#thank yoooouuuuuuuuu

[ask-dress-up-galaco]

For the dressup ask meme: what about Gumi in 1i? If not, then how about Galaco in 2i? Just ideas!! No pressure! ;v; Your art is lovely as always!

[o-cinnamonstickz]

ACTUAL TIMELINE OF EVERY EMOTION I FELT

NAFFIUS YOU SLY DOGGG IM RATTLING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOUR BONES!!!! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK UOU THANK YOUUUUUU!!!!! YOUR OIL BOY IS SUCH A MENACE EVERYONE NEEDS TO SUFFER THE BRAINROT TOO.

A Tease

Reader x Grease

Commission Info

I am rattling @o-cinnamonstickz for commissioning one of my monster boyfriend OCs and letting me go absolutely feral with this guy! Grease is such a menace and the poor reader must sweetly suffer him. After stealing a break while on a late shift, the reader will run into Grease behind the diner, and one tease will lead to another.

———

The customer smiles as he hands you back the black check presenter, his mouth spread a little too wide to show off his molars. You feel the money tucked within, but with an inward groan, you fear there is no tip. You wish him and the few others eating with him a good night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one of his friends will pity you and dump a few quarters on the dirty table.

As they all throw down their napkins and scurry away, out into the night of Hebron, you step back to the cash register. Feeling the inside of your apron pocket, you brush against the worn and half-crumpled box of cornstarch hidden within before snagging your pen to tuck behind your ear.

With a few taps and clanks, and a little slam to get it to open properly, you deposit the cash for the meal. Stealing a glance over to the table, you find the dishes piled high, the clear cups half filled with watered-down soda, and not even a dime in sight.

Great. Just lovely. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and huff through your nostrils. Where did the virtue of tipping go? Is it just tourists or is it simply everyone that steps through the diner doors who forgoes the practice?

Such questions will only leave you with a headache pounding away at your temples. Biting back a few choice words due to their rowdiness and the not-at-all-subtleness in looking you up and down, you slip the bill into the towering pile that has collected throughout the day.

It’s close to the end of your shift, right? You keep yourself from staring at the clock in the diner too frequently lest the hands get stuck in one place, endlessly ticking without spinning. Everything seems stuck in time here. 

The Hebron Diner, aptly named after the town Hebron, in which you and this poor restaurant reside, is a vintage theme with black and white photos of old cars driving between the trees and sepia pictures of scenery from the nearby national park. You’re growing to hate the lilac coloring of the tables, stools, and booths, and your own stupid waitress attire is drenched in the same hue. Your apron is white—a poor choice, considering how well it shows the stains of burger grease and ketchup. 

You return to the table and begin gathering plates. One hardly touched his fries and you think the other merely played with his country-fried steak. Only an hour to go and then you’re free to rush home and scrub off the smell of fast food from your skin and hair. As the darkness holds over Hebron and its neon-dusted but quaint main street, your hope for the end of a long shift grows. 

You bring the dishes back into the kitchen. Darren, the cook, seems content to clean the grill while the diner remains open but inhabited by hungry customers. 

“Hey, would you mind taking out the trash?” he calls over his shoulder, never even looking up from the faint steam that sizzles over the grill top. “I’ll keep an eye out, let you take a break for a minute if you do.”

“Deal,” you answer without hesitation. You still need to wipe down the table, but you’ll do that after your break. You’ve earned one. 

Dropping off the dishes, you look to Darren for directions on which garage. He jerks his head in the direction of the trash bag sitting in a gleaming silver can, and you quickly tie it up and lift it from its container. Without another word, you breeze outside towards the dumpster. 

Darren scratches your back, you scratch his. You don’t talk to him much, but your habitation as coworkers is seamless as butter on fresh hotcakes. 

The coolness of the night washes over you, chasing away the heat and stress of the diner. A faint street light shines into the employee parking lot filled with cracked pavement and the remnant odor of grease traps. 

The dumpster is located on the other end of the small lot, unfortunately. The light doesn’t quite reach there and deep potholes collect water and whatever may fall into their depths. Your heart skips a beat, your fingers white-knuckling the tied-off garbage at your side.

There are monsters out there. You never thought of such things since you were a child, but the world became a lot bigger and unknowable, and this town became a lot smaller and strange since you discovered the truth. There are things in the dark that hide with mouths full of teeth. They like to watch you. They hope to follow you home and catch you where no one will hear you scream.

Is your paranoia striking because you’re alone now? The darkness is thick and inky, wrapping around the edges of the weak streetlight.

No. Stop being a child. Heaving the trash bag up with a soft clatter, you grind your teeth. The night isn’t what scares you. You push yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you catch sight of one of the potholes. It brims with dark liquid shining iridescently. It stands between you and the dumpster, and you catch an unmistakable ripple across its surface. There is no breeze tonight.

Your breath catches in your throat before you roll your eyes. A name is on the tip of your tongue, ready to call out, but you stop yourself.

A wicked grin crosses your lips. A juvenile idea infiltrates your brain and you run with it. You set one hand on your hip before arching a brow, staring down at the oil puddle. Does he really think you don’t know he’s here?

Dropping the trash bag into the puddle, you promptly sit on top of the black material—not allowing logical thoughts such as the fear of something sharp poking you or the general distasteful smell reeking from it stop you—and throw the puddle outwards in a thick, black splash.

You recline back on it, hands on your knees, as you shift your hips slightly to sink into what feels squishy and crumples slightly, perhaps old food and cardboard boxes. Gross. You ignore it and keep sitting pretty. Underneath you, the puddle begins to bubble and froth. The iridescent sheen of purples and blues and yellows flash in a way you haven’t quite seen before. 

Then the thought lingers a little too long before it manifests into something searing with embarrassment. You might as well have plopped yourself into a demon’s lap.

No. You hold firm. This is payback. He’s stalked you, hunted you down, and grabbed you. The least you can do is embarrass him with the rotten cherry being a trash bag on top of him. You lounge as if it were a throne.

Then a growl emerges from below you. Goosebumps roll over your arms until every tiny hair pricks. Your heart begins to thump hard and fast like a rabbit fleeing from a fox.

You spring off of the garbage bag as if burned. Breath caught in your throat, you whirl back to face the sleek ripples of the oil puddle. 

The black liquid rises, funneling into the figure of a man, lithe with muscles and powerfully sleek not unlike a tiger. The trash bag is ripped upwards in a grip of indignation. Your gut clenches as claws, iridescently gleaming and dark, sink into the thin black material.

A creature of living oil. A demon. Grease.

Two dark tendrils drip down from the top of his head, the tips resting at his shoulders. A long, sleek, and wicked tail snaps behind him. His face is flat with a sharp jawline, lacking a nose but his mouth bears bone-white teeth. Two pale blue eyes, centered with black pupils, pierce you in the darkness of the parking lot as if he might devour you whole. You’re reminded so vividly of a tiger before it strikes.

“How disrespectful,” Grease snarls, his silky and dark timbre carrying a slight threat underneath it. “I’ve come to see you and you put trash on me. Must I remind you who I am?”

You shift on the gritty pavement from one foot to the other. The candle flame of mirth inside of you is not yet extinguished. A small voice warns you in the back of your mind that you’re pushing your luck, but you are nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

“I know who you are, oil boy,” you say, much braver than you are. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

His grin widens.

“Oh?” He steps forward, his shoulders lowering like a cat about to bounce. The sway of his tail is excited, thrilled for a chase. “Neither are you, little nymph.”

A brief burn infiltrates you at the nickname he’s unfortunately bestowed upon you. Your brow furrows as you take a step back. A powerful concoction of adrenaline and confusion floods your veins, interrupting the flow of your thoughts as a primitive instinct to survive takes hold.

“What…?” Your tongue is too heavy.

He tilts his head, revealing a terrible mouth filled with shark-like teeth. Fear spears your heart.

“If you want to sit in my lap, you merely need to ask.” He cackles a heinous sound of black glee.

Red heat fills your face, coloring you in both rage and embarrassment. No, no, this is backfiring. You should have known he would have twisted it in his favor. He’s so seductive and intimidating. You forget which part of him is more dangerous: his teeth or his words.

“Ah, just how I like you, all pretty and pink,” he purrs deep in his throat. His black tongue, oily and black as midnight, swipes over his teeth as if he just found dessert.

Forget this. You twist on the balls of your feet, pushing off the cracked pavement in a dead run for the back door of the diner.

It’s over before it’s truly begun. Long, slick claws snatch you by the arms. Grease rips a gasp from you as he whirls you around and pins your back to the wall. You glare up at him, a breath rattling into your lungs. 

“Let me return your little favor.” His voice coils within you. Your heart beats against your ribs, wild under his devouring gaze. “A little tease for another.”

The sleek tip of his tail finds your ankle and begins winding up your leg. You bite back a yelp at the squeezing, staining pressure from the tendril. A chain to ensure you can’t run.

“I wasn’t teasing you,” you protest, but it’s a lie. A filthy lie that is only met with a sinister chuckle from Grease. 

“Don’t be so coy. It’s not a good look for you.” 

Fighting words long to fly off your tongue but his own emerges from his jaws. Dripping black saliva coats it like thick honey. Your eyes widen. He leans in closer with a monstrous grin. The tendrils upon either side of his head twist up gently and press into your cheeks, securing you into place as you suck in a sharp breath. Your palms press flat against the wall at your sides. He bends low to find access to your neck.

The cool, slick caress of his tongue on the curve of your throat draws out a shiver. It fills your chest and rolls down your spine. Tenderly exploring your skin, the tip of his tongue licks slowly upwards before disappearing from underneath your chin with a cool trace. You gulp.

The fiend. You would curse him if you weren’t half-paralyzed underneath his mouth. Your fingers inch toward your apron pocket.

“On second thought, why stop with a tease?” Grease slips back just enough to capture your gaze and watch you squirm. A threat of blush is bearing down upon your defenses. “You deserve more. A proper… tantalizing…”

He finishes his thought with a too-wide smile and his tongue flicking out of his mouth, closing the precious little distance between your lips. The gallope of your heart roars in your ears. You can’t name the roiling in your middle. It is too hungry, too excited for an oil demon’s touch. 

Still, you lean forward in the slightest, just to catch him the slightest bit off guard. His tail loosens from your leg. His eyes widen, but he presses in—

You snatch the box of cornstarch out of your apron and whip it in front of you, spilling out fine white powder onto the oil demon. He screeches in fury. Backing away from you as the cornstarch latches onto his chest, he writhes and hisses, claws raking at the substance gluing up his sleek form.

“You—! You—!” He howls but all you can do is steal one breathless sound before sliding out from underneath him and grabbing the door handle. Twisting it, you fling yourself into the kitchen.

You twist back to slam the door closed but catch a sharp, pale blue glare, frothing with a promise so vile, it ignites your core into a hot bubbling mess.

Grease will make you pay. But not tonight.

You lock the door and fall back against it. Deep gulps of air heaves through your chest. You slowly push your hair away from your sweaty face.

You got away. For now.

[xaracosmia]

omg i totally forgot. HI IT'S KATT!!!! it was my birthday on the 1st so can I get my age updated to 27 (eek!) thank yoooouuuuuuuuu mwah mwah

happy (late) birthday, katt! your other app has been updated ^_^

☉ assistant halo

[curse-maniac]

(NOT a social media post, just a bit of a self writing thing of what stasias up to)

taking a deep breath to try and hold in her cursed energy, stasia stands outside a pokemon language research facility, and holding a weathered, old book made of homemade paper tied together with rope, she enters.

Without looking up from her desk, the receptionist greets her with "Yes yes, give me a minute, in the middle of something." She replies, playing tetris on her computer.

Stasia would then stay still, for around 30 minutes while she got distracted by her tetris streak.

"……….uh-"

"JESUS." the receptionist yells out, clearly not expecting to be interupted. "okay, sorry startled me… what can i do for yoooouuuuuuuuu….." She says, clearly taken aback by her disheveled, intimidating appearance and sheer height.

"Which direction to the people researching pokemon language or whatever? I figured it out countless years ago and realized you'd all probably be interested."

The receptionist just stares with a bewildered expression, and blinks.

"……….Do you… have an appointment…?"

"…Whats that?"

"…Its… when you schedule a time for a meeting."

"Oh. I didnt think i'd need to do that uh."

"…I'll have to ask you to leave."

"…I have a letter of recommendation from professor Kukui?" She replies before handing it over, which the receptionist confusingly takes, skims over, and hands it back. Being a receptionist, this is just her dayjob, and she doesn't even know who professor Kukui is, so she just presses a button on her intercom and…

"…Professor davidson? A lady with important research is apparently here to see you."

"…Down the hall to my right, take the third door down."

"Alright, thanks miss." Stasia replies, before taking the wrong way, realizing her mistake, then spinning on her heel to go the right direction.

After entering the room, Stasia is met with odd stares, and someone glancing to a security guard, who looks just as confused, and just shrugs.

Without a word, Stasia drops down her massive, handmade pokemon language guide onto the table with a loud THUD, shaking the room just a little.

"…Heard you were researching pokemon language or some shit? I figured it out forever ago, and thought i'd bring you it." She replies, blunt, which only earns an amused, smug grin from one of the researchers.

"…Okay, okay. before i even pretend to be amused by this, answer me this. With intelligent pokemon, why can't we justask them for their lang-" And Stasia, not being amused interupts.

"Because its such an inborn ability of theirs its difficult to explain. It's like explaining how to breath to a creature without lungs. Do you want the answer to your struggles or not. Because I know more than you." The researcher just stared wide eyed, before turning, a bit annoyed, to his collegues.

"…Which of you put this homeless woman up to this? you KNOW we can't tell anyone about our findings yet-" He blurted out, much to the dismay of his incredibly confused coworkers.

"LOOK dumbass, i've lived in the woods all my life with pokemon. They dont have a language in the way we do. They dont communicate with words, they communicate with patterns, syllables, tone, volume, pitch. If you're having trouble understanding an outside view has a better understanding than a chucklefuck like you, then i'll dumb it down. Pokemon use effectively the most complicated version of morse code there is to communicate. It's why they can communicate even with some being only able to say "pi pikachu," or "zor, zoroark" With them all staring at stasia, mouth agape, she follows up with… "…So do you want me to teach you, and show you my guide, or should i leave and find some other person to help publi-"

"WE'LL TAKE IT." One of the scientists says, speaking for everyone.

[that-student-that-has-homework]

I ship you with Jing Yuan. I think you'd be able to have some really deep and thoughtful discussions together 💖

and he would listen and not belittle me or my ideas

thank yoooouuuuuuuuu

[professional-benaddict]

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday my sweet Raf!!

Happy birthday to yoooouuuuuuuuu!

🥰🥰💖💖💖💖💖💙💙💙💙💛💛💛💛🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 love you my sweet bunny! I hope today is nothing but nice and this year is easy and prosperous!

OMGG NYX BABE SKSKSKSK💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 youre the freaking sweetest imma die!!!😭😭😭 thank you sm for all the fun we’ve had brainstorming and sharing ideas, but the best part is just talking to you and having you as a friend honestly🥰🥰 thank you so so much!!🌸🌸🌸

[andromedaa-tonks]

I think on the phone app, if you press the three dots by an ask, you can block the person who sent it - it used to be that it worked on anons, not sure if it still does - have you tried that? Sorry to bother you if it doesn't work tho 😓

OHHHH MY GOD I DIDNT KNOW U COULD DO THAT THANK U GOD BLESS U BRO IT WORKS OMG

MEAN ANON COME BACK SO I CAN BLOCK U

[kalofi]

@shinygoldcoin drew me some todokiri bc i said i was yearning and...

just look at this i’m crying 😭😭🥺 ty ilysm 💝💝💝💖

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

@cantankerousintrovertedpumpkin x Klaus Hargreeves x Road Trips

MATT I’m very sorry if I got the timing off/messed up, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!!!! Ohmygosh my love, the wonderful things I could say about you! You are one of the most supportive friends I have. You’re unconditionally kind, and smart (despite what you may think sometimes), you’re strong and driven and I’ve never met anyone with bigger dreams and aspirations. Youre. So. Passionate. I admire it so much. Everything you love, you love with absolutely every fiber of your being. I hope your special birthday is wonderful and joy filled because that’s what you deserve! You know the first thing Klaus would be doing is waking you up with a half burtnt, half undercooked cake, singing off tune with a “get well” balloon because he couldn’t find anything else. I love you, I adore you, I appreciate you, I hope you have the best birthday ever 💜💜💜

[memory-bees]

I found it the chapter and made a moodboard :) I hope you don't mind.. I really wanted you to feel appreciated

THANK YOU TGANK UOU THANSK DNDNSKNDLBDKDKDNEKNDBD

[sephiwhore]

.

[plumwrites]

rocky road, mocha & dulce de leche!

rocky road: favorite songs at the moment?

camo - boa who are you - sam kimcome thru - jeff bernat ft asher roth sunshine - quincy diddy bop - nonameboxes and squares - tank and the bangas

mocha: ideal weather conditions?

70 degrees, partly cloudy, with a nice breeze. warm enough to wear short sleeves and capris, but cool enough where i can still wear a hoodie and jeans.

dulce de leche: an instrument you wish you could play?

the bass or the cello!

[kwanisms]

THANK YOOOOUUUUUUUUU FOR HAVING TASTE!!!!

UTOPIA IS ONE OF ATEEZ'S BEST SONGS. DON'T ARGUE. ACCEPT IT.

[venelona]

Happy Birthday to youuuu

Happy Birtdhay to youuuuuu

Happy Biiiirthdaaaay @ikustioa, 

Happy Biiiirthday tooooo yoooouuuuuuuuu!~

Have this scene from chapter 12 of ‘Songfell’ by the birthday giiirl ( @songfell-ut ), which is inspired by @lostmypotatoes ✨ Hope ya like it! Thanks for making me addicted to yer writing gyefihjkacfgrnl

have sans talkin in an old lady voice

[tailorvizsla]

Hi I love your writing. Could I please request some angst with the lovely Prince Oberyn Martell? thank yoooouuuuuuuuu

Anon, I’m pretty sure you meant to send this to someone else, but I’m more than happy to give it a whirl. 🤣

Title: Mistaken Identity Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader Word Count: ~2000 Rating: R Warnings: Angst, but with a happy ending, mentions of sex and violence typical for the show (I think), no explicit content though. Author’s Notes: shrug idk man I know nothing about GoT. This may go really well or it may go really poorly.

📚 My Master List 📚

If you want to be tagged in anything, send me an ask or leave a comment!

Wind howls through the long, winding stone corridors of the ancient castle you call home. Outside, lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the wild, windswept landscape. Whispers of your Prince’s death had taken the castle by storm, occupants and servants alive working themselves into a frenzy until a blood-stained golden cloth had been brought in. It felt like a fist to the gut. Even now, your breath comes in tiny gasps, your head swimming as you struggle to stay on your feet. Now, in your narrow room, you watch as the servants begin to build the funeral pyre in the courtyard.

“Milady,” comes a soft voice from the door.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you say, the words thick in your mouth. “Leave.”

“Milady,” your lady’s maid insists. “Please, come away from the window. You will catch your death if you linger in this cold.”

Pursing your lips, you step back, knowing that the older woman speaks the truth. The nights have grown chilly as of late. You wonder if you will ever feel warmth again without Oberyn’s arms around you. How could this have happened?

“Milady, if it pleases you,” she says, standing next to the bed.

She keeps her head bowed, but you can see the apprehensive look on her face, as if she fears you will fly off in a fit of hysterics. Part of you wishes to fly off into hysterics, but you know that you cannot afford to do so. With Oberyn gone, there is no one left to protect you, should someone decide to begin gossiping. You need to worry about what your future will bring, but you cannot bring yourself to such selfish thoughts.

Oberyn is dead. He deserves to be mourned.

She slides the warming pan out from under the sheets as you slide in. The bed is pleasantly warm. As she draws the curtain, she dims the candles and excuses herself. When you are certain she is gone, you grab your dressing gown and sink down into the divan at the end of the bed. His tunic is still here. It looks like he had left for just a moment to attend to business elsewhere, as if he will return in just a few moments’ time.

“Oberyn,” you whisper softly, eyes filling with tears as you stroke the golden silk between your fingers. “Oberyn. How could you leave like this? Without so much as a goodbye?”

Your throat tightens and the tears stream down your face, but you stifle your sobs, lest the maid in the adjoining room hear and come investigate.

“I still remember the day we first met,” you continue softly, running your fingers along the embroidered neckline. “My brother wished to curry your favor. I did not want to come – I confess, I was terrified. I could not stop shaking, praying that you would not notice me. I thought you might eat me like a snake would.”

You had hidden yourself behind your brother, drawing up your veil to conceal your features, hoping that the Prince known as the Red Viper would ignore you. That he would not notice you cowering in terror.

“Of course, I would not be so lucky, would I?” you ask softly, smiling sadly. “You greeted my brother by name. Then you looked at me. I could feel your eyes boring into my soul, Oberyn. Like I was completely bare before you.”

You had kept your eyes downcast and focused on the stone beneath your feet. Then he stepped closer. Then his hand drifted into view. Hard, calloused fingertips pressed against your jaw, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing, tilting your head up. Still, you refused to look at him – still terrified that he would have pupils like a real snake.

“Such lovely eyes,” he remarked, and that had broken your resolve.

You looked him right in the eyes. Even now, you still feel the warmth quivering in your belly when you recall his beautiful brown eyes. They had been filed with fire, burning into your very heart. You had let your eyes admire his features – soft, curling brown hair, prominent brows, and a distinguished nose. A plump lower lip. Carefully trimmed facial hair. Yet you could not stop looking at his eyes, marveling at his warmth.

“Of course, I made a fool of myself,” you whisper, sniffling as you laugh. “Do you remember, what I said next, my prince?” You wipe your eyes. “Oh, Prince Martell, the rumors are false!”

You laugh into the neck of his tunic, catching the faintest whiff of his rapidly fading scent. You choke back a sob, curling forward around the fabric. “You asked me, ‘What rumors, little one?’ And I…I…oh, how did you not refrain from simply removing my head?”

You laugh quietly.

“My Lord, your pupils are round!” you whisper with a soft smile. He had been in utter shock for just a moment before carefully schooling away his response. Before he could respond, your brother had turned and grabbed you by the arm, his other hand rising to beat you for your insult. “But you stopped him from flogging me, Oberyn.”

He caught your brother by the arm and forced it back down, eyes flashing with fury and jaw set tightly.

“I am called the Red Viper,” you whisper softly, remembering the keen look of amusement he had shot at you. “Do not strike her for believing the tales you have likely whispered into her ear.”

Your brother had been furious with you. After the prince had left, he had caught you by the arm and squeezed so hard he left a violent, hand-shaped bruise on you. He had promised to inflict punishment for your embarrassing behavior, to ensure you could never speak so improperly to your lord again.

“Before he could hurt me, you invited me to serve your lady here in the castle,” you continue. “He could not refuse without causing offense, and so you saved me. You have saved me so many times from my own stupidity.”

There had been so, so many of those moments as well.

“You taught me to read, to write, and to defend myself,” you say. “You gave me a dagger, Oberyn. You coated it in poison and made me swear to use it only to protect myself. Without you…what will happen to the kingdom? To your family?...to me?”

Sighing, you let your shoulders sag. You had spent countless nights here with him. From that first encounter where you lay on the bed, stiff as a board, terrified that it really would hurt as much as the married women back home told you it would. Until he told you that you had no obligations to share your bed with him. That he would not force you to partake. That had brought you pause – your brother had often lectured you on what would await you on your wedding night. Drink copiously, he said, it is the only way to make it bearable that first time for a woman.

“You are the only person who listened when I said no,” you say softly, tears splashing onto the fabric, dotting the fabric with damps spots. “You were so kind to me. You were gentle. You showed me that I did not need to be afraid.”

Oberyn then sat on the edge of the bed, tunic unbuttoned to his belly button, and looked at you with those warm, sympathetic, brown eyes. Shyly, you asked him to stay and tell you stories about his time at the Citadel, about the things he had learned there. And he did. He told you about the lands he had traveled to in his youth. The duels he had won. The time spent with the mercenaries in Essos. You marveled at his stories, staring up at him in awe, until you had finally drifted off to sleep in that soft, warm space in his arms.

For a week, he came back every night to hold you and tell you stories.

Then, one afternoon, you happened upon him training with one of his men. You had hidden yourself in the shadows to watch him, stunned into silence as he spun, parried, dodged, and blocked with ease. He moved with such deadly grace, lunging once to claim victory over his opponent.

The uncomfortable throb in your belly lingered until that night, where you shyly confessed to spying on him. He had given you such a mischief-filled smirk, whispering “I know” as his fingers slipped under your skirt.

This time, you encouraged him to continue, biting your lip at the memory of his fine, muscular body as his fingers found your intimacy. He had kissed you, touched you, made you feel like you were floating in the sky like the clouds. Oberyn showed you the most exquisite pleasure at his hand. You had never known such fire, such passion. That was not all he taught you.

“You taught me to stand up for myself. To protect myself when you were not here. How would my family react if they knew I would gut them for touching me?” you ask, hand falling to the sheath on your thigh. “How would they react if they knew I could read, write, and provide for myself?”

Sighing, you press your hand into your face. So many people had tried to take advantage of you, and he had protected you each time. Slowly, surely, you had learned the games played at court, and you adapted.

“Oh, my prince,” you whisper sadly. “Now you are gone, and it feels as if my soul has shattered. Will this ache ever end? Will I ever be whole again without you here?”

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, you press your face into his tunic again, shoulders shaking as you finally break down and sob. You are only vaguely aware of the door opening and footsteps. A warm hand falls to your shoulder. Pure anger fills you at the thought of the maid touching you. You shove the hand off and jump to your feet, ready to snap at the girl. You come to a half upon seeing those familiar brown eyes.

“O-Oberyn?” you whisper. He grins. You sink down onto the divan, your face draining of its blood as he comes a step closer. He reaches out and presses his fingers to your cheek. He tilts your face up and leans in for a kiss. You stay there, staring up at him.

“I thought – I thought you we-were dead,” you stammer out, shaking your head.

“They neglected to mention which lord was dead,” he says. The impish grin on his face fades away at the expression on your face. “Oh, my sweet – you truly thought I was dead, didn’t you?”

Mutely, you nod, and then the overwhelming relief spills out. You begin to sob into the tunic in your hands. Oberyn joins you on the divan and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He smells like sweat and the road, as if he had ridden nonstop to get back home.

“Oh, my sweet, I am here,” he whispers into your hair. “I will not leave you that easily. I am here. Do not cry. It was someone else who perished.”

That does not help you in the least bit. The sobs grow louder, much to your mortification, as you grab great big handfuls of his robes, holding him tight. Oberyn holds you closer, hand massaging your back, as soft noises escape him. It takes a long time before your sobs die down, but he holds you the entire time, never once letting you go.

“Dry your tears,” he soothes. “Do not weep for me.”

He reaches up and brushes one of your tears away with his thumb.

“There we are,” he says. “Let me see that beautiful smile.”

You smile for him. He leans in and presses his lips to yours. You close your eyes, sighing with pleasure as he deepens the kiss, teeth grazing your lower lip. A whimper escapes you as his hand finds your breast. He kneads gently, pinching your areola lightly. When you gasp, his tongue flicks out against yours, his free hand curling around the back of your neck. Before you can gather your thoughts, he pulls away.

“I am going to bathe,” he says. “I will return shortly, my sweet.”

You sulk as he smirks at you.

“Surely you can last?” he asks. “Or would you like to join me in the bath?”

Oh.

“I will join you,” you say, getting to your feet.

Oberyn grins and laughs at you, offering his hand. You take it and let him lead you out of the bedroom, the thoughts of a hot bath soothing away the anxiety and fear that had been plaguing you all day.

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Tags:

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[secretpeachstash]

that all sounds excellent. Jinpachi it is!

babes what’s the 411 on Jinpachi’s route? will I like it give me advice plz