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auclairedetoru · 1 day ago

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Namami has only been seeing y/n for a month but he's already so smitten.

The way she walks, the way she talks, the way she carries herself, her confidence, the way she applies her makeup, the colours she gets on her nails, the pretty outfits she wears, her facial expressions, everything. He's obsessed with her.

He met her at a little bookstore. He mostly goes there to browse and relax after long and tiring shifts. He enjoys the smell of the books and the overall atmosphere, sometimes he ends up picking something that pricks his interest.

Y/n was there doing the same thing when she saw him holding one of her favourite books. She couldn't help but comment on his amazing choice. He thanked her and asked her if she liked it. She let him know that it's a top pick for her but not number one. He proceeded to ask which book she liked the most. One thing led to another and he ended up leaving the store with her number saved on his phone.

After he noticed that not only has he been talking to her for a week straight, but he also always looked forward to reading her texts, answering her calls and talking on the phone, he decided to ask her on a date.

Namami did not go on many dates before. But when he did, he'd always asked his coworker Gojo to call him at a specific time, if he was enjoying the date he would tell the person he's with that it's just work related and not to worry about it, but if he wasn't he would tell them that he's needed for an emergency and he would pay for their cab and make sure they make it home safe before letting them down gently the next time he talks to them. Thankfully he only did the latter once when the person was being borderline creepy and he felt unsafe.

The date with y/n was a first for him. After she agreed, he told her about the time and location, planning on taking her to a nice restaurant, a classic. He was surprised when she disagreed and asked if he'd be comfortable with coming over to her house. She told him that she loved cooking but never got the chance to make big meals. Namami agreed, and it made his heart swell with happiness when she told him she was excited for their date.

The date was nothing less than perfect. He immediately felt at home the moment he stepped foot in her apartment, he particularly loved that she uses small lights instead of overhead ones, something he does at his apartment as well. She set the table beautifully, with candles and some of the most unique tableware. The food was a whole different story. He could not believe he was eating all that for free. He has been to many fancy restaurants, but none of them compared to her cooking.

When Namami asked if it was okay for him to ask her a couple of questions to see if they were on the same page when it comes to the future if they're planning on sharing one, he was surprised again when she said she was glad he brought up that topic because she had her own questions as well. Namami immediately knew that this would turn out for the best because his past dates always either tried to dodge this discussion or told him he was rushing things.

He first asked her about marriage. She told him that she wants to get married and that it's definitely something she hopes would happen in the future when she's ready, he agreed. He asked her if she'd want them to live together with a partner, she said yes but not immediately, maybe one and half to two years into the relationship, he agreed. She asked him about kids and if he sees himself being a father in the future, he said yes but he wants kids not immediately after marriage but to wait a year or two before trying, she agreed. She asked him about how he would handle disagreements and arguments, he told her that he was a very calm person and enjoys the peace communication brings, so he'd sit with his partner and figure out the problem and how to resolve it, she agrees.

Namami started to feel giddy when he realised they have both agreed to many of each other's answers and even shared similar opinions. Would she be the one he spends forever with? The thought didn't seem so bad at the moment, he hoped to get his answer quickly.

But he wasn't expecting it to happen within a month.

They discovered they shared the same route on their way to work and began walking it together. Nanami started to look forward to seeing her. Every morning, she greets him with a smile and "hi, Ken!" which he started responding to with "hi, Barbie" after watching the Barbie movie, she always giggles and throws her arms around his neck in a hug. He buys her her favourite boba and she drinks it while they walk and talk about whatever comes to mind. He drops her off at work since it's closer than his, but not before pressing a kiss to her forehead that she started calling her "good luck kiss". They even spend their lunch breaks together by talking through facetime. He was the type to skip that free time to get more work done, but he stopped doing that in favour of talking to his favourite girl.

He started looking forward to seeing her and talking to her. Weekends have become boring, sure they text, but it's not like hearing her voice, even through the phone speaker. She consumed his brain, she became his first thought in the morning and his last before bed. Thankfully, Nanami isn't dumb, and he realised he is in fact falling in love.

He didn't want to play around, after all, they're both serious about this relationship. He plans on confessing, letting her know his true feelings. It's a scary thought, something he has never done before, and he hopes she wouldn't reject him given that he fell for her fast when they both agreed this would be a "getting to know each other" phase. But he can't control how he feels about her, she makes him look forward to the future, as long as she is a part of it.

It's the weekend, Nanami invited her over in the afternoon to watch movies and hang out at his apartment, but despite what the weather forecast said, the somewhat sunny morning quickly developed into a stormy evening, one that was strong enough for him to turn the hang out into a sleepover. He gave her a pair of his pajama pants and a shirt to get comfortable and put the frozen pizza he has for emergencies in the oven.

They're sitting on the couch, a movie long forgotten on TV as y/n tells him a very interesting work story. He's trying to focus, he really is, but the way she's so close to him, her folded legs almost on top of his, her hair wrapped around his fingers as he plays with the strands, the way her face lights up when she remembers a detail, it's all so precious.

“and then she got mad and-”

“I love you.”

Y/n stops talking and he's instantly regretting his words. They literally slipped out of his mouth, he had no control over them. It's like she pressed a botton and they came out. He starts fearing the worst and his brain starts telling him that he made things awkward and uncomfortable for her and she can't even escape because there's a storm outside. Fuck... Why did he need to rush? Everything has been going perfectly, and now he ruined it. He's gonna have to find a way to make up for this. He'll apologize a billion times if needed, but he can't afford to lose her.

“Ken, I love you too, so much, but I need to finish the story.”

Huh-

“Right. Sorry, darling. Please continue, I'm all ears.”

He isn't all ears, he can't be all ears, because he can hear how fast his heart is beating and he can feel the blood rushing to his face. She said it back, she loves him, so much too! Is he dreaming, is it still the night before and he hasn't called her yet to invite her over? No. It can't be. He wants this to be real... and it is, everything is real. The way she's holding on to his fingers is real, the way she's excitedly telling him the rest of her story is real, the way he's holding back from smiling so hard is real, the way the pizza smell is filling the room is real.

“oh shit, the pizza.”

Nanami bolts to the kitchen, quickly grabbing the oven mitts and pulling the pizza out just in time. When he quickly glaces towards the living room, he can see y/n hunched over and squealing into the pillow, her feet kicking slightly. He chuckles. She really tried to play it like his words did not affect her the way they affected him, but it seems like their feelings are mutual in every way possible.

Nanami is somehow even more excited for forever with her now.

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wzrd-wheezes · 1 day ago

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Tongue Piercing - Sirius Black x Reader

AN - hiya. i am back. purely because i had this thought and couldnt get it out of my head!!! i'm a little rusty so apologies in advance. Smut under the cut <3

“D’you like it?” Sirius asked, running his tongue along the top row of his teeth, the silver ball clinking along the enamel.

Sirius had always been one for getting piercings; his ears, eyebrow and even nipple were all adorned with silver jewellery. However, when he flashed her his most recent addition, she felt a familiar jolt behind her navel.

“’Course I like it.” Y/N smiled, heat rising in her cheeks.

“Wanted to wait ‘til it was fully healed to show you,” he smirked, “You know... so we can test it out.”

“Oh yeah?” She mirrored his smile, “And what exactly did you have planned?”

“Was going to start with something like this.” His voice lowered a little as he grabbed her hips, pulling her to straddle his lap. He took her chin between his fingers and tilted her head down so that her lips brushed his. For a moment, it was sweet and gentle, but his tongue quickly skimmed across her bottom lip. The piercing dragged along the soft skin and Y/N let out a little gasp as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Sirius smirked into the kiss, his fingers hooking on to the back of her thighs and he lifted her up. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her into their bedroom.

“Want you to let me take care of you, yeah?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple as he lay her down on the sheets, “Only thing I want you to worry about is making those pretty noises for me. Got it?”

She nodded, starting to wriggle up the bed to lean against the headboard. He quickly stopped her in her tracks, long fingers wrapping around her ankles as he yanked her back to the edge of the mattress. Y/N sat up, looking at him confusedly.

“Stay like that.” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her.

His hands made light work of her jeans and underwear, discarding them in a pile on the floor. Firmly pushing her legs apart, Sirius smiled as he gently traced a finger down her folds.

“Pretty girl aren't you?” he looked up at her through his dark lashes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He peppered kisses up and down the inside of her thighs, only stopping when Y/N was gripping onto the sheets in anticipation. Grinning, he licked a long stripe up her core. The contrast of the hard, cool metal against his wet, warm tongue made her whimper. She slumped backwards on the bed, covering her face with her hands. Sirius quickly stopped, pulling away from her.

“Want you to watch me, or I’ll stop.” he said firmly, “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Y-yeah.” she choked out.

“Good girl.”

Sirius resumed his position, sinking back down onto his knees and burying his face between her thighs.

He had always been good at it, but the addition of his tongue piercing took it to a new level. Y/N’s hands fisted the sheets as she looked down at her boyfriend, a mess of dark hair beneath her. Sirius lapped at her eagerly, his tongue expertly swirling around her clit, his piercing gliding against it smoothly. She reached down to tangle a hand in his hair.

“Sirius...” she murmured, tugging on.

“What is it, pretty girl?” he didn’t pull away, his words vibrating on her core.

“I’m close,” she breathed, her voice coming out ragged. Sirius hummed against her sensitive flesh, his tongue still unrelenting.

“You can come, baby.” his voice was hoarse, “’Course you can come.”

Y/N groaned, her thighs clenching a little around his head. She whined softly as her heart rate quickened and heat coiled in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes screwed shut as she climaxed, her chest heaving as Sirius guided her through the orgasm.

Once she had finished, he pulled back and grinned up at her, his chin shining with her wetness. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his face.

“Good isn’t it?”

#sirius black #sirius black smut #sirius black x reader #sirius black fanfic #marauders smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 days ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. “I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

#jace x you #jace x reader #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen

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insidekatmind · 2 days ago

Text

Best friends- Pope Heyward

Wearning: +18, smut, cheating,english is not my first language

The soft lights of the sunset paint the horizon in shades of orange and pink as you sit on your porch, a book open in your hands. The air is crisp, with a light breeze carrying the salty scent of the ocean. You're engrossed in your reading when you hear the familiar sound of hurried footsteps on the path leading to your house. You look up and see Pope, his expression troubled and his fists clenched at his sides.

“Can I come in?” he asks without preamble, his voice rougher than usual.

You set the book down next to you, concerned. “Of course, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He climbs the porch steps, his movements quick and jittery. When he stops in front of you, you notice the flush on his cheeks and the slight tremor in his hands.

“It’s Cleo,” he says finally, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to contain something too heavy to hold. “We had a fight. A bad one.”

You stand up, gesturing toward the door. “Come inside, let’s talk about it.”

He nods and follows you in, collapsing onto the couch in your living room. You bring him a glass of water, which he accepts with a small nod of thanks. He takes a sip in silence, then runs a hand through his hair—a gesture you know well. It’s his way of trying to calm himself down.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” you ask, sitting next to him, close enough to let him know you’re there for him but not so close as to invade his space.

He sighs, a deep and tired sound. “It started as something stupid, at least at first. We were talking about plans for the weekend, and I said I wanted to spend it with you guys, with the Pogues. She started saying we spend too much time together and that I should dedicate more time to just the two of us.”

You nod, trying to see both sides. “And what did you say?”

“That there’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with my friends. But then she got upset and said I never put her first.” He pauses, shaking his head. “It’s not true, but… I don’t know, maybe I messed up somewhere.”

You look at him with gentle understanding, seeing the weight he carries on his shoulders. “Pope, you know how much Cleo cares about you. But maybe she needs to feel more secure in your affection. Maybe your words made her think you don’t care enough.”

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes filled with frustration and pain. “But that’s not true. I do care, so much. I just… sometimes I don’t know how to show it.”

You place a hand on his arm, your touch light but reassuring. “You don’t have to have all the answers right away. Sometimes it’s just about listening to the other person and trying to understand them.”

He leans back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “Why does everything have to be so complicated? I thought being with someone was supposed to be easier.”

You shake your head with a wistful smile. “Relationships are never easy, Pope. But if they’re worth it, you work to make them work.”

For a moment, silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the waves in the distance. Then he leans slightly toward you, his gaze now softer but also more intense. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know? You’re always here for me, even when I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

Your heart beats a little faster at his words, but you try to stay calm. “That’s what friends are for, Pope.”

He offers a faint smile, a tired but genuine one. “You’re more than a friend to me, you know that?”

Your breath catches for a moment. “What do you mean?”

He moves closer, his face now only inches from yours. “I mean… I don’t know when it started, but lately, I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I’m with Cleo, part of me just wants to be here, with you.”

His words leave you speechless. You search his eyes, trying to discern whether he’s confused or sincere. But there’s no doubt in his gaze, only honesty.

“Pope…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you to get over Cleo. It’s not that. But tonight, when we fought, all I wanted was to come here. To be with you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It’s a kiss that starts tentative, almost unsure, but as you respond, it deepens into something more intense, more passionate. His hands rest on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, the world around you fades away.

When you finally pull apart, both of you breathless, he looks at you with a kind of reverence tinged with uncertainty. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

You did not let him finish because you have re-cut your lips with his. You sucked his lip whining moaning.

Pope lies you on the couch while he takes off your clothes and then takes off his.

Pope looks at you for a moment to confirm that you want to do it, and you nod.

You moaned at how big and long Pope’s dick was. He smiled and kissed you softly, then came in with a quick blow, making both of them groan.

"You’re tighter than I imagined," Pope muttered as he began to move.

You groaned and then caught your lips with him

As the impulses of Pope increased fucking you with force venting all his anger and all his passion that had at that moment.

You could only groan with force while your pussy held Pope’s cock tightly making him moan while he fucked you harder while he chewed your neck leaving spots and bruises but you didn’t care, you were enjoying and getting even more excited at the same time.

You scratched his back feeling how it was destroying your pussy and left big scratches behind his back but neither of them cared, too taken by the moment and how you were fucking so well.

"you’re fucking me so well" You whimpered and he growled as he felt your pussy tighten even more around his cock two more shots and made you come then follow you by wheel cumming inside.

"the best sex of my life" he murmured as he joined your lips with hers again.

Pope still had his dick inside you and you felt it was getting hard again and you moaned as you were watching and stroked his hair.

"Round two?" He whispered and you smiled nodding

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chelseaknoo · 2 days ago

Note

I thought of this funny idea.The reader and eminem are married and she's like a supermodel.What Marshall doesn’t know about her is that she has 2 other identical sisters making them triplets.The reader decides to prank Marshall ,making him think he's going insane while recording 🤣

Eminem x model! Reader

Plot:You Decide to Prank Your Rapper Husband with Your Twin Sisters.

As close as you are to your sisters, they’ve always been a huge part of your life, and you’ve shared everything together—except for this little secret. Now, you're feeling playful and want to prank Marshall with your sisters. You’ve been planning it for a while, coordinating with your sisters to make sure everything goes perfectly.

As the day of the prank approaches, you can’t help but smile, knowing that it’ll be a fun, lighthearted moment in your already exciting life with Marshall.

You walked up to him slowly, your bare feet making no sound against the tiled floor. With a slight tilt of your head, you let your lashes flutter, your lips curving into a playful smile. Standing close enough for the warmth of your body to brush against his arm, you reached out and lightly trailed a finger along his forearm.

“Marshall…” you murmured, your voice soft and sultry, as though the words themselves carried a secret. His eyes flicked from his phone to you, curiosity replacing his distraction.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you whispered, leaning in just enough for your robe to part slightly at the neckline, revealing a glimpse of lace. “I miss you.” Your tone was a blend of longing and mischief, every word laced with invitation.

With a gentle touch, you rested your hand against his chest, your eyes locking onto his. “Why don’t you come to bed with me?” you asked, your voice like silk itself, smooth and irresistible.

Marshall’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he locked his phone and set it down on the counter. His lips curved into a small smirk as he looked you over, his eyes lingering on the soft shimmer of your silk robe and the teasing glimpse of lace beneath it.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises this morning,” he said, his voice low and amused. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as though trying to appear unfazed. But you caught the flicker of interest in his gaze—he wasn’t fooling anyone.

You tilted your head, your lashes fluttering again. “I’ve been full of surprises since the day you met me,” you teased, letting your fingers trail down his chest slowly. “But I think you’ll like this one.”

Marshall chuckled softly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, I’m sure I will. But tell me something…” He leaned down, bringing his face closer to yours. “What’s got you in this kind of mood?”

You shrugged innocently, though the small, sly smile on your lips betrayed you. “Can’t a wife just miss her husband? Or do I need a reason to want to spend some time with you?”

Marshall let out a mock sigh of defeat, his hands resting at your waist. “You really know how to make a guy feel guilty, huh?”

“Guilty enough to follow me upstairs?” you asked, your tone playful but insistent as you tugged lightly on his shirt.

His smirk turned into a full grin as he took a step closer, his hands sliding to the small of your back. “Lead the way, Mrs. Mathers.

After you both walked upstairs, Marshall, unable to contain his desire, pushed you gently onto the bed. He began to kiss you passionately, his lips roaming all over your face, your mouth, expressing the love and hunger he felt for you in the moment. His hands slid over your body, his touch electrifying as he showered you with affection, making your heart race.

However, as things started to heat up, Marshall paused for a moment, his hand reaching towards the drawer to grab a condom. But to his surprise, he found that the drawer was empty. His brows furrowed in mild frustration, and he quickly pulled away from you, muttering a quiet curse under his breath. “Hold on, babe. I’ll be right back.”

He kissed you one last time before getting up, his eyes still filled with desire as he made his way to the closet downstairs to grab the box of condoms.

As Marshall opened the closet, rummaging through the shelves to find the box of condoms, he suddenly heard a voice that made him freeze in his tracks. "Hey, babe," came your usual flirty tone, playful and seductive, but it sounded as though it was coming from behind him. He turned around, expecting to see you standing there, but what he saw left him momentarily speechless.

There, standing in the doorway, was “you”—or at least, someone who looked exactly like you. She wore the same outfit you had on earlier, the same familiar smile, the same playful glint in her eyes. The resemblance was so uncanny that Marshall blinked in disbelief, his mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing. He had just left you in the bedroom, lying on the bed, and now here you were, standing in front of him, calling him “babe” with that same flirtatious tone.

Confusion swept over him as he tried to process the situation. His gaze shifted from the woman standing before him to the bedroom where he had left you moments ago. How could this be? Wasn’t she just lying there on the bed, her body warm and relaxed?

Before he could question it further, the woman who looked like you reached out and touched him, her hand lightly grazing his chest. "You look so good," she purred, her fingers trailing down his shirt as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. Marshall stood frozen, completely baffled. He couldn’t understand what was happening, but everything about her—her voice, her movements, even the way she called him "babe"—was so familiar.

In a state of confusion, he took a step back, his mind racing. What was going on? How could you be in two places at once? Had he lost track of what was happening? Was he dreaming? His thoughts were spinning as he tried to make sense of the impossible situation.

The woman who looked exactly like you stepped closer, her eyes locking with Marshall’s as she flashed a seductive smile. "So," she began, her voice soft and inviting, "how about we watch a movie together?" She raised an eyebrow, her playful tone making the suggestion sound more like a command than a casual offer.

Marshall’s heart skipped a beat, his confusion deepening. A movie?But just moments ago, you had asked him to come to bed with you, your words full of passion and desire. Now, this woman—who was supposed to be you—was suggesting something completely different. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Wait," he stammered, his mind racing. "But... didn’t you just say you wanted to go to bed?" He looked at her, still reeling from the sudden shift in behavior. It felt like something was terribly wrong, but everything about this woman mirrored you—her voice, her look, even the way she moved.

She chuckled softly, brushing off his confusion with a casual wave of her hand. "What are you talking about?" she asked with a coy smile, her tone almost mocking. "I didn’t say anything like that. Now come on, hurry up and follow me," she urged, her voice taking on a more insistent note. She gave him a playful nudge, guiding him toward the living room. "The movie’s waiting."

Marshall stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to process everything. Was he imagining things? Was he somehow caught in a strange, surreal moment where his own senses were betraying him? He had just been in the bedroom, and you had clearly asked him to come to bed. Now, this woman—this version of you—was acting as though nothing had happened, inviting him to do something completely different. It didn’t make sense.

His heart raced as he followed her, his mind reeling with questions. He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The woman in front of him smiled again, leading him into the next room as if nothing unusual had occurred, leaving him with more questions than answers.

As Marshall walked with the woman who looked exactly like you, his mind was still spinning with questions. Suddenly, another figure appeared from the hallway, stopping him in his tracks. It was you—or so it seemed. This woman was identical to the first, wearing the same radiant smile, her voice dripping with flirtation as she stepped close and touched his arm.

"Hey, baby," she cooed, her fingers lightly brushing his bicep. "Let’s go shopping. I saw this jacket today that you’d look so sexy in." Her tone was playful, but her touch was lingering, her gaze locked on his.

Marshall’s eyes widened, and he took a half-step back, glancing between the two women. His brain struggled to keep up. "Wait... what the hell is going on here?" he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief. He looked at the second woman, then back at the first, his confusion mounting by the second. They were identical, down to every detail—their outfits, their voices, the way they smiled at him.

Before he could even try to untangle the madness, you appeared at the top of the stairs. "Marshall?" you called out, your voice laced with playful impatience as you made your way down. "What’s taking so long? I’ve been waiting for you." Your expression was cool and composed, as if you didn’t notice the two women standing in the hallway.

Marshall turned to you, relief flickering in his eyes—but it was short-lived. He gestured wildly at the two identical women. "Do you see this?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "What—how—" He was at a loss for words, his thoughts completely scrambled.

But you remained calm, brushing past the other two women as though they didn’t exist. "What are you talking about?" you asked innocently, pretending not to notice the chaos.

Marshall blinked, his head snapping between all three of you. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, his voice full of frustration and bewilderment. "How are there three of you? And why aren’t you saying anything about this?" he asked, pointing at you.

You simply shrugged, fighting back a smirk. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, babe. Maybe you’re just tired," you said, feigning innocence as you casually leaned against the banister.

Marshall groaned, running a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of the impossible scene unfolding in front of him. "This... this isn’t normal," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "You can’t all be you."

The other two women grinned, each stepping closer to him, leaving him completely trapped in a whirlwind of confusion. Meanwhile, you stood back, struggling to keep a straight face as you watched your prank play out exactly as planned.

He turned to you, his eyes desperate. “You’re the real one, right? Please tell me you’re the real one.”

You bit your lip, pretending to think it over. “Hmm… maybe I am,” you said coyly, drawing out the moment. “Or maybe I’m not.”

Marshall groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This isn’t funny anymore!” he said, his voice muffled.

The three of you exchanged amused looks, barely able to hold in your laughter as the prank continued to unfold.

As Marshall stood there, completely overwhelmed, you and your sisters could no longer hold it in. Laughter erupted from all three of you, echoing through the hallway. It started as a soft giggle but quickly turned into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down your faces as you clutched your sides.

Marshall blinked, his brows furrowing as he looked at each of you. “Wait, what—what’s so funny?” he stammered, his voice tinged with frustration and bewilderment. “What the hell is going on here?”

One of your sisters wiped a tear from her eye, barely able to contain herself. “Oh my god, his face,” she managed to choke out between laughs, pointing at him. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost!”

The other sister doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Marshall, you should’ve seen yourself! You were *so* confused!”

You, still laughing, finally stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Babe, calm down,” you said, your voice trembling with amusement. “It’s a prank. These are my sisters.”

Marshall’s jaw dropped, and he looked between the three of you again, his confusion slowly giving way to realization. “Wait... sisters?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re telling me there’s *three* of you?”

You nodded, grinning. “Yep. Identical triplets.” You gestured to your sisters, who stood there grinning like Cheshire cats. “I can’t believe I never told you. I figured it was time to introduce them... in our own way.”

Marshall blinked a few times, his brain still catching up. “Triplets? Are you kidding me? You mean to tell me this whole time I’ve been with you, and I never knew you had two carbon copies running around?”

Your sisters burst into laughter again, one of them playfully nudging his arm. “Carbon copies? Ouch, Marshall,” one of them teased. “We prefer ‘flawless originals.’”

The other sister chimed in, smirking. “Don’t take it too hard. She wanted to see how long she could keep it a secret. And well... this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

Marshall groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. You seriously let me think I was losing my mind!” He looked at you, half-annoyed but mostly bewildered. “How long have you been planning this?”

You shrugged, a sly smile on your face. “A while. I knew it would get you good.”

Marshall sighed, shaking his head, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered. “All of you.”

One of your sisters grinned. “We take that as a compliment.”

The tension finally broke as Marshall let out a chuckle, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. “You got me,” he admitted, holding up his hands. “I’ll give you that. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easily. Payback’s coming.”

You leaned in, wrapping your arms around him with a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it is. But admit it—you’ll never forget this moment.”

Marshall shook his head, a bemused smile on his face as he glanced at your sisters. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Triplets. Unbelievable.”

#eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #eminem #eminem imagine #marshall mathers imagine #marshall mathers #slim shady

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dsvoid · 2 days ago

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remember when i said i was beginning to relate more and more to michael? well,

i think it’s easy to underestimate his character and not really understand who he is, but once you start acting like him, it gives you a new perspective in the whole of solitaire. michael is a very angry individual, i think we all know that. however, he is not portrayed like how angry characters usually are. his anger stays inside, like a lion waiting to attack. michael lives hiding a part of himself, somewhere so deep in his mind that whenever it is able to come out it becomes his worst nightmare ever. unlike most angry characters, the anger doesn’t affect the rest, it affects him.

i think this is so important to talk about, because yes, solitaire is tori’s book, but michael brings very important details to the story. i know most of the fandom likes to talk about him as a silly little guy, and that’s valid, because he also is that. my mind just won’t be at peace until we all realize a bit more how important he is.

anger will bring him down. that’s not something we can argue about, it’s the truth. and yes, it sounds silly, anger, really? that’s the thing that’s gonna bring him down? well, not exactly. anger is the first symptom of losing yourself. you start keeping all the anger to yourself, not really knowing what to do with it or why it’s becoming bigger and bigger. as this continues, you start hating, loathing every single moment of your life that doesn’t go as planned. before you even know it, you’re isolating yourself, afraid of any chance of the anger getting stronger.

if i were to show this with a scene of the book i would choose the one were michael finally explodes at tori. because at that moment, he has been trying so hard to be her friend, and attempt after attempt, she’s just been making things difficult. i say this from an objective perspective, because we know tori wasn’t in the right headspace, but that doesn’t mean michael’s wasn’t bad mentally as well. it’s what i said before, you start loathing everything that doesn’t go your way. and in this case, his friendship with tori wasn’t going his way. it’s a very hard topic to explain because i have been in both ends, mostly in michael’s, and it is extremely difficult to deal with. we know michael doesn’t have friends and probably didn’t have before either, which means he has been carrying this issue his whole life. it’s obvious he was going to explode. he keeps trying and trying and nothing goes his way. he can’t make friends to save his life, oh and look, he also failed the competition of what he is supposed to be great at, perfect!

i guess i just wanted to talk about this because as i said, feeling like this is not great. it sucks. it’s horrible to experience but so normalized as well. people like tori get talked about behind their backs. everyone has a bit of bitterness in their voice when they talk about them, spitting how being mentally ill doesn’t excuse you for being a bad person. people like michael get pitied. the people who keep a smile and don’t stop trying even when they’re dying inside. everyone feels bad for them, but no one cares enough to make a difference.

#guys i’m losing it #sorry for being depressing #and whatever this means #osemanverse #solitaire #michael holden #tori spring #sprolden #.🧃

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cagesofgold · 2 days ago

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Hand by Hand.

Jayce x Viktor - Arcane. (S2 spoilers!!)

The air which whipped around the lab had never felt more cold. Thick, heavy. The kind that caught in Jayce’s throat, stuffing every weeping crevice and filling his lungs with uncomfortable devastation. He left four minutes ago. Jayce felt as if he could still hear that rhythmic clicking of his cane against the linoleum hallway, decreasing in volume as he grew figuratively and literally further and further away.

His head fell to his hands, spine aligned with the desk as he sat slumped on the ground, staring intensely at the door - hoping he would burst back through at any moment.

But that wasn’t Viktor. Viktor didn’t look back and Jayce always did. Maybe that’s why they kept growing further apart, Viktor entering the mist of newfound exploration whilst Jayce stood stationary four steps behind staring in the opposite direction.

How did he let this happen?

It was as if everything had happened behind his back while he was engaged in other, and in hindsight less important matters. At least, they felt that way to him as he lay alone. His chest still hurt from the council bombing, and the flimsy bandage he’d twisted around his torso did little to contain the despair that leaked out of every part of him.

He’d faced hardship before but he’d never felt less helpless. He always had a plan, and when he lacked motivation he could always rely on the gaunt man with wiry hair, who would always provide strangely wise advice as he tapped his finger against a test tube.

That test tube was on the floor. About five feet away from Jayce’s languid body, which resigned further into itself.

It was only ten minutes ago he had been lulled by the comfort of sleep. Head resting on his wrists and Viktor’s vitals beeping on a screen in front of him. He’d spent the past few nights monitoring it cautiously. Every few minutes casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure his partner was still encased in the lurid liquid, which pulsed and pulled at his body in a way that concerned Jayce slightly. Mel had visited a handful of times, lingering hesitantly at the door until she was noticed by the man who scrambled with papers and drawings. She’d touch his shoulder gently, suggesting that rest in a bed would be the best plan of action for both him and the healing man behind them. Her hand was brushed off, and he returned to meddling with his partner’s research - written in scrawl he could barely make out. The legibility between the two always differed, Jayce’s hand having been eloquently trained whilst Viktor’s tried to mimic those of topside in order to fit in.

He’d mentioned it one night. Where the two worked into the early morning, two cups - one with coffee and one with tea, leaving deep coloured ringlets on the paperwork below it. Jayce was trying his hand at comprehending the council’s legislations, fingers dusting over copious empty signature boxes he had to fill out before the meeting that morning. As he flicked through the pile, seemingly endless and only growing in the need for signatures, he turned to the man beside him. Viktor sat with his head resting in one hand, his other sketching a new invention, light lines coalescing with thicker ones as he hummed quietly to himself.

Jayce knew what he was humming as he had asked before. Every-time Viktor entered his own little bubble of invention, he would begin to hum a tune, so much to the point Jayce had started humming it too as he marched around on council errands. Viktor told him it was from his time in the under-city as a child, when he would sit by the ponds driving a mangled screwdriver into a piece of driftwood as he hummed. The habit had carried on, and the song wasn’t any sort of lullaby or hymn. It was simply one he had made up himself.

“Viktor?” Jayce asked quietly, leaning a little further to the left to try and gently get his partner’s attention.

“Hm?” Viktor murmured, rotating his head slightly to the right, still held up by his thin hand as his hair draped over his eyes.

Jayce smiled, “Whatcha up to?”, rising from his chair and picking up a few pieces of paperwork from the mass pile.

Viktor shrugged, pausing his drawing for a moment to let a long sigh rack his shoulders. He put the pencil to one side, stretching out his fingers which had been contorted for the past few hours.

“I’m attempting to lay out blueprints for a new piece of Hextech.” He croaked out, running his free hand down his face. “I’m not entirely happy with it.”

“When are you ever entirely happy with it.” Jayce teased, rolling his own shoulders back as he drew closer to Viktor’s desk. “What’s it for?”

“Healthcare.” Viktor replied, picking up the small piece of parchment and holding it up for Jayce to see. “It’s for aiding elderly.”

Jayce nodded in approval, to which Viktor returned the paper down onto the desk, and leant back fully in his chair.

“What about you?” He inquired, “Council duties?”

Jayce chuckled at his tone, words always laced in a slight mocking jeer at his new position in Piltover.

“As a matter of fact it is.”

“Mmm.”

“Don’t be like that!” Jayce laughed, in that gawky way that always slightly alarmed Viktor. Jayce let his hand grip Viktor’s shoulder, his fingers fully wrapping around the man’s lithe muscle - he sometimes forgot how slight Viktor was. Their statures differed completely, Jayce stood tall and proud while Viktor leant on his cane and had his eyes downcast.

Why couldn’t he have seen it before?

“I was wondering if I could ask a favor…” Jayce sang, crouching down beside Viktor who eyed him suspiciously. “I have…an actual shit ton of paperwork that needs signed for today, and I was wondering-“

“No.”

“Viktor, please!” Jayce huffed, crossing his arms in a way that Viktor always thought made him look like a cross toddler. “It’s only four documents, all I need is for you to copy my signature, it won’t take long.” Jayce held up a stapled envelope he had already signed, pointing at it with his finger as if that would somehow entice Viktor into doing something he had completely no interest in doing.

“It’s not like they would be able to tell.” Jayce whined, and as he leant further towards Viktor - the moonlight which cascaded through the window panes circled his purpling eye-bags in a worrisome way. They clung to the bottom of his waterline, a deep crimson at the top and a deep mauve towards his cheeks. He had been spending the past few nights in the lab, Viktor knew. And unfortunately for him Jayce was not as accustomed to the late hour as Viktor was.

Which led to Viktor sighing, putting his head in one hand, and reaching for the paperwork with the other.

“Yes!” Jayce rejoiced, jumping up to standing as he placed the paperwork on the table in front of Viktor. “All you need to do is sign where it says, ‘Jayce Tails’, and just copy how i’ve done it here.” He again referred to the envelope which housed his elegant signature, curvy and long in all the right places.

“Uh..” Viktor hummed under his breath, his hand hesitating over the first line, pencil gripped between two shaking fingers.

Jayce had already turned away and returned to his desk, tapping his leather bound shoe against the floor - the little gilt buckle chiming along with the rhythm.

Viktor glanced at him, then back at the paper. His signature was so incredibly neat, precise and printed in the exact same way on every piece of paper. Viktor knew it never took him more than a few seconds, yet it would take Viktor at least five minutes to even attempt the ostentatiously perfect calligraphy and the end result wouldn’t even slightly mirror it.

“How’s it coming?” Jayce questioned, turning to Viktor as the wheels of his chair screeched against the ground.

“Um…okay.” Viktor coughed, placing the tip of the wooden pencil against the start of the box, and starting a hesitant line. He cursed under his breath, that singular line was already wrong and his hand began to shake to a greater intensity.

He tried again, and again, each marking growing shakier and less confident as his eyes darted from Jayce’s hand to his own.

“Throwing in the towel?”

Viktor’s blood ran cold at the realization Jayce was directly above him, watching intently at the attempted calligraphy which had just resulted in scrawl. Viktor moved his hand to cover it, letting out a wary chuckle and trying his hardest to not focus on the looming presence behind him.

“Viktor?” Jayce whispered, rotating his body around the chair till he was adjacent to Viktor rather than behind. He stifled a laugh, “Can I see?”

“No.” Viktor huffed, shoving the papers which had evident ruffles where his frustrated hands had gripped it, under a pile of tools.

“Alright..well, I am gonna need that paperwork, or your healthcare tech will never be approved.” Jayce remarked jovially, attempting to dodge the blockage Viktor was providing with his arms. Jayce managed to twist one hand around the attempted barricades, only for Viktor to trap him in his surprisingly strong grip.

Jayce sighed, staring down at the man who hadn’t met his eyes since they started this little debacle.

“Viktor, what’s wrong.” Jayce whispered, eyebrows furrowing in soft concern. He moved out of Viktor’s grip and sat on the desk, crossing his arms across his chest as he observed his visibly frustrated partner.

“I can’t…write like you.” Viktor muttered, eyes still downcast onto the table - refusing to look at Jayce. He knew he would look at him in the most pitiful way and Viktor loathed it.

Jayce’s head cocked to one side, “Of course you can’t.”

Viktor’s head shot up, eyes flickering with a shocked expression which flattened into a confused manner of offense.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be able to. No one writes in the same hand, I just meant copy it best you can, half my signatures on those documents don’t even look marginally the same.” Jayce stuck his thumb over his shoulder and motioned towards the stack of papers on his side of the curved table.

Viktor watched him motionlessly, mouth slightly agape and fingers still gripping the carved oak pencil between worn skin. Jayce’s fervent concern slowly morphed into a slight smirk, his crossed arms tightening as he opened his mouth to say something.

Viktor raised his hand, “If whatever you’re about to say is going to irritate me, please refrain.”

“Were you seriously stressing out that much!” Jayce chortled, lurching forward as laughter spilled out of him. It echoed around the quiet laboratory, filling each corner and presumably leaking out of the window which was cracked open slightly - because Jayce always ran hot. Viktor just watched him in annoyance, face flat and jaw tense as the councilor giggled to himself for a solid two minutes.

“I think the lack of sleep has made you delirious.” Viktor rolled his eyes, retrieving the paperwork from under a particularly weighty spanner and dropping it beside Jayce’s thigh.

Jayce’s laughter died down until it was only a lasting smile, he looked down at the paper, taking it into his hands. His smile grew as he flicked through the pages, seeing the various attempts at his fancy J’s and Y’s. Half of them were scribbled out, but it didn’t make them any less endearing.

“You know, these aren’t half bad.” Jayce chuckled, “Although you write your e’s in a really bizarre way.” He pondered this, lifting the paper up to the moonlight as he focused his critical eye on Viktor’s supposedly “Strange e’s”

“My e’s are not bizarre.” Viktor snipped, turning away from the situation unfolding and dragging his microscope towards him, fiddling with the lenses.

“Your e’s are completely bizarre.” Jayce confirmed, “Look at that!” He pointed towards the end of the e in which it flicked downwards rather than straight, “What’s going on here, Your own interpretation?”

Viktor just started at him blankly from below the microscope, shrugged, and then pushed his face towards the eyepiece. He suddenly spoke up from the scope, hand still rotating the lense until he was satisfied. “In the under - city we didn’t have time to learn how to write fancy e’s. Too busy starving.”

“Oh, do not pull the Under - city card on me.” Jayce gasped, thumping the paper down onto the table.

Viktor shrugged, a small smirk evident from where the rest of his face was shrouded by the equipment.

“You’re a dick.” Jayce rolled his eyes, bringing the paperwork down atop of Viktor’s head with a ‘slap’ before he slid off of the table. Viktor laughed to himself as Jayce sulked back to his desk.

They grew quiet for a moment, Viktor focused on gaining the correct answer to his hypothesis as he switched eyes and continued adjusting the microscope.

“Thank you for signing these, though. Really helped me out.”

Viktor’s head raised, face pulling away from his work for a moment to catch Jayce’s eye. Jayce smiled at him gently, a smile which carried all the way up to his eyes - a smile which only came out when he was speaking to him.

Viktor nodded, to which Jayce returned to signing the rest of the paper’s with a concentrated expression. Jayce didn’t know that Viktor’s gaze lingered on him for a few moments longer, and by the time he looked back Viktor’s eye was deeply focused on something else.

It was always like that with them. Miscommunication. Blindness. Blindness which has only been made obvious to the one who was left behind, clutching his aching side and reminiscing about the past seven years of his life which had all depleted because of their own creation. His, own creation.

He thought it was only him that faced this agony. The kind that swelled inside of his chest and swirled upwards to his throat. But he felt it too, hood obstructing his vision as he wound through the lanes, cane clicking against war - torn ground. He was in the mist, and Jayce was still four steps behind. Except this time Jayce was staring after him, he just couldn’t move.

Jayce rolled over onto his side, a hiss escaping his chapped lips as he felt the remnants of the explosion still evident in the ache of muscle. This laboratory was far too big for one.

He had to find him.

#arcane #jayce talis #jayce x viktor #arcane jayce #viktor arcane #viktor league of legends #viktor lol #league of legends #fanfic #arcane fanfic #arcane fandom

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miss-vanta-likes-to-write · 3 days ago

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Loyalties

Fate starts here

There was a sense of unreality as she watched in morbid fascination as her family compound went up in flames. Her mother had foresaw this fuckery happening and warned her father that his shadowy backdoor dealings would throw their pack into the fray. Really, everyone should have been so fucking for real about her father's enemies selling him out and putting their pack at risk. But in the end it didn't matter because her mother was dead, killed in the raid and chalked up as some poor omega caught in the crossfire. If only the authorities knew that Carrie Williams was really Carrie Castello and she was indeed the dominant omega in Antony Castello's pack. The woman behind the man who was wanted for several cruelties and backdoor illegal trade deals. Sure Antony was the public face of the Castello empire, but Carrie kept shit in motion. She dutifully watched the cash flow, kept an eye on how funds were laundered, kept his other more public facing omegas and beta partners in line. Carrie was a beast, and truth be told, when her alpha went into hiding a week before, she set things into motion for all four of the heirs to escape and be legally untouchable. Carrie was the glue that held the Castello pack together.

Well, Carrie was now dead and the only daughter she had was quietly watching international news talk about how this pack, her family, was involved in an international conspiracy and crimes, but was very selective on what that meant.

Bambi, the young woman, was now the only person who could keep the pack going behind the scenes. Antony, her sweet and darling father, was in hiding, effectively leaving his three sons in charge of things, which meant that she was in charge of everything her mother did. Everything including relocating the main pack (which was small really because even though she knew there were other children they were half bastards, her mother was too nice really), pack finances, pack politics, making sure that two out of three brothers keep a polite public image. She would have to figure out how to spin that she and her pack had nothing to do with the Castello crimes and were unaware of the shady underbelly of their father's and his associates' doings should it ever come up. In truth, she was going to have to be the brains going forward or at least until her father could turn up safely. Assuming that he would ever turn up again, this raid had been worse, and some fancy task force was brought in to catch him.

“Aunt Bambi?” Her name was softly spoken by her niece, Sophia. The little girl was a mix between her brother (though she wasn't sure which one as all three shared two omegas) and her best friend. Hazel eyes stared up at her and the little girl crawled into her lap. “Are my daddies gonna meet us in England for vacation?”

Bambi nodded her head and turned off the news coverage, switching the tv to Bluey. “It's not really going on vacation, we as a pack decided to move to England for a while.”

“Is Daddy Xavier gonna meet us there?” She asked, the girl was really close to him and everyone suspected she belonged to him biologically.

“Yeah, he just has to finish up some things for work and he and your momma will be with all of us in England before you know it.” She kissed the little girl on the forehead. “You need to get some more sleep Sophia, we have a long day traveling tomorrow and it's not just me and you this time running off to spend money.”

Sophia giggled and settled into Bambi's warm hold. They all had another long day ahead of themselves, from escaping their compound in South America to getting to the states quietly and then getting everything set up for the last leg of the trip; Bambi was exhausted. She was traveling with children, two six year olds and two four year olds with no help. She planned it that way, logistics demanded that Malik go ahead of them all to get the house ready. He also had to make it seem like he was moving his pack across seas for business reasons. So the European Branch of Temple Ballistics and Weaponry had to be made to look like it was failing and needed the CEO to come and set things right. Aaron would be stuck in America for an extra day, doing damage control before he could slip away, and lastly Xavier would need to smuggle himself into England. The dummy had gotten put on a no fly list, and he needed to find a private jet that could be paid off to keep him off the passenger manifest. Gloria and Symphony, both close friends of hers and omegas, wouldn't be with them until a few days later.

All in all, it really was just Bambi and the kids for the next few days. But their escape from South America, away from the chaos that was the illegal trades, away from the fuckery that was their life, was being executed perfectly.

141

“Well that could have gone better.” Kate was standing at the front of the room at one of the many black sites in South America. Behind her were images of the people who had escaped or were killed. “Antony Castello managed to escape, our intel was out of date but we managed to uncover millions of pounds worth of illegal arms, scientific research, and freed plenty of enslaved people.” She clicked through the slide show that documented the mess that was created. It was like a mini war, the people they went against actually had military grade weapons, they had genuine training and above all the ones they caught were extremely loyal to Antony Castello.

“Christ, ‘onster had a long list of sins didn’ he?” Johnny had leaned back in his chair.

Kate gave him a look and nodded her head, “yes but this debrief is about what the next steps are. The Americans we have been working with on this op have informed our higher ups that they suspect that there was either an informant in the midst who is working closely to this case or they paid for information.”

Price raised an eyebrow and huffed. “Is that why our main target was gone?”

“Possibly.” Kate sighed, “either way, I want to thank 141 for helping to lead this op. You four are going to go on leave-”

Simon grunted his displeasure at that one while Johnny cheered.

“The leave is for a month, I need you guys well rested before I start sending you out again. As for this particular case, the Americans are heading up another investigation into it and we have some people on team to assist. This could very well be a multiple country conspiracy.”

Kyle let out a low whistle, “How could one man even control all of that?”

Kate smirked, “you four are alphas, so of course I'm sure you can understand that an alpha’s drive for dominance can come into play. Then again, we suspect he has others keeping things moving along. Legally, he doesn't have a pack, but the reality is he probably does, but they are well hidden.”

“So the plan is to find his pack and use them to lure him out? That's a bit harsh.” Johnny knitted his brows together. His first thought was the innocent omegas and pups caught in all this. After all, no sane omega, beta, or anyone would really ally themselves willingly with this mess.

“Well Soap, it's a good thing that those ethics are not left up to you.” John said, “We'll be ready Kate should you need us for this particular operation.” John could see how he would be concerned about the poor innocents trapped with these people, but this was a dangerous man on the run.

Kate shut off the projector, and the lights dimmed back on. “You four get out of here and have a good break.”

#task force 141 #poly!141 #cod modern warfare #black fem oc #Simon ghost riley x black!oc #John soap mactavish x black!oc #kyle gaz garrick x black!oc #john bravo-six price x black!oc #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john price

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spop-romanticizes-abuse · 11 months ago

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“forced herself to become the villain” girl be ffr. catra didn't force herself to do shit. no one had any expectations on her, she could have easily escaped the horde and started a new life if she wanted to.

her actions were her own choice, no one else's. her opening the portal especially was 100% her choice. everyone was against it, in fact, even entrapta and hordak, who were on her side until then. stop trying to woobify her and start holding her accountable for her actions.

#at some point catra basically replaces hordak as the leader of the horde #she starts making plans and carrying them out #it was completely her choice you cant deny that #spop critical #spop salt #spop criticism #spop discourse #spop #she ra #anti catra #anti spop #anticatra

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kittenfangirl20 · 1 day ago

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*as they traveled to the port Adam was being trained in etiquette and how to act like a prince, the more Adam got to know Lucifer, the more he wanted to make him happy, Adam had to learn the different types of forks and knives, how to walk the way a Prince would, and other types of ways royalty acted*

Ozzie: They are going to expect you to know how to dance, Lucifer come over here.

*Lucifer walked over and held his hand out to Adam, Adam smiles and took it, Ozzie told them where to put their hands and they started to dance, Ozzie couldn’t help but smile, he also felt Lucifer should settle down and start a family, it seemed like Adam was the perfect chance for him to do that, he was even more surprised when they got close to each other and kissed, Adam and Lucifer pulled away blushing, the rest of the trip to the port they didn’t talk much about the kiss, back with Alastor the sorcerer glared at the young Prince traveling, he had slipped through Niffty’s fingers, it was time to use a little magic, they made it to the port and to a ship that would take them to the city of Heaven where they would put their plan into action*

Lucifer: I have enough money to buy you a couple nice suits to wear to meet the Queen.

Adam: What if she doesn’t want to see me, I mean she must have a lot of young men who are coming and claiming to be her son.

Lucifer: Than we will have to get creative in finding a way to have a meeting with her. We can start with coming up with a way to tell her how you survived.

Adam: Well there was this strange dream I had that we could use where I was in a room with a woman and some people were attacking the place we were in and there was a door in the wall that opened. A servant boy came out of it and helped us out of the castle.

*Lucifer’s eyes widened, he knew that night because he was the servant boy, this was the real Prince Adam, he couldn’t believe the young man he kissed was the Prince he used to watch from a distance thinking of how beautiful he was*

Lucifer internally: Adam, you will soon have your family

*.he gently slid his hand into Adam’s hand as that fell asleep, Alastor then invaded Adam’s dream which made him start to sleep walk to the deck above, what he saw in the dream was a forest and people calling his name, when Adam was at the deck he thought he was standing on a cliff and in the lake bellow was what he didn’t know was his family urging him to jump, Lucifer woke up and couldn’t find Adam, he ran up to the deck and saw Adam climbing the railing to jump into the ocean*

Lucifer: ADAM!!!!!!!!

*Lucifer ran to Adam and pulled him off of the railing, Adam woke and clung to him*

Lucifer: I got you, I promise that I will keep you safe.

*Lucifer gently picked up Adam and carried him to the room that shared, he looked at the Prince in his arms and smiled at him, once in the room, Lucifer lay Adam on the bed, but Adam pulled Lucifer close to him so he was on top of him and kissed him, they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other as they kissed*

Lucifer: What are we doing?

Adam: I only know that I want you.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

(Anastasia AU)

*once there was a beautiful kingdom of Eden ruled by a king and his Queen Sera, they had many beautiful children, but the youngest was their son Adam who was the most beautiful of them all, he had soft brown hair the color of milk chocolate and honey brown eyes, one night Sera was up with Adam who couldn’t sleep and was just curled up in her arms while he wore her locket and she sang for him*

Sera: 🎶On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember. Soon you’ll be home with me once upon a December.🎶

Adam: I love you mama.

Sera: I love you my little Starlight.

*just then there was a commotion outside, Sera held Adam and walked to the window, there was a mob crying out for the blood of the royal family, their eyes were glowing green under the control of a dark sorcerer named Alastor who was envious of the royal family and wanted to have them all killed, behind Sera and Adam a secret door opened, a young servant boy about a year or two older than Adam stepped out, he had blonde hair and blue eyes, he was Lucifer*

Lucifer: Your Majesty, we need to get you out of here with Adam. You need to sleep the country.

*Sera still holding Adam followed Lucifer through the hidden corridors of the palace, Lucifer had to behind, but he blushed when the beautiful little got out of Sera’s arms and kissed him on the cheek, the mother and son ran through the city that was in the midst of a riot, Sera felt her heart stop when she heard the mob cry out with joy that the King and all but one of his children were killed, they made it to a train station, the train was going but she had to get on, she got on the train, but Adam slipped from her arms and and hit his head, Sera screamed as the train took her away from her precious son, what she didn’t know was that Adam survived and was taken to an orphanage because he couldn’t remember who he was, all he had was his mother’s locket to tell him that he had family out there, ten year later Adam was a young man of twenty who was being sent to the capital to get a job in Eden, he walked down the road singing a song he knew, but didn’t know why*

Adam: 🎶On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember. Soon you’ll be home with me, once upon a December.🎶

*in the capital now ruled by the dark sorcerer Alastor the news paper saying that the old Queen Sera believed her son Adam was still alive and she would offer a small fortune to whoever found him, a con man who was the same servant who saved Adam and the Queen looked at the newspaper grabbed it and ran to his hideout with his friend Ozzie who was once a nobleman in the royal court*

Lucifer: Did you see this, if we can find a man who looks like Adam we could train him to act like royalty and take him to the Queen and get the money. We will be set for life.

Ozzie: I like the way you think.

*they held auditions in the old abandoned royal palace and none of the young men that tried out fit what they were going for not knowing that the actual prince was sneaking into the palace to look around because he was drawn to it for some reason*

(This won’t be exactly like the Anastasia movie, but it will have a lot of the main plot points)

Adam was in awe of this palace, it was grand and wondrous even though the wallpaper was peeling, paint chipped and floors covered with dirt and dust everywhere.

He opened the door, it was dark. It looked like it used to be a bedroom for a little boy.

Adam: I wonder who's room this was.

Not knowing that this was once his bedroom, Adam moved on to look around.

Lucifer threw his hat down frustrated, no one looked remotely like the prince Adam.

Lucifer: We can't collect the money without a look alike.

Ozzie: Relax baby, someone is bound to stroll right through that door and it will strike like lightning.

As if by magic, the door opened and Adam walked in looking all around.

Adam: Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was here.

Lucifer side eyes Ozzie: Like lightning you say? Hello there! Would you be interested in the deal of a lifetime? My name is Lucifer by the way.

He eyed this guy up and down, he was perfect!

Adam smiled and shook his hand: Nice to meet you, I'm Adam.

And his name was even Adam! So that was one less thing to lie about.

Lucifer: Adam, what a lovely name.

He winked and Adam felt his face grow warm. This Lucifer guy was very charming.

Adam: What deal ?

Lucifer: Right to business! I can understand that. We were looking to collect on some money and you my friend and the perfect missing piece we need. Would you be interested in pretending to be the missing Prince Adam?

Adam blinked: Isn't that..... Lying?

Lucifer wrapped an arm around Adams shoulders: Adam, I'll level with you. The real prince, is probably long gone. We'll be doing the Queen a kindness! And, we will split it with you.

Adam thought about it, it was risky: Sure, why not.

#hazbin hotel #adam #hazbin hotel adam #lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #adamsapple #guitarduck #adam/lucifer #minors dni

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jadepresentingnipples · 2 years ago

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Apparently the way to make me write about my OCs is to get me distracted while writing explanations for my choices on a survey in the tags.

#Sekhmet kills people #Alesa is unbelievably manipulative #Until recently I probably would have picked 0 bitches for Sekhmet #Because I didn’t actually have plans to give her a girlfriend at any point in the story #Her story isn’t really about that #it’s about trauma and healing and self-love despite a lifetime of pain and adversity #which turns you into a person who you never wanted to be and now you don’t know if you can ever become a person who you wanted to be again #all of which is to say despite the fact that it’s very important that she is attracted to women #and this fact about her is exploited by those around her to make her do things she doesn’t want to do #because she’s desperate for affection and approval #people would naturally deny that she’s lgbt at all because she doesn’t get a girlfriend #and would also say that she’s bad representation because her queerness gets exploited and functions as a character flaw in the narrative #which in the minds of gatekeepers means that she’s obviously straight actually #but I recently realized that a particular plot beat at one point in the story would actually best be resolved with a romance arc for her #so she does get exactly 1 bitch #unfortunately she loses said bitch to the inexorable strings of fate and family which conspire to pull them slowly apart #through no fault of either on their own and simply because in life many things we wish could last are brief #and our first loves are rarely the ones we carry the rest of our lives #but they do kiss before parting ways forever so that’s nice #Later in life Sekhmet gets another long term partner and starts giving free discreet abortions to anyone who needs them #because it turns out human fetal tissue is a powerful spell component but is usually unavailable #because the traditional ways of getting it usually involve ritual sacrifices to dark gods and extremely unsanitary knives #Sekhmet meanwhile completely breaks this limitation by just getting it ethically and consensually #through a simple and safe minimally invasive procedure #offered for free and with no questions asked #except for the normal safety questions of ‘did you tell anyone where you were going’#and ‘do you have any magic items on your person’#and ‘are you secretly carrying a troupe of assassins in a bag of holding to kill me while I’m unawares’#y’know normal witch stuff #what was this post about again?

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who-is-there · 7 months ago

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I just started watching Dimension 20’s Fantasy high, halfway through sophomore year, and I do want a fic where people realise just how used to being part of a group the bad kids are. For example-

-I fully believe every single one of them is used to Riz climbing them so he can see better. It’s usually Gorgug, but it’s happened to all of them at some point. They might hold out their arm for him to jump onto a counter, or so he can pin a clue to his board. Before they all sit at a table, at least one of them makes sure their 4’4 friend can jump onto the table.

-Every single one of them has also caught Adaine after she had a vision. Sometimes she can just shake them off, but the big ones make her falter in what she’s doing, which can be dangerous. It happened once in a fight, and now the people standing closest to her are always ready.

-Fabian doesn’t really recognise he has a blind spot with his eye injury, because the others immediately clocked it. But this also means they walk in between him and the road, in case some idiot mounts the curb. They keep an eye on anything to his right, shifting drinks and pushing chairs if they can tell his depth perception is a little off.

-Fig usually stands in the middle of the group to intimidate people into not messing with them, so it’s sort of become habit to just crowd around her. After the battle, if no one’s seriously hurt or anything, everyone just wanders over to Fig. At this point, Fig is always the first one to yell out after a fight, just so they can regroup.

-Gorgug is the go-to for lap-sits, leaning, anything to do with being physically supported by another persons body. His hoodie is soft, and his headphones are loud enough that you can kind of hear it if you’re leaning on him. His parents weren’t great with nonchalant physical contact, in case he was already upset, so he takes great joy in his friends not being scared to hug him for fun.

-Kristin has left her staff at every single house she could with the bad kids. She leaves her bag in classrooms, the library, the cafeteria. Whenever the group leave somewhere, they do a full scan, because Kristin has probably left something and they grab it for her. No one has any clue who her bag actually belongs to, because all of the bad kids have been seen carrying it around school several times.

The school at large know who the bad kids are, and the town recognise them, but they still don’t know why all of them double check a room before leaving, or collectively carry a small stool around with them. One student with a fantasy iron deficiency faints in class and Kristin catches her before she hits the ground. Once, Fig isn’t in school for a day and all the bad kids have this restless energy about them. It is not uncommon to see them on the field during lunch, curled up in a pile on Gorgug. One guy tries to surprise Fabian from the right and gets body checked by Adaine before it even registers.

It’s sort of uncomfortable for everyone to see any of them without the others, because it means a) the rest of them committed a crime, b) the rest of them are committing a crime, or c) the rest of them are about to run in and start planning to commit a crime. And no one wants to lose their plausible deniability here.

#fantasy high #riz gukgak #gorgug thistlespring #figeroth faeth #fabian seacaster #adaine abernant #kristen applebees #dimension 20 #the bad kids

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a-b-riddle · 7 months ago

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Part 2

Can't stop thinking about reader finally cutting them loose.

For three days there was nothing but radio silence. In those three days you had told yourself that it was a grace period. Time for Simon to cool off and realize how much of a bastard he was for saying all those things he obviously didn't mean. Johnny coming back over with a bouquet of flowers and endless apologies and cuddles.

Simon didn't apologize for his harsh words.

Johnny didn't call you later, as promised.

For three days you jumped at every single notification, silently hoping it was one of them. Any of them.

But it wasn't.

And you, unfortunately, got the answer to the question you had been asking yourself for months.

Did they still want this?

The answer was clear.

You didn't let their unofficial dismissal get to you. You still had shit to do. A life to get on to. A book signing to go to.

Jesus.

A book signing. A book you wrote. A book that was being published and released the day of the expo. You weren't expecting a huge line because this was your debut novel, but with the help of some ARC readers who had took to social media, there had been a bit of a storm brewing.

You had listened to John when he had mentioned writing under an alias. Don't know how crazy people are out there. They'd do anything to get close to you, Dove. Just better to protect yourself where you can. You almost hated yourself for listening to him now. Now you would just have to keep writing under your pen name.

You were getting ready to close up shop early when your phone finally pinged.

Kyle.

Fuck.

Of course it was Kyle. The one who hadn't treated you like you were constantly bothering him. Not the one who made you feel guilty for agreeing to your arrangement. Nor was he the one who fucked you and left you. No. He was just the one who just wasn't there.

Maybe that was just as bad.

What are you up to today?

That was it. Almost two weeks of radio silence and that's all he had to say? It just added more evidence that you were making the right call in ending this now. It had already carried on for too long.

You had two things on your to-do list and you wouldn't let Kyle's sudden reappearance deter you.

E-mail the publisher back.

Change the locks.

You didn't have the strength to face them again. If they groveled, it would be too easy to take them back. One against four wasn't much of a fair fight. And if they didn't care to fight for you... you don't know if you could survive it. Coming face-to-face with the proof that it didn't bother them to give you up even though it was killing you.

No. Cutting it off completely was the best thing to do.

So you didn't respond.

You left Kyle's text unanswered as you e-mailed the publisher back that everything was set for your flight on tomorrow morning. You would spend Thursday adjusting to the time difference and Friday you would rest up before the expo this weekend. She assured you that you would need to rest up your writing hand. Whatever that means.

You left Kyle read as you closed up shop several hours earlier than usual. You needed to drop off the bank deposit before you started on task number two.

You didn't bothering responding to Johnny when he had texted you when you were leaving the hardware store, purchase in hand. Asking if you were free Friday. Promising dinner. 'In or out. Your choice.'

It was almost second nature when you got home to pull up your phone. Ready to text one of them to see which one of them could come over and help.

Fixing a leaky sink? Nothing Johnny hasn't seen before. Need help moving furniture? John won't mind when you change your several times on what should go where. Kyle would always come in with take out the moment you mentioned you were hungry and whenever you felt like going for a walk when it was a bit too late in the evening, Simon was the first to volunteer as your personal guard dog.

But asking them to come and change the very lock you planned on using to keep them out seemed... counter productive, if not downright petty.

You were almost done with the lock when your phone sounded off. Only this time it wasn't a text. Someone was calling you.

You almost faltered when John's name came on your screen.

Fuck.

That almost got you.

You almost answered it.

Almost.

You clicked on the 'Sorry, I can't talk right now. Options, before finishing up your work.

And just like that, you were done. No help needed. You had changed the lock. Even adding on a deadbolt. Replacing the flimsy chain Simon had taunted you about. If someone wanted to get in here, that wouldn't stop them.

Well, now you didn't need to hear it anymore.

Not that you would really hear it again...

Your flight was in twelve hours. Although that seemed an ample amount of time you hadn't even begun to pack. You had luckily narrowed your outfits down, but now was the task of folding it nicely into your suitcase rather than just stuffing it in there.

On my way. We need to talk.

It was too late for talking. Three days too late. Several months too late.

The last message sent was four weeks ago. A new Thai place had opened up close to your apartment that you were wanting to try. All of them had given you excuses.

Not my taste, Dove.

Cannae do it tonight. Next weekend? Next weekend didn't happen either.

I can do tomorrow. Kyle ended up bailing. You forget the excuse he used.

Simon hadn't even bothered to reply.

The final nail in the coffin of your relationship. Almost two years wasted with nothing, but a broken heart to show for it. And the worst part is, they had all chipped away at your heart, leaving you to deal with the final blow that would shatter it.

Im sorry. I can’t do this with you anymore. wish you all the best.

Your fingers made quick work in blocking their numbers. It was best. If they wanted to reach you, they couldn't. On the other side of the coin, if they didn't care to reply, you wouldn't spend countless hours crying over the fact that none of them had been affected the same way you had.

You would deal with getting them their belongings that they had left behind another time. You had big things, great things happening for you. You were cutting your loses. You were cutting them loose.

You just hoped you didn’t regret it.

#captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #poly141 #angst #grovel #groveling

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steddieme · 8 days ago

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in most fics i've read robin is grossed out when steve talks about his sex life, which is probably far more in character for her, but hear me out

imagine them discussing literally everything. like having no boundaries whatsoever.

one day robin mentions she's never seen a dick and she's curious what all the fuss is about.

robin: you have one

steve: yeah...?

robin: so show me

steve: ??

steve: sure, why not

when steve pulls down his pants, robin just stares at him with a blank face

robin: that's... it?

steve: what do you mean that's it??

robin: it looks sad

steve: ??? well, it's not hard rn, obviously???

robin: ugh, boring

steve: you want me to show you my hard dick?? is that what's happening rn?

robin: i mean yeah?

steve: your judgemental face is forever burned into my mind. i don't think i'll ever be able to get hard again.

then robin bursts into his room like a week later

robin: steve, you're a slut-

steve: hey!

robin: so you know your way around a vagina, right?? i need you to tell me if i have a rash or not

steve: do you not own a handheld mirror?

robin: i'm freaking out so much, i can't make a sound observation rn

steve: *sigh* alright

turns out robin does indeed have a rash and steve takes her to the doctor

at one point they lose all shame. steve regularly air dries while robin hangs out in his room. robin makes steve do her monthly breast self-exam. they check each other for ticks.

when steve and eddie start dating steve tells robin literally everything. robin knows way too much about eddie and she loves it.

robin comes over for movie night, eddie is already there

robin: how was your day?

steve: we slept in, then eddie fucked me, it was great-

eddie: *chokes*

steve: then we cooked lunch, there are some leftovers in the fridge, go ahead and eat. yours?

eddie: ???

robin: ugh, don't get me started-

eddie: wait wait wait, how did you just say that so casually?

stobin: ???

eddie: that i fucked you??

steve: i tell robin everything. i told you that. you said that's fine.

eddie: i didn't know that included our sex life?

steve: why wouldn't it? ... wait, oh no, are you not okay with that?? i'm sorry, i thought you knew??

eddie: oh no, it's fine! it just surprised me is all. y'all are real freaks, carry on

stobin: okay then

robin freaks out before her first date with a girl

robin: what if my vagina looks weird???

steve: are you planning to fuck her on the first date, buckley? and how many times do i have to tell you your vagina looks absolutely normal??

robin: no, i'm not, but it's still a valid concern!!! what if my vagina looks hideous to girls??

eddie, the silent observer: lol

steve: what are you even talking about... a vagina is a vagina, vagina lovers love all vaginas

robin: stop saying vagina

steve: vagina vagina vagina-

robin tackles him and they end up wrestling until steve yields

steve: okay okay,, as someone who's seen his fair share of coochies

robin: that's even worse

steve: yours looks perfectly fine.

eddie: wait, you've seen it?

stobin, staring at him: ...

eddie: right, dumb question

#stobin merging into one entity is my favorite thing ever #stobin #steddie #fic #ficlet #mine #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #stobinie

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too-deviant · 7 months ago

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strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art.

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really �� you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else.

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway.

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire.

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis.

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks.

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa.

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for.

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning.

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits.

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art.

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel.

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation.

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in.

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out.

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready.

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together.

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her.

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left.

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back.

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married.

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave.

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one.

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned.

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night.

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble.

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.”

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out.

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing.

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.”

“Tashi likes you.”

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths.

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?”

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.”

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.”

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.”

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it.

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car.

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal.

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things…

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards.

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now.

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face.

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth.

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you.

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes.

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning.

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far.

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own.

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair.

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches.

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it.

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared.

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up.

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours.

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.”

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

#art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader #art challengers #art donaldson smut #babysitter!reader #challengers #challengers movie #@lia’s works #tashi duncan

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