#quick way to soften clay

[wearysparrows]

My First, My Only, My Last

ao3/masterlist

Summary: With the passing of time, your dragon has grown to expect your touch. He is like clay in your hands, and you mould him.

CW: fluff, cuddling & snuggling, some suggestive themes, you caress your dragon, very touchy feely, dragon Sylus, no use of pronouns or Y/N 1K

As of late, your dragon had begun to change.

Not of his physicality – he still radiates an imposing heat, sharp edges ready to eviscerate anything that comes too close. Lives shudder and end tremulously under his claws.

Well, all except for yours.

No longer was he wary of your approach. He welcomed it, pulling you closer with the powerful muscles of his tail, as if he could crush you to himself and make two into one. His gifts, too, changed with him. Instead of gold – flowers whose blooming you had never known, the songs of birds, delicacies from far away lands. Things you knew he desired to share and understand, together.

You approach him, now. He was lounging much the same way he did when you had first met – on a throne cast in stone. Since your arrival, however, it had been covered with the softness of furs and silks to aid in your comfort. The only light in the cave came from flickering sconces adorning the walls. His shadow flutters underneath them.

He supports his head with one hand, and the tip of his tail twitches to and fro at the sound of your approach. He turns over to face you. The mark of his teeth on your neck stutters with the briefest of pains. As you come within his proximity, his tail slips around to the small of your back, and bids you come closer, as if your pace wasn’t quick enough for him. It stays there, caressing your spine with its heat. In the flash of his eyes you see his barely concealed amusement, excitement at your encroachment on his space. His youth.

“Approaching a dragon with nothing to defend yourself? How bold.”

His voice, bereft of malice, and full of tender warmth. You kneel onto the throne beside him, notching yourself between the gentle curve of his legs and torso. He makes room for you, and his tail follows your movements, now curled possessively around you. You feel the scales of it touch the soles of your bare feet.

“I have no fear.”

His quiet laugh reverberates through his chest and into you from where your forms connect. You take one of his hands into your lap. He lets you.

“Are you certain that’s wise?”

His hand uncurls and curls around nothing in your lap. The collective warmth of your bodies pools beneath you through the furs, warming your calves.

“I have no need for wisdom. I know you as I know myself.”

You massage the soft web of a junction between his thumb and index finger, encouraging the muscles there to loosen under your touch. The same motion is repeated between each tendon – index and middle, middle and ring, and ring and pinky. The scaley pads of his palms were like leather softened with age and use – well loved. His fingers twitch reflexively as you maneuver them. He carefully avoids puncturing your skin with the sharpness of his claws.

“What is the purpose in this?”

You hear the ingenuousness in his question. He doesn’t pull away.

“Pleasure.” You say.

A word he understands. This seems to compel him, and he rolls onto his back. His hands wrap around your waist, and deposit you into a straddle on top of him. His hold on your middle doesn’t cease. His back is supported by the stone arm of the throne behind him, and only a few inches of space is left between your faces. Gone were the usual slits of his pupils, now blown wide with a blackness that nearly dwarfed the ruby of his eyes entirely.

“Like this?” He accentuates the statement with a roll of his hips into yours, eliciting a responsive heat from your body. You steady him underneath you, hands splayed on his chest. You had grown to understand that you were the first to touch him in a capacity that was free from violence. By his admission, he had only known the sensation of suffering, even by his own hand. You reach up, letting your palms drift over the grit of his horns. Black, and wrought like iron. You rubbed them at the base with your thumbs where they met his skull, disappearing into the softness of sterling hair. He rattles out a purr of surprise underneath you, but doesn’t stop your attentions. His neck bends towards the touch, and you slip your hands up, up, wrapping your fingers around the bony protrusions. They fit perfectly, like the spaces there were made for your hands alone. You feel his hands around your wrists, then, and he directs them from his horns to his face. You cup it. Barely restrained heat colors his cheeks.

“Only you would dare to tease a fiend.”

There’s breathlessness in his words that he tries to conceal. His grip drops from your wrists and returns to your waist. He presses you into him again. You laugh brightly, feeling his interest make itself known underneath you.

“It’s not teasing. It’s adoring.”

You drag your nails up and down the plate of scales on his jaw, and the muscles underneath it flex in response. His nostrils flare at the combination of your words and your touch. You drop your hands to his chest again, and drag a finger around the contours of the gem that thrums with his lifeforce. His blood rushes in and out of it there, a tiny microcosm of life. He shudders, a quiet gasp escaping him. His purr continues to rumble, and though you know it comes from within him, the sound is so inhuman that it's hard to believe he produces it. His tail wraps around your entirety, replacing his hands at your waist. He sits up, his breath just a ghost against your lips.

“It’s my turn to adore you now, then.”

Your dragon learns that there are pleasures of all kinds. Those that excite the senses, invigorate the mind, and electrify the skin. He learns the pleasure of the mundane, too – the crunch of residual volcanic ash under foot, the ground warmed by its activity. The radiant flash of a fish in deep waters. A name that can’t be pronounced, given anew. He learns to share in pleasure, to become one in all ways. The arc of two souls no longer separated by flesh. He learns and merges, and the place where he begins and you end ceases its existence, and there is only the one song left behind in its wake.

[tokkiwrites]

Adstrum in ruinas. | part one.

General Marcus Acacius × F ! Reader

• summary: After your father’s sudden death, the general starts spending more time with you. At first, it feels strange, but as you come to learn, he isn't that big a brute everyone thinks he is.

• kind of slow burn ??, age gap (unspecified), forbidden love, marcus is pretty possessive and in love, and he's cute, mutual pining, mentions of death, lmk if i missed anything.

• tokkis note: This is the first part of a little fic i wanted to write. the nsfw smut part will be in part two since this part already has almost 4k words. i just wanted a little backstory, so who knows... if you guys enjoy this part, maybe i will make it into a short series. i have lots of ideas. anyways, enjoy!!!

The palace felt colder after your father’s death. Though the sun still danced across the walls, nothing could have warmed you.

He had always been a quiet man, steady in his craft and in his love for you. You had grown up watching his hands work leather as though it were clay, each stitch meticulous, each touch with purpose. He had poured his life into the emperor’s court, shaping beauty out of necessity, and yet, when his time had come, they had discarded him without hesitation.

Accused of theft, he had been taken swiftly, the charges flimsy, the judgment quick. You had not been allowed to speak on his behalf. No one had. And when his life ended on the blade of the emperor’s justice, the world moved on as though he had never existed. You had not cried when they took him. There had been no time, no space for grief within the stone walls of the palace. Instead, you swallowed it whole, the ache settling deep within your chest, cold and unforgiving. You could not cry. In a way, crying was admitting to the gods that he was no longer, so you did not dare slip one tear. Let the pain seethe.

No one spoke his name. To your face, at least. Not until General Marcus Acacius.

You had known his name long before you ever knew his face. The empire’s greatest general, a man whose victories had carved Rome’s borders, who had spilled oceans of blood in the emperor’s name. He was the kind of man you had only seen from afar—untouchable, his presence a thing of myths whispered amongst men. To you, he was just that: a man. A cruel one.

So when he first appeared in the apothecary, you almost did not believe it was him. “The town speaks of… you,” he said, voice filling the room like the low roll of thunder. You turned sharply, the pestle slipping from your grasp. He stood in the doorway, tall and broad, his figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the corridor. His tunic was torn, a gash running across his arm where blood had soaked through. “So I heard,” he continued, stepping inside, “if it is true—”

“Oh, yes, I—yes, it is true,” you stammered, fumbling for words. His presence unsettled you, though you could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered or faint something in his tone. It was different this time. “I understand. You have my condolences,” he said. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Something in your heart fluttered. “Thank you, General.” He was not a monster. Not here with you, not now, at least. It seemed sincere enough. You looked him up and down. Why did the blood keep on trickling? For a moment, you thought he might say more, but he simply gestured to his arm. “May I trouble you for assistance?” No monster.

At first, you thought nothing of his visits.

They were sporadic, a few days apart—always under the pretense of some new injury. A cut from a sparring match. A dislocated shoulder. The aches and pains of a soldier’s life. He came to you because it was easier than seeking the palace’s physicians, or so you told yourself. But then the days stretched into weeks, and his appearances grew more frequent.

You noticed the small ways in which he lingered. The way his eyes followed you as you moved about the room, the way his voice softened when he addressed you. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but as the days passed, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

For even when he was far, his touch still lingered, you were still drunken on his smell, and his eyes still loved yours.

One evening, as you prepared a salve by the fire, he spoke. “Your father was a great man.” You froze, your hands stilling over the mortar. “I remember his work,” Marcus continued, his voice low. “He made my first pair of riding boots. I was just a young man then.” You swallowed dry, willing your voice to remain steady. “He never spoke of you.”

“No, I suppose he would not have.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because he deserved better,” Marcus said simply. The words struck something deep within you. You looked away, vision blurring as the firelight flickered. Better.

He was all you could think about. Each night, from the first, you would sing sweet, mournful songs to the moon. Maybe it was because you missed your father dearly, and he filled that space up almost perfectly. Or maybe because, when he was with you, he did not seem to be the seven-headed monster all saw him as. Maybe pretending was his virtue.

But you were not the last judgment.

“Why are you always here?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Do you not want me here?” A smile played on his lips. “That is not what I said.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I do not understand.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You never cared before. Why now?” His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It is nothing,” he said at last.

“It is not nothing,” you pressed. “You are avoiding the truth.”

He looked at you then, his expression guarded but not unkind. “And if I told you the truth, would you thank me for it? Or curse me for what I know?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “What is it that you mean?” Marcus hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “Your father,” he said finally. “He did not die because of the charges. He died because they needed a scapegoat. The emperor needed to remind the court what happens when you step out of line.” The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around you. “You knew?”

“I tried to stop it,” he said quietly. “But there are things even I cannot change.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. “I do not need your protection, Marcus. I do not need anyone’s.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was something raw in his eyes. “But you have it anyway.”

You wanted to be angry with him. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, you stood there, frozen, as he reached for you. His hands were rough, calloused from years of battle, but they cradled your face with a tenderness that left you breathless. You craved it. And you will crave it until the day you are no more.

“I care for you more than I have ever cared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that terrifies me.”

Whatever happened to honor and victory? It was brutal. He was brutal. Raw, bloody, and utterly inhuman. But how could he also be the quiet after the storm? The wind that travels over still waters, the sound of dawn over mountains of dead people? You had to treat him many times, but the wounds he had inside his heart came well over the ones on his skin, you think.

You didn’t want to think of him—Marcus, with his dark eyes and the way they seemed to unravel you each time they met your own. But he lingered, even when he wasn’t here. He lingered in the soft creak of the door, the faint scent of leather and iron that clung to the air after he’d gone. It wasn’t fair, how much space he took in your thoughts. How much warmth he brought into this cold, empty life. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more.

“You work too hard.” You glanced up, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was seated by the fire, his armor stripped away, leaving only the simple tunic beneath. His shoulders were broad, his posture commanding even in repose. “You say that as though there’s an alternative,” you replied, turning back to the herbs in your hands.

“You could rest,” he said simply. “And do what? Dream of better days?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you. Marcus leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You deserve better days.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, you set the pestle down and met his gaze. “Better days won’t bring my father back.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they might give you something to hope for.” You shook your head, unwilling to let yourself be drawn into his optimism. “Hope is for fools, General.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it’s all we have.”

He wanted to hold you, to let his body meld with yours, ask you to run away to far lands. Let him take care of you, make you have his babies. Love you until there's nothing left.

but he couldn't.

“What would you do with better days?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Marcus’s gaze lifted, startled by the question. He leaned back in his chair, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dim room.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. he did know. he'd spend them with you. oh, silly it all felt. “I stopped imagining them a long time ago.” You paused, your fingers stilling over a jar. “You must have thought about it. When you were younger, before…” You trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Before the blood?” he supplied, his tone sharper than you expected. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. Once.” still.

“And?”

He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And it doesn’t matter. The man I am now... he has no place in better days.” Something in your chest ached at his words, though you couldn’t say why. You wanted to reach for him, to close the distance between you and tell him he was wrong. But you didn’t. Instead, you lowered your gaze and returned to your work, your voice quiet. “That’s a pity.”

The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to resist, the threads of your lives intertwined in ways you couldn’t untangle. Marcus became a constant presence, his visits no longer marked by the pretense of injuries. He came for you, though neither of you dared to speak it aloud.

Each touch, each glance, was a betrayal of the barriers you had built around yourself. Yet, you let him break them piece by piece, unable to deny the pull that drew you closer.

One night, as the apothecary lay bathed in moonlight, he found you humming an old melody—a song your father had sung on quiet nights. The tune was bittersweet, a memory wrapped in longing. Marcus lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room.

“I��ve heard that before,” he said softly.

You turned, startled. “My father used to sing it.” He nodded, stepping closer. “It suits you. Beautiful and haunting.” You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t sing much anymore.”

“You should.”

He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the one you’d traced with your eyes so many times but never dared to touch. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s part of you,” he said simply. “And I want to know all of you.” His words left you breathless, the weight of them settling in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to guard the fragile thing that was growing between you, but you couldn’t.

But people talk.

They talk in whispers that snake through the palace walls, slithering through cracks and beneath doors. Whispers of his visits, of his presence in the apothecary, of the time he lingers where he should not. They do not speak to you directly, but you can feel their words coiling around your throat, tightening with every passing day.

You hear them behind you when you walk through the halls: the sharp staccato of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of voices that stop the moment you turn. You catch glimpses of knowing glances, the way the maids shift their eyes when you enter a room, how the guards avert their gazes.

They all know, and yet they know nothing.

Because what is there to know? You have not touched him beyond necessity, have not dared to let your hand linger when you tend his wounds. And yet, the air between you is thick, suffused with something that neither of you has the courage to name.

“You should not come here anymore,” It was late. The apothecary was empty, save for the two of you. You stood with your back to him, arranging jars on the shelves in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the weight of his presence.

“I will decide what I should or should not do,” Marcus replied, his voice steady. You turned to face him, exasperation rising in your chest. “They talk, Marcus. Do you not see the danger in that? For you— for me?” His expression changed fast. “I cannot stop them from speaking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And I will not stop coming.”

“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you risk so much just to be here?”

He did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked over your face, searching for something, though you could not say what. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy. “Because you deserve better than this,” he said. “Better than what the court has given you. Just... better." You shook your head, chest tightening. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give you,” he said, stepping closer. “For now." But deep down, you knew better.

And you hated him for it, too.

“I see the way you look at me,” he said one night, his voice breaking the silence. You froze, your hands stilling over the poultice you were preparing. “What?”

“Do not deny it,” Marcus said, his tone softer now. “I know that look. I have seen it on too many faces not to recognize it.” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “And what look is that?”

“The one that says you hate me as much as you try to fight it." The words struck you like a blow, and you turned to face him, your cheeks burning. “I do not—”

“You do,” he said simply, cutting you off. “And I do not blame you for it.”

His gaze was steady, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against your arm. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I hope for it, all the same.” You did not hate him. you wish you could, because falling in love wasn't what you wanted right now.

“I think about you,” Marcus admitted, his voice raw. “More than I should. More than is safe.” Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as his words sank in. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “I know.”

The silence between you stretched.

“But why?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why do you care now, after all this time? You never gave me an answer, Marcus..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I see you,” he said finally. “And I see myself in you—the parts of me I thought were dead. The parts I’ve tried to bury.” You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’tㅡ Marcus, if this is all a game to you, of things you want to rediscover within you..."

"It is not. I do not intend to play with your heart."

So why does the blood keep on trickling?

They were wildflowers, clearly gathered from the edges of the palace gardens, and they looked out of place in his calloused hands. He held them out awkwardly, his expression somewhere between defiance and vulnerability, as though he expected you to scold him for the gesture. “For you,” he said simply. You stared at them for a moment, then at him. “Why?” you couldn’t help but smile. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was defensive, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him. No monster.

Your fingers brushed against his as you took the flowers, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, as if the touch burned him. “They’re beautiful,” you said. He didn’t reply, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch— an almost-smile, there and gone in an instant.

“Are you trying to court me, General?” you asked, half-joking. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at you with something close to panic in his eyes. “No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” But the truth was, you didn’t hate the thought.

He started threatening the others after that.

The first time, you hadn’t been there to see it, but you heard about it from one of the maids who whispered to you in passing. “The general,” she said, her eyes wide. “He nearly broke Marcellus’s arm. All because he said something about you.”

He didn’t deny it. “He should not have said what he did,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “What did he say?”

“It does not matter.”

“Marcus—”

“It does not matter,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “What matters is that he will not say it again.”

You wanted to argue with him, to tell him he couldn’t go around threatening people in your name. But the truth was, a part of you was glad. A part of you wanted him to protect you. He didn’t just watch over you—he hovered, his presence a constant shadow that both comforted and unnerved you. When he wasn’t by your side, you found yourself looking for him, craving his presence like air. And when he was with you, you felt safer than you had since your father’s death.

Days passed, and though you told yourself you should push him away, you could not.

He was always there, like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, impossible to ignore. You felt his presence even when he was not near, his voice echoing in your mind, his touch lingering on your skin.

You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your heart leapt when you heard his footsteps, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed yours. You tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, that it was a passing infatuation born of grief and the fact that he so happened to be there. You tried to convince yourself that the soft yearning in your chest was fleeting. A passing fancy, born of loneliness and the way Marcus had carved out a space in your world so effortlessly.

But as the days turned to weeks, the intensity of your feelings betrayed you. Every glance he cast your way lingered. Every word he spoke seemed to reverberate in your mind long after it had been said.

And every time his hand brushed against yours—whether by accident or intent—it felt as if the earth shifted beneath your feet.

It was one of those moments now. The two of you stood side by side in the apothecary, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. He was reaching for a jar of herbs on the shelf above, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned closer.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back quickly, your movements too sharp, too sudden. “Am I in your way?” Marcus asked, his voice low and amused. “No,” you said hastily, turning to busy yourself with a mortar and pestle. “Not at all.” He did not move, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering. “You always do that,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.

“Do what?”

“Step away.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle insistence. “You step away as if the space will make it easier. But it does not, does it?” Your fingers tightened around the pestle. “Marcus—”

“I feel it too,” he said, cutting you off. The words hung between you, raw and unvarnished. You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You should not say that.”

“Why not? Because it is the truth?” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Because I look at you and I can think of nothing else? Because when I leave here, all I want is to come back?”

“Marcus, stop.” Your voice was trembling now, a plea more than a command. “I cannot stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I do not think you can, either.” The room seemed to shrink around you, the air charged with something that felt too big for your soul to understand. “Tell me to leave,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “If this is too much, if I have crossed a line, say the word, and I will go.” You opened your mouth, the words on the tip of your tongue. But they would not come. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was dangerous, reckless, wrong. you did not want him to go.

You did not step back this time. “I cannot,” you whispered, the words breaking free like a confession. His breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I do not know how to do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “I do not know what happens now.”

what is this pandora box you have opened?

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw and consuming, as though he’d been holding back a storm and now it was unleashed. His hands slid to frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips claimed yours. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. And, oh, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your hands found his tunic, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His scent filling your lungs, his warmth, the feel of him, it was too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t…”

“You did,” you whispered, your own voice shaky. “And I didn’t stop you.” His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. But then you shook your head, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “I wil not say it.” His eyes closed briefly, as though your words had physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were softer, full of something you couldn’t name but felt in every corner of your soul.

“Then I am yours,” he murmured. “For as long as you’ll have me.” You leaned up, your lips brushing against his once more. A promise, a surrender, a beginning.

[hildergard]

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread. 

 “Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said. 

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it. 

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves. 

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel. 

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you. 

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth. 

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth. 

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes. 

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders. 

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily. 

They ignored you. 

The doorbell rang. 

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole  shop seemed to shake. 

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled. 

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom. 

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done. 

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?  

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round. 

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious. 

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions? 

 Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?  

 A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.  

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon. 

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him. 

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch. 

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name. 

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate. 

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on. 

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire. 

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face. 

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you. 

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.  

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed. 

They knew. 

The thought stayed with you. 

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze. 

“We've arrived," he announced. 

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before. 

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood. 

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs. 

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek. 

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat. 

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.” 

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.  

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

 “If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding. 

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover. 

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted. 

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal. 

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye. 

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said. 

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed. 

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours. 

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart. 

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs. 

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire. 

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer? 

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless. 

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.  

Aemond. 

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself. 

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you. 

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair. 

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you. 

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach. 

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold. 

She would come for you. 

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat. 

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room. 

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end. 

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow. 

“What is it?" you asked weakly. 

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant. 

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought. 

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly. 

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression. 

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman. 

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal. 

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride. 

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer. 

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.  

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice. 

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented. 

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar. 

You should never have come here. 

“Out.”

His mother protested. 

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–” 

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him. 

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak. 

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–” 

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked. 

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching. 

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart. 

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop. 

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.  

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows. 

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed. 

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs. 

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.  

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers. 

[ssahotchnerr]

A holiday criminal minds fic would be so cute! Like, Hotch’s wife decorated the office while they’re gone for a case. They have secret Santa and Rossi dresses up as a reindeer idk 😭 I just think it would be adorable!

making spirits bright

hehe had to slip some girl!dad aaron into this <3 cw; fem!reader, domestic fluff

upon entering the bullpen after returning to quantico, aaron was anticipating action reports, concluding paperwork, following up with the precinct to ensure the case was settled properly - a long afternoon, so to speak.

but there you were, sitting in jj's chair patiently waiting. he had called you before the jet had taken off that morning, sent you a quick text when they had landed, and had been already calculating the minutes until he made it home. needless to say, he hadn't needed to count very long, his shoulders instantly relaxing at the realization.

your eyes brightened at the sight of him, quickly getting to your feet.

"hi sweetheart," aaron's face softened, his hand finding your waist momentarily to pull you in for a kiss hello. he was pleasantly surprised, but his brows still furrowed briefly in confusion at your unexpected presence. "this is a nice surprise, what are you doing here?"

"don't be mad," your eyes were nothing short of mischievous; a fiery, excited glint to them - you had been up to something. after offering a quick wave to the team as they too trailed in, you grabbed his hand, not wasting a second to pull him up the few short stairs, "i sorta 'broke' into your office."

"alright..." he went willingly, but spoke with a touch of hesitancy - not knowing what he was about to walk into. the possibilities were endless, especially when it came to you.

you flicked the lights on in his office, and it was just how he had left it a few days prior. the only difference now, a small christmas tree was set in the corner near the window. it was adorned with multi-colored lights, a star perched on top, and handmade ornaments - made of paper, felt, accompanied by a few pipe-cleaner candy canes. they were messily made, as they were created by a seven year old, but each special in their own perfect way.

the two of you neared the tree, and you waited a second before speaking, allowing time for aaron to soak it in.

but even with the moment of silence, aaron was still lost for words. he turned to you, a quizzical yet awed expression plastered on his face.

"jack worked on those for about... a month i believe? while you've been away and whatnot. i'm a bit surprised he didn't slip up and spoil the surprise, he was really excited." you laughed softly, your expression simply lighting up more.

"oh and this," you reached out, touching a circular, clay ornament. one that featured the tiny hand of your daughter, only a few months old and about to experience her very first christmas. "courtesy of baby girl. there's also one on our tree back home too - with jack's baby handprint - but i thought you'd might like one here as well."

aaron laughed breathlessly, the smile on his face widening.

"what do ya think?" you shyly asked as your arms wrapped around aaron's middle, peering up at him eagerly and cutely.

"what do i think?" aaron tossed his go-bag onto the couch, allowing him to wrap both his arms right back around you. he was still a bit dumbstruck, his eyes continuing to scan the tree, finding something new at each glance. "this is... i truthfully don't even know what to say."

"i- we just wanted to bring some christmas cheer to your office," you said, turning back to his surprise, the lights illuminating you softly. "i know it can be dreary and depressing and it just feels so cozy at home with our family tree. but you miss it when you have your long days, so this way, you're not missing out."

"this is exactly what was needed." aaron kissed your temple, and then your lips once in reach as your face lifted towards him again. "thank you. i love it."

"good, i'm glad." you grinned, your hand grazing his torso before finding his tie, your fingers playing with the length of it gently.

"but, we do have a problem."

your face pulled into a sheepish yet witty look, pulling on his tie the smallest amount, "that i broke into your office?"

"no," aaron laughed, shaking his head. "you're welcome to break in any time. the problem is, now i'm going to have a tree in here all year round. how can i possibly take this down?"

[st4rlvr]

It’s spa day || LMH

Lee Know sat cross-legged on the living room floor, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the array of skincare products spread out on the coffee table like they were his mortal enemies. His expression was the same blank one he always wore, but I caught the slightest twitch of his lips—a telltale sign of his irritation.

“You’re really going to make me do this?” he asked flatly, his deep voice laced with mock exasperation.

“Yes,” I said, plopping down beside him with a grin. “You’ve got no choice. It’s spa night, and you’re part of the team whether you like it or not.”

He let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he muttered something under his breath about regretting dating someone “so persistent.” But when I reached for the headband with the little cat ears, his eyes narrowed.

“Absolutely not,” he said, leaning back.

“Oh, come on,” I teased, holding it out to him. “It’s cute! And it’ll keep your hair out of your face.”

He stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line, before finally muttering, “Fine.” He snatched the headband out of my hands and put it on with an air of resignation, the cat ears perched awkwardly on his head. The sight of him like that—so utterly unimpressed but still complying—made me burst into laughter.

“Adorable,” I declared, snapping a quick photo before he could stop me.

“Delete that,” he grumbled, though his hand didn’t move to stop me, and I swore I saw the faintest blush creep up his neck.

“Not a chance,” I said, setting my phone aside. “Now, hold still.”

I dipped my fingers into the cooling green clay mask and turned to him. His eyes widened slightly as I approached, and he leaned back as if he could escape.

“What are you putting on me?” he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“A face mask,” I said innocently. “It’s good for your skin. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered, but he stopped retreating, allowing me to smear the mask onto his face. His nose scrunched as the cold clay touched his skin, and he huffed dramatically.

“It’s freezing,” he complained, puffing out his cheeks in a way that made me laugh.

“Stop being such a baby,” I said, trying to keep my hand steady as he wriggled slightly. “It’s supposed to feel cool. That’s how you know it’s working.”

“You made that up,” he retorted, his tone dry.

I ignored him, focusing on spreading the mask evenly across his face. He watched me intently the entire time, his dark eyes softening as they met mine. Despite all his grumbling, he wasn’t pulling away.

When I finished, I leaned back to admire my work. “There,” I said proudly. “Now you just sit and let it dry. Easy, right?”

Lee Know glanced at himself in the reflection of the window and sighed heavily, like he’d just been sentenced to some great injustice. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you look great,” I said, stifling a giggle. “Like a skincare model.”

He gave me a skeptical look but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, his expression softening ever so slightly. His hand idly reached out for one of the cats that had curled up nearby, stroking its fur gently. It was the first time all night he looked genuinely at ease.

“You know,” I said, settling in beside him, “I think you’re secretly enjoying this.”

He scoffed, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. “In your dreams.”

But as I watched him sit there with his cat-ear headband, his face covered in green clay, and one of his beloved cats purring contentedly in his lap, I knew better. Lee Know might grumble and complain, but deep down, he didn’t mind letting me pull him into my silly little world every now and then.

And if the small smile he gave me when he thought I wasn’t looking was any indication, he might even love it.

[mothhball]

for your drabbles requests: either jonathan or neil with a girlfriend on her period? i'm definitely projecting bc i'm on mine, but...whatever. maybe a little smutty if period sex doesn't gross you out? 😋

HOME REMEDY

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x  fem!Reader

Warnings | SMUT, PERIOD SEX, p in v sex, established relationship, pronebone

Summary | you’re going through it. Lucky for you, you have a very helpful boyfriend

Words | 1.7k

Notes | Thanks for the request!!! I hope this doesn’t feel too rushed <3

MINORS DNI

"You look like you're trying to melt into the carpet," Jonathan muses, leaning against the couch with his hip as he watches your sprawled-out form on the floor. You groan in response, almost getting comfortable before another cramp makes you wheeze and turn onto your side so you can curl up.

"Maybe I am..." you grumble, placing your hands over your lower stomach in an attempt to soothe the pain. Jonathan walks over to gently nudge your leg with the side of his foot, and for a moment you feel like roadkill that he's searching for signs of life. Then again, you really do feel like someone hit you with a car.

"It's bad today, huh? Come on, let's get you more comfortable." You work together as a team to peel you off of the floor, and his hands are gentle as he leads you into the bedroom.

"Are you up for a massage?"

It's almost embarrassing how quickly your eyes light up at the offer, and he huffs out a chuckle. Your expression is answer enough, so he preps the space and puts a towel onto the mattress to prevent the oil from getting everywhere. Once he's done, he steps close to you for a quick squeeze, and as his arms are wrapped around you, he murmurs into your hair. "I'll go get you the cherry pit pillow, just lie down." You nod in response, reluctantly stepping back from the comfort of his body against yours to sink down onto the mattress, rolling over to lie on your stomach. The bedroom is quiet and warm, and the sheets still smell like your favorite detergent since you just changed them yesterday. For a moment, you’re lost in thought before another burst of pain makes you grimace.

The distant beeping of the microwave signals the impending arrival of pain relief, and you turn your head just in time to watch Jonathan pop his head into the room with a quirked brow and the warm cherry pit pillow in his hands. “Still alive? Good. I would’ve been annoyed if I did all this for nothing.” A smile tugs on your lips, and you gratefully take the pillow from him, placing it under your stomach so you can lie on it. Immediately, the warmth seeps into you, soothing the aching muscles and the organ that’s literally shredding itself on the inside.

“Thank you…” you sigh, meeting his sass with sweetness, which causes his sky-blue eyes to soften with silent affection. Jonathan grabs the bottle of oil from the nightstand before he climbs onto the bed with you, carefully straddling your thighs to reach your entire back. With a soft groan, you manage to tug your shirt off, and Jonathan rewards you by running his hands over your skin, feeling around for the tension in your muscles. He tuts, shaking his head as he caresses you. “Seems like I have my work cut out for me.” You nod in response, letting out a squeak when the cold oil is suddenly poured onto your back, but Jonathan’s hands are quick to follow, warming you right up again. He patiently works out the knots in your back, massaging your back from your shoulders all the way down to your lower back, and you moan into the pillow, feeling like clay beneath his touch as he kneads the stiffness out of your body.

But it seems like you’re not the only one enjoying the massage. After a while, Jonathan’s fingertips carefully tug at the waistband of your sweatpants, and when you turn your head to look at him from over your shoulder, you’re blessed with a perfect view of his rosy cheeks. His eyes meet yours, and he licks his lips before he swallows. “Can we..?”

Your eyebrows raise, and you prop yourself up on your elbows. “But… the mess?” you ask, pleasantly surprised when he huffs and shrugs off your worries.

“I don’t care,” he decides, setting his hands on your hips and gently circling your skin with his thumbs. “We have a towel, don’t we? And it’s all natural, so don’t worry about it. I’m not grossed-out, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He leans down, kissing the top of your head, and his grip on your waist tightens a little before he lets his hands wander a little. You can tell he’s getting riled up. He’s getting touchy.

“Alright. Hold on, I’ll be right back,” you promise, slowly getting up from the bed to head into the bathroom and freshen up a bit. Leaving your sweatpants and underwear in the hamper, you return to the bedroom bearing one of Jonathan’s favorite gifts – Your entire, very much naked body on display just for him. His eyes light up, and he welcomes you back with open arms, maneuvering you back onto your stomach with the cherry pit pillow beneath you. The warmth is even more intense now without your clothes in the way, and you let out a soft groan that becomes a little louder when Jonathan places open-mouthed kisses down the length of your spine.

“I’m oily, Jon –“ you gasp softly. He answers with a soft bite to your shoulder, and you can hear the rustling of clothes and the clinking of metal as he undoes his belt and undresses completely. His hands return to knead your flesh, and he leans down a little to whisper into your skin as if he’s directly speaking to the heart that’s beating within you.

“Shush. I don’t care. God… you’re so pretty. So perfectly human.” Jonathan lets out a sigh of relief as he eases his cock into your heat, eyes falling shut and lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s being slow with you. Careful as he pushes himself further into you, as if you’re a piece of fine porcelain that he’d cause to shatter with an overeager thrust. You hold onto the sheets, relaxing into the mattress as you’re gently squished between the warmth of your boyfriend’s body and the heated pillow. Once he’s fully sheathed inside you, he pauses once more to kiss and lick at your neck and shoulders.

“Tell me when,” Jonathan murmurs, rubbing a thumb up your lower back to make your muscles relax even further. Soon enough, you’re a comfortable puddle beneath him and give him the green light, much to his delight. He shifts to lean over you a little more, resting his hands next to your head as he pulls out almost completely to slowly push back inside. A light moan slips from your lips when his length rubs up against the fluttering walls of your pussy, making you feel every vein and throb. It’s a far cry of your usual sessions with him, and even softer than the lazy morning sex you often manage to talk him into.

“How does it feel?” he asks, setting a patient rhythm with every roll of his hips.

“Full…” you whine, turning your head a little to see him better. “But nice… It’s helping.”

You can tell this pleases his ego, and his lips pull up into a self-satisfied smirk as he leans down to murmur into your ear. As always, with this close proximity, the rich purr of his voice sends a shiver down your back.

“Mhm, I’m just your favorite painkiller, huh? You won’t even need ibuprofen once I’m done with you.”

This draws a little chuckle out of you, and Jonathan is delighted by the noise, brushing his nose against the crook of your neck before he kisses all the way up to your chin. His thrusts speed up a little, and he holds you close, sneaking one hand under you to reach for your clit. You gasp as soon as the pad of his index hits the spot, feeling how your body responds and your muscles squeeze around his cock. The weight of his body against yours, the warmth of his skin, and his soft breaths and moans in your ears couldn’t feel more heavenly, and you can feel how the tension in your core is starting to build up into a gentle crescendo with every circle he rubs around that delicate bundle of nerves.

“There we go, sweetheart. You’re squeezing me so well,” he praises softly, nipping at your ear as you turn your face to moan into the bedding. Jonathan picks up the pace, making sure to thoroughly fuck the tension out of your body, and as your orgasm washes over you, he grabs your hair to pull your head out of the sheets. He wants to hear you. Wants to see how your face twists with pleasure and relief as he slowly fucks you through your climax.

Letting go of your hair, he straightens up again, kneading your hips as he approaches his own release. Your pussy is still clenching down on him, and for a man who’s usually so composed, he looks quite disheveled at this point. And he knows it. Something feels different this time. Maybe it’s because the sex is so gentle, maybe it’s because you’re literally letting him in at such a vulnerable time, maybe it’s because the needle finally drops that, yes, he really wants this relationship to last.

Fittingly, it’s that pang of fear – fear of commitment that sends him over the edge, and he clenches his teeth as his cock spills his cum into you with every throbbing pulse.

The bedroom is quiet for a moment as both of you enjoy the buzz of endorphins and the smell of each other’s skin. Jonathan looks at you. Really looks at you. And he realizes how big your role in his life has grown over the years. Into an undeniably fundamental aspect of his existence. The fear in his stomach calms the moment you turn your head to blink up at him, blissed-out and smiling.

“Thanks for the help, Jon.”

“Anytime, love. Anytime.”

He brings his face close to yours once more, capturing your lips in a tender kiss and when he pulls back, it’s only by a hair. Like he can’t stand a bigger distance right now. Jonathan’s lips pull up into a tiny smile, brushing against yours as he speaks.

“I’m glad you let me be your home remedy.”

tags

@ellebelleshelby @cilliansprincess @mcumorningstar @x0xomady @mandies24

@detroitbecomevenom @pretty-bluebird @ink5ouls @flwrs4aust @vampmary1411

@ashdrinksoatmilk @nnattu @ptolemaniac @kiss-me-cill-me @celebrities-imagines

@hanawrites404 @ilovetoxicfictionalmen @nocturnest @biblicallyaccuratebee @red-riding-wood

@luvlloyd @plutocoded @smxkyqvxrtz @bloodandglitter207 @armydreamersss

@rosiemarieyn @sagepixieswrld

[riaki]

— the warmth of a home | satoru gojo x reader jjk0 setting w/ coparent teen megumi

wc: 2.2k cw: petnames, established relationship, ur megs mother figure, reader is referred to as they but u wear perfume not proofread!!

this was just meant to be a weekday blurb like the last but oops it turned into a full fic mb

"i'm home!"

your voice rings out as you step through the threshold of your shared home, a gentle evening breeze ushering you in as you slip your shoes off sore feet and hang your well-worn jacket up, scented flowery perfume and sweet smelling cologne mingling on the thick fabric.

it's cold out; autumn is setting in, the crisp leaves that signal the arrival of fall collecting outside your doorstep as the late weeks of october wave goodbye and usher in the first days of november, followed by a drop in temperature and thin ice that begins to crust over any wet surface.

the small hallway leads into a wide, open living room, with a corner of couches and a worn tv that hasn't screened anything in ages. there's a fuzzy throw blanket hanging over one of the couch arms, knit with patterns of cute little dogs, stuck with tongues lolling happily from their mouths. a potted plant that's clinging on to a thin thread of life you can barely sustain on the days you remember to water it sits on the coffee table, bits of soil speckling the edge of the warm clay pot as the lights overhead cast a soft glow upon the ceramic. there's a pair of black socks strewn across the tabletop- you make a mental note to give their owner a good scolding and maybe a physical touch fast for the night once you find him.

you set your bag down by the door, stepping onto the wooden floor as your feet make soft thumping noises when you cross. two pairs of keen ears pick the sounds up almost instantly, coupled by two, equally loud voices that compete for your attention.

"ah, they're back! hope they brought takeou— ow! megumi, don't yank so hard." satoru's voice comes from the bathroom, a little ways down the hall decorated with polaroids and doodles. it's promptly followed by a curt, "sorry." the words bring a smile to your face; that irritatingly singsong voice you love so much coupled by megumi's aloof and quiet.

you make your way to the door, a warm glow flooding out of the crack before you push it open wide enough to peek your head, catching a glimpse of the scene unfolding on the other side as you stifle a laugh.

satoru is propped on the edge of the bathtub, hunched to make his frame somewhat smaller and the top of his head accessible to megumi as he faces the wall, while the latter fastens a section of loosely-trimmed cream bandages over satoru's eyes, all too tight that it begins to cut into his smooth skin. there's a grimace twisting his soft lips (you know they are from constantly running a thumb over them) pink glistening from moisture under the soft daisy yellow light. megumi's hands are far too tight as they grip the strip of bandage, forcing satoru's tufts of white hair into a disheveled mess.

at the sound of the door creaking on its hinges, both of them whip their heads toward the door, megumi all but ditching the task before him as satoru hooks the bandages beneath his chin with one finger, expression softening into that lovesick grin that makes your heart pump faster against your ribcage.

"welcome back." megumi hums, straightening up to brush past you. a silent agreement passes between the two of you— you'll finish tying the bandages for satoru, while he gets some homework done.

"thank you, megs." you laughed, giving him a quick ruffle of his smooth dark hair as he bumps shoulders with you, slipping past and walking into the hallway with a disgruntled mumble at the touch. "go easy on this old man next time. i don't want to deal. with a child for the whole night," you called, stifling a laugh when you see the exaggerated hurt expression that finds its way onto satoru's face almost instantly.

a distant sound of acknowledgement from megumi finds your ears as you turn around to face your very mature and handsome husband, who's still hunched over the edge of the bathtub with his arms folded over his chest and a faux crossed expression on his face. you take a few steps towards him before you sit down on the tub beside him, legs turned out to make use of the space as you turn your head to get a good look. there's a pout on his lips, not giving an ounce of thought towards being subtle in a way that's so very him. his sparkling blue irises peek out from beneath his long lashes, the color of the clouds in the sky that slowly begin to paint pale under the shine of the setting sun.

"hey, satoru. what's got you looking so down?" you chuckled, scooting closer on the cold rim of the tub to reach out. your fingers card through his hair and you almost swoon at the way he leans into your touch, like a cat chasing for chin scratches. you push the mess of hair from his eyes to press a lazy, slow kiss to his forehead, bumping into his side. as soon as your fingers touch the first square inch of hair on his head, his arms find their way around your waist, pulling you close like he's done so many times before.

"you're so mean to me, pretty. did you call me old?" he whines, the corner of his lips downturned as he buried his head in your shoulder for a moment before pulling away to stare down at you imposingly. you only sighed, stroking his hair as you watch his lips curve up in a poorly smothered grin, cocky and smug in a way that he knows makes you want to kiss away until only a little awestruck gape remains in its wake.

"of course not, 'toru. you know i love you too much to curse you with wrinkles." you hummed, taking in the sweet look on his face dusted rosy as he looks at you.

"i should hope so," he grins, and in one swift motion, you find yourself tucked flush to his chest on his lap, one of his hands snaking up your arm to pull you close as he catches your lips with his in a sweet motion he's been anticipating since the last clingy smooch this morning. he tastes like the candy you hid away in the cabinet in an attempt to stop his sweet tooth from plowing through the time before his next dentist appointment, and you add it to your mental list of things to reprimand him for.

for now, though, you let yourself indulge- let your hand trail up his chest and around his neck, feeling his pulse beneath your thumb as you lean into him with a sigh of contentment. he's warm, familiar, and stable in a way that you've only ever found comfort in, and he's fully aware of the effect he has on you when he pulls away, puckered lips pecking your cheeks with unrestrained affection as you laugh and bat him away.

he soaks in the moment for a bit until he speaks again, with a heave and a sigh that makes him seem far too worn out for a 27 year old. "help me out, love." he sighs, motioning toward the loose bandage around his neck that threatens to slip any moment. your hands are already moving when he speaks, taking up the bunch of fabric in your fingers to push his hair back and fasten it around his eyes. you mourn a little over the loss of the sight-- his pretty blue eyes tucked away behind a wall of necessity, hidden away from the world. your shoulders sink a little and you melt into him some as you finish tying the knot, making sure it's securely fasten before you move your hands away.

you're caught mid-motion, though- his hand shoots up to grab your wrist gently, thumb gently prodding at your pulse as he tilts his head into your other hand.

"'toru? what are you doing?" you asked softly, staring down at him from your vantage point in his lap.

"baby," he starts slowly, other hand snaking around your waist to press against the small of your back, warm and steady as he presses you close to him. "do you love me?"

you're surprised. most of the time, he never broaches the area of emotions out of the blue—it's an area of vulnerability he's still not quite ready for; not quite healed enough to approach. and you understand, so you never push him to talk.

"of course i do. that's why i'm here." you reminded him, gaze snagging on the way his teeth catch his lip and chew nervously. a fleeting thought enters your mind, and for a second you almost think he might put up infinity.

it's quiet for a moment, then, and you take the moment to size him up, appraising as the light from the window above filters in, framing his face in some sort of angelic light. he really looks ethereal, you think to yourself.

then, the silence is broken.

"enough to buy me takeout?" he offers sheepishly, all apprehension vanishing as that easy smile creeps over his lips again and he clasps your hands in his, lithe and calloused fingers enveloping yours to dot your wrist and knuckles with little kisses.

you blinked, before rolling your eyes, laughing that sweet laugh he only ever teased to hear from you as you wriggled free from his grasp, sliding off his lap and standing up again before he could trap you in a hug again.

"no, satoru. but i'll make dinner with megumi and save some for when you get back. does that sound good?" you offered, looking down at him expectantly.

he smiles at that, swinging his legs over the tub to stand as well. he's tall, almost comically so— looking quite out of place under the fluorescent lights amidst pastel shampoo bottles. your eyes drift to the sink, where two bristly toothbrushes are tucked in the same cup, and you smile.

"anything made by you is great, sweetheart." he says with a cheeky grin, reveling in the soft flush that stains your face as he walks closer, cupping your face in one hand and leaning down to kiss the side of your head affectionately. he catches a whiff of your perfume, and his smirk only widens. before he can do further, though, someone clears their throat from the other side of the door, and you turn around to catch sight of a head of spiky black hair, an unamused look on his face as megumi eyes the two of you.

"why are you still here?" he sniffs, peering up at satoru with a frown. the latter just chuckles, reaching over to aggressively mess with his hair, leaving it even more disheveled and out of place as an angry protest leaves megumi. satoru skirts just out of reach of an irritated jab, throwing what you think is some sort of charming wink from beneath his white bandages at the two of you.

"seeya, love. hold the fort down while i'm gone." he calls, already halfway to the door. his steps echo in your ear as you just smile, opening the bathroom door and stepping into the hallway as megumi slides up to your side, a sour expression tugging at his lips. "don't let the rascal upset our haven." said rascal makes a face.

"be safe," you said softly, hoping he caught your unspoken wishes in those two words. judging by the way he paused at the door before hurrying back to your side to pepper you with four departing kisses— one on either cheek, the tip of your flushed nose, and on your lips-- he took the caution to heart.

"you're so cute when you worry, love." he chuckled, his laugh like a spring of rejuvenating running water that filled you with life. he took a moment to take you in again— hair slightly messy from the wind whistling outside, the tips of your ears a pleasant red and a look in your eyes he could only describe as adoration.

"don't worry. i'll always come back to you."

and with that, he was gone.

not for long, though. eventually, he'd return home to a lone kitchen light flicked on, spreading warmth onto the table below. he'd come home to the same heart-warming scene he had so many times before— slipping his bandages down his face, taking his jacket off to spread it from one of your shoulders to megumi's— you'd fallen asleep together with the window open, a chilling evening breeze filtering in as the pages of megumi's homework fluttered in the wind, frustrated scribbles smudged against the crinkled paper underneath his elbows as he slept. you were by his side, too— cozy and exhausted, soft little breaths leaving your lips every now and then. times like this brought him a simple joy; the happiness of having a home to come back to, a family with handmade dinner gone cold on the table as it waited for him, a trio who could support one another and provide the love that each person had been missing.

there would never be anything he'd want more than this simplicity.

he ends up dumping megumi on the couch before carrying you bridal style towards your shared bedroom.

extra: u and megumi cook pasta tgt :3

my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize!

[rocksibblingsau]

I don't know if you already have something laid out for that dynamic, but I feel that country Branch and Clay would either bond really easily (after the whole "you were in the tree that whole time?!" thing gets resolved" or bicker at almost every opportunity

Branch already reads a lot and with the country trolls affinity for sadness and hard times, Clay has the one the quickness path to Branch's heart out of all the brothers. Also with Clay's leadership role and serious vibes, he would probably habe a lot of respect and many different topics to talk with Branch about.

But on the other hand, their similarities could easily make them hate each other. Clay seeing Branch's leadership role as a reflection of Jd and not of himself is one of them, but also jealousy over how respected he and his boundaries are. And this Branch would shut down the babying way easier than canon, he probably had to prove himself to many country trolls and would not let himself be disrespected without a serious fight

I actually do see Clay and somewhat Bruce seeing Branch as a mini-JD initially when they visit his home. They don't get to see his dynamic during the rescue, but once they get back to Lonesome Flats they see how Branch takes charge and orders people around and all they can see is John Dory.

Clay can't recognize that Branch is a leader like him rather than John because Branch doesn't have his own Viva. I imagine Clay and Viva tag team issues in an almost 'stern parent/fun parent' dynamic. Viva softens any blows by trying to point out the bright side or explain why Mr. Clay's idea is gonna be fun/great.

Country Trolls don't need that dynamic. If Branch says have those silos filled by the end of the day, they don't stop and ask why. They can, and Branch would be happy to answer, but they know already that Branch has good reasons.

I imagine in that scenario Bruce might try to gentle parent. "Don't you think that's a strict deadline? As long as they get filled, what does it matter if it's today or tomorrow?" Clay is also chastising Branch on overworking people and being too demanding.

Branch would look at them and raise an eyebrow, then call someone over.

"Ambrosia, could you tell me what you told me this mornin'?" "Sure thing. I said make sure all the grain is up by tomorrow unless you're fine with it bein' washed away. There's a storm headin' in and anything not in the silos is as good as gone."

If Branch says to do something, he has a reason. He's happy to explain his reasoning to you, but in the Country tribe, there's no point wasting time chit-chatting. They trust Branch, so they don't see any point wasting precious breath debating it.

It may look like Branch is giving orders, but he's not really in charge of anything formally like Delta Dawn is. They're suggestions, really. Advice from an expert plugged into nature and the community. They might sound like orders, especially given that everyone goes ahead and does what he says, but no one really has to listen to him. They respect Branch Dawn, and not just because he's Delta's kin.

[casualsnickers]

Month of Emmet Quick Write #2

Prompt #2: White

Emmet has been running the Battle Subway alone ever since his brother’s initial disappearance and while he’s elated that Ingo is finally back (and not quite ready to resume his work), he’s definitely… cautious about how the media will react.

Read the whole thing below the cut:

Emmet strode ahead, coffee in hand, sweeping Ingo along the memorized route that they often used to walk along the subway tunnels, never taking his hand off of his brother’s shoulder. They hadn’t gone very far- only half a mile or so.

“These are the service tunnels beneath the A-Line.” Emmet pointed down the corridor toward the servicing doors illuminated by a harsh blue light. “Those doors are connected to a separate line only for depot agents.”

“That, I remember.” Ingo peered closely at the painted-on signs along the way, leaning further into Emmet’s touch as they continued walking along the darkened tracks. “And these tracks are on both sides of the lines?”

“Only one side. Usually on the right,” Emmet responded. He was still reintroducing Ingo back to the subway after his brother’s… unexpected detour to a place he called Hisui. A place Emmet learned had actually been ancient Sinnoh a few hundred years prior.

Baby steps. That was what they were taking. While Ingo was nowhere near being able to comfortably resume his prior position as his battling partner in their workplace, Ingo had shown a rekindled passion for learning all about the muse that had haunted him throughout his entire time in Hisui. It was a step up; a major step up comparing things to when Ingo had been afraid to leave their shared home in Nimbasa, too afraid of the loud noises and flashing lights, likening them to some rather awful experiences in Hisui that had only ever graced Emmet’s ears on particularly bad nights.

Emmet’s Xtransceiver began to vibrate on his wrist. He was slow to pick it up. “I am Emmet.”

“Boss Emmet, this is Depot Agent Cloud,” came a low drawl from the other side of the phone. Emmet could immediately imagine the older man leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, probably watching the two of them stumble around the lower tunnels like two wayward Patrats. “Hey. Just thought I ought to let the two of you know; you’ve got lines buildin’ up on the platforms. May wanna get after it.”

“Lines?” Ingo repeatedly confusedly. “I shouldn’t have any lines- the singles, super singles, multi, and super multi are closed for the time being, are they not?”

“They are.” Emmet knew for a fact that they were supposed to be closed. He had mandated it. He had specifically signed the paperwork for it and had sent it to the mayor of Nimbasa and had the documents approved. Days ago. The paperwork mandated that every single advert for the Battle Subway was to be amended to reflect that in no way, shape or form was Ingo to be challenged or sought after for any purpose related to media.

In the past- when the shock of Ingo disappearing had softened ever so slightly- when Emmet was no longer going without food or missing debilitating amounts of sleep- he had begrudgingly allowed guest trainers to star along the multi-line with him if passengers demanded it: Elesa, his talented depot agents- even Burgh or Clay- the latter if he had gambled too much in Nimbasa the night prior.

“Cloud, can you disband the lines on the singles and multi lines?”

“We’ve tried,” Cloud retorted. “Both Cameron and Furze went over there to get ‘em to leave but they aint budgin’. Keep demanding to see Boss Ingo. Aren’t content with hearing the whole story about him not bein’ fightin’ fit. Think they’re entitled to him or something.”

Emmet pinched the bridge of his nose and stopped dead in his tracks, irritation causing his hands to shake. This is exactly why I should’ve closed the Battle Subway entirely… as much as it would have hurt. Working Gear Station paid more than enough, but the Battle Subway had been his and Emmet’s pet project since they had been kids. It had been their life’s work. To set it down for even a moment stung in such an indescribable way that even trying to comprehend the idea made Emmet nauseous.

“And I know you don’t wanna hear this…” Cloud continued, his words dragging along.

“… What. Is it. Cloud?”

“… A gaggle of news reporters are in the main lobby too. Waitin’ to pounce on your brother, it seems. Jackie’s havin’ an easy time rippin’ their ears off, but we’d appreciate some backup up here. But of course, we can call the police if you think it’s too much. None of the regular commuter lines have been disturbed by the gathering… so far.”

“Is that so?” Emmet’s hands were trembling.

Why couldn’t they just leave his brother alone? Why couldn’t they just let Ingo recuperate in peace? Ingo had brought a lot of things with him from Hisui. New pokémon. New experiences. New battling styles. New traumas.

Old diseases that modern medicine had eradicated decades prior. Scratches and scars and stiff joints. A posture that had at first made him appear shorter- one that physical therapy had slowly began to straighten out. It had been months since Ingo’s return- nearly a year- but Emmet wasn’t naïve enough to believe in the first place that Ingo would recover from his ordeal in a quick fashion. It would take a very long time before things ever began to resemble the normalcy they once had. Ingo had become a different person- Emmet was still trying to piece out exactly who the new ‘Ingo’ was.

Emmet had been doing his utmost best to make sure that Ingo was both getting the maintenance he so desperately needed while ensuring that the media- mostly news stations eager to get their story of the week- stayed clear of Gear Station- and most importantly- of Emmet. He had no tolerance for nosy reporters or overeager fans who didn’t listen to the strict warning about leaving Ingo alone. It had always been like that, even before Ingo went missing. He had been on the receiving end of unwanted attention when Ingo had disappeared, cameras being shoved into his face every single hour of every single day. And Emmet hated interacting with the press. He hated being pestered outside of work. His personal hours. If he could have it his way, he’d ban every last one of them from Gear Station for an entire month and then battle them just to humiliate them a little further. Losing to Battle Facility Heads off the clock meant that challenging trainers still had to fork over money. And Emmet knew just the item that would hurt them and their pockets a little bit more while still remaining perfectly legal.

But… Ingo had been the one to twist his arm and force him to relent in the first place. Ingo had been the one to so enthusiastically state his wish to accompany Emmet to work in the early hours just to gain a taste for their own workplace again. It had been Ingo who had gotten so mad when Emmet initially denied his requests. Ingo who had complained vehemently to Elesa about being stuck inside. Ingo who had so voraciously consumed as much media about subways and trains as he could handle, skipping out on sleep just to be able to figure out what the train-idioms littered about his speech finally meant.

Ingo just barely remembered what paparazzi were. He knew exactly the kind of pressure they would exert to see him. To get a good video or picture of him. That kind of trauma lasted through amnesia. Ingo had relented in allowing one of Emmet’s newest Pokémon- a Vikavolt- to distort any picture or video feed that the news stations or nosy fans did capture of either of them- solely to protect him. But that had been the line and Emmet had been itching to make it perfectly clear to the people of Nimbasa- to everybody in Unova- that Ingo was to be left alone in peace.

“- Emmet?” There came a tentative but strong pull on Emmet’s coat sleeve, pulling him squarely out of his thoughts. Ingo’s concerned gaze swam into the view. “You’re dissociating. Keep steady. Remember your safety checks.” Ingo then let go before fixing his posture. “I can… I can face them if- “

“No.” Emmet firmly grabbed Ingo by his shoulder and steered him over to the servicing tunnel door, shoving him in first. “I am Emmet. I will deal with the… guests. I will have them leave and then we will make our way to the back rooms.”

Ingo was quick to turn on his heels the second the doors closed. “I cannot stay hidden forever, Emmet! I must- “

“You do not have to do anything!” Emmet’s voice bounced off of the concrete. Made Ingo flinch, even. “I will deal with them! That is my job!”

“They are only curious! No harm will come if I simply bid them a quick ‘hello’!” Ingo then met Emmet’s gaze, a flame of determination sparking to life in his eyes. “I want to make an appearance,” Ingo iterated. “They will not leave me be unless I do, correct? Then why continue to skulk around in the tunnels?”

“You’re not- “

“We are,” Ingo asserted. He pulled away, striding toward the dizzying ladders as he began to climb. “I don’t wish to hide anymore.”

“Ingo- “

“Emmet,” Ingo retorted back in a slightly mocking tone. And in a much softer but confident tone, Ingo continued, “I want to say hello. My question is, will you support me?”

There came a moment. “Of course I will!”

“Then we both have nothing to fear! If I become too overwhelmed then- “

“- I will escort you to our office where the press cannot follow us,” Emmet concluded immediately. The backup idea still didn’t make Emmet’s heart beat any slower. “Please inform me if you get too overwhelmed.”

“Emmet, I am not the Salamanca Locomotive. You are forgetting that Hisui hosted more dangers than simply tolerating paparazzi.”

“I’m not insinuating anything.”

Ingo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he led the way as the two climbed the stairs higher and higher, Ingo himself shakily using the PA to order the depot agents to gather every contender in the main plaza of Gear Station for a ‘surprise visit’. The fear in the man’s voice was palpable, present in every shaking consonant as they neared the exit door leading to the departure platform.

And Emmet followed along silently, his hand just barely holding onto the tail of Ingo’s coat. Anything to remind himself that it wasn’t just him facing the press- Ingo was there too.

“…I want to do this alone.”

Emmet paused. They had come to a full stop in front of the exit door, Ingo still standing with his back to Emmet.

“…What?”

“I… I would like to greet the press… alone.”

“…May I ask why?”

Ingo took in a deep breath. “You have… you have been very accommodating, Emmet. You have been nothing but generous and selfless and thoughtful during my reintroduction to Unova. Truly, you are the best brother I could ever ask for.”

Why does this sound like Ingo is about to say something bad? “…What are you even saying, Ingo? I’m your twin. I’m your only brother,” Emmet chuckled weakly.

“I know. You’ve done much for me. But I think… it’s time… to travel along these tracks alone. Not literally, though,” Ingo backtracked, fixing his hair underneath his cap. “I just thought- well, really- it would be better for me to appear alone. It’s nothing against you, really! But I don’t want to be seen as- “

“A liability?” The words hung in the air for a long, long time. So long that Emmet was almost certain that had been what Ingo was trying to get at. “You don’t want to be seen as… incompetent. Constantly having to be chauffeured around the subway, is that right?”

“…You would be correct.”

“Ingo- “

“I can’t help what I feel, Emmet! I just- will you let me greet them alone?”

“…I can take the other exit- “

“- As in, let me speak for myself,” Ingo clarified, grabbing hold of Emmet’s sleeve with a harried quickness he’d only ever reserved for fleeing out a room when the light switch was flicked on. “I would still greatly appreciate you being there to assist me! Please! Do not decouple from me! I simply meant-”

“…Of course, Ingo.” Emmet shut his eyes and nodded. I’m still wanted. I just… have to… let Ingo lead. Emmet tapped his finger against his side. Ingo always used to lead. He’s trying to lead now. So I will let him. “You lead. I will follow.”

The two brothers paused by the door before turning on a heel to face each other instead. Small fixes were made. Ingo’s shirt was tucked back in. Emmet’s hair was fixed. A few pieces of lint were picked off and sent flying. A few scuffed pokéballs were shined and put back in their places. Ingo made the final call, giving Emmet a thorough once-over before turning and slowly lifting his hand to the door.

“…Say the words.”

Emmet chuckled. “Do you even remember them? You don’t even remember yours.”

“But I remember your lines. I never forgot them.”

Those words alone made Emmet’s throat tighten with pain. His voice shaky, Emmet took his place right behind Ingo, placing a calming hand on his brother’s back. Quietly, he began his usual script. “Fine… Follow the rules. Safe driving.”

“Follow the schedule,” Ingo continued, his voice barely audible.

“Everybody smile. Check safety.”

“Everything’s ready.”

“Aim for victory.”

With a deep breath, Ingo pushed down hard on the door bar. Flashes of blistering white light scorched the tunnel. The din of snapping shutters and the howl of anxious, excited voices blasted into the small concrete hallway. Emmet tightened his grip on Ingo’s coat- more for himself than his brother. He then gave the biggest grin he could muster as he stepped out of the servicing tunnel and onto the platform which was thronging with people. Ingo’s tight grip on him only strengthened but his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

“ALL ABOARD!”

[fanfics4all]

Christmas Tree

Request: Yes / No Fluffcember Day 24! 

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Negan x Fem!Reader 

Word count: 682

Warnings: Just sweet snowy fluff!

Song: The Hills by The Weekend

Prompt(s): Christmas Tree

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

The air was crisp, and the scent of pine filled my nose as Negan and I walked through the woods, hand in hand. Snow covered the ground in patches, making it feel almost like we’d stumbled into some Hallmark movie set. Negan tightened his grip on my hand, shooting me a mischievous smile as we stepped over a fallen branch. 

“You still think we’re gonna find a decent tree out here?” He asked, scanning the area. I laughed, nudging him playfully. 

“If we don’t then at least we got a nice walk out of it, but come on, it’s Christmas! We can’t just skip the tree!” Negan chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Alright, alright, I’m with you. We’ll find the perfect tree if it takes all damn day.” His eyes softened as he looked at me. His usual bravado slipped away to reveal the man I knew best, the one who’d go along with my ideas just to see me happy. 

After a bit more wandering, we finally spotted it. A small pine tree, a little misshapened, but full of charm. Negan looked at me, waiting for approval and I grinned, nodding in excitement. 

“This is the one! It’s perfect!” I declared, running my fingers over the prickly branches. 

“Perfect, huh?” He tilted his head, giving the tree an appraising look. 

“A little rough around the edges, but yea, I see it.” He smirked, pulling out his hatchet. 

“Let’s bring it home, then.” He made quick work of cutting it down and we were soon hauling it back to the house. 

Inside was warm, with the soft glow of a few candles flickering on the windowsill. Setting the tree in an old stand we’d found, Negan stepped back, hands on his hips, and surveyed it proudly. 

“It’s no Rockefeller Center, but I’d say it’s pretty damn close.” He joked. I laughed, rolling my eyes as I dug through our box of mismatched decorations. The box was a collection of odds and ends we’d gathered over the years, some handmade ornaments, a few old baubles we’d managed to salvage, and a string of lights that miraculously still worked. 

As we started handing the decorations, Negan surprised me by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, crumpled bundle of tinsel he must have found somewhere. 

“For some extra holiday flair, you’re always going on about.” He said with a wink, draping it messily over the branches. I stepped back, laughing at the way it looked all clumped up and tangled, but somehow it added an extra bit of charm. 

“You really outdid yourself there.” I teased, grabbing a few more ornaments. 

“Oh, I know.” He grinned, handing a little clay star near the top of the tree. 

“I kind of got an eye for this shit.”

We worked in comfortable silence for a while. Carefully arrange each ornament until every branch has something on it. I’d catch him looking at me every so often, his expression soft and content. It made my heart ache in the best way. There was something so rare and special about moments like this with him. 

Finally, I stepped back to admire our work. I felt a pang of nostalgia as I looked over the quirky tree. 

“It’s perfect.” I whispered, more to myself than anything. Negan moved to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head. 

“Yeah.” He said quietly. His voice was full of something deeper than his usual humor. 

“It really is.” 

We stayed like that for a while, just the two of us and our little tree, the flickering lights casting a soft glow around the room. Outside, the snow started to fall again, coating the ground in a nice fresh layer of white. Negan pressed a gentle kiss to my temple. 

“Merry Christmas, babe.” He whispered, his voice full of warmth. I turned in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. 

“Merry Christmas, my love.” I whispered back, leaning up to kiss him. Everything felt exactly as it should be. It felt almost normal again.

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs-blog1 @lover-of-books-and-tea @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches28 @kmc1989 @drw0301bieber @lady-of-lies @ravenmoore14 @ravenempress101 @cillianchamp @rowanthomasknapp @rachelxwayne @ready-4-fanfiction @madammarvellous-blog1

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH02 🎶 Wonder Drug - Allday 🎶

The air carried a biting chill as you navigated the unfamiliar streets, your breath misting in the dim afternoon light. You scanned your surroundings with practiced vigilance, a habit born from years spent in rough neighborhoods. The sights, the sounds—it was all second nature to you now. You didn’t just explore a new area; you mapped it in your mind, preparing for whatever might come your way.

The quiet street ahead led to a small park, a splash of green amid the muted tones of the city. A walk through the trees might ease the low hum of anxiety in your chest, you thought, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets to fend off the cold. Leaves in shades of gold and burnt orange crunched underfoot as you followed the winding path. The noise of the city faded, replaced by the occasional chirp of a bird and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Ahead, the path dipped beneath a small bridge, its arch cloaked in shadow. Two figures stood there, indistinct at first. As you drew closer, one of them came into sharper focus. You stopped in your tracks, your heart skipping a beat as recognition set in. Clay.

You rolled your eyes reflexively, retreating to a nearby bench where you could observe without being seen. He hadn’t spotted you—too preoccupied with his business. From this distance, you couldn’t make out much of the exchange, but the quick handshake and his subtle pocketing of something told you everything you needed to know. Probably weed, you figured.

You didn’t care that Clay was a dealer, but it wasn’t a world you had a desire to be a part of. Still, your gaze flicked to the other man as he turned and headed your way. Older, with a wiry build, a sharp moustache, and a face like creased leather—he oozed a kind of slimy menace that made your skin crawl. You glanced away, feigning disinterest, your stomach tightening until his footsteps faded.

As the man disappeared from view, you stood, brushing your hands on your jeans. Time to leave. But you’d barely made it a few steps when the sound of jogging footsteps behind you sent your pulse spiking. You didn’t turn; you already knew who it was.

Clay fell into stride beside you, his breath visible in puffs of mist against the cold air. He didn’t say anything at first, just glanced at you with an arched brow and a sly grin that made your heart do a little flip despite your better judgment.

“Stalkin’ me now?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You smirked, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just taking a walk.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced, the glint in his eye equal parts amusement and intrigue. “Gonna swing by for another late-night cone?”

There it was—that maddening mix of cocky charm and effortless confidence. You shrugged, keeping your tone indifferent. “Not in the mood for ice cream.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he drawled, leaning closer like he was letting you in on some grand secret. “I rented The Shining.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head. “What, you need someone to hold your hand?”

His grin widened, wicked and disarming. “I got somethin’ else you can hold if you want.”

Your stomach fluttered, the warmth of his mischief brushing dangerously close to something you couldn’t quite suppress. But you pushed it aside, raising an unimpressed brow.

“Even if I were about to fall for your cheesy lines—which I’m not—I have a client.”

He scoffed, his expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity. “Tattooing? From your place?”

You nodded, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Yeah, haven’t found a parlor here yet.”

“How long you been doing that?” His voice had softened, the sharp edges of his usual bravado giving way to something… real.

“About seven years.” You gave him a sideways glance, unsure where this was going. “Why?”

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “What? I can’t ask you a personal question?” You bit the inside of your lip slightly, unsure of what to say. You were closed off, but you didn’t want to be so obvious about it.

“Y’know, you’ve got that ‘I’m pretending to be unimpressed by everything’ thing down. Too bad it’s not workin’ on me.” His amusement was back, but there was something else behind it now—like he was trying to figure you out. And damn it if that look didn’t stir something deep in your chest, something you weren’t ready to confront.

xxx 🎶 Too Sweet - Hozier 🎶 xxx

You bit back an eye roll as Phil limped away from the tattoo bench in your makeshift studio. The guy had complained non-stop for five hours, but you’d managed to finish his calf piece in one sitting. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked for color—black and grey was mercy enough for a whiner like him.

“You good, man?” you asked, masking your amusement as he winced, fumbling to fish cash out of his pocket. He nodded stiffly, handing over the crumpled bills with a tight smile.

“Thanks, Myah,” he said, but his eyes betrayed the pain coursing through his leg. You held the door open as he hobbled toward the hallway, relieved to have your evening back.

The metallic creak of another door caught your attention. Across the hall, Clay leaned casually in his own doorway, arms crossed. His expression was bored, but the way his gaze flicked between you and Phil betrayed his interest.

Phil shuffled to a stop just before the elevator, glancing back at you with an awkward determination that made your stomach sink. You already knew what was coming.

“Myah,” he began hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you, uh, maybe wanna grab a drink sometime?” His voice was soft, his attempt at confidence shaky.

Past him, you caught Clay shifting uncomfortably. His eyes darted away, like he wasn’t listening—but the slight tension in his jaw told you otherwise.

“I, uh…” You hesitated, the weight of Phil’s hopeful expression pressing down on you. “I don’t really date anymore.”

Phil’s shoulders sagged, disappointment flickering across his face, but he nodded. “I get it,” he said, though his voice wavered. “It’s just—after Will…”

Your chest tightened. “I’m not there yet,” you cut in firmly, your voice carrying a finality that left no room for argument. Phil nodded again, offering a faint, understanding smile.

You stepped back as he boarded the elevator, watching the doors slide shut with a metallic clink. The unease lingered, but you pushed it aside, glancing back toward Clay. He wore an amused expression, one eyebrow quirked as if he’d just witnessed something mildly entertaining.

“Wow,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you asked, leaning inside to grab your bong off the hallway table.

“Just surprised you had the willpower to turn down that stud of a man,” he teased, his tone laced with mockery.

You rolled your eyes, closing the door behind you as you crossed the hall to his apartment. “That ‘stud’ spent five hours whining like a baby while I covered up a shitty stick-and-poke he got in some junkie’s backyard,” you deadpanned.

Clay smirked, stepping aside to let you in. “So… taking me up on my offer, then?”

You sank into his couch with a groan, setting the bong on the coffee table. “The movie and cones? Sure. But the only thing I’m holding tonight is this.” You nodded toward the glass, earning a laugh from him as he settled next to you, a grinder in hand.

“So, not the dating type?” he asked casually, though the faint curiosity in his voice made you glance his way.

“What makes you say that?” you countered.

He shrugged, eyes on the weed he was grinding. “That guy said it’s been a while. Plus…” He paused, giving you a teasing once-over. “Your attitude. Kinda puts the pieces together.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Not a lot of room for dating in my life,” you replied with a shrug, eager to steer the focus away from yourself. “How about you? Get out much?”

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as his gaze drifted to the TV, where a terrible infomercial played on low volume. “Haven’t been on a date since high school.”

The honesty of his answer caught you off guard. Before you could respond, he cleared his throat, like he’d said too much. “I mean, I’ve fucked—”

You burst into laughter, cutting him off. “I don’t need a rundown of your roster, but thanks for the clarification.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he handed you the packed cone. “I just don’t really… socialize much. Not exactly the boyfriend type, anyway.” His tone turned flat, almost dismissive, but there was a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

A smirk tugged at your lips. “Shocker,” you muttered, lighting the bowl and inhaling deeply.

“You think you got me all figured out, huh?” he challenged, leaning closer, his gaze locking with yours as you fought to keep the smoke in your lungs.

You exhaled slowly, meeting his stare with an easy confidence. “I know I do.”

He laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief, but the way his eyes lingered told you he wasn’t entirely sure who was getting the upper hand.

Clay tried to ignore the feeling of warmth spreading through his chest. He knew better than to let you under his skin, but something about you had him intrigued enough to forget about his own rules.

The sound of kernels rattling against the pot drew your attention to the kitchen, where Clay stood at the stove. You shifted on the couch, glancing toward him as the smell of heating oil filled the air.

“Stove popcorn, huh?” you called, your tone light but skeptical. “Didn’t peg you for the culinary type.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s not culinary. It’s survival. Microwave popcorn’s for people who don’t know what real butter tastes like.”

You snorted, leaning back against the couch. “Sure. Real butter. I’m guessing you’re more of a margarine guy, though.”

“That’s slander,” he shot back, turning back to the stove. “Keep talking, and I’ll eat all of this myself.”

You smirked faintly, shifting your focus back to the TV. The movie was playing, but you weren’t really paying attention. The occasional pop of the kernels seemed louder than the dialogue on screen.

“Don’t burn it,” you muttered after a pause, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“I don’t burn popcorn,” he replied, his tone just smug enough to irritate you.

“You sure about that? Bet you’ve burned other things.”

He turned his head slightly, giving you a sidelong look. “You keep doubting my skills, you’re not getting any.”

You shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Fine. Less greasy fingers for me, anyway.”

He didn’t reply, but you could hear the faint huff of amusement he tried to suppress. A few moments later, the popping slowed, and Clay reappeared, carrying the steaming bowl. He set it down on the coffee table between you, settling into the other side of the couch.

“Help yourself,” he said, his tone casual but his posture stiff.

You hesitated for a moment, then reached for a handful, the tension between you still hanging in the air. “Not bad,” you said after chewing, keeping your tone neutral.

“Not bad?” he repeated, raising a brow. “That’s gourmet popcorn. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” you echoed, giving him a skeptical look. “You didn’t even salt it.”

He rolled his eyes, leaning forward to grab a salt shaker from the table. “Happy now?”

You shrugged, taking another handful. “I’ve had worse.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back again. “You always this hard to please?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the shift in his tone—still playful, but softer now, more curious. “Guess I just have standards,” you replied, keeping your voice even.

Silently, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before turning back to the screen.

The two of you fell into an uneasy quiet, the only sounds were the faint crunch of popcorn and the movie playing on low volume. But every so often, you caught him glancing at you from the corner of your eye, like he was trying to figure out what to say next.

When the popcorn bowl was nearly empty, he finally spoke again. “So… you always this chatty during movies, or am I just special?”

You rolled your eyes, your lips quirking into a reluctant smile. “Oh, you’re special, alright.”

His smirk returned, but this time there was something more genuine about it, like he was letting down his guard just a little. “Good to know.”

[ravennaortiz]

Chapter 6 of the Juice and OC Stormie Rayne story.

Warnings: As always this is an 18+ story. General themes of the show such as violence, drugs, swearing, smut etc. Mention of child abuse, domestic violence, sexual assault/harassment are in some chapters.

Tag List @danzer8705

"I'm starting to think you don't have your own place Juice" joked Stormie as she walked into the living room where her brother and Juice were sitting playing a video game. "Your always welcome to visit to see for yourself" replied Juice as he shot her a quick smile. "Might have too. Did you two leave me some coffee?" questioned Stormie as she continued into the kitchen. "I made a fresh pot just a few minutes ago" called Half-Sack as he paused the game.

"Why did you " started Juice turning to look at his best friends but stopping catching the look he was getting. "Are you flirting with my sister?" inquired Half-Sack. "Umm" stared Juice unsure what to say. He couldn't deny that he thought Stormie was good looking or that he found her fantastic to be around. There had been light flirting on both parts. "I'm not mad but like she's only been here a couple of months. I want her to feel at home here. She's delicate and I don't want her hurt" stated Half-Sack. Juice nodded before speaking. "I got you man" stated Juice as Stormie came back in to the room and sat next to him on the couch.

*Clubhouse*

"Uncle Tiggy!" screeched Isabella the moment she saw Tig at the bar. Dropping Stormies hand she bolted to the man who chuckled as he picked her up. "How's my little lady? Want an ice cream?" inquired Tig as Stormie shook her head as she made her way to the meeting room the guys called Church where Clay was seated talking with Bobby. "Its ten in the morning Tig" she called over her shoulder. "I didn't hear a no did you" asked Tig as he looked at Isabella who giggled and shook her head. "Ice cream it is" stated Tig loud enough for Stormie to hear before going to the kitchen. Stormie chuckled slightly to herself. If she had learned anything the last month it was that no one could say no to her little girl.

"Hey hun" greeted Bobby as he saw her pause in the doorway. "Sorry to bother you two. I was just wanting to let you know I am ready to start working the bar shifts. I appreciate the opportunity.....it means a lot" explained Stormie her voice cracking slightly with emotion at the end as she met Clays gaze. "Not a problem at all. You and Isabella are family and we look after each other." stated Clay as his face softened and he smiled at her. We will be having a party tomorrow night. Why don't you go stock up today, you can take Juice with you" stated Clay as Bobby got into a safe behind him and pulled out a stack of cash and held it out for her.

"Can do boss" replied Stormie as she took the money and headed out. "Make sure our guest understand she is off limits. Any unwelcome advances could end with death" stated Clay as Bobby nodded making a note to reach out to the other charters later.

*Store*

"Thank you for coming with me" stated Stormie as they walked out of the store heading other suv. "Not a problem" replied Juice as he pushed the heavy cart to the parked car. "Hop in and I can load up" stated Juice as he opened the passenger side door for her. "You sure?" inquired Stormie as she started to pick up a box. "Yes" replied Juice as he playfully smacked her hand making her laugh. "Alright. I just don't want top hear you complaining I made you do all the work" replied Stormie with a smirk as she got in the car.

Juice had just finished putting away the cart when a police cruiser pulled up alongside the SUV. "Fuck" muttered Juice as he saw it was Deputy Hale and started jogging to the car to run interference. "Ortiz. I was just introducing myself to your little friend here. Letting her know to reach out if she sees anything suspicious" explained Hale as he held out a card to Stormie who shook her head keeping her gaze forward. "How kind of you" replied Juice as he stood between the two vehicles. "Have a good day" stated Hale before driving away.

"You good" questioned Juice as he turned to Stormie watching her carefully after he had made sure Hale had left. "Yeah, he just creeped me out" replied Stormie as she turned to meet his gaze. Juice nodded before moving to get into the drivers seat.

Return to Chapter Masterlist

[avengerscompound]

The Tower - The King and I

The Tower - The King and I

Series Masterlist

Pairing:  Avengers x OFC, Bruce Banner x Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x Wanda Maximoff x Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff x Tony Stark x Thor x Sam Wilson x OFC (Elly Cooper)

Word Count: 3143

Warnings:  smut (MF, Rimming, vaginal sex, anal sex)

Synopsis:  After a long day on the throne, Thor and Elly take time to relax with each other

Author’s Note: Requested by  @unnecessarypineapplesstuff on Tumblr,  and KaylaCallahan  & K-Destiiny on Wattpad. You can send in your requests too.

Takes place after Happily Ever After

The King and I

The day had been long and mentally exhausting.  It felt like every resident of Asgard had come in wanting Thor to help adjudicate their petty squabbles.  As I sat through them all with him in the afternoon, I could see how frustrated he was becoming.

Thor is a good man.  Kind.  Wise.  Loving.  Despite my feelings about monarchy, he’s a good king and does his best by his people who have multiple times rejected the idea of democracy.  He always listens to his advisors and us, as well as his people when he makes a decision.  The problem is, he hates it.  He hates being confined to a throne when he could be out doing something physical.  When it’s all little stuff, he gets very antsy, longing for the wind in his hair and something to smash.

I tried to help him be arbiter over the myriad of little grievances, such as broken windows due to children playing in the street, the ownership of certain animals, a farmer who wanted to know if he could graze his animals on royal land, and someone complaining about their neighbor hosing down the path in front of their store.  If the answer was simple or could have been dealt with just some simple common sense and consideration of others, I’d take the reins, letting Thor have a moment to switch off.  By the end of the day, if two women had come in arguing about which one of them was a baby’s mother, King Solomon style, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

When the last person had left the throne room Thor stood and stretched.  “Come, my queen.  We should return to our family.”

I stood and took his hand. “We have time before we need to get back,” I said as I looked up at him.  The way he was standing was so tense, it was like every single one of his muscles was being held taut.  “You need some fresh air.”

He furrowed his brow for a moment as he looked down at me and slowly his face softened.  “Did you have something in mind?”

“The seed of an idea,” I said and tapped my earrings. 

The armor from my suit bled out over me and I clipped Sanguine to my back.  Thor’s face lit up and he unhooked Mjolnir from his belt.  “Lead the way, my life.”

I took off flying out through the open doors at the end of the throne room.  Thor was not far behind and I flew up and banked to the left, cruising over the edge of the city below.  My head-up display took note of everything below, keeping a lookout for a store that sold beauty products.

When it alerted me that it had located one, I landed on the street just outside.  Thor landed just after me as my suit was retracting.  “What are we doing here?” he asked.

“Just a quick stop,” I said.

I went inside the small store.  It was cluttered with shelves, each holding various bottles and jars.  They ranged from ornate hand-blown glass bottles in a rainbow of iridescent colors, to tiny little brown clay pots with wooden lids.  Each item had a thick piece of brown parchment tied to it with the name of the item and what it did written in runes.  Dried herbs hung in the window and behind the counter was a bench covered in ingredients of all kinds.  At the bench, a young woman with long blonde hair with small braids that had dried flowers weaved into it, and a floaty white gown, sat crushing something with a huge mortar and pestle.  She looked up when she saw us and her eyes went wide.  She nearly knocked her stool over as she rushed over to serve us.  “Your majesties,” she said, bowing to us.  “I am at your service.”

“I’m looking for massage oil,” I said as I glanced around the room.  I had been learning Asgardanian since we moved here, but I wasn’t sure it was enough for me to be able to tell if something was safe to use as a lubricant if we needed it.  I didn’t want to give Thor too many hints about what I was planning, but I either had to ask him or the shopkeeper and I didn’t know if I wanted her to know our personal business.

Of course, your majesty,” she said and led me to some shelves on the far wall.  Each oil bottle was beautiful and ornate, in different colors with gold accents, and had an elaborate glass stopper.  I started looking at the labels and holding them up to Thor to smell.

I leaned up to his ear and whispered.  “Are these okay for sex stuff?” I whispered.

Thor laughed and put his arm around me, pulling me tight to his side.  “Oh, I see what’s happening here.  You do have some plans.”  He took the bottle from me and looked over the label.  “They will work for your nefarious plans.”  I broke down into giggles and tried to hide it by holding one of the bottles to my nose and breathing in deeply.

Together we chose a bottle that smelled a little like wood and vanilla.  I also grabbed a bar of soap that smelled like honey.  I paid and we stepped back outside.  I was about to call my armor again when I spotted a store over the road selling linens.  I hurried over with Thor on my heel.  We didn’t even step inside because I found exactly what I wanted hanging on a rack out the front.  It was a big green rug with golden knotwork on it.  It had an almost mink feel to it and I kept running my palm over it as Thor paid the middle-aged-looking man who ran the store.

“Was there anything else you were after, my queen?” Thor asked.

“Nope,” I said.  “This is good.”

I pressed my earrings and my suit bled out again, this time with a case to hold the glass bottle of oil safely but I kept hold of the rug.  “Let’s go,” I said and took off.

We just spent some time flying.  I knew that it would help Thor to let go of his exhaustion and frustration.  He liked the feel of the wind in his hair and the crackle of lightning on his skin as he was pulled along behind Mjolnir.  Plus it was nice to see his country from above.  It glittered like a jewel and when it was at peace, it was a good way to remember that those petty grievances he was dealing with today came out of a people who had no big worries.  The city was running well and prosperous.

After a few laps of the city I banked away, sticking to the coast. Thor followed after me, occasionally calling out to me to ask where we were going or what I was looking for.  I’d just all out to him to be patient, I’d know when I saw it.  While I was looking for something in particular, I mostly just wanted to fly for a while.

It wasn’t too long before I spotted a small secluded bay on the coastline.  It was a perfect crescent shape with a forest that grew right up to the white sands of the beach and beautiful turquoise water that got darker and darker as it moved past the bay and closer to the edge of the planet.

I landed and I grabbed my purchases as my suit retracted.  Thor landed beside me, sending sand whipping down the beach.  “This is a beautiful spot.  Did you know of it already?” he asked.

“No.  I just thought it looked nice,” I said.  I set the oil and soap down and spread out the blanket on the sand.  Thor set Mjolnir down on the edge of the blanket to stop it from blowing away, and I did the same with Sanguine at the opposite edge.

I started to unclasp my pauldron from my breastplate.  “What are we doing here?” Thor said as he began to undress as well.  I set the heavy armor down and moved onto the ties of my dress.  “I thought we could swim,” I said.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” he said.

I let my dress fall.  I was naked underneath and I stepped out of the fabric with a smirk.  “Neither did I.”

I grabbed the soap and rushed into the water.  It was cold enough that as soon as I hit the water my skin broke out in goosebumps and my nipples pebbled.  I had time to acclimatize as it took Thor a little while to get out of all his armor and clothes.  I slowly eased myself into the water and washed myself with the soap, scrubbing my skin so that by the time he was in, I’d sunk down so only my head was above the surface of the water and I smelled like a mixture of salt and honey.

Thor approached me, hugging his large arms around himself.  “How are you not cold?” he asked.

“Because I have body fat, unlike some Norse gods that I know,” I teased as I waded over to him, letting the waves push me along.

He caught me in his arms and pulled me up tight against him.  “Mmm… you are warm.  Maybe you can warm me up.”

I laughed and leaned up and kissed him. “Be patient,” I said and began to run the soap over his body.  “You’ll get used to it.”

I washed him carefully, running the soap over his chest and arms and down his back.  He gradually relaxed as he got used to the water and I caressed his skin.  My fingers slipped between his ass.  He hummed and tilted forward a little, pushing his ass out against me.

“You’re so eager,” I giggled.

“You bought special oil,” Thor said. “Can you blame me, lover?”

“But the oil is back on the sand,” I laughed and soaped up my hand and began to run it up and down his shaft.

He groaned and pressed his forehead against my temple. “That’s not helping,” he said in a deep rumble.

“Okay,” I said.  “We can get out.  Go and lie on your stomach.”

Thor laughed and hoisted me up over his shoulder.  I squealed and broke down into giggles as he carried me out of the water.  The initial hit of the air after being in the cold water brought on another wave of goosebumps, but the sun was warm enough that by the time he set me on the rug, they’d already passed.

I grabbed the oil as he got comfortable and straddled his waist so I was sitting on his butt with him spread out under me, pillowing his head with his arms.  Even seeing Thor as much as I did, it was still easy to forget how large he was.  I felt dwarfed as I sat above him.  I poured the oil onto his back and his muscles all tensed, making his back ripple.  I licked my lips as I watched and pushed my hands down on his back.

He quickly began to relax as I slowly and carefully massaged his back.  My hands moved down his back from his shoulders, pushing out from his spine.  His muscles popped as they released their tension and he let out a deep moan every time it happened.  It made me wet hearing him.  By the time I reached his lower back, I was sure he must have been able to feel how wet I was because my thighs were damp and sticky.

I shimmied down his thighs and began to massage his ass.  He moaned and lifted his hips and spread his legs a little, wiggling his ass at me.  I couldn’t help but laugh and I gave his butt a playful spank.  “You are trouble,” I teased.

I didn’t keep him in suspense though.  I moved between his legs and spread his ass cheeks with my hands.  Thor shivered slightly and tilted his hips up and I leaned in.  My tongue curled around his balls and I sucked one into my mouth.  Thor groaned and shifted onto his knees more.  It gave me better access and I moved from one ball to the next before swiping my tongue up his perineum to his asshole.  He tasted of salt and honey thanks to the fact I washed him, but this was the beach, and with beaches came sand.  Each lap of my tongue meant more grit got into my mouth and I knew I wasn’t going to want to keep this up for long.  Thankfully I didn’t need to because even just prodding at his asshole with the point of my tongue seemed to send him into an animalistic need.  He turned on me, no longer willing to be teased, and he pushed me down onto my stomach and pulled my hips back against him.

“Fuck,” I gasped and the sudden change.  I spread my legs as he moved between them and looked back at him looming over me, his hand wrapped around his cock.

“No more games,” he said as he pressed the wide head of his cock against my entrance, and with a hard shove he thrust in.  I was pushed forward as he bottomed out inside me, and I cried out at the sting of his cock hitting my cervix.

He gave me the briefest of moments to adjust, running his hand up my spine and kissing my shoulder, and then he began to thrust.  He was like a man possessed.  There was no gentleness or warmth to his actions, he just railed into me, shoving me forward with every snap of his hips.  I tried to push myself up onto all fours, but I was immediately shoved back forward again.  I ended up bracing my arms in front of me, with my back curved down, so I looked like a cat mid-stretch.

“Norns,” Thor groaned as he gripped my hips.  “I will never tire of this.  You always feel so good.”

I couldn’t even form the words to answer him.  Every time he thrust into me, his balls would slap against my pussy and such an intense jolt would pass through me, making me cock drunk.  I moaned and clenched around him, pushing back, trying to get more from him.

He wrapped his arm around me and danced a spark along my skin, it passed through my clit and I cried out, my legs kicking out behind me as pleasure surged through me.  “Fuck!” I cried, my whole body clenching up at once.

His hand slid down to my pussy and he started to rub my clit in the same.  I could barely hold myself together.  The only thing stopping me from collapsing onto my stomach was Thor’s hand at my hip.  He sent another jolt through my clit and everything seized up and my orgasm tore through me.  I cried out loudly, my voice echoing through the bay as I gushed on Thor’s cock.

“Gods!” Thor groaned as he pulled out of me.  I collapsed onto my stomach, breathing heavily as lights popped in front of my eyes.  Thor grabbed the oil and drizzled some between my asscheeks.  I moaned and clenched up as the cool liquid hit my skin.  He slicked his cock with it and pressed the head of his cock against my asshole.

He pressed his entire body down on mine, completely engulfing me under him and wrapping his arms under my chest and he began to push in.  This was not the first time we'd done this, not by a long shot.  If it had been, Thor would have been much more careful about stretching me out first.  I could take him, and yet the sting and the burn as my ring muscle stretched and he filled me, was intense.  I whined pitifully under him and kicked my legs as I tried to relax and take him.

I wanted this.  He knew I wanted this as soon as I had asked him what oil I could use as lube.  I loved the way pleasure and pain mixed.  I loved feeling stretched out and filled. 

He pulled back and pushed himself up on his knees, so just the head of his cock was penetrating me.  He grabbed the oil and poured more of it over his cock and my ass, shallowly thrusting in and out as he did to push the oil inside me.  I moaned and arched my back. “Thank you, Thor.”

“You’re very welcome, my life,” he said, pressing himself against me and wrapping his arms around my chest.  He started to roll his hips, each push forward into me went a little deeper.  I felt like I was breaking apart under him.  I moaned and whimpered under him, my toes curling and my fingers grasping at the blanket in front of me.  My fingers closed around the handle of Mjolnir and all at once electricity flowed through me.  It danced off our bodies, sparks flying out as he brought me closer and closer to the edge.  “Thor!  God… I can’t…” I babbled as I reached down under me with my free hand.  He pulled me into a hard kiss and he thrust into me harder and faster.

I started to rub my clit and that little extra sensation to my already overstimulated senses sent me reeling over.  Thor groaned as my ass clenched tight around him and he shoved in deep and came with me.  There was an almighty crack as a bolt of light crashed down, passing through us to the ground below, the whole bay lighting up suddenly and then falling dark.

I lay under Thor breathing heavily as my body settled and my eyes readjusted to the light.  Thor slowly slipped out of me and rolled over onto his back, and I curled into him, putting my head on his chest as it rose and fell with each breath.  “Do you think we made another sex sculpture?” I asked.

He laughed and played with my hair. “I am sure of it,” he said. “And yes, I will send someone to bring it home for us.”

I smiled and leaned up and pecked his lips.  He held me in place to deepen it, and when he pulled back and looked into my eyes.  “Thank you for this, my life.  I needed it.”

“You’re very welcome,” I replied and kissed him again.  “Shall we head back?”

He hummed and shook his head.  “Soon.  Let’s just lie here for a little longer.”

I relaxed against him and closed my eyes, basking in my post-orgasm afterglow and the setting sun.

~ END ~

[lazarus-writes-nonsense]

PAIRINGS: Kyle “Gaz” x Fem! Reader

SYNOPSIS: You and Gaz have a little self-care.

WARNINGS: Fluff, unedited, not even finished, short

It was simple really.

You were bored, and Gaz just seemed like the perfect person to drag into a little self-care, just a bit of relaxation. He didn't seem to mind; he sure liked to tease you about it, though, saying, "If you just wanted to spend time with me, you could've just said so. No shame in that." all smug-like.

Damn Bastard.

It was because of that, but no way were you going to admit that, especially when he looked so damn sure of himself.

So here you two were: Gaz seated comfortably on the edge of your bed as you stood, applying the clay mixture onto his face. Admittedly, he already had smooth skin, must've had a skincare routine of his own or genetics. Who knows.

You were careful in applying it, tempted to rip off his damn mustache, but you had self-control. His eyes followed your every move, stuck to every contour of your face—taking in every detail, every change, every shift as if imprinting into the very core of his memory. You could feel a heat rise to your cheeks; the closeness of your faces certainly wasn't helping.

"Staring at me pretty hard, aren’t you?" you questioned with a slight quirk of your brow, lips pressed into a soft frown.

That elicited a gentle chuckle from him, his hand hovering just above your waist, tempted to just feel the warmth there. Then they did; his hands rested on your waist, thumb smoothing over the fabric of your tank top. The sensation sent butterflies to your stomach, your pulse picking up ever so slightly.

"Where else am I supposed to look? You're right in front of me."

"I dunno, the ceiling's pretty nice," you answered with a smile, getting more of the clay mixture with your little spatula-looking thingy (seriously, what is this thing called? an applicator?). You smoothed it over his nose, finding it cute when his nose slightly scrunched up at the cool gunky feeling.

"Not as nice as you," he replied, the smirk playing on his lips, hands still on your waist. "prettiest thing in this room."

Fuck him and his cute fucking compliments.

"I know I am."

Another amused chuckle fell from his lips, eyes softening as he looked at you as if you were very center of his world at the moment. A warm, fluffy feeling bloomed in your chest at that.

Your feet started to get sore just a bit from standing for so long as you continued spreading the clay over his skin. You shuffled a bit, putting pressure on one foot to ease the pressure on the other. He noticed.

"Need help?" he asked with that teasing tone of his before abruptly pulling you into his lap, a startled noise leaving your mouth. You blinked, eyes wide as you processed what the hell just happened.

This was close, way too close. You could see his eyes—could see the flicks of golden brown in his irises, the way they dilated as your gaze met his own, how utterly mesmerizing they were this close. His breath mingled with yours, lips just inches apart. You could just…

But you didn't. Instead, you just reeled back—his hands keeping you in place, in his lap—a warmth coating your cheeks as your heart pounded in your chest, butterflies in full throttle.

"Gaz!"

"What? it's better, innit?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your jawline, a glint in his eyes.

“Stop, you’re gonna get the clay on me,” you protested, ignoring the way your heart was thundering in your head from the feel of his lips. “I’m not even finished.”

“Just a quick peck, love.”

[biblioflyer]

Picard s3e4 reactions: some of the best Trek of the modern era.

I have to be honest, episode three was a bit of a yellow alert for me. It was gloomy, a little contrived, and full of characters behaving entirely unlike the definitive versions that live in my own personal headcanon. Episode three was a hard episode.

And yet.

It set up a lot of stuff I spent the past week noodling about and I spent a fair bit of time speculating as to what I would do to ensure that all of this wallowing in despair had an epic payout.

Not only did it payout, it did so in ways I really hoped it would do it.

Shaw: not just arbitrarily racist against Borg / XB just because. Not just stuffy towards Picard just because. There's history there. Intimate history. And yet! The "dipshit from Chicago" is dry clay of a man but there's some potential to bend and be reshaped there. If Picard season three is about coming out from under the shadow of the past two seasons and their heavy malaise, Liam Shaw, taking one shaky foot down the road to being a hero is in some sense, the Federation, the franchise itself, having been given permission by Strange New Worlds to be unapologetically, unselfconciously joyful.

Picard: says all the right things. That spiel about having one another's backs? A classic Picard monologue. Made me want to stand up and cheer!

Riker: not replaced by a Changeling, not replaced by Tom, but desperate to find a way to live or at least make amends. The payoff for his standoffishness in episode three was executed beautifully.

Seven: given license to work outside the chain of command and forging a reluctant alliance with Shaw as two prickly tellers of uncomfortable truths who genuinely care about the ship and crew.

Jack: is growing layers and nuance. I'm reluctantly softening on my grumpiness about the surprise love child trope. Trope it may be, dissonant with how Picard was characterized in the past it may be, but it is also being extremely well executed.

Some might also call out a minor continuity issue with Picard being greeted by a throng of young Starfleet in Ten Forward eager to ask questions and hear his stories. Supposedly only about a year has passed between each season so this would be squarely in the midst of Picard's malaise and disenchantment with Starfleet. To me this actually shores up the plausibility of the Federation's quick pivot at the end of Season One. Clearly Starfleet still seems to see itself in the same light after Mars as it did before even if Picard is still embittered to it. Picard may be unrecognizable to Starfleet Command's receptionist but he's still a hero to others.

Mayhaps there was a post Mars crop of new Starfleet who never agreed with Starfleet's more inward looking stance after Mars and were champing at the bit to be heroes? And perhaps Picard's feud was never with the rank and file but with the perpetually, even in TNG, hidebound and risk averse Admiralty?

[ash-muses]

Send ❤️ to receive a Valentine from my muse

((I saw an Anon do this and now I have to lol))

(OOC) I'm so sorry this took a while! I've had this in my drafts and I haven't felt the muse for this one yet until now. Hopefully this works for you <3 ♡ Video that the audio is from ♡ All credits belong to the rightful owners + celebrities (i.e. Jensen Ackles & The Red Clay Strays who sing the original song) ♡ Audio editing done by me using this site, this one, and this one (:

Dean paced back and forth nervously, one hand running over his lower features and the other holding an open notebook. His eyes scanned the page a few times, reading the words on the page at least three times over. Scowling, he came to a stop and leaned against the table in the bunker, lifting his gaze as he tried to rack his brain. This was one of the times he could have used Sam's help, although his pride wouldn't let him admit it.

It wasn't like he could just quote some Led Zeppelin song and get away with it, no snarks, quips, or the like to soften the discomfort he felt at the thought of showcasing some 'chick flick' side of himself. But if Dean was anything, he was charming — well, when he wanted or needed to be. Yet this was a whole new level, this was... sappy, romantic, not a quick one-night-stand that he could simply forget about a few weeks down the road. This was Reianna, for God's sake.

Even so, Dean wondered if he could ever truly put how he felt for her into words. What could he say that would ever reflect that? It wasn't like he was a poet or anything — and, even if he did show her that part of him, wouldn't she flee because men weren't supposed to? There was a long moment where he sat in the stillness of the room, contemplating how his father might have shown his mother how he cared about her; it was hard trying to reconcile that imagery, that version of him with the father he had known...

Once more, Dean picked up the notebook and tried again. This time, he used a different approach. It wasn't long until the older Winchester found himself in a certain flow, the words spilling out a bit easier than before. When it was finished and he was satisfied, he made a call to Reianna and invited her over.

When the time came, Dean let out a soft exhale and opened the door, leading her into the bunker. He motioned for her to sit at the table, clearing his throat as his cheeks tinged a faint crimson color.

"I, uh, I wanted to do something a little different," he explained, keeping his voice steady despite his nerves. "So... don't blame me if it comes out horrible, all right?"

With that, Dean leaned down and picked up a case from the side of the chair; he set it on the surface and unlocked the hinges, pulling out a brown acoustic guitar. He began to play the first few soft chords, and then, his voice filled the space between them.

She keeps on loving me Loving me the way I am She's not just along for the ride She's my biggest fan And it's a little old piece of heaven When we lay down at night She keeps on loving me And I keep on wondering why She's got a wicked smile, angel eyes Every guy wanting to hold her tight She's as pretty as sin Like the sun sinking down on the California coast She keeps on loving me Loving me the way I am She's not just along for the ride She's my biggest fan And it's a little old piece of heaven When we lay down at night She keeps on loving me And I keep on wondering why