#learn to rock stack

[scionshtola]

just experienced a rivalry with a warrior in pvp that i think made me understand zenos for the first time

[darklyndivinely]

I was interested in learning guitar. I asked a couple friends of mine whether to pick up acoustic or electric, and both said to go for acoustic. I did extensive research on Google as well and most articles say that it doesn't really matter. The only con to electric guitar that I see is the pricing, but I'm hoping to go second hand, so that might fall in my budget if I save for a couple months. But I still wanna confer with someone experienced. If anyone's got any advice, please drop it.

[mysticdragon3md3]

[punkkture]

omg gloryhole simon ??? sorry ??? i guess ?? this is VERRYY taboo but i just couldn’t help myself

{ mdni } wc: { 577 }

dead dove warning - omegaverse , gloryhole teehee

it's common for soldiers and other pent up men to visit one of the very few gloryholes around. how else were they supposed to release that tension? going around trying to find an omega? they didn't have time to go out to the bar and just hope for a hookup.

at least simon didn’t. the busy man he was.

it was easy for him to throw on one of the many black balaclavas and let loose for once. even if it was just for an hour.

of course he felt dirty. he always did anytime he came to one of these. it was no better than going to a strip club and paying the dancer an extra stack of hundreds . . . with this . . he at least could detach himself a little more.

but this time was different for some reason. his sensitive nose able to get a whiff of every omega in the room. mixed in with a couple other scents he’s learned to drown out. but this time he didn’t even have to try.

an almost sickeningly sweet smell clouding up his nose.

his feet dragged him towards the skin shivering scent. and he could’ve melted. this poor little omega sticking her ass out with no attention. every other alpha in the building practically going feral for the regulars.

simon had no problem walking up behind you and palming your ass. it was an unsettling feeling that was pooling in the bottom of his gut. this doesn't happen with him. his eyes never get hazy from just a scent alone. part of him was happy at the fact your skin wasn't sweaty and there wasn't a sticky layer of cum already on the floor below you.

even just for tonight, at least for this moment, he had you first.

"you not gettin' any attention, huh sugar?" he purrs, mindlessly speaking.

it wasn't often 'patrons' spoke to you. and it wasn't often that they smelled good. he smelled mouth watering. "uh-uhm" you stuttered, never getting flustered especially in a profession like this.

he patted your ass a couple times, parting your legs a little more with his foot. a deep chuckle coming from the wall behind you.

"don't gotta worry about a thing . . . ill make sure you feel special" his heavy voice rings.

he didnt give you a second before his leaking tip was prodding into your hole. thick hands holding you by your waist once he started rocking in.

never has simon let out an audible sound from one of these . . . events. but a mix of your saccharine scent and those soon to be creamed walls were just killing him.

his eyebrows furrowed into a pathetic curve while his feet adjusted their stance, trying to not arch himself down. it was irritating almost, that such a sweet thing was found in a place like this.

his nose twitched under the fabric of his balaclava, wishing this stupid fucking wall wasn’t keeping him from your top half. desperately wanting to get a good whiff of your scent. and he's only somewhat settled when he can feel your legs start to twitch and react to the strangely comforting way his hands are groping at you.

he doesn't care to pull out like he normally does. he wants you to feel all of it. only leaving you with a warm pat on the ass when he walks away to wait outside in the back alley until your shift is over.

ೃ࿔* tag list: @vanillarosekiss @simonskitty @silverwoodlynx @mlthree @vint4geroses @ktmjoslin @darlingchanse @xangelbnnyx @tslmvn @1pps @jgissle12 @asherscove @bunty-girl @diorpar @sky-robin @ldrtypeofgirl @mentalhorror @teranya @chawitea @all-by-myself98 @jinx53

[dragonsbluee]

I need everyone to acknowledge the fact that KRS!Cale is a MASSIVE bookworm. He's able to thrive in Birth of a hero because he read it and enjoyed it. (yesyes record helps him, but you can't ignore the fact that he knows the characters, not just the plot. That comes from liking the thing you're reading!)

Give me the young master spending his afternoons reading under the shade of a tree with a new book series and absolutely devouring it in one sitting. He's missed being able to read a whole series and not having to hunt for the next books through a destroyed city.

Give me Cale with a little notebook full of books he'd like to read, the titles collected from the people he talks to. He'll read anything or at least try it out, but fantasy remains his favourite genre.

He also writes little opinion blurbs for his favourtie books, or jots down quotes and favourite lines. Sure his record ability means that he doesn't really have to, but it's an old habit he enjoys.

Cale, who starts collecting books on his travels, just one or two from every place he visits. His friends and allies pick up on this and start bringing him books they think he'd like. Cale has a very speicifc and rare smile when someone gifts him a book. Its small, but it somehow takes over his entire face, and you can almost see his eyes sparkle in delight. It quickly becomes a smile everyone looks forward to.

Cale, who never turns down a book given as a gift, and so he starts picking up bits of knowledge from across the continent. He learns about the edible plants in the Jungle, the different variations of marble and stone throughout the Roan Kingdom, the fables and myths of the Dark Elves. He keeps them on a shelf in his room in the super rock villa, and every once in a while, the kids pick one to have read to them. When the shelf is full, Eruhaben pulls some out from his hoard as a gift to Cale. They're almost too gaudy, but Eruhaben enchants them to protect the books from dust, damage, and pests. Cale spends an entire day reorganizing his collection.

He never thought he would be able to build his own personal library, but here he is.

Cale loves to compare the books he has in this world and the ones he knew before. Sometime in the future, he sits down and uses record to copy out his favourite series. He gifts it to Choi Han so he can have a small piece of home he never got to experience.

It becomes known that the best way to get Cale to stop and actually take a break is to plop a kid on his lap and give him a book he's been looking forward to. One year for his birthday, Alberu gives Cale free rein to explore the palace's secret library. They find him curled up in a corner a couple hours later surrounded by stacks of books.

Cale is 100% the type of person to insist that more libraries should be available to the public so that he can read easily when travelling to different places. It's definetly not because he wants more kids to be able to learn how to read, and he was able to grow into loving books because of his local library.

[theartofcollapse]

World’s Worst Detectives - Casey Novak

a/n: i'm taking requests, so feel free to dm me :) summary: you reveal your relationship with Casey to the SVU squad after 5 years. pairing: Casey Novak x female reader warning: none word count: 880

masterlist

The morning started like any other, Elliot sipping his too hot coffee, Fin scrolling through his phone, Olivia looking over case files, and Munch complaining about the copy machine. Business as usual, until Y/N walked into the precinct wearing a diamond ring the size of a small planet.

"Nice rock,” Fin said casually, before doing a double take. “Wait... damn, Y/N! What’s that about?”

“Yeah,” Olivia chimed in, narrowing her eyes. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Y/N smirked, leaning against the nearest desk. “What? This old thing?” she said, holding up her hand for dramatic effect.

“Holy crap, are you engaged?” Munch asked, adjusting his glasses like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Yep,” Y/N said breezily.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Elliot cut in, setting his coffee down. “Since when are you even dating anyone?”

“Since, like, five years ago,” Y/N said nonchalantly.

The room collectively froze. It was like Y/N had dropped a bomb in the middle of the squad.

“Five years?” Olivia echoed, her voice a mix of shock and betrayal. “You’ve been dating someone for five years and didn’t say a word?”

“We’re just private and don’t bring our personal lives to work,” Y/N replied with a shrug, clearly enjoying their stunned reactions.

“Private?!” Elliot gawked. “You’ve been in a five-year relationship and didn’t think to mention it?”

“Who’s the lucky mystery person?” Fin asked, leaning forward.

Y/N’s grin widened. “Casey.”

“Novak?!”

The room practically erupted at the revelation. And, as if summoned by their collective disbelief, Casey Novak herself walked into the precinct carrying a stack of files. She paused when she saw everyone staring at her like she’d just confessed to a major crime.

“What?” Casey asked, her brow furrowing.

“Oh, nothing,” Munch said, smirking. “We’re just learning that you and Y/N have been secretly dating for five years and are now engaged.”

Casey sighed, glancing at Y/N. “You told them?”

“They noticed the ring,” Y/N said with a shrug. “Kind of hard to miss.”

“Wait,” Olivia cut in, pointing between them. “How did you guys even get together? Like… how did this start?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Y/N said, shooting Casey a playful grin. “She flirted with me during my deposition prep. Very professional.”

“I did not flirt,” Casey said, rolling her eyes. “I advised you. Thoroughly.”

“Uh-huh,” Y/N teased. “And that ‘thorough advice’ turned into drinks after work, then dinner, then…”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Elliot groaned.

“You live together?” Olivia asked, her mouth still slightly open in shock.

“For years,” Y/N replied, looking far too pleased with herself.

“For years?” Fin exclaimed. “How the hell did we miss this?”

“You’re the detectives,” Y/N said, dripping with sarcasm. “How did you not find out?”

Elliot threw up his hands. “I don’t know! You two never acted like… you know… a couple.”

Casey let out a dry laugh. “Are you serious? We’ve been dropping hints for years. You just didn’t notice.”

“What hints?” Olivia challenged, crossing her arms.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Casey said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “The time Y/N brought me lunch to court every single day during that Riker’s assault trial?”

“Or,” Y/N added, “the time we came to the precinct’s Christmas party in matching sweaters and you thought it was a ‘cute coincidence.’”

“Oh my God,” Fin muttered. “The ugly snowman sweaters. How did I miss that?”

“And don’t forget, that time Casey stayed over at my apartment during that snowstorm. Elliot, you called me to ask if she made it home safe, and I said, ‘Yeah, she’s in the kitchen making pancakes.’”

Elliot slapped his forehead. “I thought you were just being a good host!”

Munch adjusted his glasses, a suspicious look crossing his face. “What about that time we caught you two sharing a cab after that fundraiser?”

“We went home together,” Casey said bluntly.

Munch’s jaw dropped. “And I just thought… God, I don’t know what I thought.”

“Clearly, not much,” Y/N teased.

Fin leaned back in his chair, laughing. “Man, we really are slippin’. I can’t believe we didn’t piece this together.”

“Hold up,” Olivia said, narrowing her eyes at Casey. “So, when you storm out of here after Y/N gets assigned to some dangerous op, that’s not just you being a concerned ADA, is it?”

“Nope,” Casey said with a sly smile.

“And the way you glare at anyone who so much as flirts with her?” Fin added.

“Yeah, that’s me marking my territory,” Casey said dryly.

“I feel so betrayed,” Elliot muttered, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on,” Y/N said, laughing. “You didn’t really need to know all this. It’s not like it affects your jobs.”

“We’re detectives,” Olivia said, throwing her hands up. “We’re supposed to notice things like this!”

“Maybe you should take a refresher course,” Casey quipped, earning a round of laughter from everyone except Elliot, who still looked like his world had been turned upside down.

“Well,” Munch said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Congratulations, I guess. But if you two start making out in the precinct, I’m filing a complaint.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Y/N said, shooting Casey a wink. “We save that for home.”

“Stop,” Elliot groaned, covering his ears.

Casey smirked, pulling Y/N toward the door. “Come on, babe. Let’s leave them to process.”

As the two of them left, hand in hand, Olivia let out a deep sigh. “I can’t believe we missed this.”

“Maybe next time,” Fin said, still laughing, “we should start paying attention to what’s right under our noses.”

Munch shook his head. “Or maybe we should all just retire while we still have some dignity.”

[goodeapple]

words on the page (aemond t. sex pollen pwp o.s.)

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : PWP, dubcon- this is sex pollen (obvi) they are technically not fully consenting. might be hatesex but it also might not, uncle/niece incest, a ridiculous amount of orgasms, squirting, restraint, spanking & slapping, and a slighttt breeding kink (srry i couldn't help myself)

word count : 10,000+

note : hope everyone enjoys. ty for all the love, always. likes, reblogs, comments, anything is gas in my tank xx

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“This library is big enough for the both of us, Uncle. You stay on your side, and I, on mine.” Ysilla offers, already working on tuning out the One-Eyed Prince’s mutterings as she gets lost in the sprawling shelves. 

“What if I want a book that’s on your side?” Aemond’s voice echoes up to the grand ceilings from where he must be several rows over, his annoyance clearer than the windows in the Sept. 

Ysilla rolls her eyes so hard she fears they might stick. “Do you not understand the concept of my side and your side?”

“These are all my sides. I grew up in between these stacks- I’m sure the texts at Dragonstone are missing you terribly. Why don't you go back and see if I’m right.” 

That retort stabs at her, the mourning for her home still living on in the thick ball of grief that resides heavily in her heart. It’s been a year since her mother took her rightful place on the Iron Throne, a year since the King had passed, and a year where all members of the Targaryen family had to learn how to live amongst one another once more. Nobody was enjoying it. And there were more days than not that the Princess fantasized of stealing borrowing a boat and sailing back to her beloved pile of rocks. 

“Shouldn’t you be out, oh, I don’t know, swinging a sword or ducking under one? You know, what men do.” It’s childish but Ysilla doesn’t mind stooping lower than her years. Her brothers keep her young and nimble, each one bringing with him a fresh battle of wits and stubbornness.  

He goes silent, blessedly, and she resumes her stroll, picking and plucking titles off the shelves that join the burgeoning pile cradled tight in her arms. Her mind wanders, the endless catalogues of writings whispering their words, lulling her further and further into the scriptural maze. 

Ysilla spots a peculiar text on a shelf taller than her, the aphotic ruby binding and woven gold stitching calling her name. She reaches up, tiptoeing until her feet creak and attempts to hook her finger under the edge of the spine. The old book sticks in place, judging her with a faceless scowl. She grunts, wobbling slightly, pushing forward again and gives it a good strong tug. Too strong, as it flies freely through the air and  Ysilla yelps, jumping to the side to dodge it. Everything goes topsy turvy, her balance lost to her and the rest of her assembled collection clatters to the ground. 

She curses, deaf to the sound of approaching footsteps as she drops to her knees and starts to gather the fallen books. She’s considerate of the older ones, stacking them carefully off to the side of the walkway. The causer of the chaos had landed face down, the text split open as if the ground itself was interested in its contents. Ysilla grasps it gently and turns it over, causing a plume of dust to shift off the pages and billow directly into her face. 

She coughs, sputtering for a breath that isn’t made up of ancient soot. She scrubs at her nose, sniffling and groaning in discomfort as her sinuses burn and her throat grows parched. Her eyelids wrench shut, tears already hot and clumping in her lashes. 

A vice grip in the form of strong fingers finds her arm, and she latches onto them desperately. She’s pulled to her feet, and a downy cloth is pressed tightly into her hand. She pats her face with it, drying her tears and spittle, its perfume of oranges and smoke chasing away the moldered stink clinging to every sense she has. 

“You alright?” Aemond asks cautiously, still holding her elbow steady. Ysilla blinks blearily at him, her nose red at the tip. She nods after a pause, coughing softly into his handkerchief. 

“Couldn’t breathe there for a moment.” She croaks, chuckling weakly before she gently pulls her elbow away. Aemond drops his hold, clasping his arms behind him and taking a step backwards. 

“The library is all yours- I’m going to go lie down.” 

She offers his hanky back, feeling a bit dumb as she does and more than a little embarrassed. Her uncle waves her off, and she skirts around him, careful not to intrude into his space. 

“Niece,” Ysilla turns. Concern is not a look she’s accustomed to seeing on his face, and certainly not when it’s directed at her, but the sight of it sends little tingles through her tummy. “Do you need me to escort you to your room?” 

She smiles dimly, self-conscious in all the ways that turn her cheeks peachy. 

“I think I can manage… thank you, Aemond.” Ysilla curtsies in a silly show of thanks, but he can tell her sentiment is genuine. 

Aemond swallows thickly, bowing his head in acknowledgment, watching her keenly as she shuffles out the doors that lead to the rest of the castle. She never calls him by his name. Always Uncle, and even sometimes My Prince, but the mocking lilt of that one is not lost on him. Aemond though… it’s like he’s hearing a brand new word.  

Shrugging off his worriment, he sighs, squatting down to collect the strewn about books. He inspects them as he does, less so judging and more so learning about his niece’s interests through her chosen reading materials. There’s a collection of songs- one for Drowned Men and one for Northmen that he’s read before. Another about the Lion King, Tommen II Lannister and his adventures in Volantis and, most provocatively, the remaining charred pages of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. Aemond holds onto it for longer than the others; she must’ve searched long and hard for it, he’s never even once stumbled across it in here. He tucks it carefully onto a shelf he’ll remember, and thinks of letting Ysilla know where she can find it later. 

Lastly, he comes to the one that sent her into a coughing fit and he regards it carefully. It isn’t smart, but even so, Aemond draws his dagger and nudges at it, angling up the flap so that he can read the title: Potions of Old Valyria. He lifts it too high, trying to see better in the dreary light of dusk and loses his leverage, the cover falling closed and puffing out a small cloud of dust in his direction. He snaps backwards but he’s not fast enough, the grit already coating the slick press of his lips. Aemond spits, growling, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. He winces as his nose stings, the watering in his eye blurring his vision. 

He shoots to his feet, gathering up the massive stack of books and tossing them onto an empty writing desk, kicking away the potion book in juvenile anger. He stalks out of the library, cursing blindly as he retreats to his room. 

The Prince does not read the page of which the dust had danced off of. But if he had, mayhaps he would have rethought the course of his actions that night. 

“Pollen of the flower Turnera diffusa- a specimen of which is contained in this very page- has a curious effect on the indulger. Found growing along the creeks of Honeyholt, symptoms noted are as follows: fever, delirium, lightheadedness, and most notably, a heightened state of arousal. The affected should take caution to whom they keep in their company while under the spell of this love plant.” 

.

Aemond shucks off his jerkin, sending it flying across the room carelessly. 

It's still there- the rabid itch under his collar. He stalks to his mirror, tearing up his shirt to check his skin, looking for a bite, a scratch, anything to explain the scorching sting engulfing him in full. Nothing, not even a blemish, mars his pale chest. 

He curses, spinning on his heel and going for his table, seizing the wine pitcher so roughly the lit candles nearby shudder from his haste. He pours a full goblet, the deep burgundy trickle causing his mouth to flood with anticipation. He downs it in several gulps, gasping as he rips the cup away and lets it teeter on the table until it spins out, toppling over emptily. He might as well’ve drank from the Great Sand Sea, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He clutches at his stomach, a sharp shooting pain ripping up his insides. He groans, taking a knee as his legs wobble beneath his weight. 

Fuck, he wonders if it was the book, the dust he breathed in. If Ysilla is as bad off as he is. 

Ysilla. Worry spears through him, bringing with it a healthy dose of clarity. She breathed in more than he did, he’s sure of it. He needs to get her to a maester, lest she’s already staggered out of her own room in search of aid. 

He stumbles to his wall, finding the familiar crease in the stone and pushing. The path into the tunnels is one he knows well and he’s lucky he does, his mind fogging over and his pulse thumping in his temples. He’s never entered her chamber this way of course, so he can’t be sure when he comes to an unknown stone archway that he’s where he needs to be. 

He pushes until he feels the door give way, a slice of light pouring out through the crack. He edges it forward a little more, until he can see enough of the room to confirm it’s not a servant’s quarters. 

“Niece?” Aemond coughs, his tone gruffer than what he’s used to. His throat is arid, greedy for a nectar to soothe it. No one answers, but as he strains his hearing, shuffling feet and rustling bottles comes forth, confirming that someone is inside. 

“Ysilla?” He calls out. Another jolt of agony flares through him and he gasps, startling forward, catching himself on the door and accidentally making it swing open. Aemond stumbles through, colliding with an overstuffed armchair and making it screech terribly across the floor. His head shoots up, and he catches sight of his niece across the room. 

Ysilla wouldn’tve noticed if Vhagar herself trampled through the door. 

She’s… much more undone than she was before. Her curly raven locks, once pinned up and out of her face, spring madly from her head, cloaking her face in a dark flowing curtain. She scurries around the room, mouselike, pressing a wet rag to her throat and then to her forehead, and back again. Twenty or so books are open and strewn about on the long table, looking as if they were caught in a sweeping wind. Long gone are her slippers, and the sleeved pink gown she donned before is abandoned in a silky puddle by the door.

Her chemise, a pale yellow thing with capped sleeves, has gone transparent from the perspiration that has broken out all over her body. It clings to every dip, every curve, shadowing her in a gauzy golden haze. Her bronze nipples tent through the delicate fabric and the thatch of hair over her womanhood matches in color-

Aemond snaps his gaze away, cheeks flaming. 

“Ysilla.” He nearly shouts, stare finding his boots and staying there. 

The woman in question spins around, catching sight of her uncle in the corner of her room, the hidden door she had never had enough courage to use ajar behind him. 

“Aemond… you need to leave.” Her words rumble out of her, like there’s a beast in her belly, roaring through her skin and rattling her bones. “Leave!”

He doesn’t move and Ysilla hurls the rag in his direction.  

“Did you not hear me? I said go!” 

Annoyance chips away at Aemond’s embarrassment. He’s trying to help her, insufferable brat. “You don’t command me, Niece.” He responds, still refusing to look at her. 

She scoffs, happy to channel her discomfort into a much more satisfying emotion. “You sneak into my room, catch me in the middle of undress, and still, you act put out.” Ysilla spits, her temper raising with her temperature.

Gods, she’s miserable. The moment she stepped foot in her bedchamber, her dressings were off, and she drank down water until she felt the urge to spew. It’s as if she can’t catch her breath- she’s so dizzy and her uncle’s sudden company has somehow made it worse. Her belly cramps, and she crosses her legs tightly in search of relief. She cries out, the budding sultriness in her flower springing to life, and wetness coats her thighs in a rush. Gasping, she nearly trips as she collides with her bed’s edge. 

“Ysilla, breathe.” Aemond commands harshly.

His voice is so nice. Has it always been that nice? That soothing? Her snatch gives a happy thrum, her clit fluttering at the memory of his strong grip upon her arm. How he had held her steady in her dizziness, how he had towered over her, so imposing, so encapsulating, making sure she was well. Ysilla gasps, stunned at her body’s wanton reaction. 

“You don’t understand. Please, go.” He’s her uncle- her uncle that doesn’t even like her. This cannot- will not happen. 

“I need to get you to a maester. If you’re feeling what I’m feeling, if you’re feeling it worse, fuck, Ysilla, I need to get you help.”

He needs to stop saying her name like that, in that breathy, strained tone of his. He sounds exerted. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like he’s on the cusp of falling apart. It stokes the fire in her blood. 

“The things I want to do to you… the things I want you to do to me.” She whines quietly, terrified that he’ll hear her. 

A subtle knock-knock at her chamber door quiets them both, and they hold their breath. Again, a knock-knock echoes through, and Ysilla curses the diligence of her ladies. Aemond goes for it, stalking across the room in his usual strutting gait. 

Ysilla panics and rushes forward, latching onto his arm and pulling him to a stop. 

“Aemond, Uncle, please, send them away. I don’t want them to see me like this.” She begs, pleading with him through a glistening gaze. 

Aemond readies his denial, sharp and bitter on his tongue but he loses his voice as he looks at her. He keeps his eye on her face, hyper aware of the press of her nearly naked figure against his side. Her heart shaped face is drawn in a frantic frown, terror rich and vast in her eyes. She smells of the Essos oils in her hair and the coconut oil on her skin, and it all makes his head go a bit fuzzy. 

She squeezes his arm, again, a final silent plea. He nods his assent. Ysilla dashes behind him, slipping deeper into the room, blowing out candles until the bedchamber dims into darkness. She voices a small, urging hum, and Aemond takes his cue and yanks the door open. The visitor, a girl no older than three-and-ten, blinks at him in surprise.

“My Prince,” she curtsies hurriedly and Aemond nods his acceptance, but his face must spell out his impatience because she speaks so fast, her words stumble over one another. “I thought I heard the Princess in distress. I was coming to check on her, to make sure she’s alright.” 

Her eyes dart over his shoulder, her head bobbing to the side as if she were trying to peek in. Aemond moves with her, raising his arm so that it rests above him in the doorway, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. The maid swallows, dropping her eyes in apology.

“The Princess isn’t well- very sick. Keep the other maids away, guards too. She wishes for solitude.” He’s a pushover and he hates it. One look of Ysilla’s beseeching gaze and Aemond gave like a straw bridge. 

“Should I send a maester?” The maid asks worriedly, making to exit down the hall and find help. 

“No!” The young girl jolts to a stop, her eyes wide with alarm. Aemond curses himself, and he speaks softer through gritted teeth. “No, she just needs rest. I’ll see to her, since I’ve already been exposed. I’ll call upon you if I change my mind.” 

The maid eyes him cautiously, but she finally relents, dropping into a curtsy before hurrying down the wall. 

On the other side of the door, Ysilla feels as if she’s going fucking mental. 

She’s balled up her bedsheet, and wedged it between her quivering thighs. The fabric pressed so intimately against her cunt is unforgiving, soaking up her syrupy slick and giving little in return. But the friction along her clit makes her gasp, and it urges on her rutting in dreams of a release so sweet, she could cry. 

The low droll of Aemond’s voice slithers into her ears from across the room, her mind warping the words until he’s whispering to her. What a good girl she is, how desperate she is to find her pleasure, how angry he is that she’s fucking her bed and not him. Ysilla’s eyes shoot open as she hears the squeak of her door, her hopes crashing as she realizes he’s pulling it shut while he’s behind it, not in front of it. 

She collapses forward onto all fours, fisting the furs blanketing her duvet, smothering a broken moan into the softness. Her eyes peel open, her glassy gaze landing on her bedside table. Aemond’s handkerchief is still there- right where she’d left it- the emerald hue of it glowing midnight green in the candlelight. Suddenly, it’s in her grasp, even though she cannot recall moving for it. She presses it to her nose and draws in a shaky breath.

Oh, oh, it smells of him. Citrus and smoke and she’s drooling for it, mouth watering so quickly she has to swallow it down so she doesn’t slobber. She swings her hips forward before rolling backwards, dredging the sodden sheet through her sex. It’s so wet now, the smoothness almost feels like skin. And that’s too much for Ysilla- she can hear him, smell him, but the thought of Aemond in between her legs?- it sends her plummeting off the cliff of desire, her core pulsing vibrantly, pleasure buzzing through her whole body. 

A phantom hand finds the same spot where Aemond had handled her earlier, and rips her upwards. She’s pulled to her knees, still atop the bed, as someone presses up behind her. Ysilla peers over her shoulder, the handsome face of her uncle a welcome sight. He is an apparition appearing from her thoughts alone. He doesn’t even seem real.

Her thoughts are askew with an edge of delirium, her insides purring at his sudden return. Ghoul or not, she will not squander such a golden opportunity. She fists the front of his shirt and drags him in, their mouths joining together harshly. Aemond would be lying if he said he didn’t kiss her back at once. It gets intense. Fast. 

Ysilla melts into his chest, whimpering into his mouth while his grip goes from her elbow to sliding around her, dragging her in closer by her waist. His tongue finds her teeth and she opens up slowly, letting him feel the threat of them, as he slithers in and their tongues touch-

Aemond tears himself away, stumbling backwards, heaving for air and looking at her with a wide eye. Ysilla whimpers, her fantasy failing her, and she slips off the side of the bed to settle on wobbly legs. Her palm goes to press at her abdomen, hoping that the pressure will relieve the burrowing ache. 

They stare at one another, wild animals on alert, a standoff that neither Prince nor Princess can bear to lose. 

Ysilla’s gaze falls to his lips, and Aemond’s to hers. She bites her lip, sucking the meat into her wet, warm mouth before releasing it with a lurid pop. Aemond groans, an audible surrender. 

To Hell with it all. 

They crash into each other like lightning, hands mapping anywhere they can reach. Her body blooms for him, like a flower under the summer sky. He steers them back towards her bed, Ysilla blindly clamoring atop to sit while he stands tall. His touch on her skin has her thighs spreading, opening up and offering herself for his taking. 

“I can’t stop, I can't stop.” He presses kiss after kiss to her mouth, her closeness doing nothing to extinguish the burning in his blood. If anything, she makes it worse, the inferno raging deeper and into his very soul. 

“I don’t want you to stop.” She whines, snaking their legs together and threading her fingers through that beautiful hair of his.

She’ll enjoy this- him. Every inch of Aemond belongs to her tonight. She thinks of drawing the blade from his hip, and carving her name into his chest. Mark him up nice and neat, streak his pale powdery skin red with her desire. Whatever is happening to her- to them- summons something animalistic, something primitive out of the dark parts of their hearts. All tender fantasies of her future husband treating her with such a tame touch are cleaved in half and fed to the hounds. In their place, filthy, feral desires fester and warp her mind until one lone ambition remains: him inside of her, for the rest of their days.

“We don’t even like each other.” Aemond growls between their parting lips. Ysilla slides her way into his mouth, flirting with the sharpness of his teeth, suckling the sweetness out of his tongue. 

“We can’t stand each other.” She affirms, breaking their lips apart, her hands already under his tunic, letting her palms drink in the ridges and rises of his impressive physique. She kisses along the strong edge of his jaw, curling her fingers into clenched claws and rips her way down his chest. Not a blade, but he bloodys all the same. Aemond snarls, catching her by the throat so brutally her teeth clack. His eye pierces through her like a blade, and Ysilla relishes in the pain, his touch upon her skin soothing away her ache.

“Bitch.” He hisses, what little familial respect they harbor for each other crushed under lust and loathing. 

“Prick.” She bites back, grazing at his lip to send her point home. Gods, he’s so close but not close enough. 

Ysilla pulls his hand between her legs- the one not choking her out- and Aemond cups her sex readily. Her heat damn near blisters him, and he grinds his palm into her slick folds, coating his hand in her arousal.

“Yessss…” She hisses in sated victory, her blood pumping thick as her body finally gets a taste of what it's been craving. Even one finger of his is nearly too much as he slips it in, the stretch a tepid burn that only gives way as her body adjusts. 

“You need to be able to take more than that if you want to take my cock, Princess.” He whispers at her lips, already imagining how tight she’ll be around him. He won’t insult her by asking- he knows he’ll be her first. And the thought of that… of taking her maidenhead for his own, being the first man to be inside of her, searing himself into her memory that even time won’t take away… Aemond has to fucking focus. 

“I can take it.” She assures him, head nodding wildly, her thighs splitting open even further. His grip has loosened around her throat, and he strokes where it’s sure to bruise, trying to not grow hot at the vision of his mark marring her body. He hums his approval, letting his middle finger glide forward, her essence enough to ease the way into her hole. 

He scissors them, back and forth, working her pure channel open gently, basking in the silky tensing of her walls. The pained scrunch in her brow has disappeared, giving way to the pleasured furrow of her forehead, her hips beginning to roll up and meet his digits. She grabs ahold of his wrist, stopping his motions, and she pins him in place with a lavender leer. 

“Take off your clothes.” It’s a command, no matter if it is spoken in her soft honeyed voice. 

Aemond loses his shirt and unlatches his belt, tossing it and his sword onto the bench at the foot of her bed. His breeches slide off with Ysilla’s help, her eager fingers untying his laces. He kicks off his boots, not realizing how confined he felt with so many layers hindering him until his skin is bared. She moves backwards, further up her bed and he crawls after her, prowling like a wildcat, covetous sight trained on her. 

The little minx yanks on his elbow, and he crashes into the mattress and suddenly, he’s the one on his back. Aemond lets Ysilla pin his wrists on either side of him, her victorious smile just as comely as the rest of her. Her breasts pillow against his chest, and dammit, she needs to hover above him so he can catch one in his mouth. But she denies him that treat, squeezing his wrists to focus his attention.  

“Don’t move. That’s an order.” His cock twitches from where it’s pressed to her thigh and her lips twitch at his reaction. She kisses his throat, right at the base where his collar bones meet, and her whisper vibrates through to his heart. “Good boy.” 

Ysilla takes her time, voyaging down his body, a traveler on a sought after journey. Her tongue flicks out over each of his nipples, teasing the perked flesh with little swipes of her slick pink muscle. She traces her nose over the jutting contour of his rib cage, counts his muscled abdominals until there’s numbers on both hands, and kisses the scar on his hip, long healed from a tumble off of Vhagar’s saddle when he was just a boy. The fine silver hair trailing down his groin is wispy and it tickles her chin. 

Aemond’s cock is intimidating, even more so as she takes a lick from root to tip. The journey is longer than first guessed, and she thinks he grows even bigger after the swipe of her tongue, the jut of him swaying in the air as more blood thickens him out. The fact that all of that will be stuffed inside of her makes Ysilla shiver, her cunt yearning for the press of his long fingers. 

Fervently, she swallows him down until he greets the back of her throat. The salt of him is jarring but not unwelcome- nothing can be unwelcome about this as Aemond sucks in a ragged breath and fists the sheets. The muscles in his arms strain and bulge, a sight that only incentivises her to keep sucking. 

He’s a thick, velvety weight on her tongue, her mouth full even with inches still to spare. Her drool dribbles down his staff, and her hand wraps around what she cannot swallow. She glides her lips over his length rhythmically, jacking her fist over the rest of him, retreating with a pop to spit on his tip for more lubrication. 

Ysilla has always been one for sweets but this? This is a taste she can find herself hankering for. She suckles on the head, dipping her tongue into his slit, shivering at the sharp burst of his spunk on her taste buds. She dives forward again, gagging around him, the intrusion into her throat a strange feeling she forces herself to adjust to. 

Aemond keeps her hair pushed behind her ears, his thumbs stroking her temples as he fights to not thrust down her throat until she chokes. A familiar tightening in his sack has him voicing the exact opposite of what he wants her to do. 

“Silla, pull off.” She’s on her fucking knees for him, he doesn’t need to defile her like this. Doesn’t need to treat her like a common whore and make her stomach his load. 

She ignores him and he says her name again, more firmly, but she’s such a rebel, swallowing around him once more, letting him feel the constricting vice of her throat. He can’t take it- he gives her what she wishes. 

“Silla, qrugh.” Cursing, he keeps her head still as he empties his balls and fills her belly. He hooks his thumb into her mouth, breathless, breaking the suction and pulls out of her throat. Ysilla coughs, gulping down air and saliva before she gifts him a shiny smile. Aemond scoffs. Unbelievable. 

“You’re a nasty little thing.” He pants out, a compliment he means wholeheartedly. 

She chuckles hoarsely, and her lips are still gooey with his seed. 

“You love it.” 

The urge to fuck her returns tenfold and he sits up, hand at the back of her neck to wrench her up to his mouth. She whimpers, swapping his cum between their tongues. It’s sticky and vulgar and overwhelmingly erotic. 

Ysilla stumbles to her feet, pulling Aemond with her, leading him to the lounge area in front of her hearth. Their mouths remain intertwined, unwilling to part even for a moment. She pushes him into an armchair, the old velvet soft beneath him before following him down, and settling swiftly in his lap. 

“Off.” He demands but he can’t help but be an active partner in his niece’s undressing. Her hands dash to the hem of her shift, gathering up the skirt hurriedly. His hands glide up her body, caressing the naked skin that is revealed to him as she pulls it up and over her head. She’s so sleek with sweat she looks polished- an apple ready to eat, something to be devoured. 

“What do you want me to do?” Aemond asks, not for lack of knowledge but to see how far she wishes to take this. 

Ysilla grins, ducking down and drawing him into an eager kiss. “Whatever you want to do. Just make me feel good.”

Loyal as a hound, Aemond’s mouth goes to her breast, her posture perfectly presenting her chest to him. He takes in as much as he can, greedily sucking and licking until her tender flesh blushes a bright sticky red. He rolls her pert nipple between his teeth, tugging just enough to make Ysilla gasp. She makes pretty sounds- he can’t wait to hear what she’ll sound like as he fucks her stupid. He switches to her other breast, feasting on her supple bosom like he’ll never eat again. His cock bobs upright, his body needing no time to rest, ready and racing to experience the delicacy of her cunt. 

The Princess whines, combing through his tousled hair, tugging on it like she would horse reins. Such a commanding queen she’ll be. 

“Need it, need you.” She whines, swinging her hips lower, searching for the weeping start of his prick.

“Easy, Ysilla.” He warns, even as his thoughts scream to grip her hips and teach her how to ride him, but she’s such a stubborn little dragon and her thoughts may be just as commanding as his. She leans back, reaching between her thighs until she brushes at the head of his cock and steadies him. Lining herself up, she sinks torturously slow, downdowndown every inch until she sits upon his thighs. 

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh… my.”

They both breathe out, blinking away black stars that dance in their vision, the pollen tapping every nerve ending in each of them until they sputter and fizz uncontrollably. 

The discomfort fades for her faster than she’d thought, transforming into a pleasant fullness that she can feel heavily behind her stomach. Ysilla searches for what feels the best, moving faster and faster on Aemond’s lap as each new shift in position guides her further towards the liquid heat in her loins. She settles on swiveling up before dropping back down onto him, riding him like she’s saddled. Hot streaks of exhilaration engulf her insides, every pass of his cock adding to the ecstasy swirling inside of her. The stretch of him, not just from length but from width as well, itches the scratch left behind after the library disaster. Even as she tried to bring herself to pleasure earlier, there was something missing from her peak. Something that’s building, stacking, soaring fast in her belly. That final crest of a wave, ready to crash and drown anything that’s not pure, hot ecstasy-

Before it collapses back into a tidepool. The pitted feeling of falling through the air as you miss a step in the dark settles over her lust, and she jerks. Ysilla’s eyes snap open, her pupils blown so wide Aemond can barely see a ring of amethyst around them. She whines, bouncing on his cock faster, chasing a release she’s not sure she can find. 

“Qybor, kostilus. I can’t cum like this.” Almost to make her point, she circles her hips up, leaving only the head of him kissed by her tight hole before dropping down and taking every inch of him at once. Aemond holds strong to his stamina, refusing to empty inside of his niece so quickly. 

A shame though, he was so enjoying the view. He winds his arms around her hips, keeping her nice and close as he slips them off of the chair and onto the floor. Several furs keep them cushioned from the chilly stones below and he drags a pillow off the loveseat to ease her up on. 

“Turn for me, sweetling.” He maneuvers her onto her belly, his grip finding her hips and shepherding her into position onto her hands and knees.

Aemond stands corrected- this view is nice. The burnished copper of Ysilla’s coloring clashes deliciously with his own pale complexion. Her backside is plush and hefty, budding from her shape in a way that invites his attention. 

Whatever you want to do. Aemond slaps her right cheek, reveling in her sharp gasp, and the way a perfect red welt appears on the smooth skin. He lands another, on the opposite globe, hypnotized by the jiggle of the flesh. He strikes her again because he can, not ignorant to the way his rough treatment has her absolutely dripping down her thighs. Another for good measure, satisfied in the brilliant bruising he’s left behind.

Just make me feel good. He strokes his cock, still slick from her spit and her honey, and lines his head up at her opening. She arches up, dipping down onto her arms, raising her bottom to prop against him. The angle is too good not to take advantage of. Aemond spits, his foamy white saliva dripping viscously into her tight hole and he pushes it inside of her as he strokes forward. 

Ysilla voices her approval of the new position, wiggling back against him as he goes as deep as she’ll take him. He builds a tempo, in out in out, finding a pace that makes her clench impossibly tighter. His sack slaps intensely at her clit, drawing punchy little gasps out of her that he wants to devour. He digs his fingertips into her hips, thumbs fanning out to stroke the luscious bounce of her bottom. He goes to pause, planning on switching his angle so that some strain can be relieved from her spine.

“No! Aemond, stay there, right there, yessss.” Ysilla flails her hand behind her blindly, not stopping her begging until she smacks into his naked torso. Aemond stares down at his niece in confusion, catching sight of her profile, her eyes trained intently on something that is certainly not him. 

He looks up, and catches his reflection staring back at him from across the room. The giant wardrobe mirror is tucked into the corner, and the Gods are good because they're directly in its path, their coupling on display for their viewing pleasure. 

Aemond drops down, blanketing Ysilla with his body, watching his Other do the same. “Oh, I see.” He chuckles, driving into her slowly. 

It’s almost as if they’re watching someone else- surely the couple in the reflection cannot be them. No poise, no manners, not even an ounce of trepidation to be seen. In place, disheveled, howling, rutting animals grind against each other, naked and insouciant in search of their gratification. Aemond enjoys the portrait they make, admiring it so much that he stalls in his thrusting and stills completely inside of Ysilla.

“Aemond, come on.” She whines, moving impatiently against him. “Nākostōbā taoba, making me do all the work.” She mewls, riding down and humping his cock.

Aemond’s trance snaps, and he secures a fistful of her hair, forcing his niece into a backbend. He ignores her yelp, smacking her thigh to halt her gyrations. His lips go to her ear, and this close to her throat, he can hear the lifeblood rushing through her arteries. 

“What was that?” 

“I just thought, unhhh… just thought you would be a bit more… involved in this.” She giggles, fucking laughs even as her bones creak for mercy. It’s harder to breathe this way, and the lightheadedness spurs on her mouth. “Thought you wanted this as badly as I did.” 

Little fucking brat. He laughs too, because it’s funny. Funny because of how right she is- he should be more involved in this, a bit more committed. Ysilla stills at the sound, the audible swallow of her gulping nervously has his cock jumping in interest. Her fear is just as tasty as her willingness. 

He crosses both arms over her chest, his forearms thick bars over her throat and he forces her up, so he can fuck his cock into her belly and watch her tits bounce as he does so. Ysilla’s face contorts into a euphoric mask, her eyes rolling back into her head and her pouty mouth hanging open in slack-jawed pleasure as he pounds her ruthlessly.

“Something on your mind, Princess?” She doesn’t respond, her brain being fucked straight out of her head.

Aemond slaps her face, the sharp crack bringing her back to the present, and back to Aemond fucking her like he owns her. She moans again, her pussy spouting a wash of arousal around his bullying cock. He catches her by the jaw, digging his thumb into the bone and rubbing at the struck flesh of her cheek. His lips are wet at her ear, and she watches him through glossy eyes as he smirks, and bites down on her ear lobe. 

“Answer me, Ysilla.” His niece shouts but Aemond has no sympathy for her. If she can dish it out, she can take it. “You did want this? Or you do want this?” 

He’s searching for the willpower to pull out of her, and put her over his knee to send home his message when she babbles out her acquiescence.

“I want this! Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao!” Valyrian braids through her words without forethought, her focus aimed on Aemond’s cockhead tapping at her womb. 

“Sȳz riña.” She preens at the endearment, throwing her hips back against him frantically. A beautiful toothy smile has broken brightly over her face, Aemond catching sight of it in the mirror before he shatters the grin, nailing a spongy spot inside of her that makes her eyes cross.

“Sooo good, so fucking big, feel you right here.” She tries to gesture to her throat but she ends up digging her nails into the arms caging her in, hanging off of him desperately. Her poor battered cunny is still somehow famished for more, the squelch of his cock moving in and out of her a licentious lyric that lulls both lover’s into a trance. Aemond pulls her even tighter to his front, however possible that may be, and plunges repeatedly into her snug cunt, beating the walls of her swollen so she won’t be able to walk without thinking of him first. 

As if they miss each other, Aemond’s and Ysilla’s eyes meet in the mirror, violent violet and silver steel clashing and melding into one harmonious color. 

Their stares fall lower, where they meet over and over and over again so brutally. Her thighs glisten in the candlelight, her flesh rippling with every thwack of Aemond’s hips. It’s so dirty, so primal, so right. He’s going so deep, he could put a babe in her belly. Just a whisper of that fantasy, of her giving him a child, letting him have such a claim on her breaks her apart. 

She screams, Aemond’s palm smacking over her mouth as her thighs give out, and she sags to the floor. He follows her down, draping himself over her back, still fucking her in earnest, chasing his own blissful breaking point. He finds it, after three more punishing thrusts. But even as his balls release and he feels Ysilla grow slicker as his seed coats her insides until it leaks a white ring from where they’re joined, his cock is still hard and heaving from his body. 

He pulls out and Ysilla sobs at the loss, scrambling on the furs, but her cries disintegrate as she’s flipped onto her back. Aemond slings both of her legs into the crooks of his elbows, yanking her forward so he’s flush to her thighs, her pussy a pretty little jewel winking up at him. His seed oozes a pearl stream from her fluttering hole and he swipes it up with his cock, and it’s as slippery as oil as he bottoms out inside of her. 

Fucking Seven, she’s unreal. “Taking every inch of me… like you were made for this, ñuha pretty līve.”

“Made for you, I think.” Ysilla gasps, ripping at the furs, trying to anchor herself down so she doesn’t burst apart. 

Aemond nips at her chin, doing nothing to quell the smug smile on his niece’s lips. “Careful.” 

Careful for what? She wants to question so badly. Careful on what she voices aloud, even as they speak it in both of their minds? Careful on implying that her cunt will not weep for him anytime he passes by her? Careful to claim that the only place he should be after tonight is right where he is now?

But it is not the time for words of the heart, so she digs her nails into Aemond’s broad shoulders in a gnaw and throws her head back. 

“I’m right there. Yes, Aemond, yes!” 

Oh, is she now? Aemond grins, slowing his thrusts to purposefully watch her eyes shoot open incredulously. 

“Don’t stop! Fuck, why are you stopping?” Ysilla growls, circling her hips up against him, doing her best to fuck him herself. So desperate, so full of unadulterated desire, she cannot find it within herself to be appalled at her own salaciousness. 

“I thought you couldn’t cum like this?” Aemond mocks and oh, it’s fun to play with her. 

Her decorum deserting her, Ysilla lets anger lead her movements and her hand flies at his face to strike him. He catches her easily, still smiling that infuriatingly sexy smirk, and drops a modest kiss on the heel of her palm. She melts, her love bitten lips pouting dramatically. 

“Aemond, ñuha zaldrīzes, please.” He likes when she begs- she can see it in the way his jaw ticks, how his skin flushes, as if his body alights in her prayers to him. Aemond won’t acknowledge it, but somewhere deep in his chest, she’s already wormed her way in. He splits her in half, leaning over her until he can rest his palms by her shoulders, her legs still draped over each of his arms. 

He drags himself out, inch after inch, agonizingly slow before he lurches forward, making her pussy swallow his entire cock. He groans, finding himself burrowed in the valley of her breasts, letting his hips pummel her in an amorous hammering. 

“Scream for me, love.” 

She doesn’t need to be told twice- her lungs finding the air to blurt out,

“Aemond, fucking hell!”

Ysilla goes limp, her thighs butterflying open, giving him full reign to dictate her pleasure. She squirts, a wet spray soaking his abdomen that puddles beneath them. Her whole body heaves, appearing almost pained in euphoria. She’s a holy vision. 

Fuck, he’s losing his mind. “Do that again.” He demands. 

He cups the back of her neck, propping her up until they’re eye to eye. Ysilla’s are lidded, exhaustion heavy weights upon them, but she manages a tiny nod and curves herself upwards for his continued onslaught. 

Completely at his mercy, his to control, Aemond takes full advantage. Dragging her down by the back of her neck, he plunges himself brutally inside of her cunt over and over, again and again. She lies there and takes it like a good girl, witnessing her uncle destroy her in the name of desire until he grants her mercy, and he strokes her pearl with the sharp edge of his thumbnail and she blacks out.

He chokes, sparks shimmering in and out of his vision as she convulses around his cock. He pulls out of her, spurting striping streaks of white onto her belly. He cums so hard, it splashes over her tits and even pools in the hollow of her throat. 

Ysilla moans, coming to, rubbing her fingers over the soiled skin of her stomach, blending their releases together in a filthy film that coats her fingers. She pops one in her mouth, and relishes in the blossoming light brightening once more in Aemond’s lone eye.  

And just as quickly as their relief had come, the satisfaction fizzles out and ravenous blood boiling need takes root once more. 

They groan, barely taking time to catch their breath before they’re on each other again. Their mouths are sloppy, leaving trails of saliva down to their chins and along their throats. Ysilla finds a spot she likes over his pulse point and suckles, her left leg wound tight over his hip, rubbing herself off along the unyielding ridge of the bone. Aemond kneads her arse, an apology for his abuse, rolling the voluptuous flesh in his calloused grip all the while dipping his fingertips in and out of her weeping slit.

They tangle in each other’s webs, so caught up in salt and sin that they don’t realize they’re off the rugs and across the floor until the frigid chill rushes through them. 

It’s uncomfortable- their knees will be bruised by the morrow, scrapes along their backs will sting while in the bath, and a crick won’t leave Ysilla’s neck for half a moon. But the stone cools their overheated skin and together is where they still want to be, so all else falls to the wayside. 

Their mouths have drawn back to each other, Ysilla’s tongue dancing over his back teeth and the roof of his mouth, mapping a place she can only dream of revisiting after tonight. Aemond pulls away and Ysilla’s teeth in his bottom lip scold him for his interruption. He smirks, giving her a departing peck to soothe her sour mood. 

“I need to meet her properly, Princess.” He says with an uncharacteristic amount of mirth, leaning her back as he dips down to her lower body. 

Ysilla is bone-weary and dehydrated, but even she knows that doesn’t make any sense. She cocks her head in confusion, watching him as he settles on his front, his face so close to her center, the hot damp of his breath makes her quiver. 

“Who is her- oh! Oh, Seven Hells, Aemond, fucking please-”

Aemond eats her with a fervor she’s never known, a man starved before being offered the bounty between her legs. Shrill gasps and pitched moans are sounds she thought herself incapable of making, but they sing aloud, her walls stowing them in their stones. 

Her thighs are tight around his head, but the cushioned flesh does nothing to block out her calls of ecstasy. Music to his fucking ears, he slurps, undignified and ravenous, the parched dryness in his throat at last quenched as he swallows down Ysilla’s honey. No wine, no water could ever satisfy him like she does. 

She thrashes about on the unforgiving stone, her nails clawing at the ground so harshly that they chip. He’s sending her into madness, unrelenting in his licking even as she kicks at his sides. She’s too sensitive, it’s too much. 

And then, the realization that he is not only lapping up her arousal but his as well, zings up her spine and has her gushing all over his tongue. 

She can’t control herself anymore. Her worries have faded into nothingness as the night has gone on, as she had bounced on Aemond’s cock and came into his mouth and he into hers, and they’ve drank down one another’s spit and sweat and sex. She’s whimpering and whining, squeaky sounds with no words, only what her voice is capable of making. The pathetic, needy gasps draw Aemond’s attention immediately. He rises, hovering over her, pulling up her knees to frame his hips. He slides himself home, not being able to breathe until he bottoms out, fully planted inside of her. 

She whimpers louder as he faces her, the effects of the potion hitting their last peak. 

“Let me see you. Let me see you.” Ysilla begs, distraught that there’s still something keeping them apart. They should be bare- exposed and raw and free. They’ve already come this far- it’s all or nothing. 

Even with her few words, Aemond understands her completely. He doesn’t give himself time to think, time to let self-consciousness tear and twist him up as he rips off his eyepatch. 

Ysilla sees him- truly sees him- his scar, the jagged split of his brow, the brilliant blue sapphire twinkling a wink at her as it glitters in the low light.  

“You’re so handsome.” And then she cries- big, fat, bulbous tears that spill from the corner of her eyes and streak over her cheeks. 

Aemond wants to comfort her, shush her and stroke her hair. Do all the things he should do with a lover that’s not only a lover, but his kin as well. A sweet girl he remembers always drawing for him on his nameday, sketching pictures of fearsome dragons. And as the years dragged on, they continued to evolve, growing fiercer and more detailed and she would always say the same thing when she gifted it to him: “this year, Uncle, this year you’ll find your match, I know it.” And here he is now, the Queen of the Skies his dragon, as if Ysilla herself had manifested it to life. 

But that was so long ago now that it seems a different lifetime, and Aemond realizes he doesn’t really know his niece. He doesn’t know what she likes and what she doesn’t, and that worries him more than he’s comfortable with. 

“Can’t... take… much… more.” She gulps down a breath after each word. Aemond’s thrusts push so deeply into her guts, that there now seems to be no room for her lungs. He hums, the vibration tickling where they’re pressed chest-to-chest. 

“Yes you can, jorrāelagon. You’ve done so well, taken everything I’ve given you. You’ve made me so proud, sweet girl.” He may not know how to soothe her, but Aemond has a knack for telling someone just what they need to hear. Only with Ysilla, he speaks no falsehoods. He whispers his admiration in her ear, keeping her close by a hand cupping her jaw, forcing her to listen to all of his praises, all the while snaking his hand down between them to pinch at her pearl. 

Small hiccuping gasps couple with her agonized moans; the pride, the pleasure, the pain, all of it an elixir he drinks down his throat as she connects their lips once more, a soft tremble in hers that he soothes with his tongue. They cum together, less intense than their lasts, but still just as satisfying. Aemond spills inside of her, her silken walls milking him for every drop in his fucked out cock. He moans, long and loud into her neck and she peppers his cheek with kisses, her breathing heavy. He collapses, further down on her body so he doesn’t constrict her chest. 

The evening tempo of her breathing beneath his cheek has Aemond focusing on his own, and the two spent lovers take a much needed break to collect themselves. 

Tremors still shake her thighs, the creamy fawn flesh jumping from overstimulation. Aemond presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, a sweet assurance of relief hopefully not far behind their releases. She pets his hair, no energy left to even raise her head. He rises back up to look upon her face, wiping away a stray tear from her lash. She nuzzles into his hand and it all finally feels like enough. 

Until it isn’t. Until the lust fills them up once more, water in a pail, and it overflows and sloshes thickly in their bellies until they’re sick with it. 

Ysilla sobs brokenly, exhausted and at her wits end. Aemond shudders for breath, the pain in his stones throbbing incessantly for relief. They’ll lose their minds if they keep going- chasing an endgame that is unattainable. 

Aemond digs deep, attempting to collect himself and become the man Ysilla needs him to be. He tucks her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles behind him, and rises up to his feet with her draped around him. 

He carries them both on shaky legs, drifting along the wall for support until he rounds the corner to her privy. The golden casted tub is filled halfway with what was once steaming, boiled water but has now grown cool. He swings a leg over the edge, trying not to collapse, Ysilla still wrapped around him like a second skin and settles them both into the pool.

The Princess crumbles, falling to pieces as they’re engulfed by the water. Her heartbeat still thrums from between her legs, her nipples scraping at Aemond’s chest for attention, as if he had not lauded them with his tongue until they were bruised and sore. The undying urge to mate is at her throat, its teeth gnashing at her veins and claws piercing her hips, ushering her to fucklicksuckfuck again and again and again until her brain would be lost to the lust. 

But her body is done- every muscle expended, every limb weighted, every bone crushed to nothing but dust. All she can manage to do is whimper softly from where she’s pressed into her lover’s chest. 

Aemond cups her face, raising her up so that he can look upon her. She’s a sculpture of desire: lips puffy and rubbed red, cheeks flushed, eyes teared and heavy. He did this to her. 

“One more, love. One more and then we’ll stop.” He promises, the need too heavy in his cock, thickening his member until it lies straight up against her stomach. 

She nods stiffly, spreading her thighs until they mirror his hips. He taps the head of himself at her entrance, a gentleman waiting for the lady to make the first move. He doesn’t have to wait long, Ysilla pushing forward and taking his cock in full until their bellies rest flat against each other. She’s as tight as the first time, and the stretch is not lost on her either, her groan equal parts pained and pleased. 

Aemond’s hands are worshiping as he trails down the elegant column of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the bloom of her breast, until he finds the small of her back and hugs her tight. They just dance, slow and steady, rolling their hips together, the water shifting with their union. They rest their foreheads against one another, eyes closed and noses brushing.

Aemond isn’t sure who leans in first- he thinks it may have been him but Ysilla will say the opposite. Their mouths slot together, innocent and vestal and it’s so much less eager than the times before, but it makes it all the more intimate. He moans weakly and she coos, her hands coming to cradle his face, the breaths they share one in the same. Somehow, it’s as if this exposes them more to each other than being joined so sensuously. A simple press of their lips, doing more for them than a thousand slippery tongues or nimble fingers. 

A gentle wash of pleasure, one that raises goosebumps along their arms and makes their breaths hitch is all that they get and then suddenly, finally, the call for gratification quiets and all prince and princess are left with is the drip of water off the edge of the tub. Ysilla sighs heavily, sounding every bit thankful and spent. Aemond takes a breath that feels like his first, and he sags against the resistance at his back. 

Everything is still, weariness seeping into them like ink to parchment. Aemond thinks he could doze off right here, Ysilla a comforting weight atop of him, his manhood still nestled in her center. 

Her palm is gentle on his cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth in a tender sweep that stirs his eyelid to open. She’s beautiful, even in her enervation and he lets himself savor this moment. The world has paused for them, and it will not go on unless they will it to. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.” She whispers, afraid to shatter the silence. A final brush of her thumb over his bottom lip, softer than a feather, is her parting gift. She unseats herself from him, and even if she’s the one who wants to leave, her cunt does not agree. Her walls grasp at every ridge and vein of his prick, a caress goodbye until at last they part. Ysilla floats backwards, away from him, and the fact that he has an urge to catch her wrist and pull her back until she’s closer than skin terrifies him. 

She curls into a ball at the other side of the tub, an ocean away, and brings her knees to tuck under her chin. She stares at him unflinchingly and he stares back, tiredness glazing over them both. 

Aemond sighs deeply. One of them has to be the first to depart and since his quarters are on the other side of the castle, he begrudges that it is him who will have to make an exit. 

“I should go.”

Ysilla’s face is serene, every drop of willpower left in her battling the urge to slip beneath the water and fade away. She nods, a wooden lift and fall of her head.

“I think that’s best… I’m sure the whole castle knows what we’ve been up to.” 

Why her response stings, he won’t let himself dwell over. Nothing’s changed (everything has changed), they will soon return to their routines and carry on with their lives (neither one of them will be able to think of anything else but each other for the better part of a year). He rises from the water, stepping out and over the tub, reaching for a linen to at least try and make himself decent. 

It is she who catches his wrist in reality, her thin fingers looping over the bones until she surrounds him like shackles. 

“But… maybe…” Her eyes traverse their way down his body, revisiting the spots she had tasted, had bitten, had sucked. Her tongue snakes out, wetting her swollen flesh and he has to think of the night he lost his eye, the stench of manure, anything to keep the blood from rushing to his spent cock. 

“Gods, Aemond, what’s one more bad decision tonight?” She’s not looking for an answer, not out loud, looking deep into his eye instead. Searching for an understanding she’s not sure is there. 

“Stay? With me?” Even after all the carnal ways they’ve explored each other, it’s those three pleading words that send Ysilla’s heart galloping in her chest as she voices them. 

He stares at her, unanswering and still, and dread creeps up her neck in a cold chill. 

“Your chamber is a mess. We both need to eat and drink something other than wine. Not to mention sleep.” Aemond states stonily. Ysilla swallows passed the knot in her throat, sinking deeper into the water. Her fingers release him and she drifts away, in both body and mind. 

Aemond catches her fingers, and he threads his through hers like they’re meant to be there. He rubs small, soothing circles about her knuckles, and he brings them to his mouth on pure instinct, and presses a chaste kiss to the bones. 

“So I best bring you to my room then, to make sure all of that happens, no?” 

Aemond smiles first before Ysilla returns it widely. Hers is the sun appearing from behind a cloud, warmth bathing him, and welcoming him home. 

.

.

.

qrugh . shit

Qybor, kostilus . Uncle, please

Nākostōbā taoba . Weak boy

(I want this!) Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao! . This, this, this, fuck, I do I do. I want you, Gods, I want you!

Sȳz riña . Good girl

ñuha pretty līve . my pretty whore 

ñuha zaldrīzes . my dragon

Jorrāelagon . love

[charliedawn]

how about a reader who just loves making their vampire beloved smile? Reader loves making them happy, and just really wants to see them smile and have them laugh and. I just want to make them happy 🥹💜

(There has been a lot of controversy around the characters of Bert and Joan. I will make it clear right now. When I write about them, I will not associate them with the group they were a part of in the movie for obvious comfort reasons. With that said, enjoy. ☺️)

Remmick

You see Remmick standing outside. He seems far away—in a far away land of wonder and love. You smile to yourself. Your smile is sad for you know what that look means and where he is…In a world of green, love and family long gone. But, there is one thing that remains. You step closer to him, flashing him an expectant smile. “Hey Remmick…since you’re the boss of smooth moves, how about you show me that Irish tap dance of yours? I wanna see if I can learn a thing or two.”

He snaps out of his daze and eyes you for a long moment, that sharp grin you grew to know and love creeping onto his face—like he’s sizing up a worthy challenge.

“Why not?” he agrees with a twinkle in his eye, “Could be fun.”

He lifts his foot, tapping out a quick, rhythmic beat on the ground—sharp, precise, almost hypnotic. The sound echoes, crisp and alive. It sends dust and tiny rocks flying…

“Come on then. Try to follow, lass/lassie.”

You mimic his steps, a little clumsy at first, but catching the rhythm. He watches you intently and nods in approval.

“Not bad,” he admits with a rare chuckle. “Ye might just survive the next round of this dance.”

He offers you a hand, fingers cold and yet so sure. “Keep up, or I’ll have ye dance for eternity.”

You laugh, grabbing his hand, before looking into his eyes and catching a mix of pride and joy in his gaze. He leads you into another dance and you realise that even if you had to dance for all eternity…you wouldn’t mind. As long as your Remmick keeps smiling at you the way he does when he dances alongside you.

Mary

You find Mary sitting quietly in the corner, her usual stoic expression firmly in place. But not for long. You plop down beside her with a small, knowing grin.

“Hey, Mary,” you call her softly, “I bet you’ve got a smile in there somewhere. What do you say I help you find it?”

She glances at you sideways, unimpressed. “Good luck.”

Your grin widens. You then raise a finger for dramatic effect as you start searching for something in your bag. You then pull out a kitten out of nowhere and just settle it on her lap. The kitten looks up at her with big eyes and the tiniest mew escapes it.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

You lean in closer, encouraging. “See? Even the toughest can’t resist that one.”

Mary’s lips curl into a tentative, shy smile—the kind that’s been waiting for permission to come out.

You smile back warmly. “There it is. That wonderful smile. Told you I would help you find it.”

She shakes her head, almost embarrassed, but you catch the warmth shining behind her eyes. Sometimes, all it takes is a little patience and a little silliness.

Stack

You catch him alone by the garden. Stack stands there, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted just enough to make it clear he’s deep in something—memory, regret, or the kind of silence that’s lived too long inside a man. You approach slowly, holding something behind your back. He notices you, of course—he always does—but he doesn’t say anything. Just offers that subtle glance, as if to say “What brings you here, trouble?”

You step close. Not too close, not at first. And then, wordlessly, you hold out your offering: a small, battered harmonica.

“Play anything that’s in your soul tonight.”

He blinks. His eyes flicker from the harmonica to your face and back again. He hesitates before taking it. The sound that comes out is soft, smoky, and just a little broken. Not sad, but not quite whole either. A gentle blues melody, simple and slow, the kind that feels like rocking on a porch in the deep South with a storm in the distance and someone you love nearby. 

When the last note fades, he lowers the harmonica, exhaling slowly. His fingers tremble, just slightly, as if they’d been holding more than music.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and lifts it gently to his lips. “That…was me.”

You don’t need to ask what it means. It’s all there—in the music, in the weight of his silence, in the way he now leans against you like he’s done running. The two of you sway together, slow and steady, your heartbeat keeping time where the harmonica left off.

“You’re trouble,” he whispers, voice low and warm. “The kind I never wanna lose.”

And right then, with the garden around you, the stars overhead, and his soul laid bare in your hand, you realize something simple and stunning: You’d give him a thousand harmonicas if it meant he’d keep smiling like this.

Bo

You find out about the sweet tea by accident.

Bo’s sitting on the porch one late evening. You bring him a mug of coffee, and he takes one sip before wrinkling his nose like you just served him poison.

“Jesus. That bitter shit again?”

You raise a brow. “It’s coffee, Bo. It keeps people alive.”

He squints out towards the treeline. “Yeah, well. Dead men like sweet tea.”

You blink. That’s all he gives you. No follow-up. No explanation. Just a dismissive shrug, a soft grunt, and back to whatever he was doing. But something in the way he said it sticks with you. So you take it as a challenge.

It becomes a little ritual. Each afternoon, a fresh pitcher appears in the fridge labeled:

Bo’s Sweet Tea. Touch and I break fingers. ❤️

You start slipping notes alongside it—tiny, scribbled-on sticky notes stuck to mugs, doorframes, even his boots when you’re feeling particularly bold. A doodle of Bo scowling at a sun wearing sunglasses becomes your favourite.

“You know this is excessive,” he comments, pretending he’s annoyed.

“You know I don’t care,” you retort, mimicking his unhappy frown.

And when he thinks you’re not looking? He traces one of the doodles with his fingertip. Smiling.

A few days later, you find one stuck to your mirror.

It’s not from you.

It’s a doodle. A rough, blocky drawing of a glass of sweet tea…with fangs. At the bottom, in a neat handwriting:

For the pain in my ass who makes even bein’ undead worth wakin’ up for. – B

Annie

Annie’s laughter is music—not the soft, delicate kind, but the kind that fills a house. It echoes down hallways, wraps around furniture, settles in your bones like a healing balm. You live for it. No joke is ever too dumb, no moment too small, if it ends with her eyes squinting shut and her hand slapping her thigh like she’s just heard the funniest thing in the world.

It’s not just laughter. It’s a sound that makes bad days forget they were ever so bold as to try. A sound that pushes back the dark.

A laugh that warms a room and chases away bad dreams.

You leave flowers by her bed. You cook next to her just to get her to smack your hand away from the spices. You recite her old hoodoo proverbs back to her incorrectly, on purpose, until she shakes her head and says,

“You are not right, child.”

And then she laughs. That rich, real laugh.

You treasure it. Collect it like loose change in your soul. Because that sound, that smile, those eyes crinkled with joy?

That’s magic. 

“Keep that joy on you,” she whispers later. “It protects more than garlic ever could.”

And you will. Because that smile? That sound?

It’s worth everything.

Joan

She’s got that arms-crossed, thousand-yard-stare energy like she’s been surviving off spite and strong coffee for years. You approach her cautiously like you’re poking a sleeping bear—with a flower in your hand. She’s standing stiffly, arms folded, face all sharp lines and quiet rage. You tilt your head, giving her your most disarming grin.

“Joan. Darling. You ever tried…smiling?”

She’s standing with her arms crossed, elegant and unbothered, lips tight, chin lifted—like smiling would lower her credit score.

“I read somewhere that smiling releases stress. Wanna give it a go?” You attempt again.

Her gaze is ice. “I don’t feel stressed.”

You blink. “Really? You’re undead, bound to a hive mind, and stuck with Bert. That sounds stressful.”

She blinks at you like you’ve just insulted her ancestors. Okay. Wrong tactic. You hold up a badly drawn doodle of her you made earlier—exaggerated scowl, smoke coming from the ears, the words “World’s Grumpiest Sweetheart” scrawled underneath.

She blinks. “You’re lucky I haven’t buried you yet.”

You lean closer, teasing. “You almost smiled. Admit it. That was a pre-smile. A proto-smile.”

Joan turns away, muttering under her breath—but not before you catch it. The tiniest smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth.

You smirk. Victory.

Bert

He’s sitting in a chair upside down. Literally. Legs tossed carelessly over the backrest, head hanging off the seat like he forgot what gravity is. One boot is missing (thrown? stolen? hard to say), and the sock on his visible foot has a hole right where his big toe sticks out. His arms dangle limply, like a dead possum flopped on a porch swing.

You lean over him with a hopeful expression. “Bert, smile for me.”

At the sound of your voice, he whips his head around so fast you’re worried for his undead spine. “Ya wanna see me smile?”

You grinned. “Yeah.”

He pauses. Eyes narrow. “…Ya makin’ fun of me?”

You snort. “Only a little.”

He does a backflip and lands with the grace of a cat. He’s immediately grinning. Full, fanged, and wicked. It’s the grin of someone who has either just committed arson or is about to ask you to join. His smile is huge—too big for his face, all sharp teeth and crinkled nose and wild eyes. It looks like it belongs on a feral dog and a five-year-old at the same time.

“Does this count?” he asks, baring every fang with chaotic pride.

You pretend to recoil. “You look like a vampire and a raccoon made a baby.”

He cackles—loud, weird, delighted. It’s not a normal laugh—it’s a banshee wail through a car engine. “Thanks, baby. You sure know how to make a corpse feel wanted.”

He drapes an arm around your shoulders like he belongs there—like you’re his favorite person to bother in the whole wide world (which you are).

“Tell me more,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “Tell me I’m a sewer rat. Tell me I look like I chew drywall for fun.”

“You do.”

“I have!”

You snort, which only encourages him. He might follow you around for the next three hours just hoping you’ll insult him again.

Cornbread

“Hey, Cornbread?”

He looks up and you give him twenty dollars.

He looks at the money. He looks up at you. He looks down at the money again. Then, he gives you the biggest and most genuine smile he can muster.

“That’s what am talkin’ about! Free money! Ya just know how to brighten up my day, dontcha pumpkin’?”

Yeah. Pretty easy.

How do they make you smile?

You come home after a long day. The manor is unusually quiet. No crashing, no shouting, no Remmick singing and no Bert or Stack trying to light something on fire.

Your eyes narrow like Joan.

Suspicious.

You round the corner and stop dead in your tracks.

There it is—leaned carefully against the wall in the drawing room, covered with a deep red velvet cloth. A note stuck to the top, in Remmick’s handwriting:

“This one’s for you, lass/lassie.”

You pull the cloth back…And your breath catches.

It’s a painting. A portrait. And not just any portrait—it’s a carefully arranged painting of every vampire in the house…posed around you. In the center. Sitting calmly, softly smiling, like you’re the heart of it all. Their faces are painted in. But something feels off. You then realise. Each face is painted in a different style. All of them. Hand-done. And then it hits you. Each vampire painted themselves.

Joan’s section is flawless, regal, and exacting. Her posture is perfect, her hand resting lightly on your chair like she owns the room (and maybe she does). Her expression? Subtle, proud. As if daring the canvas to defy her.

Remmick’s is dynamic, mid-turn, captured in motion like he’s walking in from the shadows. His smirk is barely visible, as if he’s sharing a secret with you no one else gets to know.

Bert’s part is completely out of proportion. His grin is too wide. He gave himself two shotguns and seems almost child-like at the same time. Clearly…Joan is the artist between them.

Mary’s section is quiet, tucked slightly behind you, painted in the softest colors. She painted herself looking at you, not the viewer, like she couldn’t fake interest in anything else.

Annie’s section is strangely haunting—she painted herself reaching towards your shoulder, like a protective presence, her eyes gentle but watchful. There are wildflowers around her feet. They weren’t in anyone else’s.

Bo painted himself looking straight at the viewer—with a soft, almost amused smirk. He seems to be whispering something to the portrait you. A secret. Or something else? Hard to say…

Stack’s section is the darkest one—a shadowy corner of the painting, where the colors fade into deep charcoal and steel blues. You almost miss him at first. And here’s the thing: while most of the vampires painted themselves looking outward or at you…Stack painted you resting your hand on his shoulder. A subtle connection. One you didn’t even notice until you traced the lines with your fingertips.

That’s when you realize: The others might guard you. Fight for you. Dazzle you.

But Stack? He carries you.

Cornbread painted himself as a stick man at the bottom of the portrait. Sleeping.

You stare for a long time.

In the center, they’d painted you—soft, real, glowing. A living being among the un-living. Your chair the throne. Your expression the glue holding the frame together.

And on the back of the canvas, someone (probably Annie) had scrawled:

“Thank you for being the reason for our smiles, child.”

[sweetstrawberryys]

"Operation: Baby Milestones"

Summary: From her first smile to her wobbly first steps, Task Force 141 rallies around every one of her baby “firsts.” Chaos, laughter, tears, and so much love—because in this family, nothing is more important than their little recruit’s progress.

Rating: wholesome, found-family, baby-step chaos.

Masterlist

---

1. First Smile

It happened in the middle of briefing prep—Gaz was pacing the war room, Soap was face-down on a stack of intel, Ghost was polishing his helmet, and Price was reviewing target coordinates. You sat in the corner, rocking the baby in your arms. She let out a tiny coo, her eyes fixed on Gaz’s frantic pacing. Then, like dawn breaking over a battlefield, she broke into her first real smile.

Gaz came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide. “Did… did she just smile at me?”

“Obviously,” Soap muttered, sitting up so fast he toppled over. “She knows a badass when she sees one.”

Ghost quietly set his helmet down and crouched beside you. “She’s smiling because she trusts us.”

Price leaned over, kissing your temple. “That was for you, love.”

And in that instant, the war room erupted in claps and whoops as the toughest soldiers on the planet celebrated the tiniest victory.

2. First Giggle

Later that afternoon, Soap discovered that making roaring dinosaur noises never failed. He crouched in front of her playmat, arms raised like savage claws.

“RAWR!”

The baby’s eyes tracked him suspiciously… then she burst into full-throated laughter, a delightful, contagious giggle.

“Got it on camera?” Gaz demanded, brandishing his phone.

“Of course,” Ghost said, stepping in frame with an exaggerated roar of his own. “Teamwork.”

Price appeared behind them all, smiling wide. “You lot are idiots.”

“That’s why she loves us,” Soap said, grinning at the baby’s next giggle.

3. First Word

It was during late-night guard duty. You’d passed out on the couch, baby in your arms, and the team took turns—Soap making sure she didn’t wiggle out of your grip, Gaz humming lullabies, Ghost standing silent watch, Price reading old military novels aloud.

Suddenly, the baby’s tiny lips formed a sound—clear and bright.

“Ma—...Ma”

All four of them froze.

“Did she just…” Gaz whispered.

“Say Mama?” Soap’s voice cracked.

Price closed his book softly, eyes shining. “She did.”

You stirred, half-asleep, and smiled. “She said Mama.”

4. First Roll

They erupted in gentle cheers, each of them trying to guess who she might say next—Soap, Ghost, Gaz…

Soap found her on her playmat, tummy-time champion, twisting like a tiny commando. Within seconds she’d rolled to her back and back again.

“Operation Flip!” he declared, scooping her up in victory.

Gaz high-fived him, then pretended to scan the perimeter. “Next mission: Creep on four wheels.”

Ghost quietly observed, then said, “She’s learning tactics early.”

Price ruffled Soap’s hair. “At this rate, she’ll be leading recon teams by two.”

5. First Crawl

Gaz prepared a crawling obstacle course in the rec room: soft cushions, plush toys strategically placed as “objectives,” and a mat marked with duct-taped lines.

You placed the baby at the start line. She paused, surveying the field… then propelled herself forward with surprising speed. Gaz whooped.

“She’s fast!” he shouted.

Soap grabbed a camera. “Never skip leg day, right?”

Ghost nodded approvingly. “Efficient advance.”

Price watched proudly. “I’ve never been more impressed.”

6. First Step

It was morning sunlight filtering through the windows that tempted her to stand. You held her hands, wobbling as she stood tall. Gaz and Soap knelt on either side, cheering. Ghost crouched behind, ready in case she tipped. Price stood just beyond, arms open.

“Go on, darling,” you encouraged softly.

Her legs shook, her eyes locked on Price, and she took a tiny, miraculous step—then another.

Price caught her, lifting her into his arms. “That was perfect.”

She giggled, burying her face in his shoulder, and you all felt something swell in your chests: pride, love, the fierce protectiveness of a family forged in battle.

Epilogue: Mission Update

You lean against Price as the team gathers around, baby nestled in your arms, exhausting all their nicknames: “Lieutenant Giggles,” “Private Wobble,” “Sergeant Cutie.”

Price presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Status report?”

You smile at your daughter’s sleepy yawn. “Mission accomplished.”

Soap salutes. Gaz salutes. Ghost—behind his mask—gives the softest nod.

And in that moment, you know they’d follow her into any battlefield, cross any line of fire, because she’s their future—and they’re her family.

[mommyameliestorycorner]

And he wasn’t alone. [kinky]

The boys were super squirmy today.

Daniel wasn’t the only one fidgeting in his seat, his legs kicking softly under the low playroom table. Across the brightly-colored carpet, a few other boys shifted and wiggled just like him—little gasps, soft whines, padded bottoms rocking back and forth against the floor or the plush beanbags they were seated on.

And honestly? It probably had something to do with the new volunteer.

She was adorable—barely older than the students, with big warm eyes, rosy cheeks, and a pink apron that hugged her figure just right. Her voice was sweet as syrup, and when she crouched down to help someone stack blocks or pour juice, Daniel could barely stop himself from staring. The way she cooed, how gently she tucked a stray curl behind her ear—it made his tummy feel funny. Tingly. Warm.

His fingers kept drifting to the front of his crinkly diaper, giving soft, slow rubs through the thick padding… until a voice cut through the room like a soft bell.

“Oh my. Someone’s really restless today.”

It was Miss Clara, one of the more experienced caregivers. She had that sing-song voice that made everyone instinctively sit a little straighter. She glanced around the room with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling.

“I think it’s time for a group circle. Come on now, boys—let’s all get comfy together.”

There were a few shy glances, a few embarrassed waddles, but one by one the squirmy boys—including Daniel—gathered on the soft padded mat at the center of the room. The volunteer blinked curiously, standing nearby with her clipboard, clearly unsure what was happening.

Miss Clara clapped her hands gently. “Alright, littles. Today we’re going to talk about what to do when your diapers get that special kind of tingly.”

Daniel’s face flushed pink. So did a few others. But no one moved to leave.

“Sometimes, you just need to make stickies, and that’s okay,” she said warmly, guiding them to sit in a circle with their legs spread slightly. “It’s better to let your body do what it needs than to squirm all day, right?”

The volunteer tilted her head, eyebrows rising. “Stickies?” she mouthed to herself.

Miss Clara crouched in front of the boys, her hands demonstrating soft, gentle movements over the front of a sample diaper. “Just like this. Slow circles, little squeezes. Let your diaper help you. No need to rush.”

Daniel’s breath caught. His hand drifted to the front of his thick Pampers without thinking, the squish already so inviting. Around the circle, the other boys began to mimic the movements—some shyly, others more boldly. A quiet chorus of crinkles and soft gasps filled the room.

And then—

“O-ohhh…”

Someone across the circle let out a soft moan and sagged back, clearly the first to finish. His diaper puffed slightly beneath him, the thick front now shiny with fresh, sticky warmth.

The volunteer’s eyes went wide.

Her cheeks turned scarlet as the realization clicked into place—and then she slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle that still bubbled up like a fizzy drink.

Miss Clara didn’t miss a beat. “It’s okay, dear,” she said to the girl with a wink. “They’re just being good boys. They need this.”

Daniel was already too far gone to care. His hand moved faster now, guided by Miss Clara’s voice, the warmth building and building in his thick diaper until—

criiinkle… squiiish…

He gasped, his back arching slightly as the sticky pleasure pulsed through him. His fingers twitched, his breath shaky. The front of his diaper was soaked with more than just pee now.

And he wasn’t alone.

Around the circle, more soft whimpers filled the air. Crinkly shudders. Flushed cheeks. A room full of boys learning just how nice it was to let go together.

[vinnyvamppp]

Vinny, if you’re totally okay with it, can I pleaaase please request a smutty male reader x Dick Grayson (training together quickly escalates)? I thought Mark Grayson x male readers were hard to find, but oh my gosh, Dick Grayson ones are practically desolate (from what I could see. Honestly, I think I’ve only ever found two 😭). I’m extremely new to DC, so I’m hoping to contribute once I’m fairly acquainted with the media. 😤

Sorry for going off topic a bit. OTL If you’re okay with this request, I’d be thankful!

The Gloves Come Off

A/N: Don't apologize, feel free to let me know of your contribution later on! I'd love to support-- and this request is amazing. I WAS LITERALLY FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. Also, can you guys tell I was trying to show off my MMA knowledge? I’m so fucking corny, ignore me. (Fun Fact: I've trained in MMA since middle school and competed as a middleweight!)

Synopsis: Training with Dick Grayson was always intense, but when a spar spirals into something messier — something needy, and unforgiving, you learn just how well Nightwing reads a body under pressure. In the end, it’s not just your bodies on the line. It’s the way you come undone for each other — breathless and craving more.

Warnings: Mutual Masturbation, Sparring Tension, Switchy Power Dynamics (Reader's behalf), Desperation, Flirty Dialogue, Hands-on-Hands-On-Cocks Action, Overstimulation, My Attempt At Being In Character, "I'm fine" While Falling Apart, Non-Penetrative Smut, Anatomical Descriptions, etc.

Dick Grayson x Male!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

“You’re holding back,” Dick muttered, circling you again, shirt stuck to his chest with sweat, knuckles still taped. You scoffed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “So are you.” His smirk was sharp, tongue jutting out to wet his lips. “Yeah, but I’m prettier when I do it.”

He lunged forward, and this time you met him full force — fists clashing, boots scraping over the mat, sweat flying in the dampening air. It wasn’t even a real fight anymore, just blanketed tension. The kind that had been brewing since day one, coiled tight behind too-long glances and shared showers and those goddamn grins he gave you when you were too tired to throw another punch.

You barely get your forearms up in time to shield your face, a fast streak of blue and black filling your vision. Impact rocks through your frame as he crashes into you chest-first, arms locking around your waist. Instinct takes over as your legs snap up, hooking around his hips, thighs squeezing just above his belt — and suddenly you’ve got him. Trapped and breathing hard above you, the mat under your back was warm, still echoing with the scuffle of your last failed counter.

“Dirty trick,” he grunts, trying to shake you loose. “Effective,” you pant, fingers digging into his shoulders. He grunts— no, actually growls— and shifts. Posts his forearm beside your head, stacks his weight forward, and twists. Just like that, he slips free. That goddamn acrobat.

You barely hit your feet before the next combo’s coming: jab, cross, hook. You block the first two and shoulder-roll the third, but he’s already circling, pushing you back with tight footwork that leaves you nowhere to go. His glove brushes your jaw on the next pass. You snap out a low kick, hard and fast for most, but he catches it, spins, and sweeps your standing leg clean out from under you. The mat slams into your back, knocking the wind out of you again.

“Still think you’ve got me?” He huffs, kneeling beside your ribs, one knee brushing your side as he pins you there. His hair's plastered to his forehead, breath ragged, but smiling.

You grin up at him, flushed and winded. “Getting warmer.” He chuckled to himself, a huff of air leaving his nose. “I win again,” he said, voice smug but husky from the chase. There was a flush on his neck that had nothing to do with exercise.

Now he was above you, straddling your hips with a crooked grin and no plans to move. Even when your thighs shifted beneath him and your sweat-soaked into his undersuit. Despite his position, in combat and in bed, you were caged—and within his clutches willfully.

You could’ve pushed him off; you should've, but instead, you said, “Only because you cheat.” Dick’s brows lifted; his smirk flickered. “What, by being hot?” You blinked up at him. “...That’s not what I said.” He clicked his tongue, head tilting at your words. “That’s what you meant.”

His smile curled — a lazy, wolfish thing — and for a second neither of you moved. The sweat beaded at your temple. His groin pressed between your legs and God help you, you twitched under him. In that instant you could feel your soul clawing from your body—you sucked in a breath as if to keep it in.

Dick felt it, and his gaze dropped, but when it rose again, it was darker. His blue eyes catch yours, swimming with your reflection like he’s trying to memorize every line of you. His lashes lower just slightly — not shy, but weighted, like seduction worn soft and natural. His gaze trails over you slow as honey, warm and dragging, and when it lingers at your lips, his Adam’s apple gives the faintest, betraying bob.

“You hard?” he asked, just like that. You swallowed thickly. “You tell me.” He looked straight down and fuck — he grinned.

The gloves came off in seconds. There wasn’t a big decision, nor a careful lead-in or dramatic kiss. Just the sharp pull of elastic, the hot throb of your cock springing free, and the echo of breathless silence when he pulled his out to match you. He leaned in close enough for his breath to brush your lips, for your sweat to mix. His voice dropped an octave, holding a slight rasp now as he grunted.

Dick’s cock is heavy against your groin — flushed a deep pink, shaft thick, veined, and warm. It's the kind that stretches your palm when you wrap your hand around it. Not freakishly big—no, it’s worse: it’s perfect. Thick enough to make you gasp, long enough to have you hooked. And a happy trail, neat, clean, like the rest of him, but still masculine enough you could drown in it. God gave him acrobat's thighs and then got freaky with symmetry. This was so unfair.

You both stared in silence for a while, you, more or less marveling at the absolute trunk before you. And then— without warning— he spat into his hand, wrapped it around himself, and started jerking slowly. “Jesus,” you hissed, causing him to chuckle. “Been thinking about this for weeks,” he muttered, pumping lazy strokes from base to tip. “How you sound when you’re close. How you’d look touching yourself for me.”

You were already leaking. You wrapped your hand around your shaft and mirrored his rhythm, hips twitching upwards instinctively. “Yeah?” you said, voice rough like sandpaper. “What else?” Dick licked his lips, his gaze locked on your cock, your tensing abs, and the heat in your eyes. “Bet you edge yourself,” he said. “Hold it right at the brink. Fuck your hand like it’s not enough. ‘Cause it’s not. Not really.”

You groaned, thighs spreading wider. His eyes dipped lower. “You get this loud?” he asked, breath catching. “When you’re alone?”

“Louder,” you admitted. “When I think about you.” He moaned. Just short and guttural—like it was punched out of him.

He was watching you like it hurt—like every twitch of your wrist, every small sound you made, went straight to his spine. “God, you’re so hot,” he rasped. “Look at us.” You did. You flicked your eyes down to the slick, flushed length of him—the way it jumped in his hand, the way his abs clenched every time you moaned. “Bet if I just—” He reached over, wrapped his free hand around yours, and tightened your grip. It was firm but not painful, giving you just the right amount of pressure to make your toes curl and your balls tighten.

You nearly choked on it. “That’s how I’d do it,” he whispered, close enough to feel his breath. “If I had you under me.” His forehead hit yours. “Fucking ruin you.” He strokes himself slowly, showing you that he wants you to see exactly what’s yours. Every inch, every pulse. His hips meet each pump like it's not enough like he's been holding back for hours. "One little squeeze and you go all soft for me, huh? Knew you’d love this." He chuckled, that deep, rich sound that rattled your chest.

Keeping the pressure, you matched him, soft groans responding to one another as your legs stiffened beneath him. Your eyes followed his hand as if in a trance, following its every move. Your thumb circled the sensitive tip of your cock, spreading the pre-cum that had been leaking steadily. You gasped, eyelids twitching as your jaw ticked. The rough calluses of your palm scratched down the vein running the underside of your dick. It was uncontrollable—a sound between a groan and whine—scratched your vocals.

He tore it out of you, a raw gasp against his throat, coming, striping your stomach in white, hot spurts as your back arched and your hand went limp. You barely had time to breathe. Your release hit like a wave, rippling through you in hot, messy pulses, your hand slipping slack over your cock as your head tipped back and your hips jerked involuntarily. His pupils were blown wide as he watched you, utter satisfaction etched into his face, his grin twitching slightly, and his brows furrowed with restraint. You were done. Or you thought you were.

Until you felt him again — hands sliding over yours, warm, and his gaze relentless. You jolted, hand flexing before cupping your face, unable to control your limbs tensing in time with each shudder, your back bowed off the mat. "Dick—fuck—" He gripped both your spent cocks together—still twitching with the aftershocks of orgasm—and wrapped his hands over them tight, slick with both your cum and his pre, and started stroking again. Not gentle, just steady and intentional, trying to milk you for everything you had.

"C'mon," he rasped, breath hot against your jaw, hips barely moving as he pressed tighter to you. "You think I’m done with you already?" Your spine arched further with each stroke. Every nerve lit up again— raw, tender, and desperate. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice wrecked but still so fucking in control. “All that pretty moaning just to give up halfway? You're not tapping out yet, are you?” You can feel the heat of his body radiating off him as he looms over you, his chest pressed against yours. His breath comes out in ragged puffs, tickling your cheek as he watches your face intently. Every twitch, every moan, every flutter of your eyelashes seems to delight him.

Your whole body trembled, head burying into his flesh. The overstimulation was blistering—every pass of his palm over your now-sensitive head made your thighs twitch and made you whimper into his throat like you hated it and needed it all at once. His free hand skates down your side, over your hip, to grip your thigh and hitch it higher, a glute bridge. The new angle allows him to thrust against you with each stroke, his thick cock sliding against yours in a delicious friction that has you seeing stars.

His hands slid faster. The thick drag of slick foreskin against yours, both your cocks pressed together— his shaft twitching each time your breath hitched. "You feel that?" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "That’s you. Getting hard again, even though you’re already wrung out. So greedy.” You gritted your teeth. "I—I can’t—" Your head shook vehemently, eyes losing focus, but you didn't want him to stop. Ever.

His thumb swirled the leaking head of your cock—wet, tender, throbbing—and you cried out, hips trying to pull back, but he chased you, matched every buck, every jolt like it only fed him more. You couldn’t run; you didn't want to, yet your body fought with every spark short-circuiting your brain. “I can feel you pulsing —you’re close again, aren’t you? Didn’t even last a minute.”

It was sudden. Your grip tightens under his thighs, fingers curling around the weight of his sack with slow, deliberate pressure, soft enough to tease, firm enough to make him flinch. Dick groans, hips twitching against your palm. “That’s a low blow,” he breathes, eyes glittering with the heat of a challenge.

“Revenge,” you mutter, cock twitching where he’s got you in a mirrored grip, his thumb rolling slow beneath your balls like he’s mapping every nerve. “You deserved worse.” His laugh breaks on a moan, head tipping back. “You’re evil.”

“Not yet,” you hiss, squeezing gently, just enough to make him buck. “But keep playing dumb and I’ll make you see stars.” He huffs, breathless, eyes narrowing as he returns the favor, coaxing a full-body shudder out of you, your feet slipping against rubber foam.

"Please," you gasped, desperate. His fingers tightened. "One more. You can give me one more. C’mon, baby. I know you can." He leaned down, lips brushing gently against your jaw and his back hunched. “F-Fuck—if you ask like that again, I’ll give you three.” You breathed. Sweat dripped down his chin, tickling your neck as it drizzled, his harsh gasps causing gooseflesh on your skin.

The obscene, wet, and haughty mix of cum caused wet squelches to cascade across walls, his wrist swiveling every so often around your tips as you practically melted beneath him. 1… 2… 3… 4… his rhythm switching every so often like a vibrator with multiple settings, reveling in every squirt that ruptured from your slit. The head of your cock bumps against his palm with each upstroke, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. Your body curved towards him as his feet dug into the mat to stabilize you both.

“That’s right. Let it build. Let it hurt a little. I want you to feel me tomorrow. I love how wrecked you sound.” You smirked between gasps at his words, “Good. Memorize it. I want that sound stuck in your head every time you jerk off alone.” He chuckled in response, teeth bared in a smile too shaky to be smug. His cock smears cum across your stomach as he grinds against you—the head dragging slick heat over your skin as his tongue trails over your Adam's apple. You can feel your orgasm building, your balls drawing up tight against your body. Your thighs start to tremble, your stomach clenching as you welcome your inevitable release. "Fuck—Dick, I'm going to—fuck, I'm gonna cum."

It was messy. Too fast. And absolutely perfect. His thumb finds your frenulum, rubbing tight circles around it as his strokes become erratic, chasing his own pleasure. You could feel his length throbbing against you, watching as it contracted in real-time. With a loud series of groans, his cock twitched as he cursed under his breath, jaw tight. His cum hit your stomach—warm and slick—but you barely flinched. Your eye simply twitched, vision whitening as your warm and sticky release joined him, your entire body shuddering and boneless as you stared blankly at the ceiling above.

His voice range from above moments later. “I could keep you like this all night. I’ll stop when your legs stop shaking. Deal?” “Deal. Do it. Unless all that stamina’s just for show.”

You might’ve jinxed yourself.

A/N: Dick really liked that dick, huh. (ALSO, I see why you requested this, I ran into AT LEAST six variations of this ask and all were fem reader. And… I’m def editing more into this, I just liked the request so much I pushed it out, sorry if it’s bad chat😭)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[aleskie]

hiii! i was wondering if you could write max verstappen going through a difficult year between racing and his newly growing family? some angst about how reader can’t handle if he ever had an accident he can’t come back from / “do you even think about us?” kinda thing so he internally struggles between racing and family, but ultimately decides that being their for his family is more important than (sounds corny) any trophy or championship.

HI ANON! Thanks for the request!!! This was super fun to write and i know it's not exactly the ask but i hope u like it hehehhe :>>>>>

THE PROMISE | Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings: None, happy ending??? There's no pronouns used but like it's implied reader is afab :>>

Your mother always said that making the baby was the easy part. The fun part. 

Carrying them, though? Having them? That was hell. The pain, the exhaustion, the way your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore. The sleepless nights, the hormonal swings that made you feel like a stranger in your own skin. Sure, there were moments of joy—feeling that first flutter of movement, hearing their heartbeat for the first time—but nothing about it was easy.

And raising them? Raising them was a whole other battle. The endless nights of rocking, of pacing, of shushing. The way your body ached with fatigue, your arms heavy from holding them for hours, your heart just as heavy when their cries didn’t stop. The moments of frustration, of helplessness, of wondering if you were doing any of it right. 

But then—then there were the milestones. The first roll, the first steps, the first words, tiny victories that made it all worth it. Watching them become a person, watching them laugh at things that only they found funny, watching them form opinions and preferences and little quirks that were uniquely theirs.

Yes, parenthood was hard. But it was also the best thing that ever happened to you.

And through it all, Max had been your anchor. He was there, gripping your hand so tight during labor that his knuckles turned white. He was there, whispering encouragement, his voice steady even when his eyes were wet with tears. He was there, cradling your daughter like she was made of glass, promising her the world in a voice thick with love. He was there, sitting through hours of interviews to find the perfect nanny so that you two could have time together—because he knew that mattered too. He was everything you needed in a husband, everything your daughter needed in a father.

And then the crash happens.

You were at home, keeping an eye on your daughter as she stacked her blocks, her tiny fingers carefully placing one on top of the other, her tongue peeking out in concentration. The television was on in the background, the familiar hum of the commentators filling the room. You weren’t watching too closely—you never did anymore. You’d glance up now and then, check the leaderboard, watch a particularly intense overtake, but you didn’t let yourself get caught up in it.

Then it happened.

At first, your heart only gave the slightest stutter. It wasn’t anything new. Max had crashed before. He would crash again. It was part of the sport, part of the risk, part of the life he had chosen—the life he had bled for since he was a child. You had known this going in. When you first fell for him, when you first tangled your lives together, he had made it clear: this was not something he would ever walk away from.

So, you learned. You learned the language of the sport, the rules, the strategies. You learned how to read the data, how to pick apart his post-race frustrations, how to hold him after a bad finish and remind him that there would always be another race. And you learned to live with the ever-present ache in your chest, the one that flared up every time something went wrong.

But this time, something felt different.

He didn’t get out. Not fast enough. Not like before.

Your breath hitched as the seconds stretched unnaturally long, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch. He was moving—that was good. He wasn’t trapped. But his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. When the medics arrived, he didn’t wave them off like he usually did. He let them help him. When he finally climbed out, his legs wobbled, his posture slumped, his hand pressing against his head as if trying to steady the world.

But he was alive.

You exhaled, long and slow, grounding yourself in that fact. You’d talk later. You’d let him come home, let him shake it off, let him tell you in his own time what had happened, how he felt. You’d sit with him, listen, remind him that he wasn’t alone in this. But for now, he was alive.

And that was enough. That had to be enough.

You’re washing the dishes when you hear the front door creak open, the heavy thud of a suitcase settling against the floor. Footsteps follow—soft, familiar, hesitant. Then his arms wrap around you, warm and grounding, the familiar scent of the paddock and faint traces of cologne still clinging to his clothes.

You exhale, leaning into him, letting his presence melt away the tension in your shoulders. Carefully, you peel off the dishwashing gloves, placing them on the counter before turning in his arms. The moment you do, you bury your face in his chest, listening—just listening—to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He holds you closer, his grip tightening as if he needs this just as much as you do.

“You watched the race,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but certain.

“I did.”

“Did she see?” There’s something cautious in his tone, a hint of guilt. You know he never wants your daughter to witness him like that—vulnerable, shaken, hurt.

You let out a soft chuckle, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “She was too busy playing.”

A silence settles between you, thick yet comfortable. You tilt your head up, reaching a hand to his face, fingertips ghosting over the faint stubble on his jaw before cupping his cheek. You trace him with your eyes, mapping out every detail—the precise shade of blue in his eyes, the faint crease in his brow, the way exhaustion lingers at the corners of his lips. Memorizing him, just in case.

His hand comes up to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m right here,” he says softly. “You don’t have to worry.”

Your brows pull together as a quiet sigh leaves your lips. “I’m always going to worry,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I worry all the time.”

And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell you not to—because you both know that would be a lie. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could keep the worry at bay.

“It was different this time, and you know that,” you say, stepping back, putting just enough space between you to breathe.

“Was it?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a quiet challenge.

“You didn’t get out of the car, Max.” The words come out sharper than you intend. You inhale, trying to steady yourself, fingers threading through your hair in a feeble attempt to keep your hands from shaking. “If you heard the sounds—”

“I think I know what sounds I made,” he interrupts, his voice tight. “I was there.”

“Then you should understand why I’m like this.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Baby, we’ve talked about this.”

“But not like this!” The frustration spills over before you can stop it. “Not with her in the conversation.”

His eyes flick toward your daughter’s room, just for a second. It’s brief, subtle, but you see the flicker of concern, the way his jaw tightens.

“Max, you know I understand. You know I’ve accepted it. You know I stayed despite every risk of losing you.” You close your eyes, inhaling deeply before speaking again, softer this time. “But she doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t understand yet. And I—”

The words catch in your throat. Saying them out loud makes them real, makes them a possibility you don’t want to face.

“I don’t want to raise our child without a father.”

The moment the words leave your lips, his expression shifts. The fight drains from his eyes, replaced with something softer, something that aches. He moves before you can step away again, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing over the tears welling in your eyes.

“You won’t have to,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I’m good at what I do. Today was a fluke. It won’t happen any time soon.”

“But it might,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “And I don’t know what I’d do if—”

“Shhh…” He silences you, pulling you against him, as if holding you close is enough to keep the worst from happening. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admits, and then tilts your chin up so you meet his gaze. His face is open, earnest, full of the kind of love that wraps around your soul like armor. “But I can promise to do everything I can to be here—to watch her grow, to walk her down the aisle, to grow old with you. I can promise that.”

“I can’t lose you,” you whisper.

“You won’t. Ever.”

You search his face, letting his words settle into the spaces where fear still lingers. His hands are steady, his eyes unwavering, his love for you and your daughter woven into every syllable of his promise.

It doesn’t erase the worry, doesn’t silence the what-ifs that creep in when the nights are long and the house is quiet. But it does remind you of something just as powerful—he’s here. He’s trying. He’s choosing you, choosing her, choosing to fight for a future where he stays.

So you let yourself believe him. Just for tonight.

[doyouknowthisbook-poll]

Do you know which book this is from?

Please reblog the polls, but KEEP IT SPOILER-FREE to make people read the excerpt with an open mind 💖📚 Title and author will be revealed after the poll's conclusion.

Note: this excerpt is too long for Tumblr’s alt text character limit, so for this poll, the alt text is below the read more.

Edit: The results are up here!

"What is all this uproar in the forest tonight?" said the Lord of the Eagles. He was sitting, black in the moonlight, on the top of a lonely pinnacle of rock at the eastern edge of the mountains. "I hear wolves' voices! Are the goblins at mischief in the woods?"

He swept up into the air, and immediately two of his guards from the rocks at either hand leaped up to follow him. They circled up in the sky and looked down upon the ring of the Wargs, a tiny spot far far below. But eagles have keen eyes and can see small things at a great distance. The Lord of the Eagles of the Misty Mountains had eyes that could look at the sun unblinking, and could see a rabbit moving on the ground a mile below even in the moonlight. So though he could not see the people in the trees, he could make out the commotion among the wolves and see the tiny flashes of fire, and hear the howling and yelping come up faint from far beneath him. Also he could see the glint of the moon on goblin spears and helmets, as long lines of the wicked folk crept down the hillsides from their gate and wound into the wood.

Eagles are not kindly birds. Some are cowardly and cruel. But the ancient race of the northern mountains were the greatest of all birds; they were proud and strong and noble-hearted. They did not love goblins, or fear them. When they took any notice of them at all (which was seldom, for they did not eat such creatures), they swooped on them and drove them shrieking back to their caves, and stopped whatever wickedness they were doing. The goblins hated the eagles and feared them, but could not reach their lofty seats, or drive them from the mountains.

Tonight the Lord of the Eagles was filled with curiosity to know what was afoot; so he summoned many other eagles to him, and they flew away from the mountains, and slowly circling ever round and round they came down, down, down towards the ring of the wolves and the meeting-place of the goblins.

A very good thing too! Dreadful things had been going on down there. The wolves that had caught fire and fled into the forest had set it alight in several places. It was high summer, and on this eastern side of the mountains there had been little rain for some time. Yellowing bracken, fallen branches, deep-piled pine-needles, and here and there dead trees, were soon in flames. All round the clearing of the Wargs fire was leaping. But the wolf-guards did not leave the trees. Maddened and angry they were leaping and howling round the trunks, and cursing the dwarves in their horrible language, with their tongues hanging out, and their eyes shining as red and fierce as the flames.

Then suddenly goblins came running up yelling. They thought a battle with the woodmen was going on; but they soon learned what had really happened. Some of them actually sat down and laughed. Others waved their spears and clashed the shafts against their shields. Goblins are not afraid of fire, and they soon had a plan which seemed to them most amusing.

Some got all the wolves together in a pack. Some stacked fern and brushwood round the tree-trunks. Others rushed round and stamped and beat, and beat and stamped, until nearly all the flames were put out-but they did not put out the fire nearest to the trees where the dwarves were. That fire they fed with leaves and dead branches and bracken. Soon they had a ring of smoke and flame all round the dwarves, a ring which they kept from spreading outwards; but it closed slowly in, till the running fire was licking the fuel piled under the trees. Smoke was in Bilbo's eyes, he could feel the heat of the flames; and through the reek he could see the goblins dancing round and round in a circle like people round a midsummer bonfire. Outside the ring of dancing warriors with spears and axes stood the wolves at a respectful distance, watching and waiting.

He could hear the goblins beginning a horrible song:

Fifteen birds in five fir-trees,

their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!

But, funny little birds, they had no wings!

O what shall we do with the funny little things?

Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;

fry them, boil them and eat them hot?

[innerfare]

Type of Date - Part 1

Summary: What sort of dates do they take you on?

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

——— 

Luffy: Everyone thinks he’d want to take you to dinner, probably to an all you can eat buffet, but this boy would actually drag you to an amusement/theme park. You’ll go on all the rides, riding the scariest ones multiple times over, and by the end of the day, you’ll have a stack of photos taken just before the roller coaster dropped. He’ll probably want to grab a bite to eat afterward, as if he didn’t already sample everything the amusement park had to offer; definitely something casual, like a burger or bbq joint. 

Zoro: He’ll take you to play laser tag, and don’t think for a second you’ll be playing on the same team. You’ll be on opposite teams, and he will not be going easy on you. Zoro doesn’t believe in letting people win. He’ll be briefing his team beforehand, drawing up a strategy because he is determined to win. If you beat him, he won’t propose, but he will decide he’ll be marrying you one day. Would also be content to go see an action movie. 

Sanji: This man will take you on the best picnic of your life, a picnic so good he’ll have you wondering why you ever thought restaurants were the epitome of fine dining. It won’t just be delicious, it will be an aesthetic dream, with a wicker basket, checkered blanket, and even a small bouquet of flowers in a glass jar. If he takes you on a picnic beneath the stars, he’ll light candles and be sure to have an extra blanket to keep you warm. Oh, and champagne. Definitely will open a bottle of champagne. 

Ace: Ace will take you either go karting or rock climbing, probably the former. He won’t admit it to you, not even to himself, but he is the sort to let you win, though he pouts when he loses. Like he’ll plan to beat you, but he just can’t stop himself from taking his foot off the gas just before he reaches the finish line. After you’re tuckered out, he’ll take you to a ramen place, where you end up starting several inside jokes. Once you’ve been dating for a little while, he’ll take you on longer dates to parks and even camping on the beach; anything outdoors. 

Sabo: Takes you to the aquarium or zoo, the two of you wandering around hand in hand, pointing at different animals and saying, "that's you." Also takes you on a lot of picnics (far less elaborate than the ones Sanji plans) that you spend either in silence or editing his manuscript. And he knows the lay of the land in terms of hole in the wall restaurants, quiet little nooks where you can cozy up to one another and not be disturbed. Will occasionally risk it all to take you to water parks despite being a wanted man.

Law: Museum date, full stop. Probably a science museum, but would happily do a fine art museum. If museums were open at night, it would definitely be a nighttime museum date, but he’ll settle for a weekday when nobody’s there. The two of you will lose track of time going from exhibit to exhibit discussing what’s on display. And Law is definitely the sort of guy to read up on the exhibits beforehand to impress you. Would also take you to a bookstore and buy you anything you want if you agree to sit with a coffee afterward.  

Kid: He’ll take you to a concert, best seats in the house. He would prefer rock, but he’ll go to any concert you want. Honestly has no qualms about pulling up to an Ariana Grande or Taylor Swift concert with you, won’t go so far as to learn the lyrics but will nod his head and dance with you because he doesn’t believe people should be ashamed of their music taste (that being said, he can’t help but be embarrassed by just how much he likes Olivia Rodrigo; Sour is punk rock and Brutal is his favorite song, no matter what Killer says). He’ll buy you two matching t-shirts, too. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[weirdlandtv]

How to depict blinking in a comic? Oh hello, by the way. Yes, I'm still alive. I'm fine and how are you and all that but—how to depict blinking in a comic strip? Carl Barks used this method—

The ducks' huge eyes are split in two, with one set of slightly faded pupils in the top half (see image 1), and another of solid black pupils in the lower half, both sets cut off in such a way that the “stacked” pupils don't appear like one large elongated pupil (a thin white horizontal line separates the two states as well); and that, with the added "Blink! Blink!" gets the job done perfectly. Here’s another slightly different blink:

(Now that I'm writing this stuff about top half, bottom half I'm suddenly reminded of a Barks gag I came across: a file cabinet in the background of a panel with one drawer saying TOP SECRET and the one below it saying BOTTOM SECRET.)

Really though, Barks's brilliant stories are en endless source of great ideas, gags, splash pages, twists, visual tricks, pacing, phrasing, suspense building, the whole proverbial "shebang", whatever a shebang is: I've said it before on this blog but any budding artist or writer—heck, even a professional one—could learn a lot from Barks's best work. Fireworks of creativity.

Re-reading some of Barks's stories, as I sometimes do by way of therapy, it struck me that many panels consist of three main elements: a foreground element, a middle section where the action takes place, and a background:

This foreground element can really be anything. It can be a bush, a tree, a rock, even a wave:

It can be a chair, a table, or any other piece of interior:

It can be a character, or just their silhouette:

And of course it's also a good way to hide snooping villains:

In the Gyro Gearloose stories the foreground element is often Little Helper having a kind of silent slapstick adventure of his own (in Dutch here as it’s from my own copy):

…Also, how is this for dark:

[yvaineseleneposts]

Under the Pines

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warning(s): mentions sex but not described in detail

The forest smelled exactly the same. Pine needles, damp earth, and the faint scent of a long-ago campfire clinging to the air. You stepped out of the car, breathing it in like it was medicine. Jack slammed the trunk shut and looked around, eyes wide with cautious wonder.

“Okay, I’ll admit,” he said, adjusting his baseball cap, “this is prettier than I expected.”

You grinned and stretched your arms toward the treetops. “Told you. This place is my favourite. We used to come every summer when I was a kid.”

He walked up beside you, slinging a backpack over one shoulder. “You gonna show me all the secrets then? The legendary ‘best marshmallow roasting spot’?”

“Obviously,” you teased, “but only if you promise not to burn yours into a charcoal meteor like last time.”

Jack put a hand to his chest, mock offended. “That was a creative choice.”

You rolled your eyes, already feeling the warmth you always got when you were out here — only now, it was doubled with Jack by your side.

The two of you set up camp with the ease of a couple who had learned how to move together — you staking down the tent while he unfolded sleeping bags, asking every few minutes, “You sure we don’t need a hotel instead?” just to make you laugh. When everything was ready, you took his hand and led him down a narrow dirt path worn by years of your footsteps.

“This is where my dad used to take me fishing,” you said, pointing to a tiny dock overlooking a still lake. “He taught me how to tie knots here. Horribly. We never caught anything.”

Jack looked out over the water, then back at you. “You ever think about bringing kids here someday?”

The question surprised you, gentle and offhanded as it was. You bumped your shoulder into his, smirking. “Maybe. If they don’t mind sleeping on the ground and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

“I’ll bring the bug spray.”

You walked in silence for a bit, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the far-off call of a loon. You reached the firepit next — stones stacked in a lopsided circle, probably still half-arranged the way your brother left them years ago.

“I had my first s’more right here,” you said softly, kneeling down to pick up a smooth rock. “It was half raw, half incinerated. But I thought it was magic.”

Jack sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. “You glow when you talk about this place, you know.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. It’s like… I don’t know. I’m seeing little pieces of your childhood. Like time-travel.”

Your heart swelled. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I’m glad you’re here. This place feels more alive with you in it.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m glad you let me in. All of it. Even the part where you nearly made me eat a pinecone because you thought it was a secret forest snack.”

You laughed and shoved him lightly. “It looked like something edible!”

As night fell, you built a fire together. The stars emerged one by one, poking holes in the dark sky like lanterns. Jack roasted marshmallows with exaggerated concentration, proudly showing off each golden-brown one before sandwiching it into gooey perfection. You both curled up in sleeping bags outside the tent, watching the sky.

“Tell me another story,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and affection.

You smiled, head resting on his chest, letting the memories wash over you like waves.

“There was this one time,” you began, voice low, “we thought we heard a bear. Turned out it was just my cousin snoring…”

And under the whispering pines, the stars listened.

The sun had barely crested above the trees when Jack stirred beside you, groggy and warm in the sleeping bag. You were already awake, watching the soft gold light filter through the pine needles. It was quiet in the way only nature could be — a hush that held everything still.

“Morning,” he mumbled, blinking up at you. His voice was rough, lazy. “How do you wake up looking like that out here?”

You laughed softly. “Like what? Mosquito-bitten and frizzy-haired?”

“Like... beautiful,” he said, and kissed your shoulder before stretching. “What’s on today’s agenda, Camp Counsellor?”

“I was thinking,” you said with a mischievous smile, “you, me, and that lake.”

Jack raised a brow. “Swimming?”

You nodded. “Unless you’re scared.”

His scoff was immediate. “Please. You’re on.”

By late morning, the sun had fully claimed the sky, warming your skin as you peeled off your shorts and tank top to reveal the brand-new bikini you’d packed — just in case.

Jack did a double take. “Okay, I stand corrected. Now I’m scared.”

You raised a brow. “Scared of what?”

“How good you look in that,” he said, unabashed, eyes scanning every inch of you with that slow, appreciative stare that made your skin prickle in the best way.

“Flattery won’t save you from losing the splash war,” you said, already backing toward the dock.

“You think I came all this way to get shown up?” he grinned.

You turned and ran down the wooden planks, leaping into the lake with a dramatic cannonball. The water was colder than you remembered, but thrilling, waking every nerve in your body. Jack followed seconds later, sending a huge wave crashing your way.

You surfaced laughing, wiping water from your face just in time to get splashed again.

“Oh, it’s on now,” you said, swimming fast toward him. He tried to dodge but you caught him, dunking him under. When he came up, he grabbed you around the waist, spinning you in the water until you were both breathless.

“Truce?” you offered between gasps.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he floated you gently toward the shallow edge, water lapping at your waists, his hands never leaving your hips.

“I gotta say,” he murmured, gaze smouldering as he brushed wet hair from your face, “something about you here… you’re different.”

You tilted your head. “Different how?”

“Wild,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth. “Free. Like this is the real you. And it’s hot as hell.”

The air between you thickened, charged with sunlight and water and want. You pressed closer, your fingers tracing the muscles of his shoulders, the curve of his neck. “Maybe it is,” you whispered. That’s all it took.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it all night. It started soft, careful — then deepened fast, his hands pulling you in until you were flush against him, water sloshing around you. His mouth moved over yours like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you sighed his name when his hands slid down your back.

You tangled your fingers in his damp hair, letting the kiss build, heat rising in your core despite the cool lake. His breath hitched when your lips grazed the edge of his jaw, then his throat.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough and reverent. “Seriously.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Guess I’m more dangerous than that bear we thought we heard last night.”

His laugh was low, and he kissed you again — slower now, deeper. More like a promise than a dare.

Eventually, you pulled apart, both breathless and grinning. He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, eyes locked on yours.

“So,” he said, voice husky, “what’s next, Camp Counsellor?”

You smirked. “Dry off. Firewood. Then maybe… see where the night takes us.”

He leaned in close again, voice warm in your ear.

“I’m already counting down.”

The lake still shimmered behind you as you and Jack walked back toward camp, fingers laced, clothes clinging slightly to your damp skin. The sun was beginning to dip, filtering through the pines in golden streaks that danced on the forest floor.

Jack kept glancing over at you, eyes lingering. You didn’t have to ask why — the kiss in the lake had changed something. There was a tension in the air now, electric and slow-burning. It buzzed beneath every glance, every touch, every teasing smile you exchanged as you gathered firewood and sparked a flame in the pit.

By the time darkness settled over the trees and the fire crackled to life, your nerves were taut with anticipation. You sat close on the picnic blanket, the firelight painting Jack’s jaw in warm bronze as he poked at the logs.

“So,” he said, barely louder than the popping embers. “That was a hell of a swim.”

You arched a brow. “Highlight of your trip?”

He looked at you, eyes heavy-lidded and serious now. “That… and the way you kissed me back.”

You turned to face him, heart pounding. “What did that tell you?”

“That I want more,” he said plainly, his voice like velvet and smoke.

You didn’t speak. Just leaned in, slowly, deliberately, until your mouth brushed his again — soft, then hungrier. He cupped the back of your neck, deepening the kiss until your whole body leaned into him. His other hand found your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap.

You straddled him without hesitation, firelight flickering over bare skin as your fingers slid under his damp shirt. He hissed softly at the contact, lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then down your throat.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, dragging his mouth across your collarbone. “You have no idea.”

Your nails grazed the back of his neck as your hips rolled slowly, instinctively. The friction made him groan into your skin. You kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring every bit of your hunger and heat into it. The kind of kiss that burned hotter than the fire beside you.

His hands moved lower, gripping your thighs, squeezing. “Say the word,” he breathed. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Tent. Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

You grabbed the flashlight and giggled as he chased you across the campsite, grabbing you around the waist just outside the tent. You stumbled in together, fumbling with zippers and tangled limbs, laughter dissolving quickly into need.

Inside, the air was warm and close, the smell of pine and sweat and lake water wrapping around you both. Clothes came off in a rush — his shirt, your bikini top, the rest a blur of hands and breathless kisses.

You laid back against the sleeping bags, his body hovering over yours, his eyes devouring you in the dim light of the lantern swinging from the tent’s hook.

“You’re even more beautiful out here,” he whispered, kissing down your stomach, “wild and messy and all mine.”

You pulled him back up, crashing your mouth to his, whispering his name like a promise. And when your bodies finally came together, it was slow at first — intense, sensual — like the forest itself had gone quiet to listen.

Every moan, every gasp, echoed softly off the nylon walls. You moved in sync, every kiss deeper, every thrust a little more desperate, until you were clinging to him, fingernails digging into his back, breath coming fast and uneven.

He whispered words into your neck — how good you felt, how much he wanted you, how he’d never forget this moment — and you believed every syllable.

When it ended, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, sweat-slicked and blissfully exhausted, tangled in sleeping bags and whispered laughter.

Outside, the fire dimmed to embers. Crickets sang their lullaby. And inside the tent, your heart finally settled in the safest place it had ever been — right against Jack’s.

The first thing you noticed was the quiet.

Not the total silence of night — the owls had stopped calling, and the wind no longer rustled through the trees — but the kind of quiet that only came with early morning. The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a soft lavender glow on the inside of the tent. The birds hadn't even started singing yet.

Jack’s arm was draped over your waist, heavy and warm. His bare chest pressed to your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you like the earth beneath the sleeping bags.

You shifted slightly, and he stirred, his nose nuzzling the curve of your neck.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Best wake-up ever.”

You smiled, reaching down to thread your fingers with his. “Yeah?”

“I could do without the twigs poking me in the ribs,” he joked, “but... yeah.”

You turned to face him, resting your forehead against his. His hair was messy, and his eyes were soft — no teasing, no cocky grin, just quiet affection.

“Last night felt... big,” you said quietly, not even sure how to name it.

He nodded, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The early light made everything feel tender, unguarded — like if you said too much, the moment might break. But then Jack exhaled, and his voice turned serious.

“You know, I didn’t expect this,” he said, gaze steady. “I thought camping would be fun. Maybe clumsy, maybe chaotic. I didn’t think I’d feel like I was seeing a whole different version of you.”

You swallowed, heart full and open. “I think this is me. At least a part of me I haven’t shown in a while.”

“I love it,” he said, without hesitation. “The way you light up out here. The stories. The freckles I didn’t even know you had.”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “You’re not just saying that because I let you get to second base under the stars?��

He grinned, nudging his nose against yours. “Nope. That was a bonus.”

Then, quieter, “I just… I feel closer to you here. Like I’m not just seeing you — I’m knowing you.”

You bit your lip, touched. “I’m glad you came. I’ve always loved this place, but sharing it with you... makes it feel brand new.”

He pulled you in tighter, his forehead resting against yours. “We should do this every year. Make it our thing.”

You nodded. “We can call it ‘Hughes & Co. Wilderness Retreat.’”

“Only if there’s s’mores.”

“And skinny dipping,” you added, raising a playful eyebrow.

“Deal,” he said, then kissed you gently — sweet, lingering, like he had all the time in the world.

Outside, the first bird chirped. Inside, you curled into Jack’s chest, wrapped in the kind of peace that didn’t come often — the kind that whispered, This is something real.

And as the sun rose over the pines, you knew you'd found something out here you hadn’t even realized you were looking for.