#the shaking frame and him saying 'that beautiful bastard'... i know what you are

[teasel-backatitagain]

Oh to be a Jean Kirstein having a bisexual awakening in a life or death situation

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.

- Summary: There are many stories about the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, and whispers still exist about their bloody deaths written in the tomes of Fire and Blood. And then there are those who were there to witness it all.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: The reader is Rhaegar's twin sister and they were both born at Summerhall on the day of its tragedy. This chapter contains various characters and their retellings of deaths of Y/N and Aerys.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Next part: to wake a dragon

Robert and Eddard

Robert Baratheon sat in front of the hearth, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his face as he stared into the fire. His large hands gripped the mug of wine tightly, his knuckles white, as if he could crush it between his fingers. The years had not been kind to Robert. His once broad, powerful frame had grown soft, his face ruddy with drink, and his eyes—once filled with the fire of rebellion—now carried a deep, bitter weight. But even with all the years that had passed since the rebellion, since the sack of King’s Landing, one memory lingered in his mind, haunting him still.

Ned Stark sat across from him, his own expression quiet, as always, waiting patiently for Robert to speak. He had heard this bitterness before, seen the weight that sat on his old friend’s shoulders whenever the past was brought up. But tonight, there was something heavier in the air, something darker.

Robert took a long, hard swig of wine, letting the burn of it warm his throat before he finally spoke, his voice thick with bitterness. "You know, Ned," he began, his words slurred slightly with drink, "there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about that day. The day we took King’s Landing. When we… found them."

Ned said nothing, letting Robert speak at his own pace. He had never been comfortable speaking of that day either, but he knew Robert needed to unburden himself, and so he listened, his grey eyes steady.

Robert’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t shake the memory. "Aerys… the Mad King. We all expected him to be in a pool of his own blood, lying on his damned Iron Throne, dead and done for. And he was, thanks to Jaime Lannister. But what I didn’t expect… what I couldn’t have expected… was finding her there too."

"Y/N," Ned murmured quietly, filling the silence that hung between Robert’s words. The name of Aerys’ daughter, Robert’s own cousin, carried a weight all its own. The truth of her end, and what had happened in those final moments, had been a point of pain and fury for Robert ever since.

"Aye," Robert spat the name out like a curse, though there was a strange conflict in his voice. "Y/N. The gods-damned daughter of Aerys. You know, I almost pitied her once. They said she was a beauty—Targaryen through and through, with that silver hair and violet eyes. But when we found her…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as the memory overwhelmed him.

Ned knew what Robert was going to say. He had heard it before, but it still made his heart heavy. He had been in the Red Keep that day as well, seen the destruction, the carnage that had been wrought.

"When we found her," Robert continued, his voice quieter now, but still filled with venom, "she was lying there in a pool of blood, her throat slit, and Aerys was holding her like she was some damned treasure he’d lost. Even in death, he clung to her like a man drowning in his own madness."

Robert’s grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles turning white. "Tywin’s men were the ones who did it, of course. Slit her throat right in front of the mad bastard, just to break him. And break him they did. The great Mad King, the last dragon—reduced to a sniveling wreck as he watched his own daughter bleed out at his feet." He let out a harsh laugh, one devoid of any real amusement. "Justice, some would call it. For what he did to your father, to your brother. But it didn’t feel like justice. It felt… wrong."

Ned’s eyes flickered, his expression grim. He had known Y/N, not well, but enough to know she had not deserved the fate that had befallen her. She had been swept up in her father’s madness, a victim of Aerys’ cruelty and obsession. "She was with child, wasn’t she?" Ned asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

Robert nodded, his face twisting in disgust. "Aye. She was with child when they killed her. A third Targaryen brat. They didn’t even give her a chance. Not that it matters, though. She was as much Aerys’ as the rest of them—his lover, his daughter, his whore. Gods, Ned, what kind of monster beds his own blood like that?"

Ned stayed silent. He knew Robert’s hatred for the Targaryens ran deep, but there was something more in Robert’s tone, something that went beyond mere disgust. There was bitterness there, a wound that had never fully healed.

"I remember walking into that throne room," Robert continued, his voice low, as if the memory still played in his mind like a nightmare. "Aerys was already dead—Jaime Lannister had run him through—but he was still clutching Y/N’s body, holding her like she was the last thing that mattered in the world. Her blood was everywhere, staining his robes, the floor. I wanted to kick the corpse, make sure the bastard knew he’d lost everything, but Tywin…"

Robert shook his head again, a deep scowl settling on his face. "Tywin wouldn’t let me. Said it wasn’t right to leave them like that. He insisted they be burned together, in the same position we found them. Like some gods-damned lovers’ pyre. I wanted to see them tossed into the dirt, but I let him have his way. Even now, it sickens me to think of it."

Ned took a deep breath, his thoughts heavy. He remembered that day too well—the scent of fire and blood, the sight of Aerys and Y/N, dead together as the Red Keep crumbled around them. It had been a fitting end for the Mad King, but Y/N… she had been something else. A tragedy caught in the crossfire of her father’s madness.

"You think often of them," Ned said quietly, his voice steady. "Aerys and Y/N."

Robert snorted, lifting his mug to his lips again. "Think of them? Aye, Ned, I think of them more than I’d like. They haunt me. But it’s not just them, is it? It’s everything—their damned legacy. I killed one dragon, but the others are still out there, waiting to strike. Viserys, Daenerys… they’re still Targaryens. And you know what Targaryens do, Ned. They burn everything in their path."

Ned nodded slowly, understanding the depth of Robert’s hatred. It wasn’t just Aerys or Y/N—it was the entire Targaryen line, the fire that had claimed so many lives, including Robert’s own family.

Robert stared into the fire again, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I’ll see the last of them dead before I rest easy, Ned. Every last one of them."

Ned said nothing, his heart heavy with the weight of Robert’s words. The rebellion had ended years ago, but the ghosts of the past still lingered, haunting the halls of power, and those who had survived the flames of war.

Jaime and Tyrion

The sun dipped low over King’s Landing, casting a golden light over the Red Keep as shadows stretched long across the city. In one of the keep’s smaller courtyards, Tyrion Lannister walked alongside his brother, Jaime, savoring the warm breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. The day’s heat had finally begun to ease, leaving a comfortable coolness that made it almost pleasant to be outside. Almost.

Tyrion glanced up at his brother, noting the tightness around Jaime’s eyes, the way his jaw clenched as if he were biting back something unpleasant. His golden hair caught the light of the setting sun, but there was a darkness in his expression that was at odds with the warmth of the evening.

“Now, now, brother,” Tyrion began, his voice light with practiced humor as he adjusted his grip on his wine cup. “You look as if you’ve swallowed something bitter. Surely even the great Jaime Lannister can manage to smile on such a fine evening? Or is there some poor soul I should apologize to on your behalf?”

Jaime’s lips twitched, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced at Tyrion, then turned his gaze back to the city sprawling out beneath them, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. “Not every day can be a jest, Tyrion,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “Some things aren’t so easily laughed off.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening as he studied his brother more closely. Jaime was no stranger to brooding, but there was something different in his mood today—something heavier, like a shadow that clung to him and would not be shaken. Tyrion took a sip of his wine, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment before he spoke again, his tone softening.

“True enough, I suppose,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But I know you, Jaime. You brood when you think no one is looking, but you’re usually better at hiding it. What’s on your mind?”

Jaime’s shoulders tensed at the question, his expression tightening as if he wanted to brush it off with a laugh. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of old memories, and ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the view of the city. His gaze drifted over the courtyard, over the stone walls that had stood witness to so many secrets and betrayals.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said at last, his voice rough, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s... it’s something I can’t shake, no matter how many years go by.”

Tyrion watched him closely, his curiosity piqued. Jaime rarely spoke of the past, especially the parts of it that haunted him. But there was a rawness in his voice now that Tyrion had rarely heard—a vulnerability that made him pause, setting aside his usual jests in favor of something more serious.

“Try me,” Tyrion suggested gently, taking another sip of his wine. “You might be surprised at what I can understand. And if it helps ease that troubled look on your face, well, consider it my good deed for the day.”

Jaime shot him a look, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it quickly faded. He seemed to wrestle with something inside himself, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he turned back to face Tyrion, his expression somber, his voice low and raw.

“It’s the throne room,” he said, the words coming out like a confession. “I still have nightmares about it. What happened that day, when I killed Aerys... and Y/N. The way they looked when I... when I saw them together.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his flippant demeanor slipping away as he took in the pain in Jaime’s eyes. He had heard bits and pieces of what had happened on that day during Robert’s Rebellion, the day Jaime Lannister earned the name “Kingslayer.” But Jaime rarely spoke of it in detail, and there was a haunted look in his eyes now that made Tyrion set aside his usual barbs.

“Tell me, then,” Tyrion said quietly, leaning closer, his voice filled with a rare seriousness. “What is it you see in those nightmares, Jaime?”

Jaime swallowed hard, his gaze distant as if he were looking at something far beyond the walls of the Red Keep, beyond the years that had passed since that day. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the memories that clung to him like old blood. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of things long left unsaid.

“I see them, Tyrion. Aerys and Y/N, lying there on the throne room floor, their blood pooling together on the cold stone. I see the way Aerys looked at her even as he died, like she was the only thing left in his world. Like... like he thought holding her would somehow make it right, even with a sword through his back.”

He paused, his throat working as he tried to find the words. “She was already dead when I got there. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat before Aerys’s eyes, and he just... he lost what little was left of his mind. He was screaming for fire, for his pyromancers to burn the city. But all he could do was hold her, cradling her in his arms like she was some broken doll. And when he looked up at me, just before I... before I put my sword through his back, he looked like a man who’d already died.”

Tyrion’s grip tightened around his wine cup, the seriousness in his brother’s voice cutting through the usual banter that defined their conversations. He had never heard Jaime speak with such rawness, such naked pain. The image Jaime painted—the mad king and his daughter, bound together in death—was one that sent a chill through him, making him understand, perhaps for the first time, the true burden Jaime carried.

“And the nightmares?” Tyrion asked softly, his voice filled with a gentleness that he rarely showed. “What do you see, Jaime?”

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. He turned away, his expression twisting with something like self-loathing. “I see her eyes, Tyrion,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Y/N’s eyes, wide and empty, staring up at the ceiling as if she couldn’t believe she was dying. I see the blood on my hands, on my sword, and I hear Aerys’s voice, echoing through the hall, calling for fire. It’s always the same. I wake up, and it’s like I’m back there, standing over their bodies, with the whole world burning around me.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and pained. “They call me Kingslayer, but that isn’t the part that haunts me. It’s the way he held her, like she was the last piece of his soul, even when everything else had gone to hell. It’s the way I felt when I put my sword through his back—like I was ending something that should have been over long before it ever came to that.”

Tyrion listened in silence, his heart aching with a strange, unexpected sympathy for his brother. He had always known that Jaime carried the weight of his actions, but he had never truly understood the depth of the scars they had left. He reached out, placing a hand on Jaime’s arm, offering a small gesture of comfort.

“You did what you had to, Jaime,” he said softly, his voice filled with a rare earnestness. “Aerys would have burned the city if you hadn’t stopped him. And Y/N... whatever she was to him, she couldn’t have changed that. You spared King’s Landing from a fire that would have consumed us all.”

Jaime shook his head, a hollow, humorless smile twisting his lips. “Maybe I did,” he murmured, his voice raw. “But it doesn’t change what I see when I close my eyes. It doesn’t change the fact that I stood in that throne room with blood on my hands, and I couldn’t save them. Not her, not the child inside her... and not myself.”

Tyrion squeezed his brother’s arm gently, offering what comfort he could, even though he knew that some wounds could never truly be healed. “The past is a heavy burden, brother,” he said quietly. “But it’s not one you have to carry alone.”

Jaime met his gaze, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he turned his gaze back to the distant city, the shadows lengthening as night began to fall.

And as they stood there together, in the fading light of the Red Keep, the ghosts of the past lingered between them—unseen, unforgotten, but perhaps just a little less heavy in the presence of a shared understanding.

Varys and Petyr

The throne room was quiet now, save for the soft, measured footsteps of Varys as he glided across the cold stone floor, his hands tucked neatly into the wide sleeves of his robe. The Iron Throne loomed in the center of the room, its jagged metal spikes casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. The grand hall felt emptier than usual, almost hollow, as though the weight of history still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive.

Varys had always found it strange how even after years had passed since the rebellion, the specter of Aerys Targaryen and his tragic end still clung to this place, like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. And not just Aerys—his daughter, Y/N, whose death had been just as shocking, just as poignant in its cruelty.

He approached the throne, his eyes drifting up to the twisted mass of swords that made up its formidable structure, a reminder of power and the price it demanded. But today, Varys wasn’t alone.

Littlefinger stood near the base of the throne, his back turned to Varys, his fingers lightly tracing one of the throne’s twisted metal arms as if he were considering it for himself. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Varys knew better than to be fooled by such nonchalance. Petyr Baelish was never without calculation, never without purpose.

"Lord Varys," Littlefinger said smoothly, not bothering to turn as Varys approached. "I trust you’ve come to share some new secret, some whispered truth from your little birds?"

Varys smiled slightly, though the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I find it curious, Lord Baelish, that you seem to think I’m the only one with secrets in this city. You, after all, have a few of your own, do you not?"

Littlefinger chuckled, finally turning to face the spymaster. His eyes glittered with amusement, but behind that amusement was something far more dangerous. "Oh, we all have secrets, Varys. That’s what makes this game so interesting, don’t you think?"

Varys raised a brow, his gaze drifting from Littlefinger to the throne itself, a symbol of everything they both sought to control. "Indeed. But some secrets," he said softly, "carry far more weight than others."

Littlefinger's smile didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness in his gaze now. "And what secret, pray tell, weighs on you today, my dear spider?"

Varys moved closer, his hands still tucked into his sleeves as he regarded the throne with a look of quiet contemplation. "I was just thinking," he began slowly, "about how this throne has seen so much bloodshed, so much betrayal. And yet, the events of Robert’s Rebellion still echo the loudest within these walls, do they not?"

Littlefinger tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Ah, yes. The Mad King. His death was certainly… memorable."

Varys nodded, his expression grave. "But it wasn’t just Aerys who met a tragic end that day, was it? His daughter, Y/N… Her death was far more personal. And far more devastating."

At the mention of Y/N, Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed. "Y/N Targaryen. A beauty, they said. A daughter caught in her father’s madness." He paused, his voice softening just enough to hint at something deeper. "And his lover, if the rumors are to be believed."

Varys inclined his head slightly. "More than just rumors, I’m afraid. Y/N’s fate was sealed long before the rebellion reached King’s Landing. Aerys’ obsession with her was well-known, though few dared to speak of it openly. She was both his daughter and his most prized possession, and in the end, it was her death that drove him to his final madness."

Littlefinger leaned against the throne, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest as he considered Varys’ words. "I’ve heard the stories, of course. How Tywin’s men stormed the Red Keep, how they found Y/N at Aerys’ side… and slit her throat before his eyes." He gave a small shrug, as if the brutality of the act meant little to him. "It’s always the innocent who suffer, isn’t it?"

Varys’ gaze darkened, and for a moment, his usual composure faltered. "Y/N was pregnant at the time," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With Aerys’ third child. They didn’t just kill her—they killed the unborn child as well. Aerys watched it all happen, and it broke him. When Jaime Lannister finally put an end to Aerys, he was holding Y/N’s body, clinging to her as if she were the only thing left in the world that mattered."

Littlefinger’s eyes flickered with interest. "A tragic love story, then," he mused, though his tone was devoid of sympathy. "One could almost feel sorry for the man, if not for the fact that his madness nearly destroyed the realm."

Varys looked away, his expression unreadable. "There was a time when Aerys was a king of great promise. But power… power corrupts even the best of men. And for those born with fire in their veins, that corruption can become something far more dangerous."

Littlefinger smiled, the gesture cold and calculating. "It’s always the Targaryens, isn’t it? Fire and blood, madness and greatness—two sides of the same coin, as they say."

Varys sighed softly, his eyes fixed on the throne. "Perhaps. But the deaths of Aerys and Y/N were more than just the end of a dynasty. They were a warning, a reminder of what unchecked power can do. Of what happens when love is twisted by madness."

Littlefinger stepped away from the throne, his gaze lingering on Varys as he moved closer. "And yet, the game continues. The throne still stands, and new players take their turn. Power will always draw those willing to do whatever it takes to claim it."

Varys smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. "Yes, my lord. But it’s worth remembering that even the most powerful can fall. And when they do, the consequences are far-reaching."

Littlefinger’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. "You’re right, Varys. Everyone falls eventually. Even kings and queens." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the throne for a moment. "But until then… the game must be played."

Varys nodded, his expression calm once more. "Indeed, Lord Baelish. The game never truly ends."

As Littlefinger turned to leave the throne room, Varys remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the Iron Throne, the weight of history and tragedy settling over him like a shroud. The ghosts of the past still haunted this place, and though the players had changed, the stakes remained the same.

And somewhere, in the depths of Varys’ mind, the memory of Aerys and Y/N—two lives consumed by fire and madness—lingered, a reminder of the price of power.

Cersei and Tywin

Cersei stood by the window of her chambers, staring out at the city below, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion, since the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, had met their fiery end, but the bitterness that lingered within Cersei had never truly faded. The memory of that day, of her father’s decision to allow them to be burned together on the pyre, still made her blood boil.

Tywin Lannister entered the room without ceremony, his presence commanding as always, though there was a distinct chill in the air between them. Cersei didn’t turn to greet him. She didn’t need to—her father’s shadow always loomed over her, even when she wasn’t looking.

"You summoned me," Tywin said, his voice as measured and cold as ever. It wasn’t a question, but a simple statement of fact. He never spoke without a purpose, and Cersei knew he had no patience for games.

She didn’t respond right away, her eyes still fixed on the city below, the weight of her resentment pressing heavily on her chest. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, her voice sharp and filled with the bitterness she had carried for so long. "I still don’t understand why you did it."

Tywin’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t move from where he stood. "Did what?"

Cersei turned then, her green eyes flashing with anger, with something that had festered in her for years. "Why you allowed Aerys and her to be burned together," she spat, the venom in her voice unmistakable. "Y/N Targaryen, the whore who thought she could cling to her father’s madness and get away with it."

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Watch your tone, Cersei," he warned, his voice low but firm. "I did what was necessary for the realm, as I always have."

Cersei laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "Necessary for the realm? Or necessary for your own pride?" She took a step toward him, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. "You should have left their bodies to rot, to be thrown into the dirt like the traitors they were. But instead, you gave them the dignity of a pyre, as if they were worth something."

Tywin’s eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over Cersei. "I gave them a pyre because it was the right decision," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Aerys was the last Targaryen king, and Y/N was his daughter. Their deaths had to be handled with care, or the realm would have descended into chaos. The rebellion may have ended, but the legacy of the Targaryens was not something that could be dismissed so easily."

Cersei’s lips curled in disdain, her anger barely contained. "You gave them too much," she hissed. "Y/N deserved worse. She stood by Aerys, even as he destroyed everything, even as he lost his mind. She was no better than him. And yet, you allowed them to die together, to be honored as if they were some tragic lovers."

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, though his gaze bore into her with cold intensity. "Y/N was a pawn in Aerys’ madness," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "She was manipulated, used, and ultimately destroyed by her father’s obsession. Her death was part of a greater tragedy, one that needed to be handled delicately."

Cersei scoffed, shaking her head. "You speak of delicacy, but all I see is weakness. You could have crushed them completely—destroyed any trace of the Targaryen name. Instead, you gave them a pyre. You gave them dignity. And for what? For the sake of appearances?"

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "You forget your place, Cersei," he said coldly. "I made the decisions that were best for House Lannister and the realm. Do not presume to question me."

Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, her resentment spilling over. "I will question you," she snapped. "Because you’ve never seen it from my side. You’ve never understood how much I hated her. Y/N, with her silver hair and violet eyes, thinking she could claim the love of a king and still be seen as innocent." Her voice trembled with rage, old wounds that had never healed. "She was no better than her father. And yet, you allowed them to be remembered together, as if their deaths were some tragic ending to a noble house."

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "Y/N’s death was a necessary part of ending the Targaryen reign," he said slowly, each word deliberate. "But even in death, she held a place of importance. The realm needed stability, and allowing her and Aerys to be burned together ensured that no one questioned the finality of their fall. The last of the dragons, reduced to ash."

Cersei’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "And yet you still gave them more honor than they deserved."

Tywin stared at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "You let your hatred cloud your judgment, Cersei," he said quietly. "Y/N was nothing more than a victim of her father’s madness. Aerys destroyed everything, including her. But in the end, they were both just pieces in a larger game. A game I played, and won."

Cersei’s fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with the weight of her anger, her resentment, and the memories of all the years that had passed since that day. She had always hated Y/N—hated the way her father had shown her even a shred of respect, hated the way the Targaryens had been allowed to die with any semblance of dignity.

But she said nothing more. The conversation had reached its end, and as always, Tywin had the last word.

Tywin turned away from her, his expression unreadable as he walked toward the door. "Let this go, Cersei," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "There is no point in clinging to old hatreds. The Targaryens are gone. We are the future of the realm."

As the door closed behind him, Cersei stood in the middle of the room, her chest heaving with the weight of her fury. She had hated Y/N then, and she hated her still—even in death. The pyre that had consumed the last of the Targaryen legacy had not been enough to quell the fire of her hatred.

And she knew, deep down, that it never would be.

Daenerys and Barristan

Daenerys found herself standing on the balcony of her chambers in Meereen, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the sea and distant fires from the city below. It was a strangely comforting smell, reminding her of her childhood in exile, of the nights spent staring out over the Narrow Sea, wondering what lay beyond. But tonight, her thoughts were far from comforting. The truth that had come to light—her true parentage—had set her mind spinning with questions and memories she had never thought to revisit.

It wasn’t just the knowledge of her parentage, but the way her mother had died—brutally, violently, in front of her father. The thought of it haunted her, and she had so many questions, questions only a few people might answer. And there was one person in her service who might have been there, who might know the truth of what happened on that fateful day.

She sent for Ser Barristan Selmy, the loyal knight who had served both her father and her family for years. He had been there, in King's Landing, in those final moments, she was certain of it. She needed to know what he had seen—what he could tell her about Y/N, her true mother.

When Ser Barristan entered her chambers, his expression was calm, though his eyes were laced with concern as he watched the girl returning inside. He had always been able to sense when something weighed on Daenerys’ mind. He bowed before her, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?" he said, his voice steady, as always.

Daenerys nodded, gesturing for him to sit across from her. For a long moment, she simply studied him, wondering how to begin. Ser Barristan had always been forthright with her, but this was different. This wasn’t about strategy or battle. This was about the past—their shared history.

"Ser Barristan," she began softly, her voice carrying the weight of the question she was about to ask. "I have learned the truth… about my mother."

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He nodded, as though he had expected this conversation eventually.

"I have been told that my true mother was not Queen Rhaella, but Y/N Targaryen," Daenerys continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Is this true?"

The knight was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace," he confirmed. "Y/N was your true mother. Rhaella, your grandmother, raised you as her own after Y/N… after what happened in King’s Landing."

Daenerys felt her heart tighten at the mention of it. The story Viserys had told her of Y/N’s death was brutal, and though she had always imagined her father’s end, she hadn’t known the details until now. She looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling small in the enormity of the truth she had uncovered.

"And what happened to her?" she asked softly, her voice filled with quiet sorrow. "Were you there, Ser Barristan, when she was killed?"

There was a pause, and Daenerys dared to glance up at him. The old knight’s eyes were filled with something she rarely saw in him—regret, deep and profound. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and he spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I was in King's Landing when it happened," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "But I was not there in the throne room when your mother was killed. By the time I arrived, the Lannisters had already breached the Red Keep, and the city had fallen into chaos. Jaime Lannister…" His voice tightened. "He killed your father. But it was Tywin Lannister’s men who killed your mother."

Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat, and she leaned forward slightly, hanging on his every word. "How?" she whispered, though the answer already chilled her.

Barristan’s face darkened. "Your mother was with child when it happened. She stood by Aerys’ side until the very end, trying to calm him, trying to stop the madness. But when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, one of Tywin’s men grabbed her, and… he slit her throat, right in front of Aerys. She died instantly."

Daenerys closed her eyes, her heart breaking at the thought. Her mother, Y/N, had died fighting for her family, standing by Aerys even as the world crumbled around them. And she had been pregnant, carrying another child—another sibling Daenerys would never know.

"And my father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ser Barristan shifted again, his expression grim. "Your father… Aerys… he was consumed by madness at the end, Your Grace. He screamed for his pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of defiance. But Jaime Lannister killed him before he could give the order." Barristan’s voice grew quieter, almost reverent. "He died holding your mother’s body, clinging to her even in death. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together."

Daenerys sat back, her chest tight with the weight of everything she had just learned. Her mother and father, burned together on a pyre in the ruins of King’s Landing. It was a cruel, tragic end to a story she hadn’t even known was hers. She had been whisked away to Dragonstone, just an infant, and now, years later, she was finally learning the truth of her family’s downfall.

"They died together," she whispered, more to herself than to Barristan.

The knight nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. They did."

Daenerys stared into the flickering flames of the candle beside her, her heart aching with the loss of a mother she had never known, and the father she had never truly understood. The stories of her father’s madness had always been in conflict with the image she had carried of him—a dragon, fierce and proud. But now, knowing how he had clung to her mother in the end, she wondered if some part of him had still been capable of love, even in the depths of his madness.

"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she said quietly, her voice steadying as she processed everything. "For telling me the truth."

Ser Barristan rose from his seat, bowing his head respectfully. "You deserved to know, Your Grace. And I am sorry… for all that you have lost."

As he left the room, Daenerys remained seated, her mind swirling with the ghosts of her past. The truth had been revealed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in her heart. Her parents, her true parents, had died in a fire of madness and betrayal, and now the only thing left to her was the path forward—the one that would lead her back to Westeros, to the Iron Throne, where she could reclaim the legacy of House Targaryen.

And for Y/N, her true mother, she would rise from the ashes and make the realm remember the blood of the dragon.

Viserys and Illyrio

Viserys paced back and forth in the low lit room, the rich tapestries and fine silks draped over the walls doing little to calm the storm that had been brewing inside him for days. His heart beat heavily in his chest, anger simmering just beneath the surface as he mulled over the many slights and indignities he had suffered. But it wasn’t just the loss of his birthright that weighed on him tonight. It was something deeper, something far more unsettling.

He had always known that Illyrio Mopatis had secrets—he could see it in the man’s calculating eyes, in the way he spoke of the past with a vague, elusive familiarity. But what the magister had promised to reveal tonight went beyond anything Viserys had ever imagined.

"Are you ready to hear it, Your Grace?" Illyrio’s voice, smooth and persuasive, broke through Viserys’ thoughts. The large, imposing figure of the Pentoshi magister loomed nearby, his gold rings glinting in the candlelight as he poured two cups of wine. "The truth of your birth. Of who you truly are."

Viserys stopped pacing, his silver-gold hair falling into his eyes as he turned to face Illyrio. He had been impatient for this conversation, had demanded answers about his family, about the whispers that had haunted him since he was a boy. But now, standing on the edge of knowing, he felt an unexpected tremor of unease.

"What truth?" Viserys asked, his voice sharp but betraying the hint of uncertainty that had begun to creep into his mind. "What are you talking about, Illyrio?"

Illyrio handed Viserys one of the cups of wine, gesturing for him to sit. "Please, Your Grace. You should be seated for this."

Viserys remained standing for a moment, defiant, before slowly sinking into the chair, his eyes fixed on Illyrio. The magister took a seat across from him, his heavy frame settling into the cushions with a groan, his expression thoughtful.

"You were born as Viserys Targaryen," Illyrio began slowly, his voice gentle but deliberate. "You were told you are the son of King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella, the last true scions of the Targaryen line. That much is true in part, but not entirely."

Viserys narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring up in his chest. "What do you mean ‘in part’? My father was Aerys. My mother was Rhaella. My sister, Daenerys—"

Illyrio raised a hand, silencing him. "Daenerys is your sister, yes. But your mother was not Rhaella. Nor was she Daenerys’ mother."

Viserys stared at him, his mind reeling. "What are you saying?"

Illyrio took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "Your true mother was Y/N Targaryen. Aerys’ daughter. She was your father’s… favorite."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Viserys felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath him. He stood abruptly, knocking the cup of wine from the table, the liquid spilling across the floor in a dark stain.

"That's impossible!" Viserys shouted, his voice trembling with rage and confusion. "Y/N was my sister, Aerys’ daughter—she couldn’t have been—" He stopped, unable to form the words, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief. "She wasn’t my mother."

Illyrio remained calm, his hands resting on his large belly as he watched Viserys process the revelation. "I know it’s difficult to accept, but it’s the truth. Y/N was your mother, and Aerys was both your father and your grandsire."

Viserys turned away, his hands running through his hair as his breath came in ragged gasps. It felt as though the world was spinning, as though everything he had ever known had been shattered in an instant. "And Daenerys?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Is she…?"

"She is Y/N’s daughter as well," Illyrio confirmed. "Y/N gave birth to Daenerys on Dragonstone, just as she had you. After the fall of King’s Landing, Varys whisked her away with you across the sea, to keep you both safe from Robert’s wrath."

Viserys collapsed back into the chair, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of the information. His mother… had been his sister. The thought made his stomach twist, his mind rebelling against the idea. Aerys, the father he had idolized as a child, the man who had been revered as the last true king of Westeros, had kept this dark truth from him all along.

After a long silence, Viserys turned to Illyrio, his voice quieter but filled with barely suppressed emotion. "Tell me how they died," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists. "Tell me the truth."

Illyrio sighed, his face taking on a somber expression. "Aerys was betrayed. You know that. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, drove a sword through his back as he gave the order to burn King’s Landing. But before Aerys was killed, Y/N…" Illyrio hesitated, as if the words were difficult to say.

Viserys’ heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching as he waited for the truth he had long feared.

"Y/N was killed first," Illyrio continued, his voice softer now, as though the memory pained him. "She stood by his side when Tywin Lannister’s men stormed the Red Keep. One of them… slit her throat. Aerys watched it happen."

Viserys swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as the weight of the words hit him like a blow to the chest. He could picture it—the Red Keep in chaos, fire and blood, his mother, his sister, standing before Aerys, her life snuffed out before his eyes. "And he… he didn’t stop it?"

"Aerys tried to fight," Illyrio said quietly, shaking his head. "He screamed for the pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of madness, but Jaime Lannister killed him before the order could be given. Aerys died holding Y/N’s body in his arms. Even in death, he clung to her. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together on a pyre, much to Robert Baratheon’s disgust."

Viserys was silent for a long time, the shock of it all settling over him like a suffocating weight. His mother—Y/N—had died in front of his father, and he had never known. He had never been given the chance to mourn her, to understand the truth of what had happened.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the crackling of the hearthfire. Illyrio watched Viserys carefully, knowing that the young Targaryen’s mind was now filled with questions, doubts, and a deep, simmering anger.

Finally, Viserys spoke, his voice low but filled with a quiet, burning intensity. "I will take back what is mine. For her. For all of us."

Illyrio nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And you will have your chance, Your Grace. The realm still remembers the dragon, even if it trembles at its memory."

But Viserys wasn’t listening anymore. His thoughts were consumed by the image of his mother and father—dying together in a ruined throne room, their legacy lost to fire and blood.

Joffrey and Margaery

The Sept of Baelor loomed over them as Joffrey guided Margaery through the grand, stone hallways, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. The flickering light of candles cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of incense hung heavy in the air. It was a place of reverence, where the bones and ashes of kings and queens were laid to rest, but there was something unsettling about Joffrey’s demeanor as he led his bride-to-be deeper into the heart of the sept.

Margaery, ever composed, smiled softly at her king as they walked, though she could sense the tension in his movements, the excited energy that simmered beneath his boyish grin. She had learned quickly how to read Joffrey, to anticipate his moods, and today, something darker lurked beneath the surface.

"This is one of my favorite places in the city," Joffrey said suddenly, his voice sharp and high with enthusiasm. "A place where the history of Westeros is written in bones and ash."

Margaery tilted her head, feigning interest. "It is a place of great history," she replied gently, her voice measured. "Many kings and queens are honored here."

Joffrey nodded, clearly pleased by her response. "Yes! The great monarchs of House Targaryen, those so-called dragons." He spat the word, a sneer twisting his lips as they approached a series of alcoves where urns were kept, marked with plaques of names long since forgotten by most. "They once ruled everything. Fire and blood, they said. But in the end, they burned like anyone else."

They stopped before an alcove near the end of the row, where two intricately carved urns were placed side by side. Joffrey’s smile widened as he gestured toward the urns, his voice filled with glee. "This is where they keep the ashes of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, and his daughter, Y/N. They were burned together after Robert’s Rebellion. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?"

Margaery’s eyes lingered on the urns, her mind racing as she tried to follow Joffrey’s sudden shift in tone. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. But there was something unsettling in the way Joffrey spoke about it, as though it were a tale of triumph, of cruelty rewarded. She smiled softly, keeping her voice calm. "Yes, Your Grace. They are well-known."

Joffrey laughed, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet of the sept. "But do you know the real story?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light. He took a step closer to the urns, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as though sharing a secret meant only for her. "Aerys was mad, of course. Everyone knows that. He wanted to burn the entire city, to let the wildfire consume everything. But it wasn’t just him, you know."

He gestured toward the urn that held Y/N’s ashes, his smile twisting into something darker. "His daughter, Y/N, she was just as mad as he was. She stood by him, loyal to the end. They say she loved him in ways a daughter shouldn’t love her father. It’s sickening, isn’t it?"

Margaery swallowed, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as she tried to keep her expression neutral. "That… is not how I have heard the story," she said carefully, her voice measured.

Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. They want to make her a victim, but she wasn’t. She stood by him, even when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep. When Tywin’s men found her, she was still defending that madman, even though he was raving about burning them all alive." He leaned in closer, his eyes wide with glee as he recounted the tale. "Do you know what they did to her?"

Margaery shook her head slightly, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized where this was going.

"They slit her throat right in front of him," Joffrey said with a grin, as if sharing a delightful joke. "Aerys was covered in her blood, holding her like she was his lover. And even then, all he cared about was burning the city. Can you imagine? Watching your daughter die in your arms, and all you can think about is setting everything on fire."

Margaery’s breath caught, her stomach twisting in revulsion at the way Joffrey seemed to take pleasure in the gruesome details. He stepped back, looking at the urns as if they were trophies, a reminder of his family’s triumph over the Targaryens.

"They burned together, in the end," Joffrey continued, his voice gleeful. "Grandsire had their bodies placed on the same pyre, like some tragic love story. Isn’t that sweet?" His smile faded for a moment, replaced by a scowl. "But they weren’t lovers. They were mad. And they died like the madmen they were."

Margaery forced a smile, her mind racing as she tried to keep her composure. "A tragic end, indeed," she said softly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.

Joffrey’s mood shifted again, his smile returning as he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "One day, I’ll be the one they remember, Margaery," he said, his voice filled with pride. "The one who put an end to the last of the dragons."

He reached out, taking her hand in his, the pressure of his grip uncomfortably tight. Margaery smiled up at him, her heart pounding, knowing full well that Joffrey’s thirst for cruelty and power would only grow with time. But she had learned how to play this game, how to survive in the dangerous world she had chosen to inhabit.

"As you should be, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice smooth and practiced. "You will be remembered as the greatest king Westeros has ever known."

Joffrey beamed at her words, his grip loosening just enough for her to pull her hand away without him noticing. He turned back to the urns, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if the ashes of Aerys and Y/N were nothing more than relics of a forgotten era—one that had been crushed beneath the weight of the Iron Throne.

And as they left the Sept of Baelor, Margaery couldn’t shake the cold knot of dread that had settled deep in her stomach, knowing that Joffrey’s thirst for power and cruelty would only continue to grow.

The servents

The soft murmur of servants echoed through the halls of the Red Keep as the younger attendants went about their duties, the clang of dishes and the shuffle of feet filling the air. In the far corner of the kitchen, an older servant, her back bent with age, quietly polished a stack of silver plates. Her movements were slow but precise, the wisdom of years in her every gesture. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced ease, though her eyes—cloudy with age—seemed far away, as though seeing something beyond the present.

A younger servant, a girl no older than sixteen, stood nearby, wiping her hands on her apron nervously. She had been with the royal household for only a short while and had heard the whispers, the stories that floated through the Red Keep like ghosts from another time. But today, with her curiosity gnawing at her, she decided to speak.

She stepped closer to the old servant, her voice hesitant as she broke the silence. "Old Nan," she said, addressing the woman with the name the younger servants had given her, though her real name had been long forgotten by many. "Is it true? What they say about the Mad King and his daughter?"

Old Nan paused for a moment, her hands stilling over the silver plate in her lap. She didn’t look up immediately, but the girl could see the tension in her fingers, the way they tightened just slightly over the plate. When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy, like the creak of old wood, but there was a weight to her words, a heaviness that made the younger girl lean in closer.

"You’ve been listening to the wrong sorts of people, child," Old Nan muttered, setting the plate down with a soft clink. "There’s always been talk about the Targaryens. Fire and blood, they say. And madness runs in their veins, or so the lords and ladies tell themselves."

The younger servant bit her lip, shifting nervously. "But… I’ve heard the other servants say strange things. About King Aerys. And his daughter, Y/N. They say…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say she wasn’t just his daughter. That he… did things to her. That she stood by him even when he went mad."

Old Nan finally looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied the girl. There was a long, heavy silence before she spoke again, this time with more steel in her voice. "Be careful what you say, girl," she warned. "There’s truth in some tales, but not all of it."

The younger girl swallowed hard, but she pressed on. "But you were here, weren’t you? You served in the Red Keep when King Aerys ruled. You must have seen things."

Old Nan sighed, her eyes drifting to the distant shadows of the kitchen, as if the past were playing out in front of her once again. "Aye," she said quietly. "I was here. I served him, just like all the others. But what I saw… it’s not a story you’d want to hear."

The younger servant’s heart pounded in her chest, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. "Please," she whispered. "I need to know."

Old Nan was silent for a long moment, her mind clearly caught in the web of memories she had long tried to forget. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, as though she were afraid the walls might hear her.

"King Aerys was mad, that much is true," she said slowly. "He was once a proud man, a king with ambition, but something dark took hold of him in the later years. He trusted no one. He saw enemies everywhere, even among his closest friends. The burnings…" She shook her head, her voice trailing off. "I saw them. I saw what he did to those who displeased him. He called it justice, but it was madness, plain and simple."

The younger girl shivered at the thought of the burnings, of the terrible things she had heard whispered about the Mad King’s cruelty.

"And what about Y/N?" the girl asked softly. "What happened to her?"

Old Nan’s expression hardened, and for a moment, it looked as though she wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, she began to speak again. "Y/N…" she said, her voice heavy with something deeper than just sorrow. "She was the light of the court once. A beauty, they said. The jewel of the Targaryen line. But she was her father’s daughter, through and through. He doted on her, more than was proper, more than was right. She could do no wrong in his eyes."

The younger servant leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. "Did he… love her? In that way?"

Old Nan’s gaze darkened. "He loved her in a way no father should love his daughter," she said bluntly, her tone sharp. "There were rumors, of course. Whispers in the halls, behind closed doors. But it wasn’t until the rebellion, when the end came, that the truth became clear."

The girl’s hands trembled slightly, but she couldn’t stop now. "What happened in the throne room? Is it true… that they died together?"

Old Nan’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Aye. They died together. But it wasn’t some grand tragedy, no matter what the lords and ladies say. When the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, they found Y/N standing by her father’s side, even as he raved about burning the city. She stood by him until the end, just like he wanted. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat right in front of him. She was with child when it happened."

The girl gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. "She was pregnant?"

Old Nan nodded grimly. "Aye. With Aerys’ child, no doubt. She was loyal to him until the very end, even when it cost her everything."

The younger servant’s stomach turned at the thought, her mind racing with the terrible realization of what had truly happened in that throne room all those years ago.

"And King Aerys?" the girl asked, her voice trembling.

Old Nan’s gaze fell to the floor. "He died holding her body," she said quietly. "Even in death, he clung to her like she was all that was left of his madness. Jaime Lannister put an end to him, but by then, Aerys was already lost."

The younger girl felt a cold shiver run down her spine, the weight of the truth settling over her like a heavy cloak. She had heard the stories, the rumors, but to hear it from someone who had been there, who had seen it all unfold—there was a horror in it that words could barely capture.

Old Nan sighed, her hands resuming their slow, methodical polishing of the silver plates. "The Targaryens were fire and blood, child," she said softly, her voice filled with the weariness of age. "But sometimes, that fire burns too bright. And when it does, it consumes everything in its path."

The younger servant stood in stunned silence, her mind reeling from what she had just learned. The story of the Mad King and his daughter was not just a tale of madness—it was a tragedy born of twisted love and the ruin it brought to those who lived in its shadow.

As she turned to leave the kitchen, the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders, Old Nan’s voice called out to her once more.

"Remember this, girl," she said quietly, her eyes dark and solemn. "No matter how much fire you carry in your blood, it always leaves ashes behind."

[ilovedagain]

A story of Damian's place in his family, told in verse.

There's a book in a library in Grandfather's castle, with people's illustrations and yellowed pages. Lines connect their names and faces, forming branches spanning generations. And down at the bottom is Damian's name. Mother's face and name are there, a beautiful portrait and sprawling calligraphy. But the space for Father's place is empty. He traces his small fingers over the space where Father ought to be and wonders what the reason could be.

"Am I a bastard?" He asks Mother one day, his mouth and mind running as she runs a comb through her hair.

The comb stops. She meets his eyes in the mirror, facing him in the gilded frame. For a moment, it's as if her portrait from that book has come to life. "Why would you say that?"

"My father is never here. And his name is not in the book—the book of our family tree..."

Mother turns and holds his shoulders with careful hands. There is something in her expression that he can't understand.

"Your father is the greatest man," she says. "And you are his precious son. His name is Bruce Wayne and he lives in Gotham. One day, my love, you will meet him and know exactly how deep his love for you grows."

That is the day Damian steals the book and hopes. He hides, takes out a quill, and replicates with careful hands his family tree. It is with a child's hope that he draws sprawling leaves and bountiful apples, deep roots, and entwined branches. And in each apple, he writes a name. Ra's al Ghul. Nyssa Raatko. Mara al Ghul. Dusan al Ghul. Talia al Ghul. Bruce Wayne. And Damian al Ghul Wayne.

From then on, Mother regales him with tales of Bruce Wayne. The king who protects his city like a knight, the man whose love for people burned bright. Damian drinks up the stories he hears from Mother like thirsty roots, and he loved and loved. One day, his mother said, he will meet his father and find the same love.

Like a sprout, Damian grows. His feet are grounded, and his heart burns with sunlight. His hands are tough as tree trunks and calloused like them too. He sheds blood and bleeds from his blades. Then, night fades, dawn breaks, and his promised day comes.

He meets his father at Wayne Manor. He is everything Damian hoped he'll be. Except—

Except—

Damian is nothing his father wants him to be.

There is a family in Wayne Manor and Damian's not part of it. They come from different trees, and yet Father treats them like branches from his own pedigree. And Damian—Damian—is the unwanted one.

It doesn't make sense. It's nurture against nature. With every moment Father dotes on his wards, approves of their choices and hands them responsibilities—

but not to Damian, never, no—

Damian's heart rots. A worm finds its way into his heart and scours. He is spoiled skin streched over an eaten core. Yellowed fruit, left out, and nothing more.

And yet, he loves. He loves Father again and again: when he breaks his bones to save them all, when he admonishes Damian because he cares if his heir knows right from wrong, when he writes detailed notes about his wards and never forgets a word, and when he settles his hand on Damian's head in a rare moment—a warm weight, like feeling sunlight for the first time, and Damian leans into it.

Drunk with sunlight, he opens his sketchbook and draws the day Mother said he was ready to meet his father. It was the coldest night in the desert, with blue-tinted sand and red blood pouring from his victims. The sandstorm that shook his bones was nothing compared to the relief vibrating in his body when he heard those words: "Good work, my son. You are ready to meet your father."

There is a page in Damian's sketchbook from when he was young: a forgotten drawing of his family tree. An al Ghul is not one to concede, so Damian takes the page and tries to understand.

He reconstructs the tree with hope it will reconstruct himself. More branches. More apples. More sons and daughters, even if he has to pause because his hand shakes as he draws. Faces drawn in detail and referenced from a family photo he wasn't in.

He gives each portrait a personality. Richard Grayson is penciled in feather-light strokes, hair wind-blown. Jason Todd is inked again and again, lines darker and thicker each time. Timothy Drake is penned in simple lines and logical symmetry. Cassandra Cain is painted with a thin brush, every curve in her lips and line in her shoulders there for a reason. Alfred Pennyworth is drawn with exquisite detail in the finest fountain pen. Martha and Thomas Wayne are brushed to life with oil paint.

Father adopts new wards, Damian adds more and more. He thinks he understands. Father chose them all, but Damian he did not. There are blood ties that flow in veins, and then there are waters that flow in trees. Water may come from rivers, seas, ponds, and rain. Blood, however, is always the same.

Damian looks at the family tree he made. Father's side is vast and flourshing with new fruit. Mother's side is small and old. It looks like it's not getting enough water. Damian resolves to change that. Al Ghuls live in harmony with creatures spanning the globe and time itself. Surely, surely, he can do the same with his father's family.

He loves again and again: when he cuts through the air beside Father; when Grayson is the first to understand Father, and Drake is their first responder; when Todd swaps his bullets for rubber and Father claps his shoulder; when Damian fights with the blunt edge of his katana, and Father observes the cuts in his victims a second longer.

"Not everything is a fight."

Love feels like a fight. He fights love and it fights back. He holds his tongue with barbed wire and shoulders past names like 'Demon child'. He marks down their birthdays on his calendar because they say it matters. Leaves his heirloom daggers in the back of his closet, feels stripped naked even fully clothed, and tells himself it doesn't matter. He loves, and he remembers those words—"you will meet him and know exactly how deep his love for you grows"—and he finds his mother's side of the family on a blacklist, and silent stares are trained on him whenever "Ra's" is uttered as a suspect.

"Did he kill again? Whose blood is that?"

He loves again and again. The inside of his heart is flayed and raw, red lines crisscrossing his love. He loves until it consumes his heart, and then he loves again. When Cain is Father's choice for a partner and Damian is an obligation. When Drake is entrusted with a business empire and Damian is watched out of the corner of their eyes when he holds a kitchen knife. When Grayson is away and Father calls him, Damian is always here and Father seldom speaks to him. When Father suggests books for Todd to read and frowns at the men lying dead in a desert in Damian's sketchbook.

"Don't draw these things, Damian. Violence is not to be glorified."

He loves. And he loves. He loves and stays awake nights wondering why his family's love is a forbidden fruit. He deeply yearns but he's not allowed it. He reaches towards it and it reaches opposite. He kills little parts of himself to have it and it can easily live without him.

"Who did he kill this time?"

There is a page in a sketchbook in Damian's closet. With people's illustrations and fraying edges. Lines connect their names and faces, forming branches sprouting apples. And down at the bottom, is Damian's name. On his mother's decaying branches. The poisoned apples.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

฿ⱠɄɆ ₥Ø₦Đ₳Ɏ

୨୧ Pairing: assassin!soobin x assassin!chubby!fem!reader

୨୧ Genre: crime au/angst/smut

୨୧ Summary: Carrying a hit out on a corrupt politician at the charity event of the year might seem extreme to most women but it's a regular Friday night for you. Things like this should go smoothly, only tonight you're not the only one on the hunt.

Someone's out to get you too. Someone who knows your every move as if they were his own. But can he actually go through with killing you or will feelings from the past cause him to abandon his mission altogether?

୨୧ Word Count: 2.8k

୨୧ Warnings: you're an assassin so, ya know, guns/knives/mentions of assassinations but no actual deaths, fingering, marking, a lil bit of roughness, unprotected sex, for sure praise kink vibes, pet names (baby), and i'm pretty sure that's all.

୨୧ A/N: I'm dedicating this fic to @anyamaris who's honestly the entire reason that I wrote this to begin with. I've never met anyone who cares so deeply about what it is that other people want so here's something that's all about you because you deserve that and so much more. I hope my silly lil angsty assassin low key rom com smut makes you smile 💜

An $11,000 crystal chandelier hangs high above your head, casting a soft copper glow across the dim ballroom. Three others like it are positioned a few feet apart, framing a painting on the ceiling worth more than the four of them combined. No one raises their head to admire the beauty that the mayor’s dirty money went into crafting. They’re too distracted by the action on the floor. Champagne towers, a gorgeous woman singing atop a grand piano, mistresses in tight dresses, and business. Of course, the business. That’s what they’re really here for.

Everyone thinks that last week’s charity ball, full of senators dining with their families and taking photos with less fortunate children, was where the fate of the city was decided. But no, it’s here, in dark corners with men whose faces you’ll never see in the daylight, that corruption thrives and fates are truly decided. It turns your stomach to be here arm in arm with the Chief District Judge, smiling and nodding at every misogynistic comment he makes about the way you look tonight.

He picked it out for you, this curve hugging black dress with a slit high enough to let his mind wander to places you wish it wouldn’t. It makes you wish that he were your target for tonight but, no, instead it’s the senator halfway across the room shaking hands with old friends while his companion gets drunk enough to pretend she’s actually attracted to him. You need to get him alone but the bastard’s never alone. They should’ve just let you snipe him, quick and clean.

Your boss insisted upon something intimate though. Something sure and nothing's surer than confirming a kill with your own two eyes. Studying his movements, you’re caught off guard by a familiar scent. Cologne, powdery with notes of citrus. It brings you back to a time before all of this when you were a petty thief living in your little hole in the wall apartment with—

“Walk away” a passing voice whispers, marrying with the scent of the cologne like two pieces of the same puzzle. “It can’t be” you gasp, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. Turning your head, you catch a glimpse of a ghost from your past shifting through the crowd. Soobin. Tall, handsome, and impossible to take your eyes off of. Your palms begin to sweat, making the neck of the champagne glass slippery in your hand.

“What did you say, dear?” the Chief District Judge asks, placing his hand on yours. You smile, innocently sipping your champagne, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to go to the little girl’s room.” “Oh, of course, but hurry back to me. Wouldn’t want another man to snatch you up now, would I?” “You’re so silly,” you giggle, “I’m all yours.” Sitting your glass down, you summon all of your nerves and make your way toward the stairs that lead to the second floor.

Your date’s gaze is burning through your dress, enjoying the way the fabric moves against your body as you advance the stairs. It’d make you want to crawl out of your skin if your attention wasn’t still glued on Soobin. He watches you from the bar and, even at this distance, you catch yourself drowning in the pools of chestnut he calls eyes. It’s been an eternity since you’ve seen him in a suit, long enough that you’d forgotten how elegant he looks in one.

Your brain’s wracked with questions. What’s he doing here? Is he on the same job? Why’s he telling you to walk away? Making a quick left turn, you dip into the bathroom and rush into one of the stalls to gather yourself. You take a deep breath, peeking beneath the other stalls to be sure you don’t have company. All clear. “Just relax, okay? Don’t let him throw you off your game. You will finish this. Pretend he isn’t even here. He doesn’t even exist.”

The bathroom door swings open, and a pair of black laced Prada Oxfords step inside. “Baby?” Soobin sings, locking the door behind him. Staring straight ahead he sees nothing. Only polished marble sinks and spotless mirrors reflecting a motionless row of stalls. “I know you’re in here,” he says, quietly pushing open the door to the nearest stall. Empty. “So why don’t you just come out?” Kicking off your heels, you retrieve the knife tucked into your garter. At the same time, Soobin slips out the gun hidden beneath his suit jacket.

He pushes open the door to the second stall and the auto sensor flushes the toilet, giving you both a miniature heart attack. Soobin laughs, moving on to the next stall, “And what’s behind door number 3?” The door flies open and out you come, the tip of your blade slicing through the arm of his jacket. Soobin spins you off in the direction of the sink but catches you before your lower back hits the edge. 

“Why do you have a knife?” 

“Why do you have a gun?” 

“That’s fair.” 

Kneeing him in the stomach, you wrap your arm around his and struggle to grab hold of the gun. “Stop it!” he demands, gripping you by the back of your dress and tossing you back into the stall you came out of. Regaining your footing, you move to charge back at him but the barrel of his gun’s already aimed at your kneecaps. “Shit,” you mumble, pissed at yourself for not having moved quicker, “What do you want?”

“Walk away” he answers. The same words he whispered to you moments ago, only there’s a nearly undetectable drop of sadness in them now that he has to face you. You still look like the picture of you he keeps in his phone. A few years older, a few more kills to your name, but a dream to behold nonetheless. 

“You know I can’t do that. I have a job to do.”

“So do I but I don’t wanna do it” he begs, the sadness in his voice growing heavier, “Please don’t make me do it.”

He aims the barrel at your chest and he might as well pull the trigger because the pain that penetrates your heart makes you want to fold over. You’d expected that someday someone would be sent to stop you but him? Being assigned to different agencies had done a lot to tear you apart but your love for him never changed. Maybe you’d been foolish to think that he would feel the same. “Me? You took a job to kill me?”

“I had no choice. It’s nothing personal.” “Nothing personal?” you shout, the hurt quickly turning to anger, “Bullshit. So, if I don’t agree to walk away, you pull the trigger, is that right?” Soobin’s shoulders drop, his head turning away from you, “That’s right.” “Then pull the trigger,” you say, stepping forward so that it’s pressed to your chest. Soobin turns back to you, his face twisted in a scowl, “Don’t say that.” Your heart’s racing a mile a minute and the handle of your blade’s clenched so tightly in your fist that it’s creating an imprint on your palm.

You don’t want to die but if you don’t finish this your boss will kill you anyway. “Pull the trigger” you repeat, searching his eyes for any sign of the man who used to hold you on dark nights when the world felt too scary to face. Soobin was once your protector. He wishes that he still could be. He wants to be. Why’d you have to follow him into this world? He left you behind to give you a chance at something normal with someone normal. Why couldn’t you just walk away? Why can’t you now?

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he groans, fighting his body’s urge to become a jittery mess. You crack a teary eyed smile, “You used to love that about me.” It’s ever present in his mind that if he doesn’t do this he’ll have hell to pay. He can’t just let you go. He can’t but...shit, he has to. He lowers his gun, sliding open the magazine and emptying the bullets onto the floor. Nothing in this world could ever make him hurt you. Anyone else wouldn’t have made it up those stairs alive. You, though, are untouchable.

Soobin walks over to the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. What he’s just done is a death sentence. The price on your head has just transferred onto his. It’s only a matter of hours, two or maybe three, before he’s blacklisted. “Soob,” you say, placing your knife down on the sink, “You still care.” He glances at you in the mirror, amazed at how such an intelligent woman can be this clueless. “I never stopped caring. I don’t think I can. I probably won’t stop loving you until—” You take his hand, stroking his fingers, “Stay with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He gently squeezes your hand, a quiet acknowledgment of your attempt to comfort him. “It’s better for you without me here.” “Just like your note said before” you sigh, pulling your hand back. It’s deja vu. He’s pushing you away like he always has. Last time you fought your hardest to keep him but not this time. “You love me” you scoff, making your way back into the stall to collect your things, “But I’m still not enough for you to stay. Not even when your life depends on it.”

Reaching down to slip one of your heels back on, you feel a set of arms around your waist. They embrace you firmly enough to keep you close and softly enough to communicate that there’s nothing to fear. You turn in time to be kissed with such passion that you forget these are the lips of the man sent to kill you. None of that means anything. You only care that they’re on yours, his hands hungrily gripping at your hips…your thighs…your ass…any part of you he can reach.

There are no fireworks between you. The need that’s built up for you both is too strong to reduce to technicolored sparks in the night sky. This is an atomic bomb. A force strong enough to wreck you and you welcome it with open arms. Soobin can’t steal his mouth away from yours, he’s glued to you. “You’re more than enough” he promises, backing you against the wall, “So much more.” “Then why do you run away?” you ask, tearing his jacket even more as you help him out of it. He lifts your dress, letting his palm skim the lace of your panties. “I’m no good for you.”

Ripping his shirt open, you send buttons clinking to the ground where the bullets lay. You touch his chest and feel his body tense as you tease your way down to his belt. “I never asked you to be good for me. Be bad for me” you whine, squeezing your thighs to get the friction you find yourself growing desperate for. Flipping you around, he slaps your ass just the way you like. You arch your back as his thumb tucks your panties to the side, his middle and pointer fingers pushing into you.

In the quiet of the empty bathroom, all he can hear are your low sweet, moans and the splashing of your juices each time his fingers curl into your core. “You feel so good on my fingers, baby. Just dripping for me” he growls, his other hand coming around your neck to bring you closer to him. Your nails claw at the wall, the feeling of being pressed against it as his fingers fuck deeper into you intense enough to make you want to climb it.

Reaching back, you knot your fingers into his hair, pulling at it each time he hits your sweet spot. “One more” you moan, grinding back against his hand. “One more? You sure you can take it?” You nod, feeling a third finger brush your inner thigh, “I can take it, mmm, oh god.” His third finger slides into you slowly, his wrist rotating to stimulate you from every angle. “That’s it, baby. Take it for me. You like it when I fill you up with my fingers?” “Yes, I…I love it. So good. So—”

The door to the bathroom jiggles and you both freeze completely. At least you do. Soobin’s still except his fingers which remain inside of you, moving at a tortourlsy slow pace. The door jiggles again and there’s the low chattering of a group of women.

“Cut it out. What if they get in?” you whisper, turning to stop him. Soobin smiles down at you, sweeping you into another kiss, “So what if they get in?” Hooking his arms behind your legs, he lifts you off of your feet, the tip of his cock flicking at your clit. Your body shivers, making enough sound to give pause to the women outside. “You’re terrible” you giggle, reaching between you to stroke his length. You lightly trace the head of his cock with your thumb, guiding him closer and closer to your slit.

Soobin lowers his hips, raising them to thrust into you a little at a time until you’re writhing on his cock, too full to know what to do with yourself. Catching you staring up at him, your eyes sparkling like stars, makes the air feel thinner. It’s like he’s somewhere high up, climbing a mountain and losing air the higher he goes but he can’t stop. The way you make him feel, he can’t let go of it. Reaching up to cup his face, you plant kisses on his bare chest, choking back moans. “You’re perfect,” you say, meaning it with all your heart.

Soobin shakes his head, spreading your legs wider, “Not as perfect as you. Never as perfect as you.” The noise outside of the door quiets as the women give up, heading off in search of another bathroom. Soobin wastes no time thrusting into you, gripping your thighs hard enough to mark you. “Fuck, yes, just like that, ah!” Your lids fall closed and maybe Soobin was right, there must be stars in your eyes because they’re all you see in the darkness. “You’re so tight for me. So warm. I want you to cum for me” he whispers, pushing in deeper and holding you there. “Cum for me and don’t hold back.”

Grinding you onto him, he can feel every part of you and you feel every part of him. The twitching of every vein traveling up his length in response to the clenching of your walls. You’re the cutest thing, your body shivering, pillowy tits bouncing, filling the bathroom with incoherent moans. It’s almost as if he has you wrapped around his finger, something like a rubber band, twisted around and around until you’re pushed so far beyond your limits that you’re about to snap. 

“Oh…” is all you get out before you break, grasping at his chest as your senses are overtaken by something too heavenly to fathom. “My little killer” he coos, kissing the last bit of smeared lipstick from your lips, “You’ve always been worth it.” The clock’s ticking on his mission and soon on his life as well. All he wants with whatever precious minutes he has left is to stay in this moment with you but life, as always, has different plans. 

A phone sounds, a wistful ringtone echoing through the bathroom. Opening your eyes, you glance down at the phone peeking out of his jacket pocket. The screen flashes RESTRICTED. “Better get that,” you say, patting him on the arm to let him know it’s okay. Soobin carefully lets your legs down, only reaching for the phone when he’s sure you’re okay. “Hello? Yes. I know, I should’ve reached out sooner. I—” His attention momentarily strays to you gathering bullets from the floor and loading them back into his gun. “Did I handle her? Confirmed. Mission complete.”

Hanging up, he tosses it across the floor and you shoot it. Perfect aim. “They’ll be sending someone to confirm the kill soon,” he says, readjusting his pants to make himself decent, “We should get going.” “We?” you ask, checking to make sure you heard him right. Bundling your things up in his jacket, he approaches you much too happily for such a dire situation. “Yes, we, if you’ll have me.”

You take your heels from him, throwing them back on. “Of course, I will. Just one thing, point another gun at me and I’ll kill you.” Throwing your purse over your shoulder you float over to the bathroom door, still high off of your orgasm, and unlock it. Soobin trails behind you, content to do so for the rest of his life, “Point gun. Die. Noted.”

[waynes-multiverse]

If you’re still open for prompts? Beau Arlen dating a nurse who has a cardiophilia kink, and she introduces it to him

A/N: Hehe gladly! I also worked in the mention of a sponge bath for you, remembering we talked about that once. Hope I did that one justice! ❤️

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Nurse!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSFW, fluff, mentions of minor injuries, light smut (handjob, oral f), cardiophilia

Word Count: 1.2k

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles Masterlist

Heartlines

Her head rests on his firm chest, ear pressed flush to his warm skin as she listens to each thrum of his heart, a soft beat of a drum during a slow love song. She closes her eyes, feels his fingers tickling her scalp as they gently brush through her hair, and hears him hum a sweet melody as the first few sun rays of the morning crawl through the big bedroom window.

When a sunbeam finally reaches his closed eyelids, he lets out a deep sigh, indicating his reluctance to get up and leave the warmth of her body and the bedsheets to face a new day. She giggles at his obvious refusal and lets her fingers crawl down his torso till they reach what they’re looking for.

“Morning, darlin’,” he drawls, chuckling lightly, a soft groan vibrating in his chest at her touch. “Thought you were still asleep.”

“Hard to stay asleep next to you, Sheriff Arlen,” she sasses. Biting her lower lip, her hand wraps around his semi-hard cock, stroking him lightly as he begins to twitch in her palm. “Especially with that nice surprise growing under the sheets.”

Her head doesn’t move from its place on his chest, the perfect spot that’s closest to his golden heart. She listens intently as the beats become faster, almost in sync with her pumps of his thick shaft as it swells in her palm, the muscle in his ribcage seemingly swelling with it. It’s as if she can feel the little pounds of his heart against the shell of her ear, plotting to escape their ribbed cage. She’s addicted to the sound of being alive.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Beau?”

“Hm?” he hums without opening his green eyes, entranced and blissed out by her massage of his dick.

“Can I ask you something? Might be a little weird…”

That catches his attention, one juniper eye opening and finding her Y/E/C ones. “Talk to me. You know you can tell me anything, Y/N.”

“You sure?” Retrieving her hand from his cock, she props up on her elbows, her cheeks blushing as she averts her gaze to the mattress.

Both mesmerizingly green orbs stare at her now, little creases framing them as he smiles lovingly at her. “Damn sure, darlin’. Don’t think there’s anything that could make me love you any less. You did kinda save my life after that motorcycle accident.”

“Did not. That was the doctors, Beau. They stitched you back together.” She shakes her head at his flattery. God, that bastard is charming. No wonder she fell for him in a literal heartbeat. One cheeky smile, even with bruises and scratches on his beautiful, freckled face, was all it took, and she was a goner.

“Yeah, but who gave me a sponge bath and smuggled my favorite junk food into the hospital, huh?” Beau chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling in his broad chest. “What’s up?”

“So, uhm… I kinda like laying on your chest and, uhm… listening to your heartbeat,” she confesses, her cheeks acquiring a shade of red deeper than the apple Snow White bit into.

His brow furrows, lips pursing in confusion, not catching on to her words. “And that’s a bad thing? How? I mean, I think that’s kinda cute,” he notes with a shrug of his muscular shoulders.

She giggles, feeling a little flustered. “No, I mean, I kinda get turned on by it.”

“Oh.” He seems surprised by her response, his eyebrows popping up, pupils slightly wider than before.

Heat rushes to her cheeks anew. “Yeah, told you it’s weird.”

“No, no, no, hey… none of that,” Beau says and lifts her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me more about it. What is it that turns you on about it? Sounds interesting to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he smiles gently.

“Uhm, well, I like it when your heart rate picks up whenever I touch you. Makes me feel like I get your blood boiling,” Y/N explains shyly.

“Well, you definitely do,” Beau smirks and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Beau! Stop making me blush,” she scolds him. She’s not sure her cheeks will ever recover and return to their natural color at this point.

“Oh, but I can’t. See, that’s kinda my kink,” he grins broadly and winks, pecking her lips sweetly.

Y/N playfully rolls her eyes at him. “Well, I was just wondering if it would be okay for you when I maybe use my stethoscope at some point? I wanna know what your heart sounds like while I go down on you.”

His eyebrows draw up once more, clearly taken by surprise again, but the corners of his mouth rise as well. “Tell you what – we absolutely can do that ‘cause now you made me definitely curious, but I wanna go first.”

“You wanna what now?” Now it’s her turn to feel entirely perplexed.

“Yeah, you already got a head start. I mean, how long have you been doing this, huh? I’m guessing that’s the reason why you always like to wake me up with a handjob,” he muses cleverly, laughing.

“Well, kinda…,” she admits sheepishly.

“See? Seems only fair it’s my turn first,” he says confidently. “Where’s that stethoscope of yours?”

“What, now?!” Y/N’s speechless by his sudden demand and eagerness.

“Hell yeah! You made me hard just by talking about it. Who knows? Might become my little kink as well, listening to your heartbeat when I make you come on my tongue.” His grin is wider than she’s ever seen before, showing her a full set of pearly white teeth.

“You were hard before that,” she points out, giggling.

“Yeah, well, harder,” Beau corrects smugly and playfully slaps her ass in an attempt to make her move. “So, whatcha waiting for? Go get it, darlin’.”

Y/N jumps out of bed faster than a lightning bolt to grab the stethoscope from her purse, Beau barely blinking once before he holds the device in his large hands. The cool metal of the chest piece touches Y/N’s skin, just slightly to the left on the swell of her breast, the two earpieces safely secured around the Sheriff’s head.

He slowly crawls down her body, languidly kissing his path down her stomach till he reaches her mound, mixing sloppy-wet kisses with hot breaths of air meant to tease and tickle her skin. She shivers underneath him, feeling her heartbeat accelerating inch by inch. And as his tongue dips between her folds, her heart is downright exploding in her ribcage and close to flatlining altogether.

Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump…

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” the handsome Sheriff chuckles ecstatically, the sound reverberating against her sensitive bundle of nerves before his skillful tongue finds its way back to her tight channel.

Y/N, on the other hand, is sure she won’t even be breathing by the time he’s done with her.

Keeping myself short with some of these is the hardest thing, I swear 😂

Tag Lists:

Everything J: @extraterrestriali @this-is-me19 @writercole @awkward-and-indecisive @eevvvaaa @panicking-outside-the-disco @globetrotter28 @imherefordeanandbones @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @xlynnbbyx @jassackles @maggiegirl17 @perpetualabsurdity @deans-spinster-witch @deandreamernp @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lyarr24 @deanwanddamons @deanwithscissors @mrsjenniferwinchester @justrealizedimmascifygurl @akshi8278 @flamencodiva @chriszgirl92 @wittyboldsoul @djs8891 @leigh70 @snowlovespie @b3autyfuldisast3r @ladysparkles78 @muhahaha303 @mimaria420 @creepzeyecandy @iamsapphine

[numinousmysteries]

Dancing the Tandava (9/10)

[on Ao3] @today-in-fic

Princeton, New Jersey 1993

On the drive up to Princeton, Scully listens to Mulder and William discuss classic science-fiction movies and their 21st century reboots. She wishes she could share their easy connection but her shock and disbelief intervenes. It feels unfair that William has this intimate knowledge of her as a mother but she knows so little about him. He is the product of her body and years of her nurturing and yet she feels a gap separating herself from him that she can’t quite bridge.

William is intelligent, kind, and curious. He’s soft-spoken and patient, but confident with a sense of humor. He’s exactly the type of young man she’d be proud to have as a son thirty years from now. The DNA test she ordered and reviewed herself proves William is her son and Mulder is his father, which means that at some point in the future, she and Mulder get together. And, since it seems like they’ve been parenting William as a couple, they manage to stay together. It’s a possibility that intrigues and terrifies her.

On the highway, she closes her eyes and tries to imagine Mulder as her husband and William as their grown son. As William describes the expanded universe of Star Wars prequels and sequels to Mulder who peppers him with questions, she can see the three of them naturally easing into these roles. But she and Mulder have never even kissed, let alone done anything that would result in the conception of a child. As much as she finds herself drawn to Mulder, she can’t imagine this single-minded man leaving his quest behind to live a quiet, domestic life.

“Scully, can you believe this?” Mulder asks, calling her back into her body. “George Lucas bastardized the entire metaphysical beauty of the Force with these, what are they called, William?”

“Midi-chlorians,” Williams says from the backseat.

“Midi-chlorians,” Mulder says, shaking his head dismissively. “You sure you want to go back to the future? It sounds pretty grim.”

“It has its ups and downs,” William says. “There’s someone I want to see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mulder asks, flashing William a grin in the rearview mirror.

“My friend, Hannah. I mentioned her,” William says shyly. “I just miss her I guess.”

Scully peeks in the mirror and sees a blush spreading across William’s cheeks. He may have Mulder’s nose and lanky frame, but with her light coloring he can’t hide his embarrassment any better than she can. She turns to smile at Mulder and finds he’s already giving her a toothy grin. He’s proud of his son, she thinks, and she’s starting to feel pride bubble up within herself.

***

A flash of their badges grants Mulder and Scully access to the building that houses Princeton’s physics department. Scully catches William smiling, clearly impressed by how willingly the building’s security guard yields to his parents’ authority.

As soon as the elevator opens to the floor of Bellona’s office, they hear a man and woman arguing. Mulder raises a hand to hold Scully and William back from stepping forward so they can listen without being noticed.

“This is insane, Samita,” the man shouts. “Why would you want to give up the research you’re passionate about to work for the government on something so secretive they can’t even tell you what it is?”

“That’s exactly why I need to do it,” the woman responds. “This is the cutting edge of quantum research. What I learn on this project could revolutionize the entire field. It could be detecting dark matter, or even finding ways to utilize it. We’re making such small steps now, imagine if we could take a giant leap forward—what we could possibly learn if we had unlimited resources.”

“Resources from the military-industrial complex! You came here to unlock the mysteries of the universe, the origins of why we’re all here. And now you want to leave to work on what’s most likely a weapon that could kill millions?”

Their argument continues but their voices are lower now and Scully can’t hear what they’re saying. She looks to Mulder but he’s just as focused on trying to make out what Bellona and his wife are discussing. Scully wonders what line of questioning they’ll actually take once they get to Bellona. Knowing Mulder, he’ll probably come straight out and ask if he has plans to craft a time machine thirty years from now.

“I’m not going to let you hold me back,” Shah cries out. Her shout is followed by the sound of a door slamming.

Ballona huffs and heads toward them in the hallway. He’s a slight man with dark hair and glasses. As he makes his way to them, Mulder whispers to William, “Is that him?” and William nods.

“Dr. Bellona?” Scully says. “We’re Special Agents Scully and Mulder with the FBI and we have some questions for you.”

“Samita,” Bellona calls back. “Your friends the feds are here!”

With an exasperated sigh, Shah reopens her office door and comes to meet them in the hallway.

“Dr. Samita Shah,” she says, reaching out her hand to Scully. “How can I help you?”

“You don’t know them?” Bellona asks incredulously. “I assumed these were some of your government pals.”

Shah glares at him with ice in her deep brown eyes.

“Are you working on a government project?” Mulder asks.

“I’m considering it,” Shah says guardedly. “I was offered a contract by the department of defense. Are you here on their behalf?”

“No, Dr. Shah,” Scully says. “We’re actually here to speak with your husband.”

“Well, this will be a quick conversation,” Bellona snaps. “No, I’m not interested in collaborating with you.”

“Dr. Shah, do you know the nature of the project you’ve been asked to assist on?” Mulder asks. “Or where you’d be stationed?”

“I haven’t been fully briefed yet, no,” she says. “But I’d be working at Camp Hero on Long Island. It’s an older military base that’s being recommissioned for this project.”

Scully freezes and locks eyes with Mulder. She can see William looking at her wide-eyed in her peripheral vision.

“We need to visit that base,” Mulder says. “Would you be able to get access?”

Shah squints. “I believe I could. Let me make a call.”

She turns around and walks back to her office, leaving Mulder, Scully, and William with Bellona in the hall.

“Dr. Bellona, are you familiar with the Hindu god Shiva?” William asks. Scully looks at him nervously, unsure where he’s going with this.

“You’re better off asking Samita than me. Her family is Hindu,” he says. “But I’m familiar with the broad strokes. Lord Shiva is one of the religion’s three primary deities. He’s known as The Destroyer, but he’s associated with creation as well. You’ll often see him depicted dancing the tandava, a brisk choreography that has the power to create or destroy the universe.”

“I’m sorry,” he pauses. “Who are you? And what does this have to do with me and Samita?”

“Um, my name is William,” he says. “I’m…assisting on this case.” Bellona gives Mulder and Scully a questioning look but they don’t dispute William’s claim, so he goes on. “Is there any connection you can think of between Shiva and your research? Or with the project Dr. Shah is working on?”

“No, not really,” Bellona says. After a pause, he adds, “Well, in a very abstract sense, the tandava mirrors the dynamic movement of particles in quantum mechanics. Heisenberg even said quantum physics will make more sense to those who’ve read the Vedic texts. But, in practice, no, there’s no link.”

“What about if you were working on a particle accelerator? Would it be relevant then?” William continues.

“I suppose you could make the leap to connecting an accelerator’s capability to recreate the original conditions of the universe’s formation to Shiva’s role in the cyclic creation, destruction, and re-creation of the universe, but it’s quite the leap. And even the world’s largest particle accelerators haven’t even been able to confirm, yet alone re-create, the existence of subatomic particles such as the Higgs boson that are essential to that theory. Besides, it would take a real megalomaniac—or someone with nothing to lose—to want that kind of power for himself.”

Someone with nothing to lose. The words echo in Scully’s mind. “Dr. Bellona, could you give my colleagues and I a moment?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll go check on Samita.”

Once the three of them are alone in the hallway, Mulder turns to Scully and asks what’s on her mind.

“William, you mentioned in the car that Bellona and Shah aren’t still married in 2023, right?” she asks.

William nods.

“And have you heard of a Dr. Samita Shah working in the field? She already has an impressive resume and it’s hard to believe that she wouldn’t be leading a world-class quantum mechanics lab thirty years from now.”

“No, I’ve never heard of her. And I do follow this stuff pretty closely,” he says.

“Then I wonder if something happened to her at some point, something terrible that led Bellona to become the very type of megalomaniac he’s describing. With the advantage of an additional thirty years of advancements in the field of quantum physics plus a far more powerful particle accelerator, he could be dangerous.”

Mulder and William both stare at her and she can see them processing her theory.

“So you think Bellona, in 2023, either sees himself as a modern-day Shiva or is trying to harness Shiva’s energy to destroy the world?” Mulder asks tentatively. She realizes it’s typically the type of theory he would posit but the pieces are starting to fall into place. Besides, the results of the DNA test can’t be denied.

“I do,” she replies. “And I think our best hope for stopping him is making sure nothing happens to Dr. Shah.”

“How can we do that?” Mulder asks. “What do you think happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It might have to do with William, or Camp Hero. There must be a reason he appeared when and where he did.”

“I think we all need to make a trip to Camp Hero,” Mulder suggests. Scully and William nod in agreement.

They hear a door open and Shah and Bellona return from the office.

“Okay,” Shah says. “I spoke to my contact at Camp Hero and I can go up and meet with them today. I didn’t ask about bringing any visitors, but I can try to get you in.”

Mulder, Scully, and William follow Shah and Bellona downstairs. “Follow us,” Shah says before they separate and head to their cars.

Scully trails behind Mulder and William, watching them walk in step. Nearly equal in height, their strides match and their mannerisms are almost perfectly mirrored. The doubts she had about William’s origin are evaporating, even if she didn’t have concrete DNA evidence to prove his parentage. She’s desperate to know what changes in her life over the next thirty years lead her to becoming the mother of this bright young man—and Mulder’s partner in more ways than one. Learning that information, though, she knows, won’t replace the experience of living through it all. Her only hope of getting to see firsthand what the future holds is to ensure William’s safe passage back to his version of 2023, even if it means having to say goodbye to him now.

***

As Shah’s guests, Mulder, Scully, and William get a much warmer reception at Camp Hero than they did on their first visit. As they drive through the gate behind Shah and Bellona’s car, Mulder smirks at the guard in his post. Scully smiles but keeps her eyes focused in her lap in embarrassment.

They follow Bellona and Shah to a squat, square building next to a taller one that’s capped by the radar dish. The walls of both buildings are tagged with bubbly graffiti letters and it appears as if the site hasn’t been active in years. Except for a few military vehicles, the parking lot is abandoned. Weeds poke through gaps in the pavement.

A uniformed man in his 50s greets them at the door. He’s stocky and solid, built like a refrigerator, with a thick, but neatly trimmed mustache.

“Dr. Shah, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I’m General Jenkins, we spoke on the phone. You’ll have to excuse the desolate atmosphere around here. We’re just starting to get the base up and operational again, but we should have everything you need to begin your work.”

They follow Jenkins through a concrete hallway with a lingering mildew smell. Switch boxes and rusted-over equipment line the walls. Jenkins leads them to an unmarked door that he opens by keying in a four-digit code. Inside are rows of workstations with computers, but no people.

Jenkins guides Bellona and Shah to one of the desktop computers, booting it up to demonstrate something to them while Mulder, Scully, and William survey the scene.

“That’s the door I came through,” William says, pointing to a thick, metal door with a round vault closure at the other end of the room. “There’s a tunnel behind there.”

“The Phoenix III tunnel,” Mulder says. “That must be the entrance to the wormhole.”

Mulder and William glance at Scully, waiting for her to debunk the theory. In light of everything she’s seen, though, and as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, Mulder’s explanation makes more sense than anything else she can think of.

“Any idea how we can reopen the wormhole?” William asks.

“There must be a localized disruption in spacetime,” Scully thinks aloud, trying to reconcile her understanding of the laws of physics with William’s unbelievable appearance. “Two, actually. One here caused by whatever military technology—”

“Extraterrestrial technology,” Mulder interjects.

“—whatever technology they’re using, and one at CERN in 2023 that Dr. Bellona created with the large hadron collider. If they’re both activated at the same time, the wormhole will open and William, or whoever is in the tunnel at that time, will be able to travel between the two locations.”

“Bellona is going to try it again,” William says. “I just remembered he said he was doing a ‘test run,’ so it must have been for another experiment, possibly even a more powerful one.”

“Then we have to get them to activate the time tunnel here,” Mulder adds.

“But how?” William asks.

“Dr. Shah,” Scully says. “They want her to work on this project. She can ask them to demonstrate the technology before she commits.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Mulder says.

They agree it’d be best for Scully, as a scientist, to appeal to Shah and ask if she’ll go along with the plan. She takes a deep breath, then goes to pull Shah away from Bellona and Jenkins. Without explaining her time travel theory—she doesn’t want the other woman to think she’s insane—she manages to convince Shah to request a demonstration from Jenkins.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting to see,” Jenkins says after listening to Shah’s request. “I’ve seen the technicians run the experiment a few times and it just looks like gibberish on a computer screen to me. Of course, we can’t declassify any sensitive information until you’ve signed the necessary paperwork, but if you want to watch a technician press a few buttons on the computer, be my guest. Let me get our technician.”

Jenkins leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a tall, thin man with a goatee. The man nods at William, who gives him a look of recognition in return.

“You know him?” Scully asks.

“He was here the night I turned up,” he says quietly to her.

“How can I help?” The man asks.

“Whatever experiment you were running the night William appeared, I need you to recreate those exact conditions and repeat the coordinates,” Scully instructs him.

“I just push the buttons,” the goateed man says, resigned, and takes up position at one of the desktop computers.

“And I’ll go in the tunnel,” William says.

“No one goes in there,” Jenkins barks.

“Sir, with all due respect,” the technician says. “I think it’d be in our best interest if he does go. He’s the one I told you about who turned up here the other night? If your concern is maintaining the secrecy of the project, I don’t think you’d want him hanging around.”

Jenkins nods. Scully thinks that it ultimately doesn't matter whether the technician truly cares about William’s return or only in hiding any evidence of time travel. Either way, their only chance of getting William back where he belongs is getting him in that tunnel.

William heads toward the vault door and Scully instinctively walks beside him. Even if she can’t understand or explain how he came to be, she’s suddenly acutely aware that she doesn’t want to lose her son. She feels the need to hold him in her arms and protect him.

When they’re directly in front of the door William turns to her and says, “You have to convince Shah not to work on this project. She has to stay at Princeton or else something will happen to her and it’ll send Bellona down the path to destroy the world in 2023.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she says.

“Yes, you can, mom,” he insists, taking her hands in his. “Explain to her that she isn’t going to find any answers here. These researchers only want to use her for her abilities and then they’ll dispose of her to keep their work secret. You and dad told me you’ve seen things like this over the years. Shadow government projects with no respect for human life. I have a feeling that’s what’s going on here. She’ll listen to you.”

“I’ll try,” she says, squeezing his hands. Even though his eyes are as blue as her own, she sees so much of Mulder in his gaze—his desire to believe, even in her, and the trust he puts in her.

William lets go of her hands. He twists the vault door open and peers into the darkness.

“Wait,” Scully hears herself say the word before she thinks it.

She feels both William and Mulder’s eyes on her now. Mulder crosses the room to stand beside them.

“What if something goes wrong and you end up not returning to 2023…or never existing at all?” She steps closer to William and grabs onto his hands again. “I don’t want to risk losing you.”

“Mom,” William's voice catches in his throat. “It’s going to work. You figured everything out yourself. I need to get back. I’ll see you…in the future.”

She takes him into her arms and hugs him tight, closing her eyes to allow the smell and feel of him to surround her. Her son is brave and loyal like his father. For the first time since she saw him, she senses a deep bond between them that transcends time and logic. It’s an instinctual love like she’s never felt before. Like a birth she has no recollection of, she feels a physical pain as their bodies separate and she releases him from her hold.

She watches as Mulder hugs him next, knowing the link between them is just as strong. “You’ve got this, buddy,” Mulder says to his son, tapping him on the back before letting him go.

“We’ll see him again one day,” Mulder whispers to Scully, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His weight feels warm and safe against hers, and she eases into him.

“I can’t wait,” Scully murmurs. Despite her fears, she smiles. Tears stream down her face as William disappears down the tunnel.

[yamanaka-shin]

"Koooooutaaaa." It's loudly spoken in a way as to deliberately drag out certain sounds. He's being summoned.

The voice reaches his ears from what feels like much farther away than it is. With just a little sigh, Kouta trots over to the other room where his partner is calling him in an effort to prevent them from shouting again. He stands over them as they sit on the floor and thumb through a particularly old book he'd had on his personal shelf for the last three decades bare minimum. At least they had quieted down immediately when he made his entry, like a cat yowling for attention that was content the second said attention was received, though know he found himself wishing they would explain themselves as to why they needed his attention and presence in the first place. Both of his hands are placed on his hips and he tries to patiently await their verbal explanation but he makes a solid effort not to look actually annoyed.

"Do you know how outdated this thing is?" They finally properly look up at him with a raised brow. "With all this talk about the Nidaime being a cold unfeeling bastard with no sense of ethics or morals."

Kouta puts his hand out for the book but says nothing until Shin hands it over. "Thank you." He clears his throat before continuing. "Yes I'm very aware. I'm not attached to it anymore and frankly wish I'd never bought it in the first place."

"Maybe it's time you do a library purge to get rid of it and all of its ilk. Donate them somewhere but attach a warning label, perhaps."

"I've been contemplating doing something like that yes. It's better than throwing the lot of them out." And then he pivots the subject when some revelation appears to come over him. "Are those Itachi's glasses?"

Kouta thanks his incredible luck that Shin would never lie to him even about something small like this. So when they respond, he knows it'll be the honest truth. "Why yes they are."

"Are you planning on giving them back to him at some point? Preferably soon?"

"I am not." They shake their head twice to make sure he gets the picture. "These are an old-ish pair and in fact I asked him permission first to take them."

Kouta takes a couple good deep breaths and then lowers himself into a sitting position beside Shin. It's a bit difficult for him without his favorite wooden cane to help balance his weight on and it doesn't feel fantastic on his joints. But it's worth it to truly figure out what business his partner may have sporting a pair of glasses that he'd never seen them even attempt to try on casually before. Those stark white eyes that he found profoundly beautiful, faded over so much time without proper explanation, blink at him curiously but Shin opts not to speak in favor of letting their husband continue his questioning. They have plenty of time to answer all of his inquiries properly and hopefully give him real peace of mind.

"When did you get those from him? I don't remember you having them or wearing them at all in the past week. Am I just that unobservant?"

"No, it's only been two days. I got them from Haruka on Thursday per request and haven't had the time to actually use them until today. They're not really customized to me, since they're not mine obviously, but they're working well enough for my purposes."

Some sort of alarm bells begin to go off in Kouta's head when he hears them say all of this with a straight face. Not a hint of irony or play could be detected in their tone and the subject at hand could very much be considered serious so all of his attention became laser focused on his husband just then. He reaches up slowly and takes the frames gingerly off of their face so that he may inspect the light eyes behind them. Eyes as focused on him as he is on Shin, framed by bangs that had lost their silver hue in favor of a similar white tone with the natural aging process. Kouta scans their entire face first as if he's avoiding some confirmation of the worst before making himself look them directly in the eyes. Then he is able to let out a held breath in relief when he can see no signs of cataracts or ocular damage of any sort. Shin blinks at him but still chooses to wait their turn to speak, wondering what is going through the old weasel man's head.

"Shin?" Is all he can get out.

"Yeah? What's wrong? You look like you've seen some sort of ominous vision."

He sets the glasses down, folded and out of the way of harm, and then reaches both arms out to gently place one hand on either side of their head. His hands are warm and something about the touch is relaxing to them despite the fact that he's clearly doing it out of an anxiety spike. One of their own hands goes up to cover his own, savoring the warm touch while also meaning to reassure him that they're not going to combust and die in front of him. Kouta's heart speeds up just a bit in his chest but not out of some positive feeling. He's all too familiar with the capricious nature of Shin's state of health. They have had symptoms all over the map for as long as he's known them and he's no fool to pass off a single one even if it turns out in the end to just be weird luck of the draw. This requires professional attention and he's going to see to it that they get just that.

"Shin." He starts again. "Do you want me to make an appointment for you? I don't think Kabuto or Haruka are really qualified for optometry...so I could call a specialist? If you're needing Itachi's old glasses to look over some words in a book then maybe we need to get you checked out."

If the two had been a decade younger, they would have immediately pulled him into their lap to help let him know they were grateful and that this would all be okay somehow. But they knew damn well it was hard enough for him even to get this low and would probably need assistance getting back up so such a gesture was not the wisest idea. So instead, they let go of their hold on his hand and they take that as a sign to let go of them as well, and then they scoot over to properly sit beside him. Kouta looks at them long and hard for just a moment after they come to a stop and then he transitions to leaning his head on their shoulder for comfort. Shin puts one arm around him and holds him close just to make sure he feels extra secure. Not answering his question first was excusable this time because he clearly needed the physical closeness as a way to verify that he wasn't going to lose his partner of over 30 years just like that.

"Yes, I would appreciate if you could do that for me. I'm sorry I hadn't told you yet that something might be going on with my vision. Haruka kinda sorta knows...but only because I asked her to drop the glasses off to me. Itachi probably has an idea of what's up, even more than her. Sorry that you're the last to know."

"That's okay. I know you didn't keep it from me on purpose. You haven't done anything like that in a really long time." His still vivid orange eyes, now much more vibrant than his hair that had lost a lot of its color and luster, slowly closed as he spoke. He was still admittedly scared but there was a plan in place now so he could rely on that until they had further answers. "Thank you for being honest with me."

Their lips met his forehead in a kiss, another gesture to remind him that this would work itself out safely, and they held him just a little closer. The warmth he radiated was even more potent now and it reminded them of prime late summer days in late August just before their birthday the following month. All of the good he has brought into their life that they tried to return twofold, the memory of it made the weight of the current predicament lessen considerably. Kouta was very attached to Shin and they made sure to assure him that it was always going to be mutual. All of his nearly asocial behaviors through the years never once applied when interacting with them. He made sure to make exceptions for them as their bond has deepened from frequent awkward encounters to equally awkward friends to everything that trailed after. And though they had a much wider social circle than him, Shin always made damn sure to include him in every facet of their life.

While he was still cuddled up to them, they cast their gaze for a moment to the forgotten outdated reading material they'd left sitting on the floor next to their previous spot. It was as physically dusty as it felt emotionally and they were quite sure that it had to be gotten rid of the next time the two had a moment to go through the rest of the library. Who knew how many things were on those shelves that needed clearing out. And this one was different from all the obsolete tomes that had harmless guesses and disproven theories in them left over from an age when all the villages were still getting their shit together. This particular piece of literature most likely was written by someone with a malicious grudge against the second Senju brother and it favored that bias over actual history Tobirama had been part of. Kouta probably didn't pick up the book to hear an opinion on the man's life. No, they knew he was more interested in contributions made by those a book was about. So all signs pointed to this thing having worn out its welcome in their house.

"Kouta?" They verbally nudged him, not wanting to physically do so since he looked so comfortable. "Do you want me to help you up myself or am I gonna need to go get the cane?"

"Mmm, neither. We should stay here."

"That's really gonna hurt in the morning and you know it. Don't be shocked when you feel as old as you are because your back or your tailbone are screaming from sitting like this too long."

"Fine." He sighs in defeat. "You can help me up. I don't want you to have to go looking for my aid in case it's hard to find on directions alone."

He has to force himself to pull away from them so they can get up. When they're free they are quickly able to stand and stretch before offering him both hands as a lift. "I think maybe you shouldn't go playing hide and go seek with that thing when it's important for times like this. Just a hunch, though."

Kouta places both of his hands in Shin's but hesitates to actually let himself be pulled up for just a moment. Those eyes again, looking down at him, have him enraptured. He cannot believe how much he enjoys looking up into them and that there was a time when that gaze was a different color. Just like how it felt unreal that he'd managed to miss the transition of their hair from silver to white. All the time he had spent with his spouse and he still felt a sense of reverence from looking upon them. So much was he engrossed in the feelings of affection that he damn near forgot to respond.

"I will think about it." And with that, the little smirk that lightens up his face spreads to Shin too. He finally lets them pull him up and finds they still manage to be the most comforting thing in the world to him, even when their physical reality is experiencing troubles. "After I call the doctor."

[dojimakaichou]

★. ―

Melissa lifted his chin. Daigo's teeth came together, moving the strong jaw atop the demoness' finger. His eyes narrowed at her. The yakuza shuddered, wet his lips, and opened his mouth. After a moment, however, it closed ; the low grunt that Daigo issued instead solidified that he didn't know what to say.

One of his hands slid over, abandoning its place at the edge of his desk in favor of her thigh. With his abyssal gaze still locked on the beautiful creature before him, he placed his palm on her bare flesh. The kimono was too short to really stop him. Slowly, the yakuza curled his fingers in. Daigo inhaled sharply. Melissa was right : he was extremely tense, wound up inside and out due to the stress of the day. Even the simple act of touching her threatened to undo him, and that realization made him feel more frustrated.

Eerily silent, the Sixth Chairman used his grip to position Melissa's legs to either side of his waist. He worked blindly, refusing to look away from her. Daigo dragged her as needed, taking advantage of the demoness' small frame. When he was finished, he laid his hand on the same thigh he had began with. Compared to her frigid skin, he was on fire, and the flush on his cheeks showed it as much as the bit of sweat shining on his brow.

It was then that Daigo drew back his head and kissed the tips of Melissa's fingers. "Lucky ??" he echoed, deep voice rolling out into his office like a low peal of thunder. "You have completely rewritten my schedule and cost me any remaining chance to correct the biggest challenge of my day — my month, to be truthful." The yakuza's eyes were hard, and they glittered like chips of obsidian in his perfectly cool, handsome face. Instead of the usual molten rock they typically ran with, Daigo's irises looked closer to the black glass that remained after.

He drew in another deep breath, though this one seemed to shake toward the end. Again, his guns flashed in his sight. DOJIMA, they read. The killer. The leader. The greedy bastard who desired to lay Melissa out on this desk like she was another territory he had conquered. Another symbol of the unshakable authority he held in the land she only occasionally danced through, flitting across the border with her insufferable ( gorgeous ) smile.

"If you were one of my subordinates, I would consider killing you for this," Daigo said softly. His flat tone made the casual threat sound uncharacteristically serious. "That wouldn't work for you, however. I'll just have to find another way to reprimand you."

The yakuza leaned in to press his lips to Melissa's throat. Coarse facial hair scratched against the curve of her neck with every brush of his mouth. He moved his fingertips to the edge of her costume and gradually pushed it up. Daigo groaned.

It was invigorating to watch it all - the way that control started to slip through his hands like sand, no matter how desperately Daigo tried to cling to it. Melissa could sense it all - the increased blood pressure, the beads of sweat forming at the hairline, the clenching of the muscles (which the shirt did nothing to hide - it was almost as if his get-up, as perfectly coordinated with hers as it was, happened to be very damn near to bursting).

The Sixth Chairman was immersed in chaos - a delectable morsel of guilt, repressed resentment, self-doubt and anger with no discernible outlet at that very moment except for... The dark one haunting (and hunting) him. With every movement of the yakuza attesting to his fragile patience and the thin ice that Melissa was choosing to walk over, the noise of the laptop closing or the dangerously quiet tone of his voice only widened the grin on the demoness' lips.

"Five hours, hm? So this means..." Melissa moved over his desk, adjusting the human shaped figure to sit down now, definitely getting in the way of the chairman and his work. The brunette traded the way long and bare legs had been on display for the pitiful attempt of the kimono of covering the chest, head craning to look at a beautiful and ancient clock on the wall while snickering after doing some quick math.

"This means Singapore is closed for business when we're done. And on top of that, the lovely guy who messed up your orders was too scared of ever talking to you again, so he is not showing up tomorrow - and not confessing to his superior either about his little issue with the cargo. So this means you'll need to wait until Monday to call them during week hours, find a new brave man who can take the heat from fucking over the Tojo, even by accident, and fork over decent bribe amounts for the officers over there."

Melissa was, quite simply, lying. As powerful as demons were with their reality altering perceptions and the ability to teleport and materialize anything, there were no mind-reading powers or manipulation skills included in her gifts - and definitely none at long-distance. But Daigo was so close - so damn close - to finally letting go and yielding in defeat that the darker one needed to see him breaking. At the end of the day, it was a little game - and one the brunette would be happy to carry on by putting the pieces back in their pretty box, undoing and remaking the Sixth Chairman to her heart's content.

It was addictive, really - and Melissa thrived under the hard, dark glare of the chairman that was so reminiscent of the deep space and blackhole nothingness. There was just so much contained energy with nowhere to go and the girl-shaped creature on the desk wanted nothing more than drink it all up, soak all that frustration and anger up into the equivalent of her bones and feel Daigo coming undone inside her.

"We should get started then - you're so awfully tense you might just collapse if I don't do anything," another sigh of theatrical proportions followed, with Melissa bending forward - inch by inch, her face came closer to his, almost as if the creature needed Daigo's formidable heat for herself. A manicured finger tilted his head up, locking their gazes for good and offering the yakuza one textbook wicked smile. "Poor little Daigo, king of everything but never of himself. I shudder to think of your well-being if I wasn't around - you're so lucky I am here now."

[writercole]

Whispered Promises

Summary: You don’t date Navy pilots. But you might make an exception when one wants to take you for a ride. Squares: Quote J TMAS @supernatural-jackles Words: 2311 Warnings: Smut. 18 +. Fingering, protected sex (wrap it up, now more than ever!), Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin. Credits: @princessmisery666 for the beta and sorting my thoughts into something resembling a flowing story.

A/N: Look, who wouldn’t want this adorable, cocky bastard to rail them on a bar? Yes, there will be more on its way but currently I have one other one-shot and two series in progress - JUST FOR THE TOP GUN BOYS. And more plot bunnies than I can shake a stick at.

The Hard Deck was packed. It was supposed to be your day off but when Penny had called and told you some of the Top Gun graduates were back in town, you couldn’t leave her alone. She claimed she needed reinforcements. An hour into your shift, you understood.

Penny froze the second that Pete Mitchell stepped onto the porch. She regained her composure pretty quickly; you had to say you were impressed. You smirked to yourself as you watched their interactions from your periphery.

You’d been bartending with Penny for long enough that you’d heard their story several times. You never told Penny but you could see when she got lost in the past. Though it wasn’t meant as a cautionary tale, it kept you from doing anything more than flirting with any of the Navy pilots that frequented the bar.

“What can I get ya?” you asked as you turned to the next customer.

“For starters, how about a beer? Then your name and when you get off,” a deep voice said.

You finally looked at him properly and it nearly took your breath away. A beautiful blond man with a cocky smirk stood before you, Navy khakis clinging to his obviously muscular frame. You took a page out of Penny’s book and recovered quickly, pulling a bottle and popping the top, sliding it across the bar. 

“Y/N.” you said, before turning to serve the next customer.

“You didn’t tell me when you get off,” he called after you.

“I know,” you replied, a smirk of your own on your lips as you looked over your shoulder at him. “I don’t date Navy pilots.”

“Who said anything about a date?” he winked. 

You laughed; you liked a forward man. No bullshit, no lies, straight to the point. 

The sound of the bell ringing distracted the man enough for you to slip away to the other side of the bar. When you turned back, he had returned to the pool tables, joining his friend who was trying to stop him from hitting another bullseye on the dart boards.

You’d made your way up and down the bar twice before the pilot returned. He patiently waited while you tended to another customer, going so far as to tell Penny that he was waiting for you. 

“What are you having this time?” you asked.

“Another round on the old timer,” he smirked as he nodded at Pete, “and the time you get off.”

“I already told you, I don’t date Navy pilots,” you told him as you handed over his beer.

“I didn’t say anything about a date. I was just hopin’ to give you a ride.” The sparkle in his eyes was mesmerizing and his cocky demeanor made you bite your bottom lip.

But that didn’t mean you were gonna make it easy.

“Next drink is on your own tab,” you winked as you sauntered to the next patron, feeling his eyes follow you as you moved.

The bell rang again, a different rhythm to the peals followed by a roar from the crowd. The pilot and his friend picked up Pete and dropped him outside the bar, taunting him as he laid in the sand.

The tinkling of the piano filled the air and a crowd formed, including several more uniformed Naval officers. They began belting out an old song, one you knew but not well enough to join in on the singing.

“Song isn’t even that great,” you heard from behind you.

“Aw, Hangman,” another voice said, “you’re just jealous that you didn’t think of playing the piano to pick up chicks.” 

Turning around, you found the blond pilot you’d been serving and his friend. Hangman, the blond you deduced by the other man’s hand on his shoulder, looked quite sour at the impromptu concert. Until he looked at you and then that distracting charm was back. 

“What did he call you?” you asked, with an amused smirk. 

“Hangman,” he repeated, “but you can replace the first A with a U and it's still accurate.” 

You laughed and popped the top on another beer for him, sliding it over, you took the opportunity to check out if his statement was correct or simply cockiness. And you thanked whoever designed the uniforms because it looked as if he could back up his statement and then some.

He looked up at you as he took the fresh beer and you flashed a flirty smile, calling out over the music, “on the house.”

You felt his eyes on you for the rest of the night.

The bar cleared slowly, leaving you, Penny, Hangman, and one other customer. The other customer paid his tab and left soon, wishing you a good night.

You looked over at Hangman, finding him watching you with a smirk on his face. You raised your eyebrow at him and he winked, shattering what little resistance you had left.

“Hey, Penny? Why don’t you head out? I can finish this,” you told her quietly.

She glanced between you and the pilot and smiled, whispering a word of caution in your ear before she took her leave. The door closed quietly behind her, echoing over the gentle music of the jukebox.

“Am I safe here all alone with you?” he teased. “Something tells me you can handle yourself,” you smiled, “but if you're afraid…” 

He chuckled, dimples making his eyes sparkle and you felt your stomach flutter as he stalked toward you. He stepped around the edge of the bar and stopped directly in front of you. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you looked up at him. He took your hand and lifted it to interlace his fingers with yours. “I am afraid, will you hold my hand?” 

“Just your hand?” 

He wrapped his free arm around your waist and pulled you close. His lips ghosted over yours softly, his warm, beer-scented breath tickling your skin. "For now," he whispered before his soft, pillowy lips touched yours.

He kept you pressed against his hard body as your lips moved together. Your free hand slid up his neck and tugged at the short hairs, eliciting a deep growl from his chest. He released your hand and mirrored you, wrapping his hand tightly in your hair and pulling you back gently. 

You gasped as he placed open mouthed kisses down your jaw. “Hangman,” you moaned, pressing yourself closer to him.

“It’s Jake,” he said between kisses down your neck.

“What?’

“Name,” he panted, “Jake. Don’t want you to scream my call sign tonight.”

“Scream it, huh? Someone’s confident,” you taunted, a smirk on your kiss-swollen lips.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” he countered with a wink of his own.

Jake lifted you onto the counter suddenly and slotted himself between your legs. His hands slid up your thighs and gripped your hips tightly as he claimed your lips once again. His fingers teased along the hem of your shirt while yours fumbled with the buttons on his uniform.

You could feel the firm muscles beneath the coarse material, beneath the plain white tee he had underneath. His hands slid up your sides, lifting your tee as his palms dragged upwards, leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

Jake pulled away for a moment to pull your shirt over your head and you whined at the momentary loss of contact. You slid his uniform shirt off his shoulders and tugged the white tee off of him, admiring the defined lines of his abs while you could. 

He was back on you before his shirt hit the floor, his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth while his hands explored, down your shoulders, fondling your breasts, pulling your bra off. Your moans and gasps were swallowed by him, his lips turning up further into a smirk with every sound you made.

Jake’s lips trailed lower, caressing your collarbone as his hands slid up from your waist. His mouth latched onto one nipple as his hands kneaded your breasts. Your back arched as he lavished attention on one side, then the other. Your moans echoed off the walls, bouncing back to your ears and adding to the slick pooling between your legs.

“Jake,” you whined, your hands twisting in his hair. “Please.”

“Please what, baby?” he smirked as he knelt between your legs.

He kissed and nipped up your inner thighs, his hands working the button of your shorts open. He kept his eyes on you the whole time, enjoying the look of burning desire lighting your eyes. 

Jake stood and you lifted your hips for him to wiggle your shorts off, kicking your shoes off at the same time. Your hands tugged on his belt, fumbling with the buckle with trembling hands.

His lips crashed into yours as he helped you to open his pants. The belt and button gave little resistance and your hands went back to wandering the hard expanse of his chest. Jake trailed his fingers up your legs, goosebumps erupting in their wake as you shuddered against him. 

Jake dipped two fingers between your folds and groaned when he felt the wetness pooled there. “Damn, baby, look at you. Dripping wet and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

He swirled his fingers on your clit and it only drove you closer to breaking point. “Later,” you panted, “I want you inside me.”

“Needy little thing, aren’t we?” he cooed as he reached around for his wallet, pulling out a condom and quickly getting it rolled down his impressive length. 

You tugged him closer by his dog tags and wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling him line his cock up with your weeping entrance. He bottomed out in one thrust, a deep moan escaping your chest and reverberating around the empty bar. 

Jake rested his head on your shoulder a moment, quietly trying to keep his composure. 

“Jake, please. I need you to move,” you begged in a whisper, not caring that you sounded desperate.

“If that’s what the lady wants, that’s what the lady gets.” He began thrusting at a slow pace, the angle hitting all the right spots and driving you to the edge of release with just a few strokes. “Let go, baby,” he told you as he cupped your cheek, pulling you in for another searing kiss.

Jake swallowed the sounds of your climax, picking up his pace as he felt your walls flutter around him again. 

“One more, baby,” he coaxed, his fingers slipping between your bodies and rubbing circles on your sensitive clit. He hadn’t expected to be close to finishing so soon; that hadn’t happened since he was a teenager. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. All he knew was that he was determined that you would finish first.

Your head tipped back as your back arched, shouting Jake’s name as you came again, your release triggering his own as he spilled into the condom with a groan. He rested his forehead against yours as you both panted, coming down from your highs together. 

Once your breathing had returned to normal, Jake pulled out slowly, being careful to keep the condom from slipping off before he could dispose of it. You hopped off of the counter and started getting dressed, passing clothing items between you silently. 

Jake slipped his tee shirt on and rolled his uniform into a ball, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in for a soft kiss.

“Good night, Jake,” you said quietly as you stepped away.

“You gonna be okay by yourself?” 

“I close up alone all the time,” you dismissed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, well, uh, goodnight then,” he replied with a wave as he left the bar.

You finished cleaning up and closing with a bounce in your step, completing everything quickly, even with the extra disinfecting. You slipped out of the door humming a familiar tune, and froze when you saw another person on the deck.

“Jake?” you questioned as you stepped towards him.

“Hey, uh,” he said, his hand running through his hair as you waited for him to continue. “I saw you didn’t drive here and I wanted to make sure that you got home safe.”

“That’s really nice of you but I live right there,” you smiled as you pointed to a little house a couple hundred yards down the beach.

“You never know what’s lurking in the shadows,” he smirked, “I think I should walk you home.”

“You do this for all the girls you screw on bars?” you teased, glancing sideways at him as you locked the door. 

“Never, actually,” he admitted with a shrug. 

“Why me? Why now?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “There’s just something about you that makes me want to know more about you.”

“Hmm. Cute line, but I still don’t date Navy pilots.” You turned towards your house and started walking, Jake falling into step beside you. You walked the short distance in a comfortable silence, stealing glances at him out of your periphery. 

“This is me,” you said when you stopped in front of your door.

“Do you think I could try to change your mind?” he asked hopefully, his hands in his pockets and his uniform shirt draped over his arm.

“About what?”

“Dating Navy pilots.”

You looked at him, really looked at him in the soft glow of the porch light. He looked sincere, genuine. But you were still cautious. Your heart said give him a chance; your brain said run away. 

“You could try. But I won’t make any promises.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek and unlocked your door, turning to look at him once more before you shut him out. “Thanks.”

Jake watched the door shut in a daze. He’d definitely have his work cut out for him if he decided to try.

Everything: @thelastpyle @deangirl93 @evergreencowboy @katelyn--renee @fictional-affairs @lassie-bird @paintlavillered @buckys-zomdoll @polireader @b3autyfuldisast3r @welcometothefandommultiverse @mlovesstories

Top Gun: @princessmisery666 @evansrogerskitten @bradshaw-fanclub @saiyanprincessswanie @mavswife

[hobidreams]

interlude: january 1872.

where there is hope, there is a trial.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader words: 2.2k a/n: this is mostly an interlude (”his pov”) chapter, but the drabble does briefly return to our usual reader pov for a bit at the end. 

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 42. start from the beginning?

His shivering hands buried in the folds of his royal robes, the king stands alone outside the doors to Hamhwadang Hall, slightly afraid to make his presence known to the woman inside.

Was he too hasty in running directly here after dismissing his last meeting? Are you even here? But he could not help himself—for the first time in so long, Yoongi has a moment of respite. An evening’s worth of hours to breathe, to be not the king but himself, and there is nowhere else he could fathom going. No one in this universe he would rather see. Even if he hates what he has had to do to gain this time.

He has agreed to very preliminary negotiations for a trade treaty with the same foreigners who had brutally slaughtered his countrymen all those months ago.

No part of him wants to engage with those bastards, but he has little choice. They only continue to press for more, their greed unparalleled as they send message after message. Worse still, watchtowers established on Joseon shores think they have seen American warships drifting past close to land, after night has fallen. Yoongi understands the action as the silent threats they are. And he has no time to deal with such petty things, when neighbouring Japan continues to intimidate.

Thus, this new acquiescence is a gamble. Negotiations can take years. In that time, another world power, a bigger one, could take care of his problem for him. Or at least distract them from Joseon. And then his people, his beloved country, would be safe. For now, this first agreement removes any immediate danger. And lets him finally see you again.

Yoongi shakes his head free of politics’ demands. No more of such things. He wants what has been denied him for too long. Softly, he calls your name.

A heartbeat. Two. Before the third, the door opens.

Backlit by a quiet orange glow, you are… impossibly beautiful. Your hair is half-undone, strands flying around to frame your face. There is a darkness beneath your eyes, and he knows you must have been working for far too long already. Still, Yoongi has never known desire like this. The want to take you into his arms, to feel your warm breath against his skin, to kiss you until the entire world falls away—

Instead, he exhales your name again, the sound brimming with affection. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” You turn. Walk back in.

Though it stings, he knows he deserves that cold tone. He had wanted to come back immediately after that night in November, but he’d wanted to respect your wish that he leave. More than that, he’d been afraid. Terrified that you would turn him away for good if he had, so he drowned himself in work. But what would he have said? Calling Seong-min mama had been a slip of the tongue, but it is the truth. Even if he apologized now, it would change little of their circumstances. And he is too aware that words without action are meaningless. Familiar guilt pinches his chest as he steps forward.

At least you’ve let him come inside. Even if you’ve never once attempted to see him during the past weeks, though all his guards have long been ordered to allow you entry no matter the circumstances.

“Have you received the things I’ve sent for you with Eunuch Kim?” He asks, referencing the boxes full of treats and expensive medicinal ingredients and books. He sent them every time he thought of you—which is to say, you had been flooded with gifts. They are a poor substitute for his presence, but time could not be spared, lest he risk another attack. Or a revolt within the advisors, if he did not keep up appearances with the new queen.

“I have. Thank you, jeonha.”

You are still not looking at him. Yoongi pushes down the ache in his heart as he moves further inside, avoiding the bench he sat at last time. Instead, he takes one of the wooden chairs beside the one you favor when you work.

How many hours have you both spent here at this table, him contemplating reports while you persistently experimented beside him? It was so easy to ask for your opinions then. You always offered a perspective that aided him in one way or another, even if it was just to calm him down with the sound of your voice. In turn, he was happy to do any menial tasks required of your special ingredients, and he was there to taste your every attempt at creating desserts (even the failed ones). But those days are long past. His damned responsibilities have made sure of that.

Now you sit next to him endlessly fiddling with your pressing stone, rearranging it on the table alongside freshly-washed brushes. It’s one of your nervous habits, and he hates that he’s the one making you so. “Hey,” he murmurs, and reaches out what is meant to be a comforting hand towards you.

But the moment his fingers brush your shoulder, you flinch. You jerk your body from him, hands slamming on the wooden table as you have to re-balance yourself on your seat.

Yoongi drops his hand. His arm swings limply at his side. To his shock, there is an immediate stinging behind his eyes, a threat he tries to hurriedly blink away as looks away, wrestling with the realization that a few months have been enough time to make you so unrecognizable to him. A few months might have been able to undo all that has been carefully built between you for more than a decade.

How can he fix it?

What can he possibly afford to give up to keep you with him?

You exhale, the sound extended in this silence. When you finally turn to him, it’s with an expression that is uncharacteristically blank, and firm.

“Do you really have time to waste with me right now, jeonha?”

Though his lips twitch, he forces a smile on his face. “Yes, for once. I have the rest of the night for myself. We can use it however you like. We could read. We could paint. You could teach me about flowers again, like you used to.” He wants you to take a break as much as he needs one himself. As much as he admires your ability to put yourself aside, he knows firsthand how much of a toll that takes.

But your expression never changes, as if you hadn’t heard him at all. You used to delight at the prospect of time together, since it has always been a precious commodity. He wants to see you smile. Instead, you say, “You should spend your time with jungjeon-mama.”

His brow draws in, wrinkles. “Why the hell would I do that?” Confusion sharpens his tone. He doesn’t want to hear about her again. Not when there is so much between you two that deserves the attention. Not when he has been dreaming of you for weeks upon weeks, to say nothing of how much you occupy his waking thoughts; something he has become so used to, it is like an inherent part of him.

“It has been hard for you to conceive an heir.”

You are saying words, yes, but he can’t comprehend them. As if you’re speaking underwater, or with a mouth full of jeon. “What?”

“We need an heir for the country. For the kingdom.”

He clamps his mouth shut. Not trusting what instinctively wants to come out in anger. Why has your mind gone to these strange places? Especially when he has been so careful to keep them away from you, for fear of hurting you.

“Conception can take a long time. And as jungjeon-mama gets older, it will be increasingly difficult.”

“I—”

You cut him off. “So isn’t it best to take every opportunity to lay with the queen?”

These words don’t sound like yours. That lifeless tone you speak them with doesn’t feel like yours either, but your expression reveals nothing. Only some weird calmness that disturbs him, makes frustration simmer hot under his skin.

“Why are you saying this?” He finally asks, enunciating each syllable in an effort to keep himself restrained. “Tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know what you mean, jeonha.” You pick up the stone, set it down again. “I’m not lying to you.”

“God. Fuck.” Yoongi rakes a rough hand through his hair, the topknot coming half-undone with the shake. Anger bites at his thoughts, the fire stoked by how much of a stranger you look to him right now.

His fist lands on the table. “Why do you always do this?!” His voice finally comes out a shout.

Though it’s not what he intended, it works. Your icy expression finally shatters at his explosion of sound. For a moment, your eyes are wide, mouth agape. Then, you deal your own dose of surprise when you retort, “B-Because it’s what you should do! You are king!”

As if he doesn’t know that. As if he hasn’t known that this whole time. But he doesn’t want to hear about duties. The only thing he cares about is: “Why are you the one to speak for the queen when you are the one in the worst position? Why don’t you fight for yourself?”

He doesn’t want to yell, direct this annoyance at you, but he can’t stop it. How can you stand there and say those things to him, as if you don’t know exactly how he has dedicated himself to you his whole life? Trampling all over his feelings like this. As if he doesn’t know you’re also devastating your own heart in the process.

“Fuck what I should do. What do you want?” Yoongi is starkly aware his control is slipping, but he’s so tired of losing you. “Please. Whatever you want, I will try to give it to you. You know you have always been able to ask me for anything.” And yet, you don’t. You never do, always thinking about him before yourself. Putting the entire world before your happiness. As much as he respects, loves, that part of you, it cuts him the deepest.

“What do you want?” He repeats, desperate for the answer.

“I—I don’t—”

You shake your head, tongue tripping over syllables.

“I don’t know. I can’t. I simply—I cannot think,” you mumble in a rush as you turn away into yourself. Your arm wraps around your stomach, squeezing your sides as if you could huddle away altogether.

He forces his mouth to shut. Clamps his teeth down on his cheek to make himself obey his mind.

These things had to be said, though he knows he could have delivered them much better than he has. Your face is a mixture of emotions, shifting between hurt and confusion and stress. Fuck. Fuck. He clenches his muscles, counting long, deep breaths in his head until the worst of the heat cools. He doesn’t want to leave, but he will if you ask it of him. He deserves it, even though he does not regret his words for a second.

It feels like a slow hour passes instead of a handful of minutes before you whisper, quietly, “you can stay.”

“What?” Yoongi whips his head up, hope dousing him like torrential rain. “Truly?”

You nod, once. “Just… Just for tonight. Since you have come all this way. I have work to do still and… you can help cut these leaves into slivers.” You slide a bowl full of plant cuttings towards him. “Thinly!” You instruct, seamlessly slipping into that strict, su-uinyeo tone he finds so endearingly charming.

“Understood.”

Pulling back his sleeves, he picks up the small knife.

The room soon fills with the sound of scraping, of your murmurs beneath your breath as you recite your knowledge of medicinal properties. You cast glances at him every once in a while, surely to make sure he is properly carrying out your order. But occasionally, your eyes meet. And though you might look quickly away every time, he notices the soft, fond smile that falls into place when you lose yourself in your work.

It’s enough for him.

More than enough.

Being near you, talking with you, spending his life with you… These are selfish wishes for one in his position, but ones that bloom in his heart anyway. Each one a beautiful flower more resistant to the change of seasons than anything in the entire world.

Later that night, alone in your bed, you find yourself sleepless. Blankly, you stare at the darkness above your head, thinking. You think of rocks skimming a secret pond’s surface. You think of the hope you have held onto for most of your life, and the wishes you have made for things to work themselves out. These furtive wishes you’ve made to fate instead of taking actual action.

Why don’t you fight for yourself?, he’d asked.

Yes—Why don’t you?

When you finally drift into sleep asleep, you dream of a time long, long past. A pot of tea, an old pavilion, and another question asked in a kind voice that you’d all but forgotten until now.

Would you really have let him go?

a/n: so... how would you answer these questions?

also a truly massive thank you to the ever lovely @idkijustlovebts​ for beta-reading this chapter for me. she, insightful reader that she is, helped give me some much needed perspective of my own and took so much time to assist me 🥺 y’all, Amy is the best!! 

chat with me | support me on kofi ♡

[samstree]

A Study in Blushing

In which Jaskier makes a surprising discovery and decides to test it out.

(tooth rotting fluff, blushing geralt, soft jaskier, love confessions, kissing, winter at kaer morhen, rated teen, 3000 words)

Also, I know witchers can't blush in canon but seriously we should all know better.

read on AO3

“Gods damn it, bard! I know Geralt tolerates all your shit because he’s in love with you, but you gotta put things back where they belong!”

Lambert grumbles something more all the while putting the training swords back on the shelf, and Jaskier’s mind stops.

The world zeroes in on the words he’s in love with you and suddenly Jaskier can’t form words.

“W...What did you—”

“I said—” Lambert throws down the last one with a clunk. “—the swords go back on the shelf!”

“Geralt...is in love with me?” Jaskier breathes, unbelieving.

Lambert pauses, “Don’t you know?”

“No...?”

“Fuck. Pretty boy can’t get his head out of his ass and now I have to suffer.”

With that, Lambert tries to shoulder past Jaskier but the bard is having none of it. “No!” he puts a hand on Lambert’s chest. “Don’t even think about it. How? Since when? And how do you know?”

Lambert mumbles something unintelligible, before sighing long-sufferingly. “It’s too obvious, Buttercup.”

“How is it obvious? Does Geralt walk around with the words ‘I’m smitten with my bard and all the grumpy face is faked’ written on his forehead? How, pray tell, is it obvious?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Lambert, the bastard, raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Did you truly not know?”

“No!”

Jaskier is so close to grabbing Lambert by the collar just to shake some answers out of him, and finally, the youngest wolf takes pity on him.

“He looks at you differently when he thinks you are doing something cute. He trips over his words after you call him sweet names. The worst of it all—he blushes any time you are close. Blushes, like a fucking maiden. Urgh, I’m gonna throw up.”

“Oh,” Jaskier deflates, “Witchers blush?”

“See for yourself.” Lambert rolls his eyes, walking past Jaskier with a few long strides. “And put the swords back!”

 ~~

Jaskier decides to test it out, because there’s no way Geralt is in love with him.

Loving him as a friend, sure, why not? Despite what ignorant folks claim about witchers, Jaskier knows by experience that Geralt has a heart bigger and more capable of love than most. But Geralt being in love with Jaskier? Like, he-wants-to-kiss-him in love with him? No way.

Blushing because of him? Ha! More like in Jaskier’s wildest dreams.

Although that would be really cute.

“Pass me the salt, honey?” Jaskier reaches out a hand to the other end of the table, and Geralt passes the salt without thinking.

Hmm.

No tripping over words.

“Thank you, dear heart.”

He’s putting as much sweetness in his voice as possible and Geralt is…normal. His eyebrows are raised to the roof, and there’s a faint smile by the corners of his eyes. But that’s just how Geralt is…right? He’s home and he’s relaxed, he smiles with his eyes rather than his lips, and it’s got nothing to do with Jaskier.

Jaskier chews, staring at Geralt subtly.

Not subtle enough.

“Something on my face?”

“No—” Jaskier chokes, hacking like a fool and tipping sideways. “Just—too much salt.”

Geralt scoffs, the faint smile turning into a brief grin, and hands over a cup of water.

Jaskier wants the ground to swallow him whole.

 ~~

The snow is terrible.

The whole keep is freezing like an ice cube, and Jaskier has to blow on his hands from time to time just to function in the library. He’s the lucky one, in the grand scheme of things. The witchers still need to go outside to fix up the walls and tend to the animals.

Geralt hasn’t been back in a while.

Jaskier puts down the quill he’s been chewing anxiously and rushes out the door—

And bumps right into Geralt’s chest.

“Sweet Melitele, that’s a lot of snow!” Jaskier spits out the snow knocked into his mouth, before looking at Geralt properly. “Oh, you’re hurt.”

The cut on Geralt’s eyebrow is a small one, but Jaskier worries nonetheless. Geralt doesn’t look impressed, only walks straight towards the small medkit sitting on a shelf.

“Repairment has to wait. The wind is bad.” Geralt grunts, trying to touch the wound and missing by a mile.

“Here, let me.”

Jaskier takes the salve from Geralt’s slightly shaking hands and pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket. Geralt is frowning so hard he can crack a walnut with those eyebrows.

“Relax,” Jaskier murmurs, blowing gently at the cut while dabbing at the blood. Upon deeming it clean enough, he applies a scoop of the salve that smells of celandine and mint. “Don’t move. It’ll only hurt a bit.”

Geralt keeps shying away from Jaskier’s ministration so he has no choice but to wrap his other hand around Geralt’s jaw, which manages to still him instantly.

“There,” Jaskier smiles. “Shouldn’t need anything more. Your witcher healing will kick in soon.”

Geralt tilts his head with that soft look in his eyes. “My thanks. Wouldn’t have survived without you.”

“No shit! Who goes out in a storm like this one? If you ask me, Vesemir is too tough on you. Look at you…” Jaskier coos, taking Geralt’s hands. “You are like a popsicle, dear heart.”

He tries to rub some heat back into Geralt’s freezing hands, his skin dry and rough. There’s still some hand cream left in Jaskier’s room. Maybe he can fetch it later. Geralt needs to take care of his hands better when his living depends on them.

Geralt groans, looking away. The frames of his ears are beet red too; he must have been outside without a hat for all this time. Jaskier wants to cover them with his warm palms, only to have his hands batted away.

“No, there’s—I’m fine,” Geralt mumbles. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think the way Geralt avoids his eyes is a result of shyness. The bard can snort at the ridiculous idea and stubbornly presses his hands over Geralt’s ears.

Oh.

His ears are red because they are so warm, not cold

Now that they are standing so close, only a hand’s breadth away, Geralt looks stunned, his eyes dilating, only leaving a ring of gold around those dark pupils. There’s even a layer of pink dusting over his pale cheeks.

A blushing witcher.

Oh, this is interesting.

“Geralt, sweetie?” Jaskier husks, lowering his voice especially on the pet name. “Are you warm enough?”

“Um, sure…not cold.”

And he watches as Geralt’s mind ceases to work in front of his eyes, the blush deepening. It’s still a subtle thing. No wonder Jaskier has missed it all this time. Calloused hands wrap around Jaskier’s wrists, and the bard finally relents, letting go.

If he spends the rest of the day sitting at the desk with a quill in hand, thinking about the way Geralt’s skin feels against his and the warmth of his cheeks, nobody needs to know.

 ~~

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this piece of new information.

Geralt does blush.

Because of him.

He tries to repeat the experiment. Just to be sure, he tells himself. And every time it yields the same results. As soon as he gets into Geralt’s space, the witcher either stumbles through his words or gets all flustered all over. The fondness is there too, just in a very Geralt and very unnoticeable manner, soft and almost smiling.

Jaskier is so drunk on power.

The only thing left is to tell Geralt that he loves him too. That he’s also in love in love with him, as in an I-also-want-to-kiss-you kind of way, and then… they can finally kiss!

Oh, just inwardly rehearsing the scene makes Jaskier dizzy, and somehow he ends up smiling to himself when he’s so deep in thoughts planning the conversation, once even in front of company.

Lambert throws him a side-eye and a disgusted grunt, but Jaskier can’t care less.

He finds the perfect night, and even takes a sip of White Gull from Eskel’s cup just to calm his nerves.

And he realizes too late that, perhaps, the strongest witcher brew might be a mistake.

The effect is stronger than he anticipated, and Jaskier is giggling through the fog in his mind within mimutes, somehow ending up on Geralt’s lap, draped over his shoulder in a heap of soft, pliant mess.

He rests his temple against Geralt’s and nearly tips backward if not for the strong arm that catches him by the waist.

“Oops, thank the gods I have my big witcher here!” Jaskier runs the tips of his fingers across Geralt’s stubbles. It tickles, and the blush is back, unmistakably, since Geralt is as sober as the day. “I’d fall over on my butt without you! And falling over doesn’t look good before saying important things, does it?”

Huh, he’s said it out loud.

“Saying what things?”

Well, if it’s out there…

“Where do I start again? Right of course, with how beautiful you look when you’re like this!”

His fingers move to tuck the curtain of white hair behind Geralt’s ears. No matter how much Jaskier loves it when Geralt wears his hair down, he needs to look into those amber eyes without obstruction. The molten gold gleams with surprise and Jaskier wants to drown in it.

“I’m not…” Geralt splutters, before closing his mouth with a pop. The flush is stretching down his neck now, and Jaskier chases it with a hand.

“You are!” he insists petulantly. “You are blushing and it’s beautiful. Adorable too! I wouldn’t know if Lambert hadn’t told me—” he burps. “—um, everything.”

“Told you what?”

The alarm in Geralt’s voice should wake Jaskier up immediately, but alas, the White Gull is no joke.

“Shh!” he stage-whispers, “It’s a secret! Don’t tell Geralt! I need to do it right!”

Jaskier lets out a happy sound and leans into the comforting embrace that he loves so much. Under his fingers, he can feel heat still gather under Geralt’s skin, making him look equally annoyed and fond.

“You are not making sense, Jask.”

“Nothing about you makes sense either, but I’m here. And ready.” Jaskier smiles and presses a chaste kiss on Geralt’s cheekbone, humming another happy sound.

Kissing Geralt is nice, gives Jaskier all the fuzzy feelings.

But somehow, that was also the wrong thing to do, because Geralt has gone stiff under Jaskier’s body. The next thing he knows, the witcher is struggling to untangle their limbs and leaving him empty and cold.

“Don’t…do this,” he murmurs, upset. “Just…don’t.”

The anguish the seeps through Geralt’s voice somehow manages to get through the muddy cloud in Jaskier’s mind.

“Wait, what?” Jaskier rights himself on unsteady feet, but his witcher is long gone. Eskel and Lambert are still nursing their tankards by the fire, and Jaskier wobbles past them without a care. He needs to find Geralt, who apparently charged right out of the great hall and into the cold night.

The heavy wooden doors open and Jaskier is hit with the unrelenting wind. The snow has stopped and partially melted, and frozen all over again. It’s the worst kind. Jaskier takes his steps with caution but still, it’s too slippery.

Okay. Mind. Clear. He needs it to be.

“Geralt?” he calls out, churning with anxiety. “Geralt, where are you?”

Damn his witcher speed. Now Jaskier is walking in the dark and freezing his balls off without an ounce of idea where Geralt might be. Oh, the stalls. Roach must be the first thought Geralt has when he needs to talk. Jaskier shudders, hugging his doublet tighter to fend off the wind and searches for the stalls blindly.

“Geralt, are you—ow!”

He walks right into a pillar and falls on his butt. Before Jaskier can register the pain, a pair of hands are picking him up by the armpits and he stumbles into Geralt’s embrace.

There’s a familiar sizzle of Igni, and the torch by the stalls is roaring with life.

“What are you doing out here?” A coat is tossed over Jaskier’s shoulders and he’s ushered back towards the building.

“Looking for you, you idiot!” Jaskier squawks, albeit grateful for the thick fur coat. A few more minutes he would lose all feelings in his toes. “Running into the night like this, who knows what can happen to you!”

“So you followed me out drunk and with no coat and I’m the idiot? Gods, I don’t know why I even…”

The doors creak open and there’s light and warmth and the smell of mead, but Jaskier’s heart sinks.

“I don’t know why you even bother too,” Jaskier muses, suddenly feeling like a scolded child.

Geralt steers Jaskier past the other wolf witchers and straight into his room, where the heat feels like a furnace on Jaskier’s frozen fingers—Geralt has been secretly tending to Jaskier’s fire for weeks after the human came down with a cold upon arrival at the keep. He’s too good to Jaskier.

“You are too good to me.”

“And you are a pain in the ass.”

Geralt sits Jaskier down in front of the fire rather grumpily, before joining him and pulling the coat even tighter. He’s still mad, just a smidge, but the droop of his eyes speaks more of sadness.

“Hey, talk to me,” Jaskier coaxes, squeezing Geralt’s knee in reassurance. Whatever argument coming their way, he can’t stand Geralt being sad.

“How drunk are you?”

“Not very.” If Geralt walking out hadn’t put Jaskier out of his daze, the wind sure finished the job. “White gull passes quickly. Hmm, who would have thought…”

“I need to tell you something.”

“But I need to tell you something too! It’s important.”

“Let me go first?”

The plead comes out in a whisper, and who is Jaskier to reject Geralt like this, wide-eyed and earnest?

“I never meant for you to know, and certainly not on a night like this, but Jaskier…” Geralt heaves out a breath, determined and so so brave. Jaskier is drawn closer to Geralt’s body like a magnet, ready to soothe, to meet him halfway. “I am in love with you.”

“Geralt.”

“I know you don’t feel the same, and it’s okay. You make a living singing about loving. Hell, you make a living simply by loving. Music, adventures, people, so many people. It’s okay that your heart is too big for me. But, Jask, I can’t take it anymore.”

“I don’t…not…”

“You flirt with people. You…touch them and kiss them and praise them. It’s okay. It’s the way you are. I understand that when you do the same with me it doesn’t mean anything more, but, Jaskier, I need you to stop.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Do you hate it? I thought…differently.”

The smile that tugs at Geralt’s lips can only be described as crestfallen.

“The opposite. I love it too much. I’ll always want more. Always. I’m greedy like this.”

The guilt weighing down on Geralt’s shoulders is not a good sight, a personal offense to Jaskier. His hand reaches out on its own volition, tilting Geralt’s chin up so their gazes meet. The blush is back.

What did Jaskier do in his past life to deserve this man?

“That’s what I was going to say.”

“That you are greedy?”

The frown remains on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier smooths it with the pad of his thumb.

“No. That I am in love with you. Gods, for someone who’s not a bard, you sure know how to steal someone’s line from the beginning,” Jaskier chuckles. “I’ve been trying to tell you that I return your feelings. But alas, you know the coward that I am.”

“You are…not,” he protests, blinking.

The way Geralt defends him on instinct only makes Jaskier’s insides melt into a pool of fuzziness.

“In this, yes. How I fucked up so bad is a mystery. That’s just me I guess, trying to love you but ending up hurting you, making you feel like I’m stringing you along like anyone else.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you oaf.” Jaskier bops his nose. “You are the most important person in the world for me. This is the most important thing in the world to me! I love you and I love it when you blush. Also, I’d very much like to kiss you, if you want it too.”

Jaskier bites into his lips and watches as Geralt’s gaze drops to them, the pink of his cheeks spreading into the most gorgeous crimson. “I want to. Kiss you, that is.”

“Good.”

Jaskier wets his lips with a peak of the tongue and watches the same gesture returned. Even if the alcohol has left his system, the intoxication remains, only this time because of Geralt’s slightly dilated pupils and quickened breathing. He leans in, not being able to resist—

“Did you say ‘return my feelings’?” Geralt dodges away, looking incredulous. “Jaskier, did you know? And what was that about blushing?”

“Um…” Now Jaskier is the one to splutter. Luckily, he has a trick up his sleeves or two that can make sure Geralt forgets about every last thought there is.

Jaskier lunges forward and tackles his witcher onto the soft rug and kisses him within an inch of his life, deepening it like there’s no tomorrow. Judging by the dazed look on Geralt’s face as he comes up for air, the method is working.

Cupping Geralt’s rosy cheeks, Jaskier croaks proudly, “Tell you later?”

“We have all the later we need.” Geralt’s smile is blinding, and equally mischievous. Without a moment of pause, Jaskier ends up the one flipped onto his back and being kissed until he shudders with pleasure.

Jaskier has to thank Lambert properly one day, considering Geralt will certainly go after him with a vengeance.

For now, having Geralt on top of him and slowly melting into a contented mess should be enough. If he’s allowed, Jaskier vows silently, he would really like to make Geralt blush for him for the rest of his life.

~~

Jaskier will totally make it his life's mission to tease Geralt endlessly and see his beautiful blush. 🥰🥰

On another note, I challenged myself to write 2000 words exactly, and this ended up, um, 3000 words exactly. I’ll count it as a win anyway ;)

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[aimless-imagines-for-fun]

Heat Up

Pairing :: Rick Flag x short/petite fem!Reader

Warnings :: 18+ Content, NSFW/SMUT, Size Kink

Word Count :: 2,439

Summary :: Rick isn’t too happy Digger tries to tease you

A/N :: I was gonna make a fic about someone else, but then I saw The Suicide Squad trailor and goddamn Joel Kinnaman. I love that tall beautiful bastard. Also, I’m not super happy about the title, but it was all I could come up with, meh

As Amanda Waller’s assistant, you had to deal with a lot daily. It wasn’t just about making sure she got her black coffee right when she walked into the building and managing her scheduled meetings. You had to ensure everything, and one, was in order for her. If someone told you they were running late, you forced them to be on time. You carefully inspected each report and corrected them before turning them into Waller. You got her any top-secret document she needed and kept it hidden. Hell, you even helped her with Task Force X, going through the list of criminals and writing down a thorough analysis of each potential member’s abilities.

Despite working for a woman who was heartless and calculating, you were as timid as a mouse. You rarely spoke to others unless you needed to. After working for Waller for several years, you found it best not to make any personal relationships with the people you met. She warned you most didn’t last very long and very few could be trusted.

One person who had stuck around though and  Waller seemed to even trust Colonel Rick Flag. You two started working for her around the same time, and yet, you could barely hold a conversation with the man. 

When you first met him, you constantly felt overwhelmed whenever you were left alone with him. It didn’t help that he appeared rather intimidating, with a serious expression almost always on his face, and towered over you. He was 6’2’’, and even in your favorite pumps, which added a good three inches to your height, you were still, smaller than him in frame.

However, regardless of your inability to speak around him, he continuously tried to start conversations with you and be friendly towards you. His constant attempts helped you grow used to him, but your face always heated up and you grew ridged when he got too close when you were alone. You didn’t understand the feeling, nor did you didn’t hate the feeling. It confused you.

-

Rick was absolutely perplexed by your meek behavior, especially since he’d witness before how assertive you could get when it came to getting something done for your shared boss. 

So it was no wonder he worried about you whenever Waller brought you along to see the Task Force X members. They were psychotic criminals, and you were like a slab of meat to some of them. You almost always wore a skirt or dress with a pair of pumps or oxford flats. Rick would be lying if he said you didn’t look perfect every hour of the day. 

He used to wonder if you were actually as innocent as you acted outside of work. Then, he saw you run as fast as you possibly could when Harley tried to give you what she called ‘wholesome safe dating advice’.

Since then, Rick did his best to make sure you were at least arm’s length away from any psycho. He even went as far as stepping right in front of you when someone got too close. Somehow, standing either beside you or a bit in front of you had become a habit of his when he noticed you were uncomfortable. 

Like now.

-

Waller sent you and Rick to a hidden ARGUS base hidden in the woods. Rick was obviously there to lead the team. You were there to give them their mission and an extensive overview.

There was a row of chairs for each Task Force X member to sit in. You stood in front of them with a large screen behind you, displaying various diagrams and photos for the mission. Rick stood off to the side, just behind all the seated members.

You looked away from your presentation, the projector turning off and the lights on. “So, are there any questions?”

Harley’s hand shot up. “Did you want me to continue giving you dating advice now or would you prefer I write it all down and give it to you later?”

Your eyes squinted and your lips curved downward just a bit. “What- no. That has nothing to do with the missions and I don’t need your advice…” Your voice trailed off, at a loss on how to deal with Harley.

Rick took a step forward. “Harley, stop it,” He warned her.

The blonde rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because I think someone has a major crush on you (Y/N) and I wanna see if he makes a move.”

You were silent for a moment, processing what she had said before your eyes widened upon realization. Surprised, you couldn’t stop yourself from confirming what you had heard. “What did you say?”

“Nothing!” She sang, springing up from her seat.

“Hold on, now I’m interested too,” Floyd chimed in. “Now just who do you think it is that has a crush on lil ol’ (Y/N). I mean, no offense,” He glanced at you before turning his head back to Harley, “but she’s too skittery.”

Digger hopped up from his seat, shaking his head. “Nah mate, that adds on to her appeal.”

He started walking towards you and instinctively you started to back away until your back was against the wall. As he was getting closer, Digger’s hand started to extend, reaching out for you.

“See, it makes it fun to try and catch her.”

You shut your eyes, ready to scream the second he dared touching you. Instead of feeling what you thought would be cold dirty fingers, you heard Digger begin to plead.

“Woah! I was only joking around! Let me go!”

Eyes now wide, you saw Rick hoisting the Aussie up in the air by the collar of his shirt. If looks could kill, Digger’s head would be gone. 

“What are the rules?” He asked in a cold tone.

“No escaping and no disobeying,” Digger said quickly.

“Oh! Also no annoying or vexing you!” Harley added.

Rick still held Digger up. “And?”

Confused, Digger looked at Floyd for help who nodded his head towards you. “And-and no touching or teasing (Y/N)?”

Rick released Digger, throwing him towards the door. “Everyone out. We leave at zero one hundred hours.”

All of the criminals walked out of the room. Rick followed to make sure the door was closed once they were out, and locked the door.

You stepped away from the wall, straightening out your black pencil skirt. “Thank you for earlier Colonel Flag.”

“Rick. We’re alone,” He corrected you.

Around others at work, you addressed each other professionally: Colonel Flag and Ms. (L/N). Alone, Rick had started trying to get you used to calling him his name to be more comfortable around him.

“Right, thank you, Rick.”

You were about to clean up and reorganize your notes when you noticed Rick still seemed upset. He had the same annoyed expression he had when the criminals were around and his arms were crossed over his chest.

You cocked your head to the side. “Is something wrong?”

“What were you going to do?” He started walking forward.

“Pardon?”

“What were you going to do if he touched you?”

Your brows furrowed. Why was he asking this?  “Most likely yell at him and push him away.”

“And then?”

“And then what?” Now, you were starting to get annoyed.

Rick stopped a foot away from you, eyes piercing down at you. “What if he didn’t stop?”

“He wouldn’t dare continue.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’ll keep me safe.”

Quickly, you realized what you said and turned your head to avoid his gaze. With a blush creeping onto your cheeks, your heart started to beat faster when he took one step closer to you.

Rick gently grabbed your chin with his thumb and index, turning your head to face him. You looked up at him with your large (E/C) eyes and that odd tingling feeling started up.

“What if I’m not there to keep you safe?”

“You always are.”

Like a flip was switched, Rick suddenly knew why he constantly wanted to make sure you were always alright. You worked for a harsh realist like Waller, but still naively believed good always prevailed. He wanted to make sure you never lost the blissful joy most did when they faced the harsh reality of the world.

His head lowered towards yours until his lips were pressed softly against yours. It was a simple kiss at first. Rick was unsure of how far he could go until you gently returned the kiss. Your hands went up to his chest and he lowered to your waist to pull you closer.

Wrapped in his arms, the odd tingling feeling turned into a warm little flame. You wanted to stay held like this forever. 

When he pulled away, you lightly gripped his shirt and tugged. “Rick, I want more.”

“Are you sure, because it might be sweet now, but if we keep going-”

Without letting him finish, you pressed another kiss against his lips. Again, you two sweetly kissed for a few minutes. Then, you felt one of his hands lower down to the round of your ass. A small gasp escaped you upon being lifted, your legs wrapped around him for support. Your skirt bunched up revealing your thighs as a result.

Rick pulled away from your lips, begging to trail down kisses to your neck.

You knew what you two were doing, more importantly, where, was inappropriate. Though with your mind clouded, you didn’t care. You only wanted to make sure you two wouldn’t be disrupted.

“The-the door,” Your murmured,

“Already taken care of,” He said, lips pressed against your neck.

Rick started walking slowly, carrying you over to the row of chairs. Before he took a seat, he put you back down on your feet.

Suddenly, the world spun and you were now seated on his lap, back pressed firmly against his chest. His arms hugged you close to him while he continued to kiss your neck.

Due to your skirt bunched up, you could feel his denim jeans below you. With heat growing in you, without thinking, you started to move your hips in his lap.

A small chuckle left him. One of his arms released its hold on you to start trailing up and down the side of your thigh. “Is this why you’re always so tense when we’re alone?” His hand moved to your inner thigh, coming closer to your core.

Your hands shot up to cover your blushing face. Was this why? You never quite understood why before, but it was starting to make sense now.

Rick’s other hand pulled your hands down. When he wrapped his arm around you again, he made sure to keep your arms down as well so you couldn’t hide your face.

“Come on now, don’t be shy. It’s just us.”

“Mmm!”

You bit your lip feeling him begin to rub your clit through your damp panties. You started to squirm a bit, a clear bulge forming and pressing up against you. He pushed the fabric to the side, inserting only one finger. You moaned softly, your legs spreading open and welcoming him. 

Rick pushed in his one finger as deep as he could before pulling it completely out and sticking it back in. This time, his finger curved in you and you felt your cunt tighten. When it did, he stuck a second finger in you. His fingers pumped at a consistent pace, and you kept your moans at a low volume. 

You could feel his hardened erection through his jeans pressing firmly against you now. With his fingers still pumping, you started moving your hips along to feel his covered length.

Rick let out a quiet curse, the tightness of his jeans too much. He let go of his hold on you to unbuckle his pants and release his cock.

“I tried to get you ready, but,” He pulled his fingers out completely, both hands now gripping your hips and lifting you up, “this might still hurt a bit.”

He started lowering you down on him and your eyes widened once he had gotten just the head of his dick in. The further he pushed in, the more pain you felt, your eyes growing glossy as a result. He lowered you until you were seated on him again and he was fully filling you up.

You could feel your pussy aching and tightening around him, never being filled up this much before.

“Christ you have a tight little cunt,” Rick gritted out.

Honestly, he surprised himself you managed to take all of him in, but he knew you were in pain. He wanted to give you time to adjust to his length, even if your clenching walls were driving him mad. Though, you could tell by his tight grip on your hips, staying still was driving him mad.

To distract yourself from the pain, you turned your head back to look up at him and pulled him down for another kiss. This time, his tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring the wet space.

During the kiss, you finally started bouncing up and down in his lap. He helped guide you, keeping you at a steady pace. 

With your tight pussy squeezing around him, Rick couldn’t keep the pace you had set. He started thrusting his pelvis up and moved you down on him faster. Eventually, you were no longer in any control while he fucked you. Then, he pulled you out completely and rammed back into you, slamming you down.

“Rick!” You screamed, a sensitive spot now hit.

He did it again and again, your screams growing louder each time he hit your sweet spot. 

Each of your breaths was growing heavier, and his fast pace was now ragged. He hit you once more and your head fell back against his chest, a loud moan leaving your lips. Your cunt clenching and finally releasing around him.

With just a few more thrusts, Rick’s hips bucked into you and he held you still for one moment so he could cum inside you. You felt his cock pulse with each hot spurt in you, causing a shiver. 

After, he moved you only a few more times slowly for you each to ride out your climaxes. Once done, he pulled you off of him and stood up.

Rick wrapped an arm around your shoulder, holding you close to him as you each steadied your breathing.

“So, I take it you’ll start acting normal now when we’re alone?” He asked you.

“I’ll probably heat up thinking about this.”

“I’m fine with that too.”

[emeraldiis]

Double Vision

A/N: this is so self indulgent i should be ashamed of myself

AO3 Link

Pairing: Loki x Reader, President Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary:  You and your boyfriend, 2012 Loki, are trapped at the end of time. But you're not alone. President Loki just got two new toys to play with.

Warnings: threesome, DUBIOUS CONSENT, dom/sub, sub!Loki, bondage, name calling, rough sex, mild knife play

You had been pruned seconds after Loki had in the battle in the TVA’s headquarters. Strangely, it didn’t hurt like you had expected. Just a faint sensation of completely and utter emptiness, and then everything went dark. Just like falling asleep. When you came back to your senses, it was just as gentle. You awoke in a bed of grass, staring up at a cloudy sky. A wave of relief calmed the rising panic in your veins when you turned to see Loki lying next to you.

You took in your surroundings slowly. The clouds looming above you looked threatening, like an impending storm, and far off in the distance was what looked like a ruined city. Crumbling skyscrapers pierced the horizon like jagged teeth. Heart speeding up in fear, you quickly shook Loki awake. “Wake up,” you hissed. “I have no idea where the hell we are.”

Loki grumbled and raised a disoriented hand to bat yours away, but still cracked open his hazy eyes to squint at you. A smile lit up his face when he saw you staring back at him, and you’d have been touched if it wasn’t important that he wake up right now. Upon seeing the anxiety written clearly on your face, he furrowed his brows and sat up, shaking his head to chase away the lingering confusion. You could tell the moment he realized something was very...wrong with the realm you found yourselves in, as his eyes widened and he was instantly on guard.

A deafening roar shook the ground, alerting the both of you to a looming danger, and you turned around to see a purple mass bearing down on you. You’d seen your fair share of fucked up things to know that this was not something you wanted to stick around for. Around you, small, bird-like creatures fled from the shadowy monster. In a flash, you were on your feet, tugging on Loki’s arm to pull him up with you. “Come on,” you yelled, raising your voice to be heard over the wind that had suddenly picked up speed.

Loki whipped his head around, desperately searching for shelter, then pointed at the city. “There, run!” He took off in a sprint towards the buildings, with you stumbling along behind him. The head start you got seemed to be enough to out run whatever was chasing you, but you didn’t dare slow down as you ran full tilt to safety. As the city drew closer, a sense of dread crept into your limbs, but you pushed it down. Better to race towards the unknown when the known was actively trying to kill you.

Your legs burned and your lungs were screaming out in protest, but Loki’s panted encouragements kept you on your feet and moving long enough to reach what looked like a half-collapsed hotel. Loki rushed inside the dilapidated building, holding the door open for you to scramble inside before slamming it shut. Another roar made the building tremble, and you bit your lip. As the ceiling shook and spat dust into your hair, you prayed that it would hold. Out of the frying pan, you thought to yourself.

Fortunately, it seemed as if the monster had moved on in search of easier prey, and you took the moment of fragile peace to sink against the wall and finally catch your breath. You dropped your head into your hands, trying to force your breathing back into a normal rhythm and figure out what the hell was happening. You’d just about calmed down when you heard Loki chuckle. “What’s so fu-funny?” You asked, still panting.

“That wasn’t me.”

“Huh?” You looked up, then felt your newly regained breath leave your lungs as another Loki emerged from the darkened hallway. He was dressed in what looked like a suit tailored after your Loki’s Asgardian armor, and he wore his horns proudly. A “Vote Loki,” pin sat crooked on his suit jacket. The flickering lights above him illuminated his grin, making him look like, well, a villain.

“You’re a variant,” your Loki said, stepping in front of you and eyeing his twin warily. The only ever Loki variant you had encountered was Sylvie, and she was questionable at the best of times. Loki was right to be on guard.

“I suppose you could call me that,” President Loki drawled, tracing a finger along the dusty wall as he stalked towards you. It left tracks on the wallpaper.  He leaned to the side to peer around you Loki, and you felt naked under his predatory gaze. You shrank further behind your boyfriend.

“My, what do you have here?” He asked, eyes lighting up in a way that made your hair stand on end. “What a pretty toy, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I had a turn?”

Your Loki groweld protectively, and he took a step forward. “Do not lay a finger on her.”

President Loki frowned. “That’s no way to treat the superior version of yourself.” He continued his march forward, then slowed to a stop inches from your Loki’s defensive frame. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen a beautiful woman.”

You were horrified to find a confusing sort of arousal settling into your stomach. This was, after all, just another version of Loki, the man who’d spent so many nights taking you apart and putting you back together again. You’d seen those same hooded eyes so many times, seen that same smile as Loki made you squirm. Despite trying your hardest to fight it, you could feel a dampness soak into your panties, making you shift uncomfortably.

Just as perceptive as your own Loki, President Loki seemed to sense your growing interest. His frown broke out into a wide smile. “Oh, you want it, don’t you? Go on, tell your guard dog to back down, so we can play.” He nodded towards your Loki, who had turned around to look at you with perplexed, hurt eyes. 

“Really?” He asked, flicking his gaze from the blush on your face towards your tensing thighs. He instantly recognized the arousal he’d seen so many times before, and his expression grew bewildered. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimpered, trying to defend yourself. “He looks just like you, I mean, he is you, and I…” you squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

This was all so fucked. Just minutes ago you were running for your life in a strange new world, and now all that adrenaline had shifted into a violent desire to be broken to pieces. Just so you didn’t have to think about the horror that was your current situation. President Loki was still staring at you, pupils now blown and tongue running across his bottom lip in blatant want.

“Oh, love. There’s nothing wrong with you,” the variant purred. His voice was a bit deeper than your Loki’s, but it still had that velvet smoothness that always made you weak in the knees. A bright flash of green shot out from his fingertips, ensnaring your Loki in glowing rope.

He gasped in surprise, and immediately began to struggle against the magic, but it was in vain. You cried out and reached for him, but President Loki was faster. He grabbed your Loki’s arm, then began to drag him away from you and down the hallway. With a sharp whistle, he motioned his head for you to follow, and found yourself standing and trailing behind the two Lokis like an obedient dog.

President Loki pulled yours into the depths of the hotel, you following anxiously. Your Loki shouted threats and harsh words, but the magic bonds kept him nearly immobile as he was guided by President Loki. You didn’t dare try anything stupid; you weren’t a fighter, and you suspected that this variant far outmatched both you and your lover in combat. All you could do was obey and hope he showed mercy.

You were led into a suite that seemed more put together than the rest of the hotel. Everything looked much cleaner, especially the bed, and most of the walls appeared to be stable. President Loki shoved your Loki into an armchair at the back wall of the room, and then positioned it so that it was facing the bed. “Well?” He asked, lazily gesturing towards the bed.

A gush of wetness seeped from your core at the same time as fear gripped your chest. Two conflicting emotions warred within you, and you felt hot tears stinging your eyes at the confusion of it all. On one hand, you loved your Loki. There was not telling how trustworthy this variant was, if he was going to hurt you or your boyfriend. On the other, this was the once in a lifetime chance to experience a threesome with only Loki. A fantasy that most likely no other person had gotten the chance to experience outside of their dreams.

You cast a helpless glance over at your Loki. When you weren’t looking, President Loki must have gagged him, because there was now an emerald piece of fabric stuffed between his lips. Your pussy throbbed in appreciation at the sight while your heart ached at the terror in his eyes.

President Loki rolled his eyes. “I can’t say I’ve ever met a version of me quite this soft,” he said, walking to his clone’s chair. “Let me help you relax.” President Loki straddled your Loki, chuckling at the muffled whimper that spilled from behind the gag. The variant brought his head down to bite at Loki's neck, and your mouth dropped open.

To your surprise--and hesitant delight--your Loki seemed to be almost enjoying the treatment. His head had fallen back against the chair, and he was breathing in that strained way that he did when he was turned on and trying to hide it. Kinky bastard, you thought to yourself.

President Loki paused his assault on your Loki’s neck to look back at you. “See? He likes it, dear. Now be a good girl and get on the bed,” he commanded. The growl in his voice let you know that he would not tolerate being disobeyed again, so you nodded and clambered on top of the bed. 

Sliding off Loki’s lap, the variant gave him a quick pat on the head and then made his way over to you. “Mmmf!” Loki mumbled, earning a sharp look from President Loki.

“I won’t hurt her. If you stay quiet like a good boy, I may let you have a turn.”

That sent chills down your spine. The thought of both of the Lokis having their way with you was almost too much, and your shaking knees finally gave out to send you sprawling onto your back against the pillows. Seemingly amused, President Loki snickered and crawled onto the bed. He crept forward until he was hovering over you, dark blue eyes raking across your trembling form.

You squirmed under his piercing gaze. The shivers making their way up and down your spine were unrelenting, no matter how hard you tried to keep still and quiet. “What happens now?” You squeaked out.

President Loki’s mouth opened in a wide green, revealing stark white teeth that almost looked sharp. “Now, we play.” Green light appeared at his fingertips again, and your hands shot up uncontrollably. You yelped in surprise and tugged on the rope that had appeared on your wrists. You were bound to the headboard, completely at the mercy of this variant. And fuck, it was exciting and terrifying and arousing all at the same time. What a mess.

There was that green light again. This time, it revolved around itself until it took the shape of a jet black dagger. President Loki ran his thumb along the handle, eyes leaving you to gaze lovingly at the knife. Your breath quickened in fear. “Stay still,” he purred. With deft fingers, President Loki raked the tip of the dagger down your shirt, cutting it open at the front. You let out an embarrassingly high pitched squeal as cold metal came in contact with your bare skin. But, as he promised, the variant did not hurt you. He made quick work of your pants as well, abandoning the knife in favor of simply yanking them down your legs along with your panties.

The cold air hitting your bare skin made you gasp. You tugged uselessly at your wrists, wanting to cover yourself in embarrassment at your sudden nakedness. Your frantic squirming made President Loki chuckle, and he leaned down to nip at your ear. “Don’t worry, sweet thing. I’ll warm you up.” His hot breath against your ear sent shivers of pleasure down your spine, and you couldn’t suppress a soft moan.

Suddenly remembering your restrained boyfriend, you managed to peer around President Loki to make sure he was alright. Your Loki was still bound and gagged, but now his face was alight with a crimson blush. Your eyes drifted downwards to the prominent bulge in his pants. When he caught you staring, Loki dropped his gaze away from yours, ashamed.

President Loki watched the silent conversation, amused. He trailed a thin finger up your thigh, then sat back to straddle your hips. “He’s enjoying himself,” the variant said confidently. He grinned at you. “I know because he’s me, and he likes what I like.”

All you could do was stare up at him with wide eyes, naked and defenseless underneath his weight.

“Oh? Surprised, are we?” President Loki drawled as he waved his hand casually. His suit faded away with his gesture, leaving him bare as well. His long cock mirrored your boyfriend’s, and it was swollen and dripping. You licked your lips. “I’ll take it you two haven’t fully...explored his interests. Us Lokis crave dominance, to be left at the mercy of a pretty thing like you.”

“So why aren’t you-”

He cut you off with a gentle slap to your inner thigh. When you sucked in a harsh breath, he chuckled. “Because there’s something else we love. Power.” WIth that, President Loki moved to place his legs on either side of you. He grabbed your ankles roughly and pressed your legs back until they sat atop his shoulders. You groaned at the stretch, then sighed heavily as he titled his head to the side to mouth at your ankle. “Ready, slut?” He growled.

You didn’t get a chance to answer. The air was stolen from your lungs as the variant plunged his hard cock into you, the stretch burning. You screamed out in pleasure and pain, listening to what sounded like both Lokis moaning in unison. The version that was currently buried deep inside of your heat rolled his eyes back in pleasure at the feeling of your pussy flexing around him.

“Oh, it’s been so long,” the variant moaned. “I want to make this last.” He began thrusting his hips lazily, more grinding into you than anything. You whimpered as you got used to the size of him. It felt like you were dreaming with how overwhelming it all was. Your core throbbed again and again as new gushes of arousal spilled from your cunt, and your head was spinning with the knowledge that just feet from you, your boyfriend was being forced to watch another version of himself tear you apart. And he loved every second of it.

From behind President Loki, your Loki whined, and you could just barely see him twitching his hips up into nothing. “Please,” he begged, and you noticed that he had managed to slip the gag from his mouth. You weren’t sure what he was begging for. To be touched, to touch you. Probably both.

President Loki looked at you with lidded eyes, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he ground his cock deep inside of you. “Should we let him play, too?” He asked, voice ragged.

You nodded frantically. Words escaped you, but you desperately wanted your boyfriend here. You longed for his touch, wanting to feel them both. President Loki nodded and waved his hand back towards the chair. Loki’s bonds vanished, and he was scrambling onto the bed as soon as he was free. 

He crawled up to the top of the bed, hands outstretched to grab your face and pull you in for a kiss. Your Loki gasped desperately as President Loki grabbed him by the hair, pulling hard so that he stopped just short of reaching your lips. Your Loki whimpered and went nearly limp in submission.

The variant let go of Loki’s hair, tsking at him like he was scolding a child. “You may not touch her without my permission.” His voice was surprisingly even, given how he was still thrusting into you. “Are we clear?”

Your Loki opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it and nodded obediently. President Loki grinned wolfishly. “Good boy. You may kiss her.”

In a flash, your lover was leaning over you, pressing his mouth clumsily to yours. His tongue sought entry, and you let him in enthusiastically. You could practically feel the desperation seeping from his every pore. You’d never seen him this worked up, and silently wished you had discovered this kink of his a little sooner. “You look beautiful like this,” he panted into your mouth.

When you began to reply, it was cut short by a yelp as President Loki’s hand dropped down to play with your clit. Your Loki kissed you again, drinking in all of your moans as his variant brought you higher and higher with those deft fingers. With a growl, President Loki snatched your Loki’s hair again and dragged him away from your lips. Loki’s pitiful whine matched yours as you both gasped for air.

“Fuck her mouth,” President Loki commanded, increasing the pace of his thrusts with a growl of pleasure. His fingers kept up their assault on your clit, and you fought to crane your neck up and open your mouth to be ready for your boyfriend’s cock.

Loki hastily yanked off his pants and pulled out his weeping dick. He shuffled over to you, then leaned forward until he was close enough to guide himself onto your tongue. This was familiar, the heavy weight of Loki’s erection stretching your jaw. You closed your lips around him and began to suck, gritting your teeth against the cries of pleasure that threatened to break free from your throat.

President Loki let go of the other Loki’s hair and instead gripped your hip roughly as he began fucking you an earnest. “So tight,” he hissed. “Cum for me, little slut. Cum for your god.”

Helpless to do anything but obey, you felt your back arch up as your entire body convulsed. Pleasure ripped through you and left you a whimpering mess, drooling around you Loki’s cock. Your boyfriend cursed at the sight of you cumming, and began to pump himself in and out of your mouth. “I-I can’t help, fuck, help myself, darling. Ah, oh gods.”

“Such a good girl,” President Loki praised. He groaned at the tightening of your walls, then removed his hand from your clit to wrap a long arm around your Loki’s neck. Your Loki was forced to lean back against President Loki’s chest, only able to keep his cock in your mouth because of his lanky body.

Your Loki cried out, the sound broken up by his variant cutting off his oxygen. His hips stuttered violently, and you felt thick cum spurt into your throat. Somehow, you were able to force it down instead of choking, and you heard Loki whimper at the feel of his sensitive length being constricted by your throat. “Love, fuck,” he keened.

Seeing the two of you cum proved to be too much for the variant. “Oh, Norns, I can’t,” he groaned out harshly, then slammed himself into you and held his hips there as his cock pulsed within you. As he came, the magic binding your wrists dissipated, and you brought your arms down to rub at the sore muscles. Hot seed spilled out of you, running down to your ass. President Loki watched his cum drip from your swollen pussy in appreciation, panting softly. 

Your Loki had collapsed next to you, and was now snuggled up against your side. The variant frowned at the sight, and you could almost detect a rueful look on his face. You hissed in a pained breath as President Loki slowly lowered your aching legs from his shoulders. He sighed as he pulled out of you, a rush of liquid gushing out and wetting the bed. Most of the dominance gone from his demeanor, he shifted awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure where he fit in this dynamic.

His sudden insecurity didn’t surprise you. After all, he was a Loki, and they were notorious for their false confidence. It tracked. After a moment’s hesitation, you reached up and grabbed his arm to pull him to lay down next to you. He stared at you in slight confusion, but obliged, leaving you sandwiched between the two Lokis. You turned to your boyfriend, who was already drifting off, too fucked out to keep his eyes open. With a soft smile, you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

President Loki cleared his throat, catching your attention. “I, uh. It’s a bit sad. Seeing what I could’ve had. I can’t help but be envious.” He chewed on his bottom lip and looked away, bravado completely gone.

You rolled your eyes and threw a tired arm around him, feeling a rush of satisfaction when he purred happily and cuddled against you. “I think I have room in my life for more than one Loki,” you whispered. And it was true. If Loki was born to be a villain in every timeline, then you were born to love each one of them.

[ilovefandoms102]

Keep On Loving You

Pairing: Ari Levinson x Plus Size Reader

Summary: Ari is recruiting “staff” for the Red Sea Diving Resort, and he knows exactly who his first choice will be for this mission…you.

Note: I really just wanted an excuse to use this gif🤷🏻‍♀️ parts in bold italics are flashbacks!

Click here to be added to my taglist!

Warnings🛑:smut(masturbation(fem), oral(fem and male receiving), hair pulling, spanking, slight dom/sub aspects, slight praise kink, beard kink, unprotected vaginal sex, choking), mentions of refugees being smuggled

If any topics that involve The Red Sea Diving Resort make you uncomfortable do not read. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Part 2

Being an undercover agent had its pros and cons…

One being that I was always aware of my surroundings. Especially when those trying to take me by surprise is an old flame I thought had disappeared from my life forever.

“אתה צריך לדעת עד עכשיו שאתה לא יכול להתגנב אל” I chuckled, turning to see my former partner Ari Levinson. (You should know by now you can't sneak up on me)

“אולי יום אחד אני אצליח” he replied, his knowing smile made me scoff. (maybe one day I will succeed)

“What do you want?” I asked, not wanting to get into any casualties.

“I need your help.” he sighed, leaning against the door frame.

“And what makes you think I’m willing?” I questioned, arching my brow.

“Because I know you, and I know you’d do anything to help save people.” he answered, bastard knew me too well.

“What’s in it for me?” I asked.

“What’s better than spending time with me?” he grinned, taking a daring step towards me.

“Don’t do that,” I grumbled, avoiding his gaze.

Of course he didn’t listen and continued his steps until he was mere inches away from me. I looked into his beautiful blue eyes, eyes that I had looked at so many times over the past 16 years.

“How’s Sarah?” I asked, the pettiness dripping as he frowned.

“My love-” he started, but I shut that down.

“Do not call me that, you lost that a long time ago.” I snarled.

“We’ve been divorced for years, she barely lets me see our kid.” he revealed, I loved kids so that tugged at my heartstrings.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He looked at me for a second, the look something I couldn’t quite describe, but it made me shiver. I cleared my throat, breaking our intense gaze before we went back to what he needed me for.

“I’m moving refugees, Ethiopian Jews to Jerusalem. I need someone with your expertise.” he explained.

“And you’re going to do that by leasing a hotel?” I questioned.

“A front for the Sudanese, we need the least amount of suspicion.” he confirmed, his blue eyes pleading as he stared at me.

“How long is this going to be?” I asked.

“Not sure,” he mumbled.

“Fuck Ari,” I grumbled, shaking my head.

“Please, I need you. We can save hundreds if not thousands.” he whispered, his hands holding my shoulders.

He was good at getting me to cave, I knew he would be. I could never say no to him, especially if it meant saving families.

“Alright, guess I’ll see you bright and early.” I sighed, walking past him to my room.

I didn’t sleep at all that night, I was plagued with thoughts of Ari. Of when we first met, our first mission, our first kiss, but the one thing that plagued my mind was the first time we slept together. I couldn’t keep my hands away from myself, my fingers dipping into my panties as I conjured up the memory.

It was after a mission in Africa, we had to share a tent together as well as a sleeping bag. We had always had a playful relationship, but this night was different. The man could not keep his hands to himself, our closeness made both of us fidgety.

Although to tell you the truth, neither could I…

In no time, we had our clothes off, getting lost in the other.

I moaned his name as I came all over my fingers, my eyes stamped shut as I held on to the memory.

The next day, we landed in Sudan, each taking a separate vehicle to the resort that we would be using as a front for an unsolicited amount of time. Tourists started coming in, making the mission even easier so we could get more refugees in.

I leaned on one of the counters as I looked out at the night sky, a lit cigarette hanging from my lips. Ari strolled in, reaching into a cabinet, a bottle of whiskey in one hand while his other grabbed two cups. He walked back over to me, taking the cig from my mouth so he could take a drag.

He poured the liquor, handing one cup to me.

“Beautiful night huh?” he said, taking a long sip.

“I suppose…would be much better if you didn’t have me doing all this fucking paperwork to get this fucking place running.” I said with a scowl, taking my cigarette back.

“You’re the only one I trust to not fuck it up angel,” he grinned, that stupid grin that he knew would make me melt.

“Yeah right, you just want more time to get in what’s her name’s pants.” I scoffed.

“Rachel? Oh god no y/n what the fuck?” he said with disgust.

“Seems like you two are cozy.” I pointed out, taking a generous gulp of the bitter liquid in my cup.

“Do I detect jealousy?” Ari smirked, daringly trailing a finger across my jaw line.

“No,” I lied, putting out the cig in my makeshift ashtray.

“Hmmm, you’re jealous baby.” he chuckled, the pet name making my cheeks heat up.

“Fuck off,” I growled, shoving his hand away.

“You and I both know what’s going to happen.” he shrugged.

“We do? Please enlighten me.” I chuckled humorlessly.

“Feelings have never went away, I want you and you want me, simple as that. I’ll have you all nice and spread out for me just like the old days.” He told, my mouth dropping open slightly.

“That’s quite an assumption,” I nodded, but couldn’t deny anything he said.

“So I say, let’s stop playing the back and forth bullshit.” he said lowly, gripping the back of my head as he pulled me closer to him.

“You think I’m going to give in that easy?” I laughed.

“Oh baby, I know you are. Just like I also know how much I turn you on, I bet your panties are soaked aren’t they?” he taunted, his other hand sneaking into my shorts.

A squeak escaped my lips when his fingers felt my drenched folds, my grip on the counter turning my knuckles white as he chuckled darkly.

“That’s what I thought, you can’t hide from me. We’ve known each other almost 20 years baby, I know your perfect body better than you do.” he grinned, his other hand tangling in my hair as he brought me closer.

“Ari,” I whined, not sure what I wanted but I knew I needed him.

“Right here angel, right here where I belong.” he whispered against the skin of my cheek before smashing his lips to mine.

His fingers skillfully rubbed along my lower half, catching on my entrance before delving in. I moaned against Ari’s lips, my legs already shaking. I moved my hands so they were in his wavy locks, tugging at his scalp which I knew he loved.

“Wait, let’s go to your room.” I panted, Ari nodded in agreement while removing his hand.

He licked his fingers clean then took my hand and led me to where he was staying. I shut the door behind me, in the next second Ari was gathering me back in his arms. Our lips moved in sync, the pure hunger from not being touched by the other for so long taking over as we fought to taste every inch.

My hands moved under his shirt, feeling his rock hard muscles as I pushed his shirt over his head. Ari pulled it the rest of the way off, his big hands roughly pulling me to his bed before tossing me on the mattress. He crawled on top of me, but I was faster. I hooked my leg around his and rolled us over. Ari smiled up at me, hands feeling up my thighs as his fingers danced under my tank top.

“Take it off for me angel.” he smiled, the feeling of his skin on mine sent electric sparks everywhere.

“You be patient Mr.Levinson,” I chuckled, hands feeling down his chest until I got to the top of his shorts.

“You know I’m not a patient man baby,” he growled with a vicious smack to my ass.

I gasped, my smile widening at his actions because he knew how much I loved it. I shuffled down his bed, pulling his shorts down along with me. My mouth watered at the sight of his dick, my tongue darting out to lick my lips.

I kissed up his thighs, nipping my way up to his hard cock. Ari moaned when I licked from his balls to the tip, his hand darting out grabbing a fist full of my hair. I wrapped my lips around the tip, flicking my tongue out to tease him. He growled, pushing my head down further.

“Come on baby, I know you know how to suck a cock.” he taunted, cursing after as I took him all the way down.

“That’s my girl, my good baby.” he panted, throwing his head back as I bobbed my head up and down.

Ari kept moaning, spurring me on as I went faster. My hands joined as I groped his balls with one hand while the other joined my mouth. He twitched when I zig zagged my tongue up the vein on the underside, tugging harder on my hair which had me moaning around him.

He suddenly pulled me off of him, hooking his hands under my arms and pulling me and twisting us so I was under him now. Ari pulled my tank top off, not wasting a second as he tossed my bra with it along with my shorts and ruined panties.

“I’m gonna finish what I started baby, then stuff you so full of my cock you won’t walk tomorrow.” Ari said as he spread my legs wide, crawling between them.

Ari kissed my thighs before diving in, taking a long lick up to my clit. I whimpered, the feeling so exhilarating my whole body twitched. It was then I realized I craved his touch more than anything in this world. I needed him, I needed his touch. Going so long without him broke me beyond repair, and when he came back it was like I was healed. I knew deep down I still loved him.

A nibble to my clit brought me out of my trance, a high pitched squeal escaped as Ari suckled on the bundle of nerves. My back arched, hands going into his hair to keep him in that exact spot.

“Don’t stop Ari, fuck please don’t stop.” I heaved, no longer able to keep my eyes open as I threw my head back into the pillows.

Ari wrapped my legs over his shoulders, folding his arms over the tops of my thighs so he could bury his face deeper. He held me down as my hips bucked, growling and moaning against me.

“Ari-Ari, fuck baby I’m gonna-shit I’m gonna cum.” I whined.

Ari moved his hands up, gripping my tits and thumbing at my nipples. One last scrape of his beard on my clit and I was gone. My orgasm flew over me causing my legs to shake and my thighs clamped around Ari’s head. His beard chafed against my skin, prolonging my high as he stimulated me through it. Once I came down, my thighs loosened their hold so Ari could kiss his way back up to me. His beard was completely drenched, something that always has and always will make me smile.

“You still taste so good my love, the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.” he grunted as he leaned down and twirled his tongue around my nipple.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, while his hands felt every inch of my skin like they never have before. We were just kids back in the day, never really taking the time to appreciate the other or to explore each other’s bodies. Now, I could take my time to trace every scar, every imperfection that was beautiful in my eyes.

“Your dick’s alright I guess,” I teased, but quickly moaned as Ari rubbed the head of his cock against my clit.

“Just alright hmmm?” he asked, tongue licking up the side of my neck to my ear.

“We’ll see about that.” he whispered, rubbing his cheek against mine as he lined up and pushed in.

“Oh, fuck Ari.” I gasped, arching up into him.

“Oh shit baby, fuck me.” Ari groaned, pushing up on his hands so he could watch where we connected.

My head dug further into the pillows, my back arching so my tits hit against his chest. Ari didn’t even wait for me to adjust after he bottomed out, immediately pulling his hips back and slamming them back into mine. I screeched so loud Ari had to put his hand over my mouth, but didn’t stop as he thrusted inside of me.

“You are mine baby, say it.” he hissed, lifting his hand that was on my mouth and moving it to wrap around my throat.

“I’m yours Ari, please.” I whimpered, clawing down his back as pleasure consumed me.

“Gonna cum all over my cock already baby?” he grinned, taunting me with his chuckle as he snapped into me faster and faster.

“Fuck-yes, yes baby.” I moaned, not seconds later I came.

Ari growled deep in his chest as I clenched around him, his teeth latching to my nipple to stimulate me further while he moved a thumb to rub at my clit. It was all too much, but I couldn’t make any moves or form any thought to stop him. I was far too gone, too wrapped up in him.

Ari kept moving, his thrusts becoming more animalistic the closer he got to his orgasm. Once he hit my gspot we both came, his seed spilling into me while I shook underneath him. He rutted into me until he couldn't, collapsing on top of me, but careful to not crush me.

We laid there as we soaked in the orgasmic bliss, sweat coating our bodies. Ari snuggled his face into my neck, laying sweet kisses. His beard tickled my skin, making goosebumps rise. I wanted to stay like this forever, just him and I.

I awoke the next morning when I felt the bed shift, my eyes fluttered open to see Ari’s naked back facing me. I flushed at the memory of last night, wondering now how things would be between us. He stood from the bed, his perfectly shaped ass right in my line of sight.

“My god,” I whistled, Ari giving me a wink over his shoulder.

I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped, my eyes following him as he pulled on a pair of swimming trunks. I heard music coming from outside, my curious mind had me getting out of bed to see what was going on. I threw on a swimsuit along with my coverup, following Ari outside.

He held my hand as we walked towards the beach, spotting Max giving what seemed to be a yoga lesson. I hid my face in Ari’s bicep, trying to keep my laugh in as he chuckled.

This was going to be interesting…

part 2?

[thedelusionreaderbitch]

Kaz Brekker x alkemi Reader - Strange Truths

A/n: This was so fun to do and me being an Alkemi really was happy with this request! Thank you! I'm so sorry it took so long though!

Warnings: None? Needles?

Request: ok ok so i have an idea- a kaz brekker x alkemi reader where kaz accidentally drinks one of the reader's newest chemical (prolly cause jesper slipped it into his drink) and it makes him super flustered and vv talkative and the reader has to keep him in their lab until they can finish the antidote and kaz tells the reader he likes them right after he takes the antidote so the reader realizes he's actually serious-

I do not own six of crows or shadow and bone or you!

Most people underestimated alkemi's but once they did it once they would not do it again. Kaz Brekker knew that alkemi's could just be as dangerous as a squaller all the way to a shadow or sun summoner if they were powerful enough. To be fair, very few were that powerful but most could kill you slowly and far worse than a heartrender so...

But you were a very powerful alkmei- one of the most powerful to ever live and that was why you are part of the crows. You can fight just fine, but the dregs had seemed to be getting very creative with their ways of killing to getting information and this was all thanks to you.

Though not all appreciated your talents.

Nina has grown up thinking that the alkemi's were weak was a part of those few, Inej just didn't understand you, Jesper understood but was still trying to come to terms with his own Grisha powers, Wylan thought you were amazing and Matthias was just flat out scared.

But that all changed when one day you poisoned a whole army.

Oh, Kaz was just... Happy? No one really knew, but sometimes he just seemed a bit more satisfied about how things were going with you around. Unfortunately for you, that meant he had to spend a bit more time around you trying to come up with more ideas. And that would have been just fine if it weren't for the fact that you were falling helplessly in love with Dirtyhands.

Ya, fuck.

Lately, you had been conjuring up something new in that lab of yours in the basement of the Slat. It was almost like a truth potion but not quite, it was to make it easier to get information out of its victims but not enough to notice.

Officially it was finished and you were going to go tell Kaz but you realized today everyone was going to be at the Crow Club. Just your luck that you hated socializing.

You sigh but you quickly grab the elixir and start running to the Club. Being late to a meeting was never really your foreté.

Finding finally the Crows even with the sea of people around you spot them when you meet Kaz's eyes. Of course, you had to meet his eyes. You go and sit down beside him as everyone had already decided on their drinks.

"Y/n's getting them this time since she's late!" Jesper grins in triumph as you just roll your eyes. It doesn't matter you guessed he was almost always going to be the one late so you figured it wouldn't matter if you had done it this one time. Besides, it would give the sharpshooter (and his boyfriend) a break for once.

Getting up from your seat you walk towards the bar and ask for everyone's drinks. He hands you them and you talk to the bartender as you walk back towards the group.

"I'm your waiter for one time only, don't get used to it."

Kaz just clears his throat and starts talking about a plan that's really in reality just a decoy because of Inej's intel there would be Dime Lion spies in the Crow Club today.

And why not take that to your advantage?

Suddenly Kaz stops talking and you lift an eyebrow at him. He just shakes his head and the others just shrug their shoulders and start a different conversation.

For a bit, you do engage in conversation with the other Crows but Kaz just seemed different? Like he was trying not to burst out talking or something?

"Dirtyhands, you good?"

Instantly his face flushed a bright pink and he stutters out;

"Ya-ya fine. Totally fine, everything's good. Go back to whatever I guess. Just leave me alone and do your work you shouldn't have even asked, so can you please-" He cut himself off and flushed (what you didn't even know was possible) red even brighter.

What the- You always called Kaz Dirtyhands as more as a nickname than a mean term almost like a term of endearment. Although he didn't know that he never had even blinked when you used the little nickname more than necessary so why was he now?

Also to add to that fact, was that you really never called him Kaz. It was mostly to keep yourself in check so you didn't get used to him too much. It was more like reminding yourself that you both weren't on a first-name basis even if you already were.

Narrowing your eyes, you can see that his pupils are slightly dilated and that he's bitting down on his tongue really hard to stop himself from talking. This wasn't just Kaz Brekker flustered, there was something else going on here. And you had to figure at fast before the Dime Lion spies did, or if they already had.

"Brekker, I need to you answer me honestly okay?" You lower your voice and you soften your tone like you would with your targets to get information out of them. You didn't like doing it, but it was the price to pay for his safety.

He just bobs his head up and down trying not to say anything.

"What have you ingested today?"

"Just the drink. Not anything else, being that I forg-" He cuts himself off from his whisper-rant covering his hand over his mouth.

"You haven't eaten today!" Accidently you raise your voice and the anger and concern shine through your usual stone-cold tone.

Kaz widens his eyes and gives you a look to shut the fuck up. He was still the Bastard of The Barrel after all.

Wait, now that you think about it...

You reach into your pocket for your newly brewed elixir and when you take it out it almost confirms it for you.

The lid is open.

Oh, fuck maybe it's better not to cure Kaz because you might just die after this.

It all made sense now though; talkative, flustered, overused & exaggerated facial expressions, looseness of the tongue. Those were all symptoms and you hadn't even noticed.

Well... At least you knew it worked and it was effective. Very effective... Fucking hell Kaz really is going to kill you now.

Grabbing onto his coat sleeve (being extra careful not to touch his skin) you drag him out of the crow club away from the prying eyes of everyone and the shouts of 'what the hell!' From your friends.

Quickly you drag him to the basement of the Slat where all your potions, bombs, machines, elixirs, poisons and most importantly supplies are.

"You can sit there." You point at a chair in the back of the room that basically had a view of everything.

"You better make me an antidote or I swear to-"

You cut him off before he says something he'll regret later. "Go sit your ass down Dirtyhands and let the real Grisha do their magic."

He flushes again and walks over to the chair but not without muttering under his breath how Grisha cannot do magic. And how their abilities work and etc.

By the saints! Now you really didn't want to reverse that chemical elixir, he just sounded really cute. But who the fuck are you kidding? This is Kaz Brekker we're talking about and you just thought of him as cute.

Welp, this is getting interesting.

Quickly you mix some ingredients together trying really hard to go as swift as you can. No one could see Brekker like this it would kill his reputation.

You look down at the antidote and you curse under your breath. This was going to need a needle. Oh fuck, you might as well just die right there.

Hurrying over to your cabinet you quickly go through the vials wondering what size you would need till you found the perfect one. It wasn't very big, and because it was fabrikator made he wouldn't even feel a pinch. But at the same time, it would hold your elixir even if it was a very tiny vial.

"Brekker, your gonna have to put your arm up for me."

You don't turn around knowing that this probably could be your death right here in your lab. At least Kaz Brekker will kill you so at least that's memorable. You sigh, Kaz Brekkers Alkemi was killed by Dirtyhands himself.

"Why?" Most of the time Kaz would just raise his eyebrow at you but because of the fun chemicals that he had in his body that was not the case.

"You might want to roll up your sleeve as well." You say nervously turning around so the needle was visible.

"Because I'm going to have to use a syringe."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?!"

You slowly walk over and you shake your head.

"Sleeves up."

Kas just grumbles while putting his sleeves up you can tell he's uncomfortable. Now looking back at it you didn't really know how many barrel rats have had needles before, and if they did it probably wasn't good.

"What's your favourite colour?"

He snaps his eyes to meet yours and that's the moment you press the needle in his skin.

As you thought before he didn't flinch but he looked like he wanted to kill you with that stare but his eyes seem to soften with your worried stance.

"It didn't hurt did it?"

Kaz just shakes his head and you sigh in relief. "There shouldn't be any after-effects but I might just check in to see just in case."

He's almost out the door when he stops just at the entrance.

"Your eyes."

You whip your head around to meet his dark eyes.

"What?"

Slowly he comes away from the door frame advancing on you and he shakily takes off a glove and presses his hand against your cheek.

"You asked me what my favourite colour was."

You have convinced yourself that at this moment you have stopped breathing. Nothing else matters but you two of you in this room. The feeling of his hand on your cheek sends butterflies everywhere in you. And you can't stop to think about how beautiful and terrifying those brown nearly black eyes are.

"Boss!" There's a shout from upstairs and he quickly pulls away putting his glove back on.

"So I'll be seeing you around Brekker?"

He rolls his eyes. "You know you can call me Kaz right?"

You laugh as you herd him through the door knowing that he has business to attend to.

"But I think you much prefer when I call you Dirtyhands."

The blush spreads across his cheeks albeit not as strong this time but at least you know it's not from one of your elixirs.

"Only you Y/n only you."

Words 1799

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Shadow and bone taglist: @kaqua @rika90 @thefandomplace @musical-theatre-obsessed-dumbass @gallysonegoodlung @navs-bhat @sumsebien @dontjudgeabookbythecover

[tommyspeakycap]

that little shelby and uncle charlie fic was so sweet, if you could write more of the two that would be fantastic :,-)

first one here, they’re not directly related but enjoy little shelby (probs about 17/18) telling uncle Charlie about her new boyfriend before anyone else.

terrible liar

There’s an extra skip in your step as you easily manoeuvre around the scrap yard that you knew like the back of your hand towards where you knew your uncle Charlie would be at this time in the afternoon, grooming the horses and mucking out the stables with Curly. It’s Curly who notices and greets you first as he was standing outside the stables lifting a shovel. “Hello, miss Shelby,” He greets with a smile and a curt wave that makes you giggle. “I’ve told you Curly, you can call me (y/n).” You insist kindly, offering him your signature sunshine smile, the kind of sweet one that lights up the day for the people who you spend it on.

“Exactly Curly,” Charlie adds, “You’ve known her since she was this big,” he gestured with his hands to the size you were as a baby. “You’re family.” You state. That makes your uncles friend grin largely and almost bashfully, a little bit of kindness never lost on him and you always seemed to have it to spare.

Curly shoots a smile back to you and heads back into the stable before Charlie turns to you. “Better mood today then, love?” He rumbles with a grin as you nod vigorously and blush ever so slightly just at the thought of the reason you were in such a fantastic mood. “Mhm,” you hum gently, doing a little spin as the wind flutters through your pretty dress that Tommy bought you upon Polly’s advising that you had seen it in a window when you were walking through London and your face had lit up. He gifted it to you this morning and your squeal of excitement, followed by a hug that very nearly knocked the stocky man off his feet had set him up for a day where he does everything while thinking about how he can better the life he’s trying to create for his family. He wants to be able to buy you everything you could ever want to see that beautiful smile that ached your cheeks. “And why’s that? Who’s given little miss Shelby her sparkle back?”

Charlie knew full and well that he had asked, but he truly wasn’t expecting the answer to be as it was. He thought that his niece would giggle as she often does and say something about a kitten she saw this morning or a hug and a kind word from her brother or maybe she tasted the most fantastic pastry on her lunch time walk here (and he knew you did have a pastry because there was still a little smudge of chocolate by the side of your mouth that you hadn’t noticed).

Instead, you do not say that. You don’t say any of those things and Charlie is forced to shoot straight up from where he was bent over shovelling fresh hay so quickly he knew he’d have a twinge in his back for a week when his sweeter than candy little niece says;

“Well i met this boy-“

“You what!?” He booms out. Curly’s shovel clatters to the ground in shock at the sudden burst, and you jump back slightly, wincing at his reaction. “Now see that’s what i thought you’d say, but he’s really sweet and i th-“ Charlie cuts you off as he turns to you looking somewhat appalled. You had chosen him as the first person to tell as you felt he might have the most calm reaction. Maybe you were wrong. “Do your brothers know about this? Does Tommy know?”

“Does Tommy know what?”

You literally jump five feet into the air and yelp loudly, whirling around and placing your hand over your heart. “Jesus Christ Tommy! Don’t do that!” You exclaim wildly, a flush dancing over your soft cheeks in your shock. Tommy raised his eyebrows in question and looks between you and Charlie somewhat conspicuously. It isn’t like his uncle to look irked or sound so appalled and shocked as he had when Tommy heard the tail end of the conversation. “Sorry darling,” he says softly, turning to face you, “Are you alright?”

You nod your head and Tommy squints his eyes. “Yeah i’m alright, what’re you-“ His action cuts you off before you have the ability to finish asking what he was about to do. He had ever so slightly licked his thumb and reached out to swipe the small smudge of chocolate from your lunchtime pastry away from the side of your mouth just like he used to when you were little. “Tommy,” you whine in response, thwarting his hand away the best you could. He just shrugs his shoulder. “Sorry love. Force of habit.” He offers, albeit unapologetically as he lights up a cigarette.

“Now, tell me what?” He repeats, his eyes again darting between you, Charlie and Curly. You open and close your mouth a few times, but words fail to find you. Tommy notes that you look to Charlie almost threateningly, like you were trying to master that Polly Gray look unsuccessfully. You were a Shelby, after all. You looked a lot more like Tommy did when he attempted to enforce unspoken words with merely his eyes. Though, you were too soft to appear menacing. “Tell your big brother, ey?” he prompts, “Whatever it is, i can help.”

That makes you cringe, almost wince even, before offering him the most pained grimace you ever had. “Y’know, i really don’t think you can this time. Just lady problems.” The shaky words leave your mouth a whole lot less convincingly than you had anticipated, and Tommy gives you an incredulous look with one eyebrow raised higher than the other and his cigarette paused in between his lips like he were a freeze frame. Tommy doesn’t tend to shy away from typical lady problems. He wasn’t insecure enough in his masculinity for his sisters (or anyone really) natural bodily functions and/or femininity to threaten him, and it certainly did not discomfort him. She dealt with much worse.

Your nerves aren’t lost on him. There are few times you won’t look him in the eye, preferring to focus your head towards the muddy ground beneath your boots. This is usually when you’ve done something wrong, gotten in trouble or are afraid he’s going to be mad at you, or even disappointed. He was rarely either.

“I can help.”

“She’s missing your mother, Tom.”

Tommy looks up at his uncle who had interrupted him. Charlie offers you a small look that told you the secret you entrusted to him would stay as such for now. You didn’t know how long that would be the case, but it seemed as though he would keep it from the lethal hands of the head of the family. “She didn’t want to upset you, talking about it. But she misses her mother.” He explains. In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely wrong. You did miss your mother and you were scared to bring her up, but it was something you had dealt with for such a long duration of time in your life that you had grown accustomed to that nagging pain. Tommy looked at you with eyes full of sorrow. His mother was one of his softest spots in his heart.

Charlie tapped Curly on the arm and the two left you standing there a few feet away from Tommy, who was just kind of staring at you weirdly. “She was beautiful.” He says finally. “Just like you. You have her heart too, love.” He takes a couple steps closer to you and wrap his arms tight around you, “Always hoped you’d turn out more like her than the rest of us. Think we’re all glad you did.” The thought of being like your mother made your head leap with joy. You wished there was a way she could know you today, know you now. Talk to you about boys, this boy, her boys. Help you understand the world. You didn’t have that.

“I love you, Tom.” You say, words muffled against the material of his coat. “Yeah yeah,” he mutters back, “Now off you go. We can talk more later. A scrap yard like this is no place for a beautiful, smart young lady like you.” You giggle at the words he speaks when he lets you out of his arms, that gentle smile of his tugging up the sides of his lips ever so slightly. His nods his head for you to go off, and you knew what he meant was really that he was going to be discussing some business with Charlie that he didn’t want you hearing about for his obsession with your safety and normalcy. “Bye Tom.” You grin, stepping up to your tip-toes to peck a little kiss against his cheek before you all but skip off. Tommy’s heart warms at the sight of his sunshine little sister heading off with such a happy skip in her step and so much love ready to give

He then feels the presence of his uncle appear beside him again. “She really is like your mother, Tom.” He states, a heavy and painful sigh following. “Yep.” Tommy replied shortly. “Better thinking like that than thinking it’s her boyfriend that’s put that skip in her step. eh?”

“You bastard,” Charlie chuckles as he shakes his head, “You know?”

“Course,” Tommy states simply, “My mother was a terrible liar, Charlie.”

“And?”

“Well our (y/n); she is just like her mother, isn’t she?”