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ryo-kaikura · 2 months ago

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Yandere brothers x step-brother reader x yandere males

Your mother remarried to a powerful wizard family because you had a high talent for magic. But when you get there, and nobody likes both of you. After snooping around you heard the head of the family, the one your mother married, only accepted because he needed someone to cover his real wives from the world. The wives hate your mother because they thought you were an illegitimate child, the brothers hate you because they thought you would destroy their family. The head of the family just doesn't care, all he truly cares about was his wives and his sons.

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You were reincarnated as a baby, you were living a fulfilling life with your new family up until you father died of an illness, the illness has a cure but the cost was too high even though you were a noble family, a viscount. Usually for normal nobles the prince will be nothing but their child's allowance for a month. But you were born in a family of a military noble.

Because your grandfather and you mother was in the military and helped the empire, the emperor gave your mother the title of viscount Evergreen. When your mother got the title, she gave every jewelry and treasure she had to improve her land and her people but because o that she had very little money.

Even though you were reincarnated and you knew little to none about your past life, all you knew was your death that was until you unlocked yout mana after your father's death as mana was said to open in extremely emotional moments. Your mana was weird and you couldn't use magic like normal, your mana would hurt you if you used the normal mana handling. Just as you were about to give up the past memories opened up, you remembered your past world was another magic filled world but the world was modern.

When you realized this, you used multiple ways to handle mana and modified it to fit you. Soon you were able to use mana proficiently. Without your mother knowing, you were able to make a magic tower, you named it “phantom tower”. This magic tower rivaled the “magic tower” with their proficiency of having very skilled mages But nobody new how to get inside.

Your mother, who knew you could do magic, tried to help in her own way, since she wasn't able to put you in the “phantom tower” . She decided to marry the head of the “magic tower” So you could learn magic.

In the end, both you and your mother did thing without telling the other.

While you were learning magic, more memories opened. Soon, you realized this place was a novel, where the FL tried to learn magic and was able to get a scholarship into the magic tower to learn. You were also in this novel, because the you in the novel didn't have knowledge of multiple mana handling, you were jealous and bullied the FL because she was able to make your step brothers react positively (saying hello back). Soon you and your mother got kicked and died of starvation. The funny part was your mother was given a hero's death while you were just put in a the soil without a casket.

When you realized why she did that, you were shocked to say the least.

You had zero opinion on the Nortarian family (the magic tower family). When you arrived in the northern Territory you were surprised because the family wanted to scorn the both of you since the public that isn't in your land thinks your family wastes money on materialistic things. When the both of you arrived, you have kept your mother safe from the heat with your magic but she didn't realized since even without your magic, she would still survive since she is called the goddess of the battlefield since she was kind to her people and tries p end thing with as little deaths as possible for both sides.

When you got down from the carriage, your mother was holding her blanket while you just draped it on your shoulders, either of you was shivering even though the carriage itself was cold to the touch. Another surprise was the brothers were shorter than said in the story. The story said when you arrived, you were a head shorter than both of the brothers but it seems they're a head shorter than you.

You also brought with you your first disciple. His name is Joshua, with fluffy brown hair and a well built build. He only reached your ear. When you met the head, Aldrich Nortarian, you were face to face with him. Forgot to mention you were only 18 years old while the brothers were 16 years old.

The day before, you asked to stop searching for the people that were neglected because of their magic/mana. But your disciples already found a girl, you just asked Simeon to teach her. You've asked the other disciple to teach. You only have two disciples, one was Joshua, he was a beggar because his parents died and the people in his village thinks he is a curse but in fact his parents died of the same disease as your father and the other was Simeon, he was a pickpocketer because he needed money to survive since both his parents abandoned him when he unlocked mana but it was unable to use them so basically useless to them.

When you were given a room, the room was amazing to the poor and poor to the rich. For you and your mother, this was just fine.

Two years later

It's been two years since you arrived, the family did treat your mother completely differently after she was willing to sacrifice her life for the wives.

The mother of the first child, Maria, was a strict yet loving mother that's why her child, Wilhelm, was a dream child for any parent. The mother of the second child, Phoebe, was a carefree but she knew how to take care of her child so he would grow into a proper man that's why the second son, Axel, was a carefree but at the same time stuck to his duties.

Ever since the day your mother was willing to save Maria's life from a disease and Phoebe's life from multiple assassinations. Both Maoa and Phoebe fell in love with her. They were able to make Aldrich also like her since your mother, while invited by his wives, would still think of him and that made Aldrich fell in love with his third wife. But the brothers still hated both you and your mother's guts.

Though they can't really do anything since they were weaker than you. How did you know? Since they tried to bully you, they request a magic duel, but they ended up humiliated.

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It was the day the FL entered the magic tower. You don't see the FL, just a guy with FL's hair and eye color. You thought nothing of it.

Soon the FL looking guy walked towards you, he said his name is Emy. Weird, his name sounds similar to the FL's name, Emily. Emi said he has a scholarship, originally they ordered it for his twin sister but his twin sister already entered the Phantom tower.

The reason why they didn't get one for him was because he lacked mana control so he was unable to use magic. Deciding to make him your third disciple, you asked your mother to ask Aldrich to allow it. Later that day, you were allowed to teach Emi.

Emi was fundamentally different, his mana was more like an ocean than a river that flows to his whole body. So you began to manipulate his mana to be able to flow. But sadly the process takes a while so he studies in class in the meantime. Unbeknownst to you, Emi was bullied because he was unable to show his magic.

Emi started to slowly lose his self esteem. In the past, the FL also had the same conditions but because of the brothers' help, she was protected. Seeing as the brothers won't help because it doesn't benefit them, you helped Emi by making the bully back off. Because of this both you and Emi got close. Somehow along the way, the brothers got jealous.

The brothers actually never hated you, you were humble but confident, strong but kind, basically the perfect spouse for them. But they were always the dominant one so when you showed your dominance to them, they backed off, up until you got close to Emi. Wilhelm suggested to Axel to just accept being his wives and not the other way around, and Axel accepted. Soon the brothers plan was in action, they would subtly seduce you with magic and their sudden different nature and take you away from Emi. But surprisingly Emi was able to get into heir group and now they do this to make you forget about anybody else but them.

The plan was working well until Simeon and Joshua realized what the brothers and Emi was doing. Turns out, his sister Emily looked nothing aliked with Emi, and Emi was born without gender so he would be able to change his gender up until age 18 when he would be in that gender forever. Turns out, he originally wanted to be a girl so you would fall in love but forgot to change back to female after playing in the village. How did Emi like you? In truth, he was already saved by you multiple times, you just never realized.

Originally, Joshua and Simeon wanted to put an end to all of this, but they decide to follow.

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Years later

You didn't know how anything happened anymore. Your mother was brought to an island to enjoy the retirement of Aldrich. Aldrich immediately gave you his position after knowing you were the leader of Phantom tower from the age of 16.

You were married to Wilhelm, Axel, Emi, Joshua and Simeon in that order. Somehow every wife was able to give birth and they each gave birth to 1 to 3 children. Every member of the Nortarian family was able to become either high tier mages or the best of the best battle mages.

You also realized the basement of the family manor was filled with people you knew, starting from people you hate to people you have neutral feelings for. All of them had something in common, they were tortured and killed painlessly.

You could do nothing but accept this harem of crazy men.

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This is a flop, originally was only going to make it only the brothers but idk what happened, the ending is rushed, I know, but I didn't know how to end it tbh

#male yandere x male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #sub yandere #yandere x male reader #yandere male x male reader #sub!yandere #x male reader

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otkuhotgirl · 2 months ago

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─── 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 .

# with flame emperor sabo.

sabo fell for the fiancé of a wealthy heir. luckily enough, he held no respect for the world government dogs whatsoever — and he was about to let them know that.

⎰ & KINKTOBER. smut (mdni!). public. dry!humping. finger!sucking. pyromania if you squint. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 1.8k

sabo the revolutionary had quite a select number of bad qualities — and twice as many positive ones, if he said so himself — although his sadism concerning those in a position of wealth was of particular prominence. his first intention had not been to get involved in the webs of your life. it was but a simple mission; brief in essence. to infiltrate into the household of a wealthy family, aligned to the world government, to steal the specific letters of the discussed alliance — and some expensive jewelry, while he was at it, and to leave, unscathed. yet, sabo was hot-headed, and his disgust regarding the higher-ups all but served to flare that temper; to feed the beast itching for a fight. you — vexed, fretful, the engagement golden band on your finger, seeming to weigh but a thousand tons — proved to be his perfect excuse for a bit of a thrill.

seducing the sharp-witted fiancé of an arrogant heir, fucking one in the backroom of a ball, at that, was oddly satisfying. sabo presumed it’d be a singular encounter, neither predicting nor planning on repetitions. yet, he caught himself returning to your bedsheets — again and again — somewhat gaining a double-agent who offered him confidential information for the merest sake of getting into the nerves of those who had arranged that marriage. sabo risked the rage of his mentor and comrades, far too obsessed to refrain from returning to your haze of pleasure. and oh, how satisfying it was to claim you right under the royalty’s nose. to have you squirming and begging for his touch, claiming you on the same bed meant to symbolize your chastity.

yet, that had been his most ambiguous act so far. your wedding reception: a boisterous celebration, meant to leave a clear message for the entire world to see. sabo made his way through shadow and crowd, eyes tethered to the gorgeous, statue-worthy, sight of you — a monument in silk and pearls. mutual observation; your glance tethered to his figure, hidden amidst the countless, fancy chandeliers. your smile, brightest than the reflected light on your collar and earrings. it would be impossible for you to excuse yourself from the untrustworthy guests, but no limit was unattainable to him whenever you were concerned. a small, unprecedented commotion outside had the gathering on edge, parroted fools following the source of the sudden explosions — fireworks, reserved for the ceremony, a spectacle he didn’t hesitate to ruin.

a single grin sent his way had him aflame, you but a blur of white striving towards the natural maze in the garden, losing yourself amidst the bushes and thorns, presenting the challenge of being found. countless of others dared venture inside the maze, yet sabo’s senses were attuned to your spirit, the sudden outburst of flames smearing the night sky all but covered by the exploding fireworks. a pool of fire settled under the sole of his boots at his approach, grass giving in to the sudden heat as his hands claimed your hips, pressing your back flush against his chest.

“pearls,” he scoffed, voice laced with irony as his teeth bit on your earlobe. “couldn’t afford diamonds?

an amused sigh mingled with the ever-growing wild tempo of your breathing, your fingers intertwining with his own. “the treasure safe was stolen a few hours ago, such a morbid coincidence.”

“what a tragedy,” sabo mocked, lower intonation expliciting the gradual increase of his lust.

his fingers curled around your necklace, and a brute tug had the elastic snapping, a cascade of pearls meeting the grass, glinting white mirroring the moonlight. he shoved a hand inside the pocket of his trousers, fishing a stolen, diamond necklace, and clasping it around your neck. it shone — pale and ethereal — twice as much as those stupid pearls, the golden band serving as a perfect contrast to the expensive stones.

“would you look at that,” you pointed out in faux shock, and sabo grinned, tongue meeting the bare flesh of your neck.

the warmth around the pair of you increased — a consequence of the wildfire he had created. it was but a matter of time until the alarmed guests followed the trail of smoke; found your figure pressed against his own. sabo wrapped a hand around your throat, his cock hardening at the singular, delighted moan you produced. the sight of you in white; a wedding dress meant for another; had him seething. his teeth claimed your shoulder as he brushed a thumb against your lower lip, his back but a shield that kept you safe from the bruising flames.

sabo had your ass pressed against his clothed erection, a particular thrust causing him to groan, a shuddering breath following-in-suit. you whimpered at each lascivious, harsh roll of his hips, as though he aimed to have his cock inside your cunt regardless of the fabric that separated the pair of you. the commotion was but a mute, irrelevant thing, for sabo was far too dazed; lost amidst the metaphorical haze of lust and the quite literal cloud of smoke, the scent of the burnt bushes filling the air.

your own hips began to move, meeting his thrust halfway, his breath growing ragged at the pressure, his tip smearing the fabric of his underwear, girth aching within the coffins of his trousers. sabo kept a bruising grip on your waist, growing mad at the merest thought of the context of that encounter — your marriage to a scornful, disgusting heir with no respect for human life whatsoever. he snapped his hips, brute and possessive, teeth buried on your shoulders as he forced you to meet his thrusts.

his arm was the one to keep you balanced; tethering you to the earth. you had your head on his shoulder, neck craned to offer further access to the abusing bruises left on your flesh by his famished mouth. you moaned, back arching as he tried to have a brief taste of the folds of your ass, through his clothed girth.

the fire closed in, yet sabo took-in the opportunity offered by the cacophony of your whimpers to shove three of his fingers inside of your mouth, the sudden invasion provoking your gag reflex. dragon-claw technique was made for violence; battling. yet it had not been the first time he used the crafted strength of his fingers on you — oftentimes shoving them so deep into your pussy, you were left unable to feel your legs for a couple of succeeding hours. your mouth, however, was quite a new territory — and one he was eager to venture through, especially with the incoming crowd.

“suck on it,” he rasped out, and your moan sent a tide of vibrations through his skin, your tongue following-in-suit; swirling, warm and wet, having him grunt at the reminder of how it felt to have your mouth wrapped around his cock.

drool dripped past your parted lips, trailing down your chin. he did not dare shove his fingers knuckle deep, well-aware that the limitations of your mouth were far less extensive than those of your cunt, yet the strength of the thrusting into your mouth remained, filling the ambience with the sound of your struggle; your constant gagging. your cheeks were hollowed as you all but failed to match his tempo, tongue giving-in under the pressure of his digits. it was erratic, vicious and lewd, saliva coated fingers and a brutal, ever-constant thrust of his girth against your ass. yet, sabo had never been more hard; neglected cock leaking. tears rolled down your cheeks, mingled with liquid streaks of black as your fluids ruined the makeup you wore. he wondered how long those people had wasted, dolling you up, turning you into an ethereal and desirable object, coated in richness and assuming an image so far from the you he knew. sabo chuckled — darkly, malicious — for he meant to demolish the foundation of their plans, stealing their most precious jewel.

flames engulfed the surroundings, daring to lick the hem of your dress, silk crumbling from the heat. for a second, sabo allowed the wildfire to destroy it; to claim the fabric and the one who wore it. the long, chic dress shrunk, offering him a clear sight of your thigh. you gagged, whether it had been from his fingers or the smoke, he could not guess, but the sound had been engulfed by the gasps from the outsiders, and sabo, at last, laughed. he picked up the pace of his humping, dragging his tongue up your neck, teeth teasing your earlobe.

he heard flabbergasted shouting and gasping, the guests failing to approach the two of you, figures engulfed by a curtain of flames and smoke. sabo grew more excited at their reaction, grunting as he shoved his fingers, knuckle deep, a final time. you gagged, clinging to his wrist, pleading stance edging him further. he was close to cumming in his pants as though a ridiculous, untouched virgin, yet he did not care whatsoever, retreating his fingers to grip at your chin, forcing you to face the alarmed guests, observing the scene without the means to retrieve you.

the groom barked out orders, yet the fire began to spread with renewed fury, a tide of devastating heat challenging him to face it. sabo’s breath tickled the side of your cheek as he smirked, forcing your hips to remain pressed against his cock.

“you’re going to sing for them,” sabo rasped out, lips moving to bite on your earlobe. “let them know where your loyalty lies.”

he groped one of your breasts, your saliva soaking the thin silken fabric, making it easier for him to tease your hardening nipple, pinching it ever-so-slightly. sabo forced you to feel every inch of his erection, wet mouth sucking bruises on your neck as he coaxed a loud, broken moan out of you. that hardly would be enough to have either of you cumming, but he could fix that soon enough. as of then, sabo enjoyed the sight of your ruined dress; tear-stricken face; abused throat. the fact that he melted you into nothing but a reminder of the role you were forced to play earlier. he grunted, twitching your nipple with non-forethought strength, causing you to mewl, a victim of his unrelenting touch.

sirens flared; the distinctive shout for the marines. sabo clicked his tongue, wrapping an arm around your figure, ceasing to tease you. he let out an amused laugh at the sight of your displeasure, barely clinging to consciousness due to the smoke, yet willing to ignore said barrier for the sake of having his fingers shoved into your awaiting mouth. sabo used his devil-fruit to propel the pair of you up, flames engulfing the lower part of his body as he flew far from the commotion, towards the docks. moonlight reflected on the diamonds adorning your neck, and a certain hint of possession settled itself in the pit of his stomach, heat sent straight into his still leaking, neglected cock.

“where to?” you inquired, secured into his arms, comfortable despite the height.

“freedom,” he answered, not adding that freedom’s gates were but an improvised bed on a small ship, promising a proper fuck — with those diamonds resting on your breasts.

— 🐈‍⬛ : google will PAY for the stress it’s been giving me this past week i swear!! kinktober almost ending, though. ☹️

#kinktober 2024 #one piece #op x reader #op #one piece x reader #one piece x you #op x you #one piece smut #op x y/n #sabo x you #flame emperor sabo #sabo x reader #revolutionary sabo #one piece sabo #sabo #op sabo #sabo smut #sabo x y/n

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nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 1 year ago

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Holy shit guys.

Did not expect that last post to blow up like that, like?? Thank you??

You're all amazing and I love you.

Almost as much as I love this sassy asshole.

I mean look at him.

So anyway here's a ton of romancey headcannons, both fluffy and spicy, definitely NSFW.

LA!Mihawk X Fem!Reader

L'alphabet d'Amour:

Dracule Mihawk

A — Afterglow (How are they after sex?)

You're having a bath together. This is not up for debate.

He's going to get it started and carry you to the bathroom.

Candlelight, wine.

Probably not much talking, but he'll wrap an arm around your waist and pull you back against him, and trail kisses down your neck and your shoulders.

B — Backrubs? (Do they like them? Like giving them?)

Not really likely to initiate it on a whim unless he knows you're hurting.

He won't say no if you ask.

If he's sore and exhausted from training or fighting and you give him a massage, you're probably going to be getting a lot more than a massage in return.

Soft sighs and words of praise.

"You are an absolute treasure, my love."

C — Cuddling (Do they enjoy cuddling a lot ot only at certain moments?)

Again, he isn't likely to initiate it outside the bedroom, but if you drop yourself into his lap he's not going to turn you away.

Pulling you closer by your waist and brushing your hair away from your eyes.

Gettle kisses at your temple, the top of your head, your hands.

He's more iffy about it in public or when other peoole are present, and might be a little tense about doing more than having his arm around your waist while walking.

D — Dance (Are they good at it? Do they enjoy it?)

His grace and poise in swordfighting transfers directly to dancing.

It isn't exactly a hobby, but in the corrrect setting he enjoys it uwith you.

Strong preference for slow-dancing.

Holding your waist and cradling your hand gently in his his, gazing into your eyes in a way that makes your knees weak.

That little smirk when he notices you getting hot under the collar.

Leaning in to murmur in your ear, his hand slipping behind you to caress the back of your thigh.

"Now now...don't get too worked up, little one. We are still in public."

Soft kisses at your jaw and your neck when no one is looking.

E — Extravagant Genstures (Things they do to make you feel loved, things they appreciate you doing.)

He loves buying you things. Clothes, jewelry, perfume. Almost anything you mention wanting in front of him, he's going to find time to get it.

Taking you out for the evening to expensive restaurants and hotels, keeping an arm around your waist to make sure everyone knows you're his.

Possessive but not controlling—at least not outside of bed.

F — Fighting (How do they hand arguments/apologies?)

He ALWAYS has to be right. He doesn't like admitting he's wrong, but he will do so begrudgingly if he actually is.

He will apologize first if he has to—he doesn't like having you mad at him.

Silence doesn't normally bother him at all, but you giving him the silent treatment will drive him absolutely crazy.

"Would you just say something, woman? I prefer you yelling to this petty nonsense."

The make-up sex is absolute fire.

As if he isn’t the king of petty nonsense.

G — Getting Hot (What they do to turn you on, things you do that gets them riled up)

He doesn't beat around the bush—he has no problem worh pulling you to him, looking you in the eyes, and telling you he wants you.

Trails his fingers down your arms, your neck.

Deep, firm kisses, pressing you up against the wall.

He doesn't do much dirty talking, prefering to keep his nouth occupied with other things—but if you start talking dirty in his ear, there's not going to be much teasing before he's dragging you into bed (if you even make it that far).

Knowing how badly you want to touch him but pinning your hands above your head anyway.

H — Heartache (How would they handle it if you broke up with them?)

Completely devastated, though not showing it to anyone.

There's going to be a lot of wine involved.

Thinking of ways to win you back, though uncertain if or when it would be appropriate to attempt.

Seeing you in public and struggling not to just pull you to him and kiss you.

I — Intimacy (When are they intimate with you? And how often?)

He strongly prefers to be physically intimate in a private setting.

He has enough self-control not to be all over you 24/7, but he loves touching you and shows it plenty.

Sneaking up behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist, brushing your hair out of the way to kiss down your neck.

Whispering or murmuring sweet things in your ear.

Gazing into your eyes like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

"You are a living goddess, my love."

J — Joker (How do they make you laugh?)

Usually it's his dry sarcasm. He's not the type to crack jokes but some of the one-liners that leave his mouth put you on the floor.

Undisputed king of shit-talking and insults.

"I envy everyone that has never met you."

It's fun to spout of stupid useless facts in front of him because the look on his face when his brain short-circuits always gives you a good giggle.

"Somewhere in the world, there exists a tree with the single purpose of replacing the oxygen you consume. I suggest you find it and apologize."

K — Kissing (How good? How often?)

It's not as if he can't keep his lips off of you, but he typically always gives you at least a peck on the lips or the cheek when you or he enters the room.

His kisses are deep and intense and tend to leave you breathless.

When you're getting intimate, he kisses every inch of your skin he can reach.

"You taste divine."

L — Lay down (How do they sleep with you? Are they cuddler or do they prefer their space?)

He loves falling asleep with you against him.

His arm under your neck and curled around your back, holding you against his side or his chest.

Combing his fingers through your hair as you drift off to sleep.

Pulling your hand up from his chest to press a kiss to it.

He doesn't say it constantly, but he always whispers "I love you" just before you fall asleep.

M — Making babies (Do they want to settle down and have kids?)

No kids.

Mihawk does not have the patience to deal with small boisterous humans.

He has never considered having children.

N — Nervous? (How confident are they when it comes to romance?)

Very confident, but not to the point if arrogance...usually.

Mihawk knows ehat he wants and he knows how to get it.

He doesn't beat around the bush or take half-measures.

If he knows you want the same thing—whether it's a kiss, a steamy make-out session, or hours of passionate love-making, he has no problem being the one to initiate.

O — Oral Fixation (Giving or recieving? And how good are they?)

He insists in being the dominant one in any intimate scenario, so he tends to be more of a giver.

Keeps his eyes glued to yours while he's trailing kisses down your body and up your thighs.

It's unheard of him to not have you moaning and calling his name within a minute flat.

No teasing or stopping right before you orgasm—he will literally make you cum until you pass out if you don't tell him to stop or slow down.

He isn't going to complain about recieving—but he always stops you before he can lose control, to either return the favor or fuck you senseless.

P — Pet Peeves (Things they don't like in a partner)

Questionable persinal hygeine. He's always clean and well-groomed and he values the same in his lover.

Uncleanliness in general, e.g. leaving trash or dirty dishes lying around.

Being indirect or aloof about your emotions. He doesn't mince words and he would strongly prefer you didn't either.

Q — Quiet Time (How much alone time do they need, or do they want to be with you 24/7?)

He doesn't utterly require that you be around him at all times, but it doesn't bother him if you want to be.

Don't bother him when he's training either, unless it's to request to train with him. He won't always agree to it, but he doesn't mind it sometimes.

Don't bother him while he's reading. He doesn't mind if you want to snuggle up next to him, but don't be distracting.

R — Romance (How romantic are they? Do they have to force it or dies it come natural?)

Romantic isn't his default setting, but when the mood strikes him he can and will make you feel like a goddess.

Candlelit dinners and expensive wine.

Laying out a blanket outside amd stargazing between tender kisses.

Making love on a bed covered in rose petals.

"You are my greatest treasure, little one."

Intimate, tender whispers against your skin.

S — Spending Money (How much do they like to spend on you?)

Being a pirate lord he's filthy rich, so he doesn't give a second thought about buying you things

If he sees a dress/outfit he'd like to see on you in a shop window, he doesn't hesitate to purchase it.

He buys you lingerie pretty regularly, in part because seeing you in lace or nylon more often than not leads to him tearing it off of you.

He gets quite baffled if you tell him he's spending too much on you.

"A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things."

He isn't going to stop, so it's better you just get used to it and enjoy it.

T — Trust (Are they trusting of you? Jealous?)

He trusts you implicitly—you wouldn't be his lover if he didn't.

That being said, he doesn't take kindly to other men looking at you or attempting to flirt with you, and he will make it known that you're his.

Even if that means grabbing you and kissing you in the middle of a crowded tavern, staking his claim for all to witness.

Too much PDA makes him a bit uncomfortable, but he doesn't want other men eyeing you like a piece of meat, either.

U — Underwear (What kind do they wear, and what kind do they like on you?)

Boxer-briefs. He's hung and he knows it, and he likes showing it off in the tighter fit of underwear.

He loves seeing you in sheer, lacy bras and panties almost as much as he loves tearing them off of you.

Caressing and playing with you through the fabric until your panties are completely soaked and you're begging for more.

V — Vulnerable (How vulnerable are they with you? Is it easy for them to open up to you?

Mihawk isn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he's as open and honest with you as he can be.

You're the only person he lets himself be even remotely vulmerable around.

When it comes to his past he's an open book.

He'll answer any questions you have while he holds you close, his arm around your waist and your head resting against his shoulder.

W — Wine and Dine (Do they prefer meals at home or going out with you? Who does more of the cooking?)

While he very much enjoys taking you out to classy, expensive restaurants, he loves the sight of you flitting around the kitchen.

He isn't much of a cook, but if you ask for assistance with anything he'll do his best.

He doesn't make it horribly obvious, likely reading a book or the newspaper and sitting somewhere nearby, but he can barely keep his eyes off of you.

X — X-Rated (How good are they in bed? What do they like?)

He's an incredible lover—passionate, intense, attentive, and with the stamina that comes from years of strength and ensurance training.

Making you scream his name is one of his favorite passtimes.

He likes to pick you up and carry you to bed.

How rough he is relates directly to how wound up he is—he might lay you down gently and follow, trailing kissed down your neck.

Or he might throw you onto the bed, kiss you hard enough to bruise your lips while he's quickly amd deftly tugging your clothes off.

Not much talking, since his mouth is too busy, but he might murmur a few soft words of encouragement and praise against your skin now and again.

"That's it, goddess. Break for me."

"I can't wait to be inside you. I've craved you all damned day."

Trailing kisses down your body, his hands resting at your hips.

He wastes very little time, tightening his grip on your hips, his eyes glued to yours so he can watch you come apart.

Licks slowly up your wet folds before sucking your clit into his mouth, with a quiet purr of approval when you moan softly at the sensations his skilled tongue sends through you.

Unyielding and unrelenting—he loves when you grip at his hair and grind against his tongue, loves feeling how wet you get as he pushes two fingers deep inside you, pressing them against your g-spot until you're arching off the bed and he's shoving you back down by your hips.

He only stops when you beg for more of him, sitting up on his knees and pulling your body to him by your hips—pulling you right now onto his thick shaft with a quiet grunt, filling you in one firm, deep thrust. He loves hearing you beg, but he never makes you wait for long.

He prefers positions where he can look into your eyes, and see the exact moment when you shatter.

Pulls you up onto your knees to stradle him in the middle of your orgasm, kissing your neck while you cling to him and moan in his ear, lowering his head to capture one of your sensitive nipples in his mouth just to prolong the high of your pleasure for as long as possible.

Guides your hips with his hands, onto his cock again and again, shuddering slightly at the sensation of your inner walls gripping at him.

Being the one in control of your pleasure makes him *weak*, and he always gives everything he has when he makes love to you.

Multiple rounds, with deep, slow kisses and caressess between each one.

He strongly prefers to cum inside you, kissing you deeply and with soft groans against your lips, rolling his hips in time with each pleasurable throb.

He can go all night—you have to be the one to tell him when you're too spent to keep going, or he *will* make you pass out from sheer overexertion.

Y — Yearning (How long will they pursue the person they're interested in before losing interest?)

Absolutely loves the thrill of the chase. If he knows you aren't interested, he won't pressure you.

But if you're playing hard to get just to get under his skin, it drives him wild, and he'll keep it up however long it takes to have you.

His advances are subtle—soft, temder touches.

Lowering his voice to an intimate murmur.

Like a hawk sizing up its prey before swooping in for the kill.

Coming within a breath of your lips touching and pulling back from it.

Z — Zen (What do they do to wind down and relax? Do they prefer to do it alone or with you?)

An afternoon nap is probably his favorite way to wind down.

If you're not nearby, he will find you and pull you to the nearest bed, armchair, couch, hammock, or any other such appropriate furniture.

Hold you against his chest and brush his lips to your temple, breathing in your scent and lacing his fingers with yours.

Watch you fall asleep ahead of him.

He also reads a bit to relax, and as long as you don't interupt him he enjoys having you close.

Particularly if you lie down woth your head in his lap with your own book.

Combing his fingers absently through your hair between turning pages.

#opla #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #headcannons #fluff #fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece headcanons #smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

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

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

#aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen

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mrsdesade · 3 months ago

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Hey, could you write a homelander x reader where she works at Vought and unknowingly gets his attention and he stalks her?

Hi dear anon, thanks for your patience!! I don't have much time to write full fics these days, because life is happening and I'm very busy physically and mentally, but I can happily offer some headcanons 💕

Homelander's obsessive behaviors headcanons

First of all, his romantic gestures, while seemingly sweet, are often rooted in his need for control and his inability to understand healthy relationships. His actions can be seen as manipulative and even frightening, especially when considering his overall personality and powers.

Constant surveillance: He would employ his super hearing and x-ray vision to keep a constant watch on you. He might use these abilities to monitor your home, workplace, or any other place you frequently visit.

Data collection: He'd collect as much information as possible about his current obsession: you. This could include your daily routines, social media activity, and even your deepest fears and desires. He might use his Vought resources to access private databases.

Preserving memories: Homelander might keep a collection of items that remind him of you, like a lock of your hair or a piece of your clothing. Oh God If you gift something to him, he's going to cherish this like a museum piece.

Love bombing: He'll shower you with love and attention, he loves doing it, especially at the beginning of the relationship, to reel you in.

Unwanted gifts: Homelander would often leave small, often expensive gifts for his favourite persons in unexpected places. These gifts could be anything from flowers to jewelry, and they would always be personalized to show how well he knows you. Often with small notes inside. Doll, baby, my girl, nicknames are on plate.

Sudden appearances: Homelander would frequently appear where you least expects him. He might show up at yor work, your home, or even a random location you're visiting. At least three times at week, minimum.

Testing your loyalty: He might create situations to test your loyalty to him. This could involve putting you in a difficult position or asking you to do something that makes you uncomfortable.

Excessive praise: When you two are together he would shower you with compliments, often going overboard and making you feel uncomfortable. He might even compare you to other people, always putting you on a pedestal. You're his precious treasure and he loves you so goddamn much.

Isolation tactics: He might try to isolate you from their friends and family at some point, making you believe that he is the only one who truly understands your needs.

Future planning: He might make elaborate plans for your future together, down to the smallest details, without ever consulting you. He'll make grand plans for the two of you for sure. This could include things like buying a house together or having children.

Gaslighting: If you decide to start to question his behavior, Homelander might resort to gaslighting. He could make you doubt their own perceptions and memories, making you believe that you're just imagining things.

Public displays of affection: Homelander might engage in very public displays of affection, such as putting his arm around you in front of a crowd, or giving you a very long, lingering kiss. This is partly to show off his "perfect couple" image, but also to mark his territory.

Obsession with physical touch: Homelander might find ways to touch you, in every moment, he need that, even if it's just brushing against them or holding their hand. He would crave any form of physical contact.

Nightmares and sleep disturbances: His obsession for you would consume his thoughts, leading to vivid nightmares and difficulty sleeping. He might even develop a fear of losing you really easily. Despite his outward confidence, Homelander has a deep-seated fear of being abandoned. This fear can lead him to become increasingly possessive and controlling.

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Thanks again for the request, enjoy! Kisses kisses! 💕

#the boys #homelander #homelander x reader #homelander the boys #homelander fanfiction #homelander x y/n #homelander x you #homelander x oc #the boys fanfic #the boys series #my post #ask box #the boys headcanons

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portgasmalia · 1 year ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐎

﹙featuring: eustass kid, trafalgar law, cat burglar nami, flame emperor sabo & reader﹚ ﹙theme: heartwarming fluff﹚

eustass 'captain' kid

between the famous names of the worst generation, the notorious captain of the kid pirates became known for his cruel and highly temperamental behavior. a glance in his direction provoked the male, the smirk on his face while murdering the ones that laughed about him and his dream almost a sadistic curve. so when one day, he suddenly started to show a tad of affection towards you while being in public, it was difficult to believe for anyone who knew the redhead. ever so often, his deep red lips puckered and connected with your forehead. a simple but sweet gesture, a peck leaving stains of his lipstick on your soft skin. for you, you loved the affection. for kid, it was a chance to promise you that he would return from anywhere, return back to you, without making a fool out of himself for stuttering through unidentified words. it also became the showcase of his love for you whenever he had a bad day and couldn’t stop the mood swings from provoking another fight. screaming orders across the deck of the victoria punk, and while stomping past you, an almost too light peck to your forehead to tell you, he was not mad at you.

trafalgar d. water law

he hated the staring eyes of people, watching closely how his hands grabbed your waist, or how your lips lingered a second too long on his. he never had to experience those longing glances or drooling faces while giving you his attention, it merely happened while fighting. but it taught him to keep his relationships behind closed doors, hiding his weaknesses for his and their own good. so law tried his best to spend time with you, without giving too much pda away. when you wanted to take a nap, he asked for you to sleep on the couch in his office while he can go over documents and books. when the blue sky above was cloudless, and the sun stretched its warmth for miles, and you decided to bath in the rays, law would take a seat in the colder shadows beside you with as always a book in his hand. you did not need to talk. when you went into town go grab bags of ingredients for the journey to the next island? don’t bother to ask anyone for company because law would already walk by your side. law was not the person to shout out his feelings, or to clearly showcase what feelings bubbled up in his stomach. yet, the emotionless facade dropped when you stepped into his sight, and the corners of his mouth lifted.

cat burglar nami

oh there was no need to lie. the temperamental orange-haired loved the glimmering, golden coins enough to call them her babies and easily switch moods if someone dared themselves to try and steal the smallest amount of her treasure. yet, being with you slightly changed her opinion about the berry hidden in her room. she loved them but nami loved you more and quickly found a good way of spending some. if by chance there would be an island where the marine soldiers would not be already waiting at the dock, the navigator used the time of not running away to stroll through the villages and towns. gathering ingredients with sanji, finding another pile of clothes with robin but most importantly, exploring the expensive jewelry shops to find a suitable gift for you. a bracelet, or maybe a necklace, even if you already had more than ten and couldn’t wear them all at once. nami always brought you a little present from the island, and hell, yes, it might have seemed like she wanted to buy your love but any given time, you would raise a brow and open your mouth when she handed you another present. nami assured you that it did not matter, your love was more valuable than any amount of berry, with a kiss to the cheek.

flame emperor sabo

as the second in command of the revolutionary army, sabo is always a busy man. running missions, bringing up plans, talking behind closed doors with the fearless leader dragon. since his schedule for private activities is cut short, sabo found a way to assure you, he thought about you and loved you dearly. the gentle touches of his slender fingers around your waist, when he had to squeeze past you, slowly and carefully pushing you aside. his arm around your waist when you stood next to each other, mostly his flat hand sprawled out on the curve of your back and drawing sweet shapes with his fingertips. while being in a conversation with him, sabo will casually reach out for you, caressing the flustered spot on the span of your cheeks. just because you're so beautiful to him, so precious and he's always asking himself how he deserves your love. it was never much of pda, mainly because sabo had to remain a respected person with the position he earned himself. in such a world filled with enemies and the marine, who worked against almost everyone who admired freedom, those little touches offered hope and happiness. especially since you were the only one who knew how warm the flame emperor’s calloused fingertips were without the brown gloves.

credit goes to portgasmalia.

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stubbornseedling · 7 months ago

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September is Crow Month masterpost

What do we do for Crow Month? Host or attend a Crow Party, either a private one with your friends or an open one in a public place like a park or a library event room.

What is a Crow Party? It's time for everyone in attendance to wear black- the fancier the outfit the better, but casual is ok too- and to deck themselves out in silly amounts of shiny things and jewelry.

What do you do at a Crow Party? Bring little treasures like neat rocks, beads, marbles, or any other sort of shiny object, to swap and trade! Also play board games, card games, or just bring a book to read and vibe with your fellow Crow Party people.

How can I tell people about my open Crow Party? I've made a pdf flier, you can download it from google docs here or dropbox here. Print out and post wherever you think people will notice it!

Spread the word!

#crowcore #crow core #goblincore #goblin core #crow Month #crow party

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xinyidecor · 1 year ago

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Has fallen! It should be a unique butterfly ring that you have never seen before A niche, hard-to-collapse ring with a unique style Full of design and looks very tasteful No resistance to butterfly elements The effect after using it is really beautiful.

#pearlring #niche jewelry #niche ring #treasure jewelry publicity #accessories sharing #butterfly ring #ring #ring recommendation #affordable ring #accessories are not the same #treasure jewelry

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oratokyosaigunda · 4 days ago

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Kuroshitsuji x U-TREASURE jewelry

#Kuroshitsuji #Black Butler #Public School Arc #Sebastian Michaelis #Ciel Phantomhive #Kuroshitsuji merch #merchandise #Kuroshitsuji x U-TREASURE #jewelry

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thedelicatearcher · 5 months ago

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finnick odair alphabet fluff

a - affection

to talk about how affectionate finnick odair is, you need to know that he adores expressing his love through small, meaningful gestures. he’s naturally observant, keeping an eye on you as he wonders how he could bring a bit of sunshine to your day.

on those early mornings when he wakes up at 5 am to swim at the private beach near the victor’s village, it’s not unusual for him to pick up little seashells to bring home to you. “this one made me think of you,” he murmurs softly as he shows you a peculiar, colorful shell. his skilled hands, so well-versed in knots, take pleasure in crafting braided bracelets for you, weaving in one of the beautiful scallops he found. his heart swells with joy whenever he sees you wearing the jewelry, as if you carry a piece of him wherever you go.

calling finnick odair a good cook would hardly do him justice. after many years under mags’ wing, he had discovered his natural talent for cooking. as an eager student, he had mastered the traditional district four meals, even learning the secret family dessert recipes from mags. that’s why, on the days he knows you’ll have a tough day at work, he likes to welcome you with open arms, a big kiss on the forehead, and a delicious shrimp and fish stew simmering on the stove.

finnick odair excels at many things, but building isn’t one of those. as a victor, he has the means to purchase whatever you need from the market, but he prefers to craft things himself. his calloused hands carefully try so hard to build a small vanity desk for you. though the dimensions are slightly off and one leg is shorter than the others, he presents the desk to you with an enthusiastic grin and a hint of nervous sparkle in his eyes.

behind finnick’s cocky persona, there’s a broken man who feels unworthy of love on his toughest days.his fear of abandonment can sometimes overwhelm him, leading to bouts of intense anxiety. during these periods, you might notice him excessively splurging on those he cares about, an anxious strategy to avoid being left alone. nevertheless, as much as you hold his tearful figure and remind him how much he is loved by his closest friends, inevitably the suffocating feeling of insecurity always seems to creep back.

it’s worth noting that finnick also treasures physical affection, though he’s only open to it once he feels completely comfortable with you. his relaxed sighs when he rests his head on your lap and asks you to run your fingers through his hair are reminiscent of a purring cat. he needs your presence beside him in bed to relax enough to sleep, though he’ll always seize the opportunity to drape his leg over you. his heart leaps with joy every time you open your arms, a silent invitation for an embrace. he adores having his forehead kissed, his warm, pink cheeks betraying his bashful state. while he’s not comfortable with most public displays of affection, his pinky finger will always seek out yours as you stroll through the district.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair fluff alphabet #fluff alphabet #thg #the hunger games

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who-is-page · 2 months ago

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Wag Those Tail Feathers: The Wonders of Alterhuman Courtship

Author: Page Type: Essay Words: 1,065 Summary: Page's perspective on alterhuman courtship, as an individual who has been both on the receiving and giving ends of it.

[Part of the Sol System’s Alterhuman Writing Project for 2024. If you don’t want to see these posts, block the tag #inkedclaws]

As a polyamorous alterhuman, I’ve had the wonderful experience of being in relationships with people who have a variety of different courtship instincts— sometimes even all at the same time! Including my own instincts, it’s led up to some interesting realizations about the variety and diversity of expressions of love, and how wonderful it can be to be loved by an alterhuman (and to be an alterhuman in love, too).

My personal experiences, notably, revolve specifically around being nonhuman and this applies to a majority of my partners as well, which influences the flavor of this discussion. It’s been a wonder to be the target of a feathery mating dance, to be wooed with draconic jewelry and treasures, or to have my partner jump out with a meal, as proud as could be at displaying their hunting skills for a mate. It’s not necessarily just a nonhuman thing, either, of course; my orthohuman partner exhibits some similar sort of feelings and actions, too! Something which comes across especially strong in his hunt-and-gather supply-hoarding behavior in video games. But there’s something so especially intimate about having your alterhuman partner court you in a way unique to their species identity. It’s a beyond flattering form of trust, love, and affection.

And as an alterhuman who has targeted my partners, alterhuman and orthohuman alike, with my own affections, it’s also uniquely affirming to have your partners engage with your varieties of courtship for your species. There’s something incredibly special to have them try to learn your rituals and woo you in turn, even if they don’t have the same instincts driving them. It’s love with intention, a conscious effort to learn a language that’s typically foreign to them or which they might otherwise never come across on such a personal level. It may not always be perfectly executed, but the intentions behind them make them perfect regardless.

I’m someone who’s fully public about my alterhumanity. I don’t hide that I’m a dog and (luckily) no one especially seems to care in the day-to-day when I’m meeting up with strangers and acquantinces. But it’s become an important part of my dating life that potential partners need to not only be aware of my alterhumanity and accept it, but they also need to interact with it. You could argue that my spouse set the bar high for any potential future partners with how he took to my canine-ness and plurality like a fish to water, but I’m of the opinion that it’s something that should be the norm, not something so utterly unexpected by many.

Being able to engage in alterhuman courtship with your partner, as serious or as silly as it may fundamentally end up being, shouldn’t be something that you feel is utterly unreachable, that you yearn for but never feel like you’ll be able to reach. Alterhuman courtship is a wonderous experience; something that I think it’s not only important for alterhuman folks to be able to freely do with those they love most, but also to be on the receiving end of, too. It can be easy to default to the status quo in relationships, because of the societal pressure around us. Normativity around romance, sex, and even platonic affections is something that is constantly at play in the backgrounds of our culture and which embeds itself into our conciousnesses in unexpected and often invisible ways; and it’s difficult to dissect these without exposing ourselves to what some might list as “weird” or “unusual” urges and behaviors. But we can’t unpack the shame or embarrassment that might be holding us back from engaging with these urges unless we actually let ourselves acknowledge the collective, confusing feelings abound within them. We shouldn’t allow ourselves to shrug our shoulders and simply say, “I suppose I’ll never find someone who can accept me as my [species] and all that entails,” or to just resign ourselves to having to hide a part of ourselves away forever to maintain relationships.

We should toss these types of negative feelings aside and embrace our alterhuman courtship urges in earnest: that sometimes we’re not fully human, or we’re human a little to the right, and that inevitably makes romance, sex, and platonic interactions a little different for us than it might look for standard folks as displayed on a big screen. It’s not a failure on our part, and it’s not something that needs to be squirreled away due to internalized respectability politics. We can love ourselves and find love in others, for and by being ourselves. We can experience unique forms of love and adore those factors in others. This is, to me, a part of the territory that comes with being alterhuman or knowing alterhumans. It’s a part of what makes life wonderous.

In my partnerships, I love getting to bring my partners gifts. I love to bring them tiny treasures, small things from my system’s hoard, to pebble at them almost like a penguin would (sometimes including a silly little dance, of love!) It goes beyond standard gift-giving in the way that most of the people I’ve met would think of it, where presents that large are often reserved for special occasions like holidays and birthday. But it’s something I do year-round, to show my partners that they’re always on my mind, and that what is mine is their’s, too. I do the same thing with food; while normally incredibly food protective, both due to species identity and past food insecurities, I make the effort to share my favorite foods with my partners for the same fundamental reasons. To share my food, my bed, my life— and to have my partners recognize that as not just general displays of love, but as specifically displays of love intertwined with what I am, is something which displays a deep level of understanding and acceptance for my species. It’s something I’m grateful for beyond words, but it’s also something that I don’t want us as a community to accept as unheard of, or as just a one-off, lucky occurrence. Love like this is achievable and rewarding, both as a recipient of such alterhuman affections and as the giver. And we all deserve to experience it, in whatever form of love that we feel most comfortable with. Don’t tell yourself otherwise; don’t settle for less just because you feel like you have no other choice.

#ahpi writing challenge #alterhuman #inkedclaws #Guys I'm not going to lie to you: I've been so sick these past few days but I didn't wanna give up.#SO i cranked out this bad boi in a 15-minute writing sprint with some pals #is it my best work? no. but is it work? YES #and you can't edit words that don't exist so here we are

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blakeswritingimagines · 5 months ago

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Dating Yandere Roose Bolton Would Include:

Well, Roose, as a yandere would likely be extremely possessive and obsessive in his feelings towards his love interest. He would be willing to inflict great pain and torment on anyone who he perceived as a threat to his relationship with you, all in the name of love. He would probably be controlling and manipulative and would be likely to be very aggressive and violent when it comes to protecting his relationship. I could see him stalking and monitoring his love interest and possibly resorting to kidnapping or even murder in order to keep you close.

Roose as a yandere would most likely be very jealous and distrustful. He would be prone to angry outbursts and would be very possessive of you, not wanting you to have any relationships with anyone but him. He would also be very controlling and would try to isolate you from friends and family in order to keep you all to himself. He may even become obsessive and overbearing, constantly wanting to know where you are and who you're with at all times.

Another aspect of his yandere nature is his lack of boundaries - he often crosses lines to satisfy his own desires, not caring about the consequences or consent of others. He also tends to be quite manipulative, using emotional tactics to keep his loved one in his grasp.

He also exhibits erratic and unpredictable behavior, going from lovey-dovey to anger outbursts in the blink of an eye. He also has the tendency to use emotional blackmail, threatening to hurt himself or others if his loved one tries to leave him. Overall, he's quite unhinged and dangerous when he's gone full yandere mode.

Roose struggles with paranoia and insecurities that often drive his possessive and protective behaviors. He often fears losing you to someone else, which leads him to try and isolate you from others as much as possible. Despite his protective nature, he can also be quite demanding, expecting you to be completely devoted to only him.

He can be quite possessive of both material objects and memories related to you and will have an obsessive need to control your appearance or actions. He often struggles with maintaining healthy boundaries in the relationship and can be quite demanding when it comes to physical intimacy.

In a biblical sense, he likely views you as his own and expects a lot of devotion and faithfulness towards him. Roose's obsession with his partner would also likely manifest in him seeing you as a part of himself, and feeling like you complete him on a spiritual level. He would intensely crave and seek emotional intimacy and vulnerability with his partner, constantly seeking reassurance and affection.

In public, especially around others, Roose tends to portray a cool and composed demeanor, masking his obsessive and possessive tendencies. He will often act like a loving and caring partner, but beneath the surface, his yandere nature is always lurking. He keeps you close, almost like a treasure that he wants to show off, and even subtly hints at his possession by touching or holding you a little too tightly.

He can be quite generous with rewards to his partner when you have done something worthy of praise or approval. However, these rewards often come with a hint of possessiveness and a demand for loyalty and devotion. He might shower you with gifts, such as jewelry, lingerie, or other tokens of his affection, to remind you that you are his. He might take you on romantic getaways or extravagant dinners to impress and show off his devotion to you. He also can be quite generous with physical affection and praise when you please him.

His punishments can be quite harsh and disproportionate to perceived wrongdoings by you. He resorts to emotional manipulation, gaslighting, or even physical violence if he perceives that you have wronged him. He could become distant and cold, refusing to talk or even acknowledge you, as a form of punishment. He can also be quite controlling, such as monitoring your every move and limiting your interactions with others. Roose also confiscates objects belonging to you, such as your phone or belongings, to show his dominance.

Fighting in a relationship with a yandere like Roose tends to be quite intense and emotionally charged. He tends to have a difficult time accepting criticism or blame for any issues, and can quickly become defensive or aggressive. He can be quite stubborn and uncompromising in his views and opinions, often seeing himself as correct even when he's not. He can also be sensitive and easily hurt, so even minor disagreements can escalate into major conflicts. Roose would not give up easily, often resorting to hurtful and manipulative tactics in an attempt to win the argument and regain control.

He can be quite intense and passionate in his expressions of affection towards you. He can be quite physically affectionate, often seeking to touch and hold you as a way to assert his possession over you. He is also very expressive in his words of love, often showering you with compliments and reassurance. He can be quite clingy at times, often wanting to spend all his time with you.

Dates with Roose as a yandere would likely be quite extravagant and romantic. He would want to impress and show you off, so fancy restaurants, weekend getaways, and other extravagant activities would likely be standard for him. He might also plan dates that are tailored specifically to your interests and preferences, as a way to show that he pays attention to you. However, he would likely have strict rules and expectations for these dates, such as expecting you to be on your best behavior and to give him your complete attention and devotion.

Roose's obsession with you might lead him to extreme lengths to keep you in his life. He might feel compelled to eliminate any perceived threats to the relationship, such as other people who get too close to his partner or anyone who he believes is trying to take you away from him. He may see violence as a way to demonstrate his love and devotion to his partner and to make sure that no one threatens the relationship.

If his darling wanted to break up, Roose's yandere tendencies would likely manifest in extreme and concerning behavior. He might resist the breakup with all his might, trying to manipulate and guilt his darling into staying with him. He might even resort to threats or violence to keep you from leaving, viewing the breakup as a personal attack on him. He would struggle to let go and might become fixated on trying to get his darling back, even if it meant pushing them away further.

He may see any attempt to stop his actions as an attack on him and his relationship with you, leading him to become more defensive and potentially dangerous. His yandere nature might make it difficult for him to see reason and accept help, further fueling his possessive and obsessive behaviors.

Roose's approach to marriage would likely be intense and possessive. He would want to be completely committed to his partner and would demand the same from you. He might see the wedding as an opportunity to publicly declare his ownership and possession of you, using it to further his control and dominance in the relationship. Roose would want the married life to be centered solely on the relationship, with all attention and devotion directed towards him. He might expect his partner to make major sacrifices to prioritize the marriage and be completely devoted to him.

If Roose were to have children with his partner, his possessive and protective tendencies would likely extend to them as well. He would want to oversee every aspect of their lives, constantly monitoring them and making sure they are safe from any harm or influence. He might be highly possessive of their time and attention, not wanting them to have any relationships outside of the family that could potentially take them away from him. Roose would want to be in complete control of raising their children, expecting them to follow his guidance and teachings without question.

If you did not want or could not have children, it would likely create a significant source of tension in the relationship. Roose may see having children as a way to further solidify the bond and create a strong family structure. If his partner is opposed to having kids or cannot have them, it would be a major point of contention in the relationship. He might try to convince or manipulate you into changing your mind or pressure you into having children, as a way to satisfy his own possessive needs.

"You are mine, mine, mine. No one will ever have you. No one will ever love you the way I do, the way you truly need to be loved. You belong to me, and I will never let you go. I will never let anyone else touch you, look at you, or even think about you. You are mine, and I will kill anyone who tries to take you away from me. You are my possession. You are my obsession."

Hogtieing - Tying you up tightly, immobilizing you so you can't move, and then using you however he pleases is incredibly empowering. It's like owning a living, breathing toy.

Body worship - Having someone dedicate themselves entirely to pleasing and serving him physically, lavishing attention on every inch of his body, is an incredible aphrodisiac. It makes him feel invincible and worshipped.

Breeding - The idea of penetrating someone and breeding you with his cum is a major fantasy of his. He wants to fill you up completely, marking you as his.

Forced orgasms/Overstimulation - Giving you an orgasm against your will, whether it's through rough manual stimulation or relentless oral attention, is a real turn-on for him.

Heavy petting - He enjoys lightly beating or slapping your chest, stomach, or thighs with his hands or an object like a paddle or belt. The combination of pain and pleasure drives him wild.

#roose bolton #roose bolton x reader #roose bolton x you #roose bolton x yn #yandere roose bolton #yandere roose bolton x reader #game of thrones roose bolton #game of thrones imagine #yandere game of thrones

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