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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 3 months ago

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FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater.

it was nothing but a lucky draw, really. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks when you transferred, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching on to the chair in the very back, right by the window, right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes.

so there you sit. a warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs. your feet tap and tap, on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, spinning like a planet in orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones covering your ears, safe and snug, muffling all noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. meeting his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy ear cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper.

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more.

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats.

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street.

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams.

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod.

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him.

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing.

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour.

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world.

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw.

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence.

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers.

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing.

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again.

”… i can buy some for you, though.”

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out.

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does.

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks.

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be.

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so.

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway.

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck.

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him.

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down.

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side.

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter.

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay.

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing.

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders.

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe.

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks.

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in.

(but you aren’t worried.)

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff

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lola-writes · 5 months ago

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Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said.

The council erupted in uproar.

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.

It was palpable.

It was mine for the taking.

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.

I cast my gaze on her.

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.

None of it mattered.

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.

It wasn’t Alicent.

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. ��The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement.

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells.

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.

And the crown needed heirs.

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat.

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle.

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince.

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful.

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly.

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells.

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.

Thunder rolled overhead.

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

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peachysunrize · 6 months ago

Text

The King’s Retribution ⥃ prince Aemond Targaryen

Summary: when he walks back to the Keep, Aemond finds his brother’s wife in distress while her youngest child keeps her awake. Maybe it’s time to show the King that no one can humiliate the one-eyed prince.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, rough sex, lactation kink, reader is Aegon’s wife, post B&C, s2e3 inspired, dacryphilia, Aemond feels humiliated after the brothel scene, hair pulling, doggystyle, they do it in Aegon’s rooms👀 kind of a chubby/overweight reader because she has baby weight, tell me if I’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.6k+

A/n: a very special thank you to @aemonds-holy-milk for this incredible request!!! And a very honorable mention and thank you to @arcielee for helping me with the plot and beta-ing for me! Your touch made this much hotter and better!🩷 Reblogs and comments are more than welcome<33

Aemond pushes the door to one of Maegor’s tunnels, peeking through to see if anyone is around. He scoffs when he finds the hallway empty, with no guards, no maids or handmaidens. He walks upstairs to the royal chamber’s floor, one hand pushing his hood off while the other twirls his dagger.

He is filled with such rage that he can burn this castle down without Vhagar’s help. The sting of humiliation keeps poking through his ribs, making him heave with each breath he takes. He had to keep his composure back in the brothel, he had to show his power by walking outside the room naked as the day he was born to regain some control his brother took away from him.

He walks past the rooms of his family, skipping a stair here or two as he follows the path to his chambers in silence, until he reaches his brother’s doors, catching the sound of a soft hiccuping and muffled wailing of a child.

Aemond unsheathes the dagger as he steps closer to the unguarded door, shaking his head in disbelief at his brother’s ignorance, especially after what happened to Jaehaerys. He opens the door slowly, not wanting to startle whoever is inside — a nursemaid or the queen.

He finds you sitting in front of the fireplace with baby Maelor crying fat tears in your arms as he tries to latch onto your exposed breasts to fill his tiny, hungry belly. Aemond’s eye wanders over your bare upper body; heavy swollen teats leaking with milk, a tired and teary expression on your face as you try to lull your son back to sleep, tending to him, caressing him, loving him.

He has never seen a sight more beautiful than this.

He sheathes his dagger and pushes it into his belt before knocking on your door gently so as not to scare you and his nephew. He watches you closely as you snap your head in his direction, the tension leaving your shoulders as you smile at him sadly.

“Aemond,” you call him, gasping when your son bites your already sore nipple with his gums, trying to latch on to it but failing. He cries harder, face twisted angrily, his chubby cheeks red and puffy with how long he’s been searching for some comfort.

“Please, please don’t — mommy is trying,” you cry with him softly, standing up to pace around the room while you rock him, shushing him and wiping his tears. You are trying your hardest to feed him properly, but every second is wasted in vain as he cries and fusses in your arms.

Aemond closes the door behind him, enraptured with the sight you made—watching you walk around the room, half bare and beautiful to his eager eye. He unfastens his cloak and belt that holds his daggers and sword before laying it on the nearest table, walking towards you with his hands locked behind his back.

You look like The Mother coming real, a god he should worship at your altar.

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo at Maelor, sniffing as he sobs harder, his little fists flying on your chest as he searches for your breast, mouth parted and ready to be filled with his late-night meal.

Aemond stands behind you, not too close to intrude on your personal space, especially in such a vulnerable state you are in, but to keep looking at you. His eye roams across your nude chest, your fuller stomach, and hips that carry the remaining weight of having pushed a babe into the world.

He listens to your words, remembering the sight of his brother mocking him at the brothel, while he was being cuddled and taken care of — what an ugly laugh he has, Aegon.

His gaze darkens as he looks at you, his queen, his brother’s wife, his brother’s possession, being so vulnerable in his presence with your breasts out and your child finally suckling on them. His eye finds your form once more as Aegon's words replay in his ears — ‘My brother will not sample another.’ He will make sure to teach his brother a very valuable lesson and serve him a good punishment.

His cock starts to swell beneath the layers of his clothing as he stares at you with a newfound passion; you have always been a lovely figure in his mind, too sweet and beautiful to be wed to his brother, and yet, now your features seem to be bolder in his eye.

He strides forward when he hears Maelor crying again, this time much softer but a cry nonetheless. You scurry to cover your breasts when you feel him behind you, trying to look at least a bit modest now that your child is less fussy.

“I’m sorry, Aemond, I-I forgot you came to visit,” you say in a hushed tone, waiting with bated breath for him to say something.

He looks down at his nephew over your shoulder, reaching to wipe a drop of milk from his round cheek near his mouth, his fingers brushing against your sore nipple accidentally. Both of you inhale sharply — him with the new rush of desire and you in surprise.

“What a messy eater,” he says, his eye meeting yours as he brings his wet finger to his mouth, licking the remaining of your milk off while he keeps eye contact with you, dropping his eye to your lips as soon as they part in surprise before he meets your eyes again — they look darker, cloudier, more lustful. Your lashes flutter, and your rosy lips let out a shaky breath as you keep your gaze on his pink tongue licking his finger.

“It runs in the family I’m afraid,” you reply, averting your eyes from him, pressing a kiss on top of your son’s head as you bounce him, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Despite how crude your husband is, he’s never been one for making you flustered by such a simple gesture, and yet, his brother seems to be the complete opposite; bold, daring, and he’s surely taking whatever he wants.

“May I?” Aemond asks, standing in front of you with extended arms, reaching to take Maelor in his embrace. You gently pass him over, and as soon as your arms are free you bring them to your chest to cover your breasts.

“I-I need to—would you mind holding him for a moment?” You pull the front of your shift up as you ask him, and he can’t help his gaze not fall back on your chest but looks upward to your eyes quickly before you catch him and nod.

He hugs Maelor close, resting his little head on his shoulder as he walks towards his crib, glancing at you walking past the privacy screen. Aemond shushes his nephew, rocking him gently while he hums a tune his mother used to sing for him to lull him to sleep. It seems his efforts have worked when Maelor grows quiet, tinted cheeks stained with tears and fingers fisted tightly. Aemond lies him down slowly, brushing a finger over the few strands of his nephew’s silver hair before his attention is turned to you walking towards him with a warm towel over your chest.

“He has been restless as of late,” you sigh, leaning down to brush a kiss on your son’s forehead, standing on Aemond’s good side, “as have I, as everyone in the Keep. It seems he feels the loss of his brother.”

“We are all shaken by the loss of Jaehaerys,” he replies, his good eye looking up at your face, taking in every up and down of your face.

“Yeah,” you smile at him, ducking your head as soon as the tears gather in your eyes, “yeah…”

He takes a step closer, reaching to wipe the tear that fell from your eye, cupping your cheek in his large hand, “What ails you, my queen?”

“I just…” words die in your throat as he rubs soothing circles on your cheek, tracing the shape of your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’ve been feeling so unloved.” Your voice comes out a fragile whisper.

“Why is that, my queen?” He asks, swallowing harshly at the thought of his fool of a brother being neglectful to you. He’s been given the most beautiful maiden in the realm as his wife, so dutiful and sweet, but taken for granted because Aegon can’t simply keep his cock in his breeches for so long.

“Did you happen to see him when you were out?” You ignore his question, looking up at him from beneath your wet lashes that frame your eyes so perfectly.

He nods, his strong hold on your face never faltering, if anything he’s now more determined to punish Aegon, to take something he has been given on a silver plate but failed to care for. His touch is warm and welcoming, it grounds you to this moment of brief recognition of your feelings. Aemond seems to understand it, willing to give more, but his main purpose of this visit is to hurt Aegon the way he has hurt him.

“Was he—“ a sob is stuck in your throat as you try to utter the words, “in the b-brothel?”

Aemond looks down at his muddy boots, recalling how his brother saw him, how he laughed and undermined him in front of his friends. Aemond forgets about your question for a second, pressing his lips into a thin line and gritting his teeth before he looks back up at you, not before looking one last time at your chest, watching your milk soak through the fabric.

“I-I apologize, maybe it’s best if you leave—” You move away from him, making his hand fall from your face as you try to put back the little dignity you have left before you embarrass yourself more in front of him.

Something shifts inside him as you hide yourself from him, putting more distance between as you move toward the bed. His brother was right; he has not sampled another and has always sought out the Madame, but maybe it ought to change, maybe the fire of his brother’s cruelty might quell if he takes his most precious possession from him.

“Allow me to help you, my queen,” he walks toward you slowly, his eye seizing you up, taking in the sight of your curls around your shoulders, your skin glowing under the orange hues of the candles.

You turn around, watching him take long steps until he’s standing in front of you. He raises his hand, brushing his knuckles on your collarbones, his eyes dropping down to your cleavage. You exhale shakily, whether it is in requited desire or surprise, he does not know, but you do not push him away, just a weak protest that ‘we should not do this, I am your brother’s wife.’

“My brother is a fool who demeans others to feel powerful, and he has done this to us both,” he dips his down on your neck, his hot breath fanning on your ear, “let me show you what you have been deprived of.”

“You wish to help me just to teach your king a lesson?” your voice comes out with a slight tremble as you reach to brush your fingers through his silky hair. “Is that truly why you want me?”

“I despise when Aegon takes what is his for granted,” he says, “He is a fucking twat who takes for granted the treasures he has been given: the throne, the crown, you. And he humiliates you, his queen, by stepping inside that sinful place," he mumbles against your skin, tracing his lips over your neck while his nose nudges your cheek.

“What do you want to do?” you whine when he bites your earlobe; you cling to his shoulders.

“I wish to fuck you like a hound,” he groans into your ear, his hands coming to grip your full hips.

“We will experience his wrath, Aemond,” you try to protest, but with how focused he is on marking your skin, you cannot help but melt in his arms.

“He is the king, I’m a kinslayer,” he hovers his mouth over yours. “I will kill him too if he dares to subject you to his anger.”

“We must be quiet-mhm—” he cuts you off, smashing his lips to yours, swallowing your protest. His hands move to your waist, gripping and caressing wherever he can reach, his tongue meeting yours in a soft battle of dominance.

You moan into his mouth when one of his fingers traces a line from your hip up to your breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his large palm. He groans against your sweet lips in delight, loving the weight of you in his hand. His thumb swipes across the wet towel before he pulls it out of your shift and drops it on the floor, leading you backward past the privacy screen to the bed.

You tangle your fingers in his soft hair, reaching to pull away the tie and letting his shiny silver hair frame his face beautifully while he kisses your breath away.

He lies you on the bed, breaking away from your lips for a second to look down at you, making room on top of you with his gaze fixed on the way your milk soaks through the fabric. He grabs the sides of your shift, ready to rip it apart before you put your hand on his, shaking your head, mumbling a hushed ‘we need to be quiet’ before taking off the dress yourself, lying under his heated gaze all bare except for your small clothes.

“My brother is a fucking idiot,” he mutters before he leans down to lick a path from your neck to your heaving chest, swiping the tip of his tongue over your nipple. He hums as he tastes a few beads of your milk, but abruptly stops when you whine, looking up at you with a questioning look.

“Maelor, well, he can’t latch onto his wet nurses. They are a bit s-sensitive— oh!” Your hand flies to your mouth when Aemond closes his lips around your bud, sucking like a babe being starved for hours, finally having his fill.

His other hand moves to your other breast, pinching, squeezing, and playing with the flesh while he gets drunk on your milk, helping the weight of discomfort vanish immediately.

Your nipple falls from his lips with a lewd ‘pop’, and he moves to the other one, giving the same attention while he leaves sticky lines of your milk across your chest, sucking on your teat quickly, nearly growling at the taste.

You cannot do anything besides moaning behind your hand and arching your back, pushing your chest further into his face. You throw your head back as your hips buck into his, his bulge rubbing against your covered core.

Aegon has never done this for you, it’s always been his duty to plant his seed inside you with little to no care for you to just make an heir, and after Jaehaerys, he’s been ever more distant — no more dinners, no walks in the garden with you and the kids.

His interest weakened the more you started to show, your soft dolce features turned into one of a woman, a mother-to-be, so he sought his pleasure in the brothels to fill the void you could no longer fill. You were non-existent in his eyes, and for once, you are glad, because the other Targaryen brother seems as if he’s in heaven while he feasts upon your breasts like a deprived babe.

He lets go of your nipple finally, giving the fat of your breast one last kiss before he works his way up to your lips. He unlaces his pants and breeches, urging you to reach and undo his doublet, dropping it down on the pile of clothes. He breaks away to gasp for air while he grabs the back of his linen shirt and stands on his knees stark naked, his cock red, angry, and ready to burst inside you. His mouth shines with drops of your milk and spit.

He grabs the back of your thighs, spreading your legs to his hungry eye, licking his lip as his gaze falls on your soaked cunt. Aemond’s patience runs thinner than before, he moves closer to you, and his hair falls around you like a silver waterfall.

He strokes himself a few times before aligning himself with your entrance, pushing in until his cockhead is inside your warm cunt before he slams all the way into you. He muffles your scream with his own lips, hands coming to rest around your head, caging you under him as he starts thrusting.

Finally, he thinks, finally he has taken something that belonged to his brother, something so precious and fragile. You are nothing like Sylvie, you are soft and delicate, you taste deliciously sweet, and oh so responsive.

He relishes the way you scratch his back as he fucks you with abandon, snapping his hips into yours furiously as he lets the pent-up anger he feels pour out of him. It is the anger he had inside because of his brother’s idiocy, the words that cut him deep like a sharp dagger.

But no more, no, it is time to take whatever belonged to Aegon. You are just a beautiful touch to it, and he would make sure his brother knows who’s been here, on his bed, giving his wife the pleasure she has never experienced before.

“My queen,” he shushes you, reaching down to collect a drop of your milk before reaching to smear it on your lips, licking it off them. His cock pistoning inside of you quickly, but he is mindful of the baby sleeping on the other side of the privacy screen.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, breasts bouncing with each deep thrust as you try to keep your voice at bay.

He remembers his brother’s words once more; ‘did you fuck her like a hound?’ No, not with the Madame, but he will fuck the queen of the seven Kingdoms like one now.

He pulls out of you, leaving you clenching and whining at the empty feeling before he flips you over on your stomach, pulling your hips up as he spits into his hand and strokes himself before making home inside your tight cunt again, his cock reaching deeper with this position.

You fist the pillows under your hands, biting the fabric to muffle your noises, and Aemond notices that it is your husband’s pillow you are lying on.

He chuckles lowly, one hand gripping the fat of your hip while the other runs down the curve of your spine before he fists your hair in his much larger hand, pushing your head into Aegon’s pillow even more.

“Breathe in his scent while I fuck you like a dog in heat, yes, good girl,” he groans, his limbs tingling with pleasure and anger, letting his emotions take the best of him as he picks up his pace. “Yes, remember how much of a pathetic husband he is, think of how he can never give you pleasure like I can while I fuck my child inside you.”

Tears run down your face from how intense he is taking you from behind, his hips snap into your arse. Your wetness drips down on the bed sheets, but there is little you can do but take what he gives you — a blinding and mind-blowing pleasure you have never had with your husband.

Aemond reaches around your body to find your pearl, rubbing quick and steady circles on the bundle of nerves, leaning down to prep your spine with feather-like kisses, taking in your mesmerizing scent, and looking closer at your tears, taking pure satisfaction in seeing what a mess he has made out of Aegon’s wife, the realm’s queen.

You come with a sob, teeth digging into the soft cushion while your legs shake, walls clamping down against his girth, eliciting a deep throaty moan from him. He lets go of your weeping cunt and grabs your bouncing breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his hand while his face falters, his thrusts deepen.

When his climax washes over him, it’s all white hot pleasure that rushes through his veins. He shakes atop you while his cock twitches and shoots ropes of his warm spend deep inside you, filling you to the brim. He kisses your tears, his face pushed against your cheek as he lets out broken gasps and groans.

He untangles his fingers from your hair as soon as he calms down from his high, bringing his milk-covered hand to his lips to lick it clean while he meets your eyes.

You look angelic, glowing with the aftermath of your release. The Mother came to life, he thinks.

He pulls out of you gently, minding how sensitive you must feel after the brutality he bestowed upon you. Aemond helps you under the covers, not caring to clean either of you up before he lies down next to you wrapping one arm around you while you curl next to him with your head on his chest.

He notes how quiet you are, drowsy and sleepy in the aftermath of your climax. He takes pride in how peaceful you look, and how good he must have made you feel. His good eye falls on the nightstand on his side, finding his brother — no, the Conqueror's crown — glinting under candlelight.

“I will kill him,” he whispers, “I will make sure our son sits upon that chair and holds Blackfyre. I will kill him, and no one shall ever know it was me.”

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x chubby reader #rue:smut #fic requests

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charliemwrites · 29 days ago

Text

Omegas are the best for the military. Everyone knows that, it’s just common sense.

Omegas are notoriously level-headed and calm, protective without the tendency towards aggression and territorial possessiveness that characterizes their Alpha counterparts. They’re cooperative and adaptable, with heightened senses that at one evolutionary time kept them safe from rabid Alphas.

Now, it’s best suited to sniffing out potential threats, communicating sub-vocally, and noticing the smallest changes in their environment. The military finds them much more economical for combat, special ops, and even espionage compared to Alphas, who are pheromone sensitive, hard-headed, and generally indelicate.

That said, they’re not without their uses. Alphas tend to be lean, fast, and vicious. That aggression makes them both sword and shield in a fight, filing their sense of pain and fatigue down to almost nothing until the threat is neutralized.

Still, having a full-time Alpha in a squad isn’t a necessity except in special circumstances.

Per usual, Task Force 141 is special circumstances.

Four specialist Omegas with a metric ton of trauma per team member has the unfortunate consequence of hormonal imbalance. One thing feeds into another, a heat is put on hold for a mission because they can’t spare the manpower - it stacks and stacks and stacks until sleep is scarce and their usually well-maintained instincts are bursting at the seams. Compound that with the near loss of one of their team members…

The new Alpha is already there when the team returns from their latest assignment.

Laswell is waiting on the tarmac and an operative in black gear is standing a polite distance (plus one step more) from her elbow. Well within peripheral, but deferent. Their hands are clasped behind their back, shoulders straight but loose.

As TF141 approaches, Price expects the Alpha pheromones to waft his way any moment. It’s normal, expected even. A new environment, meeting strange Omegas, Alphas usually burn through their neutralizers quickly. Perhaps a vestigial instinct to carve a space for themselves in the world. Not necessarily their fault, but it happens.

Price is surprised that he smells nothing from the Alpha at all. Just the scents of detergent and soap, clean and standard. A quick glance at Simon confirms their most-sensitive nose doesn’t detect anything either.

Laswell introduces them, an Alpha that she’s personally worked with before and can verify is solid both on and off the field.

The Alpha’s muzzle is heavy duty but long-wear design. Hard-case and rigid instead of the more popular soft and flexible ones. Cushioned but firm at the bridge of the nose, chin, and corners of the jaw. Buckled tight at the back of the head, steel grid pattern across the front.

Price doesn’t arch his eyebrows at it but it’s a near thing.

They duck their head in greeting when Laswell introduces them as Saint, eyes flicking up briefly to each team member, eye-shine reflecting green in the bright runway lights.

Soap whistles, impressed.

“Yer a big ‘un, tha’s fer damn sure. Didnae ken they make ‘em like ye,” he drawls. Ghost cuffs him upside the head, reminding him to behave.

Saint blinks and doesn’t say anything. Curious.

“Let’s do proper introductions inside,” Price decides.

It goes much the same way in the 141’s den as it did out on the tarmac. Saint stands quiet and still while the Omegas take their turns.

There’s no scent to familiarize themselves with, so it’s mostly offering theirs to the Alpha. Except Saint doesn’t duck down to the neck Gaz offers. Instead, they pluck up his hand and bring his wrist to their muzzle. Inhale so quietly that only the swell of their chest indicates that they’re breathing him in.

They chuff softly, hold so loose that Gaz’s hand nearly drops from theirs. It’s approval, it can’t be anything else, but it sounds so… detached.

Still, Gaz chuffs in return, and makes way for the others. Saint does the same to Soap and by the time Simon steps up, he’s already tugging his sleeve up and his glove down.

Simon, to his own surprise, receives the same polite huff as the two sergeants. Most Alphas have found his direct scent to be unpleasant - too sharp and savory, bordering on Alpha. But Saint doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

When it’s finally Price’s turn, the only difference is that Saint swipes their own wrist along his. Scent claim. Not marking the 141 as theirs, but rather Saint as belonging with them.

Laswell, suspiciously amused, takes her leave soon after.

The 141 has an Alpha. A permanent one.

Living with an Alpha would have been a learning curve on its own. Living with SAINT is something else entirely.

For one, they apply clinical-strength neutralizer religiously. They have spares stashed everywhere. In their go-bag, their combat gear, the den, the lockers - even one in Price’s office. It’s better than the ones with fragrance, but if not for their ever-present muzzle, no one would be able to tell that they’re an Alpha.

And speaking of the muzzle.

It goes beyond common courtesy and public conduct. Even in the den, they keep the thing tightly pressed to their face, and don’t remove it for anything. They eat in their room and drink through straws when necessary.

When Price tells them that the team wouldn’t mind if they used a bite guard in the den, they just chuff softly and brush a hand along his shoulder. The muzzle stayed.

It’s not to say they don’t seem comfortable. Day by day, little signs of trust and ease seep into their Alpha’s mannerisms if they know where to look for it. A brush of skin here, a sub-vocal purr there. Spending hours upon hours in the den, available for any of the Omegas to sit with or cuddle or chat to. As much as teammate as an Alpha in the traditional sense.

It doesn’t take Soap and Gaz long at all to start hanging all over them, but Saint takes it with all the patience of their namesake. Price finds Soap lounging in their lap most times that they’re sitting, or leaning hard into their side while they watch recruits.

The muzzle is a no-touch zone, but they don’t get even growl the first time Soap discovers that. They just redirect him with a quiet click of their tongue, and let him nuzzle in when he apologizes.

Gaz is hardly any better, scent marking Saint like some bad Alpha stereotype. Poor thing goes around smelling overwhelmingly of bergamot and honey sometimes, but they never mind, never stop him from pressing his face to their chest or their back or even into their hands. Rubbing his face over any bit of skin or fabric available, even their jugular, despite the vulnerability of such a spot.

Still, Saint is aloof.

They’re perfectly responsive to their Omegas, head tilting at the slightest vocalization, quick to offer physical comfort when asked. They hardly ever seek it out for themself though, and show none of the near-obsessive behaviors associated with even the most mild of Alphas on the spectrum.

“I dinnae think Alpha likes us,” Soap whines one evening.

Saint is eating in their room, leaving the Omegas to a cuddle pile while they wait for their return.

He’s been lamenting it for a while now, repressing the rejected pang in his gut any time Saint doesn’t vocalize back, or reach for them first.

They work out in the Alpha-Only gym on base and do their laundry in the designated Alpha wash. Neither of those are regulations, it’s a choice they make. And it hurts a bit.

Saint is sweet, but their politeness goes past the point of old-fashioned.

“Course they do,” Simon grunts, dismissive. “They probably like us too much.”

“How do you reckon?” Gaz asks.

“Alpha didn’ go t’ eat ‘til we were all fed,” he replies, shrugging.

And it’s true. Saint doesn’t collect a scrap of nutrition until every one of their Omegas has had something to eat. Even Price, stubborn and work-focused as he can be, is gently urged to eat before Saint fills their own belly.

It doesn’t stop there.

Saint is always the last one on or off a transport, and quick to notice if any of them are injured. They’re always present around large groups of other Alphas, especially recruits.

The sheer amount of time they spend available is unusual, preferring the den to rest in their off hours - even sleeping there on occasion.

Then Gaz’s heat is due. A week out and he’s already feeling it descending - it’s been well over six months since his last one. His skin feels itchy, his senses on overdrive. Thirsty and hungry and generally feeling restless beneath the skin.

“Alpha,” he calls.

Saint’s eyes are on him instantly, one-sided conversation with some other, non-Pack Omega forgotten. Gaz purrs, pleased.

“I want something of yours.”

They tilt their head, a silent question.

“A shirt or something,” he specifies.

And something in their gaze flickers. Gaz isn’t sure what it means, but it definitely looks positive.

Saint brings him something better - a blanket. It’s intimate; it’s perfect. It smells incredible, if… oddly faded. From his most reserved Pack member, it means the world.

Gaz balls himself up with it in the nest he assembles over the next day and a half, until he wakes up one morning with the knowledge that his heat will l well and truly have taken hold before midday.

He puts in his notice and calls his Pack.

Saint is the last to enter his barrack, a huge bag of supplies in their arms. Not just for Gaz, but for the rest of them. No one will be leaving unless duty calls.

And it’s perfect. The best heat Gaz has ever had. Surrounded by Pack and protected by his Alpha, who stays on watch while Price and Ghost and Soap fuck him through the dregs of preheat and well into Heat proper.

Half of him purrs at his Alpha’s dedication to protecting them, to providing for them. The other half protests the Alpha’s attention being anywhere but on him.

“Alpha,” he calls. And when that only earns him Saint’s eyes and not his affection, he barks, sharper, “Alpha.”

They come to him instantly, settled in between his legs, smooth their thumbs along the glands at the base of his neck. He curls into them trilling and chirping and needing more than just social acceptability right now.

And finally, finally, a low rumble sounds through his Alpha’s chest. It’s deep and rich, hits the subharmonics in a way that has all the Omegas going still and quiet. Their voice purrs out a moment later, practically vibrating their skulls.

“Easy, Omega.”

Gaz bares his neck, whispering, “Saint.”

They lean in, breathing loud and deep, warm hands soothing an ache in his lower back. “I’m here, Kyle.”

They fuck well into sundown, Kyle so wound up that he can’t bear to be parted from Saint to even let them breathe. Any space between them is whined or growled or bitten out of existence, the ever-indulgent Alpha soothing their Omega with their body, with the newly discovered vocalizations that he just can’t get enough of.

Ghost and Price have to feed and hydrate him between rounds, working together to manage his clingy limbs and careless (but sharp) teeth. In the meantime, Soap helps to do the same for Saint, who is far more cooperative.

“How’re you still goin’?” Soap wonders, amazed, slipping bites of granola between the bars of their muzzle. Saint is sitting upright with Gaz collected against their chest, sweaty but already breathing evenly again.

Saint licks a bit of chocolate off their lip and meets his eyes easy as anything, serene for how blown out their pupils are.

“I’m your Alpha. I go until you need me to stop.”

Which just sets them all off, each taking (needing) a turn with their Alpha.

By then, their neutralizer has begun to wear off, friction and sweat and fabric thinning the chemical deodorant to nothing. The scent is intoxicating, unlike anything any of them have ever smelled before. It’s overwhelmingly Alpha, overwhelmingly good. Even Ghost and Price, rare to bend the knee to anyone, find themselves weak for that scent.

No wonder Saint keeps it on lock, it’s practically a weapon in itself, not demanding submission but expecting it. A foregone conclusion. In a social setting it would be a brutal domination, rude wouldn’t even be the right word for it.

Saint isn’t just an Alpha, they’re on the extreme end of the spectrum.

The kind that comes with counseling and desensitizing therapies. Etiquette schools and specialized doctors.

The kind of Alpha that can not only manage four chaotic Omegas, but give them what they need.

With types like Saint, Alpha isn’t just a designation, it’s a title. And the 141 is proud that it’s theirs.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #simon riley #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #non traditional omegaverse

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cavillscurls · 13 days ago

Text

MESS OF MINE

joel miller x f!reader

You needn’t think—not when he’s here.

warnings/tags: MDNI. Jackson!Joel. Soft!Joel. Established relationship. Fluff. Intimacy. Praise. References to past smut. Reader is in a pretty heavy sub-space. Dom/sub dynamics. Daddy kink. DD/lg dynamics—seriously, do not read if this off puts you. Caregiver!Joel to the max. Pet names (baby, little one, good girl, darling). A smidge of grinding/dry humping. Brief reference to food aversion. Food consumption. wc: 1.8k

You haven’t left his house in three days.

Haven’t had to. Snowed in. The blizzard that’s taken Jackson by storm an absolute blessing in disguise.

And sure, you feel for Maria and the strain it’s put on organizing her patrol routes. You know plenty of mothers struggle to entertain cabin-fevered-children, and you sympathize with those who have to make treks for rations they hadn’t prepared for.

Still, you can’t help but revel in the selfishness. It’s his fault, really. What else does he expect three days of doting will do to a girl?

You’re on the floor in his living room. Tummy down on the center of the rug, socked toes facing the fire he’s carefully tended to. You’re in one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties, nothing else. You don’t need much else. When the flames aren’t keeping you warm enough, he’s happy to compensate.

There’s a soft tune buzzing from the record player, and you take the time to savor the words on the pages splayed out before you. You’ve been reading a little slower today. Everything seems to slow down when he’s got you like this.

You don’t think you could ever tire of the life you’ve lived these past three days. Joel always takes care of you, in every way, big and small. But there’s been a shift towards all that is so big, the lack of responsibility and expectations allowing you to sink deeper into the roles you both understand well.

So he takes the weight of everything big, promises to nurture it, and handle it with care. And you relish in the freedom that is feeling so small, releasing your usual tension and burdens for an aloofness that would otherwise not be acceptable. You’re not sure how long you’ll have it, and you aren’t willing to spare a moment.

Your mind wanders, less focused on the words inscribed before you and more on the images that paint your memory. That of his hands, that have gently washed your hair. That lay out your clothes—or lack thereof—and deliver you cups of tea. That glide over your skin morning, noon, and night, coaxing breath and cries alike. That hold you still, close, when he sucks on your neck and fills your womb, the remedy for all grievances. Silences your mind, the numbness bright and freeing.

“Baby?” he beckons, and it sounds like he’s repeating himself. Like you didn’t hear him the first time, and perhaps you didn’t. Too entranced by the cozy little oasis he’s created around you, for you.

You cast your eyes towards his voice, dripping in honey, the way that always makes your belly warm. He’s leaning in the archway between the kitchen and living room, a gentle smile curling at the edges of his lips.

“Are ya hungry?” he asks, and you scrunch up your nose.

Admittedly, you’ve been a bit indolent. But it’s easy to languish in the comforts of mindlessness when he makes it so easy. You haven’t cleaned a single dish, washed a single article of clothing, or cooked a single meal, in three days. You’ve hardly walked from room to room without Joel adamantly at your side. The lack of energy exertion squanders your appetite.

He tsks his tongue and slants his eyes at you disapprovingly.

“C’mon, baby. You’ve hardly eaten today. Let me make you a snack at least, yeah?”

You sigh. You don’t want to give him a hard time, even if it’s only for the sake of regaining his attention. So, you offer him a lackluster nod, and he smiles in return—something prideful, that of a man who is pleased to preserve you, and even more so when you’re willing to let him.

He disappears into the kitchen for a handful of moments, and when he returns, sets the plate of chopped veggies down on the coffee table. You sit up, and instead of reaching for it, extend your arms towards him. An overwhelming desire to be held takes you, as it has for these many days, many times. He’s been off doing chores for nearly an hour now, and you can feel yourself growing impatient, needy.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel chastises, shaking his head and stepping back just out of reach. He isn’t fazed by the pout that befalls your lips. “Not till you finish your food.”

You huff, making a show out of crawling your way to the edge of the table and snatching one of the carrots up. You peer up at him as you bring it between your teeth, taking an aggressive chomp out of it as if to prove that even though you’ll listen, it doesn’t mean you’ll like it.

Joel shakes his head and chuckles, pleasantly amused. He approaches you while you chew, knees to your nose, and you crane your neck back to get a good view of him like this. So close, towering, and dripping with power and ease. You’ve never known anyone so mighty, yet so loving.

He reaches a hand down and gingerly pets the crown of your head. “That’s a good girl,” he muses, and the low purr of his voice sends a pang of want through your gut.

You chew a little faster now. Make sure he knows how good you are, how good you’ll remain for him and him alone.

A soft little whimper leaves your throat at the loss of his hand, and the sight of him turning back towards the kitchen.

“Just gotta finish a couple more things, darlin’,” he calls over his shoulder. “I expect to find that plate clean when I come back!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you think, turning your attention toward the colorful spread. As if your body means to spite you, you feel a sudden grumble in your stomach. You are feeling pretty hungry, and he knows. He always knows.

You eat slowly but steadily, determined now to finish before he returns. He’s scooped a spoonful of Tommy’s homemade hummus on the side, the flavors making you bounce a little in delight. The chickpeas are out of season, and Joel only has a handful of his share left for the winter, but he always gives you extra. He knows how much you enjoy it, and the selflessness of the act today only furthers your growing want.

Fifteen minutes pass before you hear his footsteps return towards the living room, and you’re swallowing your last mouthful. He shuffles his way towards the couch, and you watch in silent fascination as he lowers himself with a heavy groan and crack of his knees. He sighs, spreading his meaty thighs wide, and letting his eyes close for a brief moment. You know, despite how much he enjoys his time with you, the days cooped up haven't been easy on him. He’s a doer by nature, perhaps the exact reason he’s channeled all of his energy into caring for you.

His eyes find you as soon as they open, and you wait with bated breath for him to pat a palm against one of his thighs.

“C’mon now,” he murmurs. You don’t need to be told twice.

You abandon your empty plate, which he acknowledges with an approving nod, and slowly crawl your way around the coffee table. You nudge yourself between his feet, rising to your knees, flashing him wide eyes, and waiting for his hands to grip you under your arms and scoop you into his lap. You’re all flimsy limbs and needy fingers, straddling the mass of him—the stretch that you feel in your inner thighs does not go unnoticed, much to accommodate—and wrapping your arms eagerly around his shoulders. You bury your nose into his neck, slumping into his chest, and sigh.

You’re warm, and content, and full, and so small.

He hums, the deep sound rattling through his chest into yours, and you shiver both at the sound and the gentle touch of his fingertip tracing over your bare thighs. You can’t help but wiggle in closer, the rough friction of jeans against your soft cotton panties dizzying.

“Daddy,” you whisper, voice raspy with disuse.

Gentle touches turn to kneads, palm-fulls of your thighs squeezed between his fingers, one hand drifting up and taking a handful of your ass. His touch is grounding, comforting. Turns your body into molasses so you may drip into him with ease, head fuzzy, inundated by his sheer presence. Your eyes droop shut, and a little yawn creeps up through your throat.

“S’about that time, little one.” His voice is so soft, it’s hardly there. Like coaxing a baby animal out of hiding. “Should get ya settled for a nap.”

You whine a sound of protest, but make no effort to move. He’s right, of course. You could fall asleep right here, right now. Bathed in his warmth, the crackle of the fire, the soft tunes. His other hand has trailed up your spine, drawing soothing circles, lulling you in.

“M’not tired.” A lie, but you’re greedy. Greedy as your cunt he hasn’t touched all morning, that starts to grind gently against the front of his jeans. “Wanna play, Daddy,” you mutter into his neck, placing a chaste kiss on the vein that protrudes there.

A low growl settles in his chest, but his hand at your backside slides towards your hip, wrapping his fingers around it and holding you still. You can feel him swell below you, all the restraint in the world unable to stop him from reacting to you the way he does. The way he always does. He’s turned you greedy.

“How about,” he starts, his tone one of reason, though it drops an octave with desire, “you take your nap right here on Daddy’s lap, and he’ll wake you when it’s time, hm?”

You admire his restraint, you really do. You also cannot deny how good he is, tactful in the way he lets his hand trail all the way up your back until it’s woven into your hair, scratching gentle circles across your scalp, the way he always does when you need help falling asleep.

Your breathing slows, eyes still screwed shut, but you give him another humph of disagreement, and he chuckles. He presses your nose deeper into his neck, wraps a heavy arm fully around you now, and flushes you against him, using the weight of his hold to settle you.

Yeah, he’s good.

“One hour, that’s all,” he reasons.

You sigh, already nodding off somewhere between sleep and wake, the dull thrum in your lower belly overcome by the sensations of slumber.

“You swear it?” you press, and he places a kiss on your temple.

You feel his smile against your skin, brighter than the sun itself. And you’re reminded, just before you slip away, how lucky you are for the gift of mindlessness. A silent promise to yourself that when you wake, you’ll cherish the dwindling hours of the day, unsure if tomorrow holds the same luxury.

“On my life.”

#NEVER expect 2 fics in a week from me ever again #this is an anomaly #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #daddy!joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x you

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fushiguro-megloomy · 20 days ago

Text

strawberry wine

[part 2] pairing: modern au!viktor x artist!reader prompt: “if somebody were to kiss me, i’d want that person to be you” tags: you're jayces childhood bff, no use of y/n, alcohol, heavy kissing, drunk kissing, basically just a bunch of buildup towards a smutty fwb part two???, viktor being a menace wc: 4k notes: AU where nobody is sick or dying yay! also i think i managed to keep this pretty gn!reader but any future parts will be afab/fem art is from pinterest, dividers from chachachannah & webc00re

You never meant for things to get this far. You told yourself it was just a little fun, harmless and fleeting—nothing more. You had a career to focus on, friendships in the balance. But now, here you are, pacing the living room carpet thin, your cuticles raw from nervous chewing, and your thoughts spiraling into places you swore they’d never go.

It feels juvenile, almost laughable, like some smitten teenager waiting by the phone and sneaking kisses in shadowed corners. You were supposed to be above this, weren’t you? I mean, as a grown adult you should know how to keep it casual, uncomplicated.

But nothing about this is simple anymore. Not the friendship. Not the secrets. And certainly not the way your heart betrays you every time his name crosses your mind.

It definitely wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Moving back to the city hadn’t been on the bingo card for this year, but here you were. Your life had been tucked away in the quiet of rural landscapes, where your art had room to breathe—endless skies, rolling hills, and the kind of solitude that made inspiration flow without any distractions. But your career had expanded, and with that expansion came the relentless pressure of galleries, art buyers, and a future that demanded more from you than that peaceful escape ever could.

So, the city had called you back. Concrete towers, crowded streets, the city offered more. Shows. Opportunities. Jayce. The only thing about this cold, steel jungle that still felt like home. Jayce—your childhood friend, your constant in a world that had never stopped changing. Thrown together since you were practically in diapers, he was the one piece of your old life that had somehow survived the years and distance between you two. And now, after what felt like an eternity, here he was, sprawled across your tiny couch, looking too comfortable for someone who was just supposed to be a guest. The apartment was a bit small, as city apartments tended to be—packed between towering neighbors—but Jayce’s presence was the only thing about it that felt remotely like home.

"You know," he said, half-lounging. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You didn’t look up from your canvas, your brush already dipping into the paints like second nature. “Who?”

“Viktor”

You paused, only long enough for your brush to hover midair before you flicked your gaze in his direction. “Ah, yes. The famous business partner.”

Jayce’s grin didn’t falter, but there was something softer behind it now. “Yeah, something like that. But seriously, he’s a good guy. Brilliant, actually. You two would get along.”

You didn’t reply at first. Instead, you let the brush finish its arc, eyes back on your work, moving with the rhythm of a familiar task. “mhm” you murmured, distracted by the way the strokes of paint were bleeding together. “If he’s anything like you, how bad can it be?”

But Jayce, of course, wasn’t done. His voice took on that soft tone he reserved for moments when he really wanted to get his point across. “I’m serious, okay? I want you two to meet. You both mean a lot to me, and I think you’ll really hit it off.”

You didn’t look up, but you felt a weight behind his words, pushing against you with silent pressure. “Yeah? I’m sure it’ll happen, then.”

Jayce’s eyes lit up, a flash of triumph in them, like he’d just won some small but important battle. “You’ll see. I’m telling you—when you meet him, you’ll click. I know it.”

You leaned back in your chair, releasing a slow exhale, the kind that said everything without saying anything at all. A nonchalant nod was all you offered, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of saying more. “Fine. Fine. I’ll meet him. But don’t make a whole thing out of it.”

Jayce chuckled, and there was an odd note of relief in the sound, like he’d just been granted some unspoken permission. “No big deal, I swear. But you’ll see. You two are more alike than you think.”

When you finally did meet Viktor, Jayce was practically vibrating, his energy as unsubtle as ever. It had been after one of your gallery openings, a night you’d half-dragged yourself through on fumes and politeness. Your heels had barely cleared the threshold of his apartment before the faintest twinge of suspicion began to creep in—something about the way he hovered, grinning like a man with a secret.

“You deserve a good meal after tonight,” Jayce had said, ushering you in with the kind of charm that usually preceded one of his schemes. “Thought you’d want to celebrate somewhere that doesn’t reek of overpriced wine and small talk.”

You rolled your eyes but let yourself be corralled, the promise of food outweighing the odd note in his voice. His large apartment, at least, was familiar territory: warm, cluttered with bits of tech and sentimental junk from years past, the faint scent of whatever candles he refused to admit he hoarded lingering in the air.

And then you heard it—the low murmur of another voice, sharp-edged and vaguely amused, drifting from the kitchen.

Jayce froze, his grin faltering for a split second before it reappeared, brighter than ever. “Oh, right,” he said, far too casually. “Viktor’s here.”

You blinked, narrowing your eyes at him. “You conveniently forgot to mention that part.”

“Come on,” he pushed, throwing an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the source of the voice. “It’s no big deal. Just dinner. You’ll like him, I promise.”

And there he was, perched by the kitchen counter with a faintly perplexed look on his face. He was slimmer than you’d expected, pale and sharp-featured, with hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in days. His amber eyes flicked up to meet yours, narrowing slightly as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that had just been placed in front of him.

“Ah,” he said, his accent lilting and crisp, “so this is the infamous artist.”

You shot a glare at Jayce, who was already heading for the stove with the kind of forced cheer that made it painfully clear he’d orchestrated the whole thing. “You owe me for this,” you muttered under your breath, stepping further into the kitchen.

Viktor’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk appearing. “And here I thought I was being ambushed. Seems we’re both victims of his enthusiasm.”

Jayce turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, his expression utterly unrepentant. “You’ll thank me later.”

The dinner was simple but undeniably good—Jayce’s doing, of course. The man couldn’t let anyone step into his apartment without insisting they be properly fed, and tonight was no exception. Roast chicken, buttery vegetables with rice, warm bread that filled the space with its yeasty aroma—it was the kind of meal that made you feel at home even when you weren’t.

Conversation flowed easily around the table, mostly carried by Jayce, but Viktor wasn’t exactly quiet, either. He had a way of chiming in at just the right moment, his dry humor landing squarely between Jayce’s more exuberant anecdotes and your own occasional contributions.

“You mean to tell me,” Viktor said at one point, leaning back slightly in his chair, “that Jayce still hasn’t learned to cook rice without burning it? After all these years?”

Jayce, halfway through explaining some disastrous culinary attempt from his youth, turned to glare at him. “Excuse me, this rice was cooked perfectly.”

“It was fine,” you agreed, though the memory of a slightly crunchy bite or two made your lips twitch in amusement.

Viktor’s amber eyes sparkled as he gestured broadly. “Oh, fine! A glowing review, truly. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jayce groaned, but there was no real bite to it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Viktor said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “here I am. Invited to dinner. Again.”

Jayce just rolled his eyes and went back to his story, leaving you to glance at Viktor with a small smile. He caught it, of course, and gave a little shrug as if to say, what can you do? For all his sharp humor, he was easy to talk to, his wit balanced by an underlying warmth that kept him from coming off as too cutting.

Which was why you were only mildly surprised when the spoon incident happened.

Dinner was winding down, Jayce had disappeared into the kitchen to fuss over coffee, leaving you and Viktor to handle the cleanup.

He moved with a surprising ease, balancing a stack of plates in one hand, his cane steady in the other. It was a casual sort of competence, as though he’d long since adapted to whatever limitations life had handed him. You hadn’t thought much of it, impressed by how naturally he maneuvered, until the soft clatter of a spoon hitting the floor broke the quiet rhythm of tidying.

“Ah,” Viktor said, glancing down at the rogue utensil with a faint frown as he set down the plate stack. “Of course.”

You paused mid-step, glancing between him and the spoon. “Need a hand?”

He tilted his head, his expression a little too innocent. “If it’s not too much trouble. You know, the leg and all...”

“Oh, for—” Jayce’s voice floated from the kitchen, half-annoyed but not quite committed to intervening.

You sighed, setting down the napkins you’d been folding. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got it.”

But just as you crouched down, Viktor shifted. A casual tap of his cane sent the spoon skittering across the floor, its metallic clink faintly echoing as it landed farther away.

You froze, staring at the spoon in disbelief, then turned your gaze to him slowly. “You’re kidding.”

Viktor’s lips twitched, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering across his face. “What?”

“You just—”

“What?” he repeated, wider-eyed this time, his free hand gesturing vaguely toward his cane. “I’m handicapped.”

Jayce reappeared in the doorway, a coffee pot in hand and a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Viktor.”

“What?” Viktor said again, his voice laced with mock indignation. “I am!”

Jayce muttered something unintelligible as he poured coffee, his focus shifting between you and Viktor like he couldn’t decide which one of you deserved his scolding more. Meanwhile, you straightened, crossing your arms as a grin tugged at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you said, stepping across the room to retrieve the spoon—again.

“Very generous,” Viktor agreed, his tone breezy. “Honestly, it’s quite inspiring. Jayce, you should take notes.”

Jayce groaned, setting the coffee pot down with a little too much force. “You’re both ridiculous.”

But you were already laughing, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. As you returned the spoon to the table with a pointed look, Viktor gave you a small, almost triumphant smile. And maybe, you could see what Jayce meant when he’d said you’d get along.

The first time you realized you might feel more than just friendship for Viktor was when you noticed the way your sketches had started to change.

It had been weeks—maybe even a couple of months—since that dinner with Jayce, when you had awkwardly danced around each other, getting to know one another. The initial weirdness had faded into easy companionship, and you found yourself spending more time with Viktor than you expected. You hadn’t quite noticed it happening, but somewhere along the line, you’d become an unintentional trio. Jayce had been bursting with barely-contained glee at how easily the two of you seemed to get along, and it made your chest warm, knowing how much that mattered to him. It felt... right, this newfound ease between the three of you, a quiet sort of harmony that made you smile more than you expected.

But as the days passed, something shifted without you realizing it. You were at home one evening, flipping through your sketchbook, the soft pastel dust smudging the edges of the pages as your fingers moved. The forms you’d drawn were abstract models, capturing shapes and shadows in a fluid, organic way. It wasn’t anything new—nothing that stood out. But then, you stopped.

There, in the shadows of the page, you saw it.

The subtle arch of a jawline. The curve of lips that you knew too well. Even the moles, small and almost unremarkable, but there they were—on the page, right beneath your fingertips. You blinked and flipped to another sketch, only to see it again. A line here, a shadow there. It wasn’t him exactly, but it was.

To the untrained eye, maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious. Hell, maybe even to you on any other day, it might’ve gone unnoticed. But now, in the quiet of your studio, the shapes were almost unmistakable. The soft angle of his nose, the way his eyes looked when he was thinking too hard, the way his smile would pull up on one side when he was being particularly smug.

You frowned, setting the sketchbook down, your hands hovering above it as if it had betrayed you. Was this some kind of coincidence? Or was it something more, something you had been avoiding realizing? You’d never consciously set out to draw him, but there he was, tucked into the lines and curves of your art like an uninvited guest you hadn’t known you were entertaining.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Of course it was just... coincidence. But even as you tried to convince yourself, there was a small, unspoken truth sitting in your chest, heavy and undeniable, and the first time you realized Viktor might see you as more than just a friend was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it hit you all the same.

He mentioned a piece you’d shown him, his tone thoughtful. “You’ve been doing something different lately. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s a change. It’s...” His gaze flickered to yours, then dropped back to the floor, but the brief flash in his eyes sent an unexpected flutter through your chest. “...more. More than what you usually show.”

The words themselves were harmless, even complimentary, but it was the way they hung between you that made something inside you stir—something you couldn’t name, not yet. You didn’t think much of it at first, but the way his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary made your breath catch. The way the corners of his mouth lifted into a half-smile, not teasing, but... fond.

It was a simple thing. A fleeting moment. And yet, it lingered in your mind as you retreated to your apartment, your thoughts whirling with the possibility that Viktor—your friend, the one you had so casually laughed and bantered with for months—might be seeing you differently, too.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. And it unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

Everything came to a boiling point one night at your apartment. You’d ventured into town earlier that day, mostly for a change of scenery, and happened upon a small farmers market. You couldn’t resist grabbing a few bottles of strawberry wine, its sweetness and fruity undertones practically calling your name. Jayce had scoffed at it when you got back, claiming it was too sugary to have any real punch. “There’s no way I’ll even get drunk off this,” he’d muttered with a dismissive wave.

An hour later, he was sprawled out on your pullout, snoring softly with a stupid grin plastered across his face. You and Viktor stood nearby, both trying—and failing—to suppress your amusement at how quickly Jayce had succumbed to the wine’s effects. For all his size, Jayce was a surprising lightweight.

“I swear, every time,” you said, laughing quietly.

Viktor, leaning against the doorway, gave a soft chuckle. “Some people just don’t know when to stop.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing over at the slumbering man. “Guess we let him sleep it off.”

“Let him have his beauty rest,” Viktor teased, his voice light as he nodded toward the bottles. “We can always finish it ourselves.”

So you did, winding up on the roof with the cold night air around you. The worn-out couch up there had seen better days, but it was still enough to settle into and talk, a simple quiet comfort settling over you both. The soft glow of string lights and the silvered moonlight made the world feel like it was wrapped in a quiet hush despite the never ending sounds of the city. You both settled into the couch, the cushions sinking in the middle, which pushed you just a little closer to Viktor than you'd anticipated.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was easy, like you had spent years in it. You noticed how close you were sitting now—your thighs pressed together, and when you passed the bottle of wine, your fingers brushed his. A small spark of awareness ran through you each time, and you tried to ignore it, feeling your face warm despite the cool air.

The wine was sweet, fruity, and a little stronger than you expected, especially when you found yourself reaching for another sip and another, the soft buzz in your head gradually growing stronger.

By the time the bottle was halfway gone, you were both leaning more heavily into the couch, and you couldn’t help but giggle at how little wine was apparently needed to bring Jayce to the brink of passing out. You felt... lighter. Almost giddy, as if the laughter that came so easily was spilling out along with the alcohol. And Viktor, sitting just beside you, didn’t seem to be immune to it either. His face was flushed in the soft light, his lips curling into an easy smile.

“You know,” you said, leaning back and feeling the warmth of the couch soak into your bones, “I don’t do this enough. I’m so... wrapped up in work and life and... I just forget to relax.”

Viktor tilted his head, eyes slightly narrowed as he watched you. “Relaxing can be overrated,” he said with a smirk, the words a little slower than they’d been earlier. He took another drink from the bottle, his thumb brushing against the glass in an unconscious rhythm. When he passed it to you, your fingers brushed once again, and you lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

“Well, maybe for you,” you chuckled. “But, for me, it’s like... it's like a luxury, I guess. You know? I don’t remember the last time I just sat with someone and... and didn’t feel like I had to be somewhere or do something.”

“You eh–... don’t have to worry about that here,” Viktor said quietly, his voice light, with that usual teasing edge. But something was different in his tone, something that made the words feel heavier than they should have been. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the air seemed to shift, the quiet between you stretching into something almost… charged.

You took another sip, your hand a little unsteady now. The whole situation felt absurd—awkward, even, yet strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Your gaze drifted toward his lips without thinking. It was brief, but enough to send a flutter through your stomach, and suddenly, your mind couldn’t focus on anything but that soft, confident curve of his mouth. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something else entirely, but you couldn’t seem to think straight anymore.

Viktor shifted closer again, and the couch beneath you groaned as it sank with the weight of it. The space between you closed, and you could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours shoulder to shoulder, like the alcohol spreading through you, making your pulse quicken.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His presence was a solid thing beside you. His eyes were locked on yours, studying, but still so calm. You could feel the punch of his gaze on you, like it was seeping through your skin, sending heat rushing to your cheeks. It wasn’t just the wine now—you could feel it all over, heat blooming beneath your skin, making you fidget slightly.

“Sometimes… you get caught up in what you’re doing, and you forget about everything else,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the way your nerves were tightening your chest. “I’ve been focused on my career and—god, I’ve probably been a little… I don’t know, closed off.” You laughed lightly, but it was nervous, unsure of where this was even coming from. But suddenly all your senses were barraged by him, his smell, his eyes.

“I just—I haven’t thought about it. Relationships, I mean. Not in a long time. I don’t know if I’m even ready for anything like that. Not now, not with everything I’m doing.” You trailed off, self-conscious, suddenly feeling like you were saying too much, rambling without stopping. The words seemed to just slip out of you, tumbling over each other.

You took another shaky breath, your heart thudding in your chest as you tried to make yourself stop, but you couldn’t. It was like you were helpless.

“And, I mean, if anybody were to kiss me…” You faltered, realizing too late just how much you were giving away. Your pulse quickened, your thoughts jumbled as your mouth just kept moving. “I would want that person to be you.”

The air between you thickened, the silence stretching long and heavy. Your heart pounded in your chest, a nervous rhythm that drowned out everything else. You waited for him to say something, to break the tension that was suffocating you. But there was nothing. Just the weight of his gaze on you, steady and searching.

When you finally dared to glance at him Viktor's expression was unreadable. One thick eyebrow was cocked slightly, and his mouth hung open just enough to suggest he was about to say something, but didn't. He was so close but somehow the distance between you felt infinite.

You opened your mouth to say something, to fill the silence, but before you could speak, his hand moved, his fingers brushing against your jaw in the gentlest touch. The sudden warmth of his palm made your breath catch, and before you could even fully process it, he was pulling you in. His lips met yours, soft at first, as though testing the waters, as if the moment itself was delicate. But that softness didn't last, between the buzz of alcohol, the closeness, the heat between you—it all blurred together. The kiss deepened, quickly turning urgent, hungry. His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the bottle slipped from your grasp, its clang against the concrete floor echoing in the quiet of the rooftop

You didn't care. You were too lost in the feeling of him against you, his lips moving against yours with a desperate kind of need. The kiss grew messier– clumsy, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. You could taste the faint sweetness of wine on him, the mix of flavors making everything feel dizzying overwhelming.

You found yourself gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, as if trying to merge your bodies together, desperate for the contact, for whatever it was that had been building between you two for so long.

The next day was a harsh slap of hangover reality. Your head pounded, your mouth was dry, and every time you glanced at Viktor across the room, your stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the booze.

Jayce, of course, was none the wiser. He chatted away over breakfast like nothing had changed, blissfully unaware of the shift that had unraveled everything you thought you’d had under control. And you? You were wholly committed to keeping it that way. It was a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fleeting, drunken thing—something you could both quietly bury and move on from.

At least, that was the plan.

Until it happened again. And then again.

Now it feels like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter, until you’re not sure if you’re going to unravel completely or snap under the weight.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But here you are. And you don’t know how to stop.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane #viktor x you #arcane x you #arcane fanfic #viktor fanfic #fwb #friends with benifits #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor #arcane fic #viktor fic #arcane x reader #lils work #mine #strawberry wine

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astrow1zar6 · 14 days ago

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Rising sign Observations~ how you first come off to others

Scorpio risings i noticed tend to be the most disliked out of all the rising signs off the jump so imma get into that one first. Scorpio risings have this “no time for bs” look which can come off as very intimidating & bitchy to others. They almost have this X-ray vision when meeting new people, they can tell who you are by talking to you for 5 minutes or even just observing how you act & if they don’t like it they will act accordingly. They don’t have time for social graces if they aren’t interested in you which can make people dislike them or view them as rude. They are just very real people tbh and if they catch a bad vibe they will not fake that they like you (which as a Capricorn rising I truly admire cuz I’m the same way). But once you get close enough where they can trust you these people are such soft babies at heart fr😭 I met a lot that had bad social anxiety and don’t be as strong and intense as they come off. These people are also like a vault you can vent to them about the deepest shit and you can trust no one will ever know. They also have these siren eyes that either scare the shit outta you or hypnotize you. People that love Scorpio risings are usually confident people who are true to themselves they are a repellent for phony vibes and energy. This is honestly one of my fav rising signs.

Libra rising on the flip side is a rising sign that doesn’t mind others being fake towards them or being a lil fake towards others, this is a trick to their charm they try to be what others want them to be whether it’s them or not. (Unless there are heavy Aries or Scorpio placements) this mask however is the reason why they are super popular and people are so attracted to them. They truly love being admired by others to the point they will be a kiss ass for validation. These people grew up paying attention to what made others tick and what people preferred which is why they are so likeable. They are usually seen as conventionally attractive as well (thanks to Venus’s influence) which is a great bonus to their already charming personality. Even if they aren’t conventionally attractive they are usually really aesthetically pleasing to look at whether it be how they wear their hair or makeup or fashion sense. They are big romantics and love flirting with attractive people & get a big ego boost from romantic attention (even if they aren’t into the person😭). I don’t really like this sign too much cuz I can see past the super nice bs most of the time but they are very engaging and usually hilarious so I’ll give them credit. They also really appreciate others who are good hearted as well (even though they end up attracting very assertive & harsh people lol). I respect how far these people go to make others feel comfortable and appreciated, their influence makes others believe there are still good people in the world. They are also not scared to stand up for any injustice they will go to war over what’s right! I respect it.

Capricorn risings are like the ice queens of the rising signs. Their face either looks pissed off all the time or it’s completely nonchalant and emotionless. Most people off jump assume these people are boring as shit and don’t think about anything other than work and ambitions which is very far from the truth. Deep down most are very sensitive and nurturing to those they trust but their inability to show vulnerability makes it hard to get any personality out of them. They are very selective with who they share their personality with you have to be a certain vibe. With some people they can come off as quiet and annoyed and with others they become extremely extroverted and funny. People honestly don’t talk about how HILARIOUS these people can be once they get comfortable with you (Sagittarius in the 12th house: hidden comedian). They have the best dry humor I’ve ever met and their comedic timing is perfect but it’s unfortunate because they are usually so shy at first people don’t even know they are. These were the kids that would say something hilarious under their breath in school and some loud asshole would hear it and copy what they said louder and the whole class dies laughing (this has happened to me sm🤦🏽‍♀️). They usually struggle with self confidence and social anxiety at a young age which is why many described them as “awkward kids”. They have this weird Benjamin Button affect where in childhood they can be quiet and super mature but as they age they become super goofy and careless, this the same concept with their looks as well (could’ve looked older when young but as they got old they look younger). They usually age like fine wine too btw.

Gemini risings are usually super smart people but they can come off as so ditzy and childish that most people really don’t know that they are that smart. I’ve seen people with this placement get straight As and have amazing credit scores but act like they are five personality wise😂. These people are so bubbly and childlike that it’s almost refreshing to be around (especially for more unexpressive signs). These people have an amazing ability to save anyone from an awkward conversation. If you’ve ever been in a group where no one knew what to say to eachother the minute a Gemini rising walks in it’s like “thank goddd”. These people are amazing conversationalists which can get them really far in life and help them become super popular! It’s usually a breeze for these people to get jobs I notice too they are usually amazing in interviews, they can attract opportunities to them super easily by just speaking. The only issue is they have a hard time keeping the opportunities they get so easily not because they are irresponsible (which sometimes is the case) but mostly out of boredom. Boredom are these people’s Achilles heel. Once the excitement dies from something new the move on to the next best think. It’s not uncommon to see these people change careers constantly or move every year, change their friend group and partners ect. They must learn stability is they really want to grow and mature and keep their eggs in one basket. They really crave this deep down inside (their taurus is in the 12th house: secretly wanting stability) but with such a restless nature it can be difficult. I also notice if afflicted these people can be SUPER obnoxious and can struggle with not talking, they sometimes can talk too much and gossip too much. Usually we’re always in trouble in school for “disrupting the class” or “talking when the teacher is talking” as children. But overall these people are big kids at heart and are very charming.

Pisces risings are usually extremely soft spoken and almost come off as too pure for this world. They are usually super kind and find it hard to say anything bad about anyone. Normally very quiet and can look like they are always in a daze. These people look like they are in la la land more than any Pisces placement imo. But don’t be fooled just because they seem super nice doesn’t mean all of them are. This placement is probably the hardest to tell if they are bad people because of how pure they come off they can manipulate anyone. They can be big soft spoken manipulators and people won’t even think twice that they’re being used with is truly impressive & a lil terrifying if you ask me. Many people believe they can do no wrong so they get away with a lot of shit. They usually prefer to be in their own little worlds than be in reality which can make them very creative but also very isolated at times. Like Capricorn, I notice they can struggle with social anxiety as well from a young age & could’ve believed their personalities were awkward and weird. They have so much empathy towards others because they could’ve been brought up where they needed to put others before themselves. My grandma had this placement and I asked her one time if you can have any wish what you’d it be and she responded with “ I would wish that everyone who was homeless would be able to have a home” I thought that was the most sweetest thing to wish for 🥺. These people though have an issue with avoiding responsibility because of how in their heads they can be, these are probably the biggest procrastinators of them all. They don’t do too well when it comes to being practical and neglect a lot of things in their life if it’s too overwhelming or requires too much energy. Which is why it’s important for these people to find ways to ground themselves or find a partner who is very grounded. ( I highly recommend to stay away from any type of substance abuse!!). They could’ve also been taken advantage of a lot because of their soft natured so many have trust issues when getting to know others.

Sagittarius risings are usually the loudest ones in the room, seriously though you can hear these people a mile away lol. Everything these people do is “big” from their personality, their laugh, their fashion ect. I’ve seen these people go both ways to some being super popular and adored or they are usually bullied for being obnoxious and attention seeking. These people have a bit of a “me first” way of thinking at times which can either bother others or be admirable. They usually love parties and are really fun to be around in big events like that. They are usually the ones in the middle of the dance floor or cracking jokes trying to make new friends. These people are also super smiley and cute lol they have such wholesome smiles. It’s rare to catch these people in a bad mood most people see them as very happy go lucky which attracts a lot of people to them. I most of the women with this placement are THICCC. Gives big hips and nice thighs and a nice 🍑👀.

Cancer risings i notice want to be babied emotionally & enjoy babying others emotionally as well. From the ones i met they need A LOT of emotional validation especially from their partner. This can be either sweet or draining depending on the person. Usually they are pretty open with their emotions even if they don’t try to be you can see it all over their face lol. They wear their heart on their sleeve. They really enjoy deep talks with the people they love and enjoy helping people get better after being sad. They would do amazing in caretaking careers such as nursing, hospice workers ect. What’s nice about these people is that they usually genuinely care about what’s wrong in your life and will listen for hours to someone vent. Helping people I notice gives them a sense of purpose. Most I meet were usually not nurtured properly growing up (especially by the mother) so they adopted this nurturing personality to others to sorta make up for what they lacked. They usually look very innocent and have big doe eyes and pale ghostly skin (think of Snow White). Even if from a different race they are usually the lightest in the family. They are also usually blessed with amazing mommy milkers iyk what I mean. They can however be pretty emotionally manipulative if they feel like they are losing someone (mostly a partner) they can almost guilt their partners to stay with them and fuck with their emotions if they feel a breakup coming (if immature however). They usually have pretty bad abandonment issues and don’t take people leaving their life well at all. They usually think about old friends/partners from years ago. They are very nostalgic people and hate change most of the time. It’s hard for them to move on to people they truly cared about even if they were super toxic.

Virgo rising’s usually come off to others as very humble and modest. Usually the least likely to brag about themselves to others, even though deep down they want too (Leo in the 12th house). They are normally pretty reserved and can come off as aloof at first but once they get comfortable they will definitely yap your ear off lol (mercury influence). These people are usually very smart and strived to get good grades in school. Could have been seen as the teachers pet. These were also the kids that were big know it alls lol they were those kids that argued with the teacher because they believed they were wrong😭 they can come off as snobby at times cuz of this which doesn’t really attract them a lot of friends. Most have a very small circle of close buddies that they hold dear to them. These people can either be super clean freaks or messy as shit no in between. I notice they prefer to wear comfy simple clothing, nothing to flashy or dramatic & they can pull off the natural face look great. I’ve seen that these people can struggle with sensitive skin as well and can have struggles with acne. Usually these people are super insecure about themselves (like most Virgo placements) they try to come off as perfect to everyone which usually burns them out pretty fast. They want others to admire them and see them as perfect so they go through great lengths to keep this image up. (Y’all don’t gotta do all that to impress others🥺). Usually gives a nerdy vibe to the person even if they don’t look nerdy on the outside they just give off that vibe a lot. Their love language is acts of service and if they love you they will do anything for you! I notice as well these people are very big on routines, if their routine gets messed up in any type of way they can get very pissy and irritated. Routines give them a sense of control so when they don’t have a solid routine they can act a bit unstable. They usually enjoy doing practical things like grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning for fun ect. Many can view them as pretty boring but they just enjoy the simple things in life that most people look over.

I don’t have time to talk about the others because I have work😩 but if you guys really dig these observations I will make a part two tomorrow ♥️☺️

#astro observations #astrologist #astrology #astro community #astro notes #astroblr

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pseudowho · 10 months ago

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Fire and Iron

Forced to stay the night with Nanami Kento, the town's blacksmith, after tending to his wounds, you find yourself smouldering in his irresistible flame.

Warnings: 18+, fluff and smut, loss of virginity

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Your boots cracked through the ice-topped slurry puddles scattering the mud path in the village. The shawl bundled over your shoulders was not enough, and the biting cold wind whipped your cloak back, stripping its usefulness off your shivering shoulders.

Townsfolk waved to you, nodding, smiling; greetings for a familiar face, many of them grateful for your travels to their icy town over the years, lacking even a basic healer of their own, let alone one so talented.

Passing by the blacksmith's hut on your way, you paused out the front, feeling the heat bellowing forth like dragon's breath. You tipped your head back, the smell of ash and steel filling your nose. As you paused, moments after, so did the clang of hammer on anvil.

You opened your eyes, stinging in the brutal cold and smoke. You, once more, like a hundred times before, had caught the eye of the blacksmith. He, whose name you did not know. He, who looked but never touched. He, to whom you had passed so many thousands of hours of your life, and his life to you, through gaze alone.

Stood proud at the anvil, shadowing the forge like the door to hell behind him, his broad shoulders wore only an open-chested white linen shirt, and a thick brown leather apron. With his ashy blond hair, and the lines of his face filled with soot, he was ageless and unknowable. He looked to you, his sharp face quiet and impassive; expression always somewhere between fury and tranquility.

Your lips parted once, as if to speak, and it jumped the blacksmith to life. With a barely perceptible nod, and a grunt, he swung his hammer back, brought down in beautiful accuracy, shaping smouldering steel. The clang rung through you, your chest jolting with a short gasp, and you collected yourself, stepping onwards. You were sure you could feel his cool gaze through the back of your head.

Another patient; another healed. Another grateful family; another life prolonged. The days were short now, and as you stepped out of the house of rough-hewn wood and stone, the forest pines were bathed in dying light, netting the low winter sun above the horizon. It was a punishing journey home, on foot, and the horses were long since put to bed.

The blacksmith's hut held its own sunset, the forge open but unattended. You heard stamps, heavy feet and cursing. You paused in the burst of warmth, illuminated, listening. Curiosity carried your feet into the hut, the heavy wet hem of your skirts collecting ashes, absorbing the blacksmith's domain.

"Are you...are you alright?" You called, uncertain, "Sir?" The footsteps, the swearing, had stopped. You stepped further in, feeling the forge belch at you, almost excruciatingly hot now.

"Get away from there!" The bark, deep and commanding, made you squeak and stumble. Darting through the side door, the blacksmith looped one thick arm round your waist before you fell towards the forge, effortlessly lifting you round, his back to the furnace, his face in shadow.

He was close; close enough that you could smell the soft sweat, the tang of fire and metal. He hissed as your hands dropped to his forearm, and you felt a cold dripping cloth draped over it.

"Do you often wander into places uninvited?" He snipped at you. You recognised the cadence in his low voice-- pain.

"I-- ...you're hurt," you insisted, voice barely above a whisper. Looking up, your eyes tried to gauge his unreadable face in the gloom. You felt him huff, warm air across your cheeks. His arm loosened, releasing you. As he stepped back, turning away to close the forge, you saw the blacksmith's mountainous shoulders tense, twitching.

"It's nothing," he retaliated, brisk. You stepped forwards again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. At first, he flinched, then begrudgingly allowed you to turn him, and lift the damp rag covering his forearm. A thick welting burn, running the length of his forearm, lay weeping and angry on his skin, already nicked with so many little scars. You heard his teeth grit as the air hit his wound.

"Nothing," you scoffed, "this needs dressing. Let me help you." You felt him flinch beneath your hands, hesitant. He felt his skin prickle under yours, finding such curious pleasure in your touch alongside his pain. Your beseeching eyes took him the rest of the way, and he found himself accepting you.

"I...not here," the blacksmith toned, his eyes flitting to the town around him, "if they believe me injured, I'll lose business." You nodded, rummaging in your overburdened satchel, until he took you gently by the hand.

"My home," he began, hesitant, your hand so soft and small in his broad calloused palm, "you'll...you are welcome. It is clean. Quiet. I...I will not harm you. I promise."

Aware of his size and strength, aware of the air of mystery surrounding him amongst the townsfolk, the blacksmith was quick to reassure you. Your eyes softened, and his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles at your words, electricity crackling up your arm.

"I know you won't," you assured. The briefest smile graced his severe face when you offered your name. You felt it warm you from the belly downwards. As he pulled encouragingly on your fingers, leaving the forge to die naturally with the approaching nightfall, you were led through the back of the hut, seeing a newly revealed sprawling cabin of wood and stone, at the edge of the forest. You felt the first kiss of snow upon your cheek.

"Nanami Kento," the blacksmith replied, welcoming you over the threshold. You smiled up at him, taking in his home; barely lit, at first, until he struck a lantern to life. You placed your bag upon a table, rummaging for salves as Kento began to build the fire, skilled and efficient.

You basked in the homely room; autumnal tapestries lining the walls, skin rugs on the floor and furs on the chairs, hanging herbs above a countertop, circled with hung skillets and pans. You relaxed easily into the sincerity of Kento's welcome. A frigid wind slapped the windows, rattling the door.

Before long, an enormous cast iron pot boiled with water, and you knelt before Kento, appraising his wound in the orange glow. Cleaning your hands, wetting a rag with clean water, you moved to clean the ash from his arm before pausing.

"This will hurt," you apologised, looking up to him. Kento's heart stuttered; how many hours had he spent, imagining those sweet eyes, those gentle fingers? Too long. Too many words unspoken over too many years. He was not used to such tenderness.

"I am used to pain," he hushed, smooth and barely audible above the crackle of flame, "my job has certain...hazards, after all." You hummed, swiping the cloth gently, removing dirt and debris.

"Still," you hummed, "I don't like to hurt a friend." Kento chuckled, and you felt yourself blush from hairline to toes at the rich mirth of it.

"We are...friends, are we?" His voice was low and conspiratorial, and you felt it stir a hunger deep within you. You smiled back, mulish as you dabbed salve onto his burn. His knees were parted, with you knelt between them, and your elbows rested on the thick muscle of his thighs. You felt safe, warm, held.

"All those years, passing back and forth," you sighed, teasing, "and not one hello? Just lots of nods," your stomach swooped as Kento laughed again, "and our friendship is just that. An accumulation of nods."

"Would we have stopped at 'hello'?" Kento retaliated. He caught the brief pause in your bandaging, before you continued. You spoke, uncertain again.

"Well," you hummed, testing the water, "offer me one now...and we shall see where it goes." Looking up, you gasped to find your face just inches from Kento's. He smiled at you, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips and back up again.

"Hello," he whispered, quiet and mischievous, "and thank you."

Your breath fluttered out; Kento could feel it against his lips, beckoning him.

"I...it's getting late," you started, and Kento blinked out of his reverie, glancing to the inky black outside his windows, "I should go."

Kento grasped your fingers once more, rising with you as he stood, your shawl shushing against his chest, barely covered by his soft linen shirt. Kento hummed, sounding grave, stepping to the other side of the room.

"It is night," he said, hands cupped around his eyes as he squinted out of the windows, "and the woods are barely safe in the day. I...I cannot allow you to travel. Alone, in the snow. You must stay."

His tone broached no argument, yet still you tried, packing your bag, your cheeks aflame.

"I...it isn't..." you stuttered, and Kento turned to you, chin inclined to the floor, one fine eyebrow raised. You took a deep breath, certain that if you didn't leave now, you may fall too deeply into Kento's insistent heat. Yet...you knew he was right. The path was treacherous. The snow would take you before the dawn.

"Would you like a bath?" Kento offered, turned away to save you your blushes; a gentleman.

"I-- please don't go to any trouble--" Kento swiftly ignored you, beginning to grasp the enormous iron pot, lifting it with stunning ease. His voice didn't even hitch.

"It's no trouble. I bathe every night. You can go before me." Kento carried the pan, stepping behind a folding wooden screen, and you followed him as if to argue, watching him begin to fill an enormous copper bathtub. Your hands shook as you began to remove your shawl, still blushing, so briefly overwhelmed before squashing it down.

Kento glanced up at you, pausing as he poured hot water, "This will take me some time," he said, apologetic, "please make yourself comfortable. I'll call for you."

You nodded, clearing your throat, hands twisting in your removed shawl. Kento chastised himself for admiring the soft curve of your breasts into your waist, the hidden delight of the swelling of your hips beneath your heavy skirts. He did not see how the steam rose fast, dampening his white shirt, how you could see all the way to his navel as he leaned over the bath. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

As you walked the length of the room, your fingertips brushing tapestries and grazing over warm furs, your curiosity drew you to a wide, flat trinket box, inlaid with mother of pearl, the colours an aurora in the rolling firelight. You stroked the box just once, before lifting the lid.

Your eyes crinkled immediately with joy at the treasures within; the box was full of lovingly crafted necklaces of gold, silver, pearl and gem, the chains finer and softer than any you had ever seen. You did not feel Kento approach as you admired them.

"I'd like for you to choose one," he offered, sincere, as you spun to face him. He raised his hands placatingly, a smile at the edge of his mouth, "not in lieu of payment, of course. A gift, I...made them with no real aim as to who should receive them."

"You made these?" You gaped, unable to fathom how such enormous hands crafted such intricate delights, "Kento, I-- they're beautiful, I couldn't possibly..."

If Kento had held any reservation, after hearing his name tumble from your lips, he was filled with the burning certainty that the jewellery should be for you, and you alone. His hand closed over yours as you moved to shut the box.

"Please," he breathed, so close, "choose one, or I shall give you them all." Swallowing, your hand hovered over a fine chain of silver and emerald, your fingertips brushing the gem. Kento hummed his approval, before picking it up, his calloused fingers all softness and grace.

"My favourite, too," he rumbled, brushing your hair off the nape of your neck as he clipped the necklace into place. You shivered at the feeling of his fingers on your neck, and almost ran as he whispered beside your ear, "Your bath is ready."

Stripping behind the wooden screen, hearing Kento amble around the room beyond, you sighed as the hot water enveloped you. Washing yourself with a soft sponge, cleaning off the grime of the day, your hand wandered absentmindedly downwards, fingertips grazing through your folds, naturally moving to relieve yourself of the building tension--

"I've left you a shirt." Your hand darted upwards with a guilty splash, Kento's voice only meters away behind the screen.

"Thank-- thank you," you squeaked, blushing, before climbing out, so naked apart from your exquisite new necklace. Drying on a soft towel, your hand hesitated over the shirt draped over the screen, before pulling it on over damp skin. It reached down your thighs, but left little else to the imagination.

Kento remained outwardly stoic, unreadable, averting his gaze as you crept out, arms holding yourself and squashing your breasts together, the colour of your nipples as faint as a ghost under the white linen shirt. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly before skirting past to the bath. You felt heat creep up your neck at the gossamer hush of his clothes hitting the floor, the shifting water as he stepped in, the way he sighed in relief, almost as if--

"I shall sleep in the chair tonight," Kento said, slow and considered, "and you shall have my bed." You felt indignation roll within you.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scolded, "you're injured, and this is your home--"

'-- and you are my guest," he grumbled.

"I won't allow it," you insisted, almost forgetting yourself as you approached the wooden screen, "I'll put some furs on the floor and--"

"You believe I would let you sleep on the floor?" He growled, furious at your suggestion, "I should rather you have me share the bed with you over that--"

"Fine. Then we shall share the bed. And there will be no more argument." You clapped a hand over your mouth as the words tumbled forth, unbidden. Mortified by your own suggestion, you removed your hand to speak again.

Kento stepped round from behind the screen, his towel draped lazily round his waist. You gaped up at him, stunned. He was...younger than you thought, his blond hair now soft and floppy, the ash removed from the lines in his face, taking ten years off him. You faced him, his towering form, the practiced rolls, peaks and planes of muscle belonging to a working man, his forearms so thick--

"Then...we should get to bed," Kento insisted, stepping past you, through a doorway to his bedroom, where you heard him rummaging for clothes, "it is late and I am up with the lark."

You hesitated where you stood, feeling your heartbeat between your legs, desperately curious, but paralysed.

"I don't bite," Kento called out, and you gulped down the sounds of soft fabric dropping over his body, still crippled with indecision and embracing yourself as he stepped out to put out the fire. You were lost momentarily in darkness before he stepped to you, the lantern between you, a beacon in the dark. You felt his hand close around your fingers again. You heard him whisper.

"It will become cold quickly, now the fire has died. Come. Stay warm."

You allowed yourself to be led to Kento's bedroom, hypnotised by the small swinging lantern. Kento led your hand downwards, placing it to the edge of the bed for you to feel your way, your fingers gliding through soft fur and cool sheets. With shaking hands, you crawled across to the head of the bed. Kento waited for you, flipping down the sheets, flipping them back up to your chin as you both slipped between them.

You heard nil but your own heartbeat. Kento faced you, the torch light embering behind him leaving him only just visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. The sheets had not yet warmed from your bodies, and you shivered. You felt Kento shift beside you.

"You...are cold," he stated as if in question. You remained quiet, gripping your hands to your chest lest they reach out for him.

"I'm...I'll warm up. Soon," you reassured yourself as much as him. You heard one doubtful grunt from him. Five minutes passed, and still, Kento felt you shiver against the sheets. Pulling a fur up to your chins, he felt prickles up his legs as one of your feet reached hesitantly out to touch him. He felt rather than heard you sigh.

"So warm," you whispered, your little voice soft with comfort in the dark. Kento's breath caught in his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside his soft trousers.

"Do you...need me?" He offered. He felt your other foot reach out in answer, cold toes wiggling against the downy hair on his leg. He felt a dangerous, needy arousal thread through him.

Reaching out his uninjured arm, he hooked it round your waist, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed against you. You hummed in pleasure at the heat rolling off him, basking in his warmth, forgetting your awkwardness for a moment. Kento and you lay intertwined like that, with you softening like butter in his arms.

After a few minutes, you shifted against him, about to drift off to sleep. Kento must have been near sleep as well, groaning into your hair as you shifted, reflexively clinging you closer to him. Your bottom, completely bare with his shirt shifted up your body, pressed back to his groin. His clothed cock was hard and barely restrained in his loose trousers, and pressed between your thighs.

You felt a jolt run through you, feeling a warm trickle of arousal, so alien to you, seep out between your thighs. Kento almost saw stars as it dampened the trousers over his cockhead, and he frowned, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade in apology and embarrassment.

"I-- I'm sorry, I--...it's been so long...since I've felt a woman-- shit, I'm--" Kento rested his nose against your neck, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips there. You dropped your head back to him, and he growled in appreciation, nuzzling your neck, feeling your thighs clamp around the tip of his cock, your arousal seeping through his trousers and mixing with his own.

"I've never--" you whispered, blushing furiously, drunk on the feeling of his body against yours, feeling so curiously empty and aching to be filled. Kento understood immediately, and moved to pull back.

"No!" You squeaked, holding onto his arm, pushing yourself back to chase him along the bed, "Please, I-- I want--...you. I want you." Your words sat heavy in the air. Kento shifted behind you, at war with himself.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, fighting against you to remove his arm, "I am no boy."

"And I'm no girl, nor stupid," you reassured, "I'm not ignorant."

In an instant, Kento moved above you, on all fours, his arms caging you in, corseting you to his bed. He stared down at you, enormous chest heaving, eyes roving down your body, quickly intoxicated by your peaked nipples, beneath his shirt, the hem of it barely covering your sex, still feeling your arousal dampening his cock.

He leaned down, nestling his mouth against your neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting you. He felt you still under his lips, just a little mouse, in the jaws of a bear.

"And yet, all that knowledge is just academic, until you're crying out that my cock is too big for you," he growled, warning you away, barely able to stop himself. He felt you squirm beneath him, his head swimming with you. He was lost, then, to your tiny whisper in the gloom.

"Show me-- please." Kento shuddered, a drop of pre-cum seeping out of his cock, soaking through his trousers and your-- his-- shirt, to dampen your belly. You shivered, desperate to know Kento biblically, desperate for this fabled ecstasy.

Kento raised his mouth from your neck, reading your eyes, seeing such certainty in them. Tangling his fingers with yours beneath the sheets, he pressed the length of his body down against you as he kissed you, his other hand framing your jaw, gently encouraging it open to slide his tongue against yours. Your soft little moan was like music to his ears.

Kissing you deeply, learning your voice and your mouth, letting you learn the peaks and planes of his body with your free hand, Kento kept your other hand plaited with his own, fearful of leaving you to take this journey alone.

He felt himself shudder with the unbridled privilege of being able to worship you, jealously grateful that you had not been left to some boy. He was overwhelmed by the need to set your standards high at the first hurdle.

"Let me taste you," he murmured into your mouth, and you hesitated, unsure of what he meant. Swiping his thumb across your palm, Kento's mouth ventured downwards, sucking the skin of your neck, nipping before soothing the skin with his tongue, feeling you become pliable, supple as water. His fingers danced over the laces holding your shirt together, giving you opportunity to stop him, before untying them, freeing your breasts.

Laying his tongue flat over one nipple, Kento allowed it to curve to the shape of you, to know you, before drawing it into his mouth, sucking on your nipple while his hand toyed with and kneaded the other. He revelled in your whines, a high, keening mewl as you arched off the bed into his mouth. You felt his licks and sucks, curiously, between your legs, and you could not help but buck up against him.

Kento grunted at the feeling of your pussy pressing against his thigh, and moved one hand down to hold your hips still.

"Slow down-- let me show you," he ordered, gentle in his insistence. You trembled under his fingertips, your hips settling back to the bed. He rumbled his approval, rolling your nipple under his tongue again until you sighed, breathy and ecstatic, "Good girl."

In reward, his mouth continued to trail downwards, and your eyes fluttered closed, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, your fingernails scratching through his damp hair. Kento shivered at the sensation, feeling his cock leap against his thigh.

When his mouth reached your mound, you squeaked out in alarm, flipping the blankets down to see Kento, illuminated in the orange light.

"What are you-- your mouth, Kento--" Kento's eyes crinkled up at you, and two arms came to loop round the top of your thighs, pulling you down the bed towards him, your shirt being rucked up against the drag of the mattress to completely expose your glistening pussy to him.

Maintaining eye contact with you, you trembled with anticipation as Kento poked his tongue out into a point, first grazing your folds, before stroking from side to side to ease in between them. The sound that broke out from you as his tongue stroked over your clit, hot and wet, was one Kento masturbated to for years to come.

You felt as though you had been lifted from earth and dropped amongst the clouds as he licked at you, sucking, stroking, tasting, the pleasure so otherworldly compared to what your own hand could achieve, that you felt yourself being rushed towards your peak at speed.

Twisting and squirming against his mouth, you reflexively tried to pull your pussy away from Kento's attentions. His arms tightened around the tops of your thighs, growling into you, pulling you back as you tried to scoot away. Your hand tugged at his hair as you arched, whimpering, coated in a fine sweat. As Kento groaned into your cunt, you watched his hips roll and hump against the bed, the sight alone enough to send your orgasm crashing through you, and you worshipped his name in a long, keening cry.

Kento let his laps and sucks become softer, languid, letting you float through the haze of your pleasure. Nuzzling at you, tasting you as you trailed lazy blissful fingers through his hair, Kento planted soft kisses to your inner thigh.

Moving back up, stroking his nose against your neck, Kento felt your hand move down his shoulders and back, before coming round to ghost over the front of his trousers. Kento shuddered, kneeling above you to remove his shirt, skin prickling with the need to feel yours against his own.

Gazing down at you, his eyes like whiskey in the flickering light, he grazed a palm from in between your breasts, down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one swift tug, exposing you completely to him.

Your hand still trailed over his groin as he knelt, and you were captivated, obsessed with the shape, weight and length of his cock in your hands, blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. As you grasped the lace at the front of his trousers, undoing it, and squeezing the head of his cock between your fingers, Kento moaned, ragged, leaning one hand sideways to support himself.

"Fuck-- I haven't-- not for so long," he moaned, low and husky, feeling your inexperienced fingers explore his cock and balls in a way that felt almost abusively naive. As your thumb glided beneath his foreskin, collecting the wetness of his pre-cum, exploring his slit, Kento hissed, panting and grabbing your hand.

You broke out of your reverie, blushing with mortification, tears pricking in your eyes as you began to apologise. Kento interrupted, shushing you, one hand still gripping your fingers around his cock, the other coming up to cup your face, his thumb swiping across your cheek.

"Not you," he huffed, stroking your cheek, smiling down at you with fevered eyes, "me, it's-- I-- I'll cum in your hand if you carry on." Your eyes glimmered, hungry to see how he looked as you pleasured him, and you moved yourself, leaning close, squeezing him again beneath his own hand, and he cried out in pleasure. You felt another drip of his arousal across your fingers, and you gulped, your tongue darting out across your lips.

As you lowered yourself to his lap, Kento's eyebrows raised in shock, and desperate awe, as you licked the weeping cockhead sticking out from your joined enclosed hands.

A low rumble ebbed through Kento, his eyes suddenly dark and hungry as he looked down at you, wordlessly using your hand inside his own, to pump the length of his cock. Feeling the intoxicating glide of soft skin over woody hardness, you let him use your hand to masturbate himself as you took the head of his cock into your mouth, licking, tasting the musty pre-cum there.

Every instinct screamed at Kento to chase his orgasm, to press your head further down his cock so he could use your little hand to jack off into your mouth, and he felt overwhelmed by the innocent licks and sucks you gave him, eyes cast upwards to see what effect they had on him. Kento moaned desperately, twisting on his haunches, fingers in turn tangling into your hair and coming away, clenching and unclenching at speed.

He felt the approaching rush of divine ecstasy, thrumming up his back in waves, his balls tightening up against the base of his cock--

Snapping, Kento pulled your hand and mouth off him, heaving you up the bed and back onto the pillows, before pinning you down with his body, panting into your neck, trying not to spill his seed over your belly. You were thrilled, ecstatic with Kento's pleasure, eager to see more of it.

You crept your hips up to his, trying to ease his cock into you. Kento huffed, his hand shooting down to press your hips down again.

"--going to kill me-- I swear-- no idea...you have no idea what you're doing to me--" Kento panted, quaking above you, one forearm planted above your head. As his peak ebbed away, Kento plaited his hand with your own again, above your head. He felt his cockhead resting against the smooth resistance of your entrance, and he suddenly felt so responsible for you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he huffed, aware he was bigger than average, but knowing from the fevered look in your eyes that he could not dissuade you-- not that he wanted to, at this point, his cock throbbing with urgent need.

"Please," you begged, "please." You felt Kento's hips press forwards into your soaking wet heat, feeling a slight sting as it met resistance. Kento rested his nose to yours, his eyes still feverish, his body still smelling of iron and ash and smoke.

"On one condition," he pressed, authoritative as his cockhead pressed deeper against your stinging resistance, breaking past thin membrane, gripping your thigh up to his hip as you trembled, biting your lip, tears in your eyes as you nodded-- anything, you thought, anything.

"Marry me," he whispered against your lips, and you squeaked as you felt a twang of pain, his cock suddenly nestled deeply inside you. Kento rocked his hips gently, shushing you, soothing you, his thumb stroking your palm. Not moving, just holding you as you adjusted to feeling so full, Kento waited for an answer.

"Y--yes...yes," you mewled, and Kento growled his approval against your neck, slowly pulling out of you before rutting back into your wet, tender pussy again, so intimate and deep that you cried out for him.

Kento rolled his hips, like a boat on the waves, whispering into you, certain he wouldn't last long; "First-- I'll cum inside you-- then I'll treat you like a queen...haaah...for the rest of my days."

You clung to Kento, lost in the ecstasy of him plowing into you, delighted by his rumbling groans in your ears, blissfully proud of being able to make such an unflappable man fall apart inside you. When his grip on your hip faltered, his shaking hand dropping to stroke quick little circles around your clit, Kento growled and bit into your neck to feel you rock your hips upwards to meet his own.

The sting almost completely eased, you felt quick pangs of pleasure, rising with every beat of your fast little heart, completely carried along by the eroticism of Kento's frantic groans and mumbles into your ear.

"My love I-- you feel so good...so good...god, I need to cum, need you to cum I-- aahhhh, fuck--" Kento felt your pussy clench around him, and he came inside you as you drank down his moans, fascinated by how they matched up with the bounding twitch of his cock, how his hips juddered into you involuntarily, how his face contorted, jaw clenched, somewhere between rage and serenity.

You were famished, starved of him, immediately desperate for more, and you felt him crumple into you, caging you in, shoulders heaving and spent. Kento chuckled as you peppered him with kisses, gripping your thighs round him and rolling him over so you lay above him, straddling him as his cock softened within you.

With his chin on his chest to look down to you, and a lazy lopsided smile across his face, Kento played idly with your hair, stroking your nose, your cheeks. He proudly fingered the beautiful necklace, resting against your breasts, squashed and plush against him.

"You meant it?" He asked, eager, concerned.

You hummed in delight, pressing a tender kiss to his chest as you nodded; "You had me at 'hello'."

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Would the anon who requested Blacksmith!Kento PLEASE STAND UP so I can credit you for breaking my brain.

4K notes · View notes

blkkizzat · 8 days ago

Text

PU$$Y GOT MORE M⛧RDERS THAN SHIBUYA.ᐟ 𝐌⛧𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑#𝟓 — 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨, 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮

⛧ 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡: nov 19th 8:52pm ⛧ 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡: onsen + dubcon + coercion + fingering + riding + mating press + bath sex + breeding + sassy!reader ⛧ 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬: 5751

𝐧𝐧𝐧 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Suguru reclines against the edge of the onsen, arms stretched lazily along the stone. Steam curls around him in languid waves, the mineral-rich bath soothes his bones but does absolutely nothing for the ache between his muscular thighs. The weight of his erection, stiff and heavy, anchors against the flat planes of his stomach—a silent testament to the tension that even the warm waters cannot wash away.

19 days.

It’s been 19 days since the start of 'No Nut November'—an ordeal that began with your unwelcomed and completely unsolicited suggestion during a meeting with Suguru's top benefactors.

The meetings with these so-called patrons, eager for a taste of pseudo-importance in his cult, were just another way Suguru expertly exploits their inflated sense of superiority to pull them, and their bank accounts, deeper into his web of indoctrination. Growing irritated at the mere memory, Suguru’s muscles tense up as if the onsen’s warmth had never touched him. Normally his secretary, Manami, would sit-in to take notes during these meetings, but with more pressing matters elsewhere, she had sent you in her place.

You were the newest member of Suguru’s sorcerer family—a position you accepted, albeit reluctantly, thanks to a recommendation from your long-time friend, Manami herself. Still, Suguru isn't blind.

He knows you didn't join out of loyalty nor conviction—you needed protection.

Aligning yourself with Suguru’s cause was a way to escape Jujutsu Society’s relentless pursuit. They were hunting you for your various crimes as well, and being under Suguru’s protection offered you a chance to survive.

And yet, the subtle side-eyes you throw his way, the faint twitches at the corners of your mouth, the tiny snorts that you so skillfully turned into sneezes at his various words or proclamations—they spoke volumes.

You thought he was full of shit.

Not exclusive to just his cult either—his entire ideology.

Although, you never openly defied nor disrespected him.

On the contrary, your behavior was impeccable surface wise.

Anyone if asked would say you were a sweet yet quiet girl who showed Suguru the utmost reverence in your mannerisms and diligently carried out every task assigned to you.

Your rebellious yet inconspicuous expressions of skepticism were too minor for others to notice in order for him to justify any kind of punishment. Not to mention your babydoll-like mannerisms that made you look even more like the picture of innocence. Your rap sheet as a cursed user was the only sign anyone would ever have of your deviant ways and yet with just a bat of your eyes you'd be able convince anyone you were the one wrongly persecuted. No, Suguru he couldn't risk openly punishing you for no reason lest he be seen as a hypocrite in front of his newly made family. After all, he had vowed to do no harm to fellow sorcerers not standing in his way.

Besides, even if you didn't approve, you also weren't a hindrance to him—you were an asset.

Nevertheless, there was still a lingering air of smugness about you that irked, crawling under Suguru's skin like a parasyte. A secretive defiance against him, like you thought you were somehow above him because you deemed yourself more intelligent.

Your attitude combined with your charms reminded Suguru far too much of Satoru—a resemblance he would never admit aloud, but unfortunately, couldn’t ignore.

As a result, Suguru tended to avoid you. The quiet challenge you presented unsettled him—a subtle reminder of unresolved feelings toward his old friend-turned-foe. It was easier to sidestep you altogether, a pacifist approach to maintain his sanity and preserve his standing among his cursed user peers.

However, your filling in for Manami had been unavoidable on such short notice. And as Suguru expected, you seized the opportunity to mock him under a carefully crafted guise of loyalty.

With all the false earnestness your doe eyes could muster, you offered an insightful suggestion during the meeting—a so-called new way to bring his followers deeper into the fold and reveal the most worthy of his believers.

You proclaimed only Suguru’s most devout and faithful followers could perfectly embody the spirit of his cause and to prove their honor, they should adopt an ancient Roman warrior tradition—

—the practice of 'et non nux novem'—a month of silence, meditation, prayer, and of course—

abstinence.

All in honor of the gods—or, in this case, their fearless god-like leader Suguru.

Needless to say, the pompous dumbass monkeys in the room eagerly lapped up your grandiose words. You, the forked-tongue tempress, worked your soft-feminine charms to the point they were eating out of your palm.

These so-called 'elites' of Tokyo might have had wealth and status, but wisdom and worldliness?

Clearly lacking.

Otherwise, they wouldn’t have fallen into a cult in the first place, let alone been fooled by a dead language none of them could even understand.

None of them were versed in latin, that is, except Suguru.

Like a single spark on dry brush the idea of ‘et non nux novem’ spread like wildfire and every single monkey follower in his cult wanted to show themselves as worthy by participating.

While you were praised for your faithfulness to the cause, Suguru found himself trapped. Forced to participate in this charade to set an example of solidarity and faith. And while Suguru could handle many things, losing wasn’t one of them. What infuriated him even more was the way you’d turned his cult against him, audaciously meeting his bullshit with your own.

For the first-time since the start of his cult someone had checkmated him.

Not to mention, you’d effectively cucked him, and you knew it—the small, self-satisfied smile on your plump lips every time you'd seen him this month said as much. Every tiny gesture of yours Suguru scrutinized and deemed to be in mock of him. Even the quick flick of your moist, pink tongue to wet your dry lips felt like a deliberate taunt.

The sight would send a visceral rage through Suguru who'd immediately take his leave.

But as the month wore on, those feelings morphed into something darker, invading his thoughts in more scandalously salacious ways. What used to be him envisioning him ripping your insolent tongue right out of your mouth, Suguru found himself wondering how your lips might feel wrapped around his cock, putting your mischievous lil' tongue to better uses.

You were too smart, too sassy, too sexy—and far too much like Satoru.

A dangerous combination that gnawed at Suguru's sensibilities, especially when every throb of his unattended member reminded him that you were the cause. It was more than he could bear—so, Suguru resolved to even the score.

You had to be dealt with lest you destroy him entirely.

Should be any minute now.This particular bathhouse on the compound was for sorcerers only and every member of his family had a scheduled time to use it.

Of course this just so happened to be your hour to bathe.

*CREEEAK*

Like clockwork you enter the onsen, sliding open the heavy wooden door and entering the bath.

Obscuring your vision, steam rises in soft clouds, condensing on the wooden ceiling and blurring the perimeter of the bath, not allowing you to see that it was already occupied.

Thinking nothing is amiss, you walk in completely bare with your tenugui towel draped over your arm. It’s not until you tentatively dip a toe into the water that Suguru clears his throat. "Ahem..."

The sudden sound startles you, and you trip, tumbling into the water with an ungraceful splash. Between the thick steam and the complete suppression of his cursed energy, you hadn’t seen Suguru at all—he caught you entirely off guard.

Drenched and gasping as you emerge to the surface, the presence of Suguru’s overwhelming cursed energy hits you all at once. It fills the room like a crushing wave, and you can’t stop the instinctual tremors that send ripples spreading through the water around you.

“G-Geto-sama!?”

Your entire body flushes with heat and as much as every nerve is screaming at you to flee, the quickest way to cover your nakedness was remain in the onsen.

Shit, did the bath schedules change and you had no idea?!

The urgency in which you practically dove back under the water, only the tip of your nose visible has Suguru chuckling.

“Now, now, you can cut the shy act, princess. There's no one for you to perform for here—tsk, a devious brat like you couldn’t possibly be so flighty.”

Glaring at him through the steamy mist, your cheeks burn with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. Insults and pet names swirl in your head as you try to take stock of your current predicament, searching for some semblance of composure.

But it’s impossible to ignore the weight of his gaze. You can feel it—piercing through the obscuring vapors and the milky mineral water as if they weren't even there.

“Hah?... m’not shy— or flighty for that matter! You just scared me a bit is all—I didn't think I'd have to be on my guard in the onsen!”

In an act of defiance you sit up fully and remove your arms covering your chest. Your buoyant breasts rise to float in the water as you attempt to stop your fidgeting.

Suguru hums.

You can't see but you can feel his expression turn darker through the haze as if he is pleased he unsettles you so much.

“We're preparing for war, princess—you should always be on guard."

Suguru scolds you playfully, though the patronizing edge lingers like a teasing blade.

"Even from you?" Testing him, you slowly build your nerve back with the challenging question, his cockiness getting under your skin as it always does.

"In your case? Especially from me."

Suguru’s rich, sexy baritone drips with intent, sending chills racing down your spine and pooling deep in your core. Despite the soothing warmth of the onsen enveloping you,you are desperately on edge.

Never in your dreams did you think your casual teasing of him would ever push him this far. Even so, you can't bite back the sass that spills from your lips.

"So you admit you're a fraud? The self-proclaimed sorcerer messiah?"

The energy around Suguru crackles, and your sharp, audible breath betrays your shock. Suguru strains as he struggles to maintain his calm and keep the upper hand, the heat of his anger brewing through the water. Yet the power radiating from him is unmistakable—a silent warning that he’ll take control, one way or another.

"You came here for my protection, yet you more than anyone are most liable to undermine me. Your duplicitous nature could shift against my favor at any moment. If I didn't know better I'd think he'd sent you to mock me... ”

Your face frowns in confusion, unsure of who Suguru is referring to but you are left no time to ponder as he continues.

"Now come here brat, tell me why I shouldn't cast you out—hand you right over to the higher ups and be rid of you for good."

You freeze, chewing the inside of your cheek as you debate whether you should actually run. Suguru was no rat, you knew he wouldn't turn you in. Cast you out to fend for yourself? Perhaps. Deep down though, you know you wouldn’t get far if he decides to catch you so you remain. The cracks in Suguru’s easy going demeanor—the one he carefully maintains for his sorcerer family—are starting to show.

Revealing just how fucking intense Suguru really is underneath it all.

“—I said come here. Or if you’re scared you can flee, little dove—flee this bath, my cult—and my protection for good.”

The timber in Suguru’s voice makes your nostrils flare, a reaction he anticipated all too well. He knows you’ll play right into his hands—escape was never truly an option. Reverse psychology was his favorite tool against pride as childish as yours, just as it always worked with Satoru. So, of course you take the bait despite yourself.

Although you knew you should fear him—that you were gambling at a game far above your metaphorical buy-in—the thrill of it was too intoxicating to resist. The feeling akin to standing at the edge of a cliff, fully aware of the drop but unable to step back as the wind whips around you inching you forward.

Swallowing hard, you rise to your feet, forcing yourself to keep your hands steady at your sides. Every nerve in your body screams at you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t. Instead, you move toward Suguru, your own steady gaze locked on his, refusing to flinch.

Approaching him, with each step closer, more of Suguru is revealed to you.

Your eyes shamelessly drink him in, unable to resist the temptation the cult leader, known as Geto Suguru exudes. Water droplets glide down his sculpted pecs, trailing over his abs and glistening off the sinewy muscles of his arms. Like a siren from mythology, Suguru’s slicked-back inky hair cascades over his broad, chiseled shoulders, pooling into the water around him, each strand seeming almost alive with its own allure.

There's no big mystery why he had so many people throwing themselves at his feet.

You blink hard, shaking yourself free from the allure of the beautiful siren-like man before you.

No, you’d never be one of them…right?

Your distracted thoughts keep you from noticing but Suguru is equally captivated by you. His predatory eyes sweep over your body, as if cataloging every detail of your curves to memory. You're sexier than he imagined under those sweaters you'd wear, hiding your perfect form from him. His cock pulses impatiently beneath the onsen waters, betraying his eagerness.

Suguru was secretly relieved you couldn’t see just how badly he wanted you at this moment—how badly he’d wanted you all month, for that matter. He’d gone through every stage of denial, convincing himself it was nothing—that you were nothing, before finally admitting the truth.

And now that he had successfully snared you he wasn’t going to deprive himself of you any longer.

“Stop there.”

Suguru’s commands are smooth and unwavering.

“Stand here.”

The spot he indicates is directly between his legs.

You swallow hard.

With your towel gone and the water receding in the shallow area of the onsen where he sits, your bare pussy is now at eye level with Suguru. His piercing scrutiny makes it impossible to remain still, every nerve in your body on alert. The longer he stares, lecherous and hungry, as if he might devour you whole, the quicker your breath hitches.

Your embarrassment slowly gives way to a simmering arousal you can’t control despite your growing annoyance for this man.

Suguru didn’t have to reach far at all to touch you and soon his fingers trailed featherlight touches up your inner thighs, sending tingles straight into your dripping pussy as you tried to remain still and pretend it's the water from the onsen and not from your cunt glistening on your thighs.

Like Suguru already knows how wet you are for him, his lustful gaze intensifies, smirk carving deeper into his features like a predator savoring its prey.

“This 'et non nux novem' is complete bullshit. You know it, like I know it." The sensation of your soft, wet flesh beneath his fingertips has a fresh surge of heat coursing through him.

"But since we're the only two who know the truth and you wish to stay under my protection, you’ll just have to take responsibility for the rest of the month—can you do that?”

You're breathless from his touch continuing to explore around your hips and upper thighs. Trying to resist leaning into his touch your words are clumsy as they spill out of you.

“Mmm…w-what about maintaining s-s-solidarity?”

Suguru brings you in, muscular arms wrapping around your waist deviously.

“Fuck solidarity, princess.”

You’d think you'd giggle at that if he hadn’t just murmured those words into your tummy. Suguru's warm breath dips into your navel and your tummy contracts—jailed in his strong grasp there is no running away from him now.

Yet his smooth words continue, as if he fully expects your obedient compliance.

“Will you be my devout, good lil' slut then, hm?”

You chewed your inner cheek.

Suguru’s attractiveness was never lost on you, but you saw him as an arrogant asshole who'd on top of that forever seems so distant. Plus, he always seemed irritated by your presence which is why you'd started the prank in the first place.

All of this only made his sudden attention now even more disarming.

You look away, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to mask your flushed expression. The gesture, meant to appear casual, only makes you seem shyer and more vulnerable, offering him an even softer view of you. You know you need to pull it together, but your bravado is slipping, painfully exposing your awkwardness as you grow increasingly pliable under his touch.

“Hm, does this bratty princess pussy think she's too good to serve?”

A startled squeak escapes you as Suguru’s hands resume their practiced exploration of your body. Agile fingers find your breasts as Suguru pinches your hardened nipples, rolling and pulling your sensitive buds firmly. The motions are like a silent punishment for the answer you haven’t even given yet—delivering molten pleasure to burn in your core.

“Answer me, slutty girl before I finally lose my patience with you.”

Suguru's fingers trace their descent back down your body to spread greedily over the soft curve of your ass. A sharp crack follows as his hand lands on your dampened skin, the sting radiating through you and snapping your gaze back to meet his. You whimper, the sound pitiful and almost apologetic, as his fingers knead and caress the tender flesh in the aftermath, leaving you trembling. Every touch is a reminder that you belong to him—every inch of you subject to the pleasure and pain he so expertly delivers.

“I-I'm not your s-servant...”

You weren’t convincing at all and the sight of your luscious body quivering in his hands has Suguru all the more eager to have you submit to him—to have you utterly threadbare and unraveling before him.

"Eh, are you not though?"

Expression darkened with intent, Suguru face is mere centimeters from your core as he inhales the intoxicating, sweet scent of your dewy pussy. His sultry eyes lock with yours looking up at you as if asking for your consent, your admission of desperation—your absolute obedience.

"Would you want to be?"

Fuck, the man was too deviously sexy to resist.The debauched scene made your entire body shudder, a needy moan falling from your lips as you instinctively angle your hips toward his hot awaiting mouth.

“...hnn—p-pleaseee, G-Geto-sama.”

However, just as you were certain he’d taste you, Suguru pulls back. His pretty, thin lips parting only to curl into a taunting smile.

“Oh? Now she begs. No, only my good, devout slut gets my mouth, princess. You'll have to do better than that if you want it.”

Your face crumples but all thoughts of protest vanish the moment the pads of his fingers brush lightly across your clit, now engorged and peaking through your folds. Working your tingly nub in slow, agonizing circles with his knuckles, while his thumb mirrored the rhythm against your hip.

The dual sensations has your thighs quivering, as delicate mewls spill from your lips uncontrollably—a clear sign to Suguru that it's been far too long since you’ve had a proper fuck.

“So sensitive… so responsive for a slut claiming not to be my servant.”

Suguru’s whole demeanor is voice saturated with amusement, but you felt so good and he looks so sinfully erotic with his hand in your folds, you don’t even care now that he is toying with you.

“You’ve been non nux for a long while now, haven’t you, princess? Wanting the rest of us to suffer with you, hm?”

You hated his smug ass but you let out an affirmative sigh despite yourself, drawing a chuckle from him.

Suguru sees it immediately—the way your body shakes, touch-starved and desperate for the attention he’s lavishing on you. His long finger glides through your slick, webbing the gossamer of your arousal against his thumb before sinking it into your pussy with deliberate precision.

Honeyed in your creamy nectar, his thick digit tows through every inch of your pretty peach.

“So fucking wet for me…this is why you wanted my attention, isn't that right, brat?”

Suguru slips a second long finger into your gooey core, the stretch immediately overwhelming—his one finger easily the size of two of yours. But you’re too lost in your own loud moans to notice Suguru’s low hiss, he's utterly caught off guard by the way your walls clamp down on him so fiercely.

Driving into your slick gummy walls harder and faster your cunt eagerly slobbers around his fingers as they reach into the very depths of your core—now zoning in on the firm, spongy spot within you.

Desperately, you fall forward and your pretty manicured nails puncture his shoulder as a third finger enters you.

Suguru typically doesn’t let anyone touch him so freely—yet he can’t bring himself to push you away. Watching you struggle to hold yourself together only made him more determined to break you completely, now with his fingers—then with his cock.

Resolved, Suguru hooks your leg over his other shoulder, forcing your body to open to him. Leaning-in Suguru gifts you steady, sloppy kisses up your inner thigh, stopping occasionally to languidly suction your plump flesh enough to leave a bruise—all in sharp contrast to the furious pace of his fingers pumping inside your dripping cunt.

Too skilled at siphoning out your juices, your creamy wetness slicks down his entire forearm to his elbow and then into the onsen as he works you over.

“Shiiiit—Geto-sa—MAAAH!”

Your free hand instinctively dives into his hair, tugging at his long raven strands at his scalp. Suguru’s eyes flare and he growls a warning in his throat at your audacity. But it's all easily forgiven, as you so beautifully slutted out before him—your head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as your serpentine hips meet the urgent plunge of his fingers grazing your womb.

Picking up his pace, Suguru’s fingers move deeper and faster. Your cries grow louder, unrestrained, your tongue hanging out as a strange immeasurable pressure builds under your tummy.

“NNNNGHH...m’no moreee—stawp—m’gonna pee in the onsennnn, pleaseeepleaseee!”

Your voice is distraught but your nails dig deeper into the flesh of his scalp and shoulder and your hips never stop rolling to meet his fingers.

What a perfect whore you’ve become for him.

“Tsk, silly slut—don't you know that's not pee princess? So don’t you dare hold back—show me how dirty this pretty lil' pussy can get grasping onto me like she's worshiping my fingers..."

Suguru sinks his teeth into the thick meat of your thigh, the bite leaving deep impressions in your soft tender flesh. The overwhelming buzz of opposing sensations is blinding to the point you’re soon spraying milky fluids all over his arms, chest and face.

Your eyes lodge into your skull as your orgasm peaks and crashes over you. Buckling forward as your legs become goo, yet Suguru's grip on you is steady as he pulls his fingers from your still spasming pussy. Without hesitation Suguru licks them clean, savoring the remnants of your release on them—it's a pity so much of it ended up in the onsen and not in his mouth.

Fuck— you’re so sweet on his tongue Suguru regretted not tasting you fully and robbing himself of your flavor. He had half the mind to feast on you now but the incessant throbbing of his long ignored cock needed to be dealt with first.

Wrecked from his fingers alone, your mind is hazy as the lingering pleasure clouds your thoughts. You barely register Suguru’s movements as he guides your body—lowering you until your soft tits press firmly against his hard chest. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, framing him as he swallows your plump hips in his large grip under the warm bath water.

“Breathe.”

Suguru murmurs softly into your temple, his voice deep and commanding, yet the instruction doesn't reach you in your dazed state. It’s not until the bulbous head of his cock pushes its way past your folds that the meaning sinks in—just as he thrusts upward, seating you completely onto him in one swift motion.

Immediately your body shudders, stretched and filled to the hilt. Every inch of Suguru bullies its way into your guts, shifting them forcibly creating space for his girthy intrusion.

You're completely at his mercy.

Simultaneously your voice croaks while Suguru releases a loud groan—fuck you're tight. Even with his preparation, the sheer size of him tearing through your walls has you clenching like a vice. Wrapping your trembling arms around his neck, you struggle to breathe, the sensation so intense it’s as if he’s actually breached your womb.

The heat inside you soon burns hotter than the onsen's steaming waters, and Suguru swears under his breath trying not to cum from how tightly your cunt is strangling his cock. Suguru figures he’s the biggest you’d ever taken but you’d surely melt his dick off if you didn’t ease up.

You hiccup, tears streaking your puffy cheeks as his large palm rubs soothing circles on your lower back, the other guiding you up and down his thick shaft in slow, deliberate movements. The blend of pain and pleasure blurs together, overwhelming your senses.

“NGHHH, too m-much, S-Sugu—so deep!”

Babbling into the crook of his neck, your voice cracks as you plead with him.

“Come on, princess…”

Suguru softly chuckles, but when your sobs turn into full-body tremors, your nails digging into his back with desperate intensity, he pauses.

Gently pulling you from his neck, Suguru examines the flush spreading across your body. The heat from the water and Suguru become too much and you can barely keep your head up as it rolls back from dizziness, your consciousness fading.

Suguru sighs, brushing damp hair from your face.

“What’s wrong, brat? You’re shaking and clenching like some—”

Suguru stops mid-sentence as realization strikes. Your shyness, your sensitivity, hell even the awkward veil of confidence that was quickly revealed as soon as he pulled your card a lil.

Gripping your face, you wince as his sharp gaze locks on yours.

“Answer me truthfully, girl— are you a virgin?”

“...n-not anymore.”

Although weakened, your voice is still laced with a trace of attitude that makes Suguru snort despite himself.

Fuck. He should’ve known.

As troublesome as you are, he’d pegged you for a slut. Instead, you were an innocent dove—still troublesome, but innocent nonetheless.

With a quiet curse, Suguru pulls out of you and the water in one fluid motion. Droplets cascade off your bodies as he gently lays you onto the warmed stone floor beside the onsen.

Grabbing a cool cloth from a nearby bucket, he dabs your forehead, then across the rest of your body to cool you. A soft sigh escapes you as the chill seeps into your heated skin, soothing the burn of exertion.

When he wipes the rest of your body, his gaze catches on the streaks of red staining his cock and your thighs. A flicker of guilt flashes across his face, and he silently berates himself. Had he known, he would’ve approached this with a bit more tact.

Yet when your trembling hand grabs his bicep, vulnerable and pleading, his control crumbles.

“N-No, no, p-please… d-don’t stop now…” Voice breaking, as it stammers under the weight of your desperation.

You’re sore, yes, but the emptiness between your legs burns hotter, the ache of arousal far outweighing any lingering discomfort now that the rest of your body has cooled from the bath.

Suguru’s lips curl into a slanted, tight-eyed grin.

So you did want to be corrupted by him after all?

He could oblige you in that.

Wasting no time, Suguru is hovering over you. Sinking back into your heat with care, you feel every thick, veined inch stretching you open, plunging so deep it sets your walls ablaze.

Your head tilts back as your spine arches, and a sudden gush of slick erupts from your pussy, heavy and uncontrollable. The rush of fluids splashes between you, nearly forcing Suguru’s cock out as your walls quake violently around him. He growls, bracing you against the floor to steady your trembling body.

Broken whines spill from your lips from Suguru wrapping a hand possessively around your throat, his grip grounding you as his arrogance seeps through in a low, rumbling chuckle against your ear.

“Shit princess—you’re squirting like a goddamn faucet on my cock—wetter than the onsen. Can’t even take a lil’ dick without soaking us both? What a slutty virgin...”

The deep vibrations of his words ripple down your spine, intensifying the way your pussy clenches around his cock. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, heels digging into his hips in a desperate attempt to keep him buried deep inside you.

However, Suguru doesn’t allow it for long. With a deliberate shift, he changes positions—he hooks his arms under your knees, folding you in half as he presses them to your shoulders. The new angle draws a whimper from your lips, allowing him to go much deeper as he drags the ridges of his girth along your walls, savoring every inch of your snug fluttering cunt.

Stuffed full of him again, Suguru moves in measured strokes. The initial sting of his size gradually melts into a searing arousal, coiling deep in your belly when Suguru flicks figure 8 circles on your clit.

"Don't run from it princess...." Suguru coos a warning to you when your small hands slip over his abs to slow the pace of his hips. Your cute face scrunches up, fueling his hunger for you.

Yet it's the moment your hips start to squirm uncoordinatedly, desperate to meet his rhythm, he knows you’ve adjusted.

That’s when Suguru really lets go.

His cock slams into you with relentless force and leaves you clinging to him for dear life while your screams echoing throughout the bathhouse. Suguru doesn't care if anyone outside can hear, if anything he wants them to, it be a lewd testament to how good he was fucking you.

The feral slaps of his balls against your ass also grow louder as his pace quickens, grinding his hip into you harder, deeper, and more wildly with every thrust. The raw, primal sound of your bodies colliding fills the air, matched only by your shared moans and the filthy, wet squelches of your cunt greedily pulling him in and forming a creamy ring around his base.

“HNNNG—AH! Feels s’gud, c-cock s’gud, pleasepleaseplease fuckmefuckmefuckme, Sugu!”

Suguru’s hips stutter for a brief second, your voice is raw with need as you coo his name. Your inexperienced virgin pussy having the gall to give him any demands like he's the one submitting to you.

How did it end up like this?

“Am I not fucking you, slutty brat?!”

Irritation rumbles deep in Suguru’s chest, more at himself than at you. The intense urge to please you grates against his belief that, as his follower, it is you who should be working to satisfy him. Yet his body betrays him, his loins burning with the undeniable truth that he's addicted to you now. Picking up inhuman speed, sweat dripping off his brow, Suguru drills into you, determined to coax more of your silky squirt from your body.

“OOO—OH FUUUU—CK! Y-Yessss, Geto-samaaaah!”

The glare Suguru gives you is piercing as his hand leaves your clit and weaves around your throat in an instant.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare call me that when you’re moaning under me like a whore and commanding me to fuck you.”

Bullying into you harder, your back arches off the stone floor as pure euphoria floods your senses.

“It's Suguru to you when I'm fucking you dumb, princess." You nod your head frantically, nails raking welts along his back. "If you understand, then say it—you had enough audacity to use it once before—now I want my slutty brat to moan it for me loud enough for every monkey in this compound to know you’re my whore.”

Screaming it like a mantra as you cum again once more splashing squirt and fluids that gather into a puddle on the stone beneath you, flowing back into the onsen.

Hearing his name leave your lips so desperately has Suguru releasing buckets inside you—an ungodly amount of cum spurting into your abused lil' cunt. The obscene sound of it bubbling and spilling out accompanies each additional plow of his hips, on a mission to bury as much of it inside you as possible.

The heat, the overwhelming fullness—it leaves your body shuddering, your limbs weak and boneless against him as he uses you like a fleshlight riding out his remaining waves.

You are unsure how long you laid there with him collapsed on top of you but as the fog of euphoria begins to dissipate, your pussy aching, you glance up to find Suguru staring down at you.

His expression is smug, victorious, as if he’d claimed some grand prize and you pout.

Your plan to cuck Suguru for an entire month failed spectacularly!

Suguru doesn't need to say anything as the loss is written all over your face. Yet he still rubs it in a bit more with a chaste kiss placed delicately on your cute pouty lips.

“I-I still think you’re full of shit y-you know, Sugu.”

You exhale a shaky breath of defeat, your voice raspy and chest rising and falling in uneven puffs.

Sucking his teeth in amusement, Suguru’s smirk hasn’t left him yet.

“Yeah, and now you’re full of me—funny how life comes at you fast, huh princess?”

Your scoffs quickly turn into soft goans as Suguru presses down on your belly. The pressure on your womb makes you squirm beneath him as your cunt squelches out more of his cum, unintentionally making him hard inside you again with the urge to fill you until you are walking out of her limping and leaking his cum in puddles.

“Hm, now my devout lil' slut—shall I continue to breed your bratty not-so virgin pussy in honor of ‘et non nux novem’?”

𝐚/𝐧: next non-queued post (comment on m.list for tag) nanami, kento

okay i gotta say i ate this. had to even stop a few times and calm myself down while i was editing this thats why this was so delayed lol. reblog and comment please if this also took yall places dkjcajndkjsh

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