cannot finish, because he is soon letting a soft whimper fall desperately against your own lips; you stir with wandering fingers, undulating against him with a sweet pressure that nearly sends a choked moan past his lips.

Fingers tangle in the strings of your loose hair, tugging you closer; your chest presses to his – a muddled awe when he feels your heartbeat switch and begin beating to the very same gallop as his own.

His breath falls ragged as your lips press a blizzard of sultry kisses across his jaw; your gown’s hem curls and ruffles below him as trembling fingers trace it shyly, staving his insatiable hunger.

Haziness leaks into his mind like the winds creep upon winter; perhaps from the cool, delicate skin so inviting underneath his palm, or perhaps the thick, heady scent of figs in the air. Completely at your mercy, craving everything you’re willing to give him – and as though you know it, there is an odd feeling, some shift under the thick limbs of tree above; it is a jarring realization that you’re smiling against his neck, teeth small needles upon his skin.

His brow furrows - a groan slips from his lips as his fingers gently tug at your hair, coaxing your head up from his wanting skin.

Your eyes, blown wide and hungry as his own; and in a hazy swallow, his voice thick with desire and disbelief breaks the quiet of the garden. “You’re divine,” He admits, shaking his head. You laugh at this; that very sharp thing that always seems too loud for your lungs – his mind blares for a moment, but it disappears with a kiss to his jaw.

“You are, my Prince.” You insist. And in your words strikes him a jolt; Gods, this is ill done. He should have stopped when you led him to the tree – he should have turned back when your eyes lingered too long on his lips, when his hunger grew insatiable and unable to contain – when you slithered into his lap, when he tugged you closer and whispered such flowery words into your sweet ear; when he kissed your lips with blistering fervor and locked his arms so you could not slither away, even if you wished to.

He is a prince, after all—honor bound, held to standards that now seem so absurdly distant; and indeed, as you move atop him, as your hands snake beneath his tunic and brush icicles over his burning bare skin, something snaps inside him.

Your hips, and your sensual smile – torturous things, as you draw a slow rhythm that sends his mind spiraling deeper into the fog of lust; frantically, his hips cant upwards in chase of your own.

Embarrassment is merely a wash of afterthought – because you whimper just as he does, shivering in his grasp at the ecstasy that builds between your frigid skin and his own, furnaced by the ancient blood coursing through his body.

Ice and fire, his mind whispers – and he is struck with some deep-seeded pride, a knowledge that, more than carnally, he was meant to find you, to be with you; And that, perhaps, yours is the heart he will forever keep, as you keep his in your own eternally frigid grasp.

He whimpers your name softly and you drink it up with devotion; a septa to a pointed-star; and with a scrambled grasp in your pleasure, your hand finds the fig, split and discarded in the earth-heavy soil beside him.

It is with lidded eyes and puffing, parted lips that Jacaerys watches you, ravenous and ethereal.

Your hair cascades, a curtain once more – keeping out any prying eyes from the middle of night, keeping in huffs of innocent desire as his fingers tighten their grasp upon you, dragging you once more over the straining length of him.

Your fingers press into the wound of the fig and he is doused in a blaring hot ecstasy.

He bucks at the angelic vision of you, pressing into his heated arousal – as if he might sheathe himself in you now and bring his warmth into your very soul - and you, swirling in a misty breeze of desire, pressing so hungrily against him, bucking your hips with a stuttering pleasure that shoots rapturous satisfaction up his spine.

And then your fingers rise to those very lips he chases.

Your eyes roll back in the moonlight – of which he scarcely notes there is enough to douse the tree and you in a silvery breath – and you moan his name when you taste the juice of the fruit. It is a groan, a low drawl that stirs a beast low in his gut.

The scent is too enticing; abdomen clenching in restraint, his hips buck into yours and you hiss in pleasure, eyes returning to his own, pupils blown wide enough to swallow him. He wishes you would.

And it is nearly too much for Jacaerys to bear; the sight of you, wrapped around him and breath puffing in shallow gasps, the fig’s juice staining your lips and glistening over your fingers as they swirl in the broken flesh once more.

He lets out a shaky whimper, the pleasure mounting – his hands roam over your curves, frantic and trembling with the tension of wanting to hold you so close and wishing to ruin you completely.

In a hazy gasp, he wonders what in the realms he is doing now, out in the open so salaciously; but the thought blanks when he feels your hand, freezing as it curls over his clenched jaw.

His lips part for you easily, and your smile is hauntingly beautiful in silvered moonlight.

Your fingers brush over his lips; in a shivered groan, Jacaerys’ eyes flutter shut and his tongue darts out, unable to resist.

The thick, heady flavor sends heat through him, and he’s nearing that edge, that something - he groans, body arching underneath your epicurean touch as he lets your fingers slide past his lips, closing around them with hunger.

The sensation hits him; heat, coursing through his veins so hot it turns icy, burns under his skin. And he bucks desperately, tugging you closer, a shudder running through him as he sucks the juice from your skin, overwhelmed with need.

His body trembles underneath you; your touch, divine – otherworldly – and you hum, letting out a moan as your body stutters above him. Faintly, he is aware of your own peak rolling through you, of your moans, of the sickening smile that flashes above him – though the taste, the smell, the feeling of you slithering atop him – it’s too much.

Jacaerys groans and your fingers slide from his lips, instead cupping his jaw, coaxing his mouth open for your own lips to find him.

His groan becomes a gasp as he comes undone beneath you.

His head falls back against the bark of the tree, feeling its breaths stutter with your own as you follow him, curled into his chest, stuttering your movements as he grasps you in pleasure. His trousers, spent – yet he notices not, whispering your name weakly as his body pulses in an unknown pleasure. Your lips trail ridges of ice over the sliver of exposed collarbone under his tunic.

The juice of the fruit lingers in his mouth, pulsing oddly through his veins. And in a moment, the world shifts; his vision blurs, and as he blinks, the garden is different – bathed in golden sunlight, blooms wild and in full blood; and laughter, a girl and a boy’s, warbled and happy. His heart strikes; a calming unease, some familiar edge. Another boy’s laughter joins in, and his stomach douses in ice.

He blinks, and the garden is dark again, the ancient branches of the fig tree curling overhead like gnarled, sinister fingers.

He looks up at you, still dazed, his body spent but his mind whirling with the remnants of the pleasure and the strangeness that had gripped him so – and registers your stare, suddenly rigid and intent upon him.

He watches as you lean forward, body pressing against his. A lazy kiss, one that spurs him to chase as you lean back, tasting of those sweet figs; slick with saliva and desire as you suddenly lift a palm between you, brushing his heaving chest.

The sweetness hovers over his lips; he can nearly taste it, taste you – the scent is overwhelming, the presence of your body so close, so inviting; that hunger remains, even as his spend sticks to his trousers beneath you.

His eyes trace the macerated fig in your palm, its flesh bleeding and willing, sweet and hungering. The fig.

“Eat.”

Your voice, a soft command – and your eyes, dark, intense as they bore into his own. The fig presses lightly against his mouth, and his tongue darts to lap at the juice which gathers upon his bottom lip hungrily.

Pleasure blossoms at the taste, and in his heart swirls a yearning.

Though something stops him; a sudden wave of dizziness, a strange sensation pulling him from some darkened haze. He hesitates, blinking at the fruit in your hand.

“No.” He murmurs.

He sees it in a flash of moonlight – your smile, faltering.

It’s not disappointment, but something dark and fleeting – a deepened stare, a flash of malicious hunger; the sweetness of the garden suddenly gathers too thick, too heavy.

You’ve stilled in his lap and he vaguely registers the rigidity of your expression, some familiarly shadowed stare.

He’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but your lip trembles, and with a racing heart, he reaches for you. The look upon your visage stops him; a calculating flash in your gaze, the thin press of your lips.

And for the first time the whole night, fear creeps into his chest.

Something isn’t right.

His hand slips away from your cold touch, trembling now for a new reason; and that fig which hovers in your palm suddenly smells sickening, filled with dread and longing all at once. The soil is rotten, he thinks hazily, it’s rotten…You’re–

“Come, why won't you try? Just a bite?” Your words curl in a taunt – and he nearly responds, but you’re leaning forward, lips brushing over his ear and sending shivers down his spine. His fist curls savagely against the bark of the tree as his heart begins to pound.

“It’s only a fig, Jace.” You whisper, pressing your lips to the soft spot under his ear.

You move to lean back, the curl of your smirk against his neck melting as you shift, only a sweet smile remaining when you turn to look at him. But the fear and the desire have mixed into some beastly conviction within him.

And, in a moment of sharp courage, he catches your wrist in a firm, iron grip.

You freeze under his grasp, your eyes glinting almost ominously in the silver moonlight.

“Is it?” He snaps back, heart pounding in his chest as his jaw clicks. Somewhere in his heart, there is an unsettling air that chokes, stilling around you when you blink slowly at his question.

Your stare is sharp, but there is a flash of something there he’s not yet seen before; something, he thinks, must be mirrored in his own gaze.

Fear.

A part of him expects for your jaw to unhinge – for a beast to emerge, to swallow him whole, to rip him open and feast upon his innards; but instead your gaze shifts, and your face is small, youthfully beautiful and dripping in purity – a girl no more than his age.

And then, bone-chillingly, as though a petulant child would when denying a crime, you shake your head just lightly.

No.

A confirmation, one which sends a chill rather sharply down his spine.

And from his lips a stuttered breath – he should run, should scream; but what does such a thing do in dreams?

Yet as quickly as it came, the shadow over you vanishes.

As if he blinks and wakes from the hazy dream – your face, returned to that familiar sweetness he so adores, the chilling smile you save only for him. You cup his cheek gently, and it is enough to pull him back from the edge of terror.

Lilting and light once more, a touch of concern crossing your features as you tilt your head – “You look so troubled, my love. Where did you go?”

He blinks, confused, alarmed.

You press a kiss upon his lips, and he chases your touch. “Come back to me,” you whisper.

He blinks once more, heart still hammering - but the fear dissolves with each ancient breath of the soil beneath him; and he gazes into your eyes through the dark of night – those same eyes that have always seen him.

You understand him; and whatever that moment of dread had been— wherever he’d gone just now, into some visions conjured up by an exhausted mind – it is gone now, lost in the softness of the fig tree’s leaves, in the tenderness of your touch.

“I’m sorry, I...” You shift as you murmur and it presses against his spent arousal, his breath hitching as his eyes fall upon your sweet lips, mind fogging. “I sometimes forget myself. You’re just…”

His eyes hook upon your own, waiting; with bated breath, he waits for you.

Your lips press together bashfully, fingers toying with curls of his hair, “Special. I’m quite fond of you.” You admit, nearly shy – and an affection blossoms within Jacaerys, a grin trickling upon his lips. “I’m quite fond of you too,” He breathes, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes lose their sharp glint as the moon falls in the sky and his shoulders lose such tension that’d built in the moments past, replaced by the soothing touch of your palm; quiet whispers and gentle laughs that lull his mind into ease.

And it is there, in the very edge of Aegon’s Garden, that you and he repose for the better hours of the ghost and wolf, whispering of lifetimes and fears and sneaking kisses between mumbled sentences. He forgets the fear he’d felt, that he’d seen in your eyes; soon, fog of morning creeps into the garden and tickles tendrils round his boots.

He is lulled into your lap again - his head rested upon the plush of a cool thigh, your dress gentle against his heated cheeks.

And though he is unsure if the words that are murmured when his eyes become heavy are real or a part of his tricking mind, they fill him with that warm affection, that love that festers in his heart.

“I wish I could stay here,” He whispers when he is half asleep from exhaustion. “With you.”

There is a pause in your fingers for a moment.

“And you can,” Your voice is laced with something he cannot see - for a moment, his mind conjures a flash of something rather wicked, the memory of your face when he’d denied the fig; though he throws away such absurdity.

You’re so very soothing, trailing your nails along his temple.

He drifts away.

HE WAKES SOME TIME LATER.

He no longer lies upon your lap; instead he is pressed against your very body, his chest shivering in the cold line of you, in the breath of icy air that threatens from the sky above.

You stir beside him; the garden is impossibly darker now - and as you sit up, he unwinds the hand he’d placed upon your waist. Uncomely, he reminds himself - though, what does it matter? What does any of it matter?

“You dreamt,” You murmur.

Disoriented, Jacaerys blinks, trying to find your face in the dark; he’s merely met with the glinting of your wide eyes against the moonlight blinking owllishly.

“I…” He frowns, uneased by your observation. “I did. It was…” He shakes his head as he tries to recall, watching your frame materialize under the dark blanket of night. “Odd. A battle - over the sea, I think. Statues – dying, crumbling into the water.” He shakes away the creeping frustration of slipping memories, however distant or unreal. “It didn’t make sense.”

You hum, and there is some specific glint in your darkened face he nearly misses; the shining of pearls outstretched against plush lips - the flash of a dark grin, sinister in the moonlight, snuffed quick by the effort of a gentle nod.

He grows even more uncomfortable in the quiet - it must be nearing the early wake of sun; his muscles yield surprisingly little soreness for sleeping upon the earth.

“Did you dream?” He wonders, relaxing as his eyes adjust to find your visage calm and sweet, watching him with a soft interest. What odd tricks his mind plays in the dark.

Your voice, ever distant: “I don’t dream.”

He’s imbued with the slow tendrils of sleep, though he frowns. “Everyone dreams,” He murmurs.

You huff smally, tilting your head in that doelike way, “I suppose I can never recall them.”

He laughs, then – a hollow thing, though recovering some of the warmth gone after the loneliness settled in those moons ago. A strained sound, though it makes you mimic his laughter in that odd way you sometimes do – and with a smile, you watch him intently.

“I enjoy hearing your laugh, Jacaerys. It’s comfortable… familiar.”

And for some odd reason, perhaps in seek of his own comforting memory, Jacaerys pictures Luke – laughter bubbling over at the drawing table of his mother’s quarters, breaking fast as a family; and a deep melancholy settles over him, pulling him deep into the pit of grief that finds him in the night.

His smile falls. “My brother used to laugh until he turned red.” He recalls, settled into that haze that begins to reclaim him, as if he’s drifting to sleep once more. “He’d lose breath sometimes – like he had to suck air out of every lung in the keep, just to keep himself from passing out. It would make him laugh harder.”

You smile in his peripheral.

His brows furrow. “He was just always so full of…light.”

He’s not sure why he offers such information – it is near impossible these days for Jacaerys to utter Luke’s name aloud, let alone think such fond memories.

Though something about the blanket of night and the gentle brush of your thigh against his own, brings a lull to his mind; as though he’s sipped too many cups of wine, or still rests in some odd state of slumber. The remainder of the fig’s juices slip past his tongue when he wettens his lip, and he’s coaxed into that state of hungry bliss – not fully satisfied, yet pleasant to repose.

Your fingers pull at the many frays of your odd dressskirts; in the faint moonlight, the fabric looks as though it has stains. Deep, dark streaks that blossom just near your breast and stomach; they seem to spread with the breaths you take, your hands beginning to shake. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of such an uneasy sight.

A statue of a man and woman across the way has caught a streak of moonlight; He’d not noticed any statue in the fig tree’s courtyard hours ago, but now it sits, gruesomely pale in the scarce silver - and their faces are rather distraught.

A familiar statue, one so alike the marbled lovers near the olive tree. A man, wind-and-water-torn, with that same arrow protruding through his flesh; and the woman in his arms watching with a transfixed expression, grasping at his arms with lonely eyes.

He tears his eyes away uneasily.

“I know a boy like that, too.” You whisper quietly, though Jacaerys is hooked upon the odd bend of the arrow which sticks through the statue’s shoulder across the way. He’s not quite sure what you mean, and his brows furrow.

“-Though,” You shrug with only one shoulder, as though mimicking the woman from the statue, “His laugh is more full of water.”

Jacaerys freezes.

His heart stops at your words, breath catching in his throat - the mention of such a thing sends a chill through him. “What—” He whispers, mind flashing back to the glimpse of curls, of that bouncing gait, of the blue that had flickered through these very hedges days ago.

“What do you mean?” He chokes.

You smile that soft smile – the one that haunts his mind, that leaves him uneasy in the flickering of moonlight. “I see him in the garden sometimes,” Your eyes flicker, gleam, “He comes here – to the fig tree – during rainstorms. He told me he used to enjoy the sound, but now he detests them.”

Jacaerys is rooted to the ground, staring wide-eyed into the yawning chasm of night; its jaw spread wide, your face the shining beacon of fire at the base of its throat.

The pain of a lost limb; of a lost soul entwined with his own, cut from the same womb, carved from the same stone. But your voice echoes drearily through the quiet silence.

“And the boy…His laugh,” Your brows knit faintly, “It’s like yours, but…drowned.”

Every hair on the nape of his neck is on end as he lets out a shaky breath. No. Lucerys is dead, he reminds himself.

Your fingers brush his hand against the soil; cold as ice.

The sensation jolts him, and he leaps to his feet, sleepclothes uncomfortable, his skin sticky from the sins of earlier. His cheeks flood with heat.

It is wrong. Dread fills him, the leak of a moat into a basin of fear; there’s something wrong about this - because Lucerys is dead, his father is dead, Rhaenys is dead - all of them, dead.

Life moves on, but the dead do not; and it is a burden he carries, and he carries alone - because the crown is too heavy to be marred by the blood of the ones you’ve loved, so Jacaerys must bear the weight for him and his mother.

How could you have seen him?

“-You know how.”

Your voice comes sharp from the tree below, and it strikes him through the stomach - and before he can consider the unnerving murmur from your lips, how you’re always seeing into the words in his mind, the thread has snapped.

It’s only a fig, Jace.

He staggers back a few steps, feet caught on the twisting gnarl of treeroot. “I’ve… I apologize, I must go.” He murmurs, swallowing thickly; and with a shaky breath, he resists the urge for his mind to spiral into that dark place, where grief and madness lie in wait.

He turns away from the lulling ease of the tree above, nearly as large a shadow as the castle itself – and takes one, two, many steps towards the hedges, chest thundering.

Perhaps you call after him.

He thinks he hears your dress snagging on thorns and branches behind him as he tears through the bowels of the rotting garden; rounding a corner, he hears a feline’s hiss, a dark rumble of thunder. The garden is wrong – a putrid thing, in the dead light of nightingale’s earliest breaths.

It is rotten soil, a voice mimics – though his heart still pounds your name into his ribs; he still misses the chilling press of your lips to his own, the sweet saccharin taste of the fruit upon your tongue.

The soil is sick, it is too rich in his nostrils; and when he staggers past the maiden statue, he is terrified to see there is no snake upon her thigh – instead her visage stares down at him with a wicked, serpentlike grin.

A shiver of fear as he blinks back terror.

Morning glories are trampled underfoot, poppies beaten until their bloody leaves smash into the soles of his boots.

Jacaerys’ eyes clench shut and he pretends not to hear the faint mix of joint laughter – warbled in the distance, a girl’s and a boy’s, bubbling over before dissolving, echoing into the crash of the icy ocean below.

An agonizing gasp of unease from him as he finally bursts to the entryyard, the wilting flowers decaying in a sickly sweet scent. He nearly retches.

When Jacaerys pushes past the gate and into the bailey’s courtyard, the breaking dawn is cloudless.

Early morningbirds chirp in the sky; waves crash down upon the shore, lit bloody with the waking sun. He is very alone.

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#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace x reader #jace smut #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x reader smut #jacaerys smut #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd imagine #jace velaryon

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wheres-mylove · 1 year ago

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damsel in distress | sihtric kjartansson x fem!reader

Summary: Sihtric arrives in Winchester for Aethelflaed’s wedding, and finds a princess for himself by the way - the bride’s younger sister with a feisty temper and an overpowering desire to break Aethelred's nose. But there’s a little more to the story than just that.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my first language!

Word count: 2.9k

The young warrior stared at the ground, not daring to look his lord in the eye. He had warned him. Everyone had.

“She's gone?” Uhtred asked, trying out a sympathetic tone, realizing it was not the time to mock his friend's misplaced feelings.

“Yes, my lord,” Sihtric confirmed quietly. “The silver too, before you question me about it. Gone with her.”

“No woman, no silver,” Uhtred summarized and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just so we're clear, I would have agreed to the marriage. Suffer if you're foolish. But not for too long. You need to find someone decent.”

“We would have named our first son Uhtred, lord,” he said, absentmindedly staring ahead.

“No, you would not,” the older warrior replied, visibly grimacing.

“It doesn't matter now,” Sihtric muttered, earning a comforting pat on the shoulder and a reassuring smile from Uhtred.

“Find Finan, we'll meet in the main square.”

Sihtric Kjartansson walked gloomily ahead, pondering why he had such bad luck in life. He took out his anger on a few pebbles scattered on the dusty road. The gods were not too kind when it came to sending him a woman who...

“Sorry, sorry!” He heard a girl's voice behind him and several other irritated grunts or a hushed 'Watch out.' He turned his head slightly and it was a miracle he avoided colliding with a cloaked figure in a visible hurry.

“If you'll excuse me, lord,” the girl quickly spoke, not even bothering to give him a passing glance, squeezing past him and running into a narrow passage between a stable and a nearby dwelling.

Sihtric furrowed his brow and observed the stranger leaning against the wall, anxiously looking towards the main street. With her slightly tilted hood, he was certain she was a young woman, clearly running away from something or someone.

What was he if not a hero?

“My lady,” he began, but faltered at the sight of her angry gaze.

“Are you crazy? Go away,” she snapped, waving her hand at him dismissively. The hood fell back, revealing the girl's face in all its glory.

Sihtric didn't know what to do. The lady was beautiful. But also pissed off.

“God, you idiot,” the girl said with a heavy sigh. Then she grabbed his arm forcefully, pulling him into a dark alley with her and positioning him with his back to the street.

Sihtric still didn't quite understand what was happening. Being pushed around by a mad gorgeous woman was not part of his plans for today. He didn't have any plans at all since the last one ran off with the remnants of his wealth.

“If someone is hiding, they have a reason for it and don't want someone standing in front of them, announcing it to the world,” she scolded him like a disobedient child, and Sihtric felt himself blushing.

“Right. Makes sense. I apologize, my lady,” he stammered, not taking his eyes off her.

She was even more beautiful up close.

“Discreetly look behind you and see if a monk is coming this way,” she instructed him gravely, to which he gave her a half-surprised, half-amused look.

“A monk is leading the chase?”

“Yes, you see, I'm a witch, and I was about to be burned at the stake this afternoon.”

Sihtric chuckled softly, but he complied with her request. He thought the girl was joking, but indeed, a monk was heading their way. Slightly bewildered but definitely annoyed, he was looking around vigilantly.

“Are you really a witch?” Sihtric suddenly asked with a hint of uncertainty.

“I sacrifice boys like you,” she replied without a trace of a smile, but mischievous sparks danced in her eyes. He smirked. “But seriously, you might come in handy. The holy man won't sniff around here for long. Let’s make him look away.”

She threw her arms around his neck, and without hesitation, Sihtric placed his hands on her hips.

Only after a few heartbeats did the absurdity of the situation dawn on him. He stood very close in a dark alley with a girl whose name he didn't know, protecting her from the wrath of a monk.

“But honestly, what about your troubles?” he asked gently.

“Brother Ceolwulf sometimes gives me calligraphy lessons. My father says I scribble rather terribly. I ran away to avoid that pleasure. And apparently, Lord Aethelred is due to arrive soon,” she almost spat the name as if it left a foul taste. “Maybe I'll go see that prick. Quite a commotion over a simple farce.”

“You don't fancy lords from Mercia and royal weddings, my lady?”

The girl didn't answer; instead, she scrutinized Sihtric intently. He felt a wave of embarrassment under the piercing gaze of her sharp eyes.

“And what business does a Dane have here?” she asked after a while, smiling slightly at the sight of his blush. Brother Ceolwulf flashed behind Sihtric, so she tightened her grip and rested her head on his chest. The warrior held his breath. A stream of muffled words reached him. “No, no, you can talk; that rascal is just behind you. You could also use a bath, you know? Great, he went searching on the other side. You could also tell me your name, for the sake of appearances and decency.”

“I'm Sihtric, lady,” he said with a laugh, which (Y/N) not only heard but also felt. “Together with my lord Uhtred, we arrived…”

“Uhtred?” the girl interrupted, raising her head with surprise. “You serve Uhtred?”

“Do you know him?” Sihtric tilted his head, intrigued.

“Oh, I'm in trouble,” she said barely audible, more to herself than to him. “I have to go. I apologize for the assault.”

She took a few steps back before Sihtric panicked. He didn't know her name. He didn't know where to find her. And he definitely wanted to see her again.

“What's your name, lady?” he called after her, but she had already blended into the crowd heading to the main square. He wasn't sure if she had gone to greet Aethelred. Even if she had, he wouldn't find her in that mass.

Brother Ceolwulf came to the same conclusion. The reprimand for the princess of Wessex would have to wait.

The delicate fabric of her blue dress fluttered with each touch of the wind as she gracefully crossed the courtyard. They strolled towards the main hall.

“I only have two options: jump out the window or become a nun,” Princess (Y/N) announced in a calm manner.

“Only jump out the window, my dear,” Father Beocca specified. “Nuns would chase you with crosses and torches in their hands.”

(Y/N) looked at the priest. He had an amused expression. And a soft spot for the princess. According to Alfred's commands, he shouldn't tolerate certain behaviors and opinions. But how dull it would be if he asked her to stifle her carefreeness and restrain her sharp tongue.

“I was just praying a moment ago.”

“Yes, with the intention of our heavenly father making your sister run away from the altar.”

Aethelflaed didn't run away from the altar. She paid no mind to her sister's efforts, who, with sheer willpower, tried to steer her away from it. (Y/N) saw that the bride was enchanted by her groom, and she wanted nothing but all the happiness this world could fit for her. But something in the back of her mind warned her about Aethelred. An unbearable premonition. She blinked a few times, telling herself that she simply didn't consider any man worthy of her dearest sister's hand.

She scanned the gathered guests with her gaze. At the back of the hall, she spotted Uhtred. She nodded at him slightly. He raised an eyebrow with a smile. They had last seen each other when she was a little girl and kicked him in the leg. She wondered if he still limps.

And then she noticed Sihtric.

The warrior paled the moment he saw her standing side by side with the king.

His stranger. The king's daughter. The princess.

Only he could have such damn luck.

“It's her. The girl I told you about. It's her!” He nudged Finan's arm, to which the latter chuckled.

“Sure. Your whole story sounds shady already. Don't involve noble families in it.”

“I'm telling the truth!”

“I believe ya. Yesterday, for example, when little ol’ me was drinking beer with king Alfred…”

Sihtric sighed, but he didn't try to convince his friend anymore. He didn't register the entrance of the bride or a word spoken during the ceremony, and especially not Finan's mocking. His eyes were fixed on the princess in the blue gown. He held his breath when she finally looked at him. She smiled faintly but immediately averted her gaze, with a violent blush on her cheeks.

Sihtric Kjartansson felt his heart beat stronger.

Uhtred embraced the princess with laughter, still wondering how she had transformed so quickly from a snotty child into a breathtaking woman.

Sihtric paid special attention to that breathtaking part, as he was having trouble with that.

“The older you get, the uglier you become. Good to see you, Uhtred,” she greeted him politely. The man snorted and gestured towards his companions.

“Princess (Y/N), these are my friends…”

“Sihtric,” she greeted, bowing her head. He smiled widely, and Finan's jaw dropped, before he realized he should probably bow too. The idiot wasn't lying. Unbelievable.

“Do you know each other?” Uhtred furrowed his brow, looking at the young Dane, then at the princess. “Is there something I don't know?”

“Yes, we've been secret lovers for the past year,” she replied, rolling her eyes. Sihtric's face took on various shades of red, much to Finan's delight.

“You haven't changed at all,” Uhtred commented with a wave of his hand.

“I would be more at ease if this reception wasn't so dull,” she said, wistfully glancing at the cup in Uhtred's hand. “Is he watching?”

Uhtred glanced at the king and nodded. (Y/N) groaned.

“So, after Edward, it's your turn?” Uhtred inquired, earning himself a murderous glance from the princess.

“He'll probably be a twat or at least hundred years old,” she grumbled in disappointment. “Beocca presented me with a list of potential candidates. About each one, he says they are pious, as if I were looking for a personal priest and not a husband. Why can't he say that one of them is kind? Wise? Or handsome.”

She shifted her gaze to Sihtric and smiled mischieviously.

“We only hope to be invited to your wedding, Princess,” Finan laughed, observing his friend's bashful demeanor. "I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he'll be no older than ninety-nine.”

“That's kind of you. By the way, Sihtric, did you take that bath-”

“Princess!” Father Beocca called out as he passed by. “Maybe nunnery isn't the worst idea.”

Humorous remarks and a grin froze on her lips when (Y/N) looked into her sister's eyes. The food tray nearly slipped from her hands.

Aethelflaed didn't have to say anything. She didn't have to scream or complain about her misfortune. (Y/N) understood everything from that one look and felt the unpleasant sting of tears.

“I will kill him,” she declared forcefully, slamming the tray onto the wooden table with a loud bang. “I will kill that arse.”

“(Y/N), please...” Aethelflaed whispered. “It won't do any good. And I am capable of handling it myself.”

“You shouldn't even say that,” her sister protested, getting closer and gently placing her hands on Aethelflaed's cheeks. They were wet. “It's alright, sweetheart, it's alright.”

She planted a kiss on the top of her head and headed towards the door.

“Don't tell anyone, (Y/N). Especially not father,” she begged, getting up.

“I'll only speak to those who already know,” (Y/N) replied, barely containing her anger towards Aethelflaed's pathetic husband. “You're the Princess of Wessex, for God's sake. You're his woman, and he shouldn't treat you like this. He won't have a cock if he lays a hand on you again, trust me.”

“You'll get into trouble, (Y/N),” Aethelflaed warned, shaking her head nervously. “He can hurt you as well-”

The princess didn't listen, for she had already left the chamber. Blind rage consumed her, but so did a sadness so great that it was even more dangerous than her anger. She knew there was something wrong with him. She shouldn't have allowed this marriage to happen.

She should have protected her sister.

Aethelred appeared just in time. He strode down the corridor, his posture straight, absentmindedly trailing his hand along one of the tapestries.

“Lord Aethelred,” she snarled, making no effort to be polite. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”

The man turned slowly, bestowing upon her the sweetest and most deceitful smile.

“Little princess.”

(Y/N) tried to calm herself, but she wasn't making much progress.

“Let's get to the point,” she hissed, finally getting Aethelred to reveal his true face from behind the mask he wore daily at the royal court. “I saw my sister and the state she's in. I will not tolerate such insolence or cruelty. Who do you think you are? Hurt her again and I...”

That pile of shit started laughing.

“Terrifying is the barking of an angry bitch.” He took a few lazy steps in her direction. “I almost pissed myself in fear.”

“And you should, because I promise that...”

Aethelred rushed forward, pressing her against the wall with a hand around her throat.

“Well, what? What will you do? Maybe you'll switch places with her to spice up this tedious life of mine a little bit."

Sihtric wandered through the palace, looking for lord Uhtred his excuse, but in reality he hoped for an encounter with the princess. They were about to head out from Winchester soon. Leaving without saying goodbye was not something he wanted.

He found them just in time as (Y/N) pushed Aethelred back with all her might and punched him in the face. They all heard the unmistakable crunching sound.

Lord of Mercia was trying to regain his balance, clinging to his bloody face in shock.

“You whore,” he snapped, but Sihtric was already nearby, placing his hand warningly on the axe.

“Hope I misheard something,” he said to Aethelred, voice dripping with venom, and then looked at the princess. “Are you alright?”

“She broke my nose, of course she’s fine,” the man snorted, trying to stop the flow of blood. “You will answer for it. Just wait. And your heathen friends won’t rush to your rescue, I assure you.”

(Y/N) took a deep breath, holding on to the fist that struck Aethelred. She watched him leave with an absent look in her eyes, and then as if she finally registered Sihtric's presence.

If he had come a few moments earlier, he'd surely fling himself at that arsehole in her defense. But it turns out she was perfectly able to fight back. Sihtric felt a sudden surge of admiration and respect for the princess in a beautifully embroidered dress, who did not hesitate to throw a punch.

“Are you sure he didn’t do anything to you? Shall I go after him?” he asked, but instead of answering, (Y/N) slid slowly down the wall. Sihtric crouched beside her, worried as never before. He gently held the injured hand. He raised her bruised knuckles to his lips, but left only the ghost of touch on them. “Princess?”

“He hurt her,” (Y/N) sobbed helplessly. She wasn't supposed to tell anyone, but she had a feeling Sihtric would know how to keep a secret. “He hurt her and he will hurt her again, and there’s nothing I can do. He will hide behind his title, behind his lands, wealth and nobility. He was right. I can't do anything."

She was shaken by a wave of tears, and Sihtric instinctively embraced her with one arm and supported the back of her head with the other. She cried there on the cold floor, in the arms of a warrior who couldn't stand the sight.

He knew what was going on. And his heart ached at the thought.

“You were very brave,” he whispered, letting her lean on his chest. “Others would look away. You confronted him. You are a brave, brave girl.”

He kept saying it like a mantra, holding her in his arms until the crying subsided. He wiped the tears from her face with the thumb of his hand when she finally lifted her head.

“I won’t run away from that either,” she whispered in a faint voice. Sihtric raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture. “I can laugh about it and put it off, but I’m just a woman with a cursed title before my name. They'll hand me over to a man I won't choose. And he will have the right to violence as soon as we tie the knot.”

Sihtric shook his head. This fate wasn’t meant for her. There was strength and courage in this lady’s heart that demanded freedom. And demanded love, the wild and untamed kind.

“It can not be like that. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have much power in this matter, Sihtric. You don’t make the rules.”

“Let me decide for myself.”

He looked into the eyes of the princess and knew that the battle he would have to face was beyond his means. The only witnesses to this promise were the faces on the ancient tapestries. Men's faces behind unbreakable laws, traditions and customs.

But Sihtric Kjartansson was a warrior. And if there’s one thing that warriors can do, they can fight.

#sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric the last kingdom #sihtric x reader #sihtric fanfiction #sihtric kjartansson x reader #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfiction #sihtric imagine

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slxtd1ary · 27 days ago

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Under the covers

NSFW/18+/woman reader — inexper!enced brat gf x meandom!bf

ft. champagne and sunshine — PLVTINUM & tarro

synopsis: you had to let go of some steam but he came back home earlier than expected

includes: sex toy (woman receiving)

A/N: was abt to make the full thing but imma wait to see if the first part actually blows up and interest yall lmao

─── ⋆⋅ ✩ ⋅⋆ ───

“baby?” his voice is soft as he steps closer to you. You have been acting strange since he came back home, that‘s to say merely a couple of minutes ago, and he wants to know what is all your attitude, or more accurately lack of attitude, about.

“why are you hiding? Something’s wrong?” His voice is caring and welcoming but the glint of mischief in his eyes is unmistakable: he knows. Did he heard you earlier? Whatever it is, you are fucked.

“Or maybe should I ask what are you hiding?” Your eyes widen slightly. His tone is still as sweet as before but the grin on his face was speaking for itself.

“Show me princess, no need to hide”

You hesitate, too embarrassed to even consider his words, but you couldn’t stay like this forever either.

“I don’t know what you are talking about babe” you refute while faking being interested on whatever content was flashing on your phone.

“Bullshit.”

His tone was more stern as he came closer to your frame. His eyes were now threatening, filled with a curious mix of desire and annoyance. But you only glanced back for a second. Your gaze crushing down under his intense one.

“Should I be the one putting these blankets off of you?” You couldn’t even look at him in the eyes, even as he was talking to you, you were only staring blankly at your screen.

“Babe…” he starts softly butting at your silence “…don’t make me mad and do as I say” he finish pushing your phone on the side and taking your chin in his hand.

Still, you are stubborn and more than that: embarrassed.

“What are you talking about? I’m just chilling over here-”

He cuts you mid sentence pushing your blanket on the side showing your naked pussy shoved by a dildo.

“You didn’t even pulled it out…” he observe with a grin “what a slut” he chuckle before sitting on the bed.

Of course you try to move away “d-don’t get closer” you manage to say but with a soft smile your lover push the dildo even deeper into you making your eyes roll back.

As you shiver and grip his arm urgently he chuckles under his breath “Never thought you’d be so nasty,” he sighs “but worse, I never thought you’d hide it from me” The anger in his voice was clear even covered with his honey tone.

Needless to say, the dildo was now pushed into your folds furiously.

“If you didn’t understood, you made me kinda pissed so don’t even think about coming”

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

AN: thanks for interacting and lemme know if yall want a part two lol

[2024/10/15]

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fayes-fics · 9 months ago

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 8 - Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: tiny dash of spice… making out, hands wandering. Light angst, emotions, late-night confessions.

Word Count: 2.3k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Please don't be mad at me about this - I could not go with the cliche of wedding night. These idiots just need one more night to get their sh*t together. Sorry, and yes, as penance, Chapter 9 will be posted very soon. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939

A nervous energy ripples through your limbs as the four others leave, traipsing across the garden to the neighbouring cottage, leaving you and your new husband alone. Still waving awkwardly from the patio as they all disappear from view. A chill passes through you, just noticing how cold the night air is, autumn drawing in and without the warmth of Benedict holding you in some way, as he has been the past few hours. You startle slightly as he interrupts your reverie by chivalrously wrapping the faux fur stole around your shoulders.

“It’s my something borrowed,” you blurt, unsure what else to say.

“Eloise?”

You just nod, too nervous all of a sudden to look up at him.

“Let’s get inside,” he suggests, observing even the extra layer does not halt your shiver, gesturing to the kitchen door.

You walk awkwardly past, catching a whiff of his delicious scent that you woke up to this morning, the involuntary urge to sway into him intense.

You drift to the living room, Benedict wandering to the gramophone, putting on a mellow jazz record before taking a seat; part of you sad he chooses the armchair, not the sofa beside you.

“Well… that was a day,” he understates in his usual affable manner.

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” you respond earnestly, looking down at the simple band on your finger by reflex. “It’s all thanks to you that I have a chance to escape while I still can.”

“You would have done the same for me,” he demures with a quiet certainty that makes you yearn to touch him.

Instead, you exchange slightly awkward smiles, the mantlepiece clock ticking sounding so loud, even with the music playing.

“And I'm sure you will get home one day,” he assures. “Your family, I'm certain, miss you… and... And your fiancee,” the reluctance in his words evident.

“I’m not sure a married woman can have a fiancé anymore,” you remark; the lash of guilt every time Stanley’s name is invoked lessening with every moment you spend alone with Benedict.

“You can once you are a single woman again, as soon as you are safe,” he counters softly, so altruistic in his manner your throat almost itching with unspent words—a want to yell. No! Fight for me! I want you more than I ever will want him!!

“You yourself said on the train that perhaps there is something better out there for me,” you respond cautiously. “The longer this adventure runs, the more certain I am of that.”

His mien is profound as you finally raise your eyes to his, wanting so much to say more but feeling too tongue-tied and cowardly to be that selfish, to declare he is what you want.

He shakes himself a little and leans back into the armchair as if resetting himself and the line of conversation. Like he senses the mutual danger lurking there.

“Tomorrow, when we sail… they will likely notice the date on our marriage certificate,” Benedict counsels gently. “That may raise flags about the authenticity of our union.”

“What can we do to assuage them?”

“Come up with a plausible story. Be physically affectionate. They may ask no questions, or they may ask as many as they wish,” he warns, “especially of you. They may ask you about…” Benedict pauses, his face flushing a little, “… intimate matters. They have every right to ask if the marriage has been consummated.”

You feel yourself flashing hot as he says it. “I should lie?” you whisper.

“You should say whatever you think will make them believe we are a real couple,” he obfuscates.

“I’m a terrible liar…” you confess, blushing when you realise your words could be interpreted as an invitation to be intimate. And on this, your wedding night.

His gaze is heavy. “You can do it y/n. Your freedom and safety may depend on your ability to convince them you love me... And I you.”

I think I might, your mind screams.

“I know… I… think I can do it,” you falter, replaying every kiss you have shared. “We seem to have done a great job convincing Jerome and Marie…”

“They are not looking to see artifice,” he counters. “British soldiers will be.”

“Sh… should we practice?” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it, champagne again taking your tongue, a deep flush spreading over your skin as you realise it.

“Y… yes, I think maybe we should,” he agrees very quickly.

He stands somewhat awkward, peeling off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, leaving his waistcoat. You find yourself again mesmerised by him, as you were that night in Paris, wanting to run your hands over the flex in his arm muscles. In fact, you are so distracted you don’t even realise he is proffering you a hand out of the chair. You spring up to your feet without his help, the idea of touching him right now entirely too distracting, which seems to amuse him briefly before his expression turns sincere.

“We have kissed, but not as lovers, as married people would. We... we may need to do so, casually, of course, within sight of those allowing boarding,” he opines, even as your heart speeds up, realising what he is saying.

“You think we need to… practice more kissing? Now?” you are mildly annoyed by how stupefied you sound.

“Yes,” he confirms, drawing closer, “passionate, real kissing.”

You are looking up into blue eyes and a gorgeous face as fingertips loop around your wrist as if checking your pulse.

“Grab my wrist if you want me to stop,” he tutors softly, so gentlemanly in his approach, even as you fret that he can feel your heart rate hammering hard in your veins.

Once again, time is in slow motion as his lips descend. At first, the kiss is breathtaking but still chaste, like previously. But then there is a noise in the back of his throat that makes the hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end; his lips part yours, a wave of damp heat as the kiss deepens. His tongue swipes yours tentatively, a tease before you mirror his moves. He tastes of champagne and something else that is entirely him, an impulse to bite the inside of his cheek. And then it’s abruptly fervent, wanton - like a dam has broken - his hands gripping the crest of your hip bones, each finger an insistent dig into your flesh.

Finally, given the permission, you don't hold back. Pushing into him, one hand grasping the buckled loop at the back of his waistcoat that cinches it to his slim form, the other winding around his sturdy neck, encouraging him to lean down further, take from you. The kiss seems never-ending, a rolling wave of to and fro, a dance not unlike the one in the square just last night. Those fireworks still explode, but this time, it feels like those ones that are so powerful they knock a punch to your solar plexus, a ricochet you feel physically,

His hands slide up your back, a sensual drag that makes you moan into his mouth, a noise he greedily swallows. But he stops as they reach the faux fur wrapped around your shoulders and reluctantly breaks the kiss.

“Please, take this off,” he implores, “I cannot do this with you wearing my sister's clothing,” he points out with a cringe that creases his face charmingly.

Your responding giggle causes him to break into a lopsided grin, and wordlessly, you untie it as he watches, pupils blown. When you push it back off your shoulders, it hits the rug behind you with a soft whump, and your instinct takes over, rocking onto your tiptoes, one hand sliding into the lush hair at the back of his head and bringing his face back to yours.

The minute your mouth opens to his, you are heavy and weightless all at once, not unlike that wooden roller coaster on Coney Island that made you see stars. Your nails flex on his scalp as his hands slide over your dress, looping low around your hips, tugging you snugly into his body as your tongues tangle.

This.

This must be what the girls whisper about—a tart metallic boiling in your blood, a heavy tug deep inside your pelvis that needs relief. A wanting so physical it almost hurts, a hunger that makes you feel reckless, liable to behaviour you could never justify, a pure carnal caprice. But all too soon, he is pulling back, a need to breathe, even as he does so inches from your face, his eyes locked on yours as they flutter open.

“Again,” you murmur, uncaring how gossamer thin your excuse is, just wanting more.

His eyes are glittering as he complies. Kissing like a wild storm now, hands hot through the thin, cool silk fabric. And you cannot stop the noises you make, shameless and breathy, right into his open, wet, questing mouth. Pressing hard against his body, a solid warmth in his trousers promising things you need so badly you crave to curl around him, open yourself to him.

You have never felt this before. A tingle under your scalp that vibrates all the way down to your toes. A want to take and be taken. To bite and be bitten. To ride and be ridden. For him to rip your dress from your body and throw you onto the sofa—a yen that feels not entirely human and definitely not civilised.

It's like he senses your thoughts have slid somewhere wild, or perhaps his have too, as when he pulls back, he is panting, and there is a quaking in his entire being like he is crackling with energy.

“Please. Go.” His voice is ragged, deep, almost wrecked. “Please. I… I can’t do this anymore,” his voice cracks a look that is at once hungry, aching, and barely contained restraint.

Please don't be a gentleman now, Benedict. Please. No. God. Not now. Don’t.

“I’m s…sorry,” you stutter, feeling guilty you have pushed it too far but utterly unmoored by the searing passion and the sting of his rejection, albeit reluctant.

Even you can see the war in his being, physical desire being muzzled by the gentleman he was clearly raised to be. Knowing if you stand here much longer, something will happen that one or both of you will regret. Your wedding ring seems to burn your skin as you turn around and shrink away, leaving the room, not daring to look back, knowing he has also turned away with ragged breaths.

As you climb the stairs, feet feeling leaden, your body in utter turmoil, you hear the discordant scratch of the gramophone being halted. You undress in a daze, swearing you can still feel the heat of his handprints through the silk of your dress. Climbing into the bed approaching numb, champagne swirling unease in your gut with all the rich foods, an oily disquiet that means it takes ages to settle.

You lay there fitfully for what feels like hours, tossing and turning, picking over the minutiae of every moment with Benedict - tonight and all the nights and days before. Seeing possible signs that make your heart clench.

Could it be that he is not doing this all for show?

It's a seizing thought that catalyses your body: it has you up on your feet and rushing down the stairs in your nightgown, breathless and stumbling. But when you round the corner into the living room, all your courage to declare it is sapped by the sight of Benedict sleeping, curled slightly, looking smaller somehow, his back turned to you, face buried into the back cushion of the sofa.

Instead, you back away, padding to the kitchen to take a glass of water, hoping the hydration will stave off the worst of a hangover; the water is a relief to the tumultuous, racing feeling as you stand on the large slab of earthen tile gleaming in the moonlight, cold underfoot. You pour another glass for him without thought.

Tiptoeing back into the living room, careful not to wake him, you crouch beside him to leave the glass of water within easy sight and reach should he stir. But you find yourself unable to leave without saying something. The temptation to confess to his unconscious self is impossible to resist, the grip on your own glass so tight.

“I’ll never be able to repay you,” you murmur to his back, fingers itching to trace over the bare skin of his shoulder blades where they peak out of the blanket. “For this unbelievable act of kindness and generosity. And yet… god, this is so selfish,” you flick your eyes up to the ceiling to stem a tear you feel gathering, “… still I’m greedy. Always wanting more. Wanting…. Wanting to never return to my old life. Wanting to run away. Wanting this… Wanting this to be real.”

The last phrase is barely audible, but still, you are instantly horrified that you confessed it out loud, even to his unconscious, sleeping frame. And you know you must leave.

God, what is wrong with me? What is this? Temporary insanity? Too much alcohol, a fake wedding and an impending war are not a good recipe…

It’s a silent internal lament as you stand up and withdraw, self-chastisement echoing so loud in your head. And yet, you can't resist a parting sentence from the doorway.

“Goodnight, Benedict, you are truly the very best of men...”

—

What you don’t see as you slowly climb back up the creaking wooden stairs is Benedict’s eyes blazing open, a look of utter astonishment claiming his face as he twists around and stares at the doorway you left by, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He was never asleep.

And he heard every single word.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

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magneto-was-fucking-right · 8 months ago

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The Ghost Next Door - Chapter 7

Prompt: After suffering an almost lethal injury in combat, Simon "Ghost" Riley expected a dull, and uneventful leave back at his shitty apartment. His new next-door neighbor ruins his plans. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (named Riley Thomas for plot purposes)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 8

Disclaimer: slow burn; neighbor!Simon; explicit sexual content

Chapter Summary: In which Simon's neighbor gets free lunch and ends up with her hand on his pants.

Word Count: 2.1K

Simon Riley and Riley Thomas sat face to face at her round kitchen table, the random assortment of food containers from their favorite Chinese place being the only thing separating them. Their afternoon reunion had been as awkward as could be expected: extremely hungover, Riley tried her best to pretend she hadn’t embarrassed herself tremendously the previous night, and Simon pretended he hadn’t jerked off twice in his shower after he put her to bed.

Tension filled every moment of silence, which Riley was quick to heap with useless chatter on how she hoped the weather got better (it never did) and how delicious the food was (it always had been). Simon simply hummed in agreement when necessary, finding it amusing to silently observe her flustered expression and the way she avoided his gaze.

To her dismay, she couldn’t even count on Johnny to help diffuse the awkwardness between them, since he had immediately - and very excitedly - asked her to take Rex for a walk in the park, while Milo dozed off in her bed. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to refuse the cheerful Scot anything at all.

When the meal was finished, and the young woman had finally started to relax against her seat, believing him to have opted to forget the matter, Simon cocked his head to the right, readjusting his facemask and therefore silently allowing her to look at his face once again.

“Are we gonna talk about last night?” His deep, low tone made her cheeks flush immediately, her hands covering her face as she sighed nervously.

“Can we not?” She grimaced at the faint memories of her inappropriate behavior, dreading the possibility of having ruined their friendship - her only one - for good. She couldn’t make out exactly what she had said, but she painfully remembered how she had desperately tried to kiss Simon, and the way his hands had firmly kept her away, the rejection still staining her heart.

“You don’t wan’ to?” He raised an eyebrow, but she kept hidden behind her palms. “Riley…” He called and she shivered at the softness in his tone.

She slowly parted two of her fingers, uncovering one of her eyes tentatively.

“Let’s talk, yeah?”

“Hmm.” She grunted, shaking her head.

“What’s the matter, love?”

“Don’t call me that!” She reburied her face in her palms, feeling her skin heat at the nickname.

“Talk to me, then.”

“I…” She started, but the words died down in her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Simon leaned back in his seat, arms crossed at his chest.

“What for?”

Riley sighed deeply in exasperation, feeling more humiliated than ever.

“For practically assaulting you!”

He let out an amused chuckle, and she uncovered her teary eye once again, assessing his reaction.

“You’re not…mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Simon…”

“I’m serious, love.”

“You rejected me.” Her voice slightly trembled.

“You were drunk. And very vulnerable.”

“So…I didn’t ruin our friendship?”

“You did. Jus’ not in the way you’re worried about.”

She cocked her head in confusion, but he gave no further explanations, standing up and beginning to collect the empty containers.

“What does that mean?” She frowned, finally fully looking him in the eyes. He ignored her panic, beginning to stuff them in the bin.

“Simon!” He didn’t let up, turning to wash the dishes she had left piled in the sink the day before.

When he didn’t respond, silently taunting her, she stood up, walking over to him and pinching his behind roughly.

“Easy, kid.” He flinched, surprised at her unusual boldness.

“Tell me! How did I ruin it?” She seemed on the verge of tears, but he returned to the dishes, grunting in response.

Riley let out an angry breath, grabbing his bicep and forcing him to turn to her, pinning him against the sink.

He looked down at her smaller frame, not even a little intimidating, amused at how cute she looked when she was mad.

“Tell me. How. I ruined it.” She commanded slowly, concern visible in her doe eyes as she pulled him down by the collar of his shirt.

Simon was stone cold serious, holding her gaze as he grabbed her wrist gently, lowering it all the way down to his jeans, where he pressed her hand against something hard, and girthy behind the denim.

“Friends don’t usually give me a stiffy.”

Riley’s lips parted in shock, her eyes fixed on his growing bulge, head emptying as she tried hard to process the meaning of his words.

“Fuck.” Was all she could come up with as she palmed him through his pants, too shocked to move away (not that she wished to, anyway).

“Hm.”

Riley Thomas bit her lower lip pensively, before looking up at the man through her lashes, innocent curiosity mixed with emboldened desire. She pressed her palm more firmly against the protruding hardness, her breath caught in her throat as she carefully mapped out the contour of his length, noticing the way his eyelids grew heavy, dark brown eyes hazy with something she couldn’t yet decipher.

“D-do you mind if I…” She trailed off, hooking a finger behind his belt.

“Let me guess…My consent would be greatly appreciated?” He taunted and she bit her lip once again, nodding slowly with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“By all means.” His deep, sultry voice conceded, and her trembling hands made awkward work of the buckle, followed by the button, and the zipper.

Riley felt like a hormonal teenager when she placed a sweaty hand on his navel, lips parted in wonder at the lovely blondish happy trail that dipped into his briefs, keen on exploring every inch of his pale skin as her heart hammered violently in her heaving chest. She looked up once again, searching for further approval, unsure of how far he was willing to take it. Simon cocked his head to the right in his usual casual manner, raising a hand to caress her cheek in a comforting gesture.

“You don’t have to.” He assured, thumb grazing her freckled cheek tenderly.

“I want to.” She immediately countered, eagerly. “But do you?”

Simon felt his heart melt at her care and concern, his cock twitching at the kindness in her eyes and the tenderness of her touch.

I’m so fucked. A part of him ached, terrified of those new, unexpected feelings he had worked so long to subdue.

“I do.” He nodded once “We ain’t got long. Johnny has tiny legs but he walks fast.” And that was the last coherent sentence he was able to utter, until her cold fingers snaked their way inside the fabric of his briefs.

Riley let out a shaky breath as her fingertips grazed the coarse, trimmed curls where his velvety, thick shaft rested, feeling it pulse once she actually gripped it. Simon’s hands rested on the sink, gripping it so tight she was surprised he hadn’t broken it yet, his head tilted back as he let out a deep sigh of relief.

A firm grip around the base, silently measuring the impressive thickness of his hard length and fantasizing about how good it would feel inside of her, stretching her out. She took a deep breath before finally pulling it out from the confines of his warm briefs, a drop of pearly pre-cum leaking from his pink tip. She pumped him once, twice, three times until Simon finally let the smallest, lowest groan fall from his lips.

She bit her lip at the sound, gazing up at his beautiful brown eyes as she moved her hand lower, gentle fingers cupping his heavy sack. Simon’s hands latched onto her hips, holding on for dear life as he kneaded her flesh.

It wasn’t enough, the soft, languid touches exchanged between the two, as Simon’s large, warm hand palmed her breast tentatively, too carefully, over her shirt. Riley gasped when his thumb lazily grazed her hardened nipple over the fabric, lips parting as she teased him right back, her own thumb caressing his leaky slit, eliciting a deep, pleasured sigh from him.

He held her gaze as his left hand slid under her clothes, calloused fingertips grazing the softness of her tummy, before fully cupping the plump flesh, fingers pulling on her pebbled nipple softly. She felt her insides burn with need as she outright moaned, eyes shutting as he rolled it between his fingers, eyes assessing her every reaction, body responsive to every sound and movement she made.

Riley picked up the pace, pumping his cock more eagerly when his right hand dipped into the hem of her sweatpants, easily gliding a finger over her soaked panties. She blushed in utter embarrassment at the desperate sound that left her lips when his fingers traced the outline of her folds, and Simon smirked under his mask.

“Seems you weren’t lying last night.”

“I really wasn’t.” She whimpered, forehead pressing against his chest as his fingers finally dipped in her knickers, a groan of approval rumbling in his chest at the warmth and wetness of her folds. He couldn’t help it as he pressed the tip of his middle finger against her entrance, testing the resistance as he slowly pushed in all the way to his knuckle, making her hiss at the unexpected stretch.

“Sorry, love.” He wasn’t actually sorry as he took in the desperate way in which she ground her hips to his hand, eager to find relief. Riley lowered her head, and allowed some spit to fall from her lips onto his sensitive tip, lubricating his cock as she pumped him faster. Simon’s weaker leg faltered and he struggled to focus as he gently moved his finger inside her tight hole, massaging her walls with the utmost care before removing it and spreading her slick over her swollen clit. She whimpered and Simon thought he could cum at the sound.

He knew he wouldn’t last long, not with the way she was desperately bringing him close to the edge, wet sounds of her saliva coating him all the way down to his balls filling the small kitchen. He felt like his virgin 16 year old self, barely hanging on at the feel of her round tits beneath his hand, the both of them all avid gropes and desperate caresses as he kneaded every inch of bare skin he was lucky enough to touch, while she pumped away any of his remaining sanity with firm strokes.

The young woman almost begged him to remove his mask, to let her swallow those pleasured groans and soft whimpers that made warmth pool in the apex of her thighs as the mutual masturbation continued, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Not yet, at least.

“I’m close.” She admitted, not even five minutes since they had begun, her cheeks flushed with shame and vulnerability as she looked up into his eyes.

“I’ve been close since you started.” Simon groaned in her ear, veiny shaft pulsing,leg faltering.

“Simon…” She whispered quietly, panting as he quickened the pace at which his fingers fervently rubbed tight circles around her bundle of nerves. Her loving gaze and her parted lips awoke something deep within him, something that meant much more to him than the pleasure she was coaxing from his body.

Simon Riley had had lovers. Not many, but a considerate few who had managed to set his guard down long enough to earn a shag, nothing more than meaningless, quiet humping, meant to satisfy primal instincts and stifle his relentless loneliness - temporarily, at least. But he had never had that: Riley’s warmth, and beautiful, loving eyes that seemed to look beyond him, his mask, and actually care.

He didn’t object when her left hand slowly reached up, pointer finger ready to pull down his mask as her right hand continued her ministrations. He actually leaned down, his face so close to her he could breathe in her soft sighs of pleasure. Her nail had barely grazed the side of his stubbled jaw when they heard loud barking in the hallway, their bodies freezing at the same time.

The two neighbors barely managed to get their hands off each other’s underwear, Simon’s mask snapping back into place, hands fumbling to tuck his hard cock back into his jeans awkwardly while Riley readjusted her shirt. In a minute, Johnny McTavish was already bursting through the door, the pup at his leg wagging his tail excitedly.

“Christ…Am I interruptin’ something?” He teased, mocking their suspicious proximity, Riley’s face and neck reddish like a tomato as Simon quickly turned to the sink, pretending to do the dishes.

“Did ya get us tea?” The Lieutenant asked, coolly changing the subject.

“Of course. Anythin’ for my two favorite love birds.”

“Fuck off.” Simon rolled his eyes as he threw the sponge back in the sink, side eyeing the drinks he placed on the table.

Riley still blushed furiously, seemingly inclined to throw herself out of the window as Johnny smirked, unleashing Rex and turning to his best friend while pointing to his midsection.

“Oh and Simon?”

“What?”

“Ya forgot the belt.”

A/N: Once again, apologies for the delay!! Uni and work have been kicking my ass so as per usual I'll be doing my best to upload as fast as possible! Thank you so much for every single comment and message <3 Keep the feedback coming, it really motivates me :)

TAG LIST (I hope I haven't forgotten anyone)

@xaestheticalien @bossva @missmae3004 @yyiikes @lillysfrogsandbogs @missmae3004 @spicyspicyliving @shuttlelauncher81 @generaldestinychild @semendreaminsblog @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @iloveghost900 @anaromanov9 @flaminghotcheetosinhaler @cigsm3rcy

#ghost cod #ghostxreader #cod #ghost imagine #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #neighbor!ghost #modernwarfare2

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yuff7e · 4 months ago

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₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊ “you’re just the cutest baby!” ˚➶ ﾟ. kirishima with a cute baker!gf ♪ sfw / fluff / one shot

female reader

hiya everyone!! i am LOVING everyone’s requests lately, like - you guys are the cutest ever!! but today i just wanted to write a lil smth for myself, hope you guys can enjoy it also!! (im trying a slightly new writing style as well, hope u guys like it!!)

♬♪ -> lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıı

kirishima met you outside of school while he was hanging out with his friends. they had all agreed to check out the bakery that recently opened not too far from the academy. they stepped into the bakery and the first thing that caught kirishima’s eye was how cute the baker was!!

you, a petite woman, appearing to have no quirks or abilities; just a lovely girl working at the neighborhood bakery!! this realization boosted kirishimas confidence, he felt more inclined to protect you, given your seemingly ordinary nature.

approaching the register, kirishima saw you on the other side, handling some dough as the cashier took his order. “hello, how may i help you today?” chirped the cashier, keying in his order. “hi, uh— who’s that?” kirishima inquired, pointing in your direction - only to receive a disapproving glance from the cashier, who retorted, “sorry, we only serve sweet treats, not people.”

kirishima was taken aback by her defensive response and quickly apologized if he had come across as too forward and placed his order before retreating to a table to watch you, eagerly pointing you out to his friends.

“guys!! look at that girl, isn’t she cute?” kiri giggled in excitement as he bounced his leg up and down while talking about you. bakugo rolled his eyes at kirishimas remark but denki chimed in, “yeah dude, she’s totally cute.” kiri beamed, “right? i want to talk to her but the cashier got mad at me. i don’t know why.” bakugo chuckled at that statement and kiri shot him a “really man?” look. sero, sitting beside denki, observed you quietly.

“you know, if you want to talk to her, why don’t you just walk up to her instead of asking the cashier who she is?” sero suggested, sparking a lightbulb in kirishimas mind. “you’re so right dude!! thanks, sero.” is all kiri said before standing up and confidently making his way towards you.

“hi! uh, what’s your name?” kiri asked, causing you to look up from the dough you were rolling. “oh! um..” you shyly responded, telling him your name. he beamed, “that’s a really beautiful name, [name]!” blushing at his compliment you continue to roll your dough, avoiding eye contact. “so, uh— you know, i thought you were really cute and was just wondering if i could get your number?” he pulled out his phone and gestured with it as he spoke.

you looked up, observing his phone moving in the air before he handed it to you. you hesitated a moment, before wiping your hands on your apron and entering your number, returning it to him without a word. “it was really nice to meet you!” he said before bouncing back to his table.

“guys!! did you see that?! i got her number!!” kirishima exclaimed, jumping back in his seat and quickly sending you a message. your phone buzzed in your pocket, you took it out to see a new number on your screen. “hey! it’s me, kirishima! sorry i didn’t tell you my name, i just got too nervous!” you giggle at the message before putting your phone back in your pocket and returning to kneading the dough.

kiri observed your reaction from his table, smiling as he glanced back at his friends. “i’ll tell you guys how everything goes if we talk tonight!!” his friends merely exchange glances before shifting the conversation to a different topic. however, you lingered in kirishimas thoughts; he was so determined to get to know you he couldn’t even concentrate!

"wow, you really go to UA? that’s really cool..." you squeak, and kirishima chuckles over the phone, "oh yeah, it's alright. i get to train every day!!" he boasts, and you giggle at his response. "hmm, sounds aggressive but also really fun!! i wish i had a quirk like you," you remark. he sighs at your comment, "it’s okay, you're still cool without one." causing you to laugh, “shut up, you dork.”

he laughs too, glancing at his clock. "oh man, it's 10:30 pm!! i have to go to sleep so i can get up on time tomorrow. sorry, i really would've loved to talk with you more," he admits. a blush creeps onto your face at his statement, but you brush it off, assuring him that he needs to rest. eventually, you both say your goodbyes and head to bed. he lingers in your thoughts as you drift off to sleep and when you wake up again.

later in the day, you head to work, tasked with stocking the small compartments with all the cute, perfect pastries. with an earlier lunch break, you decide to grab a muffin before heading out the doors, making your way to the small cafe down the street closer to UA. sitting outside, you munch on your muffin, savoring the perfect weather and nature surrounding you. the bustling streets of japan are packed today, and you observe the people crossing streets and strolling down sidewalks.

to your surprise, you spot kirishima making his way towards your bakery. you try to call out to him, but he doesn't hear you. quickly, you pull out your phone and send a text, "kiri! I'm not at the bakery right now, i’m at the cafe down the road! closer to UA." he reads it almost instantly.

you see him turn around, notice you, and smile as he heads towards your table. once he reaches you and sits down in front of you, "hey [name]!! i took off half the day today so i could come and see you!" he laughs, and you giggle shyly, "oh really? that’s really sweet..." you admit, taking another bite out of your muffin. he watches you eat silently, savoring your beauty. the two of you engage in conversation until it's time for you to return to work. "i’m sorry, but i need to head back to work," you say as you stand up, gathering your purse and essentials.

looking at kirishima, he smiles and stands up too, offering to walk you back. you accept his offer, and you both walk back to the bakery. once you reach the bakery, you stop outside. he gives you a quick hug and says how nice it was to see you, mentioning that he would like to hang out with you again, but this time for a proper hangout and not just a quick break.

you accept once more, waving at kirishima as you walk back into the bakery and he leaves. later in the day, as the bakery is about to close, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket - it's kiri. "hey! would you like to hang out tomorrow? since today is friday, i’m assuming you don't work on the weekends... sorry if i sound creepy!" you laugh at his message and reply, "you don't sound creepy, don't worry! i’d love to hang out with you too. what if you give me a tour of UA?" he likes your message and responds, "yeah! let’s totally do that! you can meet my friends!"

you send him a smiling emoji before shutting the doors of the bakery and walking back home.

you wait outside the gates of UA, kicking your feet against the sidewalk. you picked one of your cutest outfits today: a small button-up white long-sleeve shirt, paired with a cute mini skirt, white thigh high socks and birkenstock’s. your hair had been neatly styled into two pigtails, with your bangs swooped to the side secured with a small, white bow clip.

eventually, you see kirishima emerge from the gate, his eyes light up when he sees you, and he runs over to give you a quick hug. “wow, you look really pretty today! ready to come in?” he asks. you giggle and accept his offer, grabbing his hand. he looks at you for a moment, a big, toothy grin spreading across his face.

as you walk towards the big doors, kirishima stops to wave at a group of students standing off to the side: three boys, two with blonde hair and one with black. "guys!! hey!!" he calls out, pulling you along with him as he approaches them. "this is [name]!!the girl from the bakery!"

they all look at you for a moment. denki looks you up and down before introducing himself, sero does the same. bakugo remains silent, but you can feel his piercing gaze.

bakugo’s intense stare makes you feel a bit insecure, and you quickly avert your eyes. kirishima notices your discomfort and steps in to introduce bakugo. "and this is bakugo! he’s one of my best friends. he’s really nice!" kirishima grins at you, and you return a quick smile before looking back at the three boys. "it was really nice to meet you," you say, bowing slightly before turning back towards kiri. "do you want to go inside?" you ask, and he agrees, waving goodbye to his friends.

once inside, kirishima apologizes for bakugo’s uptight personality, assuring you that he's actually really cool. you smile and tell him it's no big deal, adding that you're sure bakugo is nice and just needs some time to warm up to you.

as you both stroll through UA, you notice a lot of people looking at you. it might be because you look so normal compared to them, or maybe you're inadvertently giving them strange looks. either way, you start to feel a bit shy. kiri seems to sense this and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, you look up at him, quickly feeling better.

suddenly, the tour comes to an end, and you find yourself standing outside kirishimas dorm room. he offers to let you come in, and you gladly accept. as you step inside, you're greeted by a delightful surprise: a bouquet of white lilies and a selection of small, white chocolates and pastries that he had bought from your bakery!

you bring both hands to your mouth, staring at the thoughtful gifts as a deep blush spreads across your face. "you did this?" you chirp, your voice filled with amazement. kiri looks at you, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "yeah!! i really want to get to know you better and thought you'd like these since you work in a bakery. i wanted to make sure i was a gentleman!!" he admits, his enthusiasm evident.

overwhelmed with emotion, you turn to him, looking deeply into his eyes. in a burst of energy, you jump onto him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. you can't believe he had done this for you, and so soon.

"kirishima, this is the best gift i could have ever received. thank you. i really love it," you confess. you can feel his face heating up beside yours as he wraps his strong arms around your waist, squeezing you tightly in the hug.

"i’m so glad you like it. i was worried it might be too much... at least, that's what my friends told me. but i also thought you might like it, and it turns out you do! i’m so happy." kirishima says, his relief evident. he gently releases you and takes both of your hands in his, the blush prominent on both your faces.

you grin, looking down at his hands holding yours. "this is really amazing," you sigh, turning toward your gifts. kneeling down, you take a moment to inhale the scent of the lilies. "these smell wonderful!" kirishima laughs at your reaction and kneels beside you to smell them as well. "wow, they do smell good!" he agrees, taking another big sniff, which makes you laugh.

eventually, it's time for you to go home. he offers to take you back, and you happily accept. as time passes, you both arrive at your house. you turn to look at him, giving him one more hug. before breaking apart, you plant a quick kiss on his cheek. he laughs breathlessly at your gesture and squeezes your hand before letting you go inside. later that night, he texts you suggesting that you hang out again, and you readily agree.

over time, you both have gone on about ten different dates. this time, he invites you to an aquarium. he tells you to pick out a cute outfit and that he'll be waiting for you around 4:20 PM.

you start assembling your outfit: a medium-sized pink sweater paired with a cute denim mini skirt, white see-through tights, and short pink cat heels. your hair is styled into a low braid, with a cute pink bow securing your bangs to the side. You complete the look with a matching pearl necklace and earrings.

once you arrive at the aquarium, you notice kirishima standing outside, and he doesn’t look too shabby himself! he’s wearing a dark crimson hoodie paired with baggy black sweats and matching crimson-colored sketchers. his red hair is styled down today, complimenting his features nicely.

you walk up to him, and as soon as he notices you, he swiftly pulls you into a hug, twirling you around. "hey [name], you ready?" he asks, taking your hand. you nod, and both of you make your way indoors.

inside, the aquarium is breathtaking. the scenery is dark, illuminated by a soothing blue hue. yellow, orange, and red fish swim gracefully in the surrounding tanks, while pink starfish crawl slowly against the glass. as you watch a starfish making its way towards you, you feel a tap on your shoulder and turn around.

kirishima is holding a poster that he had secretly rolled up and tucked into his hoodie pocket. it’s decorated with cute brown bear stickers, hearts, and big pink letters that spell out, "will you be my girlfriend?" you gasp, immediately giggling and screaming, "yes!" before jumping into his arms. he squeezes you tightly.

"nice!! so, do you... i don't know, wanna go get something to eat, girlfriend?" he smirks and you giggle; happily accepting, the two of you heading towards the food section of the aquarium.

there, they serve adorable sea animal-themed candies, including rock candy — kiri’s favorite!! you both munch on some candy before leaving, holding hands.

that’s it !! i really, really hope you guys enjoyed this. it took me a long time since i literally put all my energy into it like omg TwT … i’m thinking of making something similar of this for bakugo !! so lmk if any of you would like something like this for anyone else !! <3

REQUESTS : OPEN

#kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima x female reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijiro fluff #mha #my hero academia #mha x reader #yuff7e

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vervainandspritz · 3 months ago

Text

Not Now, Not Ever

Part 1

Sorry it took so long. I was busy.

The view was almost pleasant. Where ‘almost’ was the key word in the eyes of a person who spent most of their life seeing it: a tall building in the city center, surrounded by even taller expectations of people who somehow got there. In recent years, more and more people were finding a way to earn time. Whether it was by honestly earning it, luck or tearing it out of some poor bastard who entered the city in search of cheap pleasure and a good time, unfortunately encountering such a frequent guest. Death.

Because that's what Dayton was known for: cheap pleasure and death.

No matter how much time passed, the luridness of Dayton lingered in Y/N’s deepest thoughts and memories. Thus the view here wasn't too bad. Dark eyes closely watched people who'd pass by the building, as her hand twirled her pen.

What a silly habit it was.

It helped her focus, at the same time ensuring that her eyes would not wander to the man sitting on the other side of the large office. Sighing deeply, Y/N leaned forward as her elbows made contact with the desk before reaching for the keyboard. The combination of symbols and numbers created password she knew by heart, typing it in within a single glance.

Hundreds of files, cases hidden under certain codes, were only known to the timekeepers who belonged to the group called A6. A6 consisted of three members. One of them was stationed ten floors higher, with gold letters on his office door, wrinkles on his face and the whole system in his hands. The second member was sitting directly in front of Y/N, separated by ten feet of distance and his stone cold expression. Raymond Leon. Even though Greenwich was bursting at the seams with people who looked permanently young, he was one of the few people she ever encountered who… never changed, not even slightly.

He had a blank expression adorning his face accompanied by scars crossing his pale skin. Weirdly bright, blue eyes dispassionately observed the environment he'd find himself in, no matter where and when. His hair slicked back perfectly, which sometimes drove her mad when she'd wake up in a worse mood.

How could he possibly do it? Not a single strand of stray black hair on his forehead throughout all the years they worked together. Scoffing quietly she rolled her eyes, realizing that her thoughts wandered once again.

It wasn't the best day. She usually had focus, but the switch she learned to make going through the entrance of the building seemed to not work very well today. Her mind was consumed with the wistfulness of the free will she used to have in the past.

Before it all started. Before she became something more than Y/N Y/L/N. Before becoming a Timekeeper.

Several decades ago when she had more in her than this fucking badge in the pocket of her leather coat.

As she suddenly got up, the armchair rolled with a screeching sound. Raymond's attention shifted to Y/N as he raised his eyebrows, looking over his screen at her feminine silhouette.

He didn't say a word, even though he wanted to ask.

She didn't say a word, even though she saw him looking.

Passing by his desk, she grabbed a lighter wordlessly as she moved towards the window, opening it wide on the arms length. The disparate feelings of fresh air and the burning nicotine filling up her lungs was all she needed at the moment.

Feeling the not quite unpleasant scent of tobacco in the air, Raymond was just about to get up to join his colleague in the window when suddenly the door swung open.

“Leon, Y/L/N” A forty year old looking woman stood in the doorway clutching onto a file with a fierce expression on her face. This felt like a breath of fresh air after spending several hours with Raymond’s impassiveness, Y/N thought. “Jameson was found dead thirty miles out of Dayton. We're dropping the case.” She said in a tired voice. Not waiting for an answer, the woman took a step back before disappearing behind the black door.

Y/N scoffed with annoyance. It was the cherry on top of her already bad mood.

“Sure, I only worked on it for two weeks. No biggie.” Her voice was stuffed with sarcasm. Her barely contained frustration filled the now silent room, getting a chuckle out of Raymond.

“In a great mood, aren't we?” He replied with a blank expression, playful mockery in his tone that he used so often, almost like a tool towards Y/N.

Getting up he closed the file, before approaching the window that she stood by. He pulled a pack of menthol cigarettes out of his coat and snatched the lighter out of her hand.

Y/N didn't reply, glancing sideways at him while taking a drag.

“Kinda funny for someone who can't even smoke like a man.” She replied smoothly, without missing a beat causing him to slightly lift one corner of his lips.

“You're enough of a man for both of us.” came out of his mouth along with a trail of smoke. Y/N realized it was only the second sentence he said to her that day, and yet, she had enough of his talking.

Putting her cigarette out, Y/N passed by him, getting back to work and leaving him standing there. Finally, she managed to get to work.

The weather was windy, the sensation of fresh air glazing his skin felt good accompanied by the scent of her perfumes and smoke. Strangely calming, even though he couldn't put his finger on what she smelled like. It's not like it matters, anyway, he thought watching over the busy city center. People rushing places even as the sun started to set was not a surprise, as Greenwich barely slept bustling with life.

Raymond rarely experienced the time where he could just be. Without pacing and his mind being on constant overdrive.

Just like now, standing by the window and pondering on the scent of his colleague's perfume, a calmness settled somewhere between his ribs. He realized that after so many years spent here in this building, with a steely badge on his chest, and with the sound of Y/N’s nails clacking against the keyboard in the background, he felt at home.

***

The whole day passed uneventfully, spent on typical, boring office work. They’d clash every now and then during the rare cigarette and coffee breaks. It was more to break the tension than out of spite; a practiced routine.

While the ticking of the clock used to be a menacing sound some years ago, now it just meant that the end of her shift was getting closer. Eventually Y/N logged out of the system, leaning back on her chair as she scanned over her few belongings on the desk.

One would think that spending most of her days for several years here, she'd have more knick knacks lingering around, but her desk was neat. Almost like a brand new working space. Y/N believed there was no need for additional chaos in her space.

As she stood up, throwing the coat over her shoulders, Raymond didn't move or look up, focused on his tasks, or at least he made himself look like it.

He almost never finished his work when others did. Some people in the office even wondered whether he’d spend his nights there sometimes. So it wasn't new to see him remaining seated as Y/N zipped up her coat, gathered her belongings, and shoved them in her purse before heading out. No words were said as the door shut behind her.

Only when complete silence filled the room did Raymond allow himself to relax a little. He slumped into the armchair as he tilted his head back, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Subconsciously, he regretted how the sweet scent of her perfume faded away when in her absence.

***

Y/N couldn't help but feel bitterness. She remembered the time when she felt relief arriving home. That feeling was long gone once the hope of turning the apartment into an actual home faded. It was hard to make peace with, but there was nothing she couldn't handle.

Not anymore.

Y/N took a long shower and changed into more comfortable clothes. Subconsciously she skipped the kitchen, as she didn't feel like eating anything.

Wine was another story though, Y/N thought, chuckling when she grabbed her favourite kind. Not bothering to get a glass, she headed to the living room and settled onto her couch. She took her sweet time drinking, smoking, and letting herself dive into her chaotic and melancholic thoughts. Driven by the sour feeling on the tip of her tongue, Y/N pulled out her phone and scrolled to the unanswered message that had been sitting there for longer than it should have. She finally typed her reply.

“Okay, one date. Tomorrow 8 PM” she sent, tossing her phone aside before she'd change her mind.

A deep sigh left her lips, followed by a chuckle. What a mess.

***

“Fuck!” Raymond exclaimed, followed by a hiss when the heavy door made contact with his back, tearing him out of his thoughts and forcing him to stop reading the file he was holding. Turning around he noticed Y/N entering the office.

She couldn't help but let out a giggle at his angered expression before shrugging and raising her eyebrows.

“Not sure if anyone ever told you that, but Ray,” she started with a cheeky smirk, slowly becoming more serious as she took a step forward, her hand landing on his shoulder, pretending like she was massaging it. “it's not the best idea to casually stand by the door. You might get hit.” Y/N finished with a mockingly serious tone, causing him to roll his eyes and shaking her hand off his body.

“You’re in a strangely good mood. Found a penny on your way here?” He shot back, matching her tone, narrowing his eyes as she chuckled instead of rolling her eyes as she always does.

“Nope, just can't wait to finish my shift today.” She answered honestly, walking over to her desk and dumping her purse on it.

Seeing her in such an unusual state, Raymond felt a weird warmth which bothered him, like every unwanted feeling did.

“Don't worry, I'm sure your empty apartment and book won't mind if you come back late.” He said, more bitter than usual, seeing the lack of reaction.

“Actually I have plans. I don't know if you ever heard of such a thing.” She replied smoothly, slicking her hair back into a neat ponytail and keeping up the eye contact. Raymond laughed out loud, making her look at him weird.

“Yeah, sure, and I'm actually going bowling later.” He mocked arrogantly, shaking his head lightly and running his hand through his perfectly slicked back hair. Y/N felt the dig somewhere deep inside, but refused to let him see it.

“To each their own, but with your size it might be an issue to hold the bowling ball properly.” Y/N replied calmly, sitting down.

Her words hung in the air as Raymond chose to ignore her.

The entirety of her ten hour shift passed quickly, and before Ray even realized, she was gone. Once again, she left a trail of her intoxicating perfume and her perfectly neat desk.

His own desk, on the other hand, was covered in all kinds of papers, reminding him of the amount of work he willingly put upon himself.

Time always passed smoothly when he'd throw himself into the whirlwind of work. He reread some cases over and over until his sharp eyes picked up on details that an average Timekeeper wouldn't notice. That's why he was the best at what he did.

Sometimes a small crisis got a hold of him, filling his head up with unwanted thoughts about the lack of actual sense in his almost eighty year old life. Raymond would never allow himself to indulge into spiraling down memory lane, as the cloudy moments from his past would try to make their way into the view. Ten minutes turned into an hour, and an hour turned into three when finally he stopped his work. He felt the burning need for some nicotine.

Raymond rolled up his shirt sleeves, took one cigarette out of the box, and settled in his usual spot at the nearby window.

He watched the almost empty street in silence. His arm hung in the air with intentions of taking another drag when he suddenly heard a familiar giggle.

Narrowing his eyes, Raymond focused on the couple slowly walking down the street.

He saw a taller man with a sheepish smile in the company of a beautiful woman, wearing a tight but sophisticated black dress and heels with a denim jacket draped over her shoulders. An obviously oversized jacket. They talked while laughing every now and then. A smile was constantly plastered on her dark red lips.

If asked, Raymond wouldn't be able to answer why his jaw tensed so badly at the sight. He couldn’t explain how the burning in his body overpowered the burning on his fingers as the cigarette burned to the filter. Scoffing with pure anger, he threw the cigarette away before pulling down the blinds as he slumped into his chair.

His heart pounded in his chest and his breathing deepened. Raymond knew he wasn't wrong.

He ran a hand through his hair in a messy manner, ruining his perfect hairstyle.

He couldn't tell what infuriated him more; the way he reacted to the sight of Y/N accompanied by another man, or the way he subconsciously responded seeing her in such circumstances.

Taglist!

@kittenonpluto @candlelover @4ria790 @xsweetcatastrophe @cillianinlove @lau219 @theangelofbastogne @sasha28x @the-buddy-things

I can't tag some people, I don't know why. Sorry. Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part! Bye!

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy smut #raymond leon smut #raymond leon x reader #raymond leon #raymond leon in time #in time

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flowerandblood · 9 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (13)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Daemon understood better than anyone what it meant to be the second son, the one who would inherit nothing. It seemed to him that, in contrast to Viserys, he was a blazing fire like a true dragon, giving warmth, light and shelter to those close to his heart, burning those whom he saw as his enemies.

Viserys was always blind, soft-spoken, lacking strong character and clear opposition when things got too far out of hand.

This trait of his had been carefully exploited by Otto Hightower over the years, putting himself in the role of his friend and adviser, playing his part with an extraordinary devotion from which he felt like throwing up.

He knew it was pure courtesy, perfectly calculated, taking advantage of the mourning of the entire Red Keep and his inattention after Aemma's tragic death he slipped his brother his daughter under his nose.

Looking at her on their wedding day, standing in a long, ornate gown he thought she looked like a child on whom someone had put layers of cloth and precious stones; overwhelmed by it all she looked down at her feet, around her nails the red wounds he had seen on her hands ever since.

On that one day, knowing what was awaiting her, he truly felt compassion for her.

After that, however, he stopped.

She could have built her independence, committed herself to the needs of the kingdom, she, however, in the company of that cunt, Criston Cole, gave herself over to prayer and mortification, obediently following her father's orders.

As a woman, she was in his eyes pitiful, weepy, whiny, merely pretending to be saintly and virtuous, having in fact nothing to do with these qualities.

His feelings about her and her father moved involuntarily to her children.

He recognised the dragon's blood in them and treated them differently from the Hightowers, yet he was unable or unwilling to bond with them, seeing how they were suckled to their mother's breasts, which did not allow them to think or breathe on their own.

He watched from the sidelines, observing from afar as Rhaenyra and Alicent's children trained together, how a divide formed between them. He knew that once they grew up and understood what was really at stake, they would throw themselves at each other's throats.

He knew perfectly well whose right to the throne he would support.

Aegon was a drunkard and a cunt, Helaena was quiet and withdrawn, Aemond was sullen and vindictive − he thought with amusement that each of them had inherited the worst from his brother and their mother.

However, he couldn't help but show at least a little compassion and understanding for his brother's second son, who had been punished by the gods, left without a dragon of his own.

Some part of him wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to see through him as a kind of reflection of himself, but on those rare occasions when he was with Leana and his daughters in the Red Keep he never made such a gesture, which he later, though he did not want to admit it to himself, regretted.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently then.

He could see with what admiration he looked at him, how much he longed to hear at least one word of appreciation from him, any gesture of interest.

He knew that if he could decide who his father-figure would be he would choose not Viserys or Cole but him, and he pretended not to notice that.

Once though, he noticed something that surprised him; strolling through the cloisters of the Red Keep he spotted his nephew and Rhaenyra's only daughter standing side by side in the square, leaning over the table filled with the various weapons. He smirked under his breath as he walked closer, wanting to listen to their conversation.

They were betrothed.

A clumsy attempt by his brother to avoid what he felt in his bones had to happen.

He saw his niece point her finger at one of the weapons lying on the wooden tabletop, a steel black spiked ball hooked on a chain to a special handle.

"What is it? It looks scary." She said with amusement, her voice light and pleasant; he thought with surprise that his nephew's grim and stormy nature did not deter her.

Alicent's son grunted loudly, lifting his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority and intelligence that he hated so much about the Hightowers, clearly proud to be able to speak on a subject in which his knowledge was extensive.

"It's a flail. A very heavy weapon requiring great strength and agility in its use. It literally crushes the opponent." He said, forcing himself into a low, mature, masculine voice, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his hair in a slight disarray from the few duels he had already had.

"That weapon looks like the kind you die from in agony." Mumbled his niece, tentatively touching her fingertip to one of the spikes – her uncle pushed her away immediately, surprised by her gesture, grabbing her hand by the wrist.

"Are you insane? What are you doing? It's sharp after all, you could have hurt yourself." He said angrily, but she only blinked, surprised by his outburst, and smiled indulgently, showing him her finger.

"I know, silly. I wouldn't want something like that to hit me in the face." She sneered, raising her eyebrows in amusement, joy in her gaze and embarrassment at the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

She took a step closer to him, but he stepped back quickly and lowered his gaze, he noticed in disbelief that his pale cheeks had turned scarlet.

"Not here. Later." He muttered letting go of her wrist immediately. He heard her quiet sigh of disappointment as she nodded and walked away without another word.

He watched as, a moment later, his nephew cursed under his breath, pulling off his leather gloves and moved after her, grabbing her at one of the side entrances by her arm. She turned to him with a smile as if she was sure he would follow her, her lips placing a quick, brief kiss on his cheek.

He let her go, embarrassed and blushing, looking sideways, muttered something, and she nodded and disappeared behind the walls. His nephew returned to the square as if nothing had happened, a lazy, barely visible smile on his face; Aegon looked at him from afar with a look full of pity, as soon as his younger brother came closer he said loud and clear:

"What a twat you are."

He snarled under his breath as he heard Criston Cole immediately respond to his remark by saying that it was inappropriate for a prince to use such vocabulary, his younger brother only gave him a grim look indicating that he himself was torn internally, ashamed of his weakness.

He thought then, moving ahead, amused, that his brother had inadvertently contributed to something that was certainly not his original plan.

These kids really wanted it.

He felt shame because, looking at them, he wondered how he really felt about his wife. He recognised that she was his companion and lover, whom he respected and cherished, but she was not his friend, he could not allow her into the depths of his heart.

Only when he saw Rheanyra did he feel something more; he had the feeling that the air around them quivered when they spoke, he sensed that she understood perfectly the source and reason of his impulsive nature.

Despite this, he found his life peaceful and prosperous, and the death of his wife in childbirth was something shocking and painful to him. He covered his grief with laughter, the thought that he had wasted years of her life, a wonderful, beautiful woman who deserved someone to love her with all her being, giving her something more than a substitute of affection.

Then, however, his nephew lost an eye and everything fell apart like a house of cards, showing how weak their family actually was.

The events that followed wove together in his mind, the closeness of Rhaenyra and their later nuptials brought him a sense of relief, as if two parts that belonged together had been joined.

He watched her daughter from afar, the sadness and grief painted on her after all still so young and innocent face made her seem to him pale and lifeless, at once beautiful, cool and inaccessible, walking around Dragonstone like a ghost, not speaking to anyone despite how much his daughters tried to get close to her.

She was warm, helpful and welcoming when anyone approached her, but did not raise any discussions herself, eating and drinking little at suppers, immersed in her thoughts.

He knew that she was with them only in body.

He decided not to make the same mistake as with his nephew and offer her his interest, his support in the ironic and mischievous form peculiar to him, the only way in which he could show his affection to anyone.

What surprised him was how much she clung to him, how often she cried during their walks together; despite her innate vulnerability she had a strength of character that he appreciated – she was inclined to rash actions or anger, but she was also not docile or naive, she tried to find order in the chaos that surrounded her.

Only he and his niece had been invited to Aegon's nuptials to Helaena; Alicent had expressed in her letter her concern that the meeting of their children might affect them badly and reawaken old wounds, which his wife took as a reasonable argument, and indeed, albeit reluctantly, it was only the two of them who travelled to the Red Keep.

The whole ceremony in the Great Sept dragged on endlessly for him; he looked around, bored, unwilling to stare at the horrified, sad faces of his nephew and niece, testament to the fact that neither of them wanted this marriage.

The wedding supper held in the fortress was lavish with dancing and music, lords from all over the kingdom descended and gathered in the throne room at large, long oak tables filled to the brim with food. Sitting down in his seat next to his wife, he glanced sideways and noticed a figure looking at him intensely, the One-Eyed Prince staring at him coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and admiration, finding that he looked like a man, well-built and muscular, tall, his hair much longer, a black eye patch covering the left side of his face.

He grinned with amusement and mockery, wondering to what he owed his attention, and his nephew only hummed under his breath, looking away, apparently discouraged by his reaction.

He wondered, looking at him, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, if he had shown him fatherly concern then, taken him under his wing, separated him from Alicent and Otto, he would be a different man now.

Several toasts were made to the bride and groom, during each of which Aegon drank his cup to the bottom, clearly intent on fulfilling his marital duty completely drunk.

"Stop it. You've had enough." Growled his younger brother, taking his goblet from him with an aggressive flick of his hand, setting it impatiently far from his older brother's reach.

Aegon slapped him angrily on the shoulder, mumbling something under his breath; his younger brother stood up, towering over him, showing him wordlessly that if he touched him again he would regret it.

"Aemond." Said their mother, this green whore, who was looking at them in pain, her hands folded in front of her as if to pray.

His nephew rolled his eyes and left the hall by a side entrance, furious, unwilling and unable to look at it apparently; Aegon with a wide grin reached for his cup again and to his despair took the empty seat next to him that had been occupied earlier by his wife, now conversing with the King.

"Uncle! So many years." He mumbled, tapping him on the back in a friendly, masculine greeting. He rolled his eyes, amused, smelling the stench of alcohol and sweat from him.

"As you can see, everything stays in the family. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. After all, she'll surely cry. Fuck." He muttered, taking a deep, catchy sip from his cup, tilting it so that he drank it all at once.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling discomfort at the thought that he felt compassion for Helaena for what was about to happen to her.

He glanced at her sad, petite figure; she sat gazing off into the distance somewhere, dreamy.

He wondered as he watched her if she realised what awaited her.

"She doesn't seem to fully understand what I will have to do to her. After all, she's my sister. I don't want to hurt her. She's odd and I don't understand her, but I don't want her to fucking cry." He mumbled out covering his face with his hand, his voice breaking with his every word – he drew in air loudly as if he was out of breath, and he looked at him not knowing what to do.

What was he supposed to answer him?

"Be gentle and kind. Make her feel as little pain as possible. You know very well that how it will look lies in your hands. If you want her to suffer as little as possible, stop drinking because it will take you a fucking hour." He growled, taking the cup from his hand just as his younger brother had earlier, and wondered if that was what he meant then, if he knew his condition would only worsen whatever was to await them next.

"You pity yourself and you smell of alcohol and sweat. Go take a bath or do you want to lay on her like that? Give her some dignity for goodness sake." He said coolly, looking ahead indifferently; his nephew swallowed loudly, sitting beside him like a little rebuked child, playing with his fingers.

He wondered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye if his brother had ever spoken to him about it, if he had prepared him and explained to him how he should behave.

"All my life I've envied him. My brother. He had someone of his own who cared about him. I think he really loved her, uncle. Now I barely recognise anyone myself. I'm not sure any of us are the same person anymore. Only Helaena has remained the same − innocent and ignorant. That's because she doesn't step outside her mind. If she did, she would have gone mad like we did."

It turned out that he was partly right.

What he didn't expect was that when they arrived all together as a family after several years in King's Landing to defend Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark these two would be lying in bed with each other on their very first night.

"If you tell me you still want to marry him, I will help you. I'd rather you be his wife than lead you and him into a scandal that could destroy your mother. Your betrothal has never been called off, the king will easily prove that no other plans for you can be in force against his decision. But if you decide not to, I will personally see to it that you never see him again and that no letter of yours leaves Dragonstone. Make a manly, mature decision with all its consequences, and stop wallowing over yourself."

He told her then, wanting her to understand that they could not stand in the middle, that they had to choose, or their decisions would drag them all down.

Watching them in the throne room audience, however, the greedy, desperate gaze of his nephew fixed on her as if he wanted to devour her gave him no illusions.

What this boy was telling himself was one thing, but what he was feeling was another.

It was this thought that made him decide to question Alicent's decision in front of everyone, wanting to hear his brother's opinion on the matter, the only one that really counted. He had expected nothing but objections from both sides, however, against the desperate attempts of their mothers, his nephew and his niece's daughter made a decision that did not surprise him at all.

It was enough for her to get up from her seat and walk out to make him press his lips together in rage and follow her out, exactly as he had done then, in the courtyard, when he had thrown himself after her, and she knew perfectly well that he would do so, knowing his nature.

He wondered if she had kissed him this time too, if the tension between them had eased.

He thought that this marriage might actually calm the emotions a little, especially as his brother was over his deathbed.

This union was forcing both parties to be cautious, which could be mutually beneficial.

"She has decided that she wants to stay in the Red Keep until I return." His wife said to him, putting her black leather gloves on her hands, walking beside him towards the dragon's lair. He stopped, looking at her in disbelief, furious.

This was not the plan.

"What?" He growled, looking at her as if she had completely lost her mind. "You're leaving my daughter in the care of that whore and her father-traitor?"

He saw that she smiled at his words emphasising that in his eyes she was his child, that he had taken responsibility for her and protected her as any true father should.

"She asked me to do this. I imagine they both want to clarify a lot of things with each other. Since the nuptials are to take place as soon as possible there is no need to fret, I will personally take her back in a few days." She replied calmly, and he let out a loud breath, impatiently licking his lips.

It was a bad idea, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn't protest and that was his mistake.

The next day he lost two of his daughters.

Rhaenyra, his brother's heir to the throne fell with a groan when envoys reported to her that her father was dead, that her brother had been crowned king, that they had imprisoned their daughter.

She cried out loudly in pain, clutching at her womb; at first he thought it was despair, but then he saw the pool of blood beneath her feet, her terrified gaze, her lips parted in agony.

They both knew it was too soon.

Their daughter already looked like a tiny infant, but sadly her fate was sealed; she wasn't moving or breathing, she was cold, looking more like a doll than a human being.

He felt that he had to leave the fortress; he followed exactly where he always went out with her, with one of his daughters, to the sea itself, and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the rage and chaos that overtook his mind.

He wanted to mount Caraxes and burn them all.

However, his cousin and daughters had cooled his ardour, recognising that they needed to prepare, gather an army, make a plan of action.

He recognised that it was only female sentiment, a weakness that kept them from making the risky decision that his whole life consisted of.

When his wife finally recovered from her brief mourning, despite his entreaties, she did not listen to him and decided to send her sons as her representatives, wanting to extract the pledge of allegiance from those who had paid her tribute many years ago.

He had thought it nonsensical, however, when Luke returned from Storm's End it turned out that his step son had been a naive idiot.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." He growled, turning away from the table with fury, massaging his face with his palm, not believing he could have done such a thing.

"Daemon." Said Rhaenyra in a voice trembling with despair; she looked at her son, trying to calm herself. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." He muttered, forcing himself into a calm tone of voice.

He turned towards him, looking at him with his heart beating fast.

She had done this for them, so they could attack the Red Keep without fear.

She wanted to make a manly decision, to sacrifice herself, his brave daughter, his little dragon.

"Gods." Said his wife, clutching at her womb, apparently involuntarily recalling the moments when she had carried her under her heart, the maternal tears of pain in her eyes.

"And then?" He finished for her, seeing that she didn't have the strength to get anything else out, Luke swallowed hard, afraid to look at him.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." Said with difficulty, Jace slammed his fist on the table, furious.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He said red with anger and he glanced at him indifferently, sighing heavily.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He asked further, pretending not to have heard his outburst; Jace pressed his lips together, furious. Luke shook his head quickly.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." He muttered, and he sighed heavily, placing both of his hands on the table, leaning over it, and closed his eyes, trying to focus.

He let her see him without any other witnesses and then let him go even though he hated him, even though he could have trapped and humiliated him.

Why?

A memory flashed through his mind, the way his nephew cursed as he fought with himself to finally run after her, her smile full of reassurance as she turned to him knowing he would follow her, his blush of embarrassment and lazy smile as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek, her proof of her devotion and affection that he craved so much.

He had never stopped loving her.

This stone-cold, dangerous man had done something for her, surely after she had tried to take her own life.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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misscheavus · 1 year ago

Text

(( REMINDER ))

I KNOW YOU’RE MAD // BUT SHE AIN’T EVEN WORTH NONE OF MY TIME

PAIRING: Jealous(?) Minah Lee x F!Reader (referred to as ‘girlfriend’ and ‘girl’)

WARNINGS: I wrote Redy a not the greatest person and I apologise for that, but the plot needed it D: (Not proofread (sorry)), swearing

LENGTH: 1,340+ words

This is a work of fiction and is in no way a reflection, description or depiction of any person(s) in real life. Images and names are merely used as placeholders in this work. You are responsible for the media that you consume.

Minah couldn’t help herself, rolling her eyes as she watched the interaction unfold in front of her. Maybe Bada’s beef with Redy wasn’t as unfounded as the team she thought. Fuck, at this rate, she might join her leader in her view of the 1Million dancer.

She watched as Redy brushed your hair away from your face, running her hand down your arm as she drowned you in compliments so obnoxiously loud that Minah could hear her from across the stage: “Oh my gosh, you’re so talented!” “I’m so envious of how your body moves!” “Your body is so incredible! You must work out lots to be so strong and pretty.” “You’re so flexible! You’ll have to show me sometime.”

Minah almost gagged.

And maybe she did because Bada turns from her spot in front of the girl, an eyebrow raised and stupid, knowing smirk plastered on her face.

“You good?” Bada places a hand on the younger’s knee, squeezing gently. Minah simply scoffed, not wanting to dignify her feelings with a response. Unfortunately for her, that was more than enough of an answer for the leader. She laughed, turning away from the girl and joining Minah in observing the situation in front of them develop. Bada tilts her head, looking back up and noticing Minah purposefully looking away, the tips of her ears red. “She looks uncomfortable, Minah. That’s more what I’d be worried about.” Bada hums, leaning back on her hands.

It’s almost comical how quickly Minah’s head snaps back to watch you closely.

It’s not like you were dating… well, you weren’t exclusive (yet). But you were something, right? Minah wasn’t even sure if she had any right feeling the emotions she was feeling… but focusing back in on the two of you and the way you were reacting to the other dancer made her emotions feel more justified.

She felt heat claw up her neck, wrapping around her chest tightly the more she watched. Even though you were giggling and seemed to be playing along… something looked off. Minah leaned forward, observing… almost waiting for the other dancer to make a wrong move and let her pounce.

You moved back quickly, just out of immediate reach of Redy’s overly touchy hands as she seemed to reach for your face again. Minah watches you bow, putting more distance between you, eyes darting away from the forward woman and thanking her for whatever stupid shit she said. You scratch your forearm, gulping obviously as you try to shuffle back.

Bada was right. You were uncomfortable. And Minah wasn’t going to sit opposite you and let you be uncomfortable.

She stands abruptly, Bada leaning out of the way and letting the younger step past her.

Minah has tunnel vision; seeing nothing but you, trying to politely turn Redy’s advances down. It’s even worse because your team can’t even understand what’s being said to help you out. “Oh, thank you for the offer, but I’m not interested. We’re really busy, and I’ve already got someone in my life…” She hears your quiet response as she gets closer.

‘…Did she ask you out?’ The anger bubbles over inside Minah. She all but storms up to the pair, arms crossed intimidatingly. “She’s saying no, Redy. She’s uncomfortable. Leave her alone. You got your answer.” Minah’s bluntness is a welcome relief. You quietly let out a sigh as Minah stands in front of you, feeling the weight lift slightly off your chest.

“Sorry, were you involved in our conversation? I don’t think you were, actually-“ Redy starts, moving closer to you again.

“I am because you’re coming onto my girlfriend. And I’d really suggest backing up before things get bad for you. Quickly.” Minah’s eyes are narrowed, chest puffed as she takes a step closer. You look over at Redy, her eyes now wide as she puts the pieces together. You quietly apologise to the girl, before standing and taking Minah’s arm and leading her off-set and into an unoccupied corridor backstage.

“No, let me back at her. I swear to God-“

You place both hands on Minah’s shoulders, squeezing gently. That stops her rage for a moment, finally focusing on you. “Are you okay? She didn’t touch you, did she? I know you were uncomfortable… I just…” Minah’s eyes closed for a moment, trying to calm herself.

“I really shouldn’t find you that attractive when you’re jealous and overprotective.” Minah’s eyes pop open, looking at you incredulously.

“I was not jealous. I-“

Before she can open her mouth to keep lying, you answer her questions, “She only touched my arm, and I’m okay. Just… unsettled? Sorry, you had to help me deal with her. I just… didn’t know how to stop her without coming across as rude. You did a good job though.” You smile, hands deftly sliding up her shoulders and to her face, cupping her cheeks.

Minah brings her hands to rest over yours, sighing. “Don't apologise, baby. Just be rude. I hate watching people try and take advantage of your kindness. Especially like that. Bitch.” She hissed the last word quietly, feeling your fingers tap her cheek in response to her choice of words. The anger Minah had before fills her body for a moment before it softens as she meets your eyes. You take a step closer, Minah’s hands now dropping to your waist, thumbs caressing your skin. She sighs, “I… sorry. I hate seeing you uncomfortable, even a little bit. I care about you too much to see you like that…”

You’re both quiet for a moment, simply enjoying each other's presence; Minah squeezes your waist as she tries to calm down again, ignoring the nagging feeling in her heart as her brain keeps replaying the events of before over and over. Redy's hands on your face, your arms... She bites her lip, suppressing her internal desire to go back out and-

“So… girlfriend, huh?” You can’t help but tease the girl in front of you, breaking her building bitterness, laughing as she groans and rests her head against your shoulder. You bring a hand up and stroke the back of her head, still giggling. “I liked it before you apologise. You should introduce me like that more often.” You feel Minah’s body tense before she pulls back to look at you.

“Yeah?” She smiles so cutely you can feel your heart race at her beauty, “You wanna be my girlfriend? You’ll be mine?” You return her loving smile, resting your foreheads together. “Mhm. As long as you’ll be mine.” Minah all but smirks at your reply, pulling back a little further and resting her palm on the back of your neck and brings you in. The glint in her eyes as her gaze drops to your lips giving you all the answers you need as she closes the distance between you.

————

About 10 minutes later, you both emerge, back at the ring, hands entwined. Minah walks you back to your crew, squeezing your hand once more before returning to Bebe. Bada and Lusher stifle a laugh, Tatter motioning for the younger to come to them. Reaching up, Tatter wipes away smeared lipstick from the corner of Minah’s swollen lips. “Maybe next time you get all macho for your girl, look in a mirror before you come back?” The three giggle as they adjust Minah’s jacket and hair, askew and mused from your hands.

“Poor girl, did you maul her in, like, five minutes?” Lusher chuckles, noticing the already darkening mark on your neck from across the room… on the side of your neck that faced the 1Million crew.

Minah can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed, looking over at you and sending you a cheeky wink, before meeting Redy's eyes. Minah raises an eyebrow, wiping her lips and smirking at the elder, unable to stop herself from mouthing a quick 'mine' and glancing in your direction. She can't help relishing in how quickly Redy averts her eyes from both of you, laughing quietly.

Yeah, this was way better than her plan about 15 minutes ago.

#Minah Lee #minah Lee x reader #Minah x reader #Minah Lee imagine #Minah Lee fic #minah imagine #Minah Bebe #swf fic #swf2 x reader #swf2 fic #swf2 #kpop imagines #bada lee x reader #bada x reader

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five-rivers · 7 months ago

Text

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 13

@greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“Okay,” said Danny rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to do the big group next.”

“Group number four?”

“Yeah, them. Why’re there three of them, anyway?”

“You’ll have to ask them that,” said Clockwork. “Au jus?”

“Yes, please,” said Danny, reaching for the small bowl of sauce. “Your sandwiches are always really good.”

“Thank you,” said Clockwork. “Will you be leaving after lunch, then?”

“Yeah, I think that’ll be best.” Danny sighed. “No offense, but I’m kind of going a little bit stir-crazy, being inside all the time. I didn’t really realize until Pandora said something, but she was right.”

“That’s quite reasonable,” said Clockwork. “The trial has lasted for nearly a month and a half.”

“Really? I think I’ve only been with each person for about a week, and there’ve only been four people. Five, if you count the Observants.”

“Yes, but you’ve spent a good amount of time here as well. Those in-between days add up.”

“Huh. I guess so.” Danny took a bite of his sandwich. “I guess it sort of snuck up on me. A month and a half… So two weeks here.”

“Yes, but please chew with your mouth closed.”

“Oops,” said Danny, covering his mouth. “Sorry.”

Clockwork nodded and patted Danny absently on the head before making a small sandwich for himself. They ate together quietly.

“Three of them, though,” said Danny. “Are they all together, or something?”

“You will–”

“Have to meet them and find out. I know, I know. Should I brush my teeth first?”

Clockwork raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Danny. “That’s probably too much effort. But I should put in some effort, shouldn’t I?” He nodded. “Yeah. Toothbrushing. Toothbrush. One minute.”

Danny had been in a lot of places over the last month and a half. A cute little house, two mansions possessed by people with questionable understandings of humanity, a warren of ice caves, an ancient Greek palace, and, of course, Clockwork’s purple place. He’d imagined a lot of others. Like open skies, broad fields, mountains, islands… horrible mad science labs…

However, he hadn’t imagined a place like this.

“Um,” he said, looking around the… stage? Rats' nests of cables were strewn about in every direction, and next to the curtains hunting trophies were hung. Heads, horns, antlers… hair? A tail? Whatever, this was weird, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around. “Hi?” He stepped forward over a tangle of cables. “Hello? Anyone–”

“BEHOLD! I, TECHNUS, MASTER OF ALL TECHNOLOGY–”

Danny leaped backwards, to hover over the seating area, startled by the ghost rising out of the cables. The stage lights came on, spotlights centering on the ghost. He had long white hair, green skin, sunglasses built into his face, and a tattered lab coat.

Music blasted out of speakers, rock and roll, screaming guitars, thundering drums and cymbals. A young, gray-skinned woman with fiery blue hair rose up from under the stage. She held a guitar painted with blue and pink flames.

“HEYA, BABYPOP!” she shouted into a microphone that appeared in a burst of fire. “WELCOME HOME TO MAMA EMBER, YEAH!”

“Hey!” whined the first ghost. “You said I could do the introductions!”

“I never said that. You said that. I was always going to do the intros. You think I’m going to leave it to you, when you just drone on and on and on and on and–”

“As if you’re any better!”

“I come with a sound track, audio jack,” said Ember.

“My god, you two are so loud, and you didn’t even bother to introduce me,” said a deep, slightly hollow voice. Danny startled again, twisting to see a ghost completely covered with silvery armor.

“I thought you didn’t care about introductions,” said Ember. She played a quick few chords on her guitars, then continued to use her music to punctuate her words. “Because big, bad, baddie, bad, hunky, hottie, hunter Skulker doesn’t need an introduction.” She leaned forward over the guitar. “His name speaks for him!” She started laughing so hard she floated up off the stage. Music continued to blare from the speakers.

“I, TECHNUS, MASTER OF ALL TECHNOLOGY, CAN TAKE YOUR SO-CALLED MUSIC OFF THE AIR!”

“We’re not even on the air!”

“I can’t believe I’m associated with these two idiots,” said Skulker.

“I’d like to know how you’re associated with me,” said Danny, trying to smooth down his fur.

“Isn’t it obvious, babypop?” asked Ember. “We’re you’re parents! Yeah!”

“Uh,” said Danny, looking at the very strange trio. “I don’t know about the other two, but aren’t you a little… young for that?” She couldn’t be all that much older than Jazz.

“I’m dead, kiddo. Son. Boy. Little man. I was a teen mom and all that. Totally radical rockstar living.”

“With, um,” said Danny. His eyes slid back and forth between Ember and Skulker.

“Skulker, duh,” said Ember. “Techy here is Skulker’s boyfriend or whatever.”

“It’s not whatever. I am his trusted–”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“We’re all dating, except when we’re broken up,” said Skulker, bored.

“Okay,” said Danny. “So… you’re both…” He shrugged at them.

“What does this–” Technus also shrugged, “--mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny. “You tell me.”

“Hm, the amnesia did not do favors for his intelligence! I liked him much better before! Do you want to see the lab?”

“The lab?” repeated Danny, backing away from Technus a little more.

“It really didn’t help your intelligence. Sad! Perhaps some electroshock therapy might help?”

“Hey!” said Ember, kicking Technus’s tail. “What did we say about electrocuting the flesh baby? What did that narc say? The tall purple one?”

“I know you know that Clockwork isn’t a narc,” said Skulker.

The three of them started to bicker. Danny watched in mixed fascination and horror.

White hair on Technus. Green eyes on Skulker and Ember. Human-like appearances. A mad science lab. Jazz’s belief that Danny would buy the absurdly youthful mother story. Frostbite’s conviction that his parents were abusive. Heck, Danny could even see them meeting Vlad in college, if he fudged the ages a little. He didn’t have any idea how old Vlad was, after all.

Were these his actual parents? Like, his actual, biological parents?

“Anyway, babypop,” said Ember, throwing a hand around Danny’s shoulder, “we heard about your predicament through the grapevine–”

“Through the grapevine? Weren’t you just saying you were my mother?”

“Yeah, but I was on tour, Skulker was hunting, and Technus was… Being Technus. We were, like, estranged. Separated. Because of the whole alive thing. Fell out of touch.” She waved a lazy hand. “Anyway, we heard about the Observants putting you through hell, and we were like, that’s not cool. So, we put our names in the hat, all that stuff, babypop, ‘cause we love you, y’know? And we’re going to have so much fun. I’ll turn you into a proper rocker yet. You’ve got a great set of pipes, kid, and you’ve got to use that.”

“But first!” shouted Technus, at only a slightly lower volume than before. “The GRAND TOUR!”

Danny took back that thought about the volume being lower.

“TO THE LAB!”

Danny cringed away from Technus. This was going to be a pain.

“Okay,” said Danny, floating a few feet over the floor to avoid the wires. “We’ve seen the stage, the sound room, the… conservatory?”

“Never say that I don’t have taste, babypop. You’ve got to have a good piano in a house.”

“Yeah, then workshop, and the server room, and the lab.” Which had, frankly, been horrifying. Just a massive mess of electronics. The sense of electricity in the room made his hair all stand on end. “And the weapon room. Then the… hunting. Place. And. Um. Zoo.” Which was also horrifying, but for different reasons.

“Yes,” said Skulker, “our space may be limited, but you will soon know the joy of the hunt.”

“... right,” said Danny. “But, like, is there a… kitchen?”

“Kitchen?” asked Ember, blankly.

“We don’t,” said Skulker.

“We mostly order out, when the great hunter here can’t catch anything!”

“Can anyone… get in to order out?”

Ember, Skulker, and Technus stared at each other.

“Crap,” said Ember, finally. “Crap.”

“What?” said Technus. “It’s not like we have to eat.”

“I kind of do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. Everyone else has been feeding me.”

“Yeah, no, we’re ghosts, even you,” said Technus. “We don’t need to eat.”

“I can kill off some of the game I’ve already caught,” said Skulker, “if we really need to. I’d like you to hunt for them, though. A little extra incentive!”

“Right. Sure. Whatever. Bedroom?” asked Danny.

“We don’t need to sleep, either,” said Technus.

Fine. Danny wasn’t touching that. “Bathroom?” he tried.

“Gross,” said Ember. “Who’s spending their afterlife peeing?”

“Uh. Me?”

“Ew. You’ve got to quit that.”

Danny didn’t think that was a thing he could actually quit. He made a face. “You’re not actually my parents, are you?”

“Of course we are,” said Skulker, mechanically.

“Okay, well, that right there, that’s a lie,” said Danny. “That’s definitely a lie.”

“It’s not,” said Technus, stridently.

“Look, maybe some fighting would knock him out of his funk,” said Skulker. “Knock him right out.”

“Yeah, some of that misplaced aggression kind of thing he’s always on about,” said Ember.

Danny had no idea what he was talking about. “You guys do know that if I can’t have a place to go to the bathroom, I’m going to leave, right?”

“Maybe even a good hunt,” said Skulker. “For old times’ sake. Give him a good chase, get rid of some of that anxiety.”

Danny really hoped he wasn’t related to these three. He grabbed the pocketwatch.

“Wait, ghost child!”

“Okay, yeah, that’s not something you call your kids,” said Danny, pointing at Technus.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, you caught us,” said Technus. “Real sharp of you, ghost child! Real sharp and groovy.”

“Oh my god, you don’t know what any of those words mean,” said Ember. “Stop using them.”

“BUT!” shrieked Technus. “What you don’t know is that we’re your RIVALS!”

Danny grimaced. “What?”

“We fought you, like, a bunch of times,” said Ember.

“And… now you want to adopt me?”

“Better us than some of the nutjobs that want you. We’d just let you do your own thing, hang out, fight a bit when you get touchy about your stupid city, or too wound up about school, all that stuff.”

“But we’d NEVER make you go to SCHOOL!” said Technus. “I could teach you in the lab!”

“Wow, that’s, uh. Touching,” said Danny. “But the bathroom thing is, in this case, a dealbreaker.”

“Aw, come on,” said Ember. “At least have a good fight with us, first. Skulker’s been practically moping since you’ve been out of commission.”

“My latest hunts have been… flavorless,” said Skulker. Danny sighed. “Fine. But I’m going right after.”

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic

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