#author: ironic army

[lizzyiii]

His Mother's Sister

pairing | aemond x aunt!reader word count | 4.7k words summary | aemond becomes instantly captivated by his alluring and enigmatic aunt upon her arrival in King’s Landing, his fascination growing into a consuming obsession. one night, he sneaks into her chambers intending to claim her, only to find himself ensnared and wholly claimed by her instead. tags | 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, obsession, incest, oral (f), aemond being a simp, aemond being obsessed, older woman/younger man, reader is in her early 30s a/n | haven't written smut in a while, so here's my smut piece before I continue with my normal angst and fluff

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“I have summoned your sister to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s attention sharpened, his gaze lingering on his mother’s face as Otto spoke. He watched as the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

“For what purpose?” Alicent’s voice held a strained note, attempting to maintain a composure that clearly wavered.

Aegon, lounging at the head of the table, raised his head, intrigued. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking between his mother and grandsire.

“Marq Ambrose commands one of the most powerful armies in the Reach,” Otto stated with an offhand shrug, his eyes giving nothing away.

“And he would serve us best by keeping that power in the Reach, where it may be summoned at need,” Alicent interjected, her tone unyielding, her eyes locked on Otto’s. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, a chill that crept through the words.

Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed his mother. His aunt had always been something of a mystery—whispered about in brief conversations that faded when he entered the room. A few years after his birth, she had been wedded to Lord Ambrose of the Reach, her presence a vague shadow on his life, a name he had heard only in passing. And now, with her impending arrival, he sensed a thread of something forbidden—a story that remained carefully locked away, just out of reach.

Aegon chuckled, breaking the taut silence. “Let Lord Ambrose come, then, if he so wishes to make merry in our halls. He is but my uncle by marriage; surely, we ought to welcome such kin to the capital.” His gaze gleamed as he spoke, and his smile widened. “And I would be most pleased to meet my aunt, at last.”

But Aemond’s mind lingered elsewhere. His mother’s discomfort stirred his curiosity, yes—but something deeper, a whisper of anticipation he could scarcely name, took root.

A week had passed since that conversation, and now the family gathered in the throne room, awaiting Lord Ambrose’s arrival. Aegon sat with careless authority upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp with the amusement of expectation, while the rest of them stood beneath the shadow of the dais.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a knight’s voice rang out through the hall. “May I present Lord Marq Ambrose and his Lady Wife.”

A stocky figure stepped forward, his hair streaked with white and black, his girth almost comical in its fullness. Aemond cast but a cursory glance at the man, unimpressed by this swollen lord from the Reach, before his gaze shifted past him.

And then, Aemond stilled. His eye widened, his brows lifting as he fought to contain his reaction. His heart gave an unbidden jolt, nearly betraying him. If he had chanced a glance at Aegon, he would have seen his brother’s mouth agape, struck silent.

Beside Lord Ambrose stood his lady—a woman of such beauty that she seemed almost ethereal in her presence, like some creature of starlight veiled in fine silks. You could have been Lord Ambrose’s granddaughter, and yet here you were, his lawful wife. Aemond’s mind spun.

From what he understood, this aunt of his was five summers younger than his mother, yet you bore not a trace of age. Your beauty held a captivating allure, tempered with a regal composure that only added to your mystique. You appeared no older than five-and-twenty, though your presence held the calm authority of a queen.

"Lord and Lady Ambrose," Aegon declared with a broad grin as he rose from the Iron Throne and descended the dais, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Welcome."

Lord Ambrose, with a thick and lumbering step, inclined his head and spoke in a voice as stout as his frame. “We thank you for your welcome, Your Grace, and pledge our loyalty to the one true king.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand, barely seeming to heed the man’s words. “Yes, yes, the crown is grateful for your loyalty and your… soldiers,” he said, his tone absent, as though the promise of men-at-arms meant little to him in the face of his aunt.

Then Aegon turned his attention to you, his expression shifting to one of eager charm. He stepped closer and took your hand, lifting it to his lips. "My aunt," he said, his voice thick with pleasure, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.” He kissed your hand, his gaze lingering on you as he released it.

Your lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, your sharp eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement as though you found the entire display mildly amusing. “The honor is mine, my king,” you replied, your voice soft but rich, laced with an elegance and confidence that defied your role as the wife of a lesser lord.

Aemond, standing nearby, felt his pulse quicken at the sound of your voice. It was smooth, sultry, and held an unspoken promise, a warmth that washed over him and stirred something deep within. His gaze lingered on her, captivated, as if drawn to some unnameable force.

Otto cleared his throat, a subtle warning in his gaze as he stepped forward, sensing the direction of Aegon’s attentions. He inclined his head politely. “Lord Ambrose,” he greeted, then turned to the lady beside him, his tone softening. “Daughter.”

Aemond watched with surprise as she stepped away from Lord Ambrose without hesitation, her face alight with joy. “Father!” she exclaimed, her voice warm and bright. She crossed the floor with graceful steps, her skirts sweeping behind her as she embraced her father.

Otto’s usually stoic expression softened, his arms enveloping her with an affection rare to see from the Hand of the King. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

Aemond, along with Aegon and Helaena, exchanged startled glances, astonished by the depth of feeling Otto revealed.

She broke away, casting a radiant smile at Otto before her gaze shifted, and she found Alicent. Aemond watched as his mother’s expression flickered, caught between awkwardness and reluctance, her shoulders tense. But his aunt moved toward her with the same confident warmth. “Sister,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around Alicent in a sincere embrace.

Alicent seemed to steel herself, managing a strained smile as she endured the hug. When they pulled apart, her expression remained stiff as she forced a cordial tone. “Sister,” she said carefully, “you look… as though no time has passed at all.”

The amusement in your eyes deepened, a subtle spark of mischief that curled your lips into a nearly smug smile. “And yet,” you replied, voice gentle but pointed, “it seems that time has left its mark on you."

The words were soft, yet they carried an edge that struck the air between them. Alicent’s face faltered, her polite mask slipping for an instant. Aemond watched the exchange, captivated by the intricate web of tensions and histories unfolding before him. He had thought his mother impervious, yet here she was, visibly discomforted under the gaze of her younger sister.

“Well,” Aegon’s voice broke in, strangely lively, “this calls for a celebration.” He clapped his hands, grinning widely. “A family supper, to welcome Lord… and Lady Ambrose to King’s Landing.” He glanced between his aunt and mother with a glint in his eye, as if relishing the simmering tension.

Aemond glanced toward his aunt, your eyes alight with a confidence that drew him in, entangled with memories he could only guess at. You seemed utterly unperturbed by the uneasy reception, holding yourself with an assurance that only deepened the fascination you stirred within him.

The supper was, in truth, a strained affair. Lord Ambrose quickly drank himself into a state of merriment, his voice growing louder with each goblet of wine he downed. He boasted endlessly of Ambrosia, their ancestral castle in the Reach, extolling the grandeur of its halls, the strength of its walls, and the might of his armies.

It was painfully clear that neither Aegon nor Otto paid him much heed; Aegon’s eyes glazed over with feigned interest, while Otto offered only the occasional nod, his mind elsewhere.

Aegon, however, deftly steered the conversation back to you at every opportunity. “But tell us, Aunt,” he said with a sly smile, “what tales do you bring from the Reach? Surely there are more interesting things than castle stones and soldiers.”

Across the table, Aemond found his brother’s persistent attempts at flirtation grating, yet he could not fault Aegon for giving you the attention. Your voice, like a song in his ear, drew him in each time you spoke, its smooth cadence addictive.

You spoke easily, your words painting scenes of courtly life in the Reach, of feasts and tournaments, your radiant smile outshining your husband’s drunken ramblings. Every eye at the table seemed drawn to you, but none with the quiet intensity of Aemond’s single, focused gaze.

He was captivated by the way you commanded the room, with a poise that cast Lord Ambrose’s bluster into the shadows. And when you looked his way, even for a fleeting moment, he felt as though the world quieted around him.

“And what of you and my mother in your younger days?” Aegon asked, a mischievous, drunken grin on his lips, his words slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair.

Alicent shot him a pointed look, her expression tightening as she cleared her throat. “Aegon,” she murmured, her voice gently chastising, “perhaps my sister would appreciate a moment to enjoy her meal.”

But you merely laughed, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. “Oh, it’s quite all right, Alicent,” you said warmly. Turning to Aegon, your eyes sparkled with a hint of nostalgia. “You see, in our younger years, your mother could barely stand to be near me.”

Alicent’s discomfort grew visible as she shifted in her seat, her voice soft but strained. “That is not true, sister.”

“Oh, but it is,” you replied with a soft, almost wistful laugh. “Not that I hold it against you, Alicent. I was terribly fond of her then; I looked up to her as one might look to a mother. But every time I tried to spend time with her, she would run off with Princess Rhaenyra, laughing at my expense.”

“Those were mere childish games,” Alicent interjected, her voice taut as she worked to maintain her composure.

“Indeed, they were,” you agreed with an unbothered smile. “Children can be so prone to envy and jealousy. You see,” your tone lightened, yet held a playful undertone as your eyes drifted back to Aegon, “I was often called the ‘Diamond of Oldtown,’ and perhaps such adoration left its mark on dear Alicent.”

The words were spoken with an air of casual jest, yet there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. Aemond watched as Alicent’s mask slipped, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to keep her voice steady. It was clear you were savoring Alicent’s discomfort, a faint glimmer of amusement lighting your eyes as they traveled slowly down the length of the table.

And then, your gaze found him.

“And what of you, dear nephew?” you inquired, your voice as smooth as wine poured in darkened halls. “I’ve heard many tales of you in the Reach.”

Aemond felt his heart thud within his chest, a warmth rising unbidden to his face as he fought to maintain his poise. “Tales of what, Aunt?” he asked, his voice low, striving for calm.

A smile curved upon your lips, one that was as inviting as it was knowing. “A great warrior, fierce and unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms. The rider of Vhagar, queen of all dragons,” you murmured, your words laced with a hint of admiration.

“That’s all, my lady,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

And in return, you tilted your head ever so slightly, an amused glint in your eyes as though you were looking beyond the surface, into the very marrow of him. It was a gaze both alluring and unsettling, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Before you could speak again, however, your husband’s voice cut through the charged silence. His tone was slurred and irritated, clearly displeased by the lack of attention on him as he clumsily launched into yet another tale of his supposed valor. Aemond noted how you sighed softly, a look of resignation crossing your features as you turned your gaze away from him.

But then, as though unable to resist, your eyes drifted back to Aemond. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed and, with a barely concealed smirk, you winked.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat, his lone eye widening ever so slightly as he blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. He looked back, only to find you now watching your husband with a look of faint distaste, a grimace twisting your otherwise perfect features. It was a small, subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes, and Aemond felt a surge of something dark and possessive stirring within him.

In that moment, he realized that this supper was not simply an introduction; it was an invitation, a challenge, and a temptation all at once.

These thoughts lingered long after, spiraling in his mind with an intensity he couldn’t quiet. Later, as he passed through the halls, he overheard a quiet murmur from a maid: Lord and Lady Ambrose had chosen to sleep in separate chambers. Aemond’s pulse quickened.

The knowledge seemed a silent invitation, a doorway left just ajar. He recalled the way you had spoken to him, your voice holding layers meant only for him. The look in your eyes—hungry, as though you sought to devour his very soul—left him craving to be consumed by that gaze again. No, this was not his imagination. He was certain of it.

And it was this certainty that drove him through the darkened halls of the Red Keep, slipping past drowsy guards, cloaked in shadow, his steps muffled by the silence of the sleeping castle.

When he reached your door, he eased it open, careful to make no sound, and stepped inside with the stealth of a shadow. Yet he halted at once, caught off guard by the sight that greeted him.

There you sat, reclining on a velvet chaise, a goblet of deep red wine in hand, eyes cast down at a leather-bound book resting in your lap. The faint candlelight painted your skin in warm gold, and your attire—a red nightgown, translucent and clinging to every curve—left little hidden, casting a spell of allure around you.

Aemond’s throat tightened as he took in the sight, the image searing itself into his mind. But the quiet gulp betrayed him, and your gaze lifted, pinning him where he stood.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive warmth. “What a surprise.” The knowing smile on your lips told him this was no surprise at all.

Feeling the weight of your gaze, he steeled himself, adopting the guise of confidence. “I could not find sleep, my lady,” he replied, his voice steady. “And it would appear you are in the same predicament.”

You set down your goblet and closed the book in your lap, your every movement deliberate. Rising from your seat, you let the robe slide from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. “You know,” you murmured, teasingly, “it is most improper for a man to visit a married woman at such an hour.”

Aemond took a step closer, his gaze never leaving you. “But you are my aunt—my family.”

A small, knowing laugh escaped your lips as you slipped past him, your arm brushing his, a soft touch that sent a jolt through him. He closed his eye briefly, savoring the warmth, and when he opened it again, you had moved toward the bed, your smile one of invitation.

“The Targaryens are known for their peculiar customs when it comes to family.” You glanced back at him with an amused, daring gleam in your eye. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

He took another step forward, drawn like a moth to flame. “I think you know what I desire.”

“And if I were to say yes,” you purred, sitting upon the edge of the bed, “what would you do?”

He moved closer, his voice low with reverence. “I would do whatever you asked of me.”

Your lips curled, eyes glinting with a barely concealed command. “Then kneel for me,” you whispered.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, but any hesitation vanished. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his head tilted upward, gaze reverent. “As you wish, my lady.”

You studied him, a look of satisfaction crossing your face as you gathered your skirts, parting your legs with a languid grace. Tilting your chin, you gave a single, soft nod. “Then go on, my sweet prince,” you murmured, your voice a quiet command, heavy with promise.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. His hands came to rest on your hips as he began to place soft kisses along your skin, working his way higher.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you, his eye hooded.

"Are you certain about this, Aunt?" Despite his words, his body language betrayed his eagerness - his breathing quickened and his fingers tightened their grip on your hips ever so slightly.

You let out a soft moan as he kissed your thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, "Yes I am certain, now continue before I change my mind."

With a low growl, he surged forward, burying his face between your thighs. He wasted no time in finding your sensitive bud with his tongue, flicking and circling it expertly.

One hand slid up to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, kneading the soft flesh as he continued his ministrations below. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick flicks of his tongue, gauging your reactions to find what felt best.

The other hand gripped your hip more firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you like a starving man at a feast. Wet sounds filled the room as he worked tirelessly to bring you pleasure, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. Your back arched as he licked your cunt, a loud moan escaped your lips, "Oh gods, yes."

Your fingers tightened in his hair, as you bucked your hips against his face, seeking more of his skilled touch, "Yes, feast on me."

Spurred on by your moans and the encouragement in your voice, Aemond redoubled his efforts. He sealed his lips around your bud and sucked hard, his tongue lashing over the sensitive nub in rapid circles.

Two fingers slid deep inside your slick heat, curling to stroke along your inner walls as they thrusted in and out. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping into your dripping core mingled with your increasingly desperate cries of pleasure.

Aemond could feel you tensing and shuddering beneath his touch, teetering on the brink of release. He doubled down, sucking harder and fucking you faster with his fingers, determined to push you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, screaming out in ecstasy as your body shook violently, juices gushing out and soaking his face, "Oh fuck! Aemond!"

You clutched at his head, grinding your cunt against his mouth as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your skin glistening with sweat, "Don't you dare stop until I tell you to!"

Feeling your body quake and spasm around his invading fingers, Aemond drank in every drop of your sweet release, lapping at your pulsing sex greedily. He prolonged your climax with relentless strokes of his tongue, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure.

Only when your spasms subsided does he finally pull back, his chin dripping with your essence. He gazed up at you with a triumphant, almost feral glint in his eye, his own arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, "Have I pleased you, Aunt?"

"Yes, yes you have," you said breathlessly.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and began to strip off his clothes, revealing a lean, muscular physique honed by years of training. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed with blood, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

"You have such a pretty cock, nephew," you said, taking in the sight of him, as your hand reached out for his cock.

Aemond's breath hitched as your hand wrapped around his throbbing length, his hips instinctively bucking into the touch. He watched, transfixed, as your fingers traced the ridged veins and delicate skin, marveling at how small yet firm your hand looked compared to his engorged member.

"It's yours," he rasped, his voice strained with need. "Do whatever you want with it."

He stepped closer, pressing the heavy weight of his erection against your palm, the heat of his skin seeping into your touch. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he grinded against you.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily, as you pulled him onto the bed. Then you straddled him, rubbing your dripping cunt along his cock, coating it with your juices, "I've never ridden a dragon before. Tell me, do you want me to claim you?"

Aemond's single eye blazed with lust and something deeper, darker, as he gazed up at you poised above him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin.

"Yes, Aunt," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands came up to grasp your hips, guiding you to position yourself over his straining cock. His head nudged at your entrance, smearing your slickness across it.

"Do it," he urged, his gaze intense and unblinking. "Take me deep."

So slowly you sank down onto his cock, letting out a loud moan as you stretched around his girth. You took him inch by delicious inch until you were fully seated on him, "Fuck, your cock was made for my cunt."

Aemond threw his head back with a guttural groan as you sheathed him completely, your tight heat enveloping his throbbing length. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin as he reveled in the feeling of being utterly filled in you.

"So tight," he panted against your throat.

His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up into you, meeting each downward plunge of your own hips. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your mingled moans of pleasure. And feeling a tinge of frustration, his hands met the top of your nightgown as he pulled hard, ripping it in half completely, making you gasp.

You rode him hard and fast, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixed with your high pitched moans, "Yes, yes, fuck me harder Aemond!"

Aemond leaned forward, sucking on your breast as if he was a babe desperately seeking milk. He suckled greedily at your breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. His hands roamed your curves possessively, one sliding down to grip your ass while the other tweaked and tugged at your neglected nipple.

He met your wild riding with equal fervor, pistoning his hips up to meet your downward thrusts. The force of his movements drove you upward, impaling you again and again on his thick cock. Your cries of ecstasy spurred him on, his own groans of pleasure growing louder and more desperate.

Suddenly, he flipped you over onto your back, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you captive as he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in place as you grinded your hips upwards to match his frenzied pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, urging him on, "Fuck! Right there!"

Aemond let go of your wrists, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to ravage your cunt. He swallowed all your screams and moans, relishing in the taste and feel of you.

"Cum in me aemond! Fill me with your seed!" You screamed into his mouth as another orgasm ripped through you.

The sensation of your inner walls clenching and rippling around him sent Aemond careening over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful jets.

"Ahh, gods," he gasped, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax. He continued to pulse and twitch within you, ensuring every drop is deposited deep inside your welcoming heat.

As the aftershocks subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press against your satiated form. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled to regain his composure.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “You are truly remarkable.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, reveling in the warmth of his body against yours as you both sought to catch your breath. A delicate shiver coursed through you, remnants of your shared ecstasy still fluttering within.

“There, there,” you purred softly, running your fingers through his silken hair, enjoying the feel of his softness against your skin. Aemond lay on your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the intoxicating scent of you mingling with the fading heat of your shared intimacy.

Once Aemond had calmed his breathing, he lifted his head to meet your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a fervent exploration, igniting a spark that flickered between you. His hand traveled down your body, the warmth of his touch setting your skin alight.

When his hand paused on your stomach, he broke the kiss, a frown creasing his brow as curiosity flickered in his violet eye. It was well known that you had been wed to Lord Ambrose for fifteen years without bearing a child. Whispers of your barrenness had circulated through the halls of the Red Keep, and Aemond could not suppress the question that hung in the air between you.

"Is it true you are barren?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

You regarded him with a playful smirk, the corners of your lips lifting. “No,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently caressing his long silver hair.

There was amusement in your voice, and as you laughed lightly, the sound was like music in the dimly lit chamber. “Do you truly think I had ever wished to be filled with a child by that fat cunt?”

Aemond’s single violet eye widened in surprise at your boldness. You continued, your tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Each time I’ve lain with him, I’ve taken moon tea the morning after.”

You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to caress his cheek with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, igniting a spark that sent a wave of absolute pleasure down Aemond's spine. “Yet I don’t think I’d mind bearing your child.”

The very thought of your bearing his child sent shivers of exhilaration coursing through him. The idea that at this very moment, his seed might have taken root within you filled him with a sense of possessiveness that was both intoxicating and primal. In that instant, it became clear: you were his, and he was yours, bound together by an unspoken promise.

Aemond’s mind raced with possibilities. He would need to find a way to rid you of Lord Ambrose, but that task seemed deceptively simple in the face of what awaited him. Once the obstacle was removed, he would claim you as his wife, securing a future that felt destined.

You were made for him, and in his heart, he knew you had been waiting all this time—patiently, silently—for him to come to you.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[dailynnt]

Dirty bike repair

ᯓ Summary: In the garage, amidst the sounds of rock music and metal clatter, Jungkook is repairing his bike, absorbed in his work. You enter quietly, dressed only in his T-shirt, and he senses your presence even before you approach. You ignite his desire with your eyes and words, and he cannot help himself.

ᯓ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

ᯓ Age restrictions: 18+

ᯓ Size: one shot

ᯓ Tags: established relationships, Jungkook!biker, passion, sexual tension, love, unexpected twist, tshirt, hot moment, intimacy, extreme relationships, unprotected sex

ᯓ From author: I spent the whole day writing chapter 9 for "One Night..." but this suddenly popped into my head! I had to write it and post it 🤭😱 So I hope you enjoy this short scene with a hot atmosphere ❤️‍🔥 Hugs to every my army who reads 💘🫶🏻

ᯓ Dedication: Of course, this story for my favorite, beloved girls: : @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @mskookie, @kooko009, @myjungkookthighs, @medstudentlifestyle, @someoneelse0109, @minimoninini, @byeolluvher 💜 I love you girls so much 🥹

ᯓ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

The metallic smell of oil mingled with the warm scent of spring air that barely made its way through the open garage window. Inside, there was the sound of tools clattering, rock band music playing in the background, and in the middle of it all, there was Jungkook.

He stood leaning over his bike, completely absorbed in his work. His muscles were visible under his T-shirt, and his dark hair fell over his forehead, slightly damp with sweat.

You came in silently, stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb. Only the edge of your smile betrayed your intentions. But he sensed you even before he turned around, as if his inner compass had always pointed to you.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye, still fiddling with the detail.

Your legs-white and slender-were crossed. You were wearing his old, too-big slippers. And you were wearing only his T-shirt, thin, white, and smelling of him. It was long, but not long enough to cover you completely. He knew there was nothing underneath. And you knew that he knew.

His gaze rested on your hips for a moment, but he looked down and continued working. Although his movements were no longer so confident. You noticed this and came closer.

Your fingers slid over his shoulder, stopped at his collarbone, and slowly went down his chest.

"Are you busy?" your voice was soft but challenging, like a rose petal with hidden thorns.

Jungkook sighed, couldn't stand it - he turned his side to you and wiped his hands on a cloth. His gaze quickly went over your body - your disheveled hair, swollen lips, a slight blush. Traces of what had happened between you a few hours ago.

"Uh-huh. There's an important race tomorrow, I have to get it repair by morning." He said, carefully studying your reaction. Your lips pouted slightly, looking at the bike with disappointment. This amused Jungkook. He smiled knowing you wanted more, but he was interested in teasing you.

Jungkook put down the tool and walked over to the sink and opened the water to wash his hands. He looked at you in the stained mirror. You stood by the bike and looked at it. You bent over slightly, and Jungkook saw your bare buttocks. He instantly became aroused.

He finished washing his hands and dried them with a paper towel. He turned and slowly walked over to you.

You gave your boyfriend a short, innocent look. You noticed his ironic smile and knew that your plan was revealed.

"Let me guess..." he smiled, taking another step toward you, "My girl wants me again?"

You laughed and leaned on the seat of the bike, crossing your arms. Through his T-shirt you were dressed, he could see the burgundy circles of your nipples, which were already erect and resting against the fabric.

"I came to see you fixing your bike. I was wondering what you look like when you're concentrating. It's... hot."

Jungkook laughed, hoarse, low, with that slight mockery that made you want him even more.

"Came in this," he pointed to his T-shirt, "to see me work." He walked over grabbing you by the shirt and pulling you to your feet. His big hand squeezed your bare ass. "You didn't even put on your underwear, you were in such a hurry to see bike being repair?"

"Well, I'm sorry," you whisper as if you're guilty, although a mischievous twinkle sparkles in your eyes. "You know, I was just... bored. And then I remembered what your mouth looks like."

Jungkook raised his eyebrows, snorted with satisfaction, easily pressed you against the bike's tank, your ass feel the cold metal. His body is almost close to yours, his palms confidently holding your hips. His lips are dangerously close.

"Remember my mouth?" his voice is low, like the thunder before the storm. "So what do you want, huh? Do you want me to remind you?"

You gulped for air but didn't answer - instead, you brushed your lips against his neck, leaving a hot trail across his damp skin. He cursed softly, pulling you even closer.

"You're a bad girl tonight," he muttered, his hand slipping under your shirt, his fingers lightly touching your stomach and then your pussy, "Instead of letting me finish, you want me to do you like this... right here?"

You squeezed his forearms, spreading your legs slightly. Your body trembled at his every touch. He felt your wetness as he fingers it over the folds.

"Just... remind me how good it is to be yours." you whispered.

And he did.

He knelt down in front of you, his palms resting on your hips, warm, steady, as if his touch were the only thing keeping you in reality. One flick of his tongue and you swayed, gripping his shoulders.

"Fuck, I'll never get enough of this pussy," he muttered before continuing. He knew how to push you to the limit. And he knew how to keep you on it for a long time.

Your moans drowned out the music, and the air became damp with your breaths. You clenched your fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer. He tasted you like the most precious drink, taking his time, as if he wanted you to memorize every inch of his tongue.

And when you were already trembling, barely holding back a scream, he stood up, grabbed your hips, and lifted you up easily.

"I asked you not to distract me," he whispers right into your lips, but you feel his hardness resting against you and realize that he can't stop himself anymore.

"Well, then finish with me and get back to your bike," you tease, biting his ear.

He grabbed you by the waist strongly and carried you to the table. Jungkook sat you down on the cold metal table. Your legs involuntarily spread apart, and the hem of his T-shirt slid up, exposing you.

"You're sneaky. You came right here. You're make me crazy."

"And what are you going to do about it?" your breath hitched as his palm stopped where you were already burning.

"First, I'll make you regret that you come here when I was busy. And then I'll make you ask for more."

Jungkook kissed you, roughly, greedily, with the same insatiable hunger, as if he wanted to reach your very soul. His tongue penetrated your mouth, captivating you, subduing you, making you lose touch with reality. His hands tore at the sides of your T-shirt without taking it off completely, leaving it hanging down on your shoulders like the most alluring piece of jewelry on your body.

His fingers-hot, slightly rough from working with metal-confidently moved lower, pushed you apart, and entered you. Your passage received them with a wet waterfall.

"Kook..." you breathed out, losing control, already in the grip of desire.

"Hush, baby. Let me feel you."

His fingers moved rhythmically, steadily. Your body arched every time he penetrated deeper, harder. The only sound in the air was the sound of your breaths and muffled moans.

"Oh... you're so wet... just for me, aren't you?" he whispered with a husky voice that burned you deeper than any touch.

He quickly pulled down his sweatpants, also nothing underneath. His cock was hard, hot, ready. He took hold of your hips, guided himself to your entrance and, without hesitation, entered you with one deep, strong thrust.

You arched back, bit your lip, screaming not from pain but from a wave of sudden pleasure. He froze inside you, deeply, giving you time to get used to it.

The kiss connected you again - long, passionate, with tense tongues intertwining. You moaned into his mouth, your hands sliding down his back, your nails leaving red marks.

Jungkook pulled your lower lip with his teeth, then let go, looking into your eyes with that predatory smile that made you tremble.

First move. The second. The rhythm was born in his hips, steady, sharp, each stroke a blow to your consciousness. He took you without shame, with the same authority with which he had always touched your heart.

"Fuck..." he breathed out, kissing you again, "You were made for me. For my hands. For my body."

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him tight, whispering his name in his ear. His voice was a low, ragged growl, and he was picking up the pace, harder, deeper.

The garage was filled with the sounds of your bodies - the thumps, the wet sighs, the moans, and that muffled "mine" he branded you with over and over again.

When your body began to shudder and your breath hitched, he knew you were on the verge. A few more hard thrusts and the explosion.

The orgasm hit you like a storm, wave after wave. You trembled, clutching him, and he entered deeply a few more times and came out with a jerk, spilling hot semen on your stomach. His cock shook, his body trembled with yours.

Jungkook sank down against you, resting his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily.

For several minutes you just stayed there, in silence, amidst the smell of oil, sweat, and pleasure. His fingers stroked your thigh, he lifted his head and looked at you, his eyes sparkling.

"So, my love, how did you like the bike repair? Was it interesting...?" he asked, smiling with the corner of his lips and gently running his finger over your stomach, smearing drops of his passion.

You laughed hoarsely, barely turning your head to him.

"If every repair looks like this... I'll probably break your bike every day," you joke, still breathing heavily, your fingers tangled in his hair, stroking the back of his head.

"You would do that, my seductress." Jungkook replies in a low, still slightly broken voice and kisses your neck. "You'll stay with me until morning, right? I don't want you to leave."

You squeeze his hand.

"Yes, I'll stay until the morning." You answer quietly, almost whispering, and that special moment comes between you - not just after lust, but after deep intimacy. Real intimacy. He feels it. And so do you.

"Shall we go to the shower?" he suggests softly, standing up a little, but not moving too far away from you. "I want to wash all the dust off of you... and leave you with just kisses."

You nod and smile.

"And I thought you were going to leave something else..." you tease, glancing down.

"If you don't stop, there will be a second round in the shower," he replies, picking you up, not letting you take a step.

"Round two? Maybe three?" you joke. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You will drive me crazy, that I'll fuck you all night so you can't sit up in the morning."

"You sound promising." you tease.

And when you disappear behind the bathroom door, the garage is still warm, smelling of gasoline, oil... and the first real confessions made without words.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #19

Pepper Potts prided herself on her ability to adapt. She’d survived Tony Stark’s post-cave existentialism, Stark Expo 2010, the entirety of the Avengers Initiative, and several global cataclysms. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared her for the day she received a glowing scroll via flaming raven at 3 a.m. It exploded into glitter and legal jargon the second she touched it.

The Temporal Child Reassignment Authority—TCRA for short, like an IRS from hell with better penmanship—had declared her the legal guardian of four de-aged minors, all results of an “interdimensional ghost war and subsequent reality collapse.” The document even included a family tree, pointing out her half-sister Maddie Fenton as their maternal parent. The kicker? Three of the children were meta-class ecto-beings. And the fourth was an “anomalous prodigy with cognitive potential exceeding known human thresholds.”

Pepper blinked at the words, reread them, and poured herself the strongest wine she owned.

By the time she finished the bottle, her living room shimmered with unnatural frost, and a swirling green portal opened with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Out stumbled four children—if one could use such a soft word for what appeared to be three weapons of mass destruction and a tiny, furious psychologist in the making.

Jazz was nine years old, with blazing red hair in a ponytail so tight it looked like a weapon. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision. She was holding a notebook, already scribbling down assessments.

Dan, aged seven, had black-and-white hair that flickered between forms, red eyes glowing faintly, and a permanent scowl that screamed war criminal in a booster seat. His tiny boot crushed a Stark Industries coaster underfoot.

Danny, five, looked like an overcaffeinated sugar cube in a “Ghostbusters are Bigots” shirt. He levitated six inches off the ground, phasing through the coffee table like it offended him personally.

And Dani—dear sweet baby Dani—was three, wore a tutu over her jumpsuit, and was gnawing on a Stark tech screwdriver like a teething raptor. It sparked. She giggled.

Pepper stared.

Tony wandered in wearing Iron Man pajama pants and blinked at the chaos.

“Huh. Why do I suddenly feel like a dad?”

Pepper stood up and handed him the scroll.

Ten minutes later, Tony was grinning like a proud, chaotic uncle who just realized he’d inherited a feral army. “Oh, I love them.”

“I want to kill Maddie,” Pepper muttered. “I want to re-kill her if she’s already dead. I don’t care. I will unearth her soul and yell.”

Jazz looked up from her notes. “Statistically, yelling is ineffective when dealing with narcissistic sociopaths with academic degrees. But I can write up an interrogation protocol if you give me twenty minutes and a war room.”

Tony looked at her like she was a gift from God. “Pepper. She’s a baby you.”

“She’s a terrifying baby me.”

“I love her.”

Dan crossed his arms, floating ominously. “I’m only here because they said I can’t go back to the timeline where I killed everyone.”

Dani beamed. “I like juice!”

Danny phased up to the ceiling fan. “Does this house have ghost-repellent death lasers like the last one? I hate those.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You got hit by ghost-repellent death lasers?”

Pepper was already dialing every Avenger in existence. “Tony. Tony, their parents worked with the GIW.”

“The what?”

Jazz narrowed her eyes. “The Ghost Investigation Ward. They are basically interdimensional fascists who want to wipe out all ghosts and hybrid anomalies. Also, they tried to vivisect us.”

Tony blinked. “Vivisect?”

“Scalpels, restraints, anti-ecto shackles, and a man named Agent O who smells like ham and crime,” Jazz said flatly.

“I’m going to kill someone,” Pepper muttered, pacing. “I’m going to launch an HR-approved war.”

Dani blinked. “Are we allowed to bite?”

“No,” Pepper said.

“Yes,” Tony said at the same time.

Dani cheered.

By the time Natasha arrived, Dani was in the air vents, Danny had short-circuited the AI, Dan was brooding in the fireplace like a Dickensian ghost of vengeance, and Jazz was lecturing FRIDAY on ethical protocol failure.

Natasha stood in the entryway, staring, her eyes wide with either horror or admiration.

“Pepper. Did you birth little Widows?”

“No,” Pepper said tightly. “They’re Maddie’s kids. Maddie’s. As in, I share DNA with them and now legally own them. Apparently.”

Jazz tilted her head. “Ms. Romanoff. I’ve analyzed your fight patterns from Battle of New York and determined you have unresolved trauma related to institutional betrayal. Would you like to unpack that?”

Tony leaned over. “She’s nine.”

“She scares me,” Natasha whispered.

Bucky showed up next and read the full report Jazz had printed out for him, complete with footnotes, photos, and color-coded trauma timelines.

The super soldier sat down, dead-eyed. “I just had a Hydra flashback from a PowerPoint.”

Jazz gave him a lollipop. “That’s a common symptom. I recommend candy and validation.”

Dan muttered something about weak mortals and floated upside down through a wall.

“I like him,” Bucky said faintly.

Steve walked in, saw Dan breathing ectoplasmic fire at the neighbor’s cat, and noped back out.

Wanda arrived and blinked at Jazz, whose psychic aura flared like a dying star every time she got emotional.

They stared at each other for a long time.

“I sense wrath,” Wanda said.

Jazz nodded. “I contain multitudes.”

Pepper was halfway through arranging a legal drone strike on the GIW when Rhodey FaceTimed her. “Hey, uh, why is CNN reporting that four tiny gods have occupied New York and turned the Stark Tower into a haunted war bunker?”

“They’re children,” Pepper said.

Tony poked his head into frame. “Children who can melt tanks.”

Danny flew by holding the Iron Man helmet upside down like a bowl of cereal.

“Dani just set the couch on fire,” Pepper added, dead-eyed.

Rhodey blinked. “I’ll bring extinguishers.”

The thing about children, Pepper had learned, is that they operate entirely on vibes, sugar, and trauma. And these four had plenty of all three. Jazz was terrifyingly competent, and within a week had formed an inter-Avengers child committee, wrote a new AI ethics guideline, and had Bruce Banner signing waivers just to talk to her.

Dan blew up a parking meter because it “looked at him wrong.”

Danny asked Tony if they could build an ecto-bazooka together and promised not to use it on Steve “unless Steve said ghosts weren’t real again.”

Dani tried to use her powers to possess a Roomba and ride it into battle.

Pepper walked in on all four of them forming a pact to “annihilate GIW headquarters” with something called Operation Ghost Buster Buster.

Tony approved instantly.

Pepper did not.

“Pepper,” Tony said. “We have kids now.”

“We have war orphans now.”

“They’re adorable!”

“They’re armed.”

“They’re basically Avengers Junior.”

Dani crashed through the ceiling riding a ghost dragon she “found in the laundry room.”

“I changed my mind,” Pepper muttered. “They’re perfect.”

Pepper flew to Amity Park a week later, dressed in corporate armor and rage. She walked into the Fenton household with Natasha, Bucky, and a glowing legal team of literal demons (Tony’s idea) and found Maddie and Jack cheerfully explaining how ecto-dissection worked on “halflings.”

When Maddie smiled and said, “It’s science, dear,” Pepper threw her coffee in Maddie’s face.

Tony had to hold her back while Bucky dismantled the Fenton portal and Natasha found enough surveillance footage to convict them of several counts of attempted child murder.

Jazz watched the entire thing from the jet via livestream, calmly taking notes.

“Pepper’s my favorite aunt,” she said.

Dan nodded. “She has potential.”

Danny was asleep on Tony’s shoulder, clutching a ghost plushie.

Dani was drawing herself riding a unicorn with a flame thrower.

The Avengers voted unanimously to make the kids honorary members. Jazz requested clearance access to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s trauma archives and got it. Dan received therapy. Danny built a ghost-safe treehouse. Dani declared herself queen of the Stark kitchen and banned kale.

Pepper watched them play in the yard one day and finally exhaled.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she whispered.

Tony grinned. “You’re doing fine.”

Jazz ran by wielding a dagger made of solidified ghost energy.

Danny chased her screaming something about shared custody of the Lunchables.

Dan floated overhead like a sullen storm cloud.

Dani cackled, flying past them on her Roomba dragon.

“I need wine,” Pepper muttered.

Tony kissed her cheek. “I’ll buy you a vineyard.”

[swordgrace]

𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: in the aftermath of rook’s rest, you seek aemond out to inquire about his wellbeing. instead, you find him somewhere else — somewhere unexpected. (set after S2 EP4).

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 5.2K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni) , spoilers for s2 ep4, public sex / risk of getting caught, knifeplay, imbalance of power, rough sex, darkish!aemond, dom!aemond, p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f!receiving), fingering, brief tiddy sucking, groping, biting / marking, hair pulling, choking, fucking right in front of the iron throne, inaccurate high valyrian, brief dirty talk, lots of aemond’s inner thoughts, breeding kink if you squint, aemond is extremely possessive of the reader to an unhealthy degree.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: to preface, I am working on requests, this just happened to make its way out of my brain before anything else did. This was inspired by the single shot of Aemond standing in front of the Iron Throne in the S2 EP5 trailer, you can tell how desperate I got as soon as I saw it. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! There will be a Jace fic dropping tomorrow, too! ❤️

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄 — a seat of power constructed by Aegon the Conqueror in the aftermath of a bloodied war, forged from thousands of surrendered swords.

In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, it was said that the Throne was sometimes too high to climb, a jagged labyrinth of blades melded by dragon’s fire, a throne fit for any ruler. Men impaled themselves upon one another’s blades for it, turned against one another, endless betrayals and treacheries ensued all for the sake of the endgame, to see themselves upon the Throne.

Brother turned against brother — you didn’t expect anything less from Aemond, whose desire to exact revenge boiled just beneath the surface. The Battle at Rook’s Rest had proved a slaughter on all fronts, between the decimation of both Cole’s armies and the castle they laid siege upon, to the death of the Princess Rhaenys and her dragon, Melys.

Whispers spread through the Red Keep in regards to King Aegon’s condition, bones crushed beneath the weight of Sunfyre, who plummeted from the skies in a ball of fire. His flesh was scorched, half of his body melded to the Valyrian Steel armor he wore, burnt beyond recognition.

If they were to be believed, King Aegon was gravely wounded — and if a fatality ensued, who would then bear the mantle of King?

A restless dusk gripped King’s Landing as the surviving soldiers from Cole’s armies arrived at the city gates, King Aegon amongst the wounded. In what you considered to be a mass panic and hysteria, Maesters rushed to diligently attend to their King, who seemed to be meeting a simmering grave inside of his armor — it would be his tomb if they weren’t careful.

Merely a handmaiden and servant to nobility, the antics of your masters didn’t interest you — you were wholly preoccupied with your own survival and self-preservation, amongst other things. It was said that Aemond and Vhagar had swarmed the battlefield and come to King Aegon’s defense, but by the time they had, Aegon had been swallowed by dragonfire.

Part of you had difficulty believing that Aemond truly attempted to save his elder brother, given Aemond’s embittered sentiments. Your relationship with the Prince had transcended all bonds of propriety — and if anyone were to find out, they would likely have your head for sullying his virtue.

Nevertheless, as chaos swarmed around you, you knew exactly who to seek out. Queen Alicent had little desire to be hounded by handmaidens while her eldest son struggled to hang onto his own life, something you could understand. Instead, you made for Aemond’s chambers, the route embedded into your mind.

You sought him — all of him. His lilac hue, a maelstrom of forlorn emotions, and his silvery tresses, like cascading silk, embedded themselves into your mind. His cunning countenance and beguiled expression were like hot-iron brands cast onto your thoughts, tormenting you with each waking moment.

As you stepped closer to the Throne Room, no longer guarded by Kingsguard, you saw the great door ajar — no King atop the throne. You wondered if he would live, Aegon — a drunken, broken man who preferred his cups and whores over ruling — or if he would perish.

You knew who would sit the Iron Throne, should Aegon fall.

A heavy darkness had befallen the throne room, fitting for the many tragedies, like the gloom of a shadow haunting all who dared to enter. Curiosity gripped you as you stepped inside, a place well above your station, yet you wondered if there was anyone inside.

The doors remained shut, save for the one you slipped through, the gap slim. Flickering braziers provided some illumination to such a grandeur hall, but it seemed so dour and lifeless without the presence of the day, without subjects fluttering in and out. Instead, it provided an ominous sense of dread, as if luring those inside with dark omens and false promises.

A familiar crown of silvery tresses stood at the very center, before the throne — he didn’t need to turn around for you to know who it was. He seemed entirely unscathed by the battle at Rook’s Rest, hands carefully folded behind his back, posture poised and dignified.

Aegon’s dagger flashed within his right hand, clutched tightly at his side. You wondered how he had acquired the blade so swiftly after a tragedy — but you knew. You had always known of Aemond’s nature, of his restrained resentment towards his brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Aemond.” Your voice reverberated throughout the throne room, carrying a fair distance as you closed the door behind you. The studded mahogany groaned in protest, yet bent to your will as it closed with a noisy thud. Admittedly, you were surprised to see him here, and not in the comfort of his chambers.

He didn’t move, rigid and still as you quietly approached, dresses sweeping across the smooth stone beneath you. His violet hues remained transfixed upon the Iron Throne, a throne that would soon be his, if fate favored him. So many swords, so much strife and conflict that forged such a chair — so much bloodshed.

Aemond often wondered what the weight of the crown would feel like upon his brow — and even then, he knew he would wear it better than Aegon ever could. He had stood by the wayside for far too long, learned in his studies and a talented swordsman, wondering if it would all have some reward, some payoff.

Now, his opportunity was swiftly approaching.

Whatever anger he’d often kept leashed, it had struck out, like the bite of a poisonous viper, sinking into its prey with all its bitter viciousness. It was the same tempestuous rage that had lashed at Lucerys Velaryon, and now it had struck his brother, Aegon the Magnanimous.

A stupid sobriquet for a stupid man — a drunken fool. Aemond would simply pass it off as an unfortunate accident, with Aegon carelessly stepping into the line of fire whilst tangling with the Queen Who Never Was. Swift decisions had to be made on his part, his brother a victim of such action.

Any silver-tongued words that would placate his Mother, he was prepared to let them fly. Aemond knew enough to know that the consequences would be slim, and those of true action and cruel intentions would take Aegon’s place — men like himself.

Soft footfalls fell across black stone, and you called his name again, like a siren’s song luring the sailor into deeper waters. “Aemond.” It was saccharine, dripping with genuine warmth that the Prince was simply unaccustomed to.

The unexpected lull of your voice broke his fixation, and he looked to you with a gaze full of desire. It was a farcry from the frustrated, despondent man you’d encountered days prior following the incident at the brothel. There was a newfound fire within his eyes, a confidence restored — a sense of triumph.

Admittedly, you were rather perplexed by this invigorated side to Aemond — that wild gleam within his lilac eye only seemed to grow in intensity as you approached him. “I heard the news of what happened to your brother,” You began, pondering his reaction. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

The admiration he had for you only seemed to blossom, knowing that you were simply keeping up appearances for his sake. Aemond’s mouth tilted into the ghost of a smirk, feigning melancholy despite the truth of his own actions. “It was a horrible thing, what happened to the King,” He uttered, glancing toward the throne. “I wish for his swift recovery.”

A facade was a mere understatement — you could almost taste the smug bemusement that rested within Aemond’s tone. The slight quirk of his mouth, the manner in which he spoke — his sympathies for Aegon were nonexistent.

“As any good brother would.” You replied, stepping closer until you stood before the Iron Throne, gaze falling upon the thousands of swords swarming the seat, blades of many shapes and sizes. You wondered about the people behind each sword — who swung it, what their lives must’ve been like.

A brief hum escaped Aemond, who observed you hawkishly as you approached, violet hue greedily drinking you in as he had many times before. You had stood so faithfully by his side, never admonished him for the brash actions taken against his family, never deemed him pathetic for what happened at the brothel.

He cared little for your station, little for your status as a lowborn — if he sat the Iron Throne, he could have whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter if you were a commoner, Aemond could envision you as his wife, a Queen — no longer bowing to the whims of greater men and women who cared little for you.

“Did my Mother dismiss you this evening?” Aemond questioned, digits tense around the pommel of Aegon’s knife — now his. Seeing as he was no longer fit to carry the weapon, it was only just that it pass to his brother, his next of kin.

“She did,” A gentle exhale escaped you, one that allowed you to maintain your composure. Being in Aemond’s presence seemed to make you dizzy with desire with each passing moment — not a new sentiment, but an intoxicating one. “I was coming to find you, to see if you were well after the battle.”

Shamelessly, Aemond became quite aroused at the thought of you wandering about the Red Keep with the single-minded desire to see him. His blood ran hot after the battle — the surge of adrenaline did not lessen in your presence.

His jaw tensed slightly as he appraised you, taking a step closer, brazenly closing the distance between you both. He could smell your perfume, the warm bouquet of flowers and a touch of honey. “How thoughtful.” His voice dropped to a low purr, dripping with the first inklings of lust.

Your breath hitched, words turning to ash upon your tongue as your fingers curled into your dress. Aemond enticed you in ways that no man had before — and he saw you, a woman beneath the gowns of a servant. The hammering of your heart within your chest had stirred something powerful — your want for him consumed you like a tidal wave.

Before you could utter his name, he descended like a starving wolf to kiss you, open-mouthed and bleeding lust. You shivered, wanting to coax him into returning to his chambers before things became heated. His hand dropped to seize your hip, hauling you closer to him until no space was left between your bodies.

You reciprocated his kiss, able to hear a faint growl of approval building up within his throat. It was fiery and hot, with little concern of who might see you. Aemond was growing emboldened, brazen knowing the power he now held within his grasp.

“We should return to your quarters,” You whispered, a strained whimper tearing past your lips as Aemond kissed your jaw, sucking at the flesh of your neck. “Aemond, we can’t — not here.” Your breathy pleas fell upon deaf ears — what better place to claim you than before his new throne?

“We can,” Aemond murmured, pushing your tresses aside as he claimed your throat, laying waste to your flesh in his rabid kisses and hungry bites. “The rest of the Keep is preoccupied.” His reassurance was threadbare at best, but you were beginning to slip off of the deep end, fingers clawing at his tunic.

“What if someone sees?” Fear trickled into your voice, a subtle fright that Aemond found to be enticing. You worried for your own skin — he could understand that. A moan escaped you as Aemond nipped at your jugular, squeezing at your hips.

You failed to comprehend that he would protect you, shield you if needed. He did not need to justify his obsession for you, just as Aegon never offered any justification for his nightly whore hunts. Aemond seemed quick to soothe your worry, hand clasping at the nape of your neck.

“Then I will have their head,” His delectable purr dropped an octave, scratching the itch within your head. “You needn’t worry, ñuha dōna. I can do whatever I wish.” Aemond assured you, a great fire burning within his lilac hue. The leather of his eyepatch concealed the listless sapphire beneath.

He only needed to serve himself — his family cared little for him, and the world was often against him. He looked forward to facing Daemon whenever the time came, should he be bold enough to challenge him. Aemond dismissed it all — Aegon, his mother, Criston Cole — the only thing that mattered were the both of you.

Aemond’s streak of possessiveness had grown into something uncontrollable, a festering desire to keep you close, spiraling into obsession. You were many things to him, many things he coveted for himself.

After a moment of hesitation, you decided to make things tempting for Aemond, loosening the bodice of your dress. His breath hitched, the noise subtle if one wasn’t observant enough. He seized the back of your head once more, hungrily pressing his lips to yours, consuming you in another heated kiss.

A dour portrait of dusk hovers around the Red Keep, its shadowy tendrils slinking into the throne room. Only moonlight and dying braziers are your guide, and Aemond is at his prettiest whenever he’s touched by the silvery rays. It strikes his narrow visage, paints his silky tresses in pale light.

He is closer to a god now than he is a man — fortunately, you were willing to return to religion if it meant that Aemond was who you worshiped. As much as you liked to believe it was the foundation of your relationship, he thought of it alternatively, the roles reversed.

Your digits slip beneath the overcoat he wore, marred by speckled dirt and brimstone. His broad, sinewy shoulders are concealed by his tunic, and he seems vastly overdressed compared to you, still wearing your servant’s clothes. Aemond had gotten you a dress to wear with him before — you never wore it otherwise.

There is a certain intensity in the way he kisses you, as if each embrace might be your last. In the aftermath of a battle, you understand such sentiments, given the fate of the King and the Princess Rhaenys.

A growl reverberates within the depths of his throat as he pries his mouth away from you, gesturing toward the flight of obsidian steps that ascend toward the Iron Throne. “There,” He uttered, more of a command than a suggestion. “Lay down.”

A shudder rolls down the length of your spine, followed by an onslaught of goosebumps that snake across your flesh like a fever. Your stomach churned with anticipation, filling with the sensation of sloshing heat, burning brighter as each moment passed.

Without question, you step toward the throne, noticing the sharpness of some blades, the dullness of others. You find your footing upon the last step, feeling Aemond stalk closer. The rustling of his belt makes you shiver, only to find the steely chill of the Conqueror’s knife pressed against the dip between your shoulder and neck.

Aemond closes in behind you, caging you against his chest, like a predator swarming hapless prey. His narrow nose brushed along your soft tresses as he dragged the tip of the knife from your shoulder to ribcage. “Shall I cut this from you?” He uttered, digging the Valyrian steel into the fabric of your dress.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you brace yourself for the bite of the knife, for the unruly tear of fabric, but it never comes. Instead, Aemond’s mouth pressed vigorous kisses against your neck, hand seizing you by the throat.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke.” Aemond purred, feeling you turn within his grasp. Desire oozed between you both, an onslaught of carnality soon to follow. His lilac hue flickered over your countenance, drinking in your beauty with unrestrained rapture. You belong to me.

From what little High Valyrian you’d learned in the time you’ve been with Aemond, you strung enough of the sentence together to know what he meant. “Iksan aōhon.” A soft whimper emerged from between your parted lips, noticing the way his pupil dilated with amorous intent.

I am yours.

A flame of obsession roared within his gaze, enough to burn you alive where you stood. Aemond reveled in your submission to him, drank in your devotion — a devotion that would prove fruitful, should he ascend the throne. The tip of the knife prodded into your sternum, and you absentmindedly leaned forward.

Aemond captured your mouth once more, laying claim to you — his paramour. There was nothing sweeter than your desperate mewls and reciprocated passion, the succor of your mouth, the saccharine scent of your perfume.

The both of you descended to the floor, icy and stony as it prodded into your back. He knelt between your legs, gaze momentarily flickering between the shadow of the Iron Throne and your mesmerized visage. Aemond kissed you again, nipping at your lower lip before rucking up your skirts, pushing them toward your hips.

With one knee, he bullied his way in between your thighs, breaths heavier, wrought with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. In one smooth tug, he loosened your bodice, wrestling with the coarse material as he buried his face into your silky skin.

The throes of passion filled the air — short gasps and labored pants accompanied by the constant shuffling of fabric. “Aemond,” You moaned, watching as he bit the leather of his glove, removing the garment in one jerk of his head. Flesh to flesh, he moved to drag his digits along your weeping slit. “Aemond.” Urgency crept into your voice, strung-out by need.

“Hm,” His cajoling hum sent shivers down your spine, heat sloshing around within your stomach. Arousal pooled between your thighs, nectar sticky and gathering swiftly. “What a delicious gift you’ve given me.” Aemond uttered, slender digits continuing to stroke at your cunt, his pace agonizingly slow.

Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let them rest upon his tongue, gathering your juices to taste. A satisfied grunt of approval escaped him, one that made you meld into the floor. It was an uncomfortable surface, yet any thought of discomfort dissipated the moment Aemond’s lips pressed against the inside of your knee.

Instinctively, your hands flew toward his crown of silken tresses, digging in with an ironclad hold. Aemond released a low hiss of satisfaction, pressing hot kisses along the inside of your thigh. He dipped lower, breath fanning across your cunt.

His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

“Aemond!” Your voice rose above the cacophony of lewd noises ensuing below, noisy enough to reverberate throughout the throne room. It worried you, the potential of someone finding you with the Prince-Regent between your legs, but pleasure began to outweigh logic.

His name felt sweet from your mouth — if Aemond had it his way, he would make you say it a thousand times over. The sharp bridge of his nose buried itself into your mound, cock twitching within the leather of his breeches.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

The Iron Throne overshadowed the both of you, a jagged mess of swords surrounded by dusk. Slats of moonlight trickled in from the stained glass above, falling across his visage, violet hue sparkling with lust. His lips greedily kissed at your clit, causing your hips to lurch forward.

“Look at me.” A pointed demand spoken from an edged tongue, one that commanded your attention without wavering. With a strangled moan, you turned your head to him, furthering the fire within your belly. Your doe-eyed stare locked onto him, lips falling apart.

As your eyes flickered over his poised features, your hand tightened within his tresses, coaxing him closer toward the apex of your thighs. Aemond wasn’t sly at suppressing the delight he felt in that moment, greedily lapping at your cunt.

You watched, enthralled by the ministrations of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the tantalizing efforts made to draw you back in. His features were carved like marble, by the steady hand of a sculptor — godly, in the best way possible.

Aemond hoped that your blissful cries would alert the guards — perhaps, all could bear witness to his carnal delights, know that you belonged to him and him alone. His lips crawled to a sluggish pace, made only to torment you as he peppered feather-light kisses against your clit. The lack of pressure nearly made you wretch, digits curling into a fist.

Every fiber of your being felt as if it had been set ablaze, washed within the fires of his affection. He knew your body well, as well as he knew his own, tongue dipping to have a taste of your core as it lightly jutted against your entrance. You whimpered, the noise pathetic and pitiful, yet overwhelmingly eager.

“Please,” You moaned, breathy and clawing for some shred of release, canting your hips forward. Aemond retreated, just enough to leave you writing upon the steps before a sly chuckle reverberated between your thighs. His torture of you was playful and intimate, intended to make you beg. “Please, Aemond!”

How could he deny you when you sounded so sweet?

With a soft hum, Aemond returned to devour your cunt, drink from the nectar that oozed between your legs. His hands situated themselves against your thighs, nails digging in enough to leave behind traces of angered crescent marks.

The heat between your legs intensified, arousal stinging your bones, body bent underneath Aemond’s will as he lapped at your core. His lips were accompanied by his spindly digits as two fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling the crescendo of your whimpers before sinking themselves into your tight cunt.

Squelching intermingled with that of brazen pants and your myriad of moans, a cacophony of lust that permeated the throne room. It felt sinful, to defile the steps of a seat of power, but that shame swiftly contorted into bliss — it felt good.

It felt good to be desired, for Aemond to feel not an ounce of regret or remorse for being with you or for the carnage his actions wrought. The darkness that festered within his eye only grew, once a flickering shade, now growing into something sprawling.

At last, his lips pursed around your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your back arched from the stone, thighs rattling like falling leaves as he brought about your ruin. His digits viciously pumped in and out of your cunt, preparing you for the act that was to follow.

His tongue lashed across his lower lip, not wasting a drop of what sweetness you provided him with. Aemond’s mouth hastily abandoned your cunt, yet the curling of his fingers seemed to make up for the loss of pleasure. You felt his wet lips purse around the pebbled peak of your breast, suckling like a greedy babe.

Aemond’s senses drowned in desire, cock throbbing within his trousers, desperate to be inside of you. It wouldn’t be much longer now as he bit and kissed your chest, letting the work manifest as love bites, evidence of his carnal want for you.

“I need you, Aemond. I need you inside of me.” The suddenness of your words left him reeling, a snarl stirring within his chest as his teeth gnashed into the soft flesh between your breasts. You longed to feel his cock lay waste to your cunt, for him to fuck away his anger, his frustration.

Hastily, his hand flew to the ties of his breeches, loosening the threads of leather. You grabbed the front of his tunic, enough to effectively grab his attention as you pulled him in for a hot kiss. Passion bled through, and you could taste yourself upon his tongue as it danced with yours.

The warmth of his cockhead prodded against your folds, already slick with your cum and his own. It was messy, an entanglement born of desire, of the will to possess one another — a claim eternal. Aemond’s hand snaked toward your hip, the other keeping himself afloat before he snapped forward.

His cock invaded your cunt without any sluggishness to it, the deliberation gone entirely. A wild shimmer glistened within his eye, a domineering edge that seemed to wrestle with itself. Aemond wanted to submit to you, but in the wake of Rook’s Rest, adrenaline and a desire for power simply wouldn’t allow it.

As he fucked you like a hound, as Aegon had colorfully put it, Aemond could see you seated beside him, a crown upon your brow, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A commoner, crawled from dirt and from nothing, into his arms — into a seat of power that none would dare challenge.

Fantasy consumed him, making him mad with lust. He wanted to crawl beneath your flesh, reside there, hear your heart hammering within your breast. He seemed pleasantly surprised when you claimed his mouth, your tongue advancing past his parted lips.

With your skirts having fallen to the swell of your hips, you hitched one leg around him, hand clawing at his back, between his shoulders. “Aemond,” You moaned, overwhelmed by his barrage of erratic thrusts. His stamina was something to witness as he kept a rather vigorous pace. “My King.”

A low growl stirred within his throat, a stark warning not to continue with your current line of thought. Aemond bit at your lower lip, prompting you to moan into his mouth, but you surprised him again when you reciprocated. Things were intense, far more fiery than they ever had been before.

Battle made him hot — such a sensation wasn’t aided by your presence, intensified tenfold. With Aegon wasting away inside of his chambers, steel melting into his flesh, swarmed by flocks of Maesters, Aemond felt no remorse — none at all as he fucked you before the Iron Throne.

He felt no remorse when he ordered Vhagar to burn his brother, he felt no remorse when he brought you into his bed — and he would feel no remorse when he ascended the throne and made you his Queen.

His cock furiously battered away at your cunt, the lewdness of flesh and intermingled breaths being the only sounds that mattered. That lilac hue of his studied your countenance, the devotion and rapture that rest upon it, your complete and utter joy. Aemond had been blessed with the loveliest creature — you.

The stretch you felt as Aemond invaded your nethers was a pleasant one, your walls tight around his length as he continued to fuck you. Face to face, chest to chest — there was no room left for deception, nowhere left to turn to. With a groan, Aemond kissed you yet again.

“Kesan mazverdagon ao ñuha dāria.” I will make you my Queen; he growled into your ear, biting at the shell, the act enough to make you whimper. He filled your cunt with his cock, the only one that it would ever take. In the heat of the moment, he bit at your neck, hand gripping your thigh so hard that it was bound to leave bruises.

Darkness swallowed the hallowed halls — braziers flickering out completely, leaving only moonlight. Even through the silvery haze, Aemond’s face remained a picture of living perfection, his brow creased with concentration.

The fervor of his pace began to slow, cock throbbing with an onslaught of arousal, one that flooded his body with waves of bliss. He wasn’t neglectful of your needs, swiftly placing a hand between your bodies, thumb rubbing circles around your clit.

Heavy footfalls of guardsmen resonated from outside of the sealed doors, a nightly patrol, prompting you to shiver from worry, but Aemond did not stop — and he wouldn’t. His blazing eye bared down upon you, glistening with the sheen of lust, of obsession, a man starved of the love and devotion he so desperately chased.

Your lips felt swollen, a byproduct of Aemond’s biting, of the many shared kisses that had turned into hunger. You were ravenous for him in ways that you had little knowledge of, scraping the surface of what desire truly meant.

Silky, pale tresses fell through your digits as you threaded them within his hair, gripping it in fistfuls as you continued to kiss him until every wisp of air was stolen from your lungs. Aemond did not relent, continuing to adopt a rhythmic pace of fucking you, cock halfway out before he thrust forward again and again.

As the both of you approached the precipice, falling into a white-hot abyss, you could hear him murmuring something in High Valyrian, strings of sweet praises and compliments. His thumb continued to circle your clit even after you had your release, milking his cock with an onslaught of your nectar.

Aemond grunted, forehead nudging against yours as he snapped forward one final time, cock sheathed inside of you as he found a warm place to spill his seed. The recklessness of it was of little consequence to him — an herbal tea could remedy it, yet the thought of filling you with an heir became tantalizing.

Not yet — not now.

If his seed were to take, it would sow discord across his house, and there was enough of that already. Aemond huffed, gathering his composure as your whimpers dwindled into soft pants. His claws sank so deep into you, talons wrenched into your heart, your body, everything.

He placed a kiss upon your brow, a subtle gesture that reminded you of his lingering duality. Aemond pulled himself out of you with an onslaught of stickiness, a mess that would only be remedied by a long soak in the bath — something he would need you for.

Your chest felt tight, both from exhilaration and the intensity of it all. As you adjusted your skirts back into place, Aemond gently coaxed you to your feet, pressed close against you as he stared at the throne. “Perhaps, once I ascend, we will have to make use of the throne.” His salacious purr made you shudder.

“There is no law forbidding us from acting upon that now,” You challenged, and Aemond had to restrain himself from acting upon such a lascivious impulse. For as coy as you could be, you were just as lustful as he was at times, a quality that he greatly adored. “Your Grace.”

As much as the teasing title seemed to provoke him, Aemond grabbed your hips, lips twitching into his familiar smirk, a near-permanent expression. “Aemond,” He corrected, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “For now, I will need assistance with drawing a bath.”

The Throne’s harrowing shape cast its shadow as the both of you abandoned the dark halls and into the light of Aemond’s chambers.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not attempt to steal or translate my works onto other platforms or claim it as your own.

[reneki]

Caged in the dark

Obsessive Yandere!Jinwoo x Reader

Author’s Note: I don’t condone toxic relationships, but I do write them apparently. Yandere Jinwoo came to me in a dream and said, “She’s mine now,” and I simply did what I was told. Enjoy the descent into shadowy obsession.

Warnings: Possessive behavior, psychological manipulation, implied violence, controlling relationship, fear themes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You tried to leave. Again.

The moment your suitcase clicked shut, the temperature in the room dropped. Not from wind. But from the growing presence that bloomed behind you like a rotting flower.

Shadow. Black, endless, and crawling like ink across the floor.

You didn’t scream anymore. What was the point?

Beru materialized first, tilting his insectoid head like a curious pet. His voice clicked unnaturally.
“My queen, where do you believe you are going?”

You said nothing. Your hands trembled as you gripped the handle of your bag.

Behind him, Igris stepped from the shadows, red cloak billowing with no wind. Silent. Watching. Always watching.

They didn’t attack. They didn’t touch you. But their presence alone was suffocating gentle reminders of power, of control, of him.

And then he appeared.

Jinwoo didn’t slam doors. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

He just stepped into the room, eyes glowing softly violet, and everything else faded into silence.

You couldn’t move.

“Leaving again?” he asked, voice calm. Too calm.

“I—” You backed up, hitting the wall. “I just wanted to breathe, Jinwoo. Just some air. I can’t even go outside without—without them watching.”

His smile was almost tender. “They’re there to protect you.”

“I don’t want protection. I want freedom.”

His expression flickered just for a second. Not anger. Something worse. Hurt.

“No,” he said simply. “You don’t. You just think you do. But the world out there… it’s full of people who don’t understand you. Who could hurt you. Who don’t love you like I do.”

You shook your head, voice cracking. “This isn’t love.”

“It is,” he whispered, stepping close enough for you to feel the chill of his magic in your bones. “It’s more than love. It’s devotion.”

He touched your cheek, so gently it made your skin crawl. “And I’ve already given everything for you. My army. My soul. My crown.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m scared of you.”

He smiled. “You should be.”

Beru chittered with laughter behind him. Iron stomped once, blocking the doorway. Tusk’s eyes glowed faintly from the corner, already preparing a teleportation spell just in case you got any more ideas.

“Please,” you said, and this time, it wasn’t anger in your voice. Just defeat. “Why me?”

Jinwoo leaned closer, eyes never leaving yours. “Because no one’s ever looked at me like you did. Not when I was weak. Not when I was nothing.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re the only light I have left. So I’ll keep you,” he whispered, voice like velvet laced with steel. “Even if you hate me. Even if you run. Even if the world burns for it.”

And then the shadows swallowed the suitcase.

And your freedom.

~~~~~~~~

short n sweet hope you guys enjoy. :)

i think i’m gonna write something for igris pretty soon i love that man so much omg.

[gracieheartspedro]

Propositio

pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader (daughter of marcus aurelius)

word count: 6k words

description: after assembling an army to win back rome, you finally get to confront the traitor to your cause. general marcus acacius.

warnings: DUBCON. this is for 18+ readers ONLY. lots of blood mentioned, marcus is mean, talks of execution, physical violence, choking, name-calling, manipulation (reader is manipulative, he is too), betrayal, misogyny, proposing a horny ultimatum, nicknames (little dove), unprotected p in v, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), he finishes inside you, he leaves blood prints on you, talking you through it, you and marcus are unhinged. (please let me know if I missed anything or mistagged)

dedication: my sweet sweet @amanitacowboy !! thank you for helping me with this, lindsey! you saved my ass by helping me edit this and your encouragement really got me through writing all of this. *MWAH* forehead kiss

author’s note: you whores asked, and I delivered. now please be kind and share and leave a comment!! you guys rock!!

You never thought you would see the day when Marcus Acacius would be behind iron bars. But here you are, standing before the slated door, watching him with his face in his hands. He looked despicable, completely unknowing of the situation in the city's streets. 

“You care to stand for your Empress?”

His big brown eyes lift from his fingers, glaring at you. He easily recognized your voice, it was something that was imprinted in his mind. “Empress?”

You smirked at his absentminded statement, trying your best not to show your pleasure in hearing him call you that. 

“Rome has fallen, General. And you are here. Shameful that I had to do this all on my own when I inquired to you about a months time.”

He stands up slowly, his tunic and face stained with blood and dirt. He had wounds littering his arms and legs, all dripping blood onto the sandy ground. You could only imagine the horrors he experienced at the hands of the twin emperors. You had no time to grieve for him though, because he is now trying to size you up through the cell. It makes your lips curve up. 

“I would have been inclined to help you, but I was too occupied fighting for my life,” He bites, gritting his teeth. 

Your eyes rake him up and down, noting his beaten-down expression. You have spent so long resenting the man who lied to you, that finally getting to stare him in the face was gratifying. He was already paying for his consequences, and not even at your hand.

“I was, too, General. I put together an army of eight thousand strong. For a woman, I did well.”

He puts his arms through the rails, leaning forward. His hands are close to you, but not close enough to touch you. He looks so different from what you remember. Maybe it’s the new scars that litter his face, one particularly on his right cheekbone. The struggle for power and the war he waged seemed to have caused some fine lines as well. 

He is not the same soldier you knew years before. 

“Now that you rule Rome, what is your first move? Kill all the loyalists?” His voice is gruff, almost like he had something caught in his throat. 

You had pondered this day for so long. You were hopeful he was still alive so he could watch you do everything you had planned to do. You remember him telling you that you would make a great ruler someday, but that would probably never happen since you were a woman. He liked to remind you of that often. 

You felt the urge to get in his space and pester him, as you had done time and time again. 

You turn away from him, looking around the tables that surround you, searching for a way to get closer to him. You spot a ring of iron keys and snatch them up. You go through each one, finding one that matches the keyhole. You hear a click as soon as you turn it, the door sliding open. Instead of letting him come out, you stand in his space. All that occupies the room is a wooden bench, a small window, and a table with an empty bowl.

“These quarters meeting your standards?” 

The iron door shuts on its own, rattling as it locks itself. Marcus grimaces, annoyed with your words about him and his situation. “Are you planning on keeping me in here?”

You cross your arms, completely disregarding his question. You did not feel like appeasing him that quickly. “The bench should be a bit softer for your aging back. I am positive you are not getting good sleep.”

The Marcus you knew before was polite and calculated. This Marcus was tired and unhinged. As soon as he notes your condescending tone, he realizes how easy it would be to kill you in the privacy of his cell. You would never expect that from him, he thought.

He reaches out, grabs your shoulders, and slams you against the dirt walls. Luckily, your head does not slam against the mud, only your back. 

The air leaves your lungs as Marcus pins you. You were not expecting such a response, but you stayed unwavering in your expression. You already had your reasonings for being bitter towards the man. You were now ensuring he would never do another malicious thing towards you and that meant putting him in his place. 

“You evil conniving whore,” He seethes, as you try to push out a breath. When you finally bring air back into your chest, you laugh out, your breath hitting his face. 

“Talking dirty to me, General? I thought you were a gentleman.”

He grunts, wrapping his large hand around your neck. You know this is compromising, dangerous even, but you knew deep down that if he killed you, he would only be hurting himself. Rome needed you. He knew that better than anyone else. 

“What are you going to do? Tell me,” He seethes, his fingers squeezing harder the more the seconds pass. 

You try to speak, but he’s cutting off a lot of your air. You wedge your hands in between your bodies, pushing his chest back a bit. He was so warm. “Kill the loyalists. And for this, I may kill you.”

He grits his teeth, “You are not going to kill me.”

“You do not know me very well then, General.”

He removes his hand, knowing very well he bruised your neck in the process of getting information out of you. He is still very close to you as you catch your breath, fanning his sweaty hair off his forehead. He is trying to read you, but for some reason, your coldness informs him of nothing. Your intentions were usually blatant. Not today. 

“What good does killing me do?” He inquires, his arms still caging you in. You cannot lie that you check out his muscular arms as you think about your next statement, considering that he’s more built than he was when you saw him years ago.

Marcus was always enjoyable to look at, but in this very moment, you could not stand the sight of his conflicted expressions. You did not understand why he was rattled and confused. He had no right to be. 

Suddenly you are back in the juncture where you found out the Senate knew about your impending invasion. You had only told one person inside Rome of your grand plans and he was supposed to be helping you. 

But instead, he was the one who informed the council. Your blood boiled at the horrid information. You had to get revenge. The General needed to pay.

“I do not bode well with traitors, General. You betrayed me.”

He scoffs, his eyes trained on your lips, “You know well I did not intentionally try to eradicate your plan. It worked anyway, why does it matter now?”

“You told the Senate that I was raising an army, am I correct in that assumption?”

“No, I told one Senator, one I thought I could trust, that I was aiding you to raise an army. It got me locked in this hell.” He gestures to his surroundings, finally backing away from your space. “I did not want to intentionally ruin this. You know that I would have done anything to see another Aurelius guide the Empire into what it should be. You are the hope Rome still has left.”

Your family history was the only way you had a pathway to be the Empress. You were technically the last of your family and you knew that would be your path to the position of the Roman Ceasar. Plus, Rome adored your Father. He was the greatest ruler Rome ever had. You had his heart and his compassion, unlike your older brother who ended up dead in the middle of the Coliseum due to his hunger for power. Your sister was practically useless when she lost her son, so it was up to you and you alone. 

When the Twins took over Rome, you knew you had run away to farther lands to raise an army, appealing to every land that if you were not to aid them, they would get eliminated by Rome’s tyranny. Within 3 years, you had many countries and armies by your side, ready to take over the empire in your name. 

Once the Twins knew of your plan, they sprang into action. They wanted your head. You had to fight to get into the walls of Rome and every soldier was directed to kill you at first sight. You had some close calls but you were decent with a sword and your guards were even better with theirs. Once you got to the steps of the palace, by some stroke of luck, the Twins were already dead. The rumor had spread that you were taking back Rome and the citizens took care of the last task you had without even asking. 

You raise your chin, not giving in to Marcus’ game, “You almost got me killed. For that, I cannot forgive you.”

He winces a bit, putting his hands on his hips. “You never were very forgiving.”

“Hm, you perceive me well,” You sneer, trying your best not to take note of the ache around your neck. You bring your hand up to feel out the irritation. Marcus zeros in on your motions, smiling a bit. 

“I was stuck looking after you for many years, remember? I know you better than you know yourself, little one.” 

You think back to the days of being an obsessive young woman who was looked after by many guards during your father’s reign. Your favorite was always Marcus. He would let you get away with the most chaos. He was about ten years your senior. He knew it would be easier to let your childish nature roll off his shoulders than try to reprimand you. The few times you remember, you begged him to let you hold his sword and he refused telling you, ‘Women do not carry such weapons’. So instead of giving up on the conquest, you snuck into his sleeping quarters and stole it. When you showed off to a bunch of drunk soldiers, you thought Marcus’ face could not get any redder. He was so mad at you that he almost cursed you in front of your father. 

You sickly enjoyed aggravating the man. Always have, always will. 

You were starting to realize that you had a very broad history with the soldier. How were you to kill him?

“Tell me, Marcus. How would you like me to do it?”

He is quick with his response, “Do what, exactly?”

“How do you want me to kill you?”

He shakes his head, recognizing the look on your face, which suggests that you are only toying with the idea and are in conflict with yourself. 

“You are not going to.”

You begin to realize you are showing too much honest emotion. He is too quick to notice such things about you, which annoyed you quite a bit.

You smile, trying to flip him off your trail. “But I am, General.”

“You are not going to kill me, girl. I will not die under your hand.”

He is not backing down, which only frustrates you further. You step past him, getting a big whiff of blood flooding your nostrils as you do. The unfortunate man has not bathed in weeks. The blood staining his body is probably of dozens of different men. 

You peek out the iron bars to see that you two are still alone. You had three guards standing by not too far from the exit of the cells, but you instructed them not to follow you in.

“Then how would you like it? Another man’s hand?” You are silent for a moment, turning back to him, “I have a whole army.”

“Are they here now?”

He glances around his quarters, pondering how he is going to get out of this situation. You watch him carefully calculate his next move. His hand palms his face and his growing facial hair. He finally eyes you and you can tell he is getting tired. He knows he has only one choice. 

“What do I have to do to get you to forgive me?”

You snicker, knowing he is going to have to do more than ask for forgiveness. You sickly want to watch him appeal for your mercy.  “Get on your knees and beg.”

“I am not begging.”

“Then you die.”

He saunters over to you, his dirty fingers reaching up and tracing the hair on your arms. You take note that he’s touching you more cautiously than he was moments before. “I told you that I did not intentionally betray you.”

You stare down at his movements on your bare skin. “And I told you I do not care of what your intentions were.”

He smirks, cocking his eyebrow up. He knows that you will show some mercy to him because deep down, you could not stand the idea of losing him. He was a part of you, whether you liked it or not.

“You will let me live. You are going to let me lead the army like I once did,” He remarks, very certain of himself.

You scoff, tilting your head back, “You sound sure of yourself, Marcus. I do not think you understand-“

“Do you not remember telling me that I was the only man you trusted with your mind, body, and soul? What happened to that woman?”

It was something you had told him years before after he finally gave in and fucked you. It was probably the best night of your life, having him ravish you and please you. In a lustful conversation, you informed him that you only trusted him with your entire being. Looking back, you were a bit too vulnerable. You visibly cringe remembering it. 

As you scan his face, your annoyance for him only grows as he uses that moment as a pawn in his appeal to get out of this.

“That was before, this is now.”

“So you lied, too,” His fingers drag up and down your arm, his nails leaving marks as he does, “Why would you lie to me?”

You know that he is trying to flip the circumstances back on you. While the manipulation was easily sensed, you could not help but continue to entertain it. Privately, you thrived on the disorder of it all. Marcus was the only man who could talk this way to you. He did know you very well. 

“You know this is not the same. The entire army of Rome had orders to behead me. That happened because of your gossip.”

He shakes his head, his dirty curls taking up space on his forehead again, “It is to me. You said I was the only man worthy of protecting you. If I were not held up in a cell, I would have ended this war before it even began.”

“I do not wish for your protection, not anymore.”

He did not anticipate you resisting his every advancement. You usually cowered your head and accepted whatever retort he gave back, but this time, you were ready with a riposte immediately. 

He coughs out a laugh, “You will when the entire Roman army turns against you. All I do is say the words.”

You knew that Rome would bow to you without resistance. His army had heard too many awful things about him by now. He was down in the pits for treason. You knew that he was only saying this to get back in your good graces. Deep down, you had already decided that this argument was useless. Marcus may have deceived you, but you know he would have never deliberately given you up. It would make no sense for his safety, also. By the looks of it, he fought for a long while to stay alive in the Coliseum. 

But you wanted to get him to believe that you still could not trust him, just to put him on edge. You desired some revenge after such emotional turmoil.

“They would never betray me,” You reply, bringing your hands together in front of your stomach. You wait for him to take the bait. 

Marcus notices your lip twitch. You are bluffing and he is unsure why you would be trying to stir up his emotions. You were good at bringing him no peace and since he was so exhausted and hungry, he was getting angrier than he was accustomed to. 

He sighs, trying to blow off some of the steam rising to his face. “They have gotten more loyal to me during this previous reign. They would be rather disappointed to find me dead by your hand. You will not kill me.”

You stare at him, your lips pursed in faux contemplation. 

“You are right. I will not.”

The response throws him off balance. He stumbles a bit. “What?” “Instead, I will have someone else do it. I will watch them as they give you a soldier’s death. A beautiful shining blade at the very top of your spine,” You walk closer to him, your hands still adjoined at the bottom of your abdomen. “Slicing you all the way down your midsection. I will enjoy watching the blood spill out, staining the marble floors of the palace.”

He steps towards you, his jaw clenched. He is sick of the back and forth when he knows you will not make good on your plans. He is peering at you suspiciously before his hand reaches up to your soft cheek. For some odd reason, you believe he will be gentle. But he is not. He grabs your face roughly, squishing your cheeks against your back teeth. “I am beginning to lose my patience. Are you sure you want to do this, little dove?”

The nickname. It was something he used to call you when you two were intimate all those years ago. He saw you as a delicate thing back then. The woman you had morphed into was foreign to him. You were more maddening than ever. 

“I will do whatever is good for the Republic, General.”

He uses all his strength to shove you backward into the bench. Your ass falls against the wooden plank that Marcus had been sleeping on for a fortnight. The wood is rough against your thin vein of fabric. 

The shock of his violence sends wetness pooling between your legs. You had only seen Marcus rough with you once and it was never to this degree. He may have given in to you with aggressive and unforgiving hips, but this was another level of hostility. Your heart begins to race as he stands over you, his tanned body heaving in frustration. 

He squints at you, “Good for the Republic, huh? What good is a dirty little whore to the Republic?”

You try your best not to give in at this moment. And Marcus knows it. Your face twists, your nose pointing upward like you used to when you were a young woman. He suddenly recalls a moment where you were being reprimanded by someone of higher rank and you had crossed your arms over your chest and crinkled your nose like you inhaled something awful. It was a facial expression he would never forget. A simple indication that you were wrong and someone else was correct. 

You are noticing the way his eyes are tracing your face and you try to keep yourself as still as possible. “You are speaking to your Empress, Marcus.”

His eyes rake your body, almost like he is looking for something. He smiles, “My Empress who I am aware has a dagger stored somewhere on her body and yet she has not used it on me yet. Why is that?”

You are not ready for what is next on Marcus’ mind. He pushes your thighs apart with his knee, forcing you to look at him again by aggressively holding onto your face again. You wince when his filthy fingernails dig into your cheeks. 

“Marcus-”

“Why have you not already plunged your dagger into my heart if you want me gone? Why do you need someone else to do your work?” 

He is mocking you, his tone not giving you a break in the slightest. Somewhere deep down, Marcus knows something is up. With the way your body is giving into his every move, he can tell your intentions were simple: to make him the fool. 

And you were doing a very good job. Because he is getting very antsy. You pull your head back, trying to add some distance between him and yourself. But his face is so close to yours, that you can smell the metallic scent of blood from his skin. Your eyes avert away, not wanting him to finally look inside and read your mind. 

You manage to muster up something. “Because I still very much enjoy watching you writhe under my thumb.”

He is seething, his face is beet red. The way you are positioned, so impurely before him, brings his hateful aggression to full-blown rageful desire. 

He is eager with his movements and you are fallen at his mercy. Within only a few moments, he is hiking up your stola moving the fabric away from your lower half. You groan out as soon as his fingers grope you. You believe every breath has left your body. 

He chuckles darkly to himself, “Me? Writhe under your thumb? Is that so? You only came here to watch me suffer?”

“Yes-” “You believe some impish whore, like yourself, can here and make me completely fall apart? Hm? How about I load myself in that pussy of yours and we see who truly falls apart first?”

He was not wrong with his words, but they were so unhinged. You had never heard Marcus talk like this to you. While he was quick with his language, he was still always very respectable. 

His proposition was not completely unwelcome. 

“You do not know what I want. Why are you doing this?” 

You try to manage as he spreads around your dampness with his fingers. You had not been touched like this in so long so you were easily swayed why the action. You lull your head back, making it pretty obvious that you did want this.

He hums to himself, watching your body squirm under him. “Do I not? Here you are, so easily taken down by me, a traitor. What kind of emperor falls to her knees for a man who allegedly betrayed her? What good chance will Rome have with a leader like that?”

You watch as he tears up the fabric, completely revealing your naked core up to your lower breastplate. He stares down at the state of you, grinning to himself wickedly. You can not think of a single word to say to him, so you just lament with your hands at your side. 

He strips off his tunic, leaving him in just his subligaculum. The cloth was tented by the strain of his hard-pressed cock. 

His body was covered in blood and dirt, the tunic not absorbing all of the fluids from his battles. His skin is splattered with it. He watches you stare at it intently, huffing out. 

“So what will we do, Empress? How about… If you fall apart first, I am free. If I release first, you kill me. How about that?”

You watch as he palms his cock over the cloth. Your mouth starts to overproduce saliva as you observe his action. You knew you were not going to win such a thing, and that is completely okay with you. Marcus knew this, too. The last time you two were intimate, he inserted himself into you for a whole minute before you were squeezing around him and begging for more. 

“That is a deal I can agree with, General.”

He nods arrogantly before he grabs your hips, kneading the flesh. You watch him spread his bloodstained hands all around your legs, hinging your knees with his forearms. 

“Do not even need to warm you up,” He uses his left hand to guide his cock through your seeping folds. 

You do not prefer the sound of no foreplay, but you do not think it is your time to say anything. As soon as your lips open, Marcus dribbles spit down between your bodies, landing perfectly right at your slit. It’s obscene, his actions. But instead of gasping at the immortality of it, you are breathing out in pleasure. His member splits you open, every ridge pressing against your insides. 

“Marcus, my Gods,” You whine, trying to gain some sense. “I need your fingers first.”

He scrunches his nose, guiding himself into the hilt. “No, you do not. You will take me like this first.”

“Marcus-” “And after I watch you fall apart on me, I am going to,” He pulls his cock out of you begrudgingly slow, “Make you fall apart on my mouth. And then when I get two out of you, I will fuck you again with my cock. When my seed spills inside you and leaks down your legs, I will send you out to the streets and have you clear my name.”

And then he slams into you again. He is very girthy, which is a lot for your untouched cunt. You had no formal stretching before he entered you, so it hurts a bit as he speeds up his incursion inside you. 

He plants his hands right on your hips, his hands expanding down your side. With the way your head is propped up on the wall, you are practically forced into watching him fuck you with such vigorous speed. He’s animalistic. His hands leave blood prints on your body, sticky and off-putting. 

You are so enamored with him, that you do not even begin teetering on the edge of your release. He notices this as your cunt squeezes his member, which encourages him to speed up his pistoning hips. 

“Oh, dove, I feel you,” He extends his thumb down to the very top of your slit, “Your flower is just seizing around me. You are about to cum.”

You try to tense up a bit, but your body feels weightless. “No. No, I can not.”

You can not stop what is impending. He rubs circles on your sensitive bud, sending your back lurching away from the wall. 

“Ah, yes, that’s right, dove. Release on my cock. You know you want to,” He is gritting his teeth, eyes gazing directly into yours. 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, trying to hold back, but him grinding into you sends you over. A scream rips through your body as you careen forward towards his shoulders. You hold on to him like he is going to dissipate away, grabbing at his back. Your climax is white hot almost as if your entire body was lit on fire and quickly extinguished. 

“There it is…” He fucks you through it all, his thrusts slowing as you relax yourself against the wall again. “I win.”

His words set you off. The high of your release is now ruined by his statement. Your arms are still lazily around his shoulders. You glare up at him, seeing his smug smirk painting his lips. It’s truly sinful. 

You use all your strength and pull him down towards your lips. You capture him in a kiss that you almost believe he is going to pull away from but does not. You just want him to stop speaking for a moment so you settle with the reality of the situation. You would have to face Rome and tell them that the traitor is being let off for his crimes against you. 

You were still better than the alternate reality of Rome. Under the Twins, they would see no peace. With you, the only chaos you would pursue is General Marcus Acacius. You could live with that.

He tilts his head back, trying to pull away from your mouth. You lock your arm around him, holding him there a moment longer. His lips manage to trail away.

“You won this. But I won Rome.”

He chuckles at your statement before reminding you of his promise, “I am not done yet, Dove.”

His tacky fingers grab you roughly, lifting you off the bench and towards the table across the dirt floor room. He places your feet on the ground, your back to his much taller figure. His cock is still solid, pressing right into your buttcheek. 

“Bend over.”

You practically snap your neck trying to look back at the man. 

He does not take kindly to that, using his hand to push your face to look towards the wall again. “Do what I say. I already told you what I was to do.”

You lean your body over the furniture, holding onto the edge as you feel Marcus’ hands slide across your back, all the way down to your ass. You hear a commotion but you are too afraid of what he may do if you look back. You then realize he’s on his knees behind you. When he settles in the dust, he uses both hands to spread you open. He wastes no time, diving face-first into your dripping core. Your cunt is already so sensitive that when you feel his tongue flattening between your slit, you cannot help but squeal. 

Your sounds provoke Marcus to think back to the nights when he was alone on the front lines of war, lying in his tent, thinking about the first time he tasted you. You had never experienced pleasure like that, and he vividly remembers pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with his tongue. It was his favorite thing about your intimate times together. The memory was enough to have him erupting all over his stomach night after night.

And now here you are again, right under his thumb. Or rather, his tongue.

“My Gods, Marcus, please.”

His ministrations change from eager licks to suckling on your most sensitive bud. Obscene wet noises begin reverberating off the walls, filling the room with such crudeness. His nose is pressed into you, sucking in your sweet scent. 

You silently prayed that no others heard you two. 

The warmth in your stomach fills again. Your legs feel like they may give out from under you. Luckily, Marcus has his hands right where your thighs begin, spreading you open, but also holding you up. When the wave of pleasure hits, your legs shake and your throat lets out a guttural moan. 

He licks up whatever your body offers him before he is back on his feet. His chest presses into your back as he traces the outline of your body with his digits. You feel so winded from your comedown, that you can hardly say anything. Marcus’ face creeps to the side of yours, nudging your cheek with his nose. 

“You taste like heaven, little dove.”

His words are such a drastic shift from what he was saying to you before. But while his words were charming, his actions were still brute. He reaches down to his swollen cock head and begins to drag it along your slick. You cry out, your body still recovering from the last moments of his stimulation. 

“Marcus-” “I am going to fill you with my seed now. You will take every last drop because of what you just put me through,” He slides himself back into your cunt, painfully slow, “You are so convincing when you want to be.”

You grunt, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows. When Marcus notices your movement, he takes the chance and grabs your arms in a very rough manner. His hands are gripping you so tightly, you anticipate another mark. He yanks your body closer to his, wrapping your arms between your bodies, locking you up. It was not the most comfortable position, but the feeling of his cock slipping in you further distracts you from the affliction. 

“You played me for a fool. You were always going to let me go. You just wanted me to fill this greedy pussy.”

He fucks into you, letting out his own passionate grunts. His words rattle in your mind as your whole body jiggles over the edge of the table. 

He had you all figured out. It was unnerving how well he could read you, but it was not surprising. He had been around for most of your life, looking after you and being your most trusted confidant. Even if he let something slip to the wrong person, he was still going to be the one person you looked to in every crowd. 

Now that you have experienced this side of him, you only love him more. He has always been intimidating, but never this all-consuming. 

“Need you always, Marcus,” You whimper, trying your best to not ruin his pace. His cock stretches you so deliciously, you wish to have it with you at all times. 

His release comes hurriedly, his body becoming heavy on top of yours. He slams your body down on the table, his arms breaking most of the fall. You can feel his seed emptying into your spent hole, warming you inside. The string of words leaving his lips, that’s right dove, take all of me, your greedy hole just missed me. 

You can not help yourself. You smile. 

You really wish you had watched him fall apart, knowing it was probably a sight to behold. There was always next time. 

He unwraps himself from you and stumbles back a couple of steps. You lift your tired body, turning around to face him. You know if you step forward, you may crash to the floor. Leaning on the table was your best course of action. 

He is smirking himself, his cock still half hard on his leg. “Need me, huh?”

You knew he would find time to hang onto those words. You breathe out your nose, a bit caught off guard. “Yes. I always seem to need you when I feel vulnerable.”

“Well, coming from the Empress of Rome, that surely means a lot. That you look to me in such times, I mean.”

You bite your cheek, contemplating your next big plans for Marcus. You did not want him to leave your side now that you ruled over him. You felt a gravitational pull from him. Now with him here in front of you, that was even more apparent.

“Well… General..” You try to find a way to word your next course of action. He looks at you earnestly as you speak. “You will be pardoned under my rule. But you will not be returning to your men. I will see you through as my personal protection.”

He furrows his brow at you as he picks up his abandoned tunic. “Pardon me?”

“You are directed to be my personal guard, Marcus. Your troops will now be under the rule of another. If you see issue with my ruling, I will happily leave you in this cell.”

He wants to be angry, but he simply cannot be. Truth be told, he was ready to retire from being the leader of the world’s largest array of soldiers. He was just not expecting you to allow him to do such a thing.

He cracks a smile at the thought of you leaving him in this cell.

“What you order, goes. I will happily take on that role, Empress.”

All he knew was to be strong and even-tempered when he directed his armies. Now in a time of peace, under your rule, he needed to find calamity somewhere else. And he knew that would be right at your side.

tagging all who wanted this: @layaispunk @tammythr @amanitacowboy @noladyme @kluvspedro @fangirlcentral1

[littlelovelunette]

Hii! It's my first request. Also, I'm obsessed with your writing, you're amazing 💝!

Hear me out >:) Knight!Sevika and her Queen!Reader who rules the kingdom with Sevika by her side. And they're super feared by everyone cuz their bong is unbreakable and that makes them really strong. (Been thinking about it since I found "Me and Mine" by The Brothers Bright SUCH A GOOD SONG)

The Crown

Knight!Sevika x Queen!Reader

The throne room was silent. Not the kind of silence born from peace, but the kind that bred fear. Nobles stood stiffly along the edges of the grand hall, their hands clasped in tight fists, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality.

No one dared to whisper, to move, to even breathe too loudly in the presence of the Queen and her knight.You sat upon your throne, a vision of power draped in black and gold, a crown resting atop your head like a halo of authority.

And standing at your side, one hand resting on the hilt of her blade, was Sevika—your protector, your enforcer, your shadow. She was clad in dark armor, the steel molded to her body like a second skin, her scarred face half-illuminated by the torches that lined the stone walls.

Together, you were untouchable.

A kingdom ruled with iron and fire, fear and admiration intertwined so deeply that no one could tell the difference anymore. Enemies had tried to test your rule before—rebellions crushed before they could take root, assassins left gutted in the streets as warnings, traitors publicly executed by Sevika’s own hand. Your kingdom did not tolerate weakness, and neither did you.

The council had gathered today, murmuring about a noble house that dared to resist your rule, a lord who thought he could raise an army against you. Fools.

Sevika stepped forward, her presence alone enough to make grown men flinch. Her voice was gravel and thunder, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“The traitor has been handled,” she said simply, tossing a bloodied insignia onto the marble floor.It clattered, the only sound in the vast chamber. A crimson stain bloomed against the pristine white stone.

The message was clear. You didn’t react—didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, you leaned back, resting your chin against your fingers as you regarded the council with unreadable eyes.

“Do any others wish to challenge the crown?”

No one spoke. No one even looked up.Sevika smirked beside you, amused by the cowardice in the room. It was always the same—their bravado turned to dust the moment they realized just how unstoppable you were together.

No ruler was feared without a loyal blade by their side, and no knight was invincible without someone worth fighting for. And that’s what made you both terrifying.

Your bond was unbreakable. Sevika was not merely your knight. She was your executioner, your war general, your protector, your lover. There was no force in the world that could sever what you two had. Not war. Not betrayal. Not death itself.

A courier rushed into the throne room, his face pale, his breath ragged from running. “Your Majesty—Knight Commander—” he gasped, dropping to his knees. “There is a threat approaching the northern border. An army, unlike any we’ve seen before.”

Sevika tensed, but you remained still, your expression unreadable.

“How many?”

“T-Ten thousand, at least,” the courier stammered. “Led by the exiled Prince of Eldoria. They claim they will take the capital before the next moon rises.”A foolish claim.Sevika chuckled darkly, flexing her fingers.

“I hope they brought more than that. Otherwise, it’s not even a challenge.”You smiled, slow and knowing, your gaze sharp as a dagger. “Prepare the army. We ride at dawn.”Sevika grinned, stepping closer, her voice lower now, meant only for you.

“By your side, as always.” You reached out, tracing your fingers along the sharp edge of her jaw.

“And I by yours.”The room remained suffocatingly silent as your people watched in awe and terror. No kingdom, no army, no enemy could stand against you—not when Sevika was your shield and you were her Queen.And soon, the battlefield would bear witness to why.

[wandasaura]

WHEN SHE LOVED ME

summary — yelena has evaded the subject of natasha’s death for years, but eventually it catches up to her (and you)

warning(s) — platonic relationship, aroace yelena, thunderbolts* spoilers, the red room, mention of past child abuse/neglect/starvation, blood and injury, past chemical subjugation, ohio mission mention, alludes to a history of depression, abandonment issues, mention of ‘graduation ceremony’, suffocation, memories/flashbacks (iykyk), the blip mentioned, vormir mentioned, natasha’s still dead, black widow movie mention, grief/mourning, trauma and trauma responses, slight panic attack, crying on the streets of new york, angst, hurt/comfort, humor at the end (thanks bob), mentor natasha romanoff

authors note — heavily inspired by “i lost my sister again, but forever” so definitely do with that as you will !!

In a single moment, the world stops spinning around you. It seems like the entire planet has halted on its axis; suspended itself at an angle in space that makes your core ache with the effort to keep your body upright on the sidewalk. In the Red Room, when Dreykov would pretend to know the pain of his widows, he’d always mention how the heart beat picks up in moments of true fear. He was a smart man, an aggravatingly brilliant one really, but it was that small little quip that he’d throw around in smugness that opened your eyes to another truth, one he didn’t want anyone to see — General Dreykov was an idiot.

He was an idiot when he paired you with Natasha Romanoff through your first rotation in the Room. Three years younger than Yelena, Natasha was eight years older than you at the time and the perfect model of a Widow for anyone up and coming; but especially you. You, the girl who had stolen a fragment of Dreykov’s eye, the very first one to accomplish such a task since the day she’d been taken fourteen years ago.

Her lashings were the ones to scar your back for the very first time. It was her hands that made you bleed by a force that wasn’t purely accidental for the very first time. General Dreykov was a brilliant, idiotic, sickeningly twisted man that spent the first six years of captivity mending the brains of his victims, not breaking them. It’s light therapy, stimulation therapy, the same Russian and American movies to drill the hardest dialects and accents into the minds of his promising youth. Nobody had ever hurt you before that day. They hadn’t been kind. The Madams and the handlers hadn’t always fed you or taught you how to brush your own hair kindly. But nobody had ever made you bleed. Natasha Romanoff did though.

General Dreykov was an idiot. Not many people knew that though. He hid well behind his power, behind his armies of strong willed women with no other place to turn to anymore. He hid behind Melina Vostokoff, he hid behind Madam B who ruled with an iron fist, but most importantly, where he’d messed up the most, was hiding behind Natasha Romanoff.

It’s sad to think that you’d known nothing about her until she had died. It’s sad to think that for the entire time you’d known her, she’d had her own interests, and her own secret hobbies, and her own plan to find freedom. It was all there, because Natasha Romanoff had never been chemically subjugated to fit the narrative and bloodbath of Dreykov’s expectations. Natasha Romanoff was his shield, his arms and legs without the commitment or workout regimen that kept her abs tight and her womb infertile. Natasha Romanoff was not his brain. Natasha Romanoff had never been anybody else’s brain but her own. Though, she’d been yours for a while too, probably even Yelena’s. Natasha Romanoff never was very good at recognizing how much she mattered to other people.

Natasha was taken from her mother’s arms when she was an infant; six weeks old. Her mothers name was Irena, and while photography was a hard thing to track down in the middle of rubble, you’d found out she had blonde hair and the brightest green eyes. They held no candle to Natasha’s — No, Natasha’s were pure electricity and trauma, a somehow beautiful combination when she wore it with flawed pride for little girls to recognize and protect.

She was eleven when Cuba became a place filled with trauma and triggers and only fourteen when she became your first abuser and the only person to ever hold your hand in the dark, windowless hallways of the Red Room. You went on your first mission when she was seventeen and you were nine. She’d held your hand then too. More than what was probably necessary for your cover as orphaned sisters. You hadn’t even been back on base for two months before alarm bells woke you up with instructions to find your handlers and prepare for a fight. Only, your handler was gone. She was the reason for the alarms, and she hadn’t even sent a whistle down the hallway as a forewarning to her departure.

After that, you’d seen the fall of Natasha Romanoff’s once untouchable legacy firsthand. Tales of her bloodshed had been whispered with so much excitement for a time. Her lips used to quiver when she heard the quips of forbidden storytelling, trying to conceal her pride. It hadn’t occurred to you at the time, but her smile had gotten softer over the years that she’d been your handler, like her pride was becoming guilt, like learned monstrosity was becoming instinctive humanity. Maybe if you noticed it then, she wouldn’t have grown up to be a woman made up entirely of regrets.

Her absence in the Red Room was unexpected and hollowing. The front entrance of Dreykov’s secret prison wasn’t a revolving door. People didn’t just disappear, and when they did, they never stayed gone. You remember Katya went missing once. Two weeks undetected in The Maldives. She’d come back malnourished and wide-eyed, shaking like a leaf. That was one of the first times you’d seen Dreykov genuinely care for his widow. That was the first time he’d ever truly accepted that his training wasn’t enough anymore; that he had to step up his tactics.

That was the entrance of chemical subjugation and mind control in your life. In Yelena’s life. In the chapter that finally wound all of your lives together again, even though you’d never known that for all your life a string had connected you all so fragilely.

Natasha had told you about her little sister, though she’d never used such intimate words. She said there was another widow on her longest mission, and that was enough to know Natasha cared about her, because Natasha didn’t clarify anything unless it mattered to her. If Yelena — that unnamed widow who she’d never given you a description of — meant nothing to her, she wouldn’t have wasted her breath to add her memory to the sentences she spoke to you in the middle of the night when it was practical to be sleeping, not wasting air.

When Natasha left, you were twelve. Nobody would’ve known had Dreykov not kept the last two numbers of your birth year on the top left corner of your file; of every file once he permanently implemented his chemical subjugation techniques in the Red Room. It was the simplest way to assure no widow was prematurely taken out before they proved their worth to him.

You remember Anya. Dreykov tested the younger widows first. They were a less detrimental loss. Dreykov hadn’t put decades of training and unmaking into them yet. They were nobodies. Anya was six. She was two weeks away from beginning her first rotation in the Room. Your first rotation had felt so scary, so big. You’d felt so little. You can only imagine what Anya felt being sent to a premature death for the name of ‘the future’. That’s how Dreykov learned a dose too big can be lethal in seconds. That’s when Dreykov took another thing from you. Your age.

Before chemical subjugation, you’re not sure if widows ever truly knew their age. You were only a child, still months away from what you know now was your thirteenth birthday. You hadn’t known how old you were then, and it didn’t matter. There were never any birthday parties, never any drivers tests, or proms, so what difference did it make if you were eleven and the person on the other side of the room with the same lashing scars on their back was seven. All of you were in the same hell.

Instead, you were grouped by functionally and performance. It was all a range. Some girls advanced faster, others followed the typical age curve. None ever fell behind. If they did, Dreykov killed them himself — the only time he ever got his hands dirty. Sonya was the first widow you’d ever seen killed by someone other than a handler; other than Natasha. She must’ve been a year younger than you. It was hard to tell back then, back before your bodies developed with or without the necessary nutrition. Some girls got their periods. You know because the bloody sheets would be wrapped around their heads until they suffocated in the dining hall at scheduled meal times. Having a period was a sign of failed control. It meant you weighed too much to be useful. The only ones allowed to have their period were the girls that Dreykov deemed ‘in line for graduation’. Those girls were the ones a year away from their nineteenth birthday. Those girls were once Natasha Romanoff a year and two weeks ahead of her involuntary hysterectomy — the ‘graduation’ ceremony.

Yelena was twenty-six when she defected. She’d been your handler up until your graduation, when Dreykov had deemed her your official partner. You were on a mission. She got away. Her absence felt like Natasha’s. At the time, you still didn’t know that a piece of Natasha had been with you the entire time you thought she was just gone, but Yelena knew that Natasha had touched you. That Natasha — at least partially — lived in you. You didn’t know how much peace you brought Yelena subconsciously, even through the thick fog of chemical subjugation, until she was free falling from the sky, willing to die just so that you could live and learn what freedom felt like beyond red mist.

There had never been a way to describe what that sudden blackness looked like. What it felt like to be without Natasha so suddenly, without Yelena. But, then you watched it physically engulf Yelena. Inky, thick, suffocating looking blackness just engulfed her entirely, and every time you’d ever been abandoned ambushed you like it was happening all over again.

The heart doesn’t beat faster in the face of fear. It slows down, stops entirely. Anybody who’s ever claimed to not be a people pleaser, has never known true, unavoidable fear. It turns you into a fool. It corrupts even the parts of your brain that had never been able to undo the years of psychological conditioning and abuse. General Dreykov would’ve killed you himself if he’d ever found out you ran into the face of imminent danger all to save a clearly compromised agent, but he wasn’t here because Natasha had made sure that he died.

Natasha. You couldn’t lose Yelena like you’d lost Natasha.

They’d both disappeared before. Both of them guilty of toying with your heart and your suppressed emotions, both willingly and unwillingly, but they’d always come back. Natasha came back after she defected. Yelena came back after she did too. That blackness had always been temporary, but then one day it wasn’t.

One day, Yelena had missed your call. She’d been on a mission, tying up loose ends with Melina and Antonia, unsuspecting of what awaited her, but most importantly, free. She’d been free of abuse and mind control for the first time in her life, but then Thanos snapped his fingers, and you never heard from her again.

Natasha had found you. She’d brought you back to the Avengers campus with her, and she made you a peanut butter sandwich with tears in her eyes every day for five years while you looked for Yelena who had hollowed the both of you out entirely, not to mention the loss of everyone else. You hadn’t made many connections, but Laura Barton was one that Natasha insisted you keep close, and to also be without her consoling that had initially broken through the residual trauma of withdrawing from mind control drugs… well, it broke you.

You don’t know what you expected the darkness to feel like, but its disappointingly not like the water misters at the amusement park on hot summer days. You only know what those feel like on clammy, flush, sun kissed skin because of your first mission with Natasha, but you’d been chasing the sensation ever since she dutifully brought you back to the Red Room. Grocery store produce departments are the closest you’ve ever come to finding that fond freedom again.

Before your eyes, New York City becomes a purple-sky planet where gravity makes your belly feel like carbonated soda going flat. Your hand isn’t occupied by a hand-gun anymore. There’s a hand in yours. It’s shaking. It’s cold. The mountain is steep, the cliffside narrowing until it meets a deadly point that Natasha hangs in front of.

“It’s okay!” She calls, her fingers wiggling in your grasp. She’s slipping, getting closer and closer to an imminent death as she struggles to escape your hold and finally free yourself and Yelena even if it means sacrificing a life she hadn’t even gotten to live fully or freely yet. She’d never gotten to enjoy a life without the shadow of Dreykov gleaming over her.

After the battle, she’d fled the scene to the Raft, in search of the family she’d accepted as her own too late. She got wrapped up with Thanos, and then body slammed by a nasty depression that even your company couldn’t undo. You’d spent years mindlessly dancing together but in silence until your toes bled, forcing your bodies to accept familiar pain instead of daunting and uncharted grief.

“No!” You sobbed, your hand grabbing onto her wrist. The rocks cut your knees through the tactile suit Tony had designed on a whim, the palm that braced your weight and Natasha’s on the edge of the cliff was bloody. “No, no. Yelena needs you! She needs you! I need you!”

Natasha glanced down, and you don’t think she realizes, but her fingers twitch like she’s trying to find a way to grab onto your wrist and stop this from happening at all. It’s a single moment of doubt, a single moment of humanity that’s always been beneath the surface in her, and then she’s bracing her knees against the cliff, pushing off and extending her knees until the force swings her away from you. “It’s okay.” There’s an echo of a whistle on the way down, too far away to hear the impact, but you think the moment her body meets the ground below sends vibrations shattering through every stunted growth plate in your body.

“No!” The scream splits your vocal chords, you can still taste the blood in your mouth four years later. You reach out to grab her, seeing her fall right before your eyes, but your fingers go right through her and she falls. Over and over again.

The puddle of blood gets thicker, higher. It’s coming over your eyes and out of your ears, you’re swimming in her blood. In all the blood that you’ve spilled, that she’s spilled, that she’s lost — losing, dying without. Natasha is dead.

“Hey.” You can’t hear the voice that’s cutting through the darkness clearly, it’s distorted, far off, but all around you everything becomes brighter. Natasha’s not at the bottom of a cliff, the sky isn’t so black that it reflects your worst fears and memories, Yelena’s not bloody. She’s bruised, dirty, probably exhausted, but the only blood on her body is from superficial wounds, and her eyes are still open and they’re soft, not frozen, cold, or wide will fear that can never be comforted. It haunts you to know that Natasha Romanoff, the fearless Black Widow, died terrified and nothing would ever right that wrong. You’d been enough to bring her comfort in life when Yelena wasn’t around, but not even you could give her any peace of mind before the plunge. You hope she’s not still scared. Haunting that mountain range with tears that fall like raindrops on the bloodstains her bones rest on.

“Natasha! Natasha, she—“ You sobbed, crumbling into Yelena’s chest as you stumbled backwards, desperately trying to put distance between yourself and the place you’d stood when blackness engulfed. You weren’t always this weak. Once, you’d been made of marble. A dry cough barks up your throat, it stings, it brings up blood that evidently wasn’t just a memory.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Yelena’s gone through so many changes. She cut her hair for starters. You’d never been allowed to do that before. Widows only ever got trims. Having short hair was to constantly be at a disadvantage, and autonomy whatsoever was vehemently prohibited. Your hair gave you covers. It gave you the unique opportunity to be somebody entirely different with just one part two inches from the center of your head. Your hair was the first thing you lost control over in the Red Room, not even your clothes or the meals you got to pick. But, Yelena had cut it. She’d chopped it to her chin with a pair of garden scissors at Melina’s. It’s grown since then. It falls over her shoulders now, and the undersides have gone dark with age. Once, it had gleamed beneath the sun, healthy and long, braided in various ways for no other reason than individuality. Autonomy wasn’t allowed, but someway, somehow, there was still a chance to be your own self once you were old enough and skilled enough to do the braids you wanted in the morning. Yelena hasn’t sported a braid in almost a full year.

Her voice has changed too. It dawned on you too late that Natasha’s voice had never found its way to you. You’d heard the thick Russian she could still speak fluently up until the day she died. You’d heard the perfect American, and how it was the slightest twinge sweeter only because of her channeled focused in perfecting the trickiest vowels. You’d even heard her handful of other languages and the tones that she felt it necessary to take just to master the appearance, but she’d never been without a cover long enough for you to know what she sounded like without another person to be. Yelena’s become more Americanized, but there’s still a twinge of Russian in her accent. Her grammar is getting better, her culture references are more niche and situationally fine tuned, but she still slips up sometimes. She’s still the ever imperfect Russian still trying to find herself even when she seems so sure in moments like this.

“I never told her that I forgave her!” Four years later and it dawns on you that you allowed Natasha Romanoff to die without ever explicitly hearing your forgiveness. She knew. You never would’ve spent five years in a cinder block and space metal compound with her if you hadn’t forgiven her, but if she was anything like you, and you know that she was, she never let herself move on. If she was anything like you, you know that even with all the good she’d done, she still went to bed remembering how it felt to wear your blood like gloves. “Natasha! Natasha, no, I have to get to her! Let me go! Let me go! I have to get to her! She’s all a-alone! And it was cold there, Lena! Так холодно. Как в комнате. Она была так напугана, Елена. Мы должны ее поймать.”

You struggle against her, but Yelena doesn’t let you move. Her eyes gleam with tears, the confrontation of Natasha’s death something she’s evaded tactfully for the last three years, but it’s seemed impossible to escape. The memory of rope burns around her neck is haunting. It feels impossible to know her last moments with Natasha were spent fighting. Fighting in her apartment, in the ducts, in the farmhouse, and the sky. They’d reconciled but far too late. Precious hours wasted. They could never make them up.

“She knew, and she would not have let you tell her.” Yelena hates talking about Natasha. She hates that she can’t trust her memory with anybody besides herself, but old habits die screaming in the middle of New York city it seems. You wonder briefly if Natasha had faced this moment of sudden debilitation. When she’d faced the chitauri with Clint, the first ever battle as an Avenger — a hero — had she felt so entirely paralyzed by every shortcoming that led to her growth. You’d never get to ask her. To learn from her how you’d never seen a reason to before. It haunts you how death widens your perspective but narrows the scope of any possible exploration. You’re forever burdened with glorious and sickening what-ifs. “She is not in pain anymore.” It feels like a cheap shot at comfort, but Yelena can’t think of anything to say. You’d never told her it was cold on Vormir. You never mentioned that it reminded you of the Red Room, or that Natasha was scared before she died.

Yelena didn’t know how she pictured the scene beforehand. You’d told her about the purple sky, and the awkward gravity, you’d mentioned that you grabbed Natasha’s hand, that you fought over who was going to abandon her. She hadn’t imagined either of you overly optimistic or enthusiastic, but knowing that in those final moment Natasha went maskless, terrified and somehow still passionate… Yelena didn’t know what to do.

“How do you know?” Either you find the strength to break out of Yelena’s restrictive grasp, or she’s distracted enough by grief to let you go when you pull just enough. Both of you are on your feet, tears in your eyes, emotions blotching your cheeks though the appearance of utter desperation looks different on both of you. “How do you know, Yelena?! She’s on a — I left her at the b-bottom of a mountain in space!”

“We cannot change that.” Yelena breaks, and it’s so quiet that you almost don’t register the utter defeat in her tone as a tear finally tracks down her cheek.

“We’ve never been able to change anything!” Your voice raises and Yelena winces. You don’t yell often, especially not at her. You look so much like Natasha now, with your fists grappling for anything to hold in blinding frustration. The inability to understand and accept your emotions is a dead ringer, tantrums in Ohio diluted with the natural profession of life and maturity, assuredly no help from the repetitive dosages of mind control drugs that suppressed conscious thoughts, but she can remember it if she tries, and she goes back to that place all the time, just never with you. But she does now. She can’t help it. She’s felt so alone since you’d come back without Natasha, she hadn’t been able to see that she was still around. Natasha had raised you, with both kindness and a temper. You’d seen more sides to her than Yelena ever had.

“That is not true.” Yelena shakes her head, and you know that you’re wrong instantaneously. Natasha Romanoff may have never been able to fully separate herself from a life of doing the hard bidding for the little man, you and Yelena may have never learned how to truly heal from the trauma of the Red Room, just suppress and deflect until it either went away or dissolved, but things had changed. Yelena had changed. She’s confident, even if she’s not happier, and it looks good on her. You’ve changed too. The world has changed. Little girls have women to look up to now; more than just one of them. Your lives had already been written in blood and stone, nothing was going to pull you out until death finally came knocking, but you could never say that nothing good had ever come from your misfortunes. “Do not say that.” Her voice wavers, and another tear falls down her face. It’s slow, almost cinematic, but then it takes a sharp right and falls over her lips, pearls of liquid trapped in her cupid's bow. It’s so utterly raw, so real. You’ve both been running from this for a long time.

“I just wanted more time.” It had taken you years to come to that revelation. All you really wanted was more time with Natasha. More time to know her, to learn all the littlest things about her she’d never been able to express when you’d known her before, to ask her all of these impossible questions like how do you possibly step into the light and be a hero when you’ve done unspeakable things even with your freedom intact. She was so young. Eight years older than you. That numbers only four now.

“I know.” Yelena whispers, and she nods her head, knowing that your rampage of pent up emotions has met its tranquil end. There’s rubble all around you. You wonder what Natasha saw when she finally noticed the damage after that first battle. Did she see the bodies of all the girls she’d killed in the Red Room? Because you can see her body in the rubble, right next to Anya’s, taunting you with the reminder that you’re tainted — never truly good.

“It’s not fair.” You glance back to Yelena, seeing the same terror in her green stare as she takes a peak to your direct left. You wonder who she sees — which one of her bodies sticks out the most right now, when you both should be nothing but relieved.

Yelena shakes her head, an exasperated sigh leaving her lips. She looks so much like Natasha right now, so filled with annoyance at the natural order of the world that she can’t even conceptualize what emotion to express physically, so instead she’s resigned herself entirely. You match her on that playing field, just like you always matched Natasha. “It never is.” She sighs.

“Hey, uh, do you guys want to go inside?” Bob comes up behind Yelena without so much as a single sound, and while the both of you are highly trained assassins who still sleep with knives beneath your pillows, you nearly jump out of your skin as he catches you wrapped up in a moment of pure and radiant humanity — the thing Natasha Romanoff had sacrificed her life for you to find and cherish.

“Oh my gosh, Bob.” Yelena rolls her eyes, her hands waving around beside her head. The sun reflects off of the oils that have gathered on her scalp. Neither one of you have been reasonably okay in a long time, but you think you’re finally on the mend as she chews Bob’s ear off. “You do not just sneak up on an assassin like that! I am very dangerous. I could kill you no problem. You do not want that! I just saved your ass!”

“Uh,” Bob gawked, looking between you and Yelena with eyes wide with indecision. He wasn’t sure whether he should defend himself, or back away slowly with his hands raised. A look of utter amusement crossed your features, your arms folding in front of your chest right as Yelena broke, giving away her maniacal amusement as she clapped her hands.

“Oh Bob, you should see your face!” Yelena cackled before she reached back and grabbed your hand, nodding toward the large building that Natasha had once called home. You never thought you’d have a chance to call it that too, but here you are, one foot already inside the door and a clean slate at a reputation in front of you thanks to the redhead you’d never seen anything but goodness in. “Natasha lived here.” Yelena breathed in awe as she stepped inside, and you smiled, finally able to accept that fact with warmth.

“Now all we have to do is follow her footprints.” Optimism was never your strong suit, it had been discouraged since the very first instance of recognizing positivity. But, Natasha had somehow found a way to be positive throughout those five heads without Yelena, and it was contagious even in death.

“Sounds easier said than done.” Yelena snorted, but you could hear the thick emotion in her tone that she was trying to push aside, probably having decided she’d cried enough already.

“I believe in us.” You shrugged, bypassing Alexei on your way to the elevator, rolling your eyes as he irrationally glared down at a portrait of Steve Rodger’s that Valentina had either forgotten to remove, or just didn’t care to touch by the front entrance.

“Why?” Yelena scoffed, her tone incredulous as the elevator lifted you to a floor marked N on the elevator panel. A pang shot through your chest as you recognized the significance and the fact that Tony Stark had gone through the efforts to personalize an elevator panel for his Avengers — his chosen family.

“Because Natasha did.”

[agreeewrites]

what is it like being married to Rabastan Lestrange? 💭

cw: MDNI 18+, mentions of trauma, wizarding war, death eaters | masterlist

you were the first thing Rabastan ever cared about more than his family

as soon as he laid eyes on you in the Hogwarts corridors, he knew that you were the love of his life, his soulmate, his wife

and thankfully, he's so charming, so infuriatingly handsome, that he had no trouble winning your affection

though, he makes a point to keep that flame burning every single day

Rabastan is unwavering in his loyalty, entirely devoted to you and his duty as your husband. he may wear the dark mark on his skin, but your name is etched onto his heart.

his entire life was spent on his brother Rodolpus’ shadow. he was second at everything, no matter how hard he worked, how ambitious he was, Rodolpus had done everything first.

but you…you were just his. Not his brother's, not his father's, his. you are his greatest accomplishment.

he's deeply romantic with you, candlelit dinners, bubble baths, chocolate and flowers when you're feeling down (mind you, they're gourmet chocolates and fifty long-stem red roses. only the best for his darling.)

you don't care about his money, and you tell him so constantly. but that doesn't stop the lavish gifts and luxury dates, custom made jewelery and designer clothing.

once on a trip to Paris, a piece of art at a the Louvre made you well up, and when you returned home the following week, it was hanging in the library by your favorite chair.

but he also brings you smaller trinkets and treats, a stone he found on a walk of the grounds that reminded him of your eyes, a peeling, sun-bleached book he saw in a thrift store by your favorite author, the cherries out of his old-fashioned, his coat off his back

he loves to play the piano for you, a secret passion of his, and you'll stretch out across the top of the instrument in the study, watching those dexterous fingers fly across the keys, playing whatever your favorite song of that week was, or the song you danced to at your wedding that he composed himself.

he tried to teach you once, his hands resting gently over yours, but you were too distracted by his heat at your back and the architecture of his forearms to learn a damn thing.

which was his preferred outcome anyways. he never gets tired of seeing you moon over him the way he does for you.

he also loves to cook for you despite the army of servants. he’ll give them all the night off, pay them extra to ensure they don't disturb you, and whip up your favorite meal. you always sit on the counter by him, a glass of the vintage wine he'd selected for them cellar in hand, watching him putter around in his pressed button down and tailored slacks, an apron around his waist and a towel thrown of his broad shoulder

he feeds you bits of cheese and crust of bread dipped in imported olive oil, stealing lush, wine-stained kisses between stirring pots and chopping vegetables

kissing Rab is like sinking into the fine leather seat of a luxury sports car. plush and decadent presses, indulgent to an almost excess, but when he hits the gas, it's exhilarating, heart-pounding, wildly fun. (more on that later)

hes a busy man, always in meetings with his family while running your household with an iron fist.

Rab will accept nothing less than perfection in nearly all things…except you (bc you're always perfect to him)

you can be as wild and carefree as you like, run around the gardens barefoot, finger paint a mural in the library, write your name over every piece of priceless art, and he'd only kiss the top of your head and praise you for your creativity.

but on the odd occasion he does get upset with you (usually because you put yourself in some kind of danger), he goes radio silent. avoiding you for two, three, maybe five days until he feels calm enough to talk to you without raising his voice.

he would cut out his tongue before speaking to you unkindly

he's a passionate man and feels things very deeply despite his calm, collected demeanor

and the thought of losing you…it shakes him to his core.

after an incident with a rogue death eater, Rab didn't leave your side for a week. he barely slept, barely blinked, until he killed the fucker himself…twice.

your husband was protective, possessive, his initials RL hanging on a solid gold chain around your throat.

everyone in London knew who you belonged to, and what the consequences were for coming at you sideways.

he wasn't jealous, per se. he knows he's usually the most attractive and powerful man in any room, and he knows how much you love him.

but when some fucking bastard has the audacity to speak to his wife out of turn, it's a a crime he simply cannot abide.

Rabastan is a strong man, built tall and broad like his older brother and father, and was unmatched with a wand, but he preferred a subtler approach. ie dismantling their self-esteem one bladed insult as a time.

you'd lost count of how many grown men he'd made cry and roll over like whelped dogs.

and it never failed to shock you when he'd verbally rip someone to shreds, then place the most tender kiss to your temple, murmuring his affection in your ear until you smiled and kissed the sin from that wicked mouth.

like his father, he can be cruel, callous, cold. you've seen on more than one occasion just how vicious he can be when provoked, but he's always always soft for you.

with you, he sheds his armor like a coat. loving to lay his head on your chest to feel the steady drum of your heart, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers combing through his dark hair.

he has a lot of trauma from his upbringing (thought he'd never admit it). and nightmares and flashbacks are a regular occurrence. in those moments, you are the only thing that can soothe him, bring him back to himself and not the monster they made him.

he loves it when you hum for him, sing or read aloud. anything that fills the quiet with you, your presence. surrounded by you. drowning in you. mind, body, and soul.

he revels in your softness, your kind heart, and it soothes something sharp in his chest, rounding the edges of him until he feels more human than weapon.

ok…now the good stuff 🌶️

when you first met Rab, you assumed he'd be super dominant in bed, rough and claiming, but the reality is a bit different

the first time, he coaxed the orgasm out of you like the sun coaxes a flower to bloom, gentle, deliberate, and with absolute certainty.

he’s dominant, one hundred thousand percent, but it's a quiet kind of dominance. sweetened with praise and hazy affection, murmuring sweet nothings while he ravaged your body.

thats my girl, just like that.

I know you can take it, you're doing so well.

just a bit further, pet.

there you go, baby.

he could play your body like an instrument, knowing you almost better than you knew yourself, pulling orgasms from your wrecked body with relentless precision, using his cum and thick fingers to keep you slick and pliant for round after round

you can give me one more, I know you can. don't deny me what's mine.

he loved to mark you, leaving indented crescent moons across your tits and thighs

for all his pretention and neatness, he loved making a mess of you. spitting on your tongue and drooling pussy, seeing your slick coat him to the wrist, shining the leather of his Rolex watch. smearing his spend across your puffy lips and angelic face

so fucking pretty like this, baby. only I get to see you like this, yeah? my innocent lamb to ruin?

Rab's a giant munch, sloppy while he devoured your pussy, nuzzling your clit with his nose while he tongue fucked you, using his big hands to spread you open, nursing your clit with hard, rhythmic pulls until you were screaming and thrashing beneath him, soaking that gorgeous face with your honey

you loved to ride him, having all those rippling muscles and thick cock to play with, to use however you like. he'd run his hands over your body, lazy and languid, while you rode him with abandon, perfectly content to savor the sight of your eager, pleasure-drunk face, your perfect tits bouncing on his face while your greedy pussy sucked him deeper.

doing so well, love. you feel me all the way up there? don't worry, darling, you can have it all.

he also absolutely loves reminding you that you're his wife, that you're his, especially when your choking on his cock, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes

show me what a good wife you are. so eager to please, aren't you? that's it, baby. open that little throat for me.

his other fav positions are doggy and up against the wall, anything that has you at his mercy, where he can fuck you steady and deep, pushing you to your limits by the sheer intensity of pleasure, the unrelenting glide of his girthy cock in your tight, drooling hole, gripping his length with every withdrawal. like you wanted him to stay buried in your gooey heat forever

and there was nowhere that was off limits, a lesson your house staff and his brother learned the hard way on more than one occasion.

he particularly loved fucking you in his office and the dining room, using your body as his own personal stress-relief, or spread out like his favorite meal.

fucking your throat under his desk after a tough meeting, or licking whipped cream off your tits for dessert, before bending you over the wood, legs spread, pussy dripping.

Rab would always clean you up with his tongue, soothing your raw and ravaged cunt with tender, lush licks and open-mouthed kisses. so sinfully self-indulgent it made you melt every time.

he's the king of aftercare. lavender-scented bubble baths, peppermint tea for your abused throat, a warm compress for your aching pussy.

he'd perch on the edge of the tub, tending to your bedraggled hair with the utmost care and precision, cooing and fussing until you were sound asleep in your shared four poster bed.

Rabastan is a glutton for pleasure, and you are his favorite indulgence.

© agreeeeeeeeeee 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Anxious No More

Pairing: Poly 141 x Reader

Warnings: Anxiety, emotional overwhelm, comfort, soft poly relationship, lots of fluff, protective and affectionate 141.

Author’s Note: I use this GIF way too much-

Summary: Feeling overwhelmed has become a constant struggle, but your boys always notice when the weight of the world gets too heavy. Each of them has their own way of pulling you back to safety—reminding you that you’re not alone.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being constantly overwhelmed, like the world was pressing in too fast, too loud, too much. Every little thing felt like a weight on your shoulders, every decision another drop in the ocean of uncertainty threatening to drown you. The pressure sat heavy on your chest, coiling like an iron band around your ribs, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

But somehow, amidst all the noise, they became your refuge.

Johnny

Johnny was the first to notice.

"Yer thinking too much again, aren’t ya?" His voice was warm, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, watching you closely.

You were sitting in the common room, curled up on the couch, shoulders hunched forward, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until Johnny plopped down next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders with a casual ease that only he could manage.

"Hey, c’mon," he nudged you lightly with his shoulder. "Can’t have ya stressin’ yourself into an early grave. If ya do, who’s gonna listen to my awful jokes?"

You huffed, a weak smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Johnny grinned. "Ah, there it is. See? That’s better."

Instead of prying, he started rambling about something ridiculous—some past mission that involved Kyle getting chased by an angry old woman with a broom.

"Swear on me life, love, I’ve never seen the man run so fast. You’d think a whole army was after him, but nah—just an old granny screamin’ bloody murder."

It was impossible not to laugh. Johnny always had a way of pulling you out of your own head, grounding you in the moment.

When he felt you relax against him, he pressed a kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around you. "That’s my girl. No more thinkin’. Just stay here with me."

Kyle

Kyle was always the one to step in when things got really bad.

It had been a long day. A heavy day. By the time you made it back to your room, your chest was too tight, your thoughts racing too fast. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in.

Kyle found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. He didn’t say anything at first—just sat beside you, resting his hand on your back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

"Alright, love. We’re gonna do this together, yeah? Five things you can see."

You swallowed hard, blinking through the fog. "Uh… the window. The lamp. Your hands."

"Good. Keep going."

Four things you could touch. Three you could hear. Two you could smell. One you could taste.

By the time you finished, your breathing had evened out, the tightness in your chest easing. Kyle smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"See? You’re alright. I’ve got you."

Instead of leaving, he pulled you against him, letting you rest your head on his chest, his arms warm and steady around you.

"Whenever it gets bad, just find me, yeah? You don’t have to do this alone."

John

John didn’t need to say much—his presence alone was enough to make you feel safer.

"You're carrying too much, sweetheart," he murmured one evening, finding you staring out at the base through the window, lost in thought. His voice was low, rough but gentle. "You don’t have to do it alone."

Sometimes, he’d just sit with you, handing you a cup of tea without a word. Other times, he’d pull you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms, pressing slow kisses to your shoulder.

"You’re too hard on yourself," he murmured one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. "You give so much to everyone else—let us take care of you too, yeah?"

There was no arguing with him when he used that voice, and honestly, you didn’t want to.

Simon

Simon didn’t talk much, but he always knew when you needed him.

One night, the weight of the world pressed down too hard, and you broke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t quiet. You hadn’t meant for anyone to see, but Simon found you, your back pressed against the cold concrete wall of the hallway, your breaths coming too fast.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you there like he could shield you from everything.

"Breathe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve got you."

No judgment. No questions. Just his steady heartbeat against your ear, his warmth anchoring you back to reality. His gloved hand slid up and down your back, slow and firm, and after a few moments, he pressed his masked face against the top of your head, exhaling quietly.

"You’re not alone."

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, wrapped in his arms, but by the time you pulled away, your breathing had evened out, and the worst of the storm had passed.

Simon didn’t say anything else. He just gave your hand a final squeeze before leading you back to your shared quarters, where the others were waiting.

---

Together, They Were Home

Later that night, you found yourself curled up in the middle of the bed, a tangle of limbs and warmth surrounding you.

Johnny was wrapped around your back, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. Kyle was on your other side, his fingers laced with yours, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

John was at the foot of the bed, propped up on his elbow, watching over all of you with quiet protectiveness.

And Simon? Simon was behind you, his large, steady hand resting against your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath as if making sure you were still there, still safe.

"Y’alright, love?" Kyle murmured sleepily, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, a soft warmth settling in your chest.

"Yeah."

Johnny nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. "That’s my girl."

John chuckled, his hand resting on your ankle. "Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ve got you."

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being safe.

But with them?

You weren’t drowning anymore.

You were finally learning how to breathe.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[romancherry]

caged in silk (1) – introduction

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ introducing you to your captors.

warnings ➝ dark content, brief mention of alcoholic parents, homelessness, guns and drugs, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 442

author's note ➝ hello everyone! i've been obsessed with this idea that randomly popped up in my head a few days ago and i wanna act on it as quick as possible so i don't lose interest. hope you like it.

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

you: an innocent young woman in her 20s navigating through life and its never-ending obstacles; your parents were abusive alcoholics and you consider the day you ran away at 16 years old to be the best day of your life. the rest didn't matter. the eventual homelessness and working 3 different jobs while balancing a smoke addiction was a thousand times better than what you had to endure before. as time passed on, you could afford rent and even dream of getting an education. it didn't matter that you had no friends whatsoever; your goal was financial fulfillment, not being a social butterfly. you could have created some lifelong connections with your coworkers, but as you ended up switching so many jobs, you figured good things never last. and heartbreak is best to be avoided.

so, in conclusion – you had no one. you meant nothing to anyone, and if you'd dissapear (once again), nobody would care.

that made you an easy target.

introduce:

marcus acacius: a man with discipline and precision. his background as an army general has not only conditioned him to assess, control and dominate any situation – but it earned him important connections with gun dealers, spies, armies and even the government. marcus operates with a quiet, calculated intensity; he sees everything. processes every possible outcome before making a move. but underneath the iron grip lies a dark obsession: a deep-seated need to possess, protect, claim. he justified his obsession with logic: you were struggling. you had no one. you needed a better life. he was the man for the job.

javier peña: javier is seduction and danger wrapped in silk. he's a very adaptable and unpredictable individual – former DEA agent turned cartel associate. he knows best how to make people trust him and how to keep them wanting more. but beneath his irresistible charm is something ruthless: a man who switched sides without hesitation, who plays the long game and always comes out on top. he has an insatiable hunger and addiction for you – he doesn't just want to own you. he wants you to want to be owned.

joel miller: joel is violence disguised as a man. he doesn't believe in morality, he views survival as a necessity. that's what makes him the perfect mercenary. if someone needs to die, he'll end their life with no hesitation. he doesn't justify or explain, he just acts. his obsession with you is primal and territorial; but there's also something softer beneath it, something dangerously close to love. he doesn't care that what they did to you was wrong. after losing two daughters, he'll tear the world apart to keep you.

[sulkingheichou012]

Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 8

Days after the last dungeon raid, Jinwoo and Y/N were summoned to investigate a sudden, unusual dungeon break. The Hunter Association's report was terse:

Type: Blood Moon Danger Level: Unknown Location: Abandoned Amusement Park

Y/N stared at the enormous, pulsing crimson portal hovering like a hungry eye above the ruins of the park.

The Blood Moon Gate loomed ominously over the city. Its crimson light bathed everything below in a haunting glow. Hunters scrambled in confusion, civilians evacuated in droves, and the Hunter Association’s sirens blared through the streets.

But Jinwoo… He was still. Staring at the gate with narrowed eyes.

“…This isn’t a dungeon break,” he murmured.

Y/N, standing beside him, clutched her scythe tightly. “What do you mean? It’s not… dangerous?”

He gave her a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “Oh, it’s dangerous,” he said flatly. “But not for the reason you think.”

As the air thickened with pressure, Jinwoo stepped forward. His Shadow Soldiers emerged in force—Bellion leading, Beru hissing beside him, Iron thudding heavily behind. Even Kaisel circled above, his wings casting shadows like dark clouds over the city.

The humans watching from afar thought war was about to erupt. But Jinwoo stood at the front, his hands casually in his pockets.

And then… They came.

From the gate, massive shadow figures emerged. Warriors. Mages. Beasts. An army clad in dark armor, their glowing eyes fixed on the two figures standing at the center of Seoul.

Y/N felt the pulse of dark energy in her bones. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement… probably both. But she stood her ground.

“I’m not going to embarrass myself,” she whispered. She shadow-stepped instinctively, her body moving faster than her thoughts, appearing at Jinwoo’s side like a ghost.

Jinwoo didn’t look at her, but she could tell. He was… proud. And maybe a little worried.

As the ground trembled beneath them, dark shadows poured out from the gate like smoke. But instead of attacking, they formed into ranks. An army. Ten thousand… no, more.

The Shadow Legion.

Jinwoo stepped forward, his presence heavy and undeniable. His generals followed in his wake—Beru crackling with energy, Bellion radiating calm lethality, Iron stomping with brute strength, and Kaisel circling overhead like a dark dragon herald.

And then it happened.

The entire Shadow Legion, row by row, fell to one knee. Fists pounded against armored chests in unison. Voices like thunder echoed through the crimson air.

“ALL HAIL THE KING!” “LONG LIVE THE SHADOW MONARCH!”

Y/N flinched at the sheer weight of their devotion. She found herself staring at Jinwoo in awe. This was exactly how Jinwoo’s legion had first appeared with Bellion—and now, she was witnessing it again, right in front of her. Another wave of his unstoppable army had arrived, and it felt just as overwhelming as before.

He stood like a sovereign at the center of his domain. The darkness bent to him. Even the Blood Moon seemed to pale before him.

Jinwoo exhaled slowly, letting them finish. And then he raised a hand. “Rise.”

They obeyed instantly.

But as they stood, the Legion shifted their formation. A second kneel, this time slower, more reverent. And then their gazes turned—to her.

“ALL HAIL THE QUEEN!” “THE SHADOW MONARCH’S QUEEN!” “THE WILD CARD OF ASHBORN!”

Y/N blinked. “What—wait, hold on—” But the ground trembled again, as even Beru and Bellion bowed their heads to her.

She turned on her heel.

“Nope,” she said.

And started to run.

Or she tried to.

A firm hand clamped onto the back of her collar like an owner grabbing a naughty dog. “Where do you think you’re going?” Jinwoo’s dry voice rumbled behind her.

Y/N flailed. “I am not built for this! I’m a side character! A humble civilian! I sleep twelve hours a day! This is above my paygrade!!”

“You’re not getting away,” Jinwoo said calmly, holding her in place like she weighed nothing. He gave her a light tug, grounding her feet back onto solid ground.

“I was going to tell you,” he said with a small sigh. “You’re not just my reward. You’re the Wild Card Ashborn left behind. My Queen.”

Y/N’ mouth opened… and closed again. “…You’re kidding.”

Bellion spoke for the first time, his voice deep and solemn. “It is not jest. We have awaited your awakening.” Beru chittered. “The Queen is magnificent.”

Y/N, flustered, pointed at Jinwoo. “But he’s the King! Why me?!” Jinwoo chuckled under his breath. “Because Ashborn liked to mess with me.”

Then she looked back at the kneeling army. Thousands of dark warriors, powerful ones at that. Even Bellion was kneeling, his golden eyes steady and respectful. Beru was next to him, claws dug into the ground as he bowed low. Tusk. Igris. Iron. Tank. Kaisel.

All of them.

And they were waiting. For her.

Y/N swallowed hard nervously. “O-Okay. Let’s… uh… let’s… not do this,” she said, waving her hands frantically. “Seriously, please, no more kneeling! I… I’m not used to it! It’s giving me anxiety! Like, secondhand embarrassment! You’re making me sweat!”

They didn’t move.

Her brain short-circuited. And then… She did the only thing she could think of.

Y/N promptly bent into a full ninety-degree bow herself. “Nice to meet you! I humbly accept your—oh, what am I doing?!”

Jinwoo sighed beside her. “You’re bowing back.” “I know!” she hissed. “They’re bowing! I can’t just stand there and not bow! My Asian instincts are kicking in!”

Bellion’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. Beru let out a delighted clicking sound.

Suddenly, a roar ripped through the sky. A rogue Monarch fragment had slipped through the gate—a creature of wild power, refusing to kneel to either King or Queen.

Jinwoo’s amusement faded instantly. He stepped forward. “You should have stayed hidden.”

In a flash, Jinwoo vanished. Shadow Step. He reappeared above the beast, twin daggers in hand, and drove them deep into its skull. Black flames erupted, consuming the creature instantly.

He landed smoothly, his back to the smoking ruin, and rolled his shoulders as if it were nothing. The Legion didn’t cheer. They expected it.

Y/N stared. “…Damn.”

Jinwoo gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re impressed.” She grinned. “I’m a fan.”

The encounter at the Blood Moon Portal ended, but Y/N was far from calm.

She kept sneaking glances at Jinwoo as they walked side by side through the quiet streets. Their pace was unhurried, shadows flitting along rooftops, ensuring their path home was clear. Jinwoo was as calm as ever, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his steps silent and measured.

Y/N, on the other hand? Her mind was a mess.

Queen? Shadow Monarch's Queen?! She was still reeling from the Shadow Legion’s earlier pledge. They knelt. They pledged loyalty. They called her their Queen.

And Jinwoo? He stood there like it was completely normal.

She groaned internally. This doesn’t make sense! In every story, Cha Hae-In was the heroine! The strong, silent, perfect partner who would stand at Jinwoo’s side! And yet… Here she was.

Y/N glanced up at him again. Jinwoo had been different lately. Not just the way he watched over her during battles, but how he seemed… distracted. His dark eyes flickered toward her every so often when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Like now. She caught him. He immediately looked away.

Y/N bit her lip.

Wait. No. This doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s worried because I’m his responsibility! Her fan-brain kept spinning. But… If I’m the Queen, and Cha Hae-In is the heroine… then what am I in this story?

The horrifying realization smacked her upside the head. I’m the third party! The other woman! The tragic backstory side character that gets left behind when the hero moves on with the heroine and they have kids!

She imagined it vividly. Jinwoo, standing proudly with Cha Hae-In, their adorable son tugging at his cloak. And there she was—Y/N—perched on Kaisel’s back, watching from a distance like an abandoned NPC.

“No, no, no!” she hissed under her breath. She pulled at her hair as they reached his front door. Jinwoo gave her a side-eye. “…Are you okay?” “Define ‘okay,’” she shot back. He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re spiraling again.” “No, I’m thinking.”

Before he could open the door, she blurted, “Jinwoo!”

He paused. “Hm?”

Y/N squared her shoulders. This was it. Time for the question that would define her future. “…What’s your relationship with Cha Hae-In?”

Jinwoo turned to face her fully. His face was unreadable, eyes steady. “We’re comrades,” he answered plainly. “She’s helped me in raids.”

Her throat dried up. “But she… likes you, right?” A pause. “She confessed once.”

Y/N froze. Her worst fear was true! She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“She’s a good person,” Jinwoo added. Y/N waited. But nothing followed. “…And?” she pressed. “And what?” “What did you say to her?” “I told her I wasn’t sure about how I felt toward anyone.” He said it like it was a simple fact. Like he was explaining the weather. “Feelings are complicated,” he finished.

Y/N stood there, her brain on fire. She wanted to scream. Feelings are complicated?! What kind of shoujo protagonist line is that?!

He turned to unlock the door, missing the way Y/N grabbed her head in silent agony. He doesn’t even know?! He hasn’t figured it out?! What was she supposed to do now? Stay here? Be the Queen in name only while he figured out his love life?!

“Y/N.” His deep voice snapped her back. She realized she hadn’t followed him inside yet.

She stepped in slowly, still stunned.

Dinner was quiet. Jinwoo glanced at her a few times but didn’t push her to talk. He never did unless it mattered.

But she could feel his gaze lingering longer than usual. Watching her. Studying her. Like he was waiting for something.

Like he was afraid of something. Or maybe that was just her imagination.

Later that night, Y/N lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She thought of the Legion, their loyalty, their trust in her. She thought of Jinwoo, always standing a little too close. His shadows always watching over her. And the fact that he hadn’t made any decision yet.

“Feelings are complicated,” he said. She sighed. “They sure are.”

But soon… One day… He’d figure it out.

And when that day came… She’d already made peace with whatever happened. After all, she wasn’t from this world. She didn’t belong here.

But even so… She smiled faintly. For now, she was his Queen.

Side Story: (Bonus Chapter)

After the chaos of the Blood Moon portal, the shadow pledges, and Y/N’s wild mental spirals about being “the third party,” they finally made it back to Jinwoo’s house.

Y/N was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Her brain felt fried. But even as she burrowed into the couch with a blanket like a lazy cat, one thought just wouldn’t let her sleep.

Something had been bugging her. And she wasn’t going to rest until she cleared it up.

She peeked over the couch, spotting Jinwoo at his desk, quietly reviewing some documents. His expression was serious as ever.

Perfect time to annoy him, she thought, lips curving into a mischievous grin.

She hopped up and tiptoed over, blanket trailing behind her like a cape. “Hey, Jinwoo,” she said, voice casual but her grin giving away the fact that nothing was casual about this.

Jinwoo glanced at her, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

She leaned on his desk with both elbows, face way too close for comfort. “So… I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said, drawing the words out.

“…What is it now?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.

She smirked, tapping her chin. “It’s about Cha Hae-In.”

Jinwoo tensed just a little. “What about her?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Did she sniff you?”

Silence.

Jinwoo stared at her, blinking slowly, his face betraying a rare what the hell moment.

“Excuse me?” he said at last.

“You heard me.” She didn’t back down. “Did Cha Hae-In sniff you? Like—sniff sniff.” She mimicked it, even cupping her hands in front of her face like a dog.

“…Why are you asking me this?” he said, voice dangerously flat.

Y/N, completely unfazed, shrugged. “I know, okay? It’s in the canon. She’s got that special nose thing and can smell magic, or whatever. So I figured, since you’re all Shadow Monarch-y and spooky, she probably gave you a good sniff.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did she?”

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose. “She did. Once.”

“I knew it! I’m not the only one!” Y/N gasped, overly dramatic, as if this was a daytime soap opera twist.

Then she slumped forward over his desk, groaning dramatically.

“And then I got that judging look from you?! And Hae-In didn’t?” she accused, pointing at him as if this were a trial.

“Where’s my dignity? Where’s my respect? This is blatant discrimination!”

“…What.”

She sat back up, glaring at him with mock betrayal. “I’m the Queen, right? Shadow Monarch’s wild card? Why am I getting second-tier treatment here?!” She jabbed her thumb into her chest.

“And yet! No sniff privileges! Meanwhile, Cha Hae-In gets the VIP treatment. This is really a discrimination!”

Jinwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Y/N…”

“I’m filing a formal complaint,” she continued, pacing now like a lawyer preparing a case. “I demand equal treatment. Sniffing rights! Shadow Monarch equality!”

“Stop saying sniff,” Jinwoo muttered, looking like he wanted to evaporate.

She spun back to him. “Why? Are you embarrassed? Hae-In wasn’t! She just walked right up and—” Y/N mimed leaning in dramatically. “—took a nice deep inhale, like it was nothing!”

Jinwoo rubbed his temple. “That was… different.”

“Oh, because she’s the heroine? And I’m just the comedy relief?!” Y/N fake-sobbed. “I see how it is!”

Jinwoo looked at her. He really looked at her. Wrapped in a blanket, hair wild, pouting at him like an overgrown child.

He sighed heavily. “If I let you… do this…” He gestured vaguely. “Will you shut up and go to sleep?”

Y/N gasped dramatically and brightened instantly…

<< Chapter 7 | Chapter 9 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet; @o-qi-shisme; @sleepyamaya

This side story is for everyone because you’ve been showing so much support. Thank you! 😊

[dailynnt]

ONE NIGHT AS THE PRICE OF A REQUEST

⋆˙⟡ Summary: You hate your neighbor Jungkook, but you have to ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party to get rid of your annoying boss. He agrees, but you don't even imagine what you'll have to pay him with. Everything goes according to plan until Jungkook reveals his true price during the dance: one night with him or your life in the neighborhood will be hell.

⋆˙⟡ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

⋆˙⟡ Age restrictions: 18+

⋆˙⟡ Index of chapters: ≣

⋆˙⟡ Number of chapter: 9/?

⋆˙⟡ Tags: enemies-to-neighbors-to-lover, fake relationship, hate to desire, dom!Jungkook, heated blackmail, one bed trope (later more than one bed), undeniable chemistry, forced deal, mutual obsession, dangerous game, unexpected feelings, passion on edge, impossible to resist, tension and desire, unprotected sex, sexual tension, slow burning

⋆˙⟡ From author: GUYS, FORGIVE ME for delaying the publication, but it took me more than 8 hours to post two chapters and react it, I also rewrote it as I went along 😂🤭💘 I hope you all like the turn of events, Y/N is as always confused in her feelings and pushes Jungkook away again, but we'll see what happens in chapter 10! Thank you all who waited 🥺 I hope this wait was worth it 🥰😘 Love all my armies 💘❤️‍🔥

⋆˙⟡ Dedication: to my biggest love @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle for loving me for nothing. I love you girls twice as much 🥺🤭💜🫶🏻

⋆˙⟡ Tag list: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle, @bhonbhon, @ottergirl, @vantelover1306, @deepikhaprakash, @mar-lo-pap, @zeytiable, @lallataegi, @vintagemoonsstuff, @indigomoonchild09, @diame93, @bts-ruu, @asyr97, @taeloversblog, @songbyeonkim (If you want to be on the tag list, let me know)

⋆˙⟡ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

Chapter 9. Stay away, stay close

The air in the small toilet on the lower deck was stifling, heavy. You stood with your hands on the cool marble surface. The edge of this cut painfully into your thighs, but it was nothing compared to what was happening inside you. Your head was buzzing, your body was trembling in the aftertaste of pleasure. And he was still inside you.

His breath was burning your skin. His hands held your hips tightly while you both breathed heavily, staring at each other in the mirror. Jungkook's palm slowly stroked your thigh.

The silence was louder than your moans. Louder than his hoarse "I'm going to go crazy" and your quiet "Yes, Kook..."

That heavy feeling in your stomach, a mixture of pleasure and anxiety, appeared again. It had happened again. You broke the rule. A rule that you made. And not by accident - you both wanted it. More than you were allowed to.

Jungkook was the first to speak. His voice sounded hoarse, but calmer.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still inside you.

You could feel his cock not yet fully hard. And then - warm moisture inside you. Your breathing steadied, and with it came realization.

"Did you come inside me again?" you asked, your voice protesting.

Jungkook put his arms around your waist, touched your cheek with his lips, and ran his nose along your jaw. This gentle gesture caused a familiar flutter in your stomach. Butterflies. The same butterflies that he had awakened in you too often. And too easily.

"Fuck... I didn’t pull out in time," he muttered, almost guiltily. He touched you gently, enjoying your presence. He was delaying the moment when you would have to speak for real.

"If you didn’t pull out in time again, you'll be babysitting for your baby in nine months," you said ironically, turning your head slightly. Your lips were only a breath away. He smiled, but you didn't. "And I don't think that's the best option for one of us," you added.

"So you've already decided it's going to happen again?" his voice sounded defiant, his lips almost touching yours.

You looked at him, then at the mirror. He was still holding you in his arms, still inside you, still not letting you go. And it scared you.

You didn't like how easily you gave in to him. One look, one touch, one word, and you were his again. How he does what he wants with you - and how much you like it.

You would never have thought that the same Jungkook, your neighbor with whom you couldn't stand to even talk, would evoke such feelings in you. It was dangerous. Everything was mixed up, the lines were blurred. And the worst part was that you couldn't move away from him.

Why did you let this happen again? Because part of you want it.

You were enjoying the moment. His closeness. The warmth. The feeling that he was yours, even if only for a few minutes in the cramped toilet of the yacht. Your consciousness was sounding the alarm, but your body was silent. Your thoughts were confused, and even your head was dizzy.

"I hope not," you replied turning to face him, with a slight smile that hid a thousand doubts.

Jungkook’s eyes darted between yours and your lips. He wanted to kiss you. And you knew you couldn't stop him.

"Do you still have the emergency contraceptive?" he asked, never touching your lips.

"Yes," you answered briefly. "But it shouldn’t be taken too often."

"I think you should switch to something permanent," Jungkook said thoughtfully, sliding his fingers down your stomach.

His warmth was relaxing. But there was an uneasiness building inside you.

You raised your eyebrows.

"Permanent? You really think that we'll have unprotected sex that often?"

"I think so," he replied without a shadow of a doubt.

You laughed. But it was a nervous laugh. "That's not very smart..." you said, looking at the wall instead of at him. "It's going to complicate things."

"But you agreed," he reminded you quietly, your words during sex.

Your smile disappeared. You turned away. His touch no longer felt warm, only distracting.

You moved his hands away from your stomach.

"Come out," you said.

Jungkook froze. He noticed the change in your voice, in your posture, in the silence between you. He touched your face, turning you toward him.

"Are you going to push me away again? What's wrong with you Y/N? We have great sex." he whispered. "Why not just let it be?"

You didn't answer. Because it's the truth. It's true that your sex is great. But just because you were good together didn't mean you could be together. Not in a world where he's the son of the president of a big company and you're just a neighbor who asked him to pretend to be her boyfriend, and that led to you having sex in this bathroom and being in a fake relationship.

All of this is an illusion. And if it continues any longer, you might lose yourself. You need to think about other things, not about a man who will never be yours. You almost regret agreeing to his deal about fake relationship. It would have been easier if he had stayed at a distance.

"Jungkook, we're not a real couple, so there have to be boundaries. We have good sex, but it can cause feelings that are forbidden by our rules." you explained, exhaling nervously. You said the obvious thing and why Jungkook didn't see it, you didn't know.

"Do you think if we fuck, we'll fall in love?" he laughed mockingly. You felt something stung inside you.

"And you think we won't?" your gaze stuck in the mirror.

"Well, I think not. We help each other. I don't see problems in this," he said with the same brazen confidence. Something snapped inside you. His words reminded you of what you'd always thought of him as. An asshole.

"Get out of me now!" You told him, boiling from anger. Jungkook frowned, not understanding why you reacted so sharply. You wanted to pull away, but as usual, he wouldn't let you. He pushed you against the sink cabinet, taking your hands in his and bending down, pressing his crotch against your buttocks.

"What did I say wrong again, huh? Kitten, keep it simple..." he muttered.

"You do and say everything wrong." you spat out in anger. "Get out of me. We have to go back!" you timed every word.

Jungkook froze for a moment, inhaling sharply through his nose as if trying to calm himself, to hold it together. His gaze in the mirror was confused at first, and then darkened with each passing second.

"Okay," he muttered. His voice was quiet, but there was no tenderness in it anymore. Only something compressed, like a spring before it's struck. "Whatever you say."

He slowly withdrew from you, and you felt cold not only in your body. You quickly dressed, straightened your hair, trying not to look in his direction. He dressed faster than you and stood by the door watching you.

"You know, you have a talent for ruining things," he said with a strange smile.

You froze, and then slowly looked up at him in surprise.

"What?" you asked again, although you heard him clearly.

"You're ruining everything." he repeated.

"I'm ruining everything?" your voice broke into hysteria. "You're the one who's ruining everything because you're only thinking with your dick!"

Jungkook laughed, raising his eyebrows. You were angry that he was having fun, even though the situation was more than serious.

"You’re making it all complicated. I just suggested a convenient scheme. Who falls in love from sex anyway?" Jungkook wondered. You were ready to explode into atoms with anger.

"Are you serious now, Jeon?" you couldn't believe what you were hearing. He shrugged and answered casually.

"Absolutely. I don't understand your outrage." he said sincerely. You didn't say anything else. Because you realized that he was incapable of understanding. Sex for him is just a pleasure. Nothing more.

You moved toward the door, but Jungkook didn't budge. You looked at each other, and a silent war raged between you.

"Okay, here's the deal: so that you don't suffer from a lack of sex, you can fuck whoever you want. I don't care. I don't need loyalty," you said with an indifference in your voice that actually hurt.

Jungkook jerked sharply, his eyes darkening.

"But we agreed that we wouldn't have any other partners..."

"To hell with the rules!" you interrupted, annoyed that he mentioned the existence of rules. "I play your girlfriend, that's all. You want to have sex? Find someone else. I don't want anything more to do with you than a deal."

His face tensed.

"I can't do this. If I'm seen with someone else..." he began. You huffed and interrupted him before he could finish.

"Then be careful. Or be patient. Until your 'fiancée' leaves you alone."

You wanted to pass, but he blocked the way. Your gaze was fiery. He took a step forward and you stepped back.

"I don't want other women," he said sharply. "I want to fuck you. And you agreed."

His words made you feel a tingle between your legs.

"There was little I could say under the influence of an orgasm. Don't take it seriously," you said ironically. You wanted him to feel as disappointed as you had been earlier at his words.

"Fuck, Y/N!" he growled, leaning toward you. You flinched in fright. "I'm sick of this. I'm tired of convincing you! You want it too!"

You could barely contain your emotions.

"It's not going to happen anymore. No more sex. No more stupid games. Just a deal. And then it's over," you answered decisively.

Jungkook cursed violently and walked out of the restroom, leaving you standing alone, with the same well known feeling of emptiness.

After the fight in the restroom, you returned to the upper deck and could barely play the role you were assigned. Jungkook didn't look angry or annoyed when you sat down next to him, feeling your heart racing. He was reserved, but he still touched you, hugged you, as if nothing had happened. His every touch made you tense up. It was painful to realize that he was acting. He was playing so well that you felt sick.

You caught Namjoon and Taehyung's glances, but ignored them. And you couldn't talk to Namjoon alone anymore, because Jungkook didn't leave your side until the very end of the party.

When you got into the taxi, Jungkook told to drivers the address of your house. At first, you sat next to each other so that your friends wouldn't suspect anything, but as soon as the car pulled off the road and left them behind, Jungkook silently moved away. You forced yourself not to look in his direction. Your stomach twisted, and your throat felt unpleasantly bitter. You were driving in complete silence, and you just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

It was about nine in the morning when you got back. Jungkook paid the driver, and you got out of the car first without waiting for him. He got out after you and saw you walking quickly to the door of the entrance. The car drove off, and he remained standing there, tired and disappointed. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to calm the chaos inside him.

This girl... She's driving him crazy. Why does she have to do this? Why doesn't she just accept what they have?

Jungkook's head ached, but he moved to follow. He arrived just as the elevator doors opened and you stepped inside. He stood behind you. He looked at you, felt like he wanted to touch you. You were the only woman he wanted to touch all the time. It's ironic: you're more prickly than a cactus, and he can't tear himself away. Your "right" rules annoyed him, but at the same time made him admire you. He wanted to make you break every single one of them.

When the elevator stopped, you quickly walked to your door. Jungkook was right behind you. He caught your hand just as you started to enter the code. You froze, staring at your connected fingers.

He turned you around to face him. He took a step forward and lifted your face with his fingers.

"Are you angry with me?" his voice was hoarse and low.

You looked into his eyes. His gaze was calm, but something was burning inside him.

His face was getting closer. Your fingers were trembling. He was still holding your hand. Your breath was coming out of your throat. His presence was looming, making you feel defenseless.

You clenched your teeth, trying to keep your cool.

"You're angry," he stated now, not asked. But he needed to hear it from you.

"Yes, I'm angry! And you know it!" you burst out. "You're the reason! You make me feel stupid! You play all the time, and I have to play by your rules!"

Jungkook didn't back down. His hand was still on your face. His gaze was piercing, he were too close.

"I'm not forcing you. It's your choice how you treat me," he said quietly but firmly.

You took a deep breath. His touch, his eyes, his closeness-all of it was breaking down your defenses. It’s were hard to pretend.

"Jungkook... Let's just stick to our agreement. Otherwise, things will end badly," you said tiredly, looking away.

But he didn't seem to hear you. His fingers gently brushed your cheek, and you looked up at him again. Jungkook leaned closer. You wanted to pull away, but he gently pulled you close.

"I'll try... But I can't promise anything. You're forcing me to do something I shouldn't," he admitted.

Your gaze fell treacherously to his lips.

"You do the same to me," you whispered.

Jungkook tightened his fingers on your face a little more when he heard your words. He touched your lips. You felt the pressure of his lips on yours, and relief filled you. He pressed his lips for a moment, and then pulled away, looking into your eyes. You looked at each other knowing that you both needed that kiss. And he kissed you again.

The kiss was gentle, but so intimate that you couldn't refuse it. You felt his warmth, his rhythm. His lips touched yours again and again, maintaining the same tenderness that went so strangely with this tension between you.

You felt like you were trapped, but you didn't want to get out. His kiss was soft, but there was a force in it that made you forget about all your promises, all your rules and restrictions. He moved with you in this kiss, as if to indicate that everything between you might not be at all what you had imagined.

He pulled away slowly, reluctantly. You opened your eyes.

"I'll try to keep myself together," he promised.

And he went to his apartment. And you standing for a while in slight shock went into yours, still feeling the ghostly touch of his lips.

It was getting too complicated... too fast.

A few days passed. You hadn't seen Jungkook all this time, and you were glad for it. Your mixed feelings gradually subsided, and you finally felt calm. But... he still appeared in your thoughts too often. And no matter how hard you tried to drive these images away, he continued to live somewhere on the edge of consciousness, constantly reminding you of himself.

Routine tasks helped to relieve the tension a little. This morning, you had breakfast and ordered groceries and home care products - you wanted to clean the apartment a little, because it had lost its coziness over the past few days.

The courier arrived pretty quickly, and as soon as you received the order, you started to take the packages apart. At that moment, your phone vibrated. You looked at the screen - your mother.

"Again...?" you thought with bitter surprise. She had called three times in the last week. You suddenly remembered how you had ignored her calls the night you had been at the afterparty with Jungkook. She'd called dozens of times since then, and you still hadn't sent her the money.

Anxiety crept into your chest. You hung up and almost immediately pressed your grandmother's number.

The long dial tones only made your anxiety worse. You sat down on the couch, clutching the phone in your hand, until Grandma answered almost on the last ring.

"Hi, honey," you heard her voice say.

Relief instantly swept over you. She sounded cheerful, even warm.

"Hi, Halmoni," you smiled. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, my girl. I was just making breakfast. I heard your call and had to run across the kitchen because my phone was charging."

"I see. How are you?" you asked gently.

Grandma was silent for a moment and then answered.

"Everything is fine. And how are you? How is your work?

But you caught something in her voice. A subtle tremor. And this tension... It immediately alerted you. You thought of your mother. Had she come to demand money again?

You didn't answer her question - you went straight to the point.

"Halmoni, has my mother come to see you lately? She called me a few days ago, but I... I didn't have time to send her the money," you swallowed the lump in your throat.

There was silence. And then your grandmother started to cry.

"Halmoni?!" you stood up abruptly. Your pulse quickened. "What happened? Tell me!"

"Oh, I didn't want you to worry..." Grandma sobbed. "But she came again. Not by herself. I... I couldn't say no to her. She said you were ignoring her, that she had warned you. And... and I gave her everything I had. She threatened to tie me to a chair if I didn't obey."

Your chest went cold. You were shaking.

"She what?" you screamed. "She took your money again? And she threatened you?!"

"Don't be angry..." cried Grandma. "I just... I didn't know what to do..."

"When was this?" your voice was trembling, just like your hands.

"Yesterday. She came in morning..."

You glanced at your watch. 11 a.m.

"I'm coming to Busan today," you said decisively. "She's already crossing the line. I'm going to file a police report!"

"No!!!" Grandma cried again. "No, my daughter, don't... she might get even angrier..."

"Do you want to endure this for the rest of life? I'll find her, even if she falls underground! If she touches you again, I swear..."

"My daughter... Y/N ... my good one... You can't quit your job. You'll get fired..."

"No, I won't. I'm leaving today! Lock yourself in and don't open the door. She already called me today, so she might come again. If she shows up, call the police. She'll wish she hadn't listened to me!"

"Okay..." my grandmother whispered softly.

"I love you, Halmoni. I'll be there soon," you finally calmed down a bit and said goodbye gently.

After hanging up the phone, you clutched it in your hand so tightly that your fingers turned white. You had to leave immediately.

You packed your things in a small travel backpack and took some cash with you. You sat down to book a ticket for the bullet train to Busan and suddenly thought of Jungkook. You need to warn him that you're going away and you don't know for how long. He needs to know in case he needs you.

You opened a chat with him and quickly wrote a text.

📱 You: Hi. I'm going to Busan. I don't know how long I'll be gone.

You closed the chat and went to the app to book a ticket when you heard the doorbell ring. You weren't expecting anyone, who could it be?

Opening the door, you saw Jungkook on the doorstep of your apartment. He was dressed in all black: a black T-shirt and cargo pants. His hair wasn't unstyled, but neatly combed. He had knee pads on his knees and a helmet in one of his hands.

"Hi." he said in a low voice. You were still shaking from the conversation with your grandmother, but when you saw Jungkook, you felt strangely calm.

"Hi." you said shortly. Jungkook ran a quick glance over your figure, trying to understand your state of mind.

"Why are you going to Busan?" he started immediately. You realized that he read your message right away. You didn't want to tell him the reason for your trip to your hometown.

"Personal business," you answered shortly, trying not to look him in the eye.

"What happened?"

You shook your head in denial.

"It's nothing. It's just... I need to take care of something. It's a family thing, okay?"

"It's not okay," he said firmly. You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"You're as pale as a wall. Did something serious happen?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Something serious had happened, but you didn't have to tell him.

"No. It's nothing serious. I just texted you to let you know I'm going to be away, if that's all, I have to go." You tried to close the door, but Jungkook wouldn't let you. He looked at you silently, as if he was thinking about something, and then stepped inside your apartment.

"I'm going with you." he said decisively.

"What?!" you flashed. "No, Jungkook, don't. It's none of your business." You pressed your lips together bitterly. You didn't want him to know about your alcoholic mother. You didn't want him to know that part of your life.

"Maybe not mine," he lowered his voice. "But I'm not going to let you go alone in this condition." He looked at his wristwatch. "I have one meeting, and after that I'll pick you up and we'll go together."

"No. I'm fine, you don't need to come with me..."

"You're not going alone," he replied firmly. "So don't even think about running away. Even if you go to Busan without me, I'll easily find out where you live and came to you."

You froze, feeling each of his words penetrate deeper than you would have liked. You couldn't decide whether you should confess to him or whether it was better to close your emotions even further, keeping them to yourself. You were afraid that if he found out the truth about your mother, it would change his attitude towards you. But he was unwavering, and his words seemed to squeeze your heart even harder.

"Jungkook..." You tried to find the words, but they didn't come. "You don't have to..." you said in despair. He touched your hand, gently tugging on your fingers with his own. This sweet gesture touched you. You looked down at your fingers and stared at his tattoos.

"I'll be there in an hour, I'll try to do it faster, just wait for me."

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[capseycartwright]

i’ll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams)

It was a silly thing, Buck had started, right when Eddie first got to El Paso – we’re looking at the same sky, he’d quipped, on one of their nightly Facetime calls.

Even when they were far apart from each other, they were still able to look up at the same stars, and if they just remembered that, maybe the distance between El Paso, and Los Angeles, wouldn’t feel so cavernous. That’s what Buck had promised him.

for @winterofbuddie week one, celestial creativity.

ao3 link

Eddie had wanted to leave El Paso for as long as he could remember. He had never quite been able to voice that desire, not when he lived under his parent’s roof, because it had never felt like he could have opinions of his own, under the grand authority of Ramon and Helena Diaz. It’s not as though his first choice would have been to run away to the other side of the world, with the army emblem on his shoulder, but at least it had been somewhere else, he supposed.

Then he’d been discharged, and he’d come home, and Eddie had been too afraid of his own shadow to want to go anywhere – and he’d had bigger things to worry about, frankly, like keeping his head above water and his son alive as he did his best to navigate single parenthood.

Eddie had gone to LA for Shannon – he could admit that. He had wanted to run away from El Paso, to take Christopher away from the suffocating grip of his parents, sure, but he’d picked LA because of Shannon.

He’d stayed for himself, though.

Sometimes, Eddie felt like the only selfish decision he had ever made for himself in his whole entire life was staying in Los Angeles and making a life for himself there. He had never been good at wanting things for himself, but Eddie had wanted, when he got to LA and he had joined the 118 and realised he could have a life he enjoyed, and not just one he survived for the sake of his son.

That’s what made him ending up back in El Paso all the more ironic, really. Eddie had made one selfish decision for himself in his entire miserable fucking life, and then he’d had to walk away from that one good, selfish decision for the sake of his son.

It wasn’t permanent. El Paso wasn’t permanent.

That’s what Eddie had to keep telling himself, as he lived in his older sister’s guestroom, and went knocking at his parent’s front door every morning to see if his son wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t permanent, he’d kept reassuring himself, as he sat across the dining table from his mom and dad every evening, and justified why he was there, why he was going to keep being there until Christopher decided he was willing to come home.

Eddie would have moved permanently – but as he’d started to look for houses in El Paso, and as Buck had spiralled, everything had come to a head, and he and Buck had an explosive argument that had ended with Buck’s tongue down Eddie’s throat.

Buck would get snippy, if he knew Eddie was misrepresenting the romance of the moment – but in Eddie’s defence, the romance had come after that first, messy, argument, life-changing, ending kiss.

Buck hadn’t asked Eddie to stay – he would never get between Eddie, and Christopher – but he had suggested maybe it didn’t need to be such a permanent move. Not right away, at least – that maybe Eddie could work on rebuilding his relationship with Chris, first, and they could discuss it, decide together whether to stay in LA, or make the big move to El Paso permanently.

(Eddie really hoped it would be the former.)

Eddie’s hands shook, as he shut the screen door behind him, the chill of the December evening a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of his parent’s house, and the festive celebrations happening inside that he wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to participate in.

He liked Christmas – really, he did – but this year, Eddie was struggling to feel all that festive. Things with Christopher were a little better, and they were getting better every day, but every inch of progress he made with his son seemed to drive an even bigger wedge between Eddie, and his parents.

Coming out to them hadn’t helped.

It hadn’t been an entirely rash decision, on Eddie’s part – he’d wanted to come out to them eventually. Between kissing Buck, and the six weeks he’d been in El Paso, Eddie had done a lot of soul-searching and had come to the somewhat startling conclusion he was absolutely, definitely, a thousand percent gay. It hadn’t felt world-ending, to accept it either – not the way it would have a year ago.

It had felt right. Eddie had tried the label out for size with Buck, in the first instance, his boyfriend smiling proudly at him from the tiny screen of Eddie’s cellphone as Eddie had said it out loud. He’d told Sophia, over dinner, one evening, his sister and her husband giving him similarly encouraging grins and embraces. Eddie had told Christopher, one quiet afternoon when they’d gone out for a walk, and Christopher had responded with a simple ‘thanks for telling me, dad’ and that had been that.

So, sue him, for thinking he could come out to his parents and have it not be an issue. Everyone else had been so accepting, and kind, and Eddie had let himself indulge in the false hope that he’d get the same from his mom and dad.

His mom had immediately started crying, wailing about how she couldn’t understand, which Eddie felt was, quite frankly, overdramatic, and his father had looked at him silently with an expression of complete and utter disappointment Eddie wasn’t sure he’d ever forget.

It had sucked.

Eddie had excused himself from dinner, got behind the wheel of his rented car, driven to a Dairy Queen carpark, and had a complete and utter mental breakdown into a chocolate sundae. It hadn’t been his proudest moment.

“Hi, baby,” Buck’s voice was warm, as his boyfriend picked up the phone.

“Hey, honey,” Eddie tried to sound upbeat as he responded, wanting to rise to Buck’s sweet petname with one of his own. He liked the way Buck was so soft with him, open and honest with his affection even via words.

“What happened?”

Eddie should have known he was physically incapable of lying to Buck.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing – you sound sad,” Buck countered. “It’s Christmas day, and you sound sad, Eddie – so it’s something. Talk to me.”

Eddie settled himself down on the front porch steps, tucking his phone under his chin. “I hate Christmas.”

“You love Christmas,” Buck corrected. “Normally, at least. What happened, Eddie?”

“It’s just – everything feels weird, and awkward,” Eddie sighed. “Sophia and Adriana won’t speak to our parents directly – they’re just pretending, for the kids sake. Abuela threatened not to come for Christmas dinner, and only turned up because she, I quote, didn’t want my useless excuse for a father to pretend as though she wasn’t there because she had a problem with me being gay, when her real problem is with her own son being a bigot.”

This got a laugh out of Buck. “I love your grandmother.”

“Me too,” Eddie couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Christopher is…” he trailed off. “He’s okay. He liked his gifts – he seems to not know what to do, though, with the way my parents are being.”

“They’re different with you than they are with him,” Buck offered. “It has to feel confusing for him that the grandparents who treat him so kindly, treat his dad the way they do.”

That was putting it nicely. Eddie’s parents – well, they weren’t bad people. Eddie wasn’t going to claim they were. They just weren’t the best parents to Eddie. He’d been dealing with their expectations his whole life, and coming out as gay had upset their plan for the perfect white picket fence life they’d envisioned for – no, demanded of Eddie. Eddie had even heard his mother weeping in the kitchen, wondering how on earth she’d tell her bible group that her precious only son was gay. A practising gay, at that – because when Eddie followed up his disastrous coming out with the admission that he had a living, breathing boyfriend, that had sent his already hysterical mother to another planet.

“I feel like I made everything worse, by coming here,” Eddie admitted quietly, though he was certain no one inside of the Diaz household would hear him over the Christmas music that was blasting in the living room as his family played board games. “I don’t want Christopher to hate his grandparents. I just want him to want to come home, with me.”

“You haven’t made anything worse, Eddie,” Buck’s reassurance was gentle. “Baby – you haven’t made anything worse. Being there, working on things with Chris – that’s the right thing to do. You can’t control the way your parents act around you. If they want to show their ass and make their grandson mad at them for treating you badly after you came out – well, good. I hope he does hate them. They’re being shitty parents.”

Eddie knew he should talk about it. He knew he should – and could – sit and hash out all of his complicated feelings about his parents, and Texas, and the way El Paso made him feel like he couldn’t breathe, the town constricting around his chest, locking him in a cage he had so desperately tried to escape. A cage he had escaped, until Eddie’s own mistakes had driven his son back here, to the one place Eddie had hoped he’d ever be back in. He could do that, but –

“I miss you Buck,” Eddie breathed. “I wish you were here.”

“I know,” Buck’s tone was sympathetic. “But hey – if you look up at the stars, then you and I are looking at the same stars, Eds. That’s something, for now.”

Eddie smiled. It was a silly thing, Buck had started, right when Eddie first got to El Paso – we’re looking at the same sky, he’d quipped, on one of their nightly Facetime calls. Even when they were far apart from each other, they were still able to look up at the same stars, and if they just remembered that, maybe the distance between El Paso, and Los Angeles, wouldn’t feel so cavernous. That’s what Buck had promised him.

Eddie watched as a car pulled up across the street from his parents’ house. Someone visiting family, he guessed. “You can’t see the stars in LA,” he joked. “All that light pollution.”

“No,” Buck agreed. “But I can see them from El Paso.”

Eddie felt his heart shudder to a stop in his chest. “What – what?” he looked across the street and saw Buck emerging from the car – an Uber, clearly – his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, phone in hand.

Buck ended the call, looking left and right before he jogged across the street. “Hey,” he looked almost bashful, as he greeted Eddie.

“Buck? Are you really here?” Eddie couldn’t quite believe his own eyes. Buck was here, in Texas – not in Los Angeles, where he was supposed to be spending Christmas Day with his sister, and Chimney.

“I’m really here,” Buck promised, setting his duffel bag down on the pavement. He looked tired, but happy, all the same, wearing an LAFD hoodie and his familiar crooked smile. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

“Of course it’s okay you’re here!” Eddie shoved his phone in his pocket, jogging down the few steps between him, and Buck. “I just – why are you here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, I just – I don’t understand.”

“You sounded so sad, the last few times we’ve spoken,” Buck explained. “All I’ve wanted to do – since you left, really, but especially since you came out and your parents and everything that happened – is to hug you, Eddie. It’s our first Christmas together, and we weren’t spending it together, and it’s been killing me. I was sitting on Maddie’s couch last night, moping, and she just fixed me with one of those, I’m your big sister and I’m smarter than you looks, and she asked me why I wasn’t with you, and I didn’t have a good answer for why not. So, I booked a flight – and I’m here.”

“You booked a last-minute flight on Christmas Day to see me?” Eddie loved this man so much he could physically burst with it. No one had ever done the whole, grand gesture thing for Eddie – and now, here Buck was, having spent God only knows how much money for a Christmas Day flight just to come and see Eddie. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a man like Evan Buckley – but Eddie would stand there and thank every star in the sky for sending him Buck if it meant he got to keep him forever.

“Eddie,” Buck’s expression was bright, as he answered. “I’d have walked from LA to El Paso if it meant I got to spend Christmas Day with you.”

Eddie would lie and argue the point with his sisters later, but he absolutely, definitely launched himself into Buck’s arms, there and then, wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he couldn’t hold the tears in, and they were happy-sad, the weight of an awkward Christmas and six weeks in El Paso not quite lifted, but the happiness of seeing Buck outweighing everything else.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” Buck murmured, pressing a string of kisses to the side of Eddie’s head. “I’m here. I’m here, baby. Merry Christmas.”

Later, Eddie would laugh at the bravery it took to kiss Buck right there and then, on his parents front lawn, with his entire family looking out the living room window to see why Eddie wasn’t coming back inside – but there and then, he didn’t have it in him to care too much about the fact that all of his parents neighbours could see as he pressed his lips to Buck’s in a grateful, messy, somewhat salty kiss.

“Merry Christmas,” Eddie replied, cupping Buck’s face in his hands. He hadn’t gotten to have this, Buck, for long enough before he’d had to get on a one-way flight to El Paso, and so it still felt like a novelty to get to hold him. The blue of Buck’s eyes was brighter than any star, or moon, or planet. Eddie was big enough to admit that was dramatic, but entirely true. He was happy to be dramatic about Buck. “I love you.”

Nothing was better. Objectively, nothing was fixed. Eddie’s son still looked at him sometimes with a coldness that made Eddie’s heart twist in his chest, because he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to fix it, and Eddie’s parents were, well – they kind of sucked, if he was being honest about it – but Buck was there, and he was holding Eddie like he was something precious, and that was everything Eddie needed, there and then.

Buck pressed a kiss to the tip of Eddie’s nose, and Eddie couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bright, and light, in the midst of one of the worst Christmases Eddie had ever had. “I love you more.”

[lathalea]

The Arrival

Yes, my beloved readers, it's time for another Thorin fic from yours truly!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader/OC (pick one) Rating: G Warnings: none Author's notes: Thorin and his Company have reclaimed Erebor and started rebuilding their kingdom. Everything seems fine except for the fact that the King Under The Mountain is eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone very dear to him... Also, I want to apologise to Peter Jackson for stealing some lines from An Unexpected Journey and J.R.R. Tolkien for appropriating and rephrasing one sentence from The Lord of The Rings.  I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? You can find this fic on AO3. For @legolasbadass 💙💙💙

Khuzdul: Iglishmêk - dwarven sign language Kurdelê - my heart Lukhdelê - my light of all lights

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the second of his name, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Durin’s folk, was not a patient Dwarf—and yet he waited. He had been standing on the main terrace above the Great Gate of Erebor since the moment when the first rays of the morning sun gilded the distant peaks of the Iron Hills. His eyes, however, were turned towards the west, where the jagged tops of the Misty Mountains grazed against the pink sky. As he took a deep breath, fresh spring air filled his lungs. It was his—and his people’s—first spring in Erebor since it was reclaimed. The winter after the Battle of Five Armies passed in a blink of an eye. The kingdom was being rebuilt and prepared for the returning Dwarves, food stores had to be replenished, new trade agreements had to be signed… but among all those duties, something else kept Thorin awake until late on many a night. His memories.

The memory of a pair of hands gently resting on his shoulders as he sat behind his desk, and the sweet timbre of the voice that went with it, “Come, Kurdelê, it is time we reposed for the night, those reports can wait until the morning.”

The memory of those soft, sweet lips pressing innocently against his cheek and murmuring something scandalously indecent into his ear.

The memory of how her body felt in his lap, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his, her silver laughter as she pretended to scold his rash behaviour, so unbecoming of a king.

The memory of her bare skin in candlelight.

But there were other memories, too. Their lengthy late-night conversations about anything and everything. Their secret escapades to the market, or to an inn, dressed as common folk, pretending to be a couple of travelling merchants. Their wanderings through the Blue Mountains in search of the best view of the sea in the west (his choice) and the most beautiful flower glades (her choice). 

During the lengthy council meetings he had to hold almost daily in Erebor, he would recall how much her presence changed the dynamics of similar gatherings back in the Blue Mountains. Her reasoning was swift, and her no-nonsense approach to the matters of state made even the most ancient council members nod in approval. Even now, he would—out of habit—turn to his right, wishing to discuss a matter with her or ask for her insight. But she was not there, and so he would give out a dissatisfied grunt and return to the matter at hand. 

He knew that the only thing he had to do was wait, and he abhorred it. But there was nothing to be done. No sane person would risk crossing the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter. Now, however, the spring came into its own right. And he sent his best men to the High Pass to oversee the approach of the first dwarven caravan from Eriador. It was supposed to bring the first group of his people returning home, merchants, masters of craft, their families and belongings… and her. The whole Erebor was waiting for the arrival of their kin—the symbol of a new beginning for the Mountain and its dwellers. Many eyes turned to the west, counting the days, making wagers, discussing the route the waggons must have taken, and the current road conditions. It seemed that in those days, only one topic existed: the caravan.

But Thorin could only think of her lovely hand in his.  Of her kindred touch.

As soon as a raven brought word from the caravan, reporting that they have succesfully crossed the mountains, he could not stop himself from looking to the west, and hoping. 

This was the fifth day he spent on the terrace, waiting for any signs of the caravan’s approach.

On the first day, Gloin waited with him in hopes of seeing his wife and son, but was called away due to some issue in the treasure chamber. Thorin stayed, cursing the enchanted forest (and its haughty king, for good measure) for daring to obscure his view. Sadly, neither the forest nor its king moved out of the way.

On the second day, Dwalin asked Thorin whether he was growing mawkish in his dotage, staring at the edge of Mirkwood like a lovesick whelp—a question he had to take back on the training grounds. 

On the third day, Dori asked whether Thorin would rather wait inside, on account of that nasty rain, and drink some warm tea with honey. No, said Thorin, he would not. And that envoy from the Iron Hills could join him there, on the terrace, by the way.

On the fourth day, Nori, Bifur and Bofur kept Thorin company, amusing him—and themselves in equal measure—with the latest gossip straight from the taverns of Erebor (all two of them, for now). He had no idea that several hundreds of dwarves, mostly newcomers from the Iron Hills and the White Mountains, could wreak such havoc. And marry so swiftly and in such numbers. Spring was truly in the air.

Now, on the fifth day, he stood alone, and waited. Roac was circling the Long Lake below, giving out a single caw from time to time, “Still nothing.”

And then, a hunting horn rang out in the air. Thorin knew its sound all too well.

“Balin!” he exclaimed to his friend who sat in the hall beyond the terrace. “Sound the alarm!”

The elderly dwarf raised his head from above a piece of parchment, slightly puzzled.

“Call out the guard,” Thorin insisted, feeling his impatience take the better of him. “Do it now! 

“What is it?” Balin rose from his seat, his scroll forgotten.

“The caravan!” Thorin gestured excitedly—perhaps a tad too excitedly for a Dwarf of his stature—towards Mirkwood, where a long line of waggons started emerging from the forest. “They will be here soon!”

She will be here soon. 

Over a year passed since the last time he held her in his arms, since he braided the silky dark waves of her hair, and since he looked into the brilliant, wise eyes of the woman he loved. To him, it felt like an eternity, and in that very moment, as he hurried down the stairs that led towards the Great Gate, he made a solemn promise to himself.

When the caravan arrived, most of the Dwarves were already gathered outside of the mountain. The guards held their heads high, presenting their weapons in an honorary salute, not leaving their posts, but even they cast curious glances at the newly arrived, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd. Thorin smirked at his thoughts. They looked as impatient as their king.

He knew the protocol of such meetings like the back of his hand, requiring him to stand by the gate, look regally, and welcome the newcomers to their new—old—home. His resolve wavered, however, when he saw a familiar figure clad in a green, fur-lined gown getting down a waggon, helped by one of the guardsmen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and then stopped, recalling who he was and what he was expected to do. He was also not allowed to leave his post, just like his guards. Instead, he observed from a distance, admiring the way the waves of her hair fell down her shoulders as she looked around, perhaps slightly disoriented, taking in the surroundings. Thorin saw the exact moments when her gaze rested on the mossy stone shaped by his ancestors into statues of warrior kings. Then her gaze moved down, focusing on the green marble of the Great Gate. Her eyes widened, her lips formed an “O” and then moved, she spoke something, but her words were lost in all the commotion. In that very moment, she reminded him of that bright-eyed maiden he had met for the first time in a mountain meadow half a world away; the maiden who laughed at his abysmal jokes, who fit so well in his arms when they danced, and who accepted his awkward courting efforts. The time that passed between then and now did not take away her ability to wonder and enjoy the world around her. She endured so many hardships on the way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, so many cold nights on the road, faced so many dangers, and yet she never wavered in her decision to leave the Blue Mountains behind to be with him and their people. Now, she was finally here and, at last, he felt complete. Being able to see his own kingdom—their kingdom—through her eyes, and to see how amazed she was at the view, was a reward on its own. 

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling when her eyes finally met his. 

“Welcome home, my…” he began signing in iglishmêk, in that discreet way they often did on official occasions when the eyes of many would rest on them.

A light flush bloomed on her cheeks, she responded with a smile, and began walking towards him, oblivious of her escort and the joyous crowd around her, forgetting about the protocol, moving faster and faster, a giggle escaping her lips, her braids danced in the wind, her cloak flowed behind her, and…

“Thorin!” she called him in that melodious voice of hers, and there were diamonds in her eyes, or perhaps it was only his vision that suddenly turned very blurry, and he opened her arms, and thought “the Abyss take the protocol!”, and he rushed towards her, ignoring Balin clearing his throat in embarrassment, because she was finally here, and he had waited long enough—and they finally met halfway.

He wrapped his arms around her and felt her pressing into him, and there was laughter, and more tears in their eyes, the diamonds of happiness, those most precious among gems, and he was finally able to finish that sentence.

“Welcome home, my wife,” he rasped out, pressing his forehead against her, breathing in her familiar flowery scent, the one he adored so much. This was her, finally her, in his arms, and only she mattered in this very moment, not the crowd cheering around them, witnessing this moment of tenderness between their ruling couple, not even his kingdom, nor the world around them—now, it was only her.

“I missed you, my love,” she murmured, holding tight onto him, as if she wanted to make sure he would not disappear, and a wave of warmth washed over him. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, with you, after all those months…”

“Neither can I,” he agreed, cupping her cheek tenderly and eliciting a small sigh from her. “It was much too long, Lukhdelê.”

“Aye, it was,” she nodded, her eyes searching his face, as if learning it anew.

“I made a promise to myself,” Thorin continued. “Never again.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head in that alluring way of hers, and he had to suppress the improper urge to kiss her passionately in front of his people.

“Never again shall we part for so long. I crave you by my side, my heart,” he stated, bringing her hand to his lips.

“Then I will be looking forward to you upholding the promise,” she graced him with a teasing smile that made his blood run faster. “We have been apart indeed for too long, and so were our people. I believe it is time for us to work on improving their morale, would you not agree, my king?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen,” he agreed and took her in his arms again, and then their lips met. Sweetness intermingled with warmth, tenderness fueled the fire inside them, and he cared not that they stood in front of the gate in the sight of many.

After all, who cares about protocol when you have to properly welcome your wife home?

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[itsabouttimex2]

I hope this isn't an odd question

But, do you think Wukong or Macaque would act or treat different their "cub" if they genders were swapped or being a female version? This is also for a Yan behavior

I don't know too much about how is the raising of a monkey from the father and mother so I was curious with this since they're both mystical demons

I was thinking about this when I saw some fanarts from the artist @/car_nimbus on Twitter, they made a neat versions of the characters with another gender

Monkey Mama

(Hmm okay let me build a hypothetical OG “Female Monkey King” to work off of here and then I’ll try to translate that into LMK’s SWK. Also, I’ll probably make a second variation of this afterwards with other characters, haha. This got a little long to do both SWK and Mac!)

Sun Wukong as a character is already heavily defined by rebellion and personal choice, so I think that making him a girl only really compounds that layer of his character.

In many older narratives, female characters are often expected to be more obedient or modest than men, and very frequently only exist as prizes or, more rarely, villains. A female Sun Wukong; assuming she plays the same role as her original incarnation, defies the expectations of how “traditional” women should behave, shirking the demure and passive “ideal” and adding another layer of rebellion to her character.

(JTTW is actually pretty great in terms of female representation, with characters ranging from the perpetually good Quanyin, the eventually repentant Princess Iron Fan, and the straight up evil White Bone Spirit. I’m a big fan of how the women aren’t slid into any one “role” throughout the story.)

I think: in story, she’d likely be viewed as a sort of “anomaly”—a woman too strong, too outspoken, and too unwilling to conform to typical feminine ideals. Her defiance and arrogance might be viewed as even more scandalous by the Celestial Realm.

Instead of being made a “stable-keeper”, I think probably she’s sent to whatever Heavenly Scullery exists in that divine realm, and put to work very quickly. She would treat this “job” with indifference or even amusement at first-after all, physical labor or menial tasks don't diminish her self-worth or confidence! She’s had a life of hard work, leading an army of Yaoguai, cultivating Flower Fruit Mountain,

So she’s fine with this… at first. Then it turns out that the food she makes with her fellow low-class workers isn’t distributed amongst the people making it, but plated up nice and pretty for a bunch of “stuffy old gods” who didn’t lift a finger! Bullshit!

So obviously, the prideful Monkey Queen goes on a destructive rampage in regards to the unfair disparity of treatment, then storms back down to Earth to throw a “feel-better” party with her fellow Yaogaui.

(Which isn’t just a party, but a symbolic reclaiming of joy and community, with her monkey tribe representing the freedom she craves and the earthly bonds she prefers over heavenly authority. It's not just an escape, but a statement of independence.)

After an extensive set of repairs, the Court sends down someone to drag her back, because, you know, the local super-powered monkey is back on the loose, and that’s not exactly great for them. This time, they offer her a “better” role- she gets to become an official Peach Maiden, lucky her!

Of course, it’s just another form of entrapment, but within a prettier cage. Even though she's given a cushier position, it's a veneer- she's still being silenced, controlled, and stripped of her freedom. The role played by a Peach Maiden is an inversion of Wukong's essence, as these women are happily serving the role of passive caretakers, nurturing with gentle smiles—a direct contrast to the free-willed, brash nature of the Monkey Queen.

(And while there’s nothing wrong with being demure, passive, and feminine, having people try to force her into that role is where Sun Wukong draws her line.)

Here, she is expected to watch in silence as others revel in the freedom and power denied to her. It's a different kind of prison, one that quietly erodes her spirit. When the Celestial Court tries to reintegrate her as a Peach Maiden, they are once again attempting to place her into a docile, decorative role, one that strips away her power and independence. Those immortal peach orchards, a symbol of immortality and divine favor, becomes a prison for her.

Surrounded by "ideal" women who embody the quiet, submissive role she despises, the Monkey Queen finds herself chafing under the pressure of conformity. Her energy, once boundless and chaotic, is now caged, and the simmering resentment builds.

The buildup to her inevitable rebellion after being made a Peach Maiden, then, becomes a very sympathetic moment because it's not just a rejection of the role forced on her, but a rejection of the very system that tries to diminish who she is at her core. Her rebellion isn’t about anger and shame- it’s about reclaiming her true self after having been suffocated by the expectations of the Celestial Court. Her rampage becomes an assertion of her identity as something that can't be confined by heavenly rules or social mores.

The Court, in its attempt to “contain" her, only fuels her defiance further, leading her once again to rebel.

It was never going to end well. But it ends all the same, and punishment is to be levied to the Queen, just the same as any other rebellious rule-breaker... actually, probably harsher.

There’s “you broke our rules and tried to lead a coup”, then there’s “you did all that, and we also find your very person to be wrong on a fundamental level”, and then she gets the book thrown at her twice over.

But! Then she meets Tang Sanzang, who sees something in her that neither the Celestial Realm nor her own band of Sworn Brothers saw. Not a heretic simian savaging a holy realm. Not a Queen to rally behind for their own gain.

But a lost soul in need of guidance.

And from there the Great Monk works on building Sun Wukong up as a person instead of leading her astray or trying to cut massive chunks of her personality out? And talks to her about the things she cares about? And teaches her about all the things she missed after spending five hundred years under a rock?

And then she meets Zhu Baije, who starts out a little too happy and carefree about having a beautiful woman around, but eventually comes to smash open heads when Wukong is disrespected, because that’s not just a hot woman, that’s his sister?

Or Sha Wujing, who helps her with even the smallest things, from trimming her claws to cutting her wild hair to preparing meals for the monk? And lets her perch on his shoulders and head so the queen can get some skinship in?

Then Ao Lie, who is every bit the “disappointment to the world at large” that she was considered? And they take turns braiding each other’s hair and wiping the mess from the other’s face, and sleeping in the same tent and same bedroom because it’s less effort?

She gets a dad and three little brothers?

She gets a family.

And then loses it and is alone again for several hundred years more.

So if we go with this theoretical “My natural existence has been rejected for being seen as ‘improper’ by a court of stuffy traditional assholes” and then “I dearly love/miss my dead found family” angle, I think she’d be portrayed as a very different sort of character in LMK.

She’s quicker to lash out and defend herself, and much less willing to sit around and let the world pass her by- because that’s what was demanded of her by the Celestial Realm.

Be good. Be quiet. Be demure. Be obedient. Be anything except you.

I don’t think she’d be as willing to “rest on her laurels” as her canon counterpart, given that a “quiet boring life” was what she had fought so very hard to escape in the first place, so instead of isolating herself from the world in the first place, she probably sets up a little “souvenir shop” at the foot of Flower Fruit Mountain, taking a human form to sell little knick-knacks that herald to the journey she undertook with her old friends.

In part, this is how Wukong works to honor them. To spread their legacy. To ensure that they aren’t forgotten, left as a footnote in the annals of history. To remember them.

In part, it’s how she justifies all the mistakes she’s made and the suffering she’s been through. Settling in to a pointlessly relaxed life is exactly what she fought against, after all. She’s heavily fallen into the “sunk-cost fallacy”, where giving up and settling in, to her, means “losing”. It means “everything I went through was all for nothing”. So she keeps at this little store instead of just retiring and isolating herself from the world, even though she’d be happier to ditch it and lounge about.

So when MK and his eccentric bunch of friends comes around with their boundless energy and mischief, she immediately goes, “Oh, okay! This is what I wanted!”

(It’s not. All she’s ever wanted is her friends back. How could there be anything else?)

The Monkie Kids are vibrant, eccentric, and full of qualities that immediately resonate with Wukong. They remind her of the energy, camaraderie, and sense of adventure that she once shared with her old companions. She sees MK's arrival not just as a chance to teach someone a few of her old tricks, but as an echo of her own life—a life she hasn't been able to truly let go of.

So she starts projecting- on the surface, MK is very much like her. He's spirited, good-natured, and curious- and reckless. Just like she was. Wukong latches onto this quickly, sort of using the kid as a proxy for herself. After all, if she can't go back to her old life, why not embrace a new one that feels close enough? In some ways, this marks her refusal to accept the passage of time, a desperate clinging to the hope that, through MK, she can rekindle the connections she once cherished.

However, underneath that initial enthusiasm is the repressed understanding that MK, despite his similarities to her younger self, cannot truly replace what she lost. The friends she fought beside, the battles they waged together, and the lessons they learned are unique, irreplaceable moments in her life. No matter how much MK’s gang reminds her of the past, he and his friends a stand-in for the companions she still longs for. But her deep desire to reconnect with her old friends clouds her ability to see MK for who he truly is: his own person, on his own journey.

It takes her a while to get to that point, though. So she’s more doting and affectionate, in a way that somewhat stifles her student’s training because she wants to be both her old carefree self and also a good mentor, and the two just get jumbled.

Sidenote: I think with the difference in actions and behavior, MK would be more open to viewing Fem!Wukong as a parental figure than the OG, especially since he doesn’t really have someone to fulfill that “mom” role.

For their dynamic, I think something like this would be the outcome:

———————————————————————-

The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, painting the landscape in hues of varied orange and blue. With a tired hand, MK wipes the sweat from his brow.

He’s perched on one of the rocky spires dotting Flower Fruit Mountain, gazing at the view with a small smile of accomplishment. Training had been intense lately… if only because he had been doubling down on the time he spent practicing, without giving as much care to rest or aftercare.

After all, even though his powers were blooming steadily… his enemies also were growing in power and quantity, leading to the ever-creeping edge of fear that anything less than a constant one-hundred percent just wouldn’t be “enough”.

And right as he reaches back to grab the golden staff he has inherited from the Monkey Queen-

“MK! I told you to take a break, not run off to do more training!”

Her voice, uncharacteristically sharp, cuts through the formerly tranquil air, causing MK to jump. He turns just in time to see Sun Wukong strolling toward him, her hands on her hips and a look of mock annoyance on her face.

MK grinned sheepishly, shifting his grass-stained boots against the dirt. “I was just, you know… checking out the view.”

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement as her eyes narrowed in annoyance. This kid... “Uh-huh. Checking out the view or sneaking in some practice when I wasn’t looking?”

Caught fast in his lie, MK rubbed the back of his neck, face scrunching up in embarrassment. “Maybe a little of both?”

In spite of herself, Sun Wukong quietly laughs, the sound echoing like a chiming bell through the mountain. Her long, golden hair flowed behind her in the wind, each strand catching the light like molten fire. Despite her legendary status- the rebellious warrior who’d fought the heavens and nearly won!- there was a warmth to her that MK had come to cherish.

“All work and no play, MK,” she said, sitting beside him on the rock and ruffling his hair with a fondness that always made him feel like a little kid again. “You’ll burn out before you get anywhere.”

He looked at her, eyes shining with admiration. “But you never stop training. You’ve been at this for centuries! I just…”

A pause, as his chest turns over, unsettled by the notion of opening up. But… it’s the Monkey Queen. So it.. should be okay, right?

“I want to make you proud.”

Sun Wukong’s expression softens, and she wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling the boy close in a tight embrace. “You already make me proud, kid. You don’t have to prove anything.”

MK leaned into the touch, feeling a wave of comfort wash over him. Even from the start she’d been like this with him- protective, nurturing… and maybe a bit overbearing at times. But he didn’t mind. It made him feel safe, like no matter what challenges lay ahead, he wasn’t alone.

MK chuckled, turning his face up to meet his idol’s eyes.” I’ll keep up,” he triumphantly declares, pumping a fist.” I promise.”

“Good.” Wukong shifted, her clawed hand lightly missing his spiked locks. “Now, how about we head back to the shop and grab something to eat? You’ve earned it.”

MK’s stomach growled at the mention of food, and he nodded so eagerly that she wondered if his head wouldn’t ache from the motion. “You know, I won’t say no to a good meal.”

The Monkey Queen stood up, dusting off her mentee’s clothes before offering him a hand. “Of course you won’t. C’mon, my treat.”

———————————————————————-

Now, to answer your question about how she acts in regards to her own cub… in general I think she’s much more doting than the OG, willing to express herself through constant displays of physical affection, in ways that are far more varied.

Constant forehead smooching, cuddles, grooming sessions, all of it! Mama Wukong never wants to let go of her baby! Sit down and let her paint your nails! Let her comb and braid your hair! Let her make you a nice lunch (loaded with mystical drugs to keep you nice and sleepy for extra cuddles), or at least a filling snack! Let her pepper your face with kisses as she spins you in her powerful arms!

Lots and lots of indulgent fluffy days of binging unhealthy foods and watching cozy reruns of old shows, your head in her lap as she hums and does up your hair with her lazy hands.

Lots of reminiscing about old suitors as she considers the quietest and quickest ways to kill anyone who makes the futile attempt to pursue you in the same way.

Despite her obsessive behavior, Wukong struggles with conflicting feelings about wanting her child to be strong and independent, just like her! She pushes you to train hard and become powerful, but when you inevitably seek their own freedom or autonomy, she’d experience a mix of pride and heartbreak, pushing her deeper into possessive tendencies.

If you ever tried to leave or even just start to break away, Wukong’s worst traits would bubble up like hellfire. Just as she fought against an entire realm’s authority, she would absolutely wage a war to keep her child close, all while justifying her actions as love.

The Monkey Queen is also more willing to take routes outside of brute force if it means securing extra protection for Y/N. If Macaque or maybe Azure (or someone else like Erlang Shen) wants to try and play “suitor”, well, she’s not too interested… until the thought arises that having him around makes you extra safe! And then she’s willing to think on it.

(That’s assuming that you aren’t one of their biological kids to begin with, in which case there might be a sort of “yandere triangle”. Azure/Macaque/Erlang Shen doing his damndest to reclaim his wife, before he learns that she’s had a child while he was gone... or maybe Pigsy and Tang decided that MK needs his mentor in a more ‘accessible’ position, and plot to drag her to Megapolis…)

Lots of potential monkey mama shenanigans, basically!