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eldrith · 2 months

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i literally just thought abt this ajehbsha but like what if the reader was jace's bethrothed that was "killed" by the greens during the dance, but was actually captured and brainwashed her to be an assasin ksjwbsna

think of it somewhat like bucky barnes

safe flight on ur trip!:)

BABE YOUR MIND…. also i haven't seen the marvel movies in ages so im kinda going off what i can recall . and i took this in a bit of a diff direction i hope thats ok but i love this i could write a whole fucking book about this omfg. your mind is beautiful id love to keep it in a jar warnings: mentions of torture, death, assassinations, angst, allusions to smut if you squint, targcest bc its implied you are aegon's sister/of valyrian blood, brief allusion to suicidal thoughts, fluff mostly at the end and is a bit canon divergent. and yes i know this is 3.1k words but it's still a headcanon ok. its just a great concept

you and jacaerys are betrothed when you are young.

despite this, you remain close; shy smiles, kind whispers and youthful awkwardness that blossoms into a strong, devoted friendship. you're to be queen - and he, king. indeed you study for your future duties side by side, with prideful grins - and along the way, you find time for yourselves.

in youth, it is in teaching jacaerys to sew and read tarot, painting, or maybe even showing him the game you used to play with your brothers; it is in him teaching you to wield a sword, studying high valyrian together, him showing you how to climb the castle's ramparts, and inviting you along with he and luke to throw stones at the sea.

as you grow old, it is in jacaerys giving you rides on vermax, dancing with him any chance you can, exploring nature - mountains with caves and tall waterfalls that he pulls you under with feverish kisses, finding ways to sneak to each other's chambers; it is in you kissing his cheek and teasing him when his face grows pink, bringing lucerys along with the two of you when you begin to sneak out of the castle, in sharing too many cups of wine and stumbling to your quarters, in hands weaving through each other's hair.

it is nice.

but then, the war.

things are as okay as they can be for a while- duty is a blessing and a curse for you both. tensions mount. jacaerys feels like everything is falling apart, but he has you; his best friend, his lover, his favorite person in the entirety of the seven kingdoms. you cry with each other, train with each other, sneak off when things become too intense in court. you begin to whisper about a secret wedding, a traditional valyrian one; intimate, quiet.

he just wants to call you his wife, and you just want to call him your husband. but duty has a way of interfering with even the sweetest plans.

the evening jace leaves to treat at winterfell, you clasp a chain round his neck, one you strung your favorite ring through; a keepsake, perhaps. or as he likes to think, a reminder of you during the cold nights in the north.

despite it all, things are okay.

until he loses you.

you are killed with your dragon, defending a crucial line of passage for their men; vhagar and aemond are the last ones to see you as your dragon spirals beyond a hill, wings singed and aflame. you vanish.

jace is overwhelmed with grief.

the news comes just as he's beginning to find himself in a new world - a world without his younger brother - and he, an empty pit of grief and despair, isolates himself from others. consumed by sorrow and rage, his emotions spiral out of control - snapping, yelling, unable to contain his emotions even at council.

his days are marked by a deep mourning that he's unsure will ever be mended. life continues in its droll capacity - the war rages on, and jace becomes more bitter, and more like his great uncle daemon. bloodthirsty, demanding revenge.

and then, you return from the dead.

the day you come back to him is rainy and drowsy. he had foolishly, or in a bout of grief, not noticed the sounds of dragon overhead the caste; a dragon whose screech he had not heard in many moons.

his mother is the one to find him - alone, staring at the hearth in his quarters, eyes filmed with the glossy haze of sorrow.

rhaenyra's face is ghostly, sickly - and he grows immediately concerned as he sees her expression, rising to grasp her arms. "mother, are you well?"

he is shocked when he hears her whisper out: "she's alive."

his worry for his mother vanishes, blinded by her words. you. you're...

and despite being ordered to remain, his legs carry him out - to you. his mother's own footfalls follow behind him, her voice begging. he does not listen, even when she warns him - there is something that isn't right.

when he finally finds you he's elated, heart nearly stopping when your eyes meet.

but there's something missing.

when he takes you into his arms, you're cold; barely blinking, you are not who you used to be.

his own tears distort his vision as he cups your face, pressing a kiss to your full lips - and perhaps that is why he does not notice the sullen, empty look on your face. but he feels it in the way your lips do not kiss back.

jace tries to ignore it, at first.

as you are nursed back to physical health, you avoid telling the court of the truth. all that is revealed is the harrowing tale of your mangled body, put back together by the maester in the red keep; your mutilated dragon, whose health was dangled over your head by your own brother, the one whose head bears a crown that is not his.

you do not speak of your time, but the nightmares you wake from, screaming your throat raw, speak for themselves.

you heal.

you begin to show some signs of humanity after the initial shock subsides; and when you begin to seek his touch, he is glad for that semblance of what you used to have.

but it isn't the same.

you flinch at the slightest movements; your face, once expressive and joyful, is rarely lax of the straight, icy stare you send mostly towards walls. he knows he must be patient; you've endured something he could not imagine - but he cannot help his unease.

you do not speak as you used to - lapse in memory, seemingly unfamiliar with jacaerys; as if you did not grow up together, running down halls, whispering secrets, notching each other’s heights in the frame of your chamber’s threshold.

he can't help when he begins to turn away from your lips, avoiding the mechanical feeling of your mouth upon his, the coldness of your eyes when you attempt to unlace his tunic.

he feels as though it is a different person that tries to kiss him each time. he grows incredibly lonely.

in time, he is suspicious of you. you're... different. during conversations, you forget important details, you cannot recall milestones or memories you used to cherish.

the way your palm fits oddly into his, the way you no longer brush his hair back when it falls into his eyes. you call him jacaerys, or your grace - that, indeed, is the first seed planted in the suspicion of his mind. always jacaerys, never jace - and when he asks you what you do with all the time you spend alone in your chambers, you lock up as if mute.

when performing certain duties around the queen, your eyes would slide to odd objects, or pay close attention to cupbearers and how the queen enjoys her wine.

and he begins tracking your walks when you think you're alone: he discovers you sending ravens with a cloak pulled low over your head, visiting odd alleys in town and disappearing into the lower bowels of peculiar shoppes.

jace goes to daemon, of all people - daemon, first. he knows his stepfather's reputation—ruthless, cunning, and fiercely protective; if anyone can help him discern the truth, it's him. "something is not right," he tells him, worried daemon would somehow turn it into something it's not.

even worse, though, is that daemon is quick to agree. and when jace tells his mother, she confesses her own concern.

"that isn't her," his voice warbled when he tells his mother - lip, trembling, tears tracking down his cheeks as she pulls him into her embrace, her own fear poorly concealed.

when it finally happens, it is a shock to his entire body.

a mere word; murmured, off-hand at a council you happened to be attending - of which you often no longer attended, your trauma and recovery from the kidnapping having sequestered you to your quarters most days.

"Usurper," he'd said.

and then your head had snapped up.

a change in your face - as if no longer human, you’d leapt, ripping out a dagger that had been concealed in your bodice.

and then you'd lunged at him; slicing like a hound rabid for a piece of meat.

he does not remember much besides his reaction: striking you across the cheek and disarming you- kicking hard, your body being thrown to the stone. four swords at your throat. daemon holding you down with a look of disbelief at your heaving frame.

you were relentless, ready to kill - but you are too small, and the rest too many.

a stinging pain, throbbing at his neck as he watches you in shock.

but that was not you - a statue, some sleeping beast that'd been awoken in your tortured brain at the trigger of such a word. it had nearly been worse than when you'd died.

brainwashed, maester gerardys tells them.

it is not until after you have been thrown into the cells below and a bandage sealed around jace's neck.

the blade was one of green and black hilt; intended, likely, for the queen herself - in hopes that she'd have been the first one to utter the word.

likely, maester gerardys says, you were led to believe you'd been abandoned by them, and subsequently tortured for all the time you'd been held at the red keep.

and of course, there was the threat of further maiming your dragon, perhaps, or other similar threats - and physical torture, if the scars on your body are anything to go by; this twists a raw agony in jace's gut and he has to shut his eyes to ward off the thought of you, in pain.

it is a miracle you did not lose your head for nearly slitting the throat of the crown prince; he contests while still lying abed with the open slice of red across his throat, relieved when his mother informs him you are still among the living. she is a merciful queen.

he does not weep until he is alone that night.

breaking the brainwashing is the hardest part.

nights, falling asleep in his brothers or his mother's quarters where your screams of anguish or anger could not be heard - days walking past your heavily guarded chamber to reach his own, swallowing thick as he imagines you on the other side.

isolation is key, he's been told, but it makes it so much worse.

it takes so long that jacaerys nearly forgets what your voice sounds like, how your eyes shine in the sun. he forgets how your smile, beautiful and uneven, makes his heart flip; the taste of your lips, the cadence of your voice.

he even finds himself praying to the seven for the first time since he was just a babe.

slowly, as you begin to heal, you are permitted to see others. he is not allowed, nor is his mother - daemon first, then baela and rhaena with their grandmother. servants and maids.

he begins to hear you again. walking past the chambers which lie near his own, he'd hear your voice, conversing quietly with maester gerardys. when he dozes off over a strategy tome at his desk, he is jolted awake by your gentle, haunting humming; a tune he used to love.

his mother tells him it is not healthy to keep it in.

but he cannot bring himself to speak of it.

shame, pain, anguish, embarrassment - heartbreak. he has grieved you twice over, seen you become a ghost. he has lost you and lost you again.

herbs, potions, guided discussions and meditations. solitary confinement, exposure to the word - all of this, and you begin to shed the skin of whatever person they had made you into.

he pretends that he does not endure nightmares of that day every time his eyes close - of the glint of your knife, the soulless stare of your eyes. the swelling bruise on your cheek - in the shape of his own fist.

there is a thin scar, a puckered pink line of fresh skin across the apple of his throat the next time he sees you.

it's an accident; he walks past just as a maid leaves your chambers, and he naturally glances over. your eyes meet him, hair wet and fresh from bathing; wide as a sweet doe, pain and regret laced through your gaze. "jace."

his throat is tight when he hears your voice - gentle, laced with remorse. jace, you'd called him. he hides the tears in his eyes when he continues briskly past your chambers. he thinks about you ceaselessly the rest of the day.

he's told you do not sleep. you eat only when it becomes impossible not to, you cannot make meaningful eye contact nor hold steady conversations without breaking down in guilt. it eats away at him.

but as you begin to show signs of improvement, jacaerys is finally allowed to visit.

they're brief, supervised; he brings paintings, books, and anything they believe could help stimulate your memory of life before your change. he tries to ignore the sting of pain when you barely meet his gaze, voice stuttering, hands shaking.

you’re still not you; flickering eyes, quiet voice. but soon, after moons of quiet conversation, stunted by the armored guards standing between you and observing your every move, it changes.

little by little, he sees glimpses of you again. you laugh like you used to. you recount stories of your shared youth - with a grin, you remember the day he'd fallen from an apple tree trying to pick you a fruit, and you'd had to snap his arm into correct place.

you brush flecks of dust and lint from his shoulder with shy looks, you share the books you’ve been reading; one day, you ask him to braid your hair - a task you'd taught him in youth. you fall asleep when he's halfway through.

and yes, there are bad days - days where your grief and guilt eat your stomach and you refuse to even look him in the eye; when you sob into your hands and curl yourself on the chaise longue and jace is stuck, heartbroken, watching you push him away.

you do not forgive yourself, you will not let him forgive you - but you soon let him hold you, and you soon begin to hold him back with a desperate grip.

it takes a while for jace to accept help.

but soon, he undergoes his own healing process; he knows he must reconcile the grief of losing you with the joy of having you back, albeit changed.

eventually, he speaks openly with you about the death of lucerys and about your own assumed death as well. you stroke his hair when he cries into your chest, you kiss his nose and cheeks to rid the tracks of tears.

during quieter moments, you find solace in each other's presence. you walk together in the gardens, hand in hand, your steps in sync as you talk about the future; you sit by the hearth in the evenings, your heads close as you share whispered conversations and stolen glances.

you broach the subject one stormy day, your beautiful hair loose and whipping around your head.

he watches your mind churn behind those eyes, the ones that have regained their expressive nature - the eyes he's loved since before he knew such a word.

"i would have killed you." it's a whisper into the wind. "and yet, you saved my life."

your voice is not grateful - to his horror, it is pained - as if you believe such repentance could only be achieved through greeting the stranger.

he shakes his head, "it was not you who did it." but you've heard it countless times, and you still find it hard to accept - guilt swims in your beautiful eyes.

"i love you." he whispers it.

tears drop from your eyes as you look at him. "why?"

eventually, the fog clears fully.

you remember the details of your manipulation, the torture, the indoctrinating, the conditioning. you confess it all to queen rhaenyra and the dragonstone court - voice shaking and body bent with shame, you apologize for your weakness. jace has to look away when you begin to cry, when you beg for forgiveness, for another chance.

it is given without hesitance.

one evening, you sit by the fire with him.

something upon him catches your eye; with a tentative reach, your fingers brush his chest. jace looks down, breath catching as he realizes what you've found; gently, you pull the necklace from his tunic - a ring upon it, untarnished. your smile is sad, sorrowful - "you kept it," you whisper.

he can only nod, eyes never leaving yours. "i never took it off."

it is that night you tell him about a dream you had; you were both young again, carefree and in love. his eyes glisten with unshed tears just as yours do, and he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "we'll get there," he promises, his voice unwavering. you both believe it.

you come back to him in ways he doesn't expect.

longing glances, eyes holding on his lips when he speaks to you - short teases that release your sharp tongue and quick wit. you are given some old duties back. kept to the castle, you mostly held draw efforts from within, but he can see the fire in your eyes return as the guilt subsides.

when the word usurper is accidentally used in conversation, eyes still flicker to you. there will remain wariness - conscious or not - for the rest of your days. but you prove yourself loyal and trustworthy, and you soon begin to forgive yourself.

nights you spend in jace's arms, fingers brushing against the scar you'd given him. tears are replaced with soft kisses upon lips, and eventually upon flushed, sweat-laced skin.

he is terrified each time you ride into battle - even when he and vermax are alongside you.

perhaps it is a weakness - to worry so, during a war; he cannot help it. but to his relief, you always come out unscathed, as does he - and you always slide off the wing of your dragon and pull him to you, murmuring into his neck, soothing over his back with your palm once you return.

you love him, and you tell him as much any chance you get. you begin to stop wincing when he tells you he loves you, too.

you still wake sometimes with a hoarse throat, but now you are soothed back to sleep when jace, bleary eyed and heart pounding, crawls into your bed alongside you. your cries turn into soft puffs of breath as he braids your hair until you fall asleep.

you still sometimes flinch when someone raises a hand, jace sometimes watches with wariness when he sees you wielding a knife.

but eventually the war ends.

you and jace marry.

a traditional, valyrian one; dragonglass sliced into lips, palms. a kiss that tastes of metal, of loyalty, of love. you whisper the words to each other, no echo of ghosts nor fear in your minds.

one flesh, one heart, one soul. now and forever.

you become prince and princess of dragonstone, first in line for the succession to the iron throne.

you show to be just rulers; fair and kind, strong willed and bright. ceaselessly, fiercely in love.

your firstborn son is named lucerys.

he has jace's eyes and your hair. you sing him the song jace remembers you humming those days after you came back to them - and when the queen visits to give her congratulations and to meet her grandbabe, the heir to the heir, she calls you daughter.

the scar upon his neck fades away, until you can scarcely trace it with your finger as he pulls you to him in the late hours of eve, wrapped in furs and the soft flicker of candlelight.

you do not hear the word usurper again.

requests open, or talk to me <3 taglist/mutuals; @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @softspiderling @dipperscavern

#requests #jace thoughts ༊*·˚#jace x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys x reader #jace smut #prince jacaerys #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #jacaerys fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jace fanfic #jace imagine

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butchfairyzine · 9 months

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Butch Fairy Zine: Answering questions

What art style are we looking for? What is the estimated timeline? Will you get paid? we answer them here!

We will be answering more questions and posting them in the days leading up to the artist application form opening. So if you have questions, use our inbox, or you can fill in our interest form and leave them at the bottom. And if you have queries for the frog, you can leave them there too. He is very busy, so keep that in mind.

Find the interest form here.

Our Artist Application form will open on the 12th of January 2024.

text version under the cut

What type of artists are you looking for? And are you after a specific style or a range of styles?

We are looking for artists who can create pieces with fully rendered fairies and a background within the specified schedule. These can be digital artworks that are flat colour artworks, paintings, a mixture, or another style entirely.

We will also accept mixed media and traditional artworks, but they will need to be scanned at a minimum of 300dpi.

When you sign up for an artist position, are there any requirements to be a part of the team?

E-mail communication is required (discord is optional).

You must have a PayPal account to receive payment.

You must be able to communicate comfortably in English.

You must be 18 or older at the time of signing the contract by the 16th of February.

For artists accepted into the zine what would be the timeline for completing and submitting artwork?

Our current schedule for the artists requires concept ideas to be submitted by Feb 16th, and the final version by May 16th! Progress check-ins will be on Feb 29th, March 21st, and April 11th.

(In the image there is also a table including this information as well as the final submissions date being May 16th)

When the zine is for sale, where would the profits go to (charity, zine admin, etc.)?

We are aiming to hold pre-orders in June/July of 2024, with a flat fee paid to all contributors and additional proceeds split between contributors and mods.

Our priority is to make sure each contributor is paid fairly for their work. If sales do well enough, 20% will be used for future books and projects, and 80% split between taxes and fees, production costs, contributors and shipping costs.

Is this physical or digital and will there be prints of the art available? Got any merch ideas planned to go along with the zine?

Both physical and digital! Our goal is to make a 210 x 148 mm (A5) perfect-bound soft cover book.

We also plan to add some paper merch, including prints of some of the art from the book. Additional merch ideas include stickers, sticker sheets and bookmarks.

#art zine #butch fairy zine #fairy zine #art jobs #faq #answering questions with the frog

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astrocafecoffee · 4 months

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Groom Persona chart Observation ✨

✨ For entertainment purposes only, enjoy ✨

~~~~~~~~~~~~~✨✨~~~~~~~~~~~~~

💖 1st house stellium in GPC means your fs maybe someone who is noticeable and stands out in social situations.

💖 5th house stellium in GPC means your fs could be an artist, musician, writer.

💖 7th house stellium in GPC means your fs could be attractive and socially adept, drawing others to them with their magnetic personality and charisma.

💖 Union (1585) in 1st house meaning meeting your fs while attending social events, gatherings, or parties where you can connect with new people/ professional connection/ shared interest.

💖 Union in 3rd house means you can meet your fs during short journeys or travels close to home.

💖 Union in 8th house means you may meet your fs in context where there is a shared investment and mutual dependency, such as through work, joint projects or shared social circles.

💖 Juno in Capricorn means your fs is known for their ambitious and goal oriented nature. They may be highly driven and motivated to achieve success in thier career, personal goals and relationships./ Could be famous too .

💖 Juno in Sagittarius means they can be a foreigner, philosophical and open minded.

💖 Juno in Taurus means your fs may prioritise creating a stable and secure home environment and may value financial stability within the relationship.

💖 Juno in leo means your fs may be confident, outgoing and enjoy being the center of the attention in social settings., Creative, generous, romantic.

💖 sun in 11th house means your fs is likely to possess a charismatic and Magnetic personality within their social circles ,may value friendship highly and their social network may play a significant role in shaping their identity and opportunities.

💖 Sun in 12th house means your fs may be introspective and contemplative with a rich inner world that is not always readily apparent to others.

💖 sun in 6th house means your fs may prefer predictable schedules and organized workflows that allows them to efficiently manage their time and responsibilities., Possess strong problem solving skills and an analytical mindset.

💖 Juno / groom/ Venus in Sagittarius or 21°/9° or in Aquarius or in 9th /12th house means a Foreign spouse.

💖 Venus in 5th - creativity, music/ art , your fs may have a strong desire for children or a nurturing instinct towards family life.

💖 Venus in 10th house - ambitious, successful, well liked , respected spouse.

💖 Fama in 1st / 7th house - could be famous spouse.

💖 POF in 4th house - fs may have a deep connection to their cultural background or family traditions., May have interest in real estate or property related work.

💖 leo rising means your fs may have a strong desire for recognition and appreciation.may carry themselves with Grace and poise projecting on air of authority and nobility.

💖 Virgo rising -Fs may be modest and humble , health conscious, possess a discerning eye and critical mind.

💖 Scorpio rising - fs may have mysterious allure and a penetrating gaze that leaves a lasting impression on those the encounter, have a rich inner world with complex emotions that run Deep.

💖 industria(389) in 3rd house - your fs career-

musicians, blogger, public relations, possess creative ideas, small business owner.

💖 industria in Libra - your fs career may be something with public relations or marketing, art or design, legal advocacy, or event planning.

💖 industria in Aquarius - you fs may be in technology or IT specialist, social activism , scientist or researcher, humanitarian work or international development.

💖 industria in Pisces - creative arts , healing arts , oceanography or marine conservation, healing arts , charity work.

💖 Industria in Aries - entrepreneur, may thrive in leadership roles , sales , marketing, or sports management.

💖 industria in Taurus - financial sector, buisness ownership, agriculture, horticulture, real estate, painting, sculpting or in music composition.

💖 industria in cancer -

Hospitality, home based business, psychotherapist, food blogger, art therapy.

💖 industria in gemini - social media influencer, journalist, writer, teaching profession, tour guide , hotel manager.

💖 industria in Scorpio -

- psychology and counseling, detectives, private investigator, forensic scientist ,holistic/ energy healer.

💖 Industria in Virgo - doctor, nurse , scientist, data analyst, , office manager, project coordinator, teachers, or instructors.

💖 industria in leo - actors , musicians, artist, brand ambassador, publicist, marketing manager.

💖 industria in Sagittarius - professors , researchers, journalist, media, philanthropy or in social justice advocacy.

💖 industria in Capricorn -

Buisness and management, politician, policy advisors , civil servants, lawyers, engineering, architect, judges.

💖 Northnode in 7th house suggests that your relationship with your fs may have karmic significance., Soulmate placement.

💖 Northnode in 3rd house means your fs may play a significant role in facilitating your growth and development in the areas of communication, intellect and learning.

💖 Karma conjunct ascendent/ descendant - karmic relationship.

💖 your fs may share similar placement like your groom pc. Example - if your sun in Aries in GPC, they could have sun in their 1st house or at 1°,13° or 25°.

💖 Groom conjunct vertex - fated/ predestined encounter with fs. They may have a profound impact on your life and personal growth. they may serve as a catalyst for important experiences, growth opportunities and transfermetive changes is in your life .your relationship with them maybe characterised by depth, intensity and sense of spiritual or emotional connection.

💖 Groom conjunct Venus -

The conjunction of groom and Venus indicates are strong attraction between you and your fs. there may be a magnetic pull or chemistry that draws you together, fueling feelings of romance ,passion and desire. your FS may possess qualities that you find irresistibly attractive both physically and emotionally.

💖 your fs may be drawn to individuals who embody the qualities associated with the seventh House lord for example-

* if the 7th house lord is sun then your fs may be attracted to individuals who support their ambitions, encourage their creativity and contribute positively to their self expression. they may be drawn to partners who are confident, self assured and have a strong sense of individuality.

* if 7th house lord is moon - your fs desires a partner who can meet there emotional needs and provide a sense of comfort and belonging. they are drawn to individuals who are empathetic, nurturing and emotionally supportive. emotional intimacy is a priority for them in the relationship.

* if the 7th house lord is Venus -

Your FS values relationships highly and seeks harmonious and loving partnership. they may prioritise finding a romantic partner who complements their own sense of beauty and aesthetics. partnership is Central to their sense of fulfillment and happiness.

* if the 7th house lord is mercury - your fs places a high value on mental simulation and intellectual compatibility in the relationships. they seek a partner who can engage them in stimulating conversations and share their interest and ideas.

*if the 7th house lord is mars - your fs may seek a partner who can match their level of energy and enthusiasm and they may be drawn to firey and spirited individuals. they thrive on excitement and adventure in their relationships.

* if the 7th house lord is saturn - your fs value tradition and stability in relationships. they may have traditional views on marriage and may seek partners who share their values and commitment to building a secured and enduring Union.

* if the 7th house lord is Jupiter - your fs seeks meaningful and enriching connections in their relationships. they may be drawn to partners who share their values and aspirations who can inspired them to expand their horizons and pursue their goals with confidence.

~~~~~~~~~~~✨✨~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading ~💫

-piko💖

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seiwas · 6 months

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₊˚⊹｡ don't let go, okay? | gojo satoru

wc: 2.1k

summary: it has to be some sort of fate that you happen to be stuck with gojo on valentine's day.

contains: f!reader, slowburn, fluff, reader and gojo are 21, reader and gojo are ‘guardians’ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentine’s chocolate tradition, reader’s cursed technique (vaguely), kind of pining

a/n: in the 'conversations on love' universe but takes place before the main series (would be nice to read but not necessary to understand this). theme song for this is what love is by zimmer90.

part of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within 'conversations on love'. also included in how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)

The night is crisp when you step into it, the clean cut of a cool breeze tickling your cheek; it sweeps past you in the edge of winter and spring.

You walk along the street.

A sort of faded, vintage hue paints Shimokitazawa, wooden boards with worn down signages holding names of antique shops in every corner. The night feels older here, retro lights tinging bars and pubs more maturely than those nearby in Shibuya. At the street across, the sign of a cafe is flipped the other way to formally open the speakeasy it transforms into.

You’ve only been here twice before: once with Nanami and Utahime years ago, while searching for old vinyl records the three of you had gotten into, and another with Tsumiki, some time last month because she’d mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops.

Who would have thought you’d be back so soon? With—

“Satoru,” you call out, half-giggling, “why are you sniffing?”

Gojo trails just a few inches behind you, body bent over closely to catch a whiff but not near enough to touch. Each inhale he takes is punctuated with the sound of whizzing air, condensing to fit through his nostrils.

“You smell like chocolate.”

Out of all the plans you’d anticipated on Valentine’s Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them.

You shake your head knowingly, the corners of your lips curling; Gojo can smell sweets miles away, you could honestly mistake it for his cursed technique.

He pulls back, falling into step with you.

“Tsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.”

Heavy jazz floats through the air as you pass by a bar entrance, the music muffling as the doors fall shut a few seconds later. Your boots clack against the pavement.

“Oh?” Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, “What kind?”

You snort as you dig your hands further into your pockets. For someone who claims to be all-seeing and all-knowing, Gojo is a lot more inquisitive than he seems; his nonchalance is but an added security much like his infinity is, dissipating only in company he’s comfortable sharing that side of him with.

It’s been a while since Gojo’s been ‘home’ in the past week, so you don’t blame him for wondering.

“Tomo mostly,” your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, “though I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasn’t looking.”

There’s a slight stagger to his step as his shoulders tense up, his sunglasses shifting higher as his ears push back. You bite down your laugh.

For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojo’s grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of them—to Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely.

‘Home’, which is where the kids stay, but it’s neither yours nor his—just a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. You’re with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, there’s hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you haven’t seen much of him either, besides the rare instances of bumping into him along the halls of Jujutsu Tech, a whine almost always drawn from his throat.

You see his curiosity as an effort to check in.

He only hums, hollower than his usual responses. The sound of his footsteps fill the gaps of what would typically be a seamless back-and-forth with you; you try not to comment on it.

Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojo’s silence feels unsettling—as if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you can’t quite get a read on just yet.

So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around when—

“Did you?”

The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night.

Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?

“Hm?” you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better.

He doesn’t answer.

You stop walking.

“Did I what?” you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.

(“Did you make honmei chocolate?” he means.)

Still, no answer.

The tips of Gojo’s ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.

His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing.

“Wanna see something cool?” he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didn’t ask you anything, as if you didn’t ask what he meant—as if you didn’t just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare.

The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But you’ve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means.

You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldly—a crazed look you’ve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him.

There’s really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the mission’s location—an abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighbourhood’s nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere more quieter, more secluded.

Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you can’t quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought.

“C’mon, it’ll be quick.” he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, “I’ve finally perfected it.”

A beat—skipped before your heart races.

You wonder if he knows, if he’s using this to his advantage, because—

—when have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way?

The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely ‘to assist’, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. It’s more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum.

They shouldn’t have called on you, of all people—you’re on Gojo’s side. Always.

A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.

“Fine.”

He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. It’s a clear road ahead of you, the streets emptying out to more greenery; your senses are filled with the smell of the earth mixed in with the faint cotton of Gojo’s cologne.

This is bad for your feelings.

(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.)

There’s something brewing between you and Gojo, neither of you have just addressed it yet. He pulls away when the moment is too close but still looks for you first after missions, an almost automatic question to either Shoko or Ijichi about your whereabouts.

You’ve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns away—a reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold.

When the space is vacant enough, he steps a few inches to your right, left hand stuffed inside his pocket as he shakes his arm hesitantly, almost awkwardly.

“You have to hold on to me,” he instructs you.

Your eyes widen, equally surprised and shy as you slowly take your hand out of your coat and slip it into the empty space, resting it on the crook of his elbow. Gojo freezes very slightly.

He shakes it off just as quickly, “You might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.”

Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than you’re both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day.

Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin.

“Don’t let go, okay?”

Another beat—followed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder.

You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek.

“Okay,” your fingers curl around his arm tighter.

He lifts his other hand up, crossing his fingers as he recites the mantra to his domain. In an instant, the greenery around you disappears, stark white taking its place.

“What do you think?” Gojo asks almost immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. Your fingers stay curled onto the crook of his elbow, sandwiched between his forearm and bicep; his other hand rests a few centimeters away from yours, nearly touching.

You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheet—

“It’s…” you try to find the right words, “... empty?”

He gasps exaggeratedly, “Hey!” then pouts in fake offense, “I made it porcelain white at least. This isn’t pure white you know.”

You eye him from the side.

He chuckles, breaking his act, “You should be honored.”

A pause—his tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable.

“You’re the first person I’m bringing in here.”

His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too.

You’re touched, knowing how secretive he’s been on perfecting his domain since Toji and Geto; he only ever tells you and Ijichi about it. No one ever pressured him into achieving his perfect domain, but he feels like his existence necessitates it.

“It’s clean,” you finally say, playing along, “I like it.”

He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile.

“Shame I can’t really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.”

You snort, knowing full well that Gojo’s very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire place’s aesthetic off of that.

“Someday.” you catch his eyes again.

(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeat—pink noise that can’t possibly be a product of your technique.

In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.)

He hums before looking back to the empty space, “Acoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.”

You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined it—if he had meant it or not.

The special grade is dealt with within a quarter of the time it took you to travel to here, but Gojo seems to bear the consequences with another one of his migraines—a mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawa’s night life as you exit the neighborhood.

You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he uses—an imbued blindfold maybe? You’ll have to think about it some more.

(When you both get ‘home’, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. It’s a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of it—a fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter.

The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.

You don’t end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. It’s a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichi—a tradition you’ve kept up since you were 16.

But, his box has an extra piece, and you even tailored each one to all his favorite flavors: sakura, strawberry, zunda, and anko; his card is the same one you left half-written, just now fully spelling ‘Satoru’.

So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and he’s realizing that he likes it that way—he might prefer it much more, actually.)

a/n: haven't written col in a while but this is the official launch of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within the 'conversations of love' universe! there are lots of details that connect to some of the col works but this happens before all of the ones released so far (so you don't need to read the main series to understand this, but it would add to the full experience if you do!).

thank you notes: @augustinewrites love u my valentine, this fic wouldn't exist without you 🥹 + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read 🥹 ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

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linopls · 1 year

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kinktober day five

first time jeongin x fem!reader summary: spending the night in your childhood bedroom with one of your members didn't go as you expected it. warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, mentions of underage drinking, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v 3.1k words (whoops)

they are both adults (18) here!

“you smell like a red, white, and berry smirnoff.”

jeongin giggles, “your childhood bedroom is cute.”

you never thought any of the stray kids members would visit your childhood home in the states until the boys suggested you come back home for your senior prom. you had committed to finishing your senior year online while still being a member of stray kids knowing that you would miss many of your senior traditions. but the boys could not let go of the idea of you missing your senior prom.

your defensive argument is you had no reason to go as you didn’t have a date, all the boys jumped on the opportunity to take you. chan, minho, and changbin were all too old, according to the permission slip. seungmin and jisung were too worried about not knowing enough english, and hyunjin and felix had both planned trips with their families during this time of break.

this left jeongin, who didn’t care if he didn’t know enough english.

“isn’t prom just dancing anyways?” jeongin asked you a month before the dance, both of you sitting in the JYPE cafe snacking between practices.

“it is,” you reply, taking a fork full of your salad. “but i’ll want you to meet and get to know all my friends.”

“then you can translate for me, think of it as korean practice!”

“pfft, i don’t need more korean practice, you can think of it as english practice.”

jeongin rolls his eyes at you while stuffing his face full of pizza. “i’m going with you to this out of the kindness of my heart, don’t be mean,” he says with his mouth full.

“you are literally the only one able to go.”

about two weeks before the dance, stray kids was finishing promotions for their comeback and you were walking back to the dressing room.

“wait here,” chan says, stopping you outside the door. confusion paints your face as chan stands in front of the door handle, blocking you from entering. you both sit in silence for a minute when there’s a small knock on the door. chan opens the door without saying anything.

you’re greeted with balloons and streamers. on your left hyunjin is holding out a small cake, on your right, felix, minho, seungmin, and changbin, jisung are holding signs that spell out “PROM?”, and in the middle of jeongin is holding a sign that reads ‘I have a QUESTION and I hope there’s no AWKWARD SILENCE but…”

you gasp, hands covering your mouth, and tears form in the corners of your eyes. you never had been asked to a school dance, and never thought you would be. but here’s jeongin, recruiting the help of all the members, to ask you with a cheesy sign.

“my prom research told me that boys usually ask their partners to prom with a sign,” jeongin says walking towards you. “so what do you say?”

you nod, afraid that if you speak you’ll start to cry. you run to hug jeongin and he drops the sign and envelopes you in a warm hug.

“i can’t believe my parents haven’t touched it since i left.”

“it still fits your personality, cute and bubbly.”

jeongin squeezes himself between you and the wall on your twin size bed. he pulls up the pink, polka dot covers over the two of you and cuddles up next to you.

“how much did you drink?” you ask.

“only one,” he says. “we can’t legally drink here.”

you laugh. “and that stopped none of us.”

your friends had encouraged you to host an after party at your house, since your parents were out of state. you and jeongin drink often in korea, being 18 and 19 accordingly. so he found it funny that none of the party goers could legally purchase alcohol but brought a ton of it to the party. both of you only drank one or two beverages, being the hosts of the party you both wanted to remain sober enough. and red, white, and berry smirnoffs being the drink of choice, jeongin claimed it would make him feel more american.

you both lay there in silence, scrolling through socials and updating the boys on how the dance was.

“oh my god,” you sigh.

“what?” jeongin says, trying to catch a peak of whatever you’re looking at on your phone.

“my friend abby, you know the one in the red dress you meant, just texted us that she’s getting laid tonight.”

“what?” jeongin exclaimed, “she seemed so sweet and innocent.”

“she is!” you laugh. “we all had placed bets on when we’d lose our virginities in, like, middle school, they all said i would be first. but now i guess i’m last.”

“its not a race,” jeongin says.

“i know, i know.” you pout. “but i’m sick of all the boys teasing me for it all the time!”

“they tease me about it too!” he says, sitting up on one of his elbows, turning to face you.

being the youngest two members meant you and jeongin got teased about not doing ‘adult things’ a lot. like neither of you were able to drive, neither ever bought a lottery ticket, or neither had ever had sex.

“what if we did it?”

“what?” you’re in shock, you feel like you can’t move. you had never thought about jeongin like that. you both had agreed that going to prom together was completely platonic, even though he made the sign, you wore matching colors, and you guys exchanged corsages and boutonnieres.

“i’m just thinking like, if we did it, neither of us would be virgins and they would stop teasing us for it.”

jeongin notices your shocked impression and quickly begins to apologize.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it like that, i was just saying that-”

“they would tease us for doing it with each other,” you say, turning your phone off and placing it on your nightstand.

you look over at jeongin and now he looks confused. “although,” you wonder aloud. “we wouldn’t have to tell them, we could just say we aren’t next time they bring it up. lie about who we did it with.”

“how?” jeongin asks.

“i dunno, say i reconnected with someone back here, and then you could say you met someone at the company and it was a fling.”

“they wouldn’t believe that, i don't have the ability to flirt with people like that,” jeongin laughs awkwardly.

the air feels tense. you and jeongin are sat in silence, both staring at each other looking for some sort of answer. jeongin scoots closer to you. you again can smell the smirnoff on his breath. he slowly reaches one of his hands up and places it on your cheek, gently caressing your soft cheek.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, almost at a whisper.

“yeah,” you whisper back.

his lips met yours and it feels like fireworks are going off in your brain. his lips are so soft and move perfectly in sync with yours. he moves his hand from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss. you move one of your hands up his torso, stopping at where his chest and neck met, you can feel the warmth of his skin on your hand and it feels like you both should’ve done this a long time ago.

he slowly assists you onto your back and he lays on top of you, his legs slotted between yours. he keeps one hand on the back of your hand and uses the other to grip onto your thigh and pull it up to wrap around his middle. his gentle ministrations send butterflies down to your core and you mindlessly move both of your hands to his hips and pull his body closer to yours.

you both uncontrollably moan at the sensation of your clothed centers coming in contact with each other. the kiss becomes more messy as jeongin slips his warm tongue into your mouth and you both unconsciously grind onto each other.

jeongin is the first to pull away, a line of spit still connecting your mouths, and both of you out of breath. “jesus y/n,” he said breathlessly.

you giggle as you pull his hips closer to you once again. jeongin smashes his lips onto yours, more hungrily this time. he continues to grind his hips into your clothed core, the sensation driving you wild. he begins to kiss down your jaw and neck stopping at the collar of your shirt.

“can i take this off?” he whispers against your skin and his hand moves from your thigh to the hem of your shirt.

you nod and jeongin slowly starts to lift your shirt up your body, you sit up slightly so that he can fully lift it over your head.

“wow.”

“what?”

“you’re beautiful,” jeongin says as he leans back down to kiss at your now exposed chest. as he kisses down between your breasts and down your stomach you interlock your fingers with his dark, slightly wet hair. when he kisses the spot right above the waistband of your pants he looks back up at you.

“do you want me to…” he trails off.

“if you want to,” you reply, barely a whisper.

“yeah,” he says unsurely. “i don’t know how to.”

you laugh and he places his forehead on your stomach in embarrassment. “y/n don’t laugh at me.”

“i’m not laughing at you. you’re just cute.”

he looks back up at you. “are you kidding me?”

“i’ll tell you what to do, okay?” you reassure him.

you reach for his hands and put them at the waistband of your pajama pants. you assist him in pulling down your pants and panties in one swift motion. the feeling of the cool air in the bedroom on your core sends shivers down your spine. the whole scene hits you now and you realize what you’re about to do with your bandmate. you close your legs in embarrassment and jeongin looks up at you.

“hey, are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks, holding your hand in his.

you nod slowly. “i’m just nervous, i guess. never done this before.”

“it’s okay, it's me, your best friend in the whole world, i’ll never think of you differently,” he says, squeezing your hand gently.

“you promise?”

“yeah, i do.” he smiles at you, the cute smile you love to see plastered on his face. where his dimples come out and his cheeks are round and you just want to grab him and kiss him all over his face. “so please, open your legs for me.”

you could never dream about your innocent jeongin saying those words to you, his words send a wave of arousal to your core. you very slowly part your legs for him and he stares at your core in awe.

“wow, y/n, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“please,” you whisper, begging for him to touch where you need him most.

“tell me if i’m doing anything wrong, m’kay?” he says, moving his face closer to your core.

he sticks his tongue out and gently swipes it across your clit. the feeling is sent through your whole body and you whimper out in response. jeongin takes that as a ‘go ahead’ and presses his tongue flat against your sensitive bud.

“m-more, please,” you whine, lacing your fingers into his hair again.

jeongin giggles and starts to flick his tongue back and forth on your clit. he lays one of his arms across your stomach to support himself and uses his other hand to part your lips for him. he moves off your clit and gently runs his tongue over your sopping wet hole. you moan in response loudly before slapping one of your hands over your mouth.

jeongin looks up at you. “shh, you don’t want to wake your friends, do you?” he teases.

your mind had been so overwhelmed with the idea of having sex with jeongin that you forgot that all your friends were still in your house from the party. next door was your brother's room in which your brother and two of his friends were sleeping in.

you shake your head but keep your hand over your mouth and jeongin gets back to work. he teasingly pokes his tongue in and out of your hole and you moan out in pleasure again, this time it's muffled by your hand. jeongin moves his tongue back up to your clit and swirls the sensitive muscle in small circles. you tug at his hair with the hand you still have in his soft, black locks. jeongin groans in response and the sound sends shivers down your spine.

“m-more please,” you whine. “your-your fingers.”

jeongin quickly listens to your pleas and slides his index finger into your entrance. you whimper in response and without realizing it, you’re grinding down onto his mouth and fingers. jeongin begins to work his tongue and fingers swiftly at your core, flicking small circles on your clit and slowly fucking your hole with his finger. before long, he adds a second finger and curls them both until he finds the spot that has your back arching off the bed.

he begins working more vigorously, wanting nothing more than for you to finish on his fingers and tongue. he begins to rotate from gentle flicks at your clit to sucking on the bud gently. he adds a third finger and you begin to feel the knot form in your stomach. you’ve never felt like this before, only ever finishing by yourself, the feeling of someone else being in control of it has you seeing stars. as jeongin goes back to swirling small circles on your clit, you feel yourself leaking onto your bedsheets and that your orgasm is going to spill over.

“i’m gonna cum, jeongin please, please,” you whine at a whisper. jeongin doesn’t break his pace and soon you’re biting down on your hand, your eyes rolls back into your head, and you're pulling at jeongin’s hair like your life depends on it. he continues to work you through your orgasm, the sounds of your squelching cunt make jeongin moan.

“jeongin, jeongin,” you exclaim and you push his head away from your core just as he starts to overstimulate you.

he looks up and you see your arousal shine all over his face. he pulls his fingers from your hole and sticks them in his mouth, making a show of swirling his tongue around them to clean them off. he starts to crawl back up to be face to face with you and you find your hands moving to the waistband of his pajama pants and slowly starting to pull them down.

“y/n do you have a condom?” jeongin asks before you can free him completely.

“no,” you answer.

“then we don’t have to it’s-”

“its okay, i’m on the pill.”

“what?” jeongin looks dumbfounded, like you just asked him to hand over his firstborn child.

“i’m serious, it’s okay, i’m on the pill.”

“are you sure?”

“yes, i am so sure. i’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. jeongin please, i need you.”

jeongin could’ve came on the spot. he quickly pulls his pants down and throws them off the bed. you look down to his red and leaking member, begging to be touched.

“holy shit.”

“what?” jeongin exclaims, worry painting his face.

“you’re huge,” you say before you can filter yourself.

jeongin laughs. “i am not.”

“you are not going to fit,” you laugh, grabbing his hips to pull closer to yours.

his solid cock brushes your entrance and jeongin lets out a whimper-like noise. you gently grab his cock with one of your hands to guide him to your begging core. he’s staring at you, eyes wide, looks like tears could boil over at any second. the feeling of his tip at your hole makes both of you moan.

“jeongin, please fuck me.”

“jesus, y/n,” jeongin moans.

jeongin grabs the base of his cock and slowly pushes it inside of you. you grab at his shoulders, the stretch stinging in a pleasurable manner. you’re both staring at each other, eyes widening as he slowly pushes himself inside you. when he bottoms out, you’re both breathing heavy at the new sensation.

“you can move now,” you whisper after you have gotten used to the feeling.

“if i move, i’ll cum,” jeongin mumbles. you laugh, and jeongin moans.

“y/n don’t fucking laugh, it squeezes me,” jeongin whines.

you chuckle and grab jeongin’s hand. you guide him down to your clit, where he quickly understands and begins to rub small circles on it. you moan loudly, not caring about who hears you anymore. the feeling of jeongin playing with your clit and being so full as you seeing stars.

“jeongin, i need you to move please,” you whine.

he takes a deep breath and slowly slides himself in and out of your wet cunt, not stopping his ministrations on your bundle of nerves. the pleasure is overwhelming, you cover your mouth with your hand again and mumble for him to move faster. he begins to move faster and you can feel the knot forming again.

“fuck,” he moans softly. “you feel so good.”

you whimper in response. “jeongin, i’m gonna cum.”

“fuck,” he moans again, beginning to thrust faster. with each thrust you can feed the head of his cock hit your spot and your eyes roll back into your head. you dig your nails that are still on his shoulder into his skin. tears are beginning to form in your eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

“w-will you cum with me?” jeongin says, tears in his eyes and sweat dripping down his face.

you nod quickly and jeongin buries his face in your neck. you feel is cock twitch a couple times before he paints your walls with his release. you’re quick to follow and soon you’re both a moaning and weeping mess. both uncontrollably thrusting your hips into each other as you finish, leaking all over your bed sheets.

you both lay in silence for a minute, calming yourselves down and slowing your breathing. you’re gently running your fingers through his hair and his rubbing circles into your hips with his thumbs. you’re the first to break the silence.

“are you okay?”

“i’m great, are you?”

“mhm, feel great.”

“yeah.”

“are you still hard?” you ask, realizing he hadn’t pulled out of you yet.

“maybe,” he chuckles. “wanna go again?”

i got way too carried away with this one hehe

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lauraneedstochill · 1 year

Text

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

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solxamber · 3 days

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Knights and Oaths - Leona Kingscholar x reader

You come from a long line of knights that have served the rulers of the Savannah. But sometimes traditions are meant to change and the second prince is looking like someone worth changing them for.

The sun hangs low in the sky, painting the Savannah in golden hues as you approach the ceremonial grounds. It’s been years leading up to this moment—years of training, discipline, and growing up side by side with royalty. Your mother serves Falena’s wife, and your father serves the king himself. By all accounts, it’s expected that you’ll follow suit and dedicate your knightly oath to Cheka, the five-year-old prince. That’s just how it’s always been—loyalty passed down through the generations, swearing fealty to the rightful heirs of the Sunset Savannah.

But you’ve never been one for following expectations.

Not when you’ve spent your childhood in the shadow of two princes, one of them your closest companion and sometimes, greatest annoyance. Leona Kingscholar—second prince of the Sunset Savannah, the man who always seemed just a step away from what he could have been. Too lazy to reach it. Too proud to admit it.

When you were kids, Leona’s idea of "training" usually involved you chasing him around, trying to get him to spar when he’d much rather nap beneath the acacia trees. "What’s the point?" he’d grumble, arms folded behind his head, the sun casting dappled shadows across his face. "No matter how hard I try, Falena's the one everyone cares about."

Yet somehow, despite his best efforts to seem indifferent, you always found yourself drawn into his orbit. There was something about Leona that you couldn’t ignore—a pull, a desire to prove himself despite his constant veneer of nonchalance. You saw him in a way others didn’t. And maybe, somewhere along the way, he saw you too.

That’s why today feels different. Your whole life, everyone assumed your path was already written. You’d swear your oath to Cheka, Falena’s son, just as your parents had sworn theirs to Falena and his wife. It was expected, anticipated. But they didn’t know the whole story. They didn’t know about you and Leona, the time spent laughing, bickering, and—more often than not—arguing over ridiculous things like who could run faster or who could climb the tallest tree.

Now here you are, stepping into the hunting grounds, your sword at your side, ready to make your choice.

The hunt is a time-honored tradition. Whoever brings back the most impressive game gets to make their dedication. You can almost hear the whispers as you prepare—"Cheka’s knight," they call you. It’s been assumed for years. But they don’t know what’s coming.

The ceremony itself is simple enough. Each knight pledges their loyalty by dedicating their game to the person they swear to serve. It’s a public declaration of fealty, one made before the entire royal court. But there’s more at stake than just loyalty. The knight who brings back the most impressive game is awarded a golden rose—a symbol of something far deeper than duty.

Love.

Hours later, when you emerge from the hunt with the largest bear the kingdom has seen in years, all eyes are on you. The whispers grow louder, anticipation thick in the air. Everyone knows you’ve won the rose, and with it, the right to swear your loyalty. They’re expecting you to kneel before Cheka, the adorable five-year-old prince bouncing with excitement. Even Leona’s lounging nearby, watching the whole affair with that bored, half-lidded gaze of his, looking as if he might fall asleep at any moment.

But you? You have different plans.

With the golden rose in hand and your bear presented, you walk right past Cheka—past the gasps of the court, the murmurs of confusion, the stunned faces of your parents. And you kneel before Leona.

Leona’s eyes snap open, and for the first time in ages, he looks genuinely surprised. His eyebrows raise, just the barest fraction. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You grin, because of course he’s trying to play it off like this doesn’t matter. "Swearing my fealty, obviously," you say, loud enough for the court to hear. "I dedicate this hunt and the rose to Prince Leona Kingscholar."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can practically feel the jaws dropping across the Savannah. Even little Cheka’s mouth forms a perfect little "o" of shock.

For the first time all day, Leona stirs, the mask of indifference slipping just enough for you to catch the flicker of something beneath it—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. His eyes meet yours, sharper and more intense than ever, and for a moment, the world falls away.

Leona’s eyes narrow, a mixture of suspicion and amusement flickering across his face. "I thought you’d be on your knees for someone else," he drawls, his lips quirking up at the corners.

You shrug. "Everyone else may have decided my fate, but I make my own choices."

“For you, Leona,” you repeat, your voice steady and loud despite the pounding in your chest. “I dedicate my loyalty to you, and this rose... to the one who has always held my heart.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you, his expression unreadable. It’s Leona, after all. He doesn’t do grand gestures, never needed to. But you notice the way his fingers twitch, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and take the rose immediately. When he finally speaks again, his voice is low, a bit rough around the edges, but there’s an unmistakable thread of satisfaction laced through it.

“You really know how to cause a scene, huh?”

There’s a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and his gaze flicks down to the rose in your hand before meeting your eyes again. “A bear and a rose... For me?”

The teasing tone doesn’t hide the way his chest seems to expand just a little bit, like someone had finally acknowledged him for the first time in years. He reaches out and takes the rose from your hand, his fingers brushing yours in the briefest of touches. It feels electric, like every unspoken word between you is packed into that fleeting moment.

He twirls the rose once between his fingers, his smirk growing. “Guess I should thank you,” he says casually, though there’s a weight to his words, something you’ve rarely heard from him—appreciation. Real and tangible.

Leona stands up slowly, stretching as though this whole event is just another inconvenience, though the pride in his stance is unmistakable. He knows exactly what this means, both for you and for him. No one can dismiss him as just the second prince anymore, not after this. Not when someone like you, bound by honor and tradition, chose him. Over everyone else. Over Cheka. Over the kingdom’s expectations

He leans down, close enough that his breath is warm against your ear as he speaks softly, for you alone to hear. “I never thought you’d choose me. But I can’t say I’m not... pleased.”

Your heart does a strange, fluttering thing in your chest at his words, and you dare to meet his gaze, only to find a look there that you’ve never seen before. Something softer. Something real.

Before you can react, he tugs you in close, his arm settling around your waist in a way that feels both possessive and protective. The world narrows to just the two of you, the warmth of his body radiating through your armor. The smug grin he wears is softened by something deeper in his eyes—something that makes your heart skip a beat.

His hand lingers at your side, thumb brushing lightly against your hip, like he's claiming you just as much as you're dedicating yourself to him.

Before you can respond, he turns, still holding you close, and faces the crowd. The murmurs have turned to outright whispers of shock and disbelief, but Leona seems entirely unbothered by the spectacle you've made. In fact, he revels in it.

“This knight is mine,” he declares, his voice steady, ringing with finality. There’s no hesitation, no doubt—just that lazy confidence and a quiet triumph that says he’s more than pleased with your choice.

And in that moment, you know that, despite everything—his pride, his laziness, his gruff exterior—Leona Kingscholar is proud of you. Proud that you chose him, that you saw him, really saw him, when so many others didn’t. And as his arm tightens around you just a little, you can feel it too: the quiet, unspoken promise of what comes next.

A lifetime bound to the second prince—exactly the way you both want it.

Masterlist

he's so special to me :(((

#Leona x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #twst leona #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar #leona x you

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s3thwrit3sstuff · 2 months

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❝ I could never choose to love another (maybe one day I can learn to love you too). ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | angst, unrequited love, arranged marriage | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 3.7K

warnings: minor mentions of homophobia, emasculation (r! is forced to wear traditionally female garbs due to "tradition"), angst.

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

"You were born bluer than a butterfly, beautiful and so deprived of oxygen. Colder than your father's eyes — he never learned to sympathize with anyone."

"You were born reaching for your mother's hands. Victim of your father's plans to rule the world. Too afraid to step outside, paranoid and petrified of what you've heard."

authors note: (whisper chanting) wedding, wedding, wedding *song on repeat: BLUE by Billie Eilish

Black was the colour of elegance, formality, and misfortune.

It’s resolute. Existing in carefully filtered hues of shadows. The colour swallows up everything. A sharp contrast to everything it’s put besides. Your eyes are naturally drawn to it. Then, like everything in nature, the colour black has its equal.

White was a symbol of good fortune, and innocence.

Just as powerful in the way it both lifts other around it and yet becomes the most striking. A balance in their nature.

They’re unifying colours. Opposites but equal. A dichotomy that humans have found themselves philosophizing over. Yin and Yang, they were two fishes circling each other in the pond; they belonged together just as much as they seemed totally opposite of each other.

You suppose that’s why you’re wearing white for your wedding and Satoru, black. A binding of hands, families, fortune and misfortune.

A tradition of celebrating a union of equals.

A lifelong partnership.

It feels more like a sham to you.

This ceremony was unneeded and unnecessary. You’re sure a simple contract would’ve been more than enough. But, as great clans of sorcerers, traditions were not to be taken lightly and you were marrying into the Gojo Clan of Japan. This elevates you and your family’s social standing — finally being able to suckle at the teats of High Society and their riches without having to strain your necks and stick your tongue like a runt.

You will be Gojo (Y/N), husband to the most powerful sorcerer in your lifetime and you will be grateful and content. You will be taken care of. Never worry about anything because you will be just as untouchable as your other half.

Despite these “truths,” your heart feels so heavy you’re sure it has dropped to your stomach.

Like a frenzy of snakes, your intestines have wrapped themselves around your frantically beating heart; coiling and squeezing because this feeling has not left you the second Lady Gojo had come to discuss what alterations you needed to make for your wedding garbs.

Your breath hitches as your servants carefully tighten the obi around your waist. Your arms are outstretched as the servants busy themselves with tending to you. Those dolls you’ve seen your cousins play dress-up and make-believe with, you’re beginning to pity them. The hands are invasive as they worry about the way the fabric is falling and if there are any wrinkles in sight; your hair was kept neat and out of your face for the hard wig they were putting on, they do this after they painted your face with powders and colours.

The bags under your eyes concealed delicately and your lips pampered so there'd be no imperfections in sight.

All the while, they say nothing about the grimaces of discomfort on your face. Simply nodding in approval once satisfied. They tell you they’ll place another layer of cloth on you and you tell yourself that you’ve been through much worse.

But the second that weight settles, you can smell the incense they burned at your mother's funeral. It’s strange how one's brain can make these correlations. Bridging a memory completely unrelated to now and ruining it.

The smoke glides across your face and up your nose. The burn of them makes your eyes water. That smell — no amount of flowers could ever get rid of that burning smell.

“Young Master, do you need anything?” their voice surprises you enough for tears to fall. The servants gasp quietly, suddenly concerned at the state of you.

As if you’re a doll that had just come to life in the middle of play. This servant has the most unusual hair, inky black but in a way that’s obviously fake as it shines unnaturally blue under the sunlight. You wonder what their real hair colour is, so your watery eyes look at their eyebrows.

Stained, no giveaway to the truth.

Their voice was deep but also gave nothing away. A truly androgynous individual, with the most peculiar haircut. Blinking away the tears, you shake your head and turn away.

“No, I’m alright. Just overwhelmed, and excited,” you chuckle. “It’s my wedding day after all.”

They weren't convinced. Those coral coloured eyes seemed to ripple; as if a stone had been thrown into a calm lake. The servant turns and coldly announces for everyone to leave the room. Your older servants, your mothers, squared their shoulders.

"The young master should not be left alone on his wedding day," she begins. Her voice giving you a minute sense of comfort. She was a kind woman. Loyal to a fault. She cared for you the best she could, offering you her shoulder to weep on when she told you of your mothers sickness.

"You forget your place among us, young one."

The peculiar servant regards her with a placid expression. Yet, when she moves to approach you, they extend their hand out to the side to stop her.

You look between the two of them as they openly glared at each other. They lean in to her ears, hair slipping forward like a curtain, and they whisper. Whatever it is that they murmured makes her skin turn pale. She whips her head, gasping as she stares at them in horror.

Then, you were alone.

"What was that?" your voice was heavy with trepidation. The servant assures you with a polite smile. "My job is to ensure you are alright, Young Master. The room was beginning to get stuffy. Please, allow me to dress you myself."

Themselves?

It took three people in order to create the padding around your body. Essentially mummifying you in white so your shape was not distorted. Then another two servants assisted in your wrapping, securing the padding to your body and tying everything into place.

Like a proper bride.

It was emasculating. But the elders were already unamused by the binding of two men in matrimony — they demanded the wedding remained traditional. You found it hard to care, wanting to get this over and done with already.

The servant tilts your head up, gently pressing a cotton pad to your tear line and offering another smile. They smooth out what they can of your robe, getting behind you and quietly taking off the clips around the rim of your collar. It helps you breathe, if only a little, and your shoulders droop.

You suppose there isn't much else to be added onto your ensemble. But you appreciate the care they're putting in refining the hair accessories on your wig, using the flat sides of a rat tail comb to ensure the lace front was pressed neatly.

"...It feels like a helmet," you confess dryly. "It looks like one, doesn't it?" You gesture to your head.

"A pretty one," their reply makes you chuckle.

"They dress me up like this in order to humiliate me and my clan."

Your fingers curl into fists. They tilt their heads, regarding your fists with a glance then moving to your right to check the state of the lace.

"Do you feel humiliated?"

You twist your head, your expression now warped with simmering anger.

"I'm a man." You seethe.

"A beautiful one." They remind you. Not flinching at the subtle warmth your palms are emanating. "Why should you feel humiliated when you look as beautiful as the rising dawn? Don't do that."

They lean in and your breath hitches. You're so close you can tell they've combed through their lashes with mascara, feel the hardened brush of them on your cheek as they whisper in your ear.

"Don't give those rotting old bastards sorcerers the satisfaction of looking at the top of your head."

When they pull away, you feel like you can breathe again.

"I will be placing the wataboshi for you, Young Master."

You nod, the ache in your shoulders disappearing.

Wearing white is to symbolize your bride's willingness to be dyed in the grooms colours. Satoru thinks that's a bit of a dramatic description. It sounds more ominous than it does romantic.

He grunts as his servants tie the endless seams and cords. Folding it, smoothing it out — Satoru feels more like fresh dough being kneaded than he does a groom. The servants hasten their pace. He feels worn out. A vein on the side of his head pulsing as he reminds himself to unclench his jaw.

He can see himself in the reflection of the tri-fold mirror before him. He looks proper. Dressed in a black haori, with the striking white emblem of his clan on either fold.

Willingness to be dyed in his colours?

He sighs, furrowing his brows to keep his eyes hidden away. A servant asks if he needs anything, he waves their concerns away and tells them to continue.

"Are you sure if this is what you wish to do, Satoru?" his mother's voice echoes in his mind.

"I won't allow him to be humiliated further because of my actions. I have to be responsible. I have to marry him."

"You have to marry him?" she arches a brow his way, lifting the cup of tea to her lips as she watches him.

"You're mistaken, Satoru. The only one with power in deciding if this marriage is not the (L/N) Clan. It's us. It's you."

(Y/N)'s decisions do not matter. You accepted his dowry. Refused any other, is what she's telling him. The Gojo Clan's status is leagues above yours. If you refuse to marry him, Satoru can't imagine the ridicule you'll face. Your father — and his new bride — would cast you out.

It sickens him how weak you are. Your social standing is already so fickle, your clan just beginning to shake the fleas of the lower ringed trash from its fur. You deserve better than this.

You deserved choices.

He had never seen someone more devoted to sorcerer politics than you. You were a good son, a dutiful son.

Yet, your fate is in his hands. If he rejects your hand, you'll be humiliated. If he continues this path, he fears for your happiness. You'll be forever tainted by Satoru regardless of the choices he makes.

Forever dyed in his colours.

He flutters his eyes open, straightening his shoulders as the weight of the kimono reminds him of your red-rimmed eyes. The day of your mother's funeral, your hands healing him and washing him away from grime and filth while Suguru's marks were still so dark and blooming.

What a good husband you'd be.

He can't allow you to be shunned by your family, by sorcerer society.

He has to save you. He has to honour you. He has to.

Because he loves you. He has to.

He has to.

For you.

He'd do this for you.

Satoru looked handsome. You can barely seen him from underneath the hood, keeping your gaze ahead at the back of a shrine servant's head as he leads both you and your soon-to-be-husband towards the shrine.

It rained a little earlier, the sky was no longer gloomy so it provided the scenery with a shimmering quality. The leaves of the old ginkos tree decorating the grounds with its golden and orange leaves; every sway of its branches speckling light onto the puddles of rainwater which makes it shine like a gem.

The servant with the peculiar hair, they held a red umbrella over both you and Satoru's hair as your procession continues.

"You look beautiful," Satoru says. You eyes widen. In all the hubbub, the chaos after your mother's funeral, your father's marriage, preparing for your own, missions slipped between here and there. You'd forgotten this side of Satoru.

This unabashed mouth of his. With that sharp curl and those perfect teeth and blushed lips. His voice sounds so light despite the heavy cloud that'd been lingering over your heads.

The Star Plasma Incident, Geto Suguru's betrayal, your marriage.

Your refuse to let your eyes water. If Satoru can be this strong, then you will be just as strong as he is.

"I'm sure you do to," he turns his head. Not that you can see it. Hence, the joke. Satoru smiles your way and you're glad this hood protects you from more than just wind, dust, and dirt. Because the sight of his smile would make your palms clammy and your heart flutter.

It gives you too much hope. It is your wedding day. Most would say hoping wouldn't be too egregious. You'll be performing your marriage before the shrine gods after all, praying to them for happiness and wealth in your future with your husband.

Satoru reaches for you, slipping his black sleeves through the divot of your elbow and steadying you as you climb the steps. From behind you, your step-mother awws at the display.

You're sure Lady Gojo is curling her nose at her voice behind her handheld fan. This fills you with a little vicious delight.

The gods should hate you for this, but you swallow down that guilt as Satoru hitches you closer.

You enter the Pavilion, admiring the architecture and care of the shrine masters and maidens. You feel hope building in your chest. Despite your best efforts, it begins to lift its head. This shrine has seen so many marriages. Such as the marriage of Satoru's own parents, and his parent's parents.

Despite being arranged, despite being loveless in the beginning, they seemed happy.

Your wedding robes descend on your shoulders again and the scent of incense wafts up your nose.

Your mother's final breath echoes in your ears.

You feel your throat close up.

The priest is announcing to the gods of your marriage with Satoru and all you can feel is nausea. He stands next to you and your head is held high, the elders and higher ups watch from the sides and you hope they can't see the way your mouth presses into a thin line.

Satoru is wearing black. He wore black to the funeral too and your mother, white. Your brain does that thing again — making correlations out of thin air.

You are not not a walking corpse. Satoru was not a man grieving. You are both getting married. You are supposed to celebrate. This is not a funeral. This is not an unfortunate event.

The shrine maiden before you offers Satoru a sakazuki dish filled with sake.

This ritual feels mocking. Satoru doesn't even enjoy drinking. His taste buds were akin to a child's. He prefers sweets, sometimes you marvel at how he hasn't gotten a cavity. So you wonder how his face is like when he takes his sips — despite the eyes on you, you turn to see.

He does not grimace. Not even a twitch in his brows. He takes one sip, the second, then finishes the sake.

His mother had told you that the first sip is to show appreciation to the heavens above and for their ancestors. The shrine maidens hands you a cup and you carefully hold it in your hands.

Fuck your ancestors. What have they ever given you?

Still, you bring the rim of the dish to your lips and take two sips, tipping the cup for the final one.

The second set of cups are supposed to symbolize you. The couple. It's a vow for you to care for each other for as long as you live.

Satoru's lips press over the edge, he drinks and drinks and drinks. He does not grimace, he does not falter. He closes his eyes, breathing out slowly as he hands the maiden his cup.

You watch. Entranced. Hoping to see a frown, a sign that he does not want this.

You take your cup and drink.

The third is meant for fertility. Both you and Satoru drink, ignoring the curl of the elders lips or the disdain in the others.

Fuck them, the both of you thought together.

You're offered a wooden comb and carefully wrap it in cloth before holding it between your palms, holding your pressed thumbs to your chest as you pray.

It is Satoru's turn to watch. He can see your lashes across your cheeks, the colour painted on your lips glimmering like the rain droplets on those golden leaves.

You were breathtaking.

When you stepped out of the car, he knew the old fucks were expecting a good laugh. Seeing you dressed in bridal garbs, with a veil, makeup and effeminate — they did not laugh. They drank you in, eyes widening at your beauty. It fueled Satoru with pride.

You're turning, Satoru blinks for a moment but turns to face you as well. You hold it between your palms and he cups his hands over yours. His large hands covering yours as he accepts the comb in front of the attendees.

This is a symbol of his determination, of his willingness, to make this marriage work.

He connects his gaze with yours and your lips finally part to allow you to breathe. He nods and your finger twitches for a moment but you give him the comb.

He then turns to offer it to the gods.

The sun is beginning to shine, clouds blowing away as you continue the next part; the reading of the vows to the gods.

He unravels the scroll, offering you the other end and you press your shoulders together as you both held it.

He reads;

"On this great day, before the Great Gods, we are wed. We are eternally grateful for this blessed ceremony. From today, we vow to love each other, to trust one another, to be there for each other for the good times and the bad; we promise that this will stay unchanged throughout our lifetime."

He reads out today's date. He reads out his title as your husband, then his name, and you swallow your nausea as you read out your title as his husband, then your name. You help him fold the paper back, hoping he didn't see how your hands tremble.

The shrine maidens come to your sides with a sprig of leaves. You both take it, hold the stem to between your fingers and the leaves to your head. Lady Gojo had told you this sprig would carry your thoughts and prayers through the end to the gods.

You hope they do not hear your cynical thoughts, your fears, your anxieties; you hope they can only feel the little bits of hope for happiness you're desperately wishing for.

Finally, finally, comes the exchanging of wedding bands.

Satoru's eyes softened as you slip his on. It's beautiful, intricate up close and simple from afar. The gem in the centre twinkling shyly under his gaze. You can't help but smile as he holds your hand in his, preciously slipping on your ring.

The silver glinting under the sun, as did the gem embedded in it. It was your favourite colour. He remembered.

The shrine maidens disperse, pouring sake into the cups of the guests and the both of you tenderly hold each others hands as you finally face them.

Gojo's parents watch on proudly, your father looked smug, his wife weepy as she blinks up at the heavens.

"Congratulations!"

They cheer, downing the sake, in celebration for your union and to Satoru's ascension as head of his clan.

You've done it, son. You imagine that's what your fathers expression is trying to convey. A well done nod sent your way.

You slip your fingers loose from Satoru.

"I know you're watching," Satoru grumbles as he slips his sunglasses on. The wedding was still ongoing, families dining together, and he excused himself for some fresh air while you changed into a more comfortable kimono.

"I felt it from the goddamn entrance of the shrine."

"He looked gorgeous," Suguru speaks from behind the body of a tree, twisting a gold leaf in between his fingers. "He's always been handsome, did those old fucks think putting him in white would be funny?"

Satoru does not answer. He simply stares at Suguru and yet, his wedding ring burns. He brings his gaze to it, flexing his fingers in an attempt to get rid of the phantom sensation.

"You here to give a wedding gift?" Satoru asks. Suguru turns and smiles. He had put his hair in a half-up-half-down hairdo. It suited him. A lot.

"Your hairs' gotten longer," Satoru's cheek twitch as the ring warms again. Suguru just offers a laugh, reaching into his robe and pulling out an envelope. He offers it to Satoru, who stares down at it.

"You actually gave us a wedding gift?" Satoru scoffs. Not yet reaching for it.

"It'd be rude of me not to."

"...Keep it."

Satoru tells a servant to speak from behind the sliding doors, effectively making them squeak in alarm as she stutters out that you're ready to step back into the fray.

"I'll be there shortly."

"Mah, Satoru — "

"Don't." He snaps out, glaring at Suguru.

"Don't." He says, softly now.

Suguru's eyes widen, his hurt evident as he gazes up at him.

"I'm sure your new church will need the money more than we do."

They say nothing to each other. Satoru turns to head back inside. Suguru's hands fall.

He hopes the Gods do not see this. He hopes the Gods can't hear how fast his heart is beating and how it breaks as he slides the doors close.

Satoru walks in just as you do. This kimono is less heavy, you move with a lightness in your step and no longer in stark white but instead in a gorgeous blue. The fabric dyed a darker colour at the ends to balance out the bright hues — the colour of your skin harmonizing the colours together just like your hair.

You looked at him, brows pinching at the sight of his sunglasses.

"Are you in pain?"

He should ask you that, shouldn't he?

After all you've been through, he should ask if you were hurt.

He shakes his head, smiling as he takes them off.

You're stronger then that. Pitying you, babying you, reopening the wounds you have — there was no need for that. You were his husband now, he will bare your burdens together. As he vowed to do in front of the gods.

He slips his arm through yours.

"Never. Not with you by my side, beloved."

You roll your eyes at him, ignoring how hot your cheeks feel at his lame attempt.

Maybe...maybe this could work, you tell yourself. Today went by so smoothly, it must be a sign.

Maybe you can be happy.

#s3thwrit3sstuff #male reader #reader insert #male reader insert #gay reader #male!reader #x male reader #gojo satoru x male reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x male reader #jjk x reader

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perfectlyoongi · 2 months

Text

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who taught you how to play the guitar when you were still teenagers. it took a lot of words from you to convince Yoongi to teach you a mere chord; it took even more words from you to convince Yoongi to teach you a song; but it didn’t take any words from you to make Yoongi’s soul dance every time you played. lost in his thoughts, Yoongi didn’t pay attention to the songs you played; too focused on that comfort that soothed his soul, Yoongi didn’t seem to notice your presence at all. but it was you. the way you looked beautiful holding the guitar. the way you smiled when you made a harder transition. the way your eyes sparkled with pure pride at having managed to complete a song. Yoongi didn’t notice your presence, Yoongi felt your presence. “you can be really annoying when you want, but i think it’s just your way of confessing your love for me. isn’t it? come on, admit it.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who picks you up at home every day before work. even though he didn’t live close to you, Yoongi made an effort to wake up half an hour earlier just to greet you in the morning with a sweet smile. for Yoongi, a good day started with you. still driven by sleep, tired from work, you always greeted Yoongi with a small smile and a wink. and Yoongi’s heart beat a little faster at your greeting. with a slow and shuffling step, you and Yoongi walked to your work together, often watching the sunrise in tones of complicity and passion, every day planning the morning of the next day. “good morning. today is colder than normal, do you want my scarf? i don’t mind lending it to you. i just don’t want you to get sick because then i’ll have to take care of you and i don’t feel like it. just that.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who thinks about your friendship when he takes the subway with you. coming home from work was an exhausting task; after a long day of meetings, socializing, and tension, you just wanted to rest as quickly as possible. so, every day, Yoongi would pick you up from work and take you to the subway, where he would walk you home. it was a routine of yours that came from your teenage years, it was often the only time when you and Yoongi allowed yourselves to feel and let all the defences put up by both of you collapse — all that mattered was that at that moment, you and Yoongi were together. from teenagers to now. how was Yoongi not supposed to feel something for you? “i think i look at you more than i should. i think when i laugh with you my laughter sounds like love. and i’m afraid because that’s true.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who fell in love with you on a late spring afternoon when cherry blossoms adorned your hair. it was customary for you and Yoongi to have a small picnic with the arrival of spring — a good luck ritual you invented when exams were more complicated, a ritual that, so far, had proven useful. but, if this picnic was already your tradition, why was it that late afternoon that you, painted by the sun, sculpted by the breeze, decorated with the cherry tree, gave a little kiss to Yoongi’s soul? would it have been your laugh when a shower of petals drenched you in pure innocence? would it have been your gaze so bright and deep that Yoongi got lost every time he looked at you? or would it have simply been you harvesting the plant that you had planted inside Yoongi a long time ago? “you are so beautiful when the universe praises your essence, it is impossible for me not to fall into your charms. you have power over me, a magic that just comforts my heart every time i’m with you.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who stops the feeling inside him from expanding throughout his soul. although Yoongi’s heart had been completely surrendered to you for years, Yoongi thought that it was in the soul that true feelings were lodged; and as such, he could not feel. not when you were his best friend. not when you two have been through so much together. not when you… you. how was Yoongi able to block his feelings? his soul was an empty mold, yearning for a filling that would set fire to Yoongi’s essence and make him realize that life isn’t that bad. his soul was a small candle, made with the most lasting loneliness, plunged in the most continuous yearning. Yoongi just needed to let go, let his soul explore your entire essence. but that would never happen, it couldn’t happen — Yoongi couldn’t lose you. “i’m trying to realize what rivers flow in me and, until then, i just know that i can’t let myself drown in these feelings. not when you’re riding my waves of uncertainty.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who starts to see little hearts during his days. it felt like the universe was mocking Yoongi, showing him so many times what Yoongi didn’t like to give. everywhere he looked, little hearts appeared like drops of water, drenching Yoongi in a love he didn’t want to give. it was in the flowers, in their beautiful pattern. it was in the clouds, in their enviable cuteness. it was in the papers torn and thrown on the floor, in their forgotten words. everywhere, Yoongi saw heart, and everywhere, Yoongi thought of you. “my stubbornness doesn't let me accept my feelings, but when the universe is constantly reminding me of you, it becomes kind of impossible for me to forget the feelings i have for you.”

BEST-FRIEND!YOONGI who confessed on a cold winter morning when the sun was beginning to break through the sky. Yoongi said the pink on his cheeks was because of the cold wind that morning. Yoongi said his nervousness was because of a meeting he had later. Yoongi said his lack of words was because of a sore throat. but Yoongi also told you that he liked you. when the shy yellow of the sun began to emerge through the thick clouds, starting to gently paint the entire sky, the entire world, Yoongi sighed, cooled his cheeks with his cold hands, took two deep breaths and just told you “i like you. in a way i’m not supposed to feel. in a way that i’m afraid to admit, but that i really need to get this weight off of me. no. it’s not a burden. it’s a feeling. it’s so light that it just warms my soul. yes. i like you, in a way that warms me inside.”

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wheneclipsefalls · 7 months

Text

Little Gift- Introduction

Pairing: Soft Dark Neteyam x Human Fem Reader

Beautiful Neteyam pic by @cinetrix2

Sumarry: The RDA are forced to negotiate with a certain Olo'eyktan. Luckily, there is only one thing he wants.

Warnings: dark, dubcon/noncon, suggestive, kidnapping, aged up Neteyam, dom/sub dynamics, bondage, humiliation, dark Neteyam, swearing, power imbalance, etc. (not exhaustive) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

A/N: I had this idea in the middle of the night two days ago. This will be the introduction of the mini series. It is dark content so read at your own risk.

tiyawn: love

mawey: be calm

oeyӓ: my (possessive)

Masterlist

The rope is coarse against your wrist and ankles, tied tight enough to leave squirming out of the question. However, it's the thick fabric gag that has you grinding your teeth together in discomfort. They leave you no opportunity to ask questions. No way to understand your fate before it unfolds.

Colonel Quaritch had been even more cold and distant as you were prepared for the mysterious treck. You had been in the middle of packing your stuff, preparing to return home with the rest of the RDA when you had been dragged away and dressed against your will.

Now kneeling here in the middle of Pandora’s forest wearing little more than sparkly scraps, you have never felt more exposed. The intricately beaded top does little to nothing to cover your hardening nipples and it’s easy to catch some of the Colonel’s brats sneaking a glance occasionally.

“Colonel,” Lyle calls to your left. “For a final touch.” He holds a large pink ribbon in one hand, eyes snapping over to your small form with a smirk.

“Be quick.” Quaritch grumbles but he doesn’t hide the amusement painted across his face.

You attempt to scoot away when Lyle approaches you but he wrangles you back into place one handed. Another recom keeps you still with hands on your shoulders and before you know it Lyle is using the ribbon to tie a big bow directly over your breasts.

You muster every hateful thought into your heated glare, not that it does much to kill his mood.

It’s obvious that you are the one left out of the joke everyone seems to revel in. Several times you wonder if all of this is some sick prank. Dressing you up only to drag you into the middle of the woods and leave you for dead. Perhaps even kill you themselves.

However, thirty minutes of kneeling in the mud with a small army on high alert around you proves plans to be otherwise. There is something ominous about that pink bow tied around you, something even more suspicious about the traditional Na’vi clothing that has somehow been made to fit you perfectly.

“That bastard sure likes to take his sweet time.” Mansk huffs.

“What more did you expect from one of Sully’s filthy half breeds?” Quaritch sneers, readjusting the heavy artillery into his shoulder.

“Makes a lot of demands too. Swear if we didn’t need these resources-” Lyle starts but is cut off.

“And yet we do. So shut your trap and pay attention.” The Colonel snips at him. It’s almost comical to see how fast Lyle straightens and goes back to scanning the terrain for movement.

Always the Colonel’s bitch.

You wish this ridiculous gag wouldn’t stop you from finally speaking your opinion freely. If you are about to meet your demise, the least they could let you do is get some long awaited satisfaction.

Tension bleeds into the atmosphere. The former marines snap to attention and guns are locked into place, the formation fanning them out to combat any potential threats.

It takes several dreadful seconds for you to see them but finally a pair of golden eyes just barely shines through the thick forest. They are in the trees, crouched to the ground, in bushes, some even swooping overhead on banshees.

You marvel at their ability to hide in the nooks and crannies of the forest. However, even now you recognize that they are choosing to be seen. They have decided to make their presence known.

Your heart thunders.

Tied and kneeling between the two juxtaposing crowds feels like being offered up as a human sacrifice.

Do the Na’vi believe in live sacrifice?

Perhaps they too put up dead to their deity as a sign of loyalty.

And you are pampered and primed for the taking.

“Signed, sealed and delivered as promised.” The Colonel grunts, boot clad toe nudging your vulnerable form.

Dread slinks through your veins.

What have you done to deserve this?

The Na’vi that steps out into the open is one that you can recognize instantly. Even a human of low status among the RDA knows what Jake Sully’s eldest son, and now Omatikaya Olo’eyktan, looks like. His face has become a focused target that the RDA have been working to exterminate for months. Now, it feels all for naught as they have been brought to their knees and forced to leave Pandora with little resources. The same reason you prepare yourself to say goodbye to this mysterious planet for good.

However, that was the idea before you were prepared like a trussed up main course for the taking.

You struggle fruitlessly in the binds once more and Neteyam’s eyes center on you. Peering up at him hurts your neck as you are once again reminded of how tall and muscular the Na’vi are. His shoulders give the illusion of spanning out even further with the traditional feathered mantle he wears.

His head slants to the side before he is prowling closer. You attempt to jerk away from his large hand coming to your face but that only ends in you falling back on your rear. His lips turn down as he inspects your tied wrists. There is nothing you can do as he holds both of them easily with one hand.

“I was told she would not be harmed.” He speaks lowly, voice thick with a Na’vi accent.

“She put up quite a fight. Even getting her to hold still during the shot was a pain in the ass.” Quaritch replies.

You remember all too well the fear that had overcome you when they brought out that long needle. The developed serum was a success naturally but it still racks your anxiety higher to fully breathe Pandoran air without your mask. Even more so, you feel strangely more exposed in front of this Na’vi legend without the glass to separate you from him.

“I don’t appreciate excuses.” His golden eyes flicker towards your face and a small smile appears. “But I am pleased to see it fits.” Long fingers trace the lines of your necklace top before toying with the ends of the pink boy.

You stiffen beneath his touch, eyeing the sheathed dagger across his chest.

Do sacrificial ceremonies require specific clothing?

Maybe dressing a sacrifice up in pretty ornaments and clothing proves to their deity its value.

Either way, you hope it’s fast. The Na’vi are trained killers, but at least they should know how to end a life swiftly.

“I would be pleased to see the resources you promised.” The Colonel bites back.

Neteyam sighs and purses her lips as if the small army around them is simply an annoyance instead of a threat.

“Trades are not historically present between the Omatikaya and your people. I am not opposed to taking instead. Remember that.”

You can hear the shifting guns behind you. The Colonel’s anger boils through the air and you are surprised to find no smart response coming from him. Neteyam leisurely tugs the ends of the bow, perfecting its shape and you are mortified to feel your nipples tighten beneath them. He nods his head and a few armed Na’vi step forward and hesitantly hand over a few tubes of minerals.

You recognize it as unobtanium, most likely the small amount left to mine from the last Home Tree. Your eyes widen. All of that for you?

It wouldn’t be enough to make the RDA’s trip a success but it would surely cut down the financial loss significantly. But why give it over? Just to kill you? Had their deity sent out a bounty on your head and if so, what had you done to piss Her off so immensely?

“As promised.” Neteyam rises back to full height, hands settling on his hips. “I trust you understand what is to come to those who do not honor this agreement.”

“Consider her a…peace offering. A special gift from the RDA.” You can hear the smirk in Quaritch’s tone, even the chuckle that Loyd fights to hold back. Your teeth dig into the fabric gag, praying more than ever that now would be the one time you would be able to rip him a new one.

Your own special gift before you leave this life.

“I tire of your presence, demon.”

Quaritch scoffs but you can already hear the shuffling of retreating boots as they slowly but surely exit the scene. The only home you have ever known and now it is nothing more than a memory. You’re left to the demise of the Na’vi like a shiny object to be collected.

And with the way Neteyam smiles and studies your form intently, you can’t have found a better analogy. Kneeling once more, large hands cup your cheeks, fingers encasing the whole side of your head.

“Oeyӓ tiyawn, you are shaking.” He tuts, features softening at breakneck speed. Eyebrows furrowing, you watch closely as he carefully parts the hair from your face. “So nice to meet you, properly that is.” He chuckles, as if telling a joke only he knows the context to.

Unease tightens your muscles and you’re sure that if your heart rate picks up anymore the organ will simply give out before they even have a chance to kill you.

He sends a look to the side and instantly the rest of the Na’vi party retreat back into the forest. Your forehead creases. What is a sacrifice without an audience?

Unless.

Neteyam’s fingers comb through your hair.

Unless the Olo’eyktan has decided to have his fun with you before you are offered up.

Tears spill from your eyes and you can’t stop yourself from trying to beg through the gag.

“Oh tiyawn,” His thumbs wipe away your tears. “You do not need to cry anymore. Not now that you are mine.”

A hiccup catches in your throat, wide eyes looking up at him.

“My sweet pet.” He husks, lips curved into a prideful smile.

Your heart drops to your stomach.

Pet.

How does he even know what that word means? The Na’vi do not keep pets. Perhaps he misspoke.

But when one large hand circles around the back of your neck and you remember one thing: this man was raised by both Na’vi and Sky People.

Frantically shaking your head in protest you try to get out words that will convince him to release you. It’s a strained effort with the cloth gag and his giant hand grasping your neck.

“Mawey, little gift, before you hurt yourself.” He lingers over the cloth gag and for a moment you have hope that he will remove it, instead Neteyam gives you a sympathetic smile. “My poor tiyawn, I would love to remove it but I think we will need to go over some ground rules first. I’ll need you to listen without distraction for that part.”

Your thoughts tangle into a million knots as vast ideas of what these rules may entail generate frantically.

It would be easier to believe that a Na’vi has no purpose for a Sky Person as a pet but it’s impossible to miss the lust swimming in his golden orbs. Nor the wandering hands that now come to squeeze your plush hips.

“You’re even more breathtaking up close.” He grins. When had he seen you from a distance? “Especially in proper clothing.”

You can barely see through the cloud of tears over your eyes so you miss when Neteyam unsheathes his knife. That is, until you feel the cold material against your ankles. Terror grips your heart but to your surprise the Olo’eyktan cuts the rope around your feet.

Foolishly you take advantage of this slight freedom only to be snatched around the waist and pulled onto his lap. Neteyam chuckles as if your escape attempt is the cutest thing he has ever seen. Your hips ache slightly at the stretch it takes to straddle one of his muscular thighs.

“Misbehaving already, hm?” He raises a hairless eyebrow at you, one hand slink down to settle over your rear. Luckily he seems more amused than angry. After all, you have to admit that there was no real chance of you outrunning him in the first place. And now that those muscular arms are locked around you, there is no hope of beating his strength.

Humiliation runs deep when you feel the first trickle of arousal stain your tiny loincloth. Neteyam’s thigh flexes and your pussy greedily takes the friction as an invitation. His nostrils flare, no doubt taking in your changing scent.

He doesn’t further your embarrassment, however. At least not yet.

“My father told me about these.” He muses, fingers playing with the bow once more. “It’s said to represent gifts. I always thought they were silly but now…” Heat runs straight to your core when his thumb dances over one escaped nipple. “I quite like the look of it on you, little gift.”

A whimper escapes your lips without permission, snagging his attention.

“Needy little pet, aren’t you?” A dark laugh rumbles his chest as his thumb casually slips underneath to bow to torment one nipple. “Do not worry, oeyӓ tiyawn. I’ll have you seeing stars before the night is through.”

Everything in your mind says no but Neteyam’s skin is warm and his hands are skilled as one teases your nipples while the other explores your backside. Your body preens into the touch, desperate for some semblance of comfort to hold onto. And in the dangerous atmosphere of Pandoran nights, your instincts tell you that this man is what separates you from death.

However, you are still held as prey under his gaze.

“But first I think it is time to get you home.” He leans forwards until your noses are touching.

“You will be more comfortable in my bed, pet.”

And so it begins! As always, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts! <3

unofficial taglist: @pandoraslxna @tallulah477 (thought you might like it, baby) @itchaboi-itchyboy @zafrinaxyz @lilghostiequinni @criticallybella

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