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nellielsss · 6 months ago

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ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ'ꜱ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ˳༄꠶

Summary: Your captain loves nothing more than spending the night with you in his bed! Although, he wishes that you weren't so hellbent on keeping this thing a secret... A drabble semi-inspired by Touch My Body by Mariah Carey only it's much more intimate and less playful. Author's note: the amount of brainrot I've been having over Yami omfg 😭 😭 I've been OBSESSED with Black Clover and it's possibly worse than JJK... speaking of, I know this doesn't include the JJK crowd, but a girl can still explore her interests!! This also might be very ooc for Yami but IDGAF this is my perception of him. IDGAF if this flops I JUST NEED HIM TO FUCK ME ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!! Pairing: Yami Sukehiro x fem!reader CW: gentle sex, pet names, praising

🪽 Nσɯ ρʅαყιɳɠ…

"Thwap. Thwap. Thwap."

╰┈➤ Those were the sounds that were echoing throughout the Captain's quarters, and there was no way one could mistake them for the sound of anything but Captain Yami's thick, monstrous cock thrusting in and out of you.

"Y-Yami~ Captain Yami~" you gasped, looking over your shoulder at the Captain of the Black Bulls as he fucked--no, made love to you. For a guy who weighed close to 230 pounds, he could be quite gentle with you in bed.

And he had to be, because there was no way that he could harm his pretty little Bull, not when he A. needed you to go out on a mission soon and B. desperately wanted your trust. The latter reason was his cover for going slow if asked about it, at least, because the real reason was much more embarrassing for the prideful captain to admit.

He was in love with you, of course! He's actually had a crush on you ever since he saw you, but he'd never admit to it; he had a reputation to uphold.

"There you go, you've got it, sweets," he said in that deliciously husky voice of his as he gripped your hips and moved you back and forth on his girth. "Fuck, I don't even know how I could repay you for this, pretty girl... letting some big, ugly brute like me have a sweet taste of your body," he murmured, leaning down and pressing sweet kisses to your neck. "Don't even know why you'd agree to see me in private and let me do you in like this, you're way too fucking amazing for me," he thought aloud with a dry chuckle. Even in the throes of passion, he still found a way to be self-deprecating.

"Y-You're not ugly, S-Suke- gah~!" you gasped, feeling him press the head of his cock against your sweet spot for a few moments.

"Whatever you say, princess," he chuckled, relishing the feel of your spongy spot against his tip. "Fuuuck, looks like I found your sweet spot, eh? I'll make sure to make it even sweeter," he added, pulling your hips closer and thrusting as deep as he possibly could.

You buried your face in the pillows that he'd bought for your comfort, much too embarrassed by the sounds you were making. "I don't want my captain losing any sleep when there's missions to be completed," was what you told him when you were at the market.

So sweet to him, was what he first thought. Even when you were practically insulting him with your "compliments," he could still see right through the prickliness and find the gooey inside of your words. He'd never had anyone care for him like this--not since the Wizard King was his captain, and that was because the King had a weird obsession with his dark magic. Sure, you were bound by the respect expected of a captain's subordinate, but you took it a step further and personally cared for him.

He knew it from the moment you joined the Black Bulls and showed what you were made of that he'd somehow get you in his arms & his bed, and when that day came, it was the happiest day of his life, because now he could make sweet, sweet love to you every single night. Even when you complained and made a fuss about it, he could just throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his bedroom.

His sheer strength came in handy, because now he was giving you deep, steady strokes, his thick, tanned cock rubbing against your walls deliciously, making you feel things you didn't think were humanly possible

For such a brute, he could be so sweet, but that was because he wanted to repay you for your sweetness.

"Hey, pretty, don't hide your face from me," he crooned, gently grabbing your chin mid-stroke and making you look at him. He smiled fondly when he caught the unabashed love and lust in your eye, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I wanna see my pretty when I make her eyes roll back in her head."

There was it, that cocky streak that he had.

His cockiness could be justified, though; with the sounds you were making, one could imagine that you were ascending to heaven.

"D-Don't tease m'like that, Y-Yami, you know how... flustered I get," you whimpered, stuttering while trying to make your thoughts known. It was so impossible to speak or even think properly with the way he was digging into your guts.

"I know, I know, pretty, but good god is it amazing to see you melt away when I fuck your pretty brains out," he said, the words flowing off his tongue like honey.

He leaned down again and pressed his lips to yours this time, his huge arms wrapping around you even tighter and holding you to him. Was it blatant favoritism? Yes; was it probably going against the rules? Also yes; but neither of you cared, not even a little right now.

Not when he could make his subordinate moan his name over and over again when he made her cum.

His abs flexed and relaxed, his pecs felt hard and soft against your back, and you were just loving every single second of this. No matter how bratty or prickly you got with him, there was nothing like having him dick you down every single night without a care in the world, knowing that you could come to him any time you needed some stress relief or a shoulder to cry on or a dick to ride on. Looking at you now while he sat up straighter, hand still on your head and guiding you back and forth on his cock, he smiled softly once more. In that moment of sweet, unabashed bliss, Yami Sukehiro vowed to someday make you his officially, to show the world that you were his prized girlfriend, the woman who made his heart melt every time he so much as sensed your Ki.

His thoughts were interrupted by that familiar feeling of you squeezing and spasming around his thick pole. "Y-Yami, please-"

"I know, baby, I've got you, I've got you. Yami's got you," he murmured, leaning down to kiss you softly on the lips, his nose burying in your hair and sighing softly. "C'mon, cum on your captain's cock."

Those words were enough to make you arch your back and throw your head back with a loud, heavenly moan, babbling out his name while tears flowed down your cheeks.

"There we go, thaaat's it, cum on m'cock like I know you wanna," he cooed a bit louder this time. Watching and feeling you cum around his cock never got old, and it was enough to make him cum as well with a raspy grunt. "Shit, baby, you got me cumming so soon. I was gonna wait, but, oh well; might as well say fuck it," he said after emptying his balls into your eager hole.

He sighed a sigh of relief once his orgasm passed, and he pressed several kisses to your neck while chuckling softly. "Goddamn it, princess--I fuckin' love you."

"Love you too, Yami," you murmured, too fucked out of your head to even process the aftermath of your heavenly orgasm.

"I know you do," he whispered, rolling you over and kissing you. He kissed your lips over and over again, his cock still buried deep inside of you. "One day, I swear to god, I'll show the world how much I love you. Make all those other uptight captains wish that they had what we have."

Possibly the best part of your night was when you fell asleep in his arms, his body entirely entangled with yours all sweaty and sticky. No matter how sticky you were, he would never give a shit about it. He'd hold you just the same.

"So pretty when you sleep," he said with a soft kiss to the forehead.

Your dear friend and fellow Black Bull, Vanessa, didn't miss the soft glow that graced your gorgeous features when you made your way into the dining hall and to breakfast. "Good morning," you said to everyone with a smile on your face, grabbing a plate and getting the food that you were in need of.

"Is it just me, or is she way nicer than she normally is?"

"Right? Her mood's usually worser than Yami's, especially in the morning..."

"It must be nice to be in love," Vanessa sighed, setting aside her bottle of alcohol for a moment. The other Bulls looked at Vanessa with confusion, the observation making them look at each other as well.

"The hell is she talkin' about?"

#yami sukehiro x reader #yami sukehiro #black clover smut #black clover #black clover fandom #black clover x reader #black clover x y/n #Spotify

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mizusnose · 11 months ago

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ahem so I just read your college fuckboy mizu headcanons (which I loved) and was wondering if I could request a lil something about fuckboy mizu genuinely liking the reader so she makes changes to convince the reader she's serious. Reader would probs be SUPER skeptical bc casual relationships isn't their thing but it'd be so cute. Obvs you can just ignore this if you don't want to do it my mind has just been mizu brainrot lately

so i’ve been letting this one marinate for a bit BUT: reader who gets together with Taigen to spite Mizu who won’t get serious for reader. Cue the jealousy, club shenanigans, and poet mizu (!!)

boyfriend by dove cameron for max brainrot

———

Taigen was a fine boyfriend. All things considered. He was better than most of the guys you’d been with before, and he had a motorcycle that he’d let you take pics with and post them on your feed.

But, he wasn’t Mizu.

This point had been made several times. Mostly on Taigen’s end. His constant whining of I see the way you look at her, god I bet you thought I was a woman huh, better yet—you wished I was her huh!

He wasn’t wrong, necessarily. It wasn’t your fault you’d gotten bored and decided to go to Taigen’s fencing practice. It wasn’t like you’d intended on falling head over heels for the hot butch lesbian who had a mean smirk and a sweaty jaw when she whooped Taigen’s ass.

You still remembered the way she had her neck bared, her hair falling over her shoulders, the beat of her heart nestled in between her collarbones, the dark green of her veins under her skin.

So, yeah, maybe you did have a thing for Mizu, who may or may not be your boyfriend’s biggest rival.

Heavy quotations on the rival part since Mizu didn’t give a shit that Taigen hated her—in fact, she didn’t care that the majority of the lesbians, bisexual, and bi-curious girls on campus hated her guts.

But that was what made her interesting.

You’d thought about it often: her, telling you to leave as soon as you’d come on her tongue or strap or fingers, (whatever was fine, you weren’t picky.) and you’d feel that tug in your tummy and your jaw would relax and fall open and—

“hah, did you come?”

And then you’d be back where you started: dating Taigen and fucking him and not being able to enjoy it or come or anything.

The thing was this: You’d only ever been in long-term relationships. Never dabbled in casual one night stands that Mizu was rumored to stick by. Even if you did want her, her time was limited. And you didn’t exactly love sharing.

So, when Taigen complained about having to go out this weekend to “bond or some teammate trust building shit, pfft, as if we aren’t trying to kill each other every practice. Not to mention Mizu will be there,” You convinced him to go, and for you to tag along. As moral support of course.

Now as much as Taigen loved telling you how much he hated Mizu, he liked coming to the thought of her much more. You’d done it quite often, bring Mizu up in sex, the way she’d fence and made him look like a fucking loser. How good she’d look kissing you, having you, taking you away from him. You’d both come then, not just him.

So you supposed it wasn’t that weird to be crushing over Mizu. Especially when the weekend came and the alcohol was sweet and fizzy and the wine dark and bitter, and the club lights shimmering on Mizu’s skin, her hair, her hands as she came up behind you.

“Hey.” She said. Simple, easy, confident. Her hands brushed your exposed back, the bend of your hip, the jut of your ribs.

“Hi.” You said. Sultry, warm, quiet so she’d have to twist closer to hear you when you gasped as she held your waist, tighter this time. A little mean, “I have a boyfriend.”

And she’d chuckle, and pull away and quirk her dark eyebrow up, “Really? Him?” A barely there glance at Taigen who was with the other fencing team members taking body shots off one another, “I could be a better boyfriend than him, you know.”

She spun you around, the steady heat of her palm always on you, “You know me.” It wasn’t a question. You saw the way Mizu’s eyes dragged across your body on her way over, her tongue on her lips as she stared. She knew you were Taigen’s girlfriend.

“Been watching.” She brought you closer, shifted her hands and then you were close. Closer than you’d ever been to her before.

She smelled heady and like pinewood. The plane of her chest was defined, sturdy, and you wondered if she had small breasts, if they were sensitive.

“Can’t believe I almost went home when you’re here—all alone.” She smirked, the same damned smirk you’d replay in your mind as you masturbated and thought of her, “Think I might just steal you from him, hm?”

Her hands slipped up your back, to the bottom of your nape, a demanding grip: there one second, gone the next. She watched your face, your lips, your neck.

“Does this usually work on other girls?”

You pushed away then, your legs wobbly and your underwear damp. You wanted, but you knew exactly what Mizu thought of you: an easy thing, something of Taigen’s. Good for a night, forgotten the next.

So you straightened your clothes, and met Mizu’s confused gaze, “I have a boyfriend.”

Mizu’s mouth twitched. Barely. But you’d caught it as you turned, and headed to the bartop. Even if Mizu was who you’d wanted, being a one-night stand wasn’t what you wanted.

So, you walked back over to Taigen, beers in hand, and watched Mizu as you kissed him wide and dirty. Her glare a steely weight in your belly, and on your beating cunt.

You’d make Mizu yours, one way or another.

——-

Let’s make this a 2 parter. Poet mizu will have to wait. Thanks for the ask :)

#blue eye samurai #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #headcanons #mizu x fem!reader #fanfiction #ask

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ivypos-writes · 5 months ago

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put your lips (where i’m rotten)

— aemond targaryen [1/?]

[SERIES MASTERLIST] | [GENERAL MASTERLIST]

summary: There are times when Aemond thinks he hates her, if only for the crime of reminding him about the chains of servitude shackled to his throat. Other times, he convinces himself that he feels nothing towards her at all. She is a stranger. A no one. A face without a soul. She is but another prisoner within these walls; a spoil of war, only one he never wished for.

He cannot condemn her for existing.

(He does. He does.)

Or, in which war puts them together, bound by duty and united in wrath.

warnings: 18+, aemond x unnamed!betrothed, angst, implied/referenced abuse, arranged marriage, falling in love, tension, morally grey characters, doomed from the start, dual pov, they’re both miserable and broken, eventual smut

word count: 6.3k

notes: i’m ready to descend into brainrot now that s2 is over. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

She knows rot when she sees it.

The hall has been prepared with utmost care for the arrival of the dragon prince. Servants scrubbed every surface three times since the sun rose—if one were to strain their eyes intently enough, they would find remnants of wetness pooling in the crevices and cracks of old stone. The floors were swept; the tables set for a feast, the scale of its grandiosity a stark contrast to the usual quality of their dining. All the torches have been lit. She has never seen this much light within these walls before.

Their household’s banners previously hanging down the walls have been replaced with a golden dragon painted over green, and she makes a point of refusing to look at it once, convinced that her distaste will be too strong to be passed off as something less treacherous than it truly is. The winged creature is foreign. Its embroidered jaws bring promises of misery.

She has been forced into her best gown—except it’s not really hers, but her sister’s, and the difference in their build shows. The fabrics draped over her waist are tighter than she’s used to; the coarse bodice digs into her ribs with a crushing force, and her bust threatens to spill from its confines with each slightest movement. Dark skirts cascade all the way down to the ground, and she holds onto them with trembling fingers, chanting inaudible prayers not to trip and plummet to her knees in front of an audience. Pride is something that still belongs to her, however fleeting; however scant. She will cling to its shredded remains for as long as she can. If she is little more than a property to be sold, then she’ll be a property standing with a raised chin and a fixed gaze. She will not stumble. She will not fall.

They dressed her in red. She hates red.

The gown shimmers in warm golds underneath the stray rays of sunlight, and she quickens her pace to evade them. Reds and golds. Green. How hurriedly they have stripped away whatever remnants of identity she possessed until this day—and they managed to do so with just colours. She has been dressed for slaughter. A pretty victim. A comely prey.

Today, she is a stranger. A newborn rising from the ashes of a dead. Past is gone, and all that remains is the possibility to mould herself into something new. Something better. Maybe—maybe—something that aches a little less. She is not herself; she mustn’t be herself. If she remained herself, she would flee.

Her father’s pride appears to have once more conquered all financial hardships their household faces; to have grown overnight, skyrocketing to a whole new level. The tables seem to groan underneath the weight of various meals that they normally cannot afford. The multiple flagons are filled with wine that had thus far been stored in the cellar, considered too valuable to be wasted. The prince’s palate must be too delicate for anything less than overpriced liquors and spiced meats, and so her father has gone out of his way to provide the best quality service. He’s always been quick to quell any and all issues one ought to consider, if only for a short-term semblance of glory and importance. What other opportunity to flaunt his scarce resources and remnants of wealth if not before a dragon prince? Coin matters little in the face of royalty—or so he says.

She wouldn’t know. Rarely does she pay his words too much mind.

The raven arrived with the rising sun a fortnight ago. The words scribbled on the parchment were short and concise, and carried promises sunken deep into ink. Promises of blessings, according to her family. What she saw instead were promises of pitiless duty. The Dowager Queen herself announced that her son would be gracing their home with his presence. A royal visitor. An unwed man coming into the household of a man with an unwed daughter.

Too many whispers of war have been heard across the realm not to ponder its many components. A thing in exchange for another. An arrangement. A trade. She knows how this works; she knows how this ends. Little fool, her sisters would call her, but she is not so foolish to be unaware of what this is about. The day must come, and sooner rather than later; a girl cannot remain a girl until her soul withers with age. She always knew this much.

It is well within her father’s right to succumb to a new sort of haughtiness. He wears it like an armour that doesn’t quite fit him; wears it in a way that evokes not envy, but utter disdain. If anyone thought him boastful before, they must be eating their words now. She is half-convinced that, fuelled by this recent sense of smugness, he has written to every lord in the area to brag about this sudden development. Gods know that there is nothing he loves more than the feeling of being important.

A Targaryen prince willing to take his daughter for a wife. His plain, insignificant daughter. His forgotten daughter. The very same daughter he never wanted.

He certainly seems to want her now, what with his newfound interest in her—or, rather, in whatever merits she may bring to his name. His previous indifference has converted into ineptly feigned affection; aloofness has turned to an overbearing sort of attentiveness. His touch is softer. Almost kinder. He greets her in the mornings and invites her to dinners, and calls her by her name instead of girl. Gone are the days of blissful solitude she used to shrink herself into. She can scarcely remember when she was last left to her own devices.

The girl she once was would have wept in joy at this sudden shift. The woman she has grown into has long since become too bitter to find an ounce of appreciation for it inside her heart.

(She wants nothing from him. She hasn’t wanted anything for a while now.)

She bit her own tongue so many times over the course of past days that it has gone numb. Whenever her father descends upon her with another onslaught of artfully crafted care and tenderness, she keeps her mouth shut.

It is how she spent this morning: in stubborn silence.

It is how she stands now, spine rigid and fingers buried in her dress, mouth pressed into a thin line.

No one seems to take notice of her, anyway. She may well have been swallowed by the ground beneath her feet. The hall is buzzing with equal measures of exhilaration and unease; servants scurry about, performing last-minute fixes, and she half-expects them to drop to their knees and collect specks of dust with bare hands. Her father barks orders from his seat at the highest table; he is already clutching a cup of wine, face flushed and chin wet from the red substance. His new lady wife watches his antics with the corner of her mouth turned downwards, eyes shining with the one thing that they share: disgust towards him.

She wishes to occupy herself with something—to cherish the last of freedom. It is too late, though. It has been too late for a long time.

It is a thunderous screeching that alerts them of their guest’s arrival first. All chatter dies in its echo, and the walls seem to shake from the booming noise. A large shadow crawls inside through the narrow windows, bathing the chamber in gloom. Darkness lasts only for a short moment, and yet her heart pounds wildly against her chest at the sight. Something cuts through the skies. Something wild and menacing.

Her heart stops.

Too late. It’s too late, and the realisation haunts her.

Stories about the second son of the late king have been spreading throughout the realm like wildfire since she remembers. She was just a girl when she heard of him first—and he just a boy who had lost an eye. Rarely ever was Prince Aemond’s name brought up in conversation without the purpose of retelling the story of his maiming, as though it was the only thing about him worthy of mention. Years passed, and throughout their length all that was remembered of the young prince was what he no longer possessed. What had been taken from him. A most hideous scar, they would call the mark of the past, stretched over the whole side of his face. A cripple, they’d name him.

Aemond One-Eye.

She supposes that he is now known as Aemond the Kinslayer.

This is war. War demands bloodshed. Time and time again, she has been told that women do not understand its vices, too delicate and fragile of hearts. It must be the truth. She doesn’t see how killing one’s own blood could ever be condoned nor understood, and yet such is the case now. This is what has become of the realm. It is a canvas ready to be painted in reds.

When she was younger, there were traces of sympathy flashing inside her heart. Sympathy for the boy who had been hurt by his own kin; sympathy for the man he could have grown to be, if only his injury hadn’t rendered him damaged. Prince Aemond Targaryen lived his life with a dark shadow clouding over his head, preventing him from rising above. Prince Aemond Targaryen nurtured bitterness and hatred, and when he erupted, the earth was bathed in innocent blood.

She is older now, and he is no longer a wounded boy, but a ruthless man. All remnants of past commiserations have been eradicated during a single storm.

Kinslayer.

When the murderer enters the hall, all she senses is cutting coldness. Silence grows suffocating; she breathes in and breathes out, and hopes she won’t choke on it. There is a heavy hand that comes to clutch her shoulder—her father’s. She can smell the wine; knows that it is him even without glancing sideways. His fingers dig into the flesh near her collarbone with a bruising force, and she interprets the message for what it truly is: a warning. Do not ruin this for us. Do not ruin this, or I’ll make you regret it.

And he would. She knows that he would. He possesses a brutish strength and not an ounce of mercy. His touch leaves raw imprints behind.

(An unknown abuser may yet prove less monstrous than the one she has known for all of her life. It is the same thing she’s been telling herself for the past weeks. If she repeated it enough times, would it become true? Or would it only serve as another lesson?

But oh, does she truly need to learn anything else? Hasn’t she learned enough? Is there more—always more, forever more? She cannot. She cannot.)

She has nothing to fear. There is a murderer in these very walls, and yet she fails to gather any of the dread she tasted on her tongue before. Footsteps echo through the hall, her heartbeat matching the rhythm with ease, and she stands with nothing but emptiness inside her chest. Even trepidation has abandoned her. She is hollow. Unresponsive.

When she curtsies, she does so without meeting the prince’s gaze. Her eyes are dropped to the ground, and there is hatred that flickers inside her mind, directed only at herself. She had sworn that she'd remain proud until the end of this farce, and yet here she is, scarcely toeing the line of the beginning and already cowering before him.

She catches sight of dark boots and black leather.

He is standing right before her.

Smoke fills her nostrils, heavy tendrils crawling down her throat and squeezing. She doesn’t let herself cough. Her eyes are molten. She keeps them lowered.

“My prince,” she says through gritted teeth, and the words coat her tongue in acidic aftertaste, foreign and foul and entirely unwanted.

Does he sense the bitterness that spills from her mouth? It is so heavy that she nearly chokes on it. Her lips must be stained with it. Stained crimson red. Stained gold and green.

“How good it is to welcome you into our home, Prince Aemond,” her father says, standing tall by her side. She feels him shift; his fingers curl around her elbow. “We are honoured to receive you.”

If he expects that she’ll add anything to this speech, he is wrong. She holds her tongue, even when her father’s grip turns vice, and stubbornly keeps her eyes downcast. There it is: a wet splotch on stone floors, right beside her feet. They shouldn’t have mopped them so many times.

The answer comes in a low hum, seconds or minutes or ages later. It is a soft sound—so soft that it nearly evades her ears. She catches it only through her own silence; only because her heart seems to have stopped, bathing her insides in dreadful hush. It dies in the cold air, and yet its remnants seem to cling to her skin, forming goosebumps in its wake.

Her hands shake. She tightens them into fists.

“My lord.” The Prince’s voice is not what she would’ve expected: gentle, velvet smooth. She knows that his gaze must be turned to her; her skin burns when he adds a low, “My lady.”

Lightning strikes outside the windows. It is storming again, and she wonders if it is a bad omen. It must be. She makes the mistake of raising her eyes towards the openings within stone walls, chasing the memory of the bolt, and then it happens.

Prince Aemond’s face is illuminated with the light of the nearest torch. The glow bathes him in golden hues, though the warmth does little to cut through the sharp lines of his features. He must be made of stone—there is polished blankness that shrouds his countenance, and it doesn’t falter under her gaze. With curious eyes, lost in the moment, she traverses the curve of his jaw; the sharp angles and porcelain-white skin. A leather patch keeps his eye covered, and there is an old, vertical scar peeking from beneath its confines. This is the mark that they spoke of. The mark that has shaped him into what he is.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer.

When his eye finds hers, she holds her breath. Violets and lilacs flicker in his gaze; it is endless fields of flowers underneath golden rays of sun. It is fire. Scorching flames.

She knows rot. She knows it, because her own heart has long gone into a state of decay. Rot rules everywhere that affection does not; everywhere that seeds of tenderness and care were never planted. It is this rot that she finds deep inside his eye: swelling, flaring up with each breath.

Perhaps the prince, too, has never been loved.

A beat slips by. Her heart rises to her throat. She counts seconds as they near a full minute, and all the while her eyes do not strain from his gaze, glazed over and stinging. It is a test—one she knows she must pass, though the reason why remains unclear. The prince seems to be searching for something; his eye turns intense, raining fire upon her flesh. He will leave her scorched. He will turn her to ash.

Time stretches and twists; warps into a distorted shape. It runs in circles and keeps her a prisoner suspended in its vicious grip. Wasn’t it storming outside? There’s nothing but a heavy silence now, foreboding and sweltering. There’s nothing but fiery purples.

Kinslayer. She has grown to anticipate the blow, forever prepared to bleed, and this habit does not dissipate now. He is a prince. The son of the king. The brother of the usurper. If he is not pleased with her, he will be free to inflict punishment upon her flesh and mind and soul in whatever ways he desires. Who would stop him? Certainly not her father, for he himself has been lost to blinding rage too many times. Certainly not her. Weakness runs thick in her blood. She may veil it with stubborn pride and determined gazes, but it will never wilt away.

For a short moment, lost within the depths of his eye, she almost thinks he will unsheathe his sword. That he’ll put its tip to her neck. That he’ll end this before it truly begins—cut through invisible shackles around her neck, taking her head clean off.

There is silence and dread and despair, and doesn’t he see the haunted look inside her eyes? Her lips remain frozen, but her gaze alone screams to him.

Do it, she urges him. Do it, or we will be eternally doomed.

He will. His eye burns and her chest heaves, and the blow is sure to come any moment now—

And then the corner of the dragon prince’s lips quirks, and her fate is sealed.

There is a beast nesting on the empty fields outside the castle.

She once owned a stallion the colour of pitch-black night, gifted to her on her tenth name day. He was a wild thing, forever untameable, deemed too aggressive to mount. No number of lashings or rewardings ever dissipated his fiery nature, and all that her father’s stable boys repeatedly ended up with were hands raised in defeat. A beast, they called him. A dangerous beast.

It took her over a year to gather strength and courage. It took three nights before the horse allowed her to even come close. In the end, she did mount him—amidst the dark murk of night, with only the moon and the stars watching from above. At this point, there was no one who paid her any mind, all remnants of care for her wellbeing long forgotten. It must have been the reason why no one ever noticed. She could have broken her neck or shattered her spine, and there would have been no witnesses. She rode the stallion until the moon gave way to the sun; rode him until she was breathless from exertion and satisfaction and utter, unbridled delight.

Mounting a dragon must have been much more arduous a task. It is a wonder it only cost the prince an eye. The expanse of scaled flesh is enormous enough to cover the entirety of the grounds within sight; greens of grass are replaced with a deeper, more subdued shade. She searches for the beginning and end of the creature, but yields upon only being able to distinguish the wings. They are torn in several places. The wounds must come from the past wars.

Vhagar. She once read a book about Old Valyria and its fruits—about Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, and the beasts they had ridden to take over the realm. The dragon laid upon the fields is a breathing piece of history. Her old scars carry the memories of the Conquest. Her eyes have seen things preserved only on paper.

She is every bit as mighty and breathtaking as she is described in many old tomes. Dangerous. Savage.

…asleep.

Of course, even a dragon sleeps, especially one this ancient. She wishes that she, too, could seek refuge from lucidity. The previous night was full of nightmares and sounds of rain, and she carries the testament of it in dark shadows underneath her eyes. Rest remains outside of her reach. Perhaps she is unworthy of it.

This is where she usually seeks solace: in the tower deemed haunted, long abandoned by all the residents. When she cannot sleep, she climbs the many stairs, rising to the highest point where the gaping holes between the pillars allow her to glimpse outside. She watches. Imagines herself somewhere amidst the fields—a different person, living a different life. She’s rather good at it: daydreaming. More often than not, this habit is what keeps her sane.

The tower isn’t truly haunted. If it were, one ghost or another might have pushed her from the window. She always stands close enough to fall. A step from dark abyss. Half a step, if she feels particularly brave about it.

Or perhaps it is, and the ghosts that do haunt it are not kind enough to put her out of her misery.

It doesn’t matter. The briefest sound that echoes from behind is not one made by any spirit.

The dragon prince may think himself sly, but she senses the weight of his gaze on the back of her spine immediately. It is much like the day before: fire nipping at her skin, spreading out in quick bursts. She stops herself from trembling. It will not do her any good to remain a lamb ready for slaughter—if the predator is permanently tempted, it will finally charge.

Her spine straightens; ears strain, searching for the sound of his footsteps. Prince Aemond is light on his feet, but she has spent too many nights anxiously waiting for her father to barge into her chambers in search for release from pent-up rage.

He smells of fire and rain. His scent fills her nostrils to the brim.

“She looks rather peaceful for a beast.”

Her own voice sounds strange to her ears, and she bites the inside of her cheek, hoping that the prince did not catch its waiver. This is the first time she spoke to him willingly—not prompted by politeness or bruising fingers atop her skin. Should she have bitten her tongue instead? Bowed her head and awaited him to break the silence first?

Right away, she regrets speaking at all. Will her words offend him? She knows little about the Targaryens, and even less about their dragons, but surely there is a strong bond between the two. Maybe beast is too strong a word. How else should she have described the being before her eyes, though? It’s an omen of death. It is death itself come to take them all.

Her expression hardens. She doesn’t care if she offends him.

The dragon prince moves forward upon her words, as though emboldened by the fact that she hasn’t sent him away or shrieked at the sight of him. Through the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the fabric of his cloak. He seems forever clad in leather, wearing it like armour. It is darker than night, even when sunlight shines upon its surface.

He is taller than her. Sharper. In some ways, Prince Aemond reminds her of a sword. If she were to touch him, she’s half-convinced her skin would be left bleeding, sliced through by the mere outline of him. This sharpness of his is a weapon. It keeps everyone repelled. The prince’s eye is focused on the sight before him; as expected, he stands with his good side on display, no doubt unwilling to let her glance at the scar any more than necessary.

“When she sleeps, perhaps,” he says, quietly and softly. “Vhagar hasn’t known much peace. She is a seasoned warrior.”

A warrior. A killer. Her jaws swallowed a boy of four and ten.

Kinslayer.

She gulps down a bile in her throat and waits for whatever comes next.

They should not be alone. For all her wishes to remain a person and not a possession, she has learned the customs of a marriage by heart. She knows the vows. She knows what happens once they’ve been exchanged. If her father’s wishes are granted, they will be wedded sooner rather than later—certainly not here, but in King’s Landing, blessed by the king himself. She will wear green, and then nothing, and then pain. She will be a wife and a mother, and never again a human. But they are not yet proclaimed betrothed, and she shouldn’t be standing with him in an abandoned tower without a chaperone.

Maybe they’ll catch them and accuse her of impurity. Maybe she will be spared, left to rot in these walls, left to die alone. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

“You don’t seem afraid.”

Her eyes turn to him.

Last night, he sat beside her father, sharing the wine and keeping his silence. He did not look at her once. He did not speak to her at all. She was glad for it, sat herself on the far end of the table, away from chatter and flattery and lickspittles. Her hands shook throughout the entire feast. It was the one indication of remnants of fear she could not control.

She is rid of it now. She must be. Fear will not save her.

“I only fear what I don’t know,” she answers, voice hollow, and doesn’t let her gaze falter. She wants him to feel its weight on his skin; wants him to shudder, bucking under the pressure of pure resentment. “This sight is rather clear.”

Prince Aemond glances at her—shortly, quickly, his eye averting straight away as though scorched by the sight. She watches his cheek twitch. It is the first time his stone-like face moves.

“Is it?” he muses, his voice unchanged.

Her ire grows flared.

She turns to him fully, abandoning the stretch of the landscape and the beast that disrupts it. “A prince barged into my father’s house with the rising of a war.”

She has been granted the right to dress herself this morning. The skirts that she buries her hands within are a dull shade of grey. She will never again wear her house’s colours—if gods are kind, though she doubts it, she won’t wear reds and greens, either. There is no self that she may cling to anymore. She is an empty shell. Grey canvas. Void.

Her spine aches. She straightens in an attempt to stand taller, eager not to be looked down upon. It does little to cut through the difference in their heights, and she catches a trace of amusement that flickers through his eye, gone in a blink.

The prince hums. She bites the inside of her cheek. Her throat is dry, but she must continue now that she’s started.

Mouth twisted in displeasure, she takes a breath. “He brought his warrior dragon, if only for the promise of retribution were his request to go unfulfilled.”

This seems to catch his interest. Briefly, Prince Aemond turns to face her, eyebrow arched. “Request?”

“Demand,” she corrects.

“A grotesque picture.”

“Do you dislike honesty?”

“I dislike exaggeration.”

She wants to scream. To step forward. She wishes she could grow wings of her own and flee this wretched place.

He knows nothing about grotesque things. His life has been filled with riches and freedom and power. A dragon. A spoiled princeling. Prince Aemond’s wrath needs not to be smothered; it comes in fire and blood and results in ashes. He is a man of violence—a man like her father. His heart is rotten.

“There is no way to paint this picture any less grotesque, my prince. Is it exaggeration to assume you’ve come to claim your first spoil of war?”

“You?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Me.”

The prince’s lip curves. He must be pleased with her misery.

“How presumptuous,” he murmurs quietly.

“But not untrue.” She tilts her head, watching the prince turn towards her again. “Or are you here for some other purpose?”

He isn’t.

King Aegon’s banners have been hung from many towers in these lands, ravens coming and going with a frequency that often left the skies shrouded in dark wings. It was only a matter of time before the demand for fealty reached these grounds. They have long anticipated it.

Her father will give him an army prepared to draw and shed blood; he’ll give him a daughter forced to spew out royal offspring. He will see this as a transaction—as an opportunity to rise above high lords who would dare think themselves his equals. War will tear throughout the realm, and all the while he himself will remain holed up in the safety of his castle, basking in newfound glory but unwilling to earn it. She will be the one to earn it for him. He’ll forget all about her before a moon passes, and she will spend the rest of her life selling herself to bring his name pride. Just another daughter. He has enough of those to no longer try to remember their names.

The prince seems to concede, for he says nothing. There is no satisfaction that comes with having won; she stands in the aftermath of her victory and feels nothing.

She wishes for another storm. Overcast skies seem to evoke the dragon prince’s wrath. If lightning struck, would he offer her the mercy of pushing her off the tower? No, she thinks. Prince Aemond does not appear to be particularly merciful. Perhaps, though, if he were to look at her face under the light of thunderbolts, he’d decide her unsightly. She is rather plain-featured—neither tall nor short, nor shapely enough for a woman. Any of her sisters would have made a better match for a prince of the realm.

She doubts he cares, though. Gods know that she doesn’t.

Prince Aemond rotates his body. They are now face to face. She sees all of him: violet eye and a leather patch and the scar, pink and red and greyish. Her breath catches. She hates that it catches. In another lifetime, she might have thought him striking. His is a regal kind of beauty—this much cannot be denied. He is all silver. It reminds her of the moon.

A murderer. A beautiful murderer.

Her chest heaves.

She must not fear.

“A spoil of war,” the prince echoes as though tasting the words on his own tongue, lips pulled upwards. His eye flashes to her face, its corner crinkling. Purple glints under the sunlight. “The lady has a proclivity to make statements she does not quite understand.”

“The lady,” she spits, gathering the last of her boldness, “understands enough to make such statements.”

Prince Aemond hums once more. “I’m sure you think so.”

“If you wish to correct me, my prince, you are free to do so. I am but an humble servant.”

A prisoner. A prey. More dead than alive.

They stand close enough together that it is improper, though she doesn’t recall the distance between them fading. Stray rays of sunlight keep them separated, bathing the leftover space in a warm glow. They will not breach it. He is clad in black, and she in grey, and none would dare to step into anything lighter. From here, she could count the little scars speckled on his face, silver like his hair. She could trace the length of his nose and find remnants of freckles he must have worn in his youth. She could, she could, she could. She won’t.

He lowers his face so that they’re closer. Like this, she cannot escape his gaze. The warmth of his breath. The eyepatch. The scar.

“My brother, the king, has sent me to receive your house’s pledge of allegiance. When given a task, I obey.” He is so close that even a whisper seems more like a scream. “Whatever comes next, I assure you that it will not be by my own choice.”

Like a willing victim, she holds his gaze, even when she wishes to flee from its fire. It does not get any easier. She tingles all over.

“You’re a prince,” she murmurs quietly, and though she doesn’t mean it, the words sound like both an accusation and begging.

“A prince carries the burden of duty no less than a lady does.”

“Then it would seem that both of us are equally chained.”

Only they aren’t. It is an attempt at blissful ignorance to pretend it to be true. He is a prince, and a dragon rider, and a murderer. If he wishes to, he can rid himself from the burden in a swift manner, be it through a sword or through fire.

Why won’t he? Why, why, why?

She doesn’t understand. He was supposed to be a cold-blooded murderer. She searches for traces of violence in his eye, desperate to catch even a glimpse of it, and finds nothing.

(He must have deemed her undeserving of his wrath. It only makes sense. Her own has abandoned her long ago.)

If he wishes to say anything in response, he chooses to instead swallow the words. It is for the best. Whatever they may have been, she has no desire to hear them.

Silence is heavy. It cuts through her skin and her bones, sinking into the cavity of her chest like a burden she must carry. Her eyes return to the lands outside—to the beast sprawled out on the grass. Do dragons have hearts? They must, she thinks. Even such beasts must have them. No being is spared from the curse of being able to hurt.

Cold air bites her cheeks. Her fingers are long frozen. Her own heart beats a steady tune, no longer frantic with anxiety. Breathing is a little easier.

Perhaps she’ll get used to it. To him. To the shackles.

Just before Prince Aemond disappears behind the entrance, she allows herself to speak. “Has the king decided when we are to be wedded?”

He doesn’t look back. “Not until the war ends.”

Good. She hopes that he does not survive it.

There is no one in the courtyard to bid her farewell.

In search of the last remnants of comfort, she wraps the black cloak tighter around her body. The raging storms of the past days have ended, smothered by sunlight. The skies are clear. It is a warm morning, and yet she feels as though she were freezing to death. Her eyes sweep across the yard once, twice, three times—and drop to the ground when they find nothing.

She has no disappointments left in her. She’s long since exhausted them all.

A week has passed since Prince Aemond’s arrival, and since every single day stretched out into an unbearable length, she is glad that it has finally come to end. They have gone by with constant noise, be it false cheers and flattery or too-loud music. She is sure that all the wine has run out. The dragon prince endured the continuous feasting with composure worthy of praise before getting sick of it—he must have decided it a sufficient period of time before their imminent departure, for he was quick to announce it the day before. She is not sure whether such short notice eased her anxiety or fuelled it. Her hands never seem to stop shaking.

One last time, she traverses the expanse of familiar stone. These walls have watched her grow up. They’ve been a witness to her laughter and tears; to the cries she buried deep inside her chest. She has endured years of suffering, and has learned not to let her pain show. This place has shaped her. It planted seeds of anger and bitterness that have blossomed into her being.

If she leaves, she will never return.

It is a kinder fate. Or maybe it isn’t. She would die here—forgotten, not mourned, reduced to insignificant bones once covered in insignificant flesh. She will die there. It is imminent. Such is her fate. She welcomes it with longing and fear and emptiness.

“Do you wish to travel on dragonback, my lady?”

She turns towards his voice, though she wishes she didn’t. Prince Aemond strides in her direction in quick motion, hands neatly folded behind his back, head held high. He is made of silvers and whites and always, always blacks. There is something inside his eye that wasn’t there before, and though she knows that she shouldn’t let herself get lost, her eyes sink deep into the prince’s skin as they search for meaning.

He must be mocking her. She wasn’t made to rise any higher than the solid ground beneath her feet. She is a creature of no importance; a worthless soul caged inside a worthless body. Her lip twists in displeasure; she may be plain and common, but the dragon prince’s jeers have no right to be made.

The carriage doesn’t bring any promises of comfortable travels, but she’d rather suffer from an aching spine than endure the prince’s close proximity. She’d surely choke on his scent; burn from the heat of his body. Would he hold her close? Would he push her off the scaled beast once they’ve ascended above clouds? Her eyes search his, but she finds no answers. She didn’t think she would. More often than not, gazing into the prince’s one eye leaves her with only another onslaught of questions.

Prince Aemond is quick to recognise the rejection. In truth, she thinks he never expected her to agree. He nods to himself and doesn’t meet her eyes again. It is for the best. She is tired of burning.

“I hope your nights are warm and peaceful,” he murmurs before he stalks away.

She hopes that he’ll slip from his saddle and fall from the skies.

One last look. Just one.

All of it is just stone.

In farewell, she spits on the ground. Nothing happens. It is not sacred. Bitterness remains on her tongue.

Her palms are bleeding from the way she’s been sinking her nails into flesh. She gathers her skirts in one hand and climbs the wooden steps to the carriage. They groan beneath her feet. So does the seat she plants herself upon. Her heart pounds and then stops and she cannot breathe, and still death does not come. Wouldn’t it be a kinder fate to die here? Die before she has gone forth?

Skies darken. It will be raining again.

She leaves the walls she has bled in behind. She will now bleed elsewhere. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere colder.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #hotd #asoiaf #aemond x reader #aemond one eye

114 notes · View notes

itsbeeble · 1 year ago

Note

I saw your post about having Bang Chan brain rot and honestly, same. He has filled every waking thought I've had for the last year and I'm big mad over it.

So my fic rec is a little angsty/suggestive with him being as obsessed with y/n as we all are with him. Like, he's angry that he can't focus on work because he's too busy thinking about them but can't have them for whatever reason. All the features he possesses that we love that he can't see in himself are exactly what draws him to y/n. (I feel like crushing on Chan is an exercise in learning to love yourself, and that's a lesson he needs to learn as well).

WHY WOULD YOU SAY THIS TO ME I LITERALLY FELL TO THE FLOOR WHEN I FIRST SAW IT (that first statement is so real actually)

OBSESSIVE

Summary: Chan has always been obsessed with you, but he's been too afraid to act on it until now.

Genre: Angst, fluff

Pairing: bestfriend!Bang Chan x (implied)fem!reader

Warnings: a little angsty but mostly fluff, hurt/comfort, suggestive, some uhhh sexual themes but there's no actual smut or anything, small make out scene teehee, swearing, insecurities briefly mentioned, I think that's it

WC: 2462

18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

A/N: guys look it didn't take me 10 years to post! Also i'm gonna add to my masterlist a "Brainrot" section bc i'm not officially gonna write for certain groups but fuck do i get brainrot

Chan is restless in his studio, staring at the walls in front of him unable to focus. He can’t get his brain to work, to think, to do something.

It’s your fault. He knows it’s your fault, but he can’t figure out why. Had you said something to him? Had you done something?

No. The answer is no, you hadn’t done anything to him. At least not technically.

In fact, it’s more him that's the problem.

It’s almost unhealthy the way he’s obsessed with you. Unhealthy and almost annoying considering that you hardly ever give him the light of day.

Chan adores you. Adores the way you don’t care about what anyone else thinks of you, the way you laugh too loudly, the way your nose crinkles when you smile, and the way you can hold conversations so easily. He adores the way you never seem to care about looking put together, dressing in whatever you find comfortable that day, and somehow still looking beautiful.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about anyone before. He hates the swirling in his stomach, the way his heart beats faster, and the way he can always tell when you’re close to him whether you want him to know or not. Chan can always tell from the smell of your perfume, that sweet, subtle scent you’ve worn since the day you met him in your days as trainees.

These emotions…he shouldn’t be feeling them. Not about you, his best friend. His confidant. The one person he can trust to always be there for him, for everything. He’s tried so hard to will these emotions away, to force himself to like other people. He’s tried hookups, blind dates, dating apps. He’s tried imagining it was his grandmother instead of you whenever his thoughts dive into dangerous territory.

And no, the grandmother thoughts didn’t work. His thoughts kept returning to you, how you would look under him. How you would look with your hair splayed out, your hand cupping his cheeks, and your lips sending him the sweet smile that you seem to reserve for him.

Fuck, he’s doing it again.

Chan takes a deep breath, sipping at the day-old water and grimacing at the stale taste in his mouth. His computer screen is still blank, the screen off from the time he’s spent staring into space and thinking of you.

A knock on the door and then you’re slipping in quietly with a plastic go-cup filled with iced coffee.

“Hey.”

Your greeting is simple, but you flash that smile and Chan’s heart starts doing flips. He hates it. He hates that you make him feel this way, hates that he gets nervous whenever you’re around.

He feels you at his side, your arm on the back of his chair, fingertips brushing against his shoulder and sending jolts of electricity down his spine. He turns his head, angling his neck to look up at you.

You with your calm eyes, with your gentle brushes against his skin, and the way you somehow soothe the storm that you caused inside of him.

The cup in your hand is angled toward him, and he shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that, you know,” it’s almost instinctive how he scolds you, a frown on his face when you just roll your eyes and pull the cup away from him. “Especially right now. You should be asleep, Y/N.”

“So should you,” you hum, rolling your shoulders back and wincing when something cracks.

“I’m working.” He nods his head at the computer, and you raise an eyebrow at the black screen.

“I can see that. Working very hard, just like you always are.”

Your hand raises to his head, ruffling the soft strands of hair. Chan clicks his tongue and pulls away from you. Your hand drops down to your side, and your small drops slightly. Barely noticeable, but enough for Chan to feel a pang in his chest. He rolls his chair back slightly, spinning it to face you. You pull a chair up, sitting directly across from him, and delicately place your coffee in an empty space on his crowded desk.

Chan feels your knees brush against his, and heat scorches his body again. Why do you do this to him? Is it on purpose? Do you know he loves you more than a best friend should?

“Are you okay, Channie?” You lean toward him, the open part of your button-down shirt dipping to expose more skin. You would think he’s never been around a woman before.

He clears his throat, tries to look at you, and then clears his throat again. You’re biting at your lip now your eyebrows furrowed together in thought.

He leans away from you when you lean toward him. Your knees are between his thighs now, unbeknownst to you but he is all too aware of it. You rise from your chair, coming closer to him and standing between his legs. One of his hands twitches, fighting to raise just a little bit to touch the side of your leg.

“You seem a little feverish,” your hand is cold against his skin, and he almost chokes on the air he’d been struggling to inhale without the sweet scent of you overpowering his lungs and making him do unthinkable things. Your lips are twisted into a pout, your hand moving to his forehead and then his cheek.

It takes Chan a moment to realize that he’s grabbed your wrist.

It takes another moment for him to realize that his lips are against the back of your hand.

Another moment and you haven’t pushed him away. Is it shock? Are you too disgusted to do anything? Fuck, why did he have to do that?

“Y/N—” he’s stumbling over his words, trying to grasp any thought that runs through his brain. An apology, hopefully. “I’m so— I didn’t mean—”

Your lips are on his before he can say another word. It was a quick, fleeting kiss. Heat of the moment, maybe.

You pull back, just far enough to look him in the eyes.

Chan opens his mouth, ready to speak again.

The door slams shut. The space you stood in is empty. Chan’s heart sinks to his stomach, his skin still warm where you touched him.

“Fuck”

It’s three days before Chan hears from or sees you. Three days of absolute radio silence. No one forcing him to stop working, to look away from the screen and lay on the couch for a while. No wild laughter, random coffee dates. Nothing, and he knows why.

He knows you’ve been avoiding him. It’s not that difficult to figure it out. Whatever happened that night…it scared both of you. What frustrates him isn’t the subtle rejection. No, he could never be mad at you for that. He loves you too much to be angry about that.

No, he’s mad about the fact that you’re running from this. You who regularly gets into heated arguments with the staff when they’re working him and the other members too hard. You who always accepts when you’re in the wrong, actively seeking a solution. You who has never had problems with communicating your emotions. He’s angry that the one time he needs you to communicate with him, you disappear. Now, after three days of you avoiding him, he isn’t quite sure he wants to see you anymore. He wouldn’t have minded if you told him you hated him for what happened.

Radio silence is…quite possibly the last thing he expected.

A knock on his door jolts him out of his thoughts. Three raps, then two, and the door opens. He knows it’s you by the shuffling of your feet against the ground and the sound of ice against plastic. You come to stand near him. Not next to him, no, it’s like you can sense the anger in him.

Or you can hear the angry typing.

“What are you working on?” Your voice is quiet, so quiet that he almost doesn’t catch it.

He doesn’t respond, at least not at first. The typing doesn’t slow, and he hears a small exhale from you.

“Chan?” Your hand comes to rest on his shoulder and the typing stops. You drop your hand to your side, biting your tongue and forcing the tears back. “Channie, can you please talk to me?” He turns to look at you, trying to hold back all of the emotions he’s been feeling these past three days.

“About what?” He plays dumb. Maybe if he acts like nothing happened, you’ll just drop it and you can start avoiding each other and he can move on from you.

“About…about what happened.” Your voice shakes, and he almost feels bad.

Scratch that, he does feel bad.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.” Chan dismisses, “You made it clear how you feel and that’s fine. We can forget about it.” He avoids your gaze now, but he hears a sniffle coming from you. Hears a sob that you made a poor attempt at concealing. He looks at you again, and your hand is over your mouth while you try to calm yourself. He bites the side of his tongue, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily.

“Come here,” he raises his hand and lazily beckons you over to him. You don’t move at first, still focused on calming yourself. “Y/N, come here.”

Your steps are slow, almost nervous about approaching him, and suddenly all the anger is washed away from Chan’s body. All he can think about is the fact that he’s made you cry, made you upset, and he wants to fix it.

“Why are you crying, pretty?” You’re standing in front of him, all too similarly to three days ago. Your cup has been placed to the side again, next to his keyboard, and your hands are in his.

“I feel like…” your voice is thick with emotion, tears rolling down your cheeks that Chan wants nothing more than to kiss away. “I feel like I messed everything up.”

“How could you possibly think that?” Your best friend frowns.

“I— I kissed you.” Your sentences are stuttered. “I fe—feel like I me—messed everyth—everything up. You— You’re my bes—best friend, Channie.”

“Look at me,” he holds his hand to your chin, tilting your head to look down at him. “You did nothing wrong. In case you forgot, I kissed you first.”

“But that was diffe—different!” You cry, yanking your hands out of his grip and turning your back on him. Chan rises from his chair, carefully watching your movements. “I kissed you!”

He’s curious now. “Do you think I hate you because of that?”

You turn around, and a gasp escapes you. He’s only a few inches from you, his breath kissing your cheeks. You can see a dark tinge on his tanned skin. Was he blushing? Was he mad?

“I— I mean—” Chan steps toward you again, practically backing you into the wall.

“Because you’d be wrong,” he continues. “In fact, it’s probably made me even worse.”

What? “Chan— what does that—”

“I’ve been obsessed with you from the day that I met you, Y/N.” Here goes nothing. Chan takes a deep breath before continuing. “Everything you do, everything you say. I’m addicted to you. You know, I couldn’t tell at first if I envied you. It was the way you carried yourself, the confidence you had in every little thing. The way you fought so hard for the things that you loved and the people you cared about. I thought I envied the way you could laugh as loud as you wanted without fearing what other people thought of you.”

You’re against the wall now, but he hasn’t caged you in. No, he leaves you room to escape should you so choose. Your tears have stopped and Chan reaches up to cup your cheeks, wiping away the streaks that were left.

“I was wrong.” His voice is so quiet, so much quieter than he probably intended it to be, but it has a zoo erupting in your stomach. “It wasn’t envy.”

“Then what was it?” Your voice matches his in volume, your eyes flicking from his lips and back up to meet his gaze. He takes a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of your cold hands twisting into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles brushing against the skin of his stomach. “Channie?”

The way you said his name should’ve been innocent. It should have just grabbed his attention, snapped him out of the spell you’ve cast on him.

The air is knocked out of your chest at the first touch of his lips on yours. It isn’t rough, not by any means.

His lips move smoothly against yours, slow and sure of every move he wants to make as if he’s always going to be two steps ahead of you. One of his hands slides down to cup the back of your head, right at the base to allow him to angle your head and pull your body closer to his. Your hands have tightened into his cotton t-shirt, holding so tightly you’re positive the fabric has stretched.

Your chest is on fire, whether from lack of breath or the emotions running through you like wildfire, you aren’t sure, but you don’t want to stop. You can’t stop. Not when he tastes so good, not when he’s kissing you like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.

A whine escapes you, and you feel his body go rigid. His lips stop moving, and he pulls back from you. You see his chest stuttering as he tries to stop himself from taking deep breaths. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you for a long time.

You don’t have to, though. The drawings he traces into your hip with his finger and the hazy, starstruck look in his eye says enough.

His eyes meet yours when you clear your throat to get his attention.

“So,” your voice is slightly hoarse but you can’t find yourself caring. Not in front of Chan. “You never answered my question.” He bends down, his lips lightly pressing into the skin of your neck. Your breathing hitches, and you feel him smile against you.

“What question was that?” He asks, and his voice is right in your ear, and you can’t help but pull him closer to you.

“What was it that you felt?”

He just laughs against you, finally taking his hand out of your hair.

“You know what it was, pretty. Don’t pretend.”

You smile, your arm coming to wrap around the back of his neck.

Love. It was love, and you knew it the whole time.

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dronebiscuitbat · 7 months ago

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Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 2)

Uzi felt herself being dragged out of sleep mode. Something she wanted to cling to heavily, she was warm, safe, happy, she moved closer to the heat source, mumbling a "no” as it seemed to try and move away.

Then it stopped, before enveloping her again, followed by a deep, strong rumble that did nothing but make her more comfortable.

“Uzi, come on, if you're dad walks in on this he's going to have a system crash.” A voice spoke to her, she recognized it, she smiled.

“Let him… he sucks.” She mumbled, and another rumble went through her. A pressure on her back, guiding her, and lingering for just a moment.

“Come on. At least let me go drink something before I overheat.” At that she felt herself get pulled completely out of sleep mode, her eyes flashed back to her visor with a groggy grumble.

“N?” She questioned, not quite awake. Why was he here again? And why was she so warm?

“Yeah? Are you going to let me get up?” He had a laugh tucked in his words. Uzi opened her eyes, only to look directly into a honeyed visor.

Her mouth went dry, memories of the sleepover invading her head, the movie, him overheating, his sleek armored body-

Ack, No! What the hell? Drones didn't even have anything to look at!

Oh but it was worse, she was on top of him, his arms wrapped around her waist and his tail wrapped around her leg, her chest pressed against his, feeling his core hum underneath her.

Oh… Oh no…

Her face exploded in blush. Every ounce of her body suddenly becoming ice. She scrambled off him, throwing herself off the bed with “ohgreatrobojesus” tumbling out of her mouth right before she hit the floor with a thud.

N was immediately next to her, checking to see if she was okay.

“You good? I'm so sorry! I didn't think I would scare you awake!” His hand was on her shoulder, already apologizing for something that wasn't his fault. Stupid crush, stupid cute golden drone boy, dammit.

“Bite me! I'm fine, you didn't. I just, wasn't expecting- whatever.” All her shields came up at once, trying to grip for something familiar despite how soft she felt. N thankfully only laughed, stepping back and stretching his tail.

“Good! I was worried I spooked you. You know you're really cuddly in your sleep?”

Oh Robo-god, how… how did he still not know? After everything that had happened in just this one night, how had he not figured her out by now? Did he know? Was he just pretending he didn't? Or was he actually that dense?

“Oh… uh sorry.” She apologized, turning to him after doing her best to conceal her fluster, only for N to look horrified.

“I didn’t mean to imply it was bad! It's really nice you can relax like that with me! It let's me know I'm being a good freind!”

He was… actually that dense. And Uzi had never been happier about having a crush on an idiot.

He's not an idiot, he's just dense, there's a difference.

“Still, s-sorry for keeping you pinned down.” She offered. Still feeling the need to apologize for using N's body like a personal heating pad without asking, even if he looked like he hadn't minded in the slightest.

“It's okay! I could still breathe, nothing like being pinned to a wall!”

Man sometimes the shit that came out of his mouth was concerning. It wasn't often, but sometimes he would reference how he was mistreated by J, V tended to just ignore him, which annoyed her, but at least she wasn't physically abusive.

She was glad she'd vaporized the bitch. Twice.

“Oil stash is in the mini-fridge, help yourself.” He immediately whipped towards it, burying his face into the space beneath her desk.

“Tanks!” His muffled voice cheered, pulling out an oil can with a straw. Chugging the container like it was water. Oil running down his cheek and threatening to drip from his chin.

Honestly, Uzi wouldn't ever admit it, and felt weird admitting it even to herself. But watching him display his more… murdery side always excited her, like he was dangerous to be around and she was cool and edgy for being able to tame the beast inside him.

The only problem with that fantasy is that N was probably the safest being in a hundred miles to be around. And the beast inside was an overly excited dog.

Still, she could sometimes pretend.

He finished, wiping his mouth before training his gaze on her, she felt her neck prickle, damn he looked predatory sometimes-

“When's the last time you topped up?” He asked, realizing that he'd drunk from her personal stash and hadn't noticed any other container.

“Yesterday. Don't worry, I haven't been ignoring it… it kinda won't let me…” She thought back to the first time she'd drunk the stuff without being, for lack of a better word, Possesed.

She was curled up in a ball, sitting in the pod. Looking reproachfully at the cannister of oil N had put in front of her. The same N sitting across from her, trying to hype her up.

“You need this, if you don't have it you'll go on a rampage again. And I know you don't want that.”

“It's still from a worker drone. It's still blood, I… I don't want it. Please don't make me.” She'd been in hysterics, only a week after she'd killed half her classmates did she start hungering for more. Temperature slowly ticking up.

“Uzi, I won't let you burn yourself up.” N had replied, looking steely, he moved slightly closer, picking up the canister and holding it out to her.

She took it with a shaky hand, she hadn't recovered from loosing control, waking up terrified, or waking up drooling, or both. She didn't want to hurt anyone else, she couldn't, she didn't think her conscious could handle it.

So she tipped it into her mouth, and the oil slithered down her throat.

She felt both relief and disgust hit her at once, making her immediately want to vomit. She would have, had N not grabbed the container and forced it to stay in place.

“Don't vomit, I know you want to. I did at fist too, drink slowly, stop thinking about where it comes from.” He had a hand on her back, the other slowly tipping more in her mouth.

She hated it, she **loved** it, it was sweet and warm and rich, like the best mixture of coolant she'd ever tasted. Tears pricked on the corners of her visor. Fuck, was this what she was now? She really was a freak.

A monster.

“Thats it… it's okay. Don't cry Uzi, it's okay.” N's voice was soft, and he was rubbing circles into her back to relax her. Slowly she did, taking the container from his hand and holding it herself, draining the liquid from it.

She finished it, visor blurry from the tears, N wiped what was left from her mouth with his thumb, looking at her with a soft smile.

“Are you okay?” He asked, and the worker drone blinked back at him for a moment before Uzi launched herself into his chest, choked sobs escaping her, her arms wrapping around his neck, gripping his shoulders so tight that if it was any other drone it would hurt.

N wasn't a monster, he was the nicest person Uzi had ever met and then some. But he still needed oil, and he'd killed for it, countless times, but it still wasn't okay was it? That she craved it, that the desire was there just under the surface?

“Yeah… that's what I figured.” He said sadly, holding her tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably into him, his arms went around her, holding her close, then his tail, and then they were shielded by his wings, as if they were cocconed in thier own little world.

“You're not a monster, it's not your fault.” N said into her hair, almost reading her mind, sobs turned into hiccups and whimpers, feeling the warmth of his core humming underneath her.

“W-why does it h-have to be me?!” She said in a warbled, watery yell, pressing herself against him further, she felt him stiffen, then relax, a hand petting her hair.

“You're so strong, you're so brave, and smart, if it was anyone else they'd already be dead.” He complimented her, her beanie slid off as he ran his fingers through her hair. She sniffed, despite her current state she felt a blush creep up her visor.

“B-bite me, you don't actually mean that.”

“Yes I do. Would I ever lie to you?”

She was pulled out of the memory by N's hand on her shoulder, head cocked the side as if he expected something from her.

Had she been ignoring him?

“Oh! Sorry, did you say something? I kinda zoned out…”

“I just asked if you needed me to get more oil for you, I don't want you going without.” He repeated, not looking annoyed at her in the slightest, which honestly kinda made her feel worse.

“Nah, I can get some from the nursery.” She brushed him off, walking to her door and leaning against it for a moment, looking back at him.

“It's not dusk yet, and I'd feel weird just leaving you in my room… wanna come with? I don't think you've seen the nursery before.” If she was being even more honest with herself, she just wanted him put of her room so he wouldn't snoop. He… didn't need to find her dair-journal, it was a journal.

Not that she thought N would intentionally voilate her privacy, but just the thought of him stumbling upon her stupid sappy fanfiction about him- no shut up made her want to never give him the chance.

“Oh! Babies?” He hummed, grabbing his overcoat and hat from where they hung on the side of her bed.

“There might be a couple. People have started to have them more after you and V stopped… you know.”

N smiled, beginning to pull off his shirt before he saw Uzi standing there and paused, sheepishly motioning for her to turn around.

She did, facing the door as she heard N fumble with his clothes, and a muttered “Oh Biscuits” under his breath.

“Problem?” She hummed, trying not to think about how broad his should- freaking stop brain why.

“No! Er well yes, but I got it!” She heard more shuffling, then the distinct sound of N's claws unsheathing. Then more sounds of N getting increasingly frustrated.

She turned around to find N struggling with his belt, mostly because his tail was caught in it, and he was trying desperately not to stick himself while trying to use his claws as a crowbar, lifting up the belt so he could pull his tail free.

“How did you manage that?!” She laughed as N looked dejected, returning his claws back to his normal hands and awkwardly wringing them.

“I haven't ever taken the coat off before.” He mumbled, and Uzi just giggled, coming up to him and grabbing the wire of his tail, and slowly unweaving it from the fabric of his belt.

This was what he meant by sweet, Uzi didn't make fun of him when he made mistakes, at least not seriously, and he felt less dumb and less scared when he did make one. She'd often just explain what he got wrong or- like now, just help him out.

“Least I can put mine away, this looks like it can be a nuisance sometimes.” She pointed out, seemingly almost done with her task.

“Sometimes, and the vial is really sensitive too, I think it's to make sure we don't break it…” as he mentioned it, Uzi's palm grazed the nanite vial in question, sending a brief but powerful bolt of input up his tail, making him wince.

“Sorry… said that a second too late.” She said, also looking like she winced with him. But he just smiled.

“S'okies, it wasn't on purpose, you're also trying fix my screw up, so can't complain.” He gave her a thumbs up as he was finally able to pull his tail free.

“You can still complain. Also it wasn't a screw up, just a… wardrobe malfunction.” At that they both laughed, Uzi looking down at herself in her light yellow shirt.

“Right, my turn. Then nursery.”

Next ->

#md uzi #md n #serial designation n #biscuitbites #murder drones uzi #murder drones n #murder drones nuzi #nuzi #murder drones #n and uzi #uzi doorman #so many tags #they're in love your honor #and make me feel the warm fuzzies #Don't worry we'll get to V

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kamesama · 1 year ago

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the character ai got my thoughts running. anyway, i've been on a tōji brainrot for a while soooo. enjoy this slow-burn. note: fem! reader; some suggestive moments but nothing n/sfw.

arranged marriage with zenin tōji ( a slow-burn )

it's neither of you being overjoyed by the prospect. puppets to your families, you found yourselves in a dead end. sure, you could have dug and crawled your way out of it, but it was easier to bite your cheeks and nod your heads. you fill your mouths up all the way to the roof, to the back of your teeth and clench your jaws until the time comes to break that thick silence between just the two of you.

the wedding night is everything save for the typical fantasy involving butterflies-in-your-gut kind of intimacy, joyous smiles, happy tears and sweet promises that chain you for life. there is none of that. there is only silence, so heavy that it sits on your shoulders and an unimpressed look on your faces as irritation eats you up.

tōji scoffs and scowls, but he doesn't care. he has no interest in tending to a spouse he didn't choose, let alone one that was handpicked solely to spite him and stomp on his pride. his voice is flat, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze indifferent. he doesn't love you, and he is not going to act like he does. he might just break the spiteful silence with a comment of, well, this sucks, doesn't it, because he knows that you're not beaming with joy, either.

it's not sharing the bed, or sleeping back-to-back with a pillow wall between the two of you. it's complaining about the snoring, tossing and turning, or sleeping so damn quietly that one could think they're sharing a bed with a fresh corpse. it's getting irritated with the way tōji's toothpaste drips into the sink never to be washed off the smooth surface, or with the clothes draped over the chair and mattress. it's the bite in your voice and furrow of tōji's brows as the skin right beneath his eye twitches.

it takes time. god, it takes time. but eventually, there comes a ritual of sitting in the living room with a cup of hot beverage in front of you, or a bowl of instant noodles with hard-boiled eggs on top. tōji's eyes boring through the plot of whatever tv show you occupied yourself with before you converse about the most mundane things with bitter smiles, lamenting your fates underneath a breath of sarcasm. conversations drag themselves through transformation into something deeper, more sincere and one day both of you might just laugh cordially. it's like having a weirdly close friend at home, a roommate that you don't know how to look at rather than a spouse, but soon enough you chatter about your high school crush, tōji's type of woman and whether or not lacy lingerie looks better than smooth. soon enough you have your fair share of inside jokes and soon enough you realise that you share a favourite candy.

it's using one another to scratch that itch, to satiate that desire, to bite one another's lips out of pure utter frustration and lust. you still fall asleep back-to-back, but at least you got something out of it; a hickey. a high. a hint of relief as that tension evaporates from your muscles before your head smashes into the pillow and fatigue overwhelms you.

or it's practicing small touches that feel more awkward than a teenager's first kiss. starting to rest your cheek against tōji's shoulder when you watch a movie. tōji leaning in just a little too close to the side of your face while you cook something or tend to your hobbies. putting your cold hand in his pocket while you stroll as if it's the most natural thing to do, and your heart just barely skipping a beat. it's gentle pondering over little things; you asking about his scar as you dare trace your digit across the edge of his lip and him commenting about your mole in the most curious of places.

having a wife at home starts to sink in into tōji's mind and, regardless of how much he cannot stand your collection of skin-care products conquering the shelf in the bathroom, or how much your attitude irks him from time to time, his eyes will pierce and cut through whoever looks at you the wrong way or dares to utter anything tasteless about how you walk your walk or talk your talk. the word 'wife' drips off his tongue with such intensity that it paints him as the most devoted man to have walked upon the face of the earth.

likewise, a small smile seems to start gracing your lips as the word 'husband' leaves your mouth, no longer coated in some sense of loathing and rather resembling the way schoolgirls talk about their sweethearts with a dose of virginal shyness. just a little bit.

the ups and downs are heavy and intense, and the fingers your families dip into your life doesn't help in extinguishing any flames of irritation and displeasure. it's a process to talk things through and step over ego and pride, but you've also become one another's routine at this point. the bed feels a little too empty without another person on the opposite side of the pillow barrier. you might as well join hands and live to spite the zenins and all others. it's a promise made in the middle of the night, under the doorframe to the bedroom.

it's slowly but surely coming to tolerate one another, despite the clothes still hanging over the chair and the toothpaste still sticking to the sink. it's learning that tōji seems to melt as soon as his head is in your lap and your fingers in his hair, or that you love that specific type of hug that feels just right. it's becoming friends and lovers, it's fuelling the passion with those embers of frustration that never seems to fully leave you, it's removing the pillow between the two of you so that you can talk about little nothings and whisper how you may just try to find life's meaning together, along the way.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk toji #toji #zenin toji #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #jjk headcanons #headcanons #toji headcanons #kamesama

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moonlit-jellies · 11 months ago

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jealousy jealousy

this was a request for @sheneyney so thank u so much for encouraging my brainrot

so i turned this into headcanons bc big paragraphs trigger enough anxiety in me to kill a bear so ENJOY!!!! its a bit different from the og prompt but those jealousy themes are still. strong

just wanna. smack him around a lil and kiss his face

18+ readers only pls

tags: eric x reader, fluff, MILD allusions to adult content so 18+ only (saying it again minors get out of here), jealousy, eric kinda being shitty to other people (can expand on this in other pieces just say the word)

established relationship:

ok so i know in my heart and soul that eric gets so fucking jealous HOWEVER. this is not standard "oh they're my partner im protective/possessive over" no no no

this guy is completely fine with you sparring with other people, hanging out, going to parties, all that shit does not phase him even someone else flirting with you (to a certain extent) hes just kind of watching with a smirk bc he knows that a) you would kick their ass if they tried something and b) you wouldnt cheat on him. hes too confident to have that as one of his major worries in your relationships

the thing he gets jealous over is when you have to do anything that requires nonviolent touching or other like. one-on-one things like that

see fear sim training

i can imagine like every once in a while all the dauntless members are required to do their fear sims again just to keep their skills up you know?

and he can't administer your sim bc of some kind rule that bc youre dating its not allowed or whatever

and hes just waiting for you to be done absolutely seething that someone else is in there with you when youre in one of the most vulnerable states you could be in

you come out being like oh yeah it sucked but like whatever and hes ready to pounce bc if he doesnt get his hands on you

immediately he'll like. die probably so he doesnt get jealous a lot but when he does its so fucking obvious and honestly kind of funny bc hes just SEETHING

what if it was reversed????

if YOU are jealous of someone being flirty with him he will see that and immediately be so shitty about

some girl is flirting w him and hes like apathetic towards it you sass him later and hes like mmmm dont do that youve got competition (he wouldnt cheat on you) (you know that)

you roll your eyes but grip him a little harder when youre going to sleep that night

pre relationship:

before you starting dating, when he was 1000% crushing on you, he would get jealous over other people sparring with you and shit like that

at first you couldn't understand why this dude would just. death glare at you while you were doing anything one-on-one with another person and you kind of got used to it

(when you start dating you put two and two together and you hold that over his head for MONTHS)

and like. pre-headcanon-character-development, he definitely would have been like an absolute dick to people who asked you out

youd be stood up by people and not understand why not knowing he either threatened or physically hurt them to prevent them from going on that date (not a good thing and he gets . less shitty about it in the future but lets be real in canon hes a shitty guy) (hes hot tho :3)

#eric coulter x reader #divergent #whehehehehe i like him a lot #this is a nice break from my school work blurgh

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siddyyyyyyyy · 7 months ago

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Get the Hint

Pairing: Gaz x reader (implied female)

summary: Gaz has a huge crush on you but you are oblivious. boohoo

wc: 3.5k

warnings: none, just Gaz being overly in love with you and being too afraid to admit, no y/n used, (brainrot)

a/n: this came out longer and I'm quite proud of that, but I still must warn you of my poor english and writing skills.

Ever since you helped the Task Force 141 out on a specific mission, Gaz felt like a teenage boy again. Sadly, you didn't see each other often. Working as an MI6 agent yourself and him as an SAS soldier, chances are low you'll see eachother again on a mission like the last time. But lucky for Gaz, you have to share the base for some time, since your own is being renovated. Because of that he sees you almost every time he enters the copy room or walks down the long corridors and hallways of the base.

Everyday he sees you, he will check if his outfit is put on nicely, if he smells weird or if he can grab your attention in a 'subtle' way. Once, he tripped on the way to the copy room because he saw you enter a few moments ago, straightening his uniform again just to trip down the carpet. But luckily, you didn't notice and just smiled kindly at him as a greeting before leaving with the necessary items back into your own, small office room. He will never admit it but seeing you makes his heart skip three times and beat ten times faster the longer he is near you. Maybe he's some sort of sick for feeling like that around you, but that doesn't mean he hates being around you. He enjoys your company even though he feels nervous and giddy around you, afraid to come off as weird or akward, as if trying to impress you in a way.

It's just the way you talk and look like, the way your hair falls onto your face so grazefully and your beautiful eyes are focused whenever you're concentrating, the way your sweet perfume smells like and just because of who you are as a person... he can't stop thinking about you sometimes. Maybe he's got himself too distracted once when even Soap, Johnny, tried to find out what's got his mind so occupied recently.

»You holdin' up alright?« He asks out of worry that his teammate might have a hard time for whatever reason, checking up on him since they have nothing to do at the moment.

»Yeah, of course. Why?«

Kyle answers back, finally getting out of his trance and looking at Johnny, who's standing right by his side. »Just... You seem distracted. Somethin' on your mind?« Johnny presses, not letting go of his slightly worried look while he questions him out. Little does he know that Kyle is just madly in love without realizing it himself.

»Uh... no. Not really. Do I seem that distracted to you?«

He chuckles softly and seems almost confused on why he would consider worrying about him in the first place since nothing's been eating up his mind lately. Expect for you. Unknowingly.

»Yes, you do seem distracted to me, always staring somewhere- zoning out, and... being more quiet? Like, where did your sarcasm go, huh?« He tries to phrase it more lighthearted but fails miserably, his eyes calling him out on how he noticed Kyle's behavior for a while and has been thinking about it. Kyle, on the other hand, is dumbfounded. He doesn't know what to answer or how to act, considering that nothing awful has been happening in his life lately. He ponders for a moment, asking back eventually.

»Sorry, I don't get what you mean...« He mumbles with a crooked smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

»Oh, c'mon- I see how something's on your mind. Or...« Now Johnny is thinking for a second, continuing his questioning, »maybe someone? «

That's when it finally clicks in his thick skull. Kyle has been thinking so much about you, even Johnny has noticed it. It's not like Johnny wouldn't anyway, but he's just suprised that he came off as unwell.

»Oh... no. Nah.« Gaz shakes his head and let out a small breath, feeling his cheeks heat up while glancing away and crossing his arms. He can't think about you again, it's getting embarrassing at this point. Johnny didn't miss out on anything, having caught the light blush spreading on his face and how his body language changed almost immediately.

»Uh-huh. I've caught you, spit it out. Who is it?«A teasing smile is spreading across his face at how the pieces finally fit together, having figured out that Kyle has a crush. Or something like that. Kyle shakes his head, still denying it even though it couldn't be more obvious at this point.

»Who is what? I don't get you, honestly.«

He shakes his head once more, trying to play dumb and escape this conversation. It will be hard to escape Johnny now, especially when he's got something interesting to talk about now. What is more interesting, watching the wind blow through the leaves of the trees or how his teammate is getting flustered over someone who isn't even there with them?

»Ah, don't be such a wanker. I know there's someone on your mind, right? Who is it? He or she?«

He keeps on asking and seemingly teasing him, not making it better for Kyle in the slightest. The only way to escape this is to answer him everything or yell at him.

»There's someone, alright? Just- shut up and don't mention it...« He accidentally chose the second option, kind of admitting as well, but not entirely while raising his voice. Johnny stays still for a moment but smiles again slightly once he sees Kyle sigh out and run a hand through his short hair and look back to him with apologetic eyes.

»Sorry, mate... «

»Eh, don't worry. It's that one MI6 agent, am I right?«That smile starts to get to Kyle, finding it more annoying the longer he looks at his teammate and has to stay calm for now.

»Hm. Maybe. Who knows?«

Is all he has to answer, a more obvious response wouldn't be necessary for Johnny anyway. He nods and looks away, relieved he isn't going through something as he first thought, now letting him alone with his thoughts again… for now, at least.

The way you just stand there and listen to the Captains words carefully is taking up all his attention right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how perfect you look even now when you're doing nothing. It's then, when he feels a small nudge against his shoulder and looks to his right. Ghost has nudged him for whatever reason, probably trying to tell him to pay attention to the Captain and not… you. He nods quietly and directs his eyes back to Price, but within a few moments he still looks your way. Subconsciously, of course. Ghost sighs silently beside him, shooting him a short glare that he doesn't seem to notice in the first place.

»Make the first move before it's too late.«

He feels goosebumps all over his skin as soon as he hears a deep gravel murmur that close to his ear, especially with the possible double message behind those words. Kyle slowly looks over to Ghost while he is just staring back at him emotionless, knowing it's most likely his last warning. Or even a small encouragement to do something. Eventually, he doesn't say anything back and tries to pay attention back to the Captain who was finally done talking after a few more minutes.

After that was done, Kyle promised himself not to stare at you whenever one of his two teammates, or both, are in the same room. It's too risky, too embarrassing for him to get caught. Though, the problem is that they already know and it's only a matter of time on when you're going to find out. But that's for another time.

However, this goes on and on for god knows how long your office is being completely renovated and you have to use one of the ones at their base. Gaz just can't not steal a few glances at you or try to make some small talk, having made a friendly friendship between you two. It's just like between colleagues, saying good morning's and asking how they're doing whenever they cross their paths on base. Even though it's nice, Kyle wants more. It's got to an absurd amount of want that he started daydreaming about your possible conversations with him, which gives Soap free opportunity to poke fun at him.

»Daydreamin' again, hm?«

»Daydreaming? What's that?« Kyle asks back sarcastically but really hopes to get away like this. He likes his teammate Soap, obviously, but sometimes he can't help but have the urge to drop kick him whenever he feels like getting teased by Johnny about his 'crush'. It's not like he has a crush, no, he just thinks you look pretty. »Uh-huh, you don't know what it is? Then explain to me why you've been staring at that tree for two hours without blinkin'.«

Johnny crosses his arms over his chest with a smug look, waiting for any bullshit reasoning from his friend to his question. He reads him like an open book at this point since he got to know about his little lover. Teasing and jokes have been unavoidable since then, reffering to you something along the lines of 'his little agent' or even better: 'his cupcake'. Whatever that means. »I've been thinking about how to kill you once this mission's done and hide your body so effectively that no one will find you.«

The deadpan look on his face is telling him he's serious, however Johnny snorts at him and shakes his head lightly.

»Yeah- sure. Firstly, you'll need to get Ghost off my back.«

He jokes, still wanting to joke and tease his colleague about that obvious crush. »Sure.«

He mumbles with a faint smirk and directs his eyes back to that same tree he's been staring at for however long. Johnny sighs beside him, shifting his weight on his feet briefly.

»You know, she likes you. I talked to 'er.«

»You talk to her?« Is all he has to say and ask him, finally giving Soap full attention amd what he's saying. Everytime you get mentioned near his presence it's like an IPad kid hears the intro of cocomelon. Full attention and dumb staring with almost no breathing.

»Jesus- I just talked to her. Asked 'er a few things or two.«Soap shrugs and smirks amused at his reaction, having noticed this clear action of him lately. Kyle, however, feels like he has to pay him money to find out what his teammate is about to say next.

»So? What did you ask? Did she mention me?« »Well, first of all- I asked if she has someone already.«

He stops talking, probably just wanting to keep Kyle guessing and keep teasing him about this little crush of his. »Yeah?« Gaz presses, his eyebrows slightly raised up while he listens to what Soap has to say next.

»Single. And she likes you.« He states proudly, his arms still crossed but with a beaming smile, as if he showed his parents his first drawing. Kyle scoffs, not believing him even though he really wants it to be the truth. One thing he learned is that Johnny often over-interprets things people say. So, he makes sure in asking him again.

»She likes me? How'd you know that?« His arms cross, too, over his chest with an interesting look on his face, almost suspicious. »I asked her, duh. 'What do you think of the team?' , 'It's nice, especially Gaz. He's nice.'«

Johnny is almost exploding with excitment of telling him these news, rocking back and forth on his heels ever so slightly, while imitating your voice.

»That doesn't mean anything, you know? She just thinks I'm nice, like you all.«

»Yeah- but she especially told you are nice out of all! That's something, right?«Kyle shakes his head, even though his heart is nearly exploding from what he's hearing, hoping he's right about it. Even though he would like to feed his own delusions, he knows better and glances away while chuckling lightly at Johnny's words.

»Right, right...«

.・゜゜・

»Talk to 'er« That gruff voice never fails to spook Gaz just a little every time.

»What?« Ghost rolls his eyes, needing to make himself clearer even though he thought he already made himself clear enough, since there's no one else he could be referring to. »Tell her a joke or somethin', works wonders.« He goes on, expecting for Kyle to just get what he's talking about and take his advice seriously. It's as if a dad is giving his son advice, while his son tries to catch on.

»Ah... well, I'll try.«

»No.«

Now, what does he mean by that? Kyle's confused, glancing over the training room briefly before turning back to Ghost.

»Can you... talk clearer? Full sentences, maybe?« He asks and waits for whatever kind of advice Ghost has up his sleeve. It's a suprise he even suggests some to him in the first place. »Okay, so...« Ghost places his hands on his hips, getting ready to tell him all the tricks and advice he has just for Gaz to probably throw them away.

»Firstly, make small talk. Even though everyone hates it, it's a good start, righ'?« He starts, tilting his head slightly lower as if a teacher is trying to explain his student something important. »Then, when the times right... make a good joke. A little army humor.«

Ghost shrugs, crossing his arms and waiting for Gaz to take in the advice he just told him. What a great wingman, he is. Kyle stares at him for a moment before nodding slowly.

»Right. What kind of 'army humor' should I use on an MI6 agent?« Ghost lets out a small huff of amusement, answering him shortly after.

»Maybe something like... What do you call a shipment full of military-issued T-Rexes?«They stare at eachother in silence for a few seconds before Ghost reveals the punchline.

»Small arms.«

Silence.

»Yeah- that's great advice, I'll take it. Thanks.« Gaz tries to go back to his workout as fast as possible, wanting to avoid bad advice from anyone for now, and not think about you for a while since you've been drowing his mind lately. »Just saying...« Ghost mumbles quietly and also goes back straight to his workout, thinking he did a somewhat good job on giving away some advice.

.・゜゜・

Don't move. Just breath in and out like you normally do, don't move or look at her direction, don't even breath in her direction. Don't shake your leg so much, she'll notice. Jesus Christ... Gaz thinks to himself while he sits next to you in this boring debrief he should pay attention to, trying to come of as neutral and normal as always. Everyone else is focusing, so why can't he? It's frustrating him but he's on edge at the same time just because you're sitting next to him. He shouldn't feel this much, he's grown and can act normal around his so called crush. So, what's different this time?

He doesn't know, neither do you know how nervous Gaz is right now while you're paying attention to the Captain of the team as he goes over the mission again and explains what happens now. It's only a few moments later when he's pulled back into reality.

»Gaz?« You repeat while looking at him, trying to figure something out that bothered your mind after the mission. He finally looks at you, a small but boyish smile spreading across his face once he sees you. God, you're beautiful. He nods to signal you that he's listening now. »Didn't you get the intel before we left?«

You couldn't remember who actually got the intel, if it was him or Soap... or Ghost? You can't remember and your curiosity is eating you up. As if that even matters now anyway.

»Oh, yeah. I got it before we left, just in time." He nods, trying so hard not to lose himself in your eyes right now, while answering such a simple question, and to come off as nonchalant. Even with his quiet voice crack that mamaged to accidentally slip out of his mouth. You nod back and smile slightly, finally able to keep your mind at peace with this little information.

After that small exchange your eyes are back at the Captain who's still on and on about explaining what will happen now that the mission's over and what the next might be. Gaz only now realises that his hand gripped his arm rest on his chair so tight that his knuckles turned white. He lets go of his arm rest and crossed his arms over his chest, gathering himself together to listen to the words of his boss.

But the way your hair looks so perfect and your eyes are focused, your skin looks so soft and kissable and just how angelic you look right now is making him go crazy. The way your eyes crinkle so softly whenever you smile is something he committed to memory. In his mind, you're perfect and he'd do anything for you to be able to see yourself through his eyes for a moment.

.・゜゜・

Gaz realised he's completely smitten with you. Would do anything and everything just to make you happy. It's just too sad you are clueless and don't know about any of his feelings towards you. Even with the advice from his friends Soap and Ghost, that were terrible, he still can't seem to approach you properly. You're just... he's afraid he would mess up any chance he could have with you.

Copying the last sheet of paper for his report, he's standing there with his hand on his hip, his other leaning on the edge of the copy machine. His eyes are trained on the machine while his mind wanders around, thinking more about you than necessary. The door of the room slides open and there is you, pretty as always and lock eyes with him for a second. You and your smile could kill, but he must stand his ground and don't do anything stupid. He greets you briefly with his hand, setting it back onto his hip before he stares at the copy machine again.

»How's your day?« You speak up while stepping to the other table across the small room, organizing some papers before possibly copying them aswell. »Oh, good so far. Can't wait to get this last paper done.«

He answers you as relaxed as he can at the moment, gripping the dear copy machine for live. You nod slightly while leaning against the desk, facing his way with your papers in hand. »And yours? Hopefully it's not too dusty on this base.« He tries to crack a small joke, knowing it must be still uncomfortable or at least not as comfortable in a new working area, when your own is being renovated. In return you shrug, smiling softly at his humor.

»Nah, it's fine. My day is going fine aswell. Not much to do.«

There's not much to say besides that and the only thing you can do now is look and study him. The way his hand is sitting on his hip so casually and his other grips onto the edge of the copy machine is giving him away. His knuckles are white from holding onto the edge, making you wonder why he seems so tense. You lock eyes again, seeing how he doesn't seem to budge a muscle, as if afraid to make a false move.

»Your last paper, huh? So, then you're free?« You try to keep this conversation going for a little longer. After all, the machine is taking seemingly longer than usual. »Uh, yep. Free after that. Are you... free aswell, after that?«

He asks, still trying to just keep cool and come off as nonchalant but his voice gives him away. Gaz looks at you almost sheepishly and waits for you to finally answer.

»No, I still have some work to do.« You answer him casually, not realizing he probably tried to ask you out just now. »Two reports, to be exact.« Gaz' shoulders slump down slightly and glances away for a moment, pressing his lips together. »Oh, well good luck. Hopefully they won't take long.«

He wishes you with a hint of disappointment and looks to you once more, hoping for whatever god there is for the copying process to be done already.

Finally, after a short silence it seems like it's done and he quickly takes out his needed papers, glancing to you once more before eventually walking out of the room. His hand feels more tense after having gripped onto the machine for so long but it goes away after a short while anyway. Meanwhile, you're peacefully copying your own set of papers and documents, not thinking too much about the interaction for now and go about your day.

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gremlinmodetweeker · 2 months ago

Text

Rest Well Reign Strong

Cannibal King!König is so stuck in my head right now it's not fair. Now you all have to endure my brainrot. Either way, this is just a really short fic establishing new life in the cannibal colony. Have fun, reader!

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, cannibalism

Wordcount: 1.4k

Art from This Post

Story below the Cut

Reign Well Reign Strong

It had been a few days since the cannibal king (as you called him) took you under his wing, and honestly, as begrudgingly as you were to admit it, life had drastically improved. It wasn’t anywhere near what you had before that damned helicopter ride, but you no longer lived in constant fear. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right. Fear was still laced through every part of your day. It was a inescapable fact of life now. But it was a different type of fear now. You were no longer afraid of dying, but you were afraid of the cannibal group that had taken you in.

You learned quickly to avoid eating whatever meat they brought you, and the shrouded king caught on faster than you expected. He didn’t seem to understand your aversion to human flesh in the slightest, mind you, but he was respectful at least. Instead, he tried to (shockingly gently) urge you to eat and, in turn, live. You had taken to drinking the boiled teas they made and feasted on the berries they foraged. They seemed to be just as fond of blueberries as you were.

However, though you were now taken care of, you loathed your captor.

He was a giant of a man, immense in size and weight paradoxically juxtaposed to his silent steps through the forest. The golden skull on his mask was a symbol of the aspect he embodied, death following his every move. The antlers on his shroud wove up above his head to make his ruling crown.

When you closed your eyes, the memories of the body being ripped in half replayed over and over in your mind. The sheer amount of brute strength he possessed horrified you to the core. Even in the army you’d never seen a man half as strong. It wouldn't take much for him to tear you limb from limb. You'd seen the man pick up a small boulder and launch it over fifty yards to crush an intruder. The ease at which he did so still horrified you.

You shuddered, drawing the attention of your king.

He shuffled closer, gently taking you into his arms and holding you close. You cringed in his grasp, sick of the smell of his sweat and the blood that permanently wreathed his form. He didn’t seem to understand, but how could he? You both spoke entirely different languages. It was a wonder he spared you at all at this rate. Surely he was getting sick of not being able to understand you?

Or did he take you for a different reason? You tried not to think of why a man would kidnap you and take you into his home without a second thought. It chilled you to the bone to think of his reasoning. You just prayed you'd never find out.

He was a cruel man. He tied you to him with a leash of leather and dragged you along behind him wherever he went, barking at the others to keep them from grabbing at you. He never let you out of his sight, no matter the circumstance. It was humiliating, and worst of all was that you were getting used to it. Yet, despite how hardened he was to your pleas, he had become your protector.

The other men and women had tried to grab at you, tried to tear you apart the first time you’d tried to escape. You were lucky he found you quickly to fend them off. You still thought about how one of the men had grappled you to the ground, had screamed in your face so his spittle coated your cheeks, lunged to bite down on your jugular before he was thrown off. You watched as your king took the man off you as though he was scruffing a cat before slamming him into the earth. With a single grunt, he slammed his fist right through the man's skull. A splinter of his skull hit the orbit of your eye before bouncing off into the sopping red dirt below. Then your king picked you up, kissed your forehead through his mask, then brought you into his arms and returned you to his hut. All night, he cleaned out your wounds with his dirty fingers.

Now, whenever he went out with his people, he kept you tucked to his side and barked at anyone who dared stumble within arms reach of you. Occasionally, as he did with one mad man, he’d take his club and slam it into the back of their head. The man’s blood splattered over your feet as he fell into the earth.

That night you cried.

You tried to be quiet about it, but your king was soon roused and by your side.

“Go away,” you sniffed, knowing full well he couldn’t hope to understand you.

He said something, snuffed and tried to get closer but you shoved him back again.

“Go away!” you screamed.

He looked down to where you’d shoved his hairy chest and back at you. Under the torch light, his eyes looked watery.

You scrambled back and curled into the pile of furs, whimpering and sobbing as you did. You hated him, you truly did. He was an emblem of everything you hated in this land, and yet when he wrapped another fur around your shoulders you found yourself crumbling into his side.

“I hate you,” you sobbed as you beat his chest with your fist, “I hate you so much.”

He grunted, almost as if to say, ‘I know’.

“Why did you take me?” you cried and struggled against him, “I don’t want to live anymore. Just… Just kill me.”

The man held you tighter to him.

Why? You didn’t understand. He didn’t make any sense. He could have killed you at any point, and instead he chose to force you to live. You hated him, and yet…

He grabbed your wrists with one enormous hand. You stilled, afraid he might snap your wrists in anger, but he did no such thing. Instead, his grip softened further. He delicately turned over one hand and unwound your fingers. In your palm, he placed a small mound of bruised blueberries.

You looked at them carefully. Lit only by the skull braziers he’d lit that night for you, the blueberries looked like coagulated blood and flesh. When you brought them to your mouth, they were tart and sweet. These were the best thing you’d had since coming to the island. You wept again for what you had lost.

You king took you into his arms in a hug. It was so soft, so pure, you could hardly believe you were hugging a monster. It was almost as though he actually did care about you. He rubbed your back and rocked you both, soothing you until you fell asleep that night.

For the first time since crashing, your belly was full when you slept.

—

The next morning was different than usual.

Normally, the king of the cannibals would wake early and take you with him to investigate the camp, ensuring nothing had passed overnight. He would check in on the young mothers and play with their small children, then he’d go to the men and check their bodies for wounds from the previous night’s trifles. If he found any, he would gently wrap them in cloth and send them on their way to an old cannibal with big round eyes like an owl. He seemed to get along with your king, and they would laugh as the elder applied soaked poultices to the wounds.

Mornings were full and bright, spent with the clan around a campfire and eating and cheering.

Today was unlike any other, because the king slept soundly.

You had never woken before him, and when you peeked out the window, you saw that the others were already well on their way to getting through their morning. When you turned back though, the king was sleeping soundly.

You walked over to take a look at him. Strangely, he seemed to have slept in his golden mask and shroud. You snorted at the sight, wondering just what he could be wearing that mask for. There was nobody but you here. Or maybe, it was because you were here that he wore the mask. Either way, it surely couldn’t be comfortable. You could see that the fabric around his mouth was coated with shiny drool. If he wasn’t such a monster, you might have thought it an endearing sight. As it was, it only exacerbated his cannibalistic nature.

You shivered in the morning dawn. It was summer when you landed, and though only days had passed, the leaves on the trees were already turning with the winds. Outside, you could see the dew rising off the rolling grass in a cloud of thick fog, crouching near the tree trunks and slithering up the branches to greet the milky yellow sun.

Inside the log cabin, your king was tangled among the skins. He looked at ease with the world. Peaceful, even. How such a horrific man could inflict such cruelty and bloodshed was beyond you. He was so soft, so inviting, and… Well, how could you resist enjoying this soft morning with him?

You nestled into the blankets beside him. Even if it wouldn’t be long until he woke, you might be able to find some brief rest from this green hell.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

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