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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 3 months

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

“Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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stergeon · 4 months

Text

spending some more time chewing on the concept of byleth and edelgard constantly writing each other letters—both while one of them is off traveling and also when they're both at home and seeing each other every day. there's one on the emperor's desk in her study; one in byleth's storage locker in the barracks; one left on a pillow or slipped into a pocket or tucked into a book the other is reading.

the emperor is interrupted during a big meeting by a page delivering a "most crucial missive from the commander." she unseals it in front of everyone and it's a crude drawing of a smiley face that says "hello i love you"

edelgard would write these excessively verbose things, very heavy on the poetry and flowery language. there are a couple paragraphs of updates and then page after page after page of "i love you"s and "i miss you"s communicated in ten thousand different and increasingly grandiloquent ways. byleth has learned to bring a dictionary along on her trips so she can decode all the sesquipedalian nightmare terms edelgard uses to tell her she's pretty. most letters start and end with an implied threat that if anyone other than byleth reads it or finds out how soft the emperor is, there will be hell to pay, but it doesn't stop her from proceeding to go ham on the romantic sappiness.

meanwhile byleth's letters are. pretty straight and to the point. she's keeping her posted about the weather, about this dog that she met, about a cool tree she saw, and transcribing direct quotes and best wishes from their friends. but she also includes little mementos she picked up or shiny things she found (she's like a crow with pretty rocks, shells, and baubles), and presses flowers that she thinks edelgard will like, and attempts to sketch things she wishes edelgard got to see with her. it's painfully obvious that byleth will never have an artistic career, but edelgard adores every single drawing all the same.

(hubert made a suggestion to have the emperor and her adviser use different seals or envelopes for their personal and official correspondence. this was accepted as reasonable. several months later, edelgard found out he made the suggestion after the third instance in which he'd been doing his secretarial duties and responding to the emperor's mail, only to find the message from the emperor's adviser did not, in fact, contain the woman's latest report on the situation in fhirdiad or fodlan's locket, but a rather lurid list of her intentions for the emperor upon returning home to enbarr. one contained a diagram. hubert did not examine it.)

edelgard, who hoards every paper she's ever had reason to touch and who has a (frankly, pathological) filing system for everything in her life, has a special container for byleth's letters that is under lock and key. byleth, who lived out of a rucksack for most of her life and constantly had to consider carry weight when vetting her few belongings, doesn't really know how to... have... things. she struggled with toting around all this paper for a while, but couldn't bear to toss out even the simplest "meet me at 4pm for the council meeting" message. she had to make peace with the concept of using a drawer for something like long-term storage and frequently checks to make sure they're all still there.

both of them keep their favorite ones in the back of their respective journals and act like they're not so extremely, terminally soft on each other.

#sterge.rtf #edeleth #fe3h #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #edelgard von hresvelg #byleth eisner #byleth x edelgard #them girls. y'know?#maybe i'll write something with this at some point. mostly i just think it's cute to shitpost about #i have them on the brain today #because i'm putting off solving a problem i ran into on a wip #and also putting off an annoying worldbuilding thing i have to sort out for a Different story i'm working on #so here you are. more fluffy nonsense about them girls.

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roll-of-royces · 24 days

Text

Caleb Headcanons

Since @caleb-pilot has entirely ruined me, and I am now deep in my Caleb fixation I give you my personal headcanons for him. These are largely personal opinions given he's minimally developed by canon, and also heavily influenced by the Caleb Gimmick!

He's an adrenaline junkie, always seeking the next thing that makes him anything intense enough to be worthy of feeling

Caleb has a bit of a drinking problem, he drinks to forget and to remember and when he's drunk he lashes out at everyone

The boy has big wanderer trauma (likely watched his family die when he was a child)

He's hyper-vigilant, to the point of sometimes being jumpy

Caleb pays attention to all of MCs little details, knows all sorts of facts about her that no one else does

He will start a barfight and he will win that fight

He loves symbolism, and reminders of positive things in his life such as apples as an inside joke and clinging to terms of affection like pipsqueak

Caleb absolutely gave MC piggy-back rides all the time as kids and misses doing it now that they're older

He keeps a calendar full of things he wants to remember about his friends and family

He prefers fist bumps over hugs unless its MC because of his hyper-vigilance

Caleb deals with chronic nightmares

He drinks his coffee black

He has a high pain tolerance

(Very personal headcanon) His squad mates nicknamed him Icarus because he takes more risks than he should

He went out of his way to learn how to make all of MCs favorite foods

He keeps a picture of MC in his wallet he won't show anyone

Caleb wears the necklace MC gave him 24/7, in the shower, when he's sleeping, at the gym

Sometimes he texts Zayne to get updates on MCs health because he knows she'll sugar coat it

He is fiercely protective of his family and will defend them immediately

Caleb uses his Evol all the time for the most menial things

He will send slutty pictures without hesitation

His smiles don't always reach his eyes

Caleb has two laughs, one for fitting in and one that comes out more as a wheeze for genuine amusement

He likes junk food and is happy to eat at food stalls or grab convenience food lunches

Caleb is a master paper airplane crafter and is also good at origami (he keeps a box of 999 cranes under his bed, scared to make his wish)

He sings to himself while he flies (he has a pretty good voice)

He's developed a reputation for being a skilled pilot but people sometimes don't want to fly with him due to his impulsivity

Once he almost got thrown out of flight school for threatening a teacher

Many an adult has said he has promise but shows a troubling amount of anger

MC is the only one he'll listen to without question (if she says jump he asks how high)

#love and deepspace #l&ds #lads #caleb love and deepspace #he's my Icarus and I am falling into obsession #caleb x mc

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goingmerryfics · 1 month

Note

Hii!!! i really love all your writing and wanted to request smth if that's okay!

could i request law x so who's into lolita fashion/subculture? Like, on days that they're able to they'll wear really extravagant looking lolita dresses and such, and is just overall really girly, and might be embarrassed about being such, esp with someone like him. but maybe he even likes that they're aesthetic opposites. idk fjsjfjfk

Ty!! <3

(idk if i need to say this but lolita fashion doesn't have anything to do with the. other uses of the term. sometimes ppl make accusations abt it but the jfashion and book are not related)

Lolita Style S/O w/ Law

Content: can be read as GN reader that wears skirts, all SFW

Notes* Thanks for being patient with me while I worked on this request! A couple of things popped up for me (and my new-used computer quit suddenly so I have to wait to see if it can be repaired or if I should just buy a brand new one) so I’ve been trying to work around this. Back to mobile tumblr I go 😢 ! Anyway- I know all too well how lolita culture gets sexualized in people’s eyes so this is a completely nsfw-free request. I made this more relatable to those in sweet style lolita more than gothic lolita since you’d commented about them being opposites and personally, I think it would be super cute for him to be paired with someone with this style. Hope you like it :)

Law

Law isn’t the type to pay attention to what people wear as long as they are dressed in proper uniform when need be. Self expression is something personal, and he’s aware of different everyone’s style is

Though he finds it hard not to notice how you dress on your days off, whether it’s just around the sub or out on the town

It’s a lot of pastel, and a lot of fabric

You hadn’t thought of what Law or the others might’ve thought the first time you dressed up, so when you kept catching Law staring at you at various points of the day, you started to feel a little nervous

Later though, the two of you had crossed paths and he stopped you there to ask about your choice of clothing

While you explained how you enjoyed the colours and the overly girly feel of it all, he listened to every word, and even asked you some questions- like how everything fit together, and how you chose to match your accessories to your clothes

He was intrigued, and being a knowledgeable man, he wanted to learn about you and your clothing style

He’d even gone off to do his own research at the next island, and secretly commissioned a seamstress to make a little purse modeled after Bepo’s face for your outfits because god knows this guy can’t sew for shit

Law had been waiting for you outside of your door, his present to you held in his hand, in a sweet little bag. You weren’t expecting to see him, nor were you expecting any sort of gift- it was nowhere near your birthday- but here he was. He pushes himself off from leaning against the door when he sees you.

“Here. I’m not sure if it’s alright, but I thought you might be able to use this.”

He hands you the bag, and you thank him before going off about how he didn’t need to get you anything, and asking what the occasion is as you dig through the white, glittery tissue paper to open it.

“No occasion. I just thought you’d like it.” He tries to act nonchalant and calm, but he’s watching your face for any changes to see if you like it or not.

You pull out the bag and gasp- it was perfect. Fluffy and pristine white, perfect for an outfit you’d been trying to put together for a while now- and it looked like your dear crewmate. You pull it to your chest with a big smile, going on a bit of a ramble at how cute it is, and how you’re going to use it right away.

The entire time you’re squealing over your new gift he’s smiling to himself, even if he doesn’t realize it.

The next time you change into your style, you make sure to keep the mini Bepo bag at your side. It goes great with your outfit

Bepo freaks out a little at the likelihood of the purse and his own face, but you quickly calm him down and explain that it’s not the head of a polar bear that you’re carrying around

Law watches you fawn over the bag with him from a distance, smiling to himself

He joins you later to walk around town with you. He’s come to enjoy how your style stands out so well beside him against his usual darker clothes

Law will also help you get dressed if you let him, buckling your shoes for you so you don’t have to fight the layers of skirt to reach your feet, or helping you pin up your hair pieces

You’d asked him once if he’d like to try men’s lolita style and he was very quick to shut that down.

“It looks better on you than it will on me.”

He really just likes seeing you as the unique one

#one piece #trafalgar law #law one piece #op law #harleyasks #law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar op #trafalgar one piece #HWOP #HarleyWritesOP

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queen-of-the-avengers · 6 months

Text

Redemption

Pairing: Tom!Peter Parker x Teen!Reader

Word Count: ~2.9k

Warnings: bullying (from you), feeling guilty and sad for treating him such, angst

Summary: You don't hate Peter. You hate that you're jealous of him. You hate that he always gets good grades without trying while you bust your ass and fail. When you find his diary, you learn more about Peter than you probably should know.

Squares Filled: regret for @spider-man-bingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

It’s another peaceful walk to school. Your apartment building is only a few blocks from your high school, so your mom allows you to walk it if you only stick to the well-known paths and avoid strange people on the sidewalk. She’s been paranoid ever since she saw in the news about some little girl getting kidnapped by someone on the streets. It took a lot to convince her that you would be fine, so she agreed if you stuck to her terms, which you do.

You’re blaring your favorite music through your headphones as you tune out everyone around you. You’re looking down at the sidewalk so you don’t see someone come barreling your way. The person almost knocks you to the ground, so you yank your headphones off and glare at the person who did it.

Of course, it’s Peter fucking Parker. He catches his footing and continues to walk past you as if he has somewhere else more important to be.

“Watch where you’re going, asshat!” you yell after him.

Peter mumbles an apology without so much as a look back at you, and you roll your eyes in annoyance. Out of everyone in school, he’s the one who annoys you the most. He thinks just because he’s so fucking smart that the rest of the rules don’t apply to him. When he gets in trouble, the teachers end up giving him a slap-on-the-wrist punishment because he gets good grades and keeps to himself.

He doesn’t pay attention half the time but he gets stellar grades. You work your ass off and the best you can get is a B, mostly C’s. He pisses you off because you’re so jealous of him. It’s not him as a person, he’s actually quite nice, it’s the fact that he doesn’t even try and still gets everything he wants. You try so hard but still fail. Your annoyance and pissy mood have evolved into snappy comments and rude stares.

You walk the rest of the way without music, and you immediately head to your first class which so happens to be science. You’re not doing well in that class but Peter is, and he makes sure to show off intentionally or not. Today in class is lab day, and you’re supposed to mix certain chemicals to create a foamy mixture that grows a lot.

Peter shifts in his seat anxiously and watches the clock count down. You grab the ingredients that are listed in the book and glance at Peter.

“Peter, I need your help. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Peter snaps out of his trance and sets up the main portion of the lab. He grabs his phone to check the time and ends up getting distracted by one of his notifications. “I think we need this one, right?” When Peter doesn’t answer, you kick his chair lightly. “Peter, is this the right one?”

“Hold on, give me a second.”

You roll your eyes and pour what you think is the right amount of the chemical you believe to be right. The mixture doesn’t match and ends up exploding, sending shards of glass across your table. The mixture spills onto the desk and you quickly move the papers to avoid them from getting ruined.

“Fuck!”

“Y/N! Language!” your teacher scolds. A few students laugh at your failure, and you feel tears prick your eyes. “Don’t move, let me get paper towels.”

“If Peter bothered to help me, then maybe I might actually get something done right. He’s staring at his phone.”

“Peter, put your phone away before I take it for the day.”

Your teacher helps you clean up the mess before getting you a new glass beaker. Peter puts his phone in his bag and slumps in his chair.

“Thanks a lot,” Peter mumbles.

“Get your head out of your ass and do your part.”

“You did it wrong.”

Of course, you did. Here’s Peter Parker to the fucking rescue. He makes this shit look so easy. He grabs the right chemicals and pours the right amount into the beaker. It grows and spills over the top like it’s supposed to. God, you feel like such a failure.

“I hate you,” you mumble under your breath but Peter hears.

His shoulders sag sadly from your comment but he chooses not to respond to it. You don’t really hate him. You hate how brilliant he is. You hate how he makes you feel. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

The next two classes go by without a hitch for two reasons. You have English and Math which are your favorite subjects, and Peter isn’t in your classes to annoy you. However, economics is your next one which you have Peter in. If you think science is your worst subject, it’s economics. As much as you try to understand and study the packets, it’s not clicking with you. The teacher once had to create a special packet for you dumbing it down really far. It made you feel like an idiot, especially when Peter picked up on it so easily.

What is with that kid? Can’t he see how jealous you are of him? It’s like he likes torturing you on purpose. Much like in science, you and Peter are paired for a project involving creating your own city with its own rules. He’s distracted by whatever is on his phone while you’re doing all the work. Typical.

You grab the textbook and look at the current chapter you’re on. It has everything you need to create your own city. The only thing Peter was good at was naming it, and you’re struggling with putting the rules down on paper. You write out the first rule as this is a democracy. The teacher split the class in half so that one half is Democrats and the other is Republicans.

“Peter, what is so important that you can’t help me?” you sigh and look at him. “You know I suck at this class.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he mumbles and gathers his things.

“What?” Peter quickly excuses himself to the bathroom and runs out of class, leaving you to fend for yourself. “Asswipe!”

“Y/N! Language!” the teacher glares at you.

You roll your eyes and try your best not to sit there and cry from stress and jealousy. When class is over, you find Peter by his locket putting things into it. You slam your hand into the locker beside yours causing him to flinch.

“Thanks a lot for ditching me,” you glare. “Next time you do, I’m going straight to the teacher. You’re not Captain America. You don’t get a free pass here.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter stutters. “It’s just that--”

“I don’t want to hear your sorry excuses. Now you get to finish the project by yourself.”

You shove the folder into his hands and stalk off without another word. His shoulder sags as soon as you’re out of view, and he bangs his head against his locker in defeat. Ned walks up to him already knowing why his friend is like this.

“Is it Y/N again?”

“I don’t get why she hates me so much,” Peter sighs and shoves the project into his locker.

The bell rings to signal lunch and you close your locker to meet up with your friend. You turn the corner to another hallway and spot something black on the ground. Everyone is walking by it as if it means nothing to them. Upon further examination, you see that it’s a notebook. You turn to the first page and see the words, “My Journal” written on it. It’s a diary. Someone dropped their diary, but there is no name to indicate who this belongs to.

Now if this was your diary and someone randomly picked it up, would you want them to read it? It’s kind of hard to answer since you don’t have a diary. With a shrug, you turn to the first entry to see if there is something to tell you who the writer is.

There’s a girl in my class who I can’t stop thinking about. I haven’t known her long but she is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Hair that seems as long as Rapunzel’s, eyes that get me lost whenever I look into them, smooth skin, and freckles that dance across her cheeks. I’m too nervous to go up to her and have a conversation with her. What would I say? What could I say that won’t make me look like an idiot? Every morning I see her, it’s like all reason goes flying out of my head. She talks to me but I can’t help but stutter in response. She makes me so nervous. Is that a good thing? I don’t know anymore.

There is another entry next to that one, and you can’t help but read it as you walk to the lunch room.

I think she hates me. She’s always calling me an asswipe or asshat for everything I mess up on. She’s in four of my classes and we’re paired in projects for three of them. I try to get the teacher to pair me with someone else to spare her feelings but that never happens. I don’t know why she hates me. I haven’t done anything to her. Nothing I do seems to be right in her eyes. Maybe I should give up this tiny crush I have on her. Ned tells me I’m wasting my time. I don’t know how to fix what I have with her.

Asswipe? Asshat? Ned? Does this diary belong to Peter? He has a crush on you? Your heart hurts at “I don’t know why she hates me. I haven’t done anything to her”. Your jealousy of Peter is rubbing off the wrong way. Suddenly, you regret everything you have ever said to him. You didn’t mean to hurt him. Your jealousy has put a film over your eyes and prevented you from seeing how much you’re hurting him.

We had a project today in science class. He must have written this today. I wanted to help her. I know she’s struggling in most classes. Usually, I would have. I hate seeing her stress about something that comes so easily to me. I’d tutor her if I didn’t think she’d bite my head off or make some jab about it. Today, I noticed something on my phone that almost got me in trouble. Ned told me that someone was selling drugs next to the school. I had to leave to stop them or else who knows who might have gotten involved. I hated leaving her in class like that but I had to.

You should stop reading. You should just shut this and return it to Peter who is probably frantically looking for it. You walk into the lunch room and see him and Ned huddled together at a lunch table with MJ seated across from them. He doesn’t look in a panic. He might not know it’s gone. You should walk up to him and hand it back but you can’t stop reading. This is how you’re going to know how he feels. Instead of doing the right thing, you turn and find a secluded spot in the back and continue reading.

I can’t believe I got to leave the country! I have never thought to get a passport much less my driver’s license. Not only did I get to go to Germany, I went with Iron Man! He was like ‘Peter, I need you to come with me and help fight Captain America with me’. I was like ‘I don’t know if I should’ but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. I didn’t think I would be fighting more than Captain America, but there I was ready to give it my all! I even went up the big, bad, scary Winter Solider. He went to punch me, and I caught his metal arm. Metal arm! How cool is that?! I have never been part of something so special before.

Your mouth drops open when you read about his adventure with Captain America and Iron Man. This journal is out of order since the airport battle happened a month or so ago. Still, he was there. Is he superhuman? Someone with powers?

I kind of wish people knew I was Spider-Man. The only person who knows is Ned because he caught me crawling on the ceiling in my bedroom. I wish I could tell Y/N but she’d probably hate me more than she already does. I’m scared she’d spread that secret around school just to spite me. I truly don’t know why she hates me. I try every day to get on her good side. I like her so much. She’s so beautiful and smart and energetic. I see her around her friends all the time. I wish she was like that with me. I hate that I’m screwing this up, whatever it is we have. I don’t know how to fix it.

Guilt weighs heavily on your shoulders at the way you’ve been treating Peter. Just because you’re not as smart as him doesn’t mean you should take your frustrations out on him. It doesn’t even faze you that he’s Spider-Man. Peter noticed you in the back reading something. He knows you were there reading so it’s not like you can walk up to him now and return the diary. What would you even say?

You close the diary and shove it into your backpack before heading to your next class. Your stomach grumbles from having missed lunch but you’ll live. This is the last period of the day, so you’ll eat when you get home. Peter is in this class and just so happens to sit next to you. The teacher passes out project details you need to be paired for, and she pairs you with Peter. He’s bouncing his leg anxiously and staring at the clock.

You look at him just as the teacher sets the paper on the desk. He wants to leave. He has better things to do than sit here with you and complete some project. He fought with Captain America and has super spider powers. Why is he still in school? Peter does a double-take at you when he catches you staring at him.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“No. You look nervous. Do you need to be somewhere?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“You should go,” you whisper. Peter looks at you with a surprised look. You hate when he leaves you to do all the work. Why are you telling him to abandon you now? “I can do this by myself. Say you need to go to the bathroom or something. It’s last period anyway, so it won’t matter much.”

“Are you sure? You’re not gonna yell at me?”

His comment breaks your heart. You hate yourself for how you’ve been treating him.

“No,” you shake your head.

“Thanks.”

Peter gives you an award-winning smile and excuses himself to the bathroom. The teacher doesn’t even notice that he has grabbed all of his things. This class always goes by quickly, so you’re home before you even know it. The rest of Peter’s journal is filled with entries about how good you looked, how he saved you from a man who was following you one day, and how he doesn’t know how to confess his feelings for you.

This journal belongs back to the original owner. You scribble a note for him to find in an envelope with his name on it just in case his aunt sees this before him. Peter’s apartment is only a few blocks from yours, so you head over there knowing he probably won’t be home. He’s off being a hero somewhere, so you feel safe to drop this off without being caught. You drop the book at the front door and knock three times before leaving.

Peter answers the door having only been home for an hour to do homework before he’s off doing his hero duties. He looks down the hallway but doesn’t see anyone. He looks down and notices his journal with an envelope on top of it. He grabs it and goes to his room to read the note privately.

Peter, I am sorry for how I’ve been treating you. I want you to know that it’s not you. You’re very nice. It’s the fact that I’m jealous of how smart you are. You pass every class and get good grades while I try my best and get B’s and C’s. I know that’s not an excuse for how I’ve treated you. I wish I could take everything I said back. I hope we can be friends… maybe more than that someday. I understand if you don’t ever want to talk to me again. Anyway, I just want you to know how great and amazing you are. Keep being you. P.S Your secret is safe with me. If I ever see Spider-Man swinging about, I’ll be thinking of you. Y/N

Peter doesn't care that you read his journal. He would have if he found one lying about. He smiles at the knowledge of you knowing his biggest secret and the fact that you might have a small crush on him. He can’t wait to see you tomorrow at school.

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pennyserenade · 1 year

Text

YOU CAN(T) ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x ex-actress!reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, light dirty talk (not degrading), references to previous sexual encounters, mentions of rough sex) tags: angst, hurt/comfort, talk of drugs (weed), drug usage (weed), dieter & reader are a little toxic - i cannot lie, talk of parents word count: 4.8k+ summary: your relationship with dieter (albeit the very loose definition of the term) has finally landed you in the tabloids. he attempts to make it up to you a/n: unbeta’d. i don’t know what possess me when i write dieter but its very real and active right now lol. if you want to get updates on whenever i write, follow @belovedinfidels

The weight of knowledge wears you thin.

Dieter is a tabloid on page six, the embodiment of Hollywood idiocy sided up against a woman far too young for him. Half his age? the byline reads and the bitter laugh you let out earns you a concerned glance from the old lady in front of you. In his madness, he takes you with him, right there in the middle of the grocery store. You pay eight dollars to read the shit all week, like the spurred lover you can’t claim to be.

Your devotion is too incredible, but that’s the way you are. A strange concoction of bitter and sweet. You’ve never forgotten a wrong-doing and you choke what you love with sheer force of your eagerness. Dieter doesn’t know what he wants and yet he commits himself anyway. Which is why, usually, he is good for you. His touches are seldom chaste and his presence is hardly long-term. If you think you love him, he will disappear and you will remember that you don’t–or rather, that you can’t. It’s a convenience until he makes you remember you aren’t the only thing he occupies himself with in his spare time. Then it is a dull ache in your soul and a reminder of everything you don’t have.

In anger, you fuck a stranger on Tuesday. It’s a reckless moment that is the exception, not the rule, but it feels good. Your body isn’t past expiration, you learn, not an ugly thing. It is older than the girl Dieter was with in that paper, sure, but this stranger is so attentive to it. It responds in all the right ways. You are healthy, you are wanted. There is hope for you yet.

On Thursday, half guilty for no good reason, you tell Dieter congratulations on his new television show. You watched it. You liked it. You can’t help but confess it. He calls you after and you don’t answer, still full of some random man’s want. He doesn’t text you back but he hearts the message to show you he’s really seen it.

By Friday night, he’s got you bent over his kitchen table, his body strong, masculine and warm above your own. Whoever that girl was, she isn’t anymore. He doesn’t tell you this, but you know it to be true, for he is Dieter, and Dieter is consistent in his inconsistency.

He fucks into you with ferocity and you know he is trying to amend for some of his sins. The slick, obscene sound of his cock filling you, the way he presses into your shoulder, pinning you forward into the cold, hard table, the soft, guttural moans that he empties into the air—it is a form of devotion, albeit a slightly demented version of it.

It might be a little twisted, what the two of you share. It’s not love and it’s not necessarily friendship, but it is something akin to the ritual of opening one’s palm and sharing blood with another in a fit of childlike devotion. Forever, it yells with violence, but at the end of the day it merely remains a mess only on the surface. You wonder when you will grow out of it and start doing reasonable things.

When he easies out of you, he rewards you for your loyalty and asks if you’d like to watch an old movie – maybe even get high with him. The movie is an old western and the gunslinger dies in the end. The weed makes you tired.

When you wake the next morning, LA sunlight peeking through the blinds, you’re in his bed. His body is turned in the other direction and a lone pillow separates the space between you. You smile at the way this thoughtless man thinks. All your anger dissipates and he is right for you, all over again. —

On Sunday, you’re the tabloid story.

Finally, you’ve been caught in the act. A sneaky camera in the bushes, that lone photographer with a hungry belly and nothing better to do than explode your life. Half of twitter regals you with hate messages and the other half spouts encouragement. People discover you, search the depths of your online existence and find out more than you would like about everything you used to be.

By Monday morning he’s calling you.

“I’m sorry,” comes his hushed, apologetic tone, “I tried to do something about it but you know how those things are.”

You can’t believe this is the first time you’ve ever been caught. Dieter has been your… your whatever since you stretched your acting muscles briefly in 2012. It was that shitty little pilot that didn’t even make it to cable, but you got him, that up and coming actor with an extensive background in theater. You’ve become several different people since then, changing occupations like clothes, and now you sit halfway between writer and unemployed. It’s okay, though. You have money. Once upon a time you were famous too; a child actor who worked too much and didn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t for far too long. Your mother was kind enough not to exhaust your funds. You think instinctively she knew someday you would be this way.

You shrug, coming to. “It’s okay,” you mutter, trying not to think of all the mean things you’ve read. “Hell,” you joke, “Maybe they’ll finally do that revival now. I’m famous again, so why not?”

He laughs too, so easy. “I’m glad you’re taking this okay. I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know but still. It’s shitty and you don’t deserve shitty. One day you’ll wise up to it.”

Betrayal curls up inside of you, makes a newfound home. All the unspoken things between you, and he must bring up this today: the way you do this to yourself. “Not all of us can readily admit to the things we know, can we?” you say evenly. “Listen, Bravo, I’ve got to go respond to some of your fans on twitter now, if you don’t mind. They’re asking for your dick pics.”

You hear his laugh. “Oh, knock yourself out. What’s mine is yours or whatever.”

“I don’t feel similarly, just in case you get the same kind of messages this week.” He doesn’t respond, and you furrow your eyebrows, letting your smile drop. “Dieter?”

“I know what they’re saying—“ he pauses, weighing out his words. “I know they’re not all being kind to you. I’ve seen it, and I’m sorry. Really. If I could do something about it, I would. I’ve been trying,” he repeats, sounding far too exasperated for your liking.

You pick the phone off the counter and turn it off the speaker. No one lives here but you, but some things don’t feel like they should be put out in the open air. “It’s just a photo,” you tell him evenly. “I’ve been in this business longer than you. I know how to handle this.”

“I just don’t want you to think you shouldn’t see me anymore. We can be more careful.”

“Where are you?”

“Wherever you’d like me to be.”

You snort. “God, nowhere near me with a line like that.”

“Oh sorry. I forgot you’re not into that sentimentality bullshit.”

You smile, liking the way his voice has turned from sober to playful in a matter of seconds. “Here I’ve been, thinking you’ve got my number. If you don’t know by now what gets me going—”

“—a good fuck, a single cigarette on a bad day or a drunken night, and most photos of Fiona Apple.”

“Well done, Bravo.”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, but you better make a couple of wrong left turns on the way here for safe measures. Hate for you to get caught with the same woman twice in one week.”

“Oh ha, ha,” he says deadpan. “Unlock your door. I’m outside already.”

—

The public expects you to break. They always have. As you hand Dieter the badly rolled joint, you think about how pleased they’d be to know this is how you spend your time. The little girl wonder grew up just as fucked as they expected, from pigtails to ill suited relationships and drugs during the week. That’s how they’d see it, anyway. You think it’s a little more nuanced than that, but the public hasn’t ever been particularly good at leaving room for it in their judgments.

Dieter sits on the ground between your thighs, his back to your stomach. Your fingers weave their way through his thick, slightly curly hair, catching every now and then on a stray knot. “Fuck,” he mutters when you land on a clump near his ear. You grin, coltish. “Let me cut it,” you tell him.

“I have a girl,” he says as an answer.

You wrap yourself around him, your face on his back. “Always do,” you tease, humming softly.

He covers your arms, allowing you to envelope him. “I’m getting the vibe that you’ve grown a tad bit possessive of me.” You scoff, loosening your grip. He clinches down, trapping you. “I’m like that with you, too,” he adds.

You hear the confession racket through his body, your ear pressing to some part of his rib, and yet you are the one who feels transparent. “That’s fucked up,” you answer simply, unable to find the right words in this state. He’s always too coherent for you when you smoke weed together. It’s better when you just fuck; it’s a language you communicate best in, even when perfectly sober.

“It is fucked up,” he says, setting the joint down on the ashtray. He blows out a cloud of smoke and runs his thumb affectionately over one of your forearms. “And I think in a fucked up way, you enjoy it. I do. I don’t know why — probably something therapy could sort out.” He laughs, though it sounds a bit hollow. “I mean, it makes me miserable. I know when you’re with someone else. I can just feel it. It’s in the way you text me—or the way you don’t text me, actually. You grow so distant and I think ‘This is it. She’s a smart girl, and you’ve done it this time.’ And then, like with Friday, you come back and you let me have my way with you and it’s awful and it’s nasty and yet…” He clicks his tongue, hesitating. “It’s great. I want you so bad I’m…I don’t know. Overcome with it. All the misery leaves my body and it’s just me and you, and it doesn’t feel nasty or degrading, does it? I don’t mean for it to. I just…It feels like I’m on the edge of the rest of my life when I’m with you like that. I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done. And it’s always done, isn’t it? I leave you feeling whole again, like I’ve just righted this terrible wrong.”

“Dieter,” you manage, voice heavy. “You’re a secret romantic.”

“That’s the most fucked up part about it,” he says poignantly. “I think a lot of screwed up people do a lot of the screwed up shit they do in pursuit of love, and yet they can never quite allow themselves to have it. I’d love to stay put but it makes me itch. I don’t know why.”

“Were you parents fucked up?” You lean back. He lets you this time, but he moves back with you, laying his head on your chest.

“Sure,” he responds. “They fought all the time, but most people did back then. I knew they loved each other, though. They liked to dance and they always used to have these lively conversations about everything. They were serious people, to the point that it was almost unserious.

“My mother, she was educated and my father loved to read and watch movies and talk, and I think she fell in love with him because of it, despite the fact he came from a more…less wealthy background than she did. They begged her, her family, to get a prenup but she never even married him, you know? They didn’t care. They just lived together and they were perfectly content with it.”

You stare up at the ceiling, listening. “Why do you say it like it’s over? What happened?”

“I am?” he asks. “I guess I’m talking in past tense, ‘cause that’s where I existed with them, in the past. I don’t speak to them much anymore, not because I don’t want to, but just because life got busy. They’re still together. Probably fighting or having a conversation about something trivial and unimportant right now.” He smiles, filled with fondness and nostalgia. “What were your parents like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried to remember, and I’ve tried to piece it together from what I have, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever could.” You close your eyes. “They love me immensely and they love each other immensely, but things happen. Good and bad things. I’m just their kid.” You shrug. “I feel like a terrible person a lot of the time because of it. Like, what did my mother want from life? Surely it wasn’t me. This. She must’ve wanted something and I’ll never know it.”

“Did she want to be an actress?” he asks curiously.

“No,” you say softly. “She wasn’t the projecting type. I wanted to be an actress. I loved it. She just put me in the theater to keep me busy during the summer and I took off. She encouraged me. She was and is the encouraging type.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s…well he’s there when he’s there and isn’t when he isn’t. I love him and I wonder about him and I feel like I know him more than myself. But I also feel like he’s a perfect stranger.”

“Hm,” Dieter surmises.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” you add. This makes him laugh and you feel it vibrate through you too. It’s so comforting, warm.

“I wouldn’t tell you that,” he says.

“I didn’t even want you to think about it. It's a cheap analysis that men have been pining on women for years. I’d sooner admit to fucking up myself. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t help me any but he didn’t do all the work. I’ve had directors more involved.” You crunch up your nose, remembering. “One of them hated me because of my mom. He had a crush on her and she wouldn’t go with him. I think he’s the reason I have a problem with authority.”

He breathes out through his nose and slaps his hand softly against your thigh, laughing. “For what it’s worth, I do not think you’re terribly fucked up. Just a normal amount, no worse than the best of the most successful. Hell,” he continues, “Maybe even a little better than them.”

You sink back into the sofa, feeling the room move beneath your eyelids. “Dieter, I’m so high,” you whine.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I can’t talk anymore,” you say. “My brain wants me to say things I shouldn’t.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You groan. “Sentences I’ve already said, just worded differently.” The sincerity of your words makes him laugh — so heartily you squeeze his forearm in appreciation. It touches you everywhere, with your chest against his back like this.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, “Just close your eyes and I’ll keep talking.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge him.

But he doesn’t keep talking. The two of you fall asleep right there in your quiet contentment. You enjoy the peace that comes from soul purging confessions.

—

Tuesday afternoon and he’s still with you. It’s a record, almost. If there hadn’t been that five night stint you had pulled together during one particularly lonely holiday weekend two years ago, this would be the longest you’ve ever seen him. It’s certainly the longest you’ve been together and not had sex.

The pungent, sour-sweet smell of marijuana invades your home, clings to your clothes, and makes you feel like the love-sick, abandoned teenager you were at 17. It’s been a long, long time since then, but there’s a quality about Dieter that puts you back there. Tempting as it is to blame on his perpetual immaturity, you know it’s more to do with your own lack of control. The world spins and you spin with it—a fact that you’ve still yet to gulp down bravely and accept—and Dieter merely reminds you of it.

He thumbs through your record collection while you sip gingerly at a Coke on the couch. Under his breath, he whispers the title of albums that have made up your life, ignorant to just how intimate the act really is. Dieter sees a plethora of intricately organized vinyls and you see half your life; it is a collection made up of poor decisions, lovers’ gifts, and tokens of another life. He plucks out a Rolling Stones album and puts it on the spin table.

Domesticity threatens to choke you for a second before Dieter looks in your direction, sloppy grin on his face. “Let It Bleed,” he says, heading in your direction. “It has You Can’t Always Get What You Want at the end. I think it’s better this way, too, because you have to work for it.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes the Coke out of your hands and steals a sip, voice plugged with passion as he says, “Nowadays you can just listen to a song whenever you want but used to, you had to sit through the whole album. We’re losing the art of the music album because people don’t do that anymore.”

You take your Coke back and shake your head. “That’s not true. After David Bowie died, vinyls became popular again. Albums are very much still in.”

“So maybe they are.” He shrugs. “Regardless, I think they’re better this way. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I just want to listen to one song.”

He lays his head on the back of the couch, pouting out his bottom lip in consideration. “You’re angry with me,” he surmises after a moment.

You frown. “No.”

“You’re something with me, and it’s certainly not pleased.”

“I was just saying my opinion.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“I can’t quite reach you in there—“ he points to your head “—so if you want me to do something, or say something, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you tell him evenly. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t,” you repeat, trying to soften out your features. “I’m feeling…I don’t know. Awkward. You don’t stick around this long and I guess it’s making me feel odd. Especially because you haven’t touched me.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening himself. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“Have I ever denied you?”

“No, but I figured you might like to know I don’t mind seeing you with your clothes on too.” He offers you a kind smile and his fingers reach out and intertwine loosely with a few of yours. This is completely uncharted territory that makes your heart beat ferociously against your chest.

You tug him closer and he comes, his body leaning into yours as your lips meet. The shirt he wears is slightly too big on him, and the fabric brushes against your stomach as you open your legs to make room for him. His fingers press into your hips, positioning you beneath him, and you open your lips slightly, permitting him access.

For lack of a better word, you think: Homecoming. But it isn’t. This isn’t home. This is Dieter Bravo, page six, Mr. Half His Age. You smile against his lips and he pulls back. “What?” he says, smiling too. You feel his breath on your face, warm, and you lean up to press your lips to his again. “Nothing,” you tell him, knowing the joke won’t be funny.

He doesn’t seem to mind, allowing himself to be swayed away by the suggestive rock of your hips. He leverages himself with a hand on the back of the couch, and you pull him down, further and further, latching your legs around his waist. He is warm, burning, and as you deepen the kiss, you can feel the way he grows hard above you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, nodding his head up, disconnecting the two of you. Your lips feel rubbed raw, bruised, but you want more. He grunts softly when you press yourself into his cock and you look at each other for one dizzying second. Then he is kissing the underside of your jaw, his large hand palming your covered breast.

You try desperately to figure out how to shed the layers of clothing that separate you but he is quicker on his feet, pushing the college shirt you wear up above your stomach. He puts it behind your head, pinning your arms up. You watch as he licks down your chest, warm tongue flattening between the valley of your breasts. Then his breath ghosts over the nipples he exposes, his long, thick fingers pulling down the fabric of your bra quickly, desperate, hungry. He takes one in his mouth and you squeal.

Dieter isn’t usually patient. He fucks for leisure but never really revels in it for too long, so it surprises you when he licks down the rest of your body, swirling his tongue above the place where the band of your sleep shorts begins. You raise your hips for him and he sheds another layer, but again, just barely. Leaving you in your underwear, he worships you on the way back up, kissing your ankle, your calf, the inside of your thigh, even the place where your thigh meets your cunt. His fingers dig, eager to find skin full enough to grip; breasts and thighs, your hips, your ass when you respond to the hot breath that cascades over your cotton covered cunt.

He presses his hot mouth to you, underwear still in the way, and that’s it, you're ablaze and you are starved, crammed full of lust with an appetite that knows no bounds. You want to bare yourself to him—to spread yourself wide right there, and let him into the wetness of your cunt while you whisper dirty things into his ear. His words from yesterday echo in your mind — I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done — and you think God, that’s it. The pulse point, the center, the raw and unbridled truth. You tear one another apart and it is tender, trusting. You’ve been getting him wrong. Over a decade and yet you’ve miscalculated it all.

He slips aside the fabric of your underwear, licks you, finds you wet and wanting. You are dripping. You feel it, know that his eager tongue is only adding to what his mere presence has caused.

That other man, he was lovely, young, flexible, all calloused hands and the taste of reckless mystery you thought you needed, but Dieter is ritual to you, like waves slapping against the rocks or the slow, inevitable spin of the planet around the sun. It happens and yet the sheer ferocity of the change it brings leaves you shocked. He is the taste of half smoked tobacco, the sweetness of a stolen sip of Coke, the warmth of an almost-orgasm rushing to your head.

His lips are coated with your slick, glossy beneath the warm living room light, but he doesn’t seem to care. He bites down on his bottom lip, pressing the pad of his finger to your entrance. Watching with heavy lidded eyes, he finds it in himself to smirk.

“Dieter,” you pant out, not taking your eyes away.

“You want it?” he growls, voice low and lust-filled. “Beg.”

You don’t hesitate. “Please. Fuck Dieter. Please.”

He sinks it in and the sound of your cunt welcoming him makes you both groan. It’s so deliciously obscene, the entirety of it. Your brain sputters, confused and overwrought, and you think: oh, I would never deny you anything. Never. Never.

His finger curls inside of you and his thumb presses down on your clit, focused and determined, the evidence found in the way his forehead crinkles. You note, even in this state, the way the front of his sweatpants tent and a dark spot where he’s leaked forms. He’s not wearing underwear and his finger is in you, above you, on you. You are warm, a beautiful burning thing around his thick finger. He enters another, says, “Fuck, you are so wet. Look at you.”

You shudder beneath him, a wordless moan escaping as you grip his tattooed wrist. The orgasm wracks through you, leaving you panting, pulling at his hand. So fitting - so ironic - that this is where he would mark himself with the symbol for femininity. Mother nature. That hollow triangle, pointed in the direction of you, sister to the darkened one pointing at him on the other forearm. That one means sun, masculine. They are earthly and complex, harmonic and just right.

Dieter puts his fingers flat on your tongue and you suck your own juices off of him, acidic - sour-sweet. He watches for a moment before he replaces them with his own tongue. There’s more of you there. As you work his sweats below his hips, dragging the fabric across his sensitive cock, he groans deep and you drink it up, hungry for more.

When he pushes into you, he does so with such ease, your body allowing him to sink into you like you’re his home, the missing half. It’s too romantic of a notion for you to carry in real life but somehow, like this, it fits. You crave the truth of it. As he rolls his hips into yours, deep as he can, you pull his shirt over his head and cover his lazy, soft lips with your own. You breathe each other in more than you kiss, bottom lips connected, top lips flirting, and tongues meeting each other as he seats himself fully inside of you.

Dieter is thick, makes you feel full in a decidedly feminine way as grinds himself against you. You clench around him, fingers thrusting into the skin of his back. He nuzzles into your neck, presses wet kisses to the sensitive skin.

You bury your hands in his sexed-up hair, let your body wrap entirely around his frame as he finds a rhythm inside of you. A soft flow of up and down, in and out, lacking ferocity but conveying a desperate need. He drags his cock through you, pierces you with it, and you take it gratefully, eyes shut and senses flooded. When nibble on his ear, you taste the metallic of his lone earring and his breath grows more ragged. “You feel so fucking good,” you whimper, voice high, “I feel you—I feel you everywhere. God your cock—you make me so fucking wet.”

You kiss him fully on the mouth again. Everything feels taut, moments away from being over, and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist. You are one, a complete thing. Then he is pulling you apart before you know it, the twitch of his cock happening precariously inside of you. But he knows himself, well enough to pull out just in time, spilling his warm seed across the canvas of your exposed belly. A wordless sob escapes him and you reach out to hold the forearm he’s moved to the back of the couch again.

This is when it ends, the place where the two of you separate, go your own ways. He will hand you a tissue, wrestle out a pathetic ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ and the illusion will be broken–

“Do you mind if I spend another night with you?” he says, chest rising and falling. He sits back on his knees, looking at the milky white substance on you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. He fingers it and you take it, bringing it to your lips. Dieter offers a lopsided grin, that dimple of his showing again.

“What’s mine is yours or whatever,” you echo his previous words, smiling too.

“That means a lot,” he says.

“More than you know,” you agree, “So don’t fuck it up.”

He presses his lips to your knee, the silence deafening, but you trust him despite it. This is different. He is different. He has to be. Please, you plead silently, running your hands through his hair again, Don’t ruin this for me.

He catches your eyes, smiles softly. “I won’t.”

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble #the bubble fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 1 year

Text

Mm, Daddy Daddy

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Description: Being a student is hard. For your Master's degree, you have to contend with classes, labs, and assignments in addition to feeding yourself. You're treading water coming into the end of the Spring Semester when your roommate tells you she is breaking her portion of your lease and moving in with her new fiancé. You're left at wit's end and you're not sure how you'll make ends meet. Until, that is, a friend and colleague suggests a website called icanbeyourbaby.com. You're not sure what you'll find there, but Jake Seresin is not it. He's everything you've ever dreamed of and more. But can you keep him despite the contract the website insists you draw up? Will this ever be more than a short-term business arrangement? You hope so. Disclaimer: Female Reader, Slight BDSM, Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby Relationship. This is also very clearly an AU! In this universe, Jake is a high flying, jet-setting lawyer, a very successful one. This is a story completely full of adult elements. It is for adults 18+ only. Minors Do Not Interact. Warnings: Reader gets paid for her companionship. This is a Sugar Daddy/ Sugar Baby agreement, after all. Word Count: 4354 Author Note: Hello, hello all you beautiful people! I'm insatiable and you only have @desert-fern to blame for putting this thought in my head. Fern, this one is for you! I hope you'll find yourself a Jake to entice you into studying and call you 'His Good Girl'! 🥰 😘 Also, the real ones know. The title for this fic comes from Sam Smith & Kim Petras - Unholy.

AO3: Cross-posted here! Wattpad: Cross-posted here! Anthology Masterlist My Masterlist

College sucks. You love learning, and you love being surrounded by so many different, amazingly talented people. What sucks is how expensive it is. Even with a scholarship, a roommate, and not one, but two full time jobs, you're just barely making ends meet. You've just gotten out of a double shift from hell when you walk into your apartment to see that Joanna, your roommate, has her boyfriend over. They're making out on the couch, and while you'd love to ignore them, you need to make yourself dinner and then write a ten page treatise on the effects of pollution on bivalves due tomorrow during your last class for your final grade.

Just as you're pulling your last Cup Noodles out of the microwave, making a mental note to buy more tomorrow, Joanna speaks up.

"Hey, Blue." She sounds nervous for some reason. "I'm glad I caught you before you headed to your room for the night."

"Hey, Jo!" You sound about as tired as you look. "What's up?"

"Well…. Austinproposedtomeandisaidyes." Her last words are too fast for your already stressed brain.

"One more time, Jo? Slowly?" You point to your head. "My brain's kinda fried and I didn't get any of that."

"I said, Austin proposed to me and I said yes." She's proffering her left hand out to you and you can't help your own squeal of glee as you examine the ring and congratulate her.

"Umm, you're the sweetest, you know that, Blue?" Why does she sound so sad when she’s telling you such nice things? "I hate to do this to you, but, um. Well, I'm moving in with Austin this weekend. Our landlady is letting me break my part of the lease, so the place is all yours."

You just congratulate her again, and watch as she and Austin retreat to her bedroom. When the apartment is quiet again, you begin to think. You dimly note how the fork in your hands goes clattering onto the countertop as you try to mentally catalog how many extra shifts you'll need to take to make your next month's rent payment and pay for classes at the same time. But no matter how you do the math, it doesn't add up. You'd need to work more hours than there are in the day and you still wouldn't have enough money.

It's a conundrum that continues to churn away in the back of your mind as you slurp down the cold noodles and finish writing your paper. You'll need another roommate, at the very least. But summer break has already begun, and you're not likely to find one. Los Angeles is expensive. You mull it over for weeks, even after Joanna moves out. It's your lab partner at the Marine Institute, a girl named Samantha, who suggests an unlikely idea which might just be the most likely solution.

"Create a profile on this site: icanbeyourbaby.com. It's a sugar daddy/sugar baby site. It's full of older men looking for companionship. I started it a couple of months ago and I don't have to worry about anything anymore." It's true. Sammie doesn't look stressed or tired anymore. Her clothes are all new. You thought she'd just gotten a great job, which is why you'd asked if her boss was hiring. You'd never have expected Sammie with her neon pink and yellow hair, piercings and tattoos to be a sugar baby.

You turn the thought over and over in your head, trying to puzzle another way out of your situation without going into prostitution or living in the campus library out of a duffle bag for the rest of the year. When nothing else comes to mind, you fill out a profile on icanbeyourbaby. You stay as true to yourself as you can, feeling heat in your face and ears at the extremely in depth questions about sexual experience and kinks. Finally, you add a selfie taken recently at a friend's birthday party and hit submit. The congratulations screen is so cheery that you almost immediately want to slam your laptop lid down and curl up under your blankets.

But you don't, because right as you try to, huge cheesy letters spell out "Congratulations, you got a match!" You're then routed into a chat window. You've been matched with a user called longhornlover, and when you click onto his profile, your jaw nearly drops out of its socket.

His name, when you read through the details, is Jake Seresin. He's a lawyer working for a law firm downtown. He's just turned 34, and you can't quote this enough, he "needs a pretty girl on his arm for galas, dinners and parties, who is intelligent and able to keep up a conversation". Is this guy for real? At least the age gap isn't too bad. He's only 11 years older than you. Money is apparently no object and when you've flipped back to the open chat window, he's already messaged you asking you to meet him for coffee.

You can't be blamed for saying yes, right? It's way too easy to sink into chatting with Jake on the app. He's more attentive than every man you've ever spoken to and he gives you butterflies every time he messages you good morning.

The day of your first date, you wear your best dress and walk out of your building, prepared to walk to the bus stop in order to make it to your date on time. You're definitely not expecting the shining blue Porsche idling on the street or the six-foot tall man leaning elegantly against the door. Jake's even more gorgeous in person.

You stammer all over yourself as you greet him and then allow him to help you into the car, and whisk you away. He takes you to a little coffee shop outside of the city. The hostess leads you to a secluded booth and hands you a menu that is a leather bound book with no prices anywhere on the pages. It's quiet as you order an iced coffee and hand the menu back over.

"So, Blue, can I call you that?" At your nod, he continues, "Why did you sign up? What made you consider being a sugar baby?"

"Oh, I, um. My roommate just moved out, I'm working two jobs and I don't know if I'll be able to make rent, my school fees or be able to feed myself now that she's not going to be able to split rent with me." Your voice is quiet, ashamed. You're asking a stranger for money, practically.

"You're in school, your profile said. What are you studying?" He glosses over your shame so easily. Rich people really do have different cares from ordinary people like you.

"I'm at University of Southern California - Los Angeles getting my Masters in Marine Biology and Biological Oceanography." At his inquiring glance you continue, elaborating on the program a little bit. You finish up just as your waitress drops off your coffee, twirling her manicured nails in her hair as she smiles fetchingly at Jake. It's very satisfying to see how he doesn't respond to her at all.

"Thank you for telling me about yourself." He takes a sip of his coffee. "So what are you hoping to get out of this arrangement?"

This is the question you've been asking yourself non-stop for the past few days.

"I'd like to not have to worry about whether I'll be able to eat if I pay my rent and tuition. Or if I'll be able to sleep at night if I work and still have assignments I need to complete." You sip on your coffee, praying that all of your nervous sweating hasn't exposed the raccoon circles permanently tattooed under your eyes. "W-what do you want out of this?"

"I want you to be healthy and happy. And, when I have a company party or event to attend, I want you on my arm, smiling and being just as gorgeous as you are right now." His voice is so soft that the butterflies swarm up your esophagus.

"I can do that. Um, what about, um, sex things?" Your voice drops down to a whisper as you say the last words, sinking into your chair while furtively glancing around to see if anyone heard you.

"That's all up to you. I'd love to be able to call you my girlfriend and lavish a bunch of affection on you, including making you feel good. If that's something you're not comfortable with, then let me know." Jake's green eyes are glimmering with amusement as you stutter out your agreement.

Your eyes go even wider when he fishes an iPad out of his briefcase and pulls out a contract. He goes over every inch of it with you, making changes based on your comfort level, and then you both sign. That's how you became a sugar baby.

At the beginning it was all new and exciting. Jake deposited a quarter of a million dollars into your bank account the next morning, calling it your quarterly allowance. A part of you still doesn't believe that he's real. In the six months since that day, you've gone to no fewer than five parties, dressed to the nines in designer gowns with diamonds dripping off of your fingers, throat and wrists and been swanned around as Jake Seresin's girlfriend.

You love the kisses and possessive grip he has on your waist at those events. But you're at the point in your relationship, and it is a relationship - Jake had shredded the contract months ago, where you want more. You want the sleepovers at his penthouse downtown. You want him to call you his Good Girl and mean it as you bounce on his cock. So you take matters into your own hands. One Friday afternoon you let yourself into his penthouse, glad that at least you have the keys and don't need permission to do so. You set your bookbag down on the leather ottoman in the living room and pad into his bedroom.

Jake's bedroom is your favorite place in the entire apartment. It's all pale wood and glass. His bed sits against the sole wall, a plush pillowy California King that you love taking naps in. You walk into the gigantic walk-in closet and pull out one of his button-down shirts, a pale cream one that you love seeing on his golden skin. The fabric is rich and silky and most importantly, ever so slightly transparent. You strip off all of your clothes and swathe yourself in the silky shirt. The cool fabric has your nipples turning into firm points and as you look at yourself in the mirror, you know Jake's going to love seeing you in his clothes, too.

Then comes the next part of your plan. You settle down on the sofa with a throw over your lap and begin to study. Even though you have seduction on your mind, it's still finals season. Now, you wait. You're completely immersed in your Marine Law class when you hear the door open and Jake walks through the door. He's got a bag of groceries in one hand and his briefcase in the other.

"Hi, doll!" He sounds exhausted.

"Hi, Jake!" Your voice is soft as you wave at him from your blanket burrito on the couch.

"How was your day, baby?" He sounds exhausted. You answer him from the couch, barely noticing him until you feel a kiss press against the side of your head. It's Jake, now dressed in just a pair of sweats with damp hair.

"When did you shower?" You can't help the confusion in your voice as you rub at your eyes from behind the frames of your glasses.

"Twenty minutes ago, baby." You can feel the amusement in his voice. "What're you so immersed in, huh?"

"Marine law." You keep scanning the slides in front of you, ignoring how his hands are tracing across your shoulders.

"Y'know, baby doll, I am a lawyer. So you can ask me for help if you want?" You can feel your resolve flagging as he sets your laptop down, unwraps you slowly from the throw, and tugs you into his lap. His hands trail teasingly over the bar expanse of your thighs, pausing at the junction of your hips, caressing the soft bare skin there.

"What do we have here, Baby Blue?" His voice is deep and velvety as he rucks the shirt up a little, knuckles firm against your bare stomach.

"W-wanted to wear your shirt, Daddy." You can hear the rumble of his voice as he groans, trailing his fingers over your peaked nipples and back down to the apex of your thighs.

"And the rest of your clothes?" He's got a firm grip on each thigh, tugging them apart until your bare pussy is completely exposed.

"I-I took 'em off. Just wanted to be surrounded by your scent, Daddy." Your voice is a mewl as Jake massages teasingly over your clit, the barely there touches sending even more heat coiling through your veins.

"And you decided to be my good girl and study while you waited for Daddy to come home?" His calloused fingers pluck at your nipples with each word.

"Y-yes." Your chest is heaving, your mind going fuzzy and blank as Jake's - no - Daddy's hands rob you of all thought.

"You've been such a good girl, baby doll. D'you want your reward?" The fondness in Daddy's voice has you writhing as his hands open your tight walls up for him.

"Yes please, Daddy! Please!" He lifts you up with one thick forearm before working the sweats down to his knees. Now, you can feel Daddy's cock as it glides over your weeping hole as you wriggle in his lap.

"Come sit on this cock, Blue, baby." He punctuates the order with kisses that steal the breath from your lungs. You love when Daddy kisses you like this. You tug the constricting button down off, and carefully sink down onto his hard length. Daddy's cock is so big and thick that it nearly splits you apart. Each inch has your mouth open in a silent scream, and when he bottoms out, you're sweaty and exhausted. Your skin feels too tight and electric shocks are zipping across every inch that he touches.

Daddy takes pity on you, letting you quiet on his cock, feeling how your walls clench around his length as you settle back against his chest.

"God, look at you, baby Blue. So pretty, my good girl, impaled on Daddy's cock like that." Daddy's big hands cup your tits, and you shudder before melting further into his arms. After several moments, he leans forward, tugging your laptop back onto your lap. "Gotta make sure my good girl is comfy. That she knows daddy is here for her always. Now, you sit here and study. If you're good, I'll fuck you until you scream later."

You're already so wet and aching for Daddy, that it'll be sweet torture to spend so long impaled on his length. His cock is pressing up against all the parts that make you see stars. But you're Daddy's good girl. So you do what he says. The first few pages, you're completely distracted, wriggling around in Daddy's lap, wanting more stimulation. But eventually you fall into a flow state, Daddy's presence comforting.

You lose time. You must, because it's dark when the laptop closes and Daddy peppers kisses across your exposed shoulders. You're still impaled on his length, each thick inch pressing against your walls in the perfect way. You're slow to respond to the teasing caresses, nuzzling against the palm of Daddy's hand sweetly.

"Aww, baby Blue. You're so good for me, doll." Daddy's voice sounds so fond and it makes a small part of you light up. His praise and gentle words make you feel even better than his cock buried in you. When he lifts you off of his length, you sob at the empty feeling, weeping cunt clenching on nothing where it had once been wrapped around Daddy.

Before you can blink, you're splayed out on your back on Daddy's comfy leather sofa. He's crouched between your legs, gazing raptly at your heat as he pets across your hips and lower belly in slow soothing strokes.

"D-daddy?" Your voice is tiny, as you try to swivel and nudge your hips closer to him.

"Yeah, baby doll?" Daddy punctuates his words with kisses against your inner thighs and your mound. Your mind whites out a bit at the pressure as he flattens his tongue over your fluttering, wet slit. His voice is smug as he continues, "D'you want something from Daddy, baby?"

You don't get the chance to respond, though. Between one breath and the next, you're being treated like a steak dinner placed before a starving man. Daddy feels like he's everywhere. His mouth and fingers devour you whole. Your entire body feels like a live wire, warring sensations dancing like electric currents across your skin as the band in your gut winds tighter and tighter. It feels like you're on a tightrope, dangling over a cliff.

Each heaving breath feels like too much and yet not enough oxygen is entering your lungs. You're begging and babbling, tugging on Daddy's hair in graceless sweeping motions as your mind forgets how to move or do anything than be at Daddy's pleasure. It's when Daddy growls against your cunt that you cum, screaming his name as your muscles lock with the force of your orgasm.

When you come back to yourself, it's on the cool satin sheets of Daddy's big bed. You feel wrung out and exhausted, mind floaty even as your limbs struggle to cooperate. You've just managed to sit up when Daddy wanders in, holding a condensation covered glass in his big hand. You make grabby hands for him, smiling as he drags you against his chest as you sip on the cool juice in the glass.

"How are you feeling, baby?" You nuzzle in closer, sleepily peppering kisses across his chest.

"Feel good, Daddy. Y'always make me feel good." The kiss Daddy presses against your lips consumes you body and soul. It takes several moments before you collect your frayed strands of thought.

"B-but, what about you, daddy? Did you cum?" Your voice is soft as you take his length in your hand.

"No, Blue, baby." His breathing hitches with each pass of your hand as you work his length in your fist. "But you don't have ta'...... Ahh!"

Each stuttering breath makes your smile just a little wider. Daddy's so pretty, his tawny mane of hair spread out against the pillow as a flush spreads across his chest. His big hand is curled around your bare hip as you slowly pump his length.

"Doll, are you just going to tease me all night?" His voice is so fond as he tugs you close.

"No, Daddy." You melt into his chest as he kisses you. Each long slow slide of his tongue plundering your mouth has you pressing yourself closer. You kiss your daddy slowly, losing yourself to the touch.

"D'you want something baby?" There are big hands on your hips, stalling every movement as you try and fail to search for friction.

"Blue!" He's laughing now, peppering kisses across your pouting face as you fight to eke some pleasure out for yourself. But no matter what you do, you don't move.

"What're you searching for, huh, baby?" You growl as a result, stilling your hips as you suck kisses down his throat. You relish in the moans pouring out of Daddy's throat, brattily ignoring the teasing path of his hands across your lower stomach and breasts.

It's the sharp sting of a hand on your ass that has you squeaking and your mouth parting from the hickey you'd been leaving on Daddy's neck.

"Oh, baby. Did that sting?" As Daddy's big hands rub over your aching ass, you arch your back and try to nuzzle closer. But all that does is bring your bare skin closer to his mouth. The first wet press of his tongue to your peaked nipples has you moaning. You're so occupied by the dual sensations of the hands kneading your ass and the wet insistent suction of Daddy's mouth on your tits that you barely notice the pinching insistent pressure as Daddy's dick presses into you.

When Daddy finally bottoms out, you're already a drooling mess. This sugar baby arrangement is the best decision you've ever made. Daddy's a million times better than your first fumbling sexual experience in your prom date's pickup. His thick hard length in you has your pussy fluttering and already has you on the edge of an orgasm. When you're tipped onto your back in the sheets and Daddy starts to move, you're completely at his mercy.

Each thrust has you taking Daddy from root to tip. The entire room is filled with the lewd slapping of sweat-slippery skin against skin. Your breaths are punched out gasps as Daddy draws your legs up to his shoulders, holding them securely against his chest with one thick forearm as the other presses insistently against your engorged clit. Each brush of his calloused fingers coats them in your wetness and tips you even further towards your orgasm. You're babbling, hardly able to keep eye contact with the piercing, intent gaze Daddy's leveling on your sweat slicked skin. You cum with a scream, back arching off the bed.

"Aww, Blue, baby. Look at you! Fucked dumb on Daddy's thick hard cock." Daddy sets your legs back down as he pulls out of you and turns you so your back is pressed against his chest.

"You're going to be good, right Baby?" You're grinding your ass back against Daddy's ass unconsciously even as Daddy wraps a hand around your throat. You love having Daddy all over you like this. Even though you just came, you can't help wanting more. He uses the extra leverage to kiss your slack mouth until a thread of saliva stretches between your mouths.

"Daddy's gonna fuck your wet little pussy just like this with a hand around this little throat until you gush for me." His voice slows to a hiss as he teasingly runs his finger through your sensitive folds. "And you, baby. You're going to tell your daddy exactly how good he feels in that pretty little pussy."

You're nodding frantically, but that's not enough for Daddy. He smacks your pussy, tapping it until you're writhing against the steel hold he's got around your waist.

"Y-yes, Daddy! Yes! I can do that!" Your voice is a high pitched keen as you sob your relief at having Daddy buried inside you again.

He starts off slow, keeping the pace teasing as he pulls out of you until just the tip is sheathed and burying himself in you over and over again. Your hands are grasping onto his arms with all your strength, as you let Daddy chase his pleasure in you. His hand is firm against your throat, the pressure making you lightheaded and the sensations setting your blood aflame. With each slap of his hips against your ass you're telling him how good he feels. He's so big and thick you can't help it.

"Blue, baby." Daddy's voice is a purring growl which has your pussy dripping even wetter as your third orgasm builds. This one is going to be even harder than the last one. His hands pinch and tug at the heavy swell of your tits as they bounce with each thrust. "Cum for me, pretty baby. C'mon. You can do it. Cum for daddy."

"Yes, Daddy. Right there! M'so close. Wanna cum on your cock. Please. Please. Please. Please." You're still babbling for permission when Daddy's hands slide down to your clit and massage on the bud in time with his thrusts. When you come, it feels like you've been struck by lightning. You see stars behind your eyes as your orgasm builds and crests, seeming to never end. You vacantly feel Daddy empty himself in your sopping cunt, but that's it.

When you wake up, it's in the big bathtub in the master ensuite. There are hands carefully massaging shampoo into your hair and the water is steaming in the quiet night air. There's a deep relaxation weighing your muscles and bones as you blink yourself awake.

"Hey, Blue. How d'you feel?" It's Dadd- no, Jake, who's making you feel good.

"I feel so good, Jake." You kiss his wrist before turning so you can kiss him. He hefts you into his arms, not caring in the slightest that you're dripping soap and water all over his floor.

"You're back up, huh, baby?" At your nod, he kisses you before continuing. "I know you told me you've never been so far down before. And it definitely wasn't discussed. Was that okay, for you?" He sounds so worried as he sits on the tile with you dripping all over him.

"I'm perfect, Jakey. Perfect. It was everything I needed and more. If you liked it, I'd love to be your Baby Blue again?" You hope he'll agree. You love being Daddy's baby and brat.

"Absolutely, you can. But for the rest of tonight, how about we curl up on the sofa? I made some pasta and garlic bread." He grins at your nod before joining you in the tub again. This? You wouldn't give this up for anything in the world.

"Hey, Blue?" He sounds sated and sleepy.

"Yeah, Jake?" You cuddle closer to him and kiss his skin.

"Move in with me?" He sounds nervous. Like you’d reject him? After everything you’ve built a relationship with him? Not possible. You can’t believe what he’s asking you. You can’t even pretend to think about it. Your mouth runs away before your brain even processes the words screaming, "YES!" while you kiss him until he’s breathless again. This man? You’re going to keep him forever.

Taglist:

@desert-fern 🥰 @mayhemmanaged 🥰 @cassiemitchell 🥰 @thedroneranger 🥰 @cherrycola27 🥰 @roosterforme 🥰 @roostette 🥰 @dakotakazansky 🥰 @bobby-r2d2-floyd 🥰 @sarahsmi13s 🥰 @lovinglyeternal 🥰 @lovingbradshawafterdark 🥰 @mamaskillerqueen 🥰 @chaoticassidy 🥰 @genius2050 🥰

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun smut #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman imagine #hangman smut #reader insert #smut #Spotify

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fun-k-board · 8 days

Note

AAAA YOUR REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!! :3333 could I maybe request CG Storm and CG Rogue? Maybe them and a little reader who’s a bit on the fussy/ tantrum-y side?

Thank you!!!!! ^^ (u probably know who this is but I’m too scared to come off anon 😭)

X-MEN '97 - Little reader who's fussy and tends to have tantrums

SFW INTERACTION ONLY!! AGE REGRESSION IS NOT A KINK!!

Note(s): HEHHE I KNOW!! It's alright tbh I'm terrified of coming off anon too (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)

Powered through writing this because you're cool as hell and I like you! 💪 I don't and didn't really have the most idk 'attentive' family, so I'm not the best judge on how to take care of kids or people in a kids mindset, I may be a little bad at writing for caregivers and age regression in general because of this.

ANNA MARIE DARKHÖLME / ROGUE

'Hey, hey now sugah, let's calm down, you don't want to go in time out and I don't want to send ya. Explain to me why you don't like the food, I'm perfectly alright gettin' you somethin' different, there ain't no need to get upset.'

Anna can sometimes tell when you're about to have a tantrum or become more fussy than usual, even if you tend to take a while to throw a full fit, she'll watch you carefully and try to prevent one from fully forming. Gently kissing you on the forehead and brushing back your hair, asking what's wrong with a worried look on her face.

The moment you start yelling, kicking, or even crying, maybe after ignoring her question, she finds it hard not to just fold and give you what you want, after all, you're just so cute. However, her sense of responsibility and care for you overwhelms her need to coddle you.

Anna will say your name firmly, getting you to pay attention to her, and only her. She'll get a tissue for you and wipe your tears away, and ask firmly what you're sad or angry about and if you could possibly explain it to her.

If you can't verbally, for whatever reason, she'll give you the opportunity to write it on paper or she'll play a guessing game with you, the guessing game is only for when you're extremely upset and need cheering up though.

If you explain, in whatever format you need to, that you're upset because of an issue that's causing you distress, maybe food triggered sensory issues, someone was mean to you, etc, then she'll let you off the hook because you clearly didn't mean to cause any harm and you were just acting out.

Rogue will give you a bit of a talking to, telling you that crying and throwing things makes it difficult to help, but that's about it. Given it's not your fault she isn't actually too mad, she just wants you to understand that she won't know how to help if you're kicking and screaming.

If, however, your outburst was because of a silly reason, say you don't like the colour crayons and you throw them at her, she won't be as quick to accept it and move on.

She's still very sympathetic and won't ever raise her voice at you, even when you've done something especially terrible for no apparent reason.

Anna is very lenient and her 'punishments' usually just include a minute or so sitting in the corner, maybe withholding drawing from you for the day, but she always makes sure to explain in detail why you're being punished and it's usually only a last resort.

Rogue is very sweet even when she's being stern, her eyes can't help but go soft and her tone slips from that firm scolding one she uses when you're being bad, to a sweet almost coo-like baby voice.

Afterwards she comforts you like there's no tomorrow, telling you that she didn't want to hurt your feelings by taking away something or sending you to the corner, but you just need to learn some manners and how to handle yourself.

If you're fussy in terms of only liking clothes of a certain colour, food cut or made in a certain way, or things being done in a particular order, she absolutely doesn't mind doing these things for you! When it comes to cooking Rogue tends to ask for Gambit's help, she's not the worst cook in the world, but she can't do it like Remy can.

When it comes to removing parts of food, maybe you like to remove the crusts of bread and have them separate or not at all, she'll happily cut them off for you and maybe even eat the crusts while talking to you.

Sometimes she matches clothes with you! After all, 'If you like these clothes, they must be the best ones they got!' She says with a grin.

ORORO MUNROE / STORM

'My child, it's important to remember your manners when speaking to those around you. I am not angry, but you must tell me what is wrong if I am to correct my mistake or you are able to grow.'

The moment she notices you starting to throw a tantrum, which is fairly fast even if your signs are just a deep frown, asking you if everythings alright and most of the time avoiding any tantrums before they begin.

However, sometimes you refuse to tell her what's wrong, perhaps you go straight to throwing toys or food, pouting, yelling, in replying she will simply hold a gentle hand on your shoulder and kindly repeat her question on what the matter is. Her tone is gentle and her face is one of genuine concern.

Like Rogue, if you're in distress because of something that's not your fault, or maybe you're just overwhelmed, she will never hold it against you at all. If you're comfortable with it and it's something you need to calm down, Storm will pick you up and give you a tight hug, if not, she's alright with just holding a hand on your shoulder, or even removing her hand and only speaking to you.

Ororo will get on one knee, bending down to speak to you in a hushed whisper, she'll tell you that it's all okay, that she'll help you and make it better, give you different food, turn off the lights, whatever you need, she can give it to you.

However, if you're just being fussy to perhaps get a reaction out of her, she'll raise her brow in an almost amused action, as if she finds your attempts to be aggravating as cute as a cat nibbling on its owner's hand. If you're throwing a fit just to throw one, she will definitely tell you sternly that you cannot do such things, at least not in her care.

I don't think that Storm is the type to use the corner or naughty step as a punishment, after all, she has her own fear of tight, dark places, you may fear loneliness, or abandonment, she does not wish her own troubles onto a mind like yours.

Instead, she talks to you, more importantly, she'll help you figure out what you did wrong, how to improve next time, and reflect on her own actions to see if the trouble was caused by a mistake on her part. It won't be an in depth conversation, she tends to use stuffed animals as an aid to show you an outsiders perspective.

If you're struggling with saying your words out loud, never fear, she has tons of paper and crayons, or pencils, pen, markers, etc if that's what you prefer, just for you! She keeps them in her room for whenever you regress and want to keep near her when doing so.

Ororo will advise you to draw your feelings, maybe even write a letter if that's more what you're comfortable with. She doesn't mind bad spelling or handwriting, she's quite good at deciphering even the most atrociously unintelligible handwriting.

At most, and only if you've been really bad, she'll lead you to your room, or hers, just to make sure you don't get embarrassed and act out further. Storm will tell you what you did wrong as firmly as she can so that you'll understand. It's only a light scolding though, she never ever raises her voice when you're around unless you need or want her to.

If she ever does raise her voice and it startles or frightens you, she will apologise, regardless of if you've done something wrong or not. It's never her intention to harm you, you've entrusted her to care for you and she will do anything in her power to achieve that goal.

If your fussiness is about certain clothes, textures, toys, etc, she absolutely doesn't mind exclusively getting you certain clothes or toys, and she won't be angry at all if you throw a tantrum over texture or taste, because she's fully aware it can be distressing to have an unfavourable texture of clothing of food.

Ororo will always ask questions about something before she gets it for you, after a while she knows pretty much all of your likes and dislikes.

She's a great cook and can switch the taste or texture in something with just a flick of her wrist, something she doesn't mind doing, especially if the food she's already making is something that causes a lot of stress.

38 notes · View notes

33max · 8 months

Text

Thank you to everyone that participated, we managed to bring twenty two wonderful pieces of fic/art into the world!

Please show the authors/artists some love for all of their efforts, comments and kudos make everyone’s day ♥️

All you need is love and some cats by Astron03

“I think Teddy is finally getting used to the flat.”

One sentences was enough to completely break Daniel's world.

A story of misunderstandings and some olympic level jumping to conclusions.

Comfortable in chaos by winhighmaintenancemachines

Max and Lewis know the terms that they both deal in, the choices they make every day. Their whole world is walking on a spider’s thread.

Or, the NICU doctor/nurse au.

De Sebly (Part 2) by @miesgaga

Most people only meet one soulmate goose with a connection to them. Soulmates were sometimes romantic and sometimes platonic. Family bonds happen too, but those were rare.

Max met his goose, fell in love and felt like his life couldn't get better.

This is not that story.

Max meets his second goose, this is that story.

GBB Server Exchange by anangelwillfly

Headspins by @albertparks

“I do have feelings for someone else though.” Max’s comment breaks Daniel from his thoughts. “I broke up with her because of it.”

Daniel’s gobsmacked at first, before saying, “Who is she, Maxy?”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but now it’s his turn to be nosey, to put his beak in business that isn’t his. Max has never been single for long, he can’t imagine now would be any different.

Except Max says, “It’s a man. And it doesn’t matter.”

I don’t get much sleep most nights (I’m seeing you in every dream) by @enjoythebutterflies

In the real world, Max is well-versed in breaking more than just records.

The one where Max and Daniel dream.

in paper rings by @thewindowatkirkland

"Maxy I would fly to Vegas with you tomorrow and pay some guy dressed as Elvis to marry us. I don't care about any of this crap, I don’t care about anything other than you being happy and us being married. I thought you wanted all this, but if you don’t, then fuck it all."

And Max just has to kiss him, hard and fast and certain before he says "okay, let's fucking do it. Let's go, tomorrow. just me and you and a fake Elvis."

OR: after a ten year engagement and with an extravagant wedding all planned out, they decide to elope to vegas instead.

It was written in the stars, but you erased it by @formula-maxiel

Max was twelve when his father had his soul mark removed. He had no idea how much anguish it would cause him.

Let me guide you by @waddlingpenguin

Max learns something about himself.

Daniel is more than happy to indulge.

listen to the slow parts by winhighmaintenancemachines

Neither Max or Daniel are the one to find the baby. That honor belongs to Christian, and Christian alone.

lock it up by @33max

Max is in their bed frantically humping a pillow that he’s folded in half. He’s shoved his little dick into the crease of it and he’s rabbiting his hips, he’s not got the equipment to properly thrust – if he pulled his hips back too far his cock would slip out of the fold.

the meaning of a flower by @meecamille

silly cute fluffy stuff led me to flowershop and hopeless romantic boys.

of angels and demons by @shitferraristrategy

Daniel loves to corrupt his little angel~ <3

platinum trophy by togenkyo

Fame, fortune, fortitude: For the man who has everything, what's left?

postcards from the past by @thatsapodium

I’ll send you another postcard soon. Miss you, love Max

A selection of postcards from the time Max backpacks across Australia.

Punch it! by @stardust-speedway6

An animatic of Lando and Max.

Max admonishes a punching bag.

Static by @chaoticzoomies

Walking into the Red Bull garage that Friday something felt off but Max couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling but just slightly off kilter, like someone had shifted things a few centimetres to the left. As he rounded the corner to the operations desk it clicked.

stay in for the summer (it's quiet, i'm trying) by @33and3

Take me to the Water by @fricative-pharyngiale

Still, he yearned for more, for everything Daniel could give him and then the rest too, his greediness all-consuming until it was all he could feel. He wanted to be the muse of every song Daniel wrote, so that they would be immortalised together. He wanted to take his poet to the river and drown him in his waters, keeping him close forever. He wanted to let his body liquefy so Daniel could drink him entirely, not a single drop left behind. He wanted to drain him of his blood and replace it with water from his river so they’d be the same, always.

A series of vignettes about nymph Max and his poet

The Tale of Max Verstappen by @danielfuckingricciardo

During the summer break, Max and Daniel take a trip to the Lake District to spend some time together alone.

When Max suggests they visit the Beatrix Potter museum, Daniel is only happy to take him on a date and treat him to a gift.

until I hear it from you by @fourmula1

DeuxMoi (also stylized Deuxmoi or @/deuxmoi) is a pseudonymous Instagram account which publishes celebrity gossip.

with the right amount of sugar by flyingkageyama

Max only wanted to find solace in one of the coffee shops he knew was a few miles away from campus, he didn’t expect one of the employees with a crappy drawing of a honey badger on his name tag to come try and get him to talk about his problems.

#gbbserverexchange #please do me a solid and reblog the fuck outta this!#everyone worked SO hard!

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foxy-eva · 2 years

Text

Daring & Decent

Summary: After getting teased about his girlfriend’s profession, Spencer feels insecure and needs her to show him that he is everything she needs.

Request: what if you wrote something like Spencers dating an actress and she does ✨ those✨ kind of scenes and when Spencer introduces reader to the team there kind of judgmental kind of like embarrassing the reader and it's kind on angsty but then it has a fluffy ending

Author’s Note: I couldn’t imagine the team being judgemental, so I made the story more lighthearted and had so much fun writing it!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff, Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI), a hint at S1E18, mild embarrassment, mentions of sex scenes in movies, Spencer is a bit insecure and gets teased (lovingly), heavy kissing, oral (fem receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

Word count: 3k

Masterlist

It has always been so interesting to me, the way a bunch of coincidences could lead to lives changing completely. I wasn't even supposed to be at Caltech that day but I had forgotten a book I needed to study in one of the lecture rooms. When I entered I expected to see my professor preparing for class but instead I was walking into a very handsome curly-haired man.

I was very confused when he told me that his lecture wouldn't start for another hour until I realized he must be the guest speaker from the FBI I had overheard the other students talking about the other day.

I was mesmerized by this man and decided to use my acting skills for something other than paying for my college tuition. Somehow I convinced him that I came early to talk about his lecture (without even knowing what it would be about) and he excitedly started telling me about it.

It didn't take more than two minutes for me to decide to stay for the whole duration of his talk because I couldn't get enough of listening to this man. When the class started, I learned that his name was Dr. Spencer Reid, a handsome man who I would soon call my boyfriend.

It was a bold move to hand him a piece of paper with my number after he was done with the class and the majority of the students had left. It was an even bolder move of him to gently grab my arm to hinder me from walking away. When he muttered that he would really like to have coffee with me right then, I knew I was doomed.

So what followed were a lot of flights between DC and LA, seemingly endless phone calls and weekends that would always be too short. We fell head over heels for one another and forgot about everything and everyone when we were together. There were just the two of us with lips hungry for kisses and skin needy for touches.

Spencer was quick to hint that he would be willing to give up his career to move to California if I wanted to pursue my profession as an actress. I appreciated his offer but it has always only been a way for me to make enough money to live a comfortable life while taking my time to get a college degree. It had never been that serious for me, which is why I wasn't really disappointed that I had never landed a job for larger productions.

Moving to DC after graduating was an option I really liked the more I thought about it. So it was only natural for me to spend more time there, slowly starting to feel at home within the dark green walls of Spencer's apartment. It was clear to me that he enjoyed having me around as well when he started showing me all his favorite places in the city he had called his home for several years now.

However, when he suggested introducing me to his friends I was more nervous than excited about it. I had no idea how much they knew about me and whether all those very serious and hard working FBI agents would take an actress and long-term student seriously. Spencer assured me that they would be kind and tried to calm my nerves by saying that they may have even seen one of my movies. Little did he know that this prospect made meeting them even more terrifying.

So when I got ready to meet Spencer's friends at one of those famous dinner parties he always talked about, I had to change my outfit several times because nothing I owned seemed appropriate. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked myself up and down, almost jumping when my boyfriend appeared behind me.

"You look stunning," he whispered while placing a soft kiss on my cheek.

"I do? This isn't too… tacky?"

Spencer shook his head and chuckled, "You couldn't look tacky even if you tried."

"Clearly you haven't seen all my movies."

He was confused at my reaction, reminding me, "Only because you don't want me to! I'd be happy to spend the rest of my life only seeing you. In real life and on the screen."

He was right, I didn't really want him to watch my movies. I knew he had watched one or two when we started dating but he stopped when I told him that I thought it was weird.

"I just really want your friends to like me and not think less of me because I don't have such an important job as you guys," I confessed.

With a firm grip on my shoulder, he turned me around to look at him. His facial features softened when he noticed my worried look. Gentle fingers brushed over the side of my face while he spoke.

"You may not save lives but acting is a form of art and how triste would life be if we didn't have talented people creating art for the pleasure of others? My team sees how happy you make me. That's all that matters to them. They will love you just the way you are."

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I found his lips in a tender kiss before mumbling, "Thank you."

When we stepped into David Rossi's house, it felt like I was welcomed into a loving and kind family. They were all so nice and genuinely happy to finally meet me. Spencer had apparently not told them much about me, so it was to be expected that they would ask about my job at some point.

"So, what do you do for a living?" JJ wanted to know after David had served all of us a little aperitif.

"Well, I'm trying to get a college degree at Caltech but acting has been taking up most of my time lately."

I looked into several faces with raised eyebrows. I feared I would find judgemental expressions but they actually looked impressed.

Derek, however, found this newfound information about me amusing. “You’re an actress? I can see a pattern here, pretty boy.”

“Shut up, Derek,” Spencer snarled at him, his reaction confusing me.

I looked at both men while noticing the others snickering. Raising my eyebrow, I wondered, “What’s that about?”

Derek filled me in on the missing information, “Lover boy here used to date Lila Archer a couple of years ago.”

“We didn’t date! We just… spent one night together,” my boyfriend protested.

He flashed me a worried look, as if to silently apologize to me. It was surprising that he had crossed paths with an actress like her, but we both had lives before we met. I winked at him and laughed, “I can’t blame you. She’s gorgeous.”

That seemed to calm his nerves a bit. Derek, however, still wanted to know more about me. “So an actress, huh? I knew you looked familiar. I’m sure I have seen some of your movies.”

Shaking my head, I brushed him off, “I doubt it. I have only done low budget indie movies so far.”

“No, no, I’m sure I have seen one of them. I have seen your face before. I just can’t remem–… Oh.”

That was when he remembered that he had seen a lot more than just my face. Derek didn’t have to say which one of my movies he had seen, I recognized his look. He had just realized that he had seen me naked on the big screen. I wasn’t ashamed of any of the movies I starred in, in fact, I was proud of my work. But still, I would have preferred not having this conversation right now.

Derek playfully nudged Spencer’s shoulder with his fist, chuckling, “Wow. You’re a lucky guy, Reid.”

“You know that was just acting, right?” I tried to remind him.

Spencer was looking very confused, clearly having no idea what kind of movie we were talking about.

Before he asked, I explained, “I played a high-end escort in one of my movies and did a lot of.. spicy scenes.”

That was downplaying it a little. I was practically nude for eighty percent of the film.

Despite Spencer obviously being uncomfortable with this conversation, Derek still didn’t let go, “I gotta say… you were very convincing in that role.”

Without thinking about it, I giggled, “Yeah I know, I'm really good at faking it!”

My boyfriend stared at me with wide eyes and panic clearly visible in his look. It was then that I realized what I had just implied. Derek decided to throw more salt into the wound by teasing him some more, “Not so lucky after all, huh.”

Spencer’s cheeks turned red and I noticed how little droplets of sweat formed on his forehead. He clearly didn’t know what to say. In an attempt to soothe him, I sincerely told him, “But of course there’s no reason to fake it with you.”

"Wow, you really are a great actress!" Derek laughed.

Before either of us could react to that, David announced that dinner was ready to be served. Spencer seemed relieved when the conversation finally shifted to something other than his ability as a lover. However, I had a hunch that this conversation would still be on his mind for longer than I would have liked.

On our way home from the party Spencer was uncommonly quiet. It didn't take a profiler to notice that something was off and I had an idea what this might be about. Still, I needed to make sure.

"Do you feel weird about me doing sex scenes in movies?"

That wasn't the best way to break the silence but I didn't feel like tiptoeing around this issue. I really needed to know. Spencer averted his eyes from the road for a moment to look at me with raised eyebrows. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. After taking several deep breaths, he finally started to speak without daring to look at me.

"I mean… I don’t love that other people see you naked, but I know that’s part of your job. It's just that… Morgan got into my head earlier."

Before I could react to that, he continued, "But that's not your fault. I'm sorry, I'm being weird."

My fingertips made contact with his thigh, gently squeezing it to get his attention. When he looked at me, he found me softly smiling at him.

"I don't think you're being weird. What can I do to make you feel better?"

Spencer sighed, "I just want to get home and cuddle up in bed with you."

When we got to his place, it quickly became clear that cuddling wasn't the only thing Spencer yearned for. His hands were on me before I had a chance of closing the door to his apartment. I welcomed his eagerness, enthusiastically reciprocating his touches while we clumsily stumbled into his bedroom.

We helped each other shed the outer layers of our clothes until we landed on his bed wearing only underwear. Spencer's urgency grew once he had access to my skin, his fingertips dancing along the curves and dips of my body while his lips explored my neck. My hands found their home in his unruly curls, gently tugging on them whenever I craved to hear him whimper.

It didn't need much for me to feel like I would burst into flames soon, his fingers burning against my skin while heat was rushing directly into my core. From the first time I had been with him, he had this ability to make me forget all my surroundings, only having eyes for him.

When his mouth found mine in a passionate kiss, I couldn't help but press my body against his, desperate for him to give me all he had to offer. His hand found my chest and a loud moan rolled over my lips. It was then that I noticed him suddenly becoming more hesitant. His touches were light against my skin while his kiss got more timid than I would have liked.

When I leaned back to look at him, I found a crease between his eyebrows, giving his current state away.

"Is everything okay? We can stop if you want," I offered.

It was clear that he was contemplating what to say, the crease between his furrowed brows becoming more prominent. Where I had expected to find eyes filled with lust moments before, I only saw a look like a doe caught in headlights.

"Are you… are you really into this?" He finally dared to mutter.

"Yes, of course I am. Why would you doubt that?"

He let out a loud sigh and averted his eyes from me. "It's such that… you said, you were good at… faking it. So how do I know this is real?"

The fact that someone like him would doubt his own abilities made me smile. I understood that he needed reassurance and I would spend the rest of the night giving that to him if he needed me to. My fingertips gently brushed over his cheek before finding his hand that was resting on my hip.

Slowly I guided his palm down my body while whispering, "I know, I'm a good actress but do you really think I could fake–" I paused and helped him dip his fingertips beneath the waistband of my panties where he found me practically dripping with desire, "-this?"

Once he made contact with my slick folds, his pupils instantly got larger, dilating until the gold of his irises was almost gone. It took him a moment to grasp what was happening, so I encouraged him, "Please make me feel good. I need you, Spencer."

He didn't make me wait any longer, letting his fingertips glide through my slit and pressing against my most sensitive spot until I couldn't stop the moans and sighs from escaping my throat. Right before my legs started shaking, his hand left my center, making me whine in protest.

"I have to taste you," he breathed as he kissed his way down my body.

He rid me of the remaining pieces of clothing and found his home between my thighs. With a smirk he looked up at me, certainly finding a desperate expression on my face.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded.

"Please…"

He was still hovering over my body, his face mere inches away from my heat.

"Do you want me to make you come?"

The sudden burst of confidence shocked and excited me at the same time. With wide eyes I stared at him, unable to form words. When it became clear that he was waiting for an answer, I somehow managed to get my lips to form an almost silent "Yes."

"Okay, but you better find your voice again. I wanna hear all those beautiful sounds you make," he chuckled.

With just enough pressure he let his tongue glide through my folds before focussing his attention to the bud of my crevice. I started singing his praise in the forms of whines and sighs and he hummed in delight. When he pushed two of his fingers into me, my whole body started to tremble. It only took a few more moments for him to push me over the edge, making me clench around his fingers as I found relief.

Spencer sat up between my legs and locked eyes with me. The proud grin I found on his face made me laugh.

"See? There's no need for me to fake it with you," I giggled.

Hurried and ungracefully, he pulled down his underwear and laughed, "I think I'm not completely convinced yet."

I welcomed his body on top of mine with open arms, mumbling, "Then let me show you," against his lips while reaching between our bodies to guide him into me.

The sensation of having him inside of me, stretching my walls just the way I liked it, made me hum in excitement. I was still sensitive from my previous high, so it wasn't surprising that the tension in my belly quickly built again with his slow and steady thrusts. His eyes were glued to my face, watching my reaction to his motion.

"God, you're so beautiful," he groaned while accelerating his pace.

With my arms around his neck I pulled him down for a kiss, our bodies becoming one while we chased the sensation of pure bliss. Even though he seemed to be focussed on my enjoyment, Spencer couldn't hide how good I made him feel too. It felt like his groans and whimpers would rush through me like lightning, leaving a tingling sensation in my body.

When he got dangerously close to his breaking point, he propped himself up on one arm and reached the other one between our bodies until he could press his fingertips firmly against my bundle of nerves. With a few tight circles I reached my peak, my wall pulsating around his hardness.

His movements became erratic until he halted at my deepest point to find release, sharing his warmth with me as he collapsed into my arms. After evening out his breathing, he peppered my face with little kisses before we had to go get cleaned up.

When we cuddled up in bed once more, Spencer held me close against his body and let his palms glide over my skin in soothing patterns. I found his lips in a tender kiss before leaning back to look at him.

"I hope you believe me now?" I asked with a playful tone in my voice.

He thought about it for a second before a smug grin formed on his face. "Yes, for now. But I might need a little more convincing in a bit."

"Anything for you," I laughed before my lips found his once more.

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feelmyskinonyourskin · 1 year

Text

Rate My Professor (Matt Murdock x Reader)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Matt is an adjunct professor at Columbia - teaching a few legal classes a week between his pro-bono career and being Daredevil. You Karen, Marci, and Foggy read Matt's online reviews from students, most of whom are more interested in looking at him than actually learning. You're jealous about it. Professor Murdock assures you that you're the only one for him.

Notes: 18+. Smut with plot. No use of Y/N. Female reader (use of girlfriend and female anatomy.) Established relationship. Use of pet names (sweetheart.) Semi-public sex with a little exhibitionism, Unprotected sex, Very clothed sex, Oral (f receiving), P in V, Creampie, and Possessiveness from both Matt and Reader. Professor Murdock, which is a warning in itself.

WC: 3350

“I don’t think I really want to know.” Matt exclaimed

“Oh c’mon it’ll be fun. I’m sure you’re a great teacher! I bet there’s not a single bad review on there!” Karen replied

How you all had ended up on the subject was innocent enough - Marci had mentioned a new intern had started that week at her firm. The intern in question had just graduated from Columbia and was a student of Matt’s last year. According to Marci the intern had “only great things to say” which led you all to talking about favorite professors, which had then subsequently led into the current topic. So now here the five of you were, in the living room of yours and Matt’s shared apartment on what was supposed to be a friend’s game night, looking him up on RateMyProfessors.com.

“I agree with Matt, this could be a bad idea. I really loved to dig into my professors on this site when I was in grad school and I was not kind.” you responded from your spot on the floor, full well knowing you were going to join the group in reading Matt all of his reviews anyway.

“We get feedback from the end of semester surveys, I really don’t think I need more!” Matt protested from beside you

“Yes, but your admin filters it out for you to keep it constructive! And you know the students know it’s not totally anonymous, so they hold back! I bet they’re way more honest on here.” Foggy argued back

The four of you scrolled through your phones, looking for Matt’s name on the long list of Columbia faculty.

“Oh wait, wait, I got it! Here we go…” Foggy said as he had all but jumped up from the sofa, his phone having loaded the review page first

“Mr. Murdock is an excellent teacher - his lectures are succinct and to the point and give great insight on the real world arguments made for the law. His class is easy to pay attention to, though who is to say if that’s the subject or how easy Mr. Murdock is to look at.” Foggy’s voice trailed off as he got to the end, not realizing where the statement was going

There was a moment's silence where tension hung in the air before you, Karen, and Marci all burst into a fit of giggles and shrieks.

“It does not say that!” Matt replied

He grabbed for Foggy’s phone, even though he wouldn’t be able to see the screen that his best friend was reading.

“Um, it totally does, and it’s not the only one.” Karen said as she scrolled

“I found Professor Murdock’s class really challenging - particularly his grading. But when your professor is as hot as he is, I find it hard to complain. I wonder if he goes as hard in the bedroom as he does with grading term papers.”

Marci’s jaw flew open in scandal as Matt just continued to shake his head.

“Care to confirm?” Foggy asked you

“Well I’ve never written him a term paper, so I’m not sure...” you teased

“Oh wait! I found a good one too!” Marci interjected

“Mr. Murdock is unbelievably attractive - honestly just take his class even if you’re not pre-law. Just to look at him for two hours, twice a week.”

“Tell me there’s at least one that doesn’t mention my appearance?!” Matt asked with a huff

“This one mentions how hot they think your voice is when you say ‘According to the First Amendment and the precedent laid out in Tinker v. Des Moines’ so technically no mention of your face or body, just your sexy man-voice.” you responded

Matt laid his head down on the coffee table and groaned. He was hoping the ever changing glow of the billboard outside would mask the pink tint inevitably creeping up his cheeks and onto the tips of his ears. He could feel the heat of his blush spreading and didn’t want to give you guys another thing to tease him about tonight.

“Okay okay. I think I found a real one.” Foggy reassured his friend

“I really loved taking Mr. Murdock for Constitutional Law 101. He really knows what he’s talking about and facilitates really great discussions in class. I just wished he used more visual aids.”

“How am I supposed to use visual aids when, ya know?” Matt gestured towards the red tinted glasses, which covered his unseeing eyes.

“Oh no wait, I didn’t scroll enough, they then went on to say ‘But I guess when you look like that, you are the visual aid.”

“Okay. Can we please stop this? I pride myself on how hard I work to make an instructive and professional learning environment and I’m not loving that this…” he gestured to his face and down his body “Is what everyone is focusing on.”

“I mean, I might be biased, but I certainly don’t blame them Matty.” You teased, giving him a quick peck on the cheek

As much fun as you were having with your friends at your boyfriend’s expense, there was a slight pang in your chest. The small bubble of nausea in your stomach wasn’t just because you were waiting on your take out delivery and hungry, but also at the thought of other people thinking about your boyfriend that way. Surely, he had mentioned that he had a serious, live-in girlfriend to his students? Certainly, he had toned down the charming smile and flirty banter (that made you fall so in love with him in the first place) while he was interacting with a bunch of young co-eds whose minds he was supposed to be shaping for the future?

Of course it’s all fine, you thought. Matt is an astute professional educator and lawyer. He’d never cross that boundary and he’d never even consider anyone else but me, let alone a student, you mentally spoke to yourself, trying to find some reassurance.

But the feelings of insecurity still gnawed at the back of your mind.

Once dinner had arrived and more wine had been drunk, the conversation had moved on from Matt’s online admirers to other topics.

But even as you and Matt said your goodnights to your friends and got ready for bed, you couldn’t push down the feelings of insecurity and jealousy now planted in your thoughts.

_________________________

A few days later, you were sitting on the 1 train, traveling up to Columbia’s campus. You had just finished a long day of meetings at work. After you had lamented a little bit to Matt via a mid-morning phone catch up, he had suggested meeting up and grabbing dinner near campus when he was done with his Thursday evening class.

“We can have a date night and you can vent.” he said

You shuffled your way through campus to one of the law school buildings, weaving down the carpeted halls until you made your way to Matt’s office. If one could even call it an office. As an adjunct, he got stuffed into a glorified broom closet in a quiet corner of the building.

The door was slightly ajar when you arrived and you pushed it open further, giving it a soft knock as you did.

“Matt?” you called out gently

You knew he could detect your scent and your heartbeat as soon as you stepped on campus, but still didn’t want to startle him in case he was too focused on something else.

Matt was sitting behind his desk with a rather serious look on his face. There were some papers scattered across it and the blueish glow of his computer screen illuminated his focused expression in the otherwise dim room. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his forearms and his hair was slightly disheveled after a long day of teaching. One headphone hung in his left ear as he listened to his computer dictate a term paper. His glasses rested on top of the papers, long ago discarded from his face.

“Hey sweetheart!” his expression softened as soon as you stepped into the room and shut the door behind you “I thought those were your heels I could hear down the hall.”

He stood from his chair and pulled the headphone out of his ear as he shuffled out from behind the desk, reaching to embrace you.

You returned the sentiment with a hug and a quick peck on his cheek.

“Hey, so I’ve got about 20 more minutes where I have to be here for my office hours, then we can head to dinner. Sound good?” he asked

“Yeah. I can go hang out somewhere else if you need me to.” you offered

“No, no.” he waved your statement off as he returned to his seat and gestured for you to sit as well

“Most students don’t show up this late. I just get in trouble if someone comes by during my posted hours and I’m not here. Was just using this time to get a head start on grading, but we can start catching up on your day now if you want.”

You flopped down in the chair opposite him.

“You sure none of those girls who gave you glowing reviews aren’t gonna swing by for an evening chat?” you jested, bringing up the subject for the first time since that evening with friends

The statement came out more spiteful than you intended.

Matt sighed and dragged a hand down his face to rub his chin.

“I knew that bothered you. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked

“Cause it’s not important.”

“That’s not true.” he argued

“I mean it’s not like you meant for it to hurt me. You didn’t even want to read them. And besides, it’s not like you can do anything about it. You can’t control what they write online about you and your damn sex appeal. Unless you’re being flirty with students and letting them think… ”

“Sweetheart, you know that I would never.” he reassured

“I know. I’m just worried. Like not a lot, but it’s just that little thought in the back of my mind. But it’s stupid. You know, just worried that someone comes to one of your classes and is smart and brilliant and younger and fitter and prettier…”

“No, no, no.” Matt brought his hand up and waved it, cutting you off

“You’re the only one for me. I promise. Look, I don’t give a damn what a bunch of random college girls think of me. You know how many times one of them hangs around after class and instead of asking questions, they try and stupidly flirt, and you know what I say to them?”

“What?”

“I lie and use you as an excuse to get away. I usually go with ‘sorry, I’m meeting my girlfriend for dinner,’ or ‘gotta run, my girlfriend is calling me.’”

“Do you really?” you giggled

In a much better mood, you rounded the desk to his side. You bent down, placing a hand on each armrest of the worn leather chair, caging him in. You rested your forehead against his.

“Yeah. I didn’t hear your review on that stupid site, and that’s all I care about - you and what you think of me. None of them will ever compare to what you and I have. I promise, I’m not going to ever let anything tear that apart.” he reassured

You leaned forward more and met your lips with his - softly, but with passion and intention behind the kiss. He lingered for a moment before you pulled back just enough to look into his unfocused eyes.

“You know. Not many heartbeats in this building right now. None on this floor but ours.” He spoke lowly

Calloused fingers began to dance up your thigh, toying with the hem of your pencil skirt.

“What are you suggesting Professor Murdock?” you whispered back

“I’m suggesting that I use the next 18 or so minutes to prove to you that I’m yours and only yours.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst use of time. But you’ve gotta use your bat-hearing and make sure we don’t get caught.” you said

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” he replied with a smirk

This time it was he who kissed you, with much more fervor. He didn’t break the kiss as he stood and slowly pushed your shoulder so that your bottom met the hard edge of his desk.

His tongue danced along your bottom lip, begging for you to allow the kiss to go deeper. And you did. You let him cup your face with both hands as his mouth moved from your lips, across your jaw and down your throat, then back up to your lips again.

Slotting himself between your thighs, he moved his hand back down to your skirt. You took the cue and stood a little, just enough that he could shimmy it up your body so all the material gathered at your waist. The rough wool material felt like sandpaper on his sensitive skin, but he knew the softness of your flesh would relieve that discomfort soon.

You sat back down on the desk edge, as Matt began to kneed at your thighs.

He worked his way up, until his thumb hovered over your clothed core.

Four circles of his thumb on your clit was all it took to make your eyes snap shut and a feral moan to escape from you into his pouty lips that hovered over yours.

“Please Matthew, don’t tease.” you begged in a desperate prayer

He let out a huff in protesting agreement. He tugged at the waistband of your panties. You maneuvered yourself until he removed them and tossed them somewhere amongst the paperwork beside you.

He dropped to his knees, similarly to how he did every Sunday at mass, but today you were his sacred worship and your moans his hymns.

Patience was not a word in your vocabulary tonight, as your hand flew to his hair to give a quick tug as soon as he made contact with the floor. He began to lick and nip his way up your thighs, making sure to arrive at your opening quickly.

His tongue met your clit and he wasted no time, licking and sucking at your sensitivity.

The soft exhale you released in sweet relief filled his ears. He chased after the sound, wanting to hear more breathy moans from your perfect lips. All caused by him. You bucked up into his mouth a little, a silent beg for more.

And he was happy to oblige.

A softly whispered “Matthew” escaped your lips, though you were so lost in him, it didn’t even feel like you were the one who said it.

It was enough to break his resolve, as he pulled away from you and stood once more, wiping the remnants of you off his chin.

His breath caught behind his teeth as you reached out to toy with the buckle of his belt.

He needed you. Now.

He fiddled with the top buttons of your blouse, opening it just enough so that he could reach in and massage at your breasts. Finally, you undid enough of his pants for him to free himself.

He kissed you, now more desperate than before. Tasting yourself on him only made you more incoherent.

“Lean back.” he managed to moan between teeth and tongue clashing

You did as instructed and propped yourself up on your elbows.

His mouth moved down to your neck, where he let out a hot breath as he pushed inside you.

The pace he began with was sinfuly slow, allowing you the time to take in every moment, every drag of his hips, every millimeter of him pushing slowly further inside you.

“Oh Matthew… oh fuck-” your words faultered as he finally picked up his pace

His tie tickled at your exposed sternum with every thrust. All you could do was wrap your arms around him and cling to him as he brought you to closer and closer to ecstasy.

The intoxicating aroma of your sex filling his dingey and moth-ball scented office was bringing him near to the edge sooner than he’d like. But he could sense you were close too.

A few more thrusts and you’d both be there.

And then he heard it.

The soft ding of the elevator. The familiar heartbeat of a particularly pushy student from his Civil Procedure class making her way down the hall towards his office. Then the smell hit his nose - oh god the smell - the cheap Victoria Secret body spray she doused herself and her assignments in.

He had explained to her on multiple occasions that she didn’t need to go to the library and print her assignments in braille, that submitting them via the online platform was perfectly fine; but she insisted on invading his nostrils with that stench and making more work for him to get her grades in. All in a pitiful attempt to seduce him. She was still a few doors down and that damn terrible body spray nearly drowned out the heavenly scent of you that was right in front of him.

Any moment she would reach his door and catch the two of you in this very compromising position.

He knew he should alert you, give you the time to make yourself at least look a little appropriate, but he couldn’t bear to pull himself from you.

Then he had a thought.

Oh this was too perfect - to have you in such a sinful manner and an opportunity to set some very clear boundaries for her and (he assumed she’d spread the word via the grapevine to her gaggle of giggling friends) any other student who thought they stood a chance.

And if there was ever anything that would be concrete proof to you that he’d never be interested in a student, purposefully getting caught would do it.

Fine. He was going to let this play out, he decided, not bothering to slow his pace as he continued to thrust inside you.

The footsteps got closer and he heard the distinct click and squeak of the door knob turning in it’s place.

His head was blocking your view of the door and he was pretty sure your eyes were closed as well. Anyway, you were too lost in fuck to notice as the door slowly open and the student peered into the room.

You didn’t notice her stand there for a moment and you didn’t notice her hands fly over her mouth in shock.

Matt couldn’t help but smirk into your neck. It was that moment that you chose to sink your teeth into his earlobe and growl in his ear.

“Say it, Matthew. Say that you’re mine.”

“Yours sweetheart. Only yours. Always.” he huffed in response

Oh she definitely heard that, he thought, picking up on the scurrying footsteps of his student making her way back down the hallway and disappearing into the night.

You tugged the hair at the nape of his neck, still blissfully unaware of what just occurred. The action pulled him back into the moment.

“Yours.” he repeated once more in a barely audible whisper

That was all it took.

Waves of fire washed over you as you reached your end, with Matt not far behind. A few more thrusts had him grunting and moaning into your neck as he spilled himself inside you.

He slowed his hips to nearly nothing and brought his head up to press his forehead to yours.

You both lingered, reveling in the moment.

He pressed a kiss to your temple as he slowly slid himself from inside you.

There was little strength left in your wobbly legs as he took a step back to allow you the space to stand.

You fumbled around the desk and retrieved your panties, shimmying them up your body before sliding your skirt back into place.

Matt placed his glasses on his face and felt for the braille watch on his wrist.

“Office hours are over. Let’s go get some dinner.”

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #marvel fic #fan fiction #daredevil smut #x reader #smut

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yoiiwonn · 3 months

Note

Zhang Hao scenario when he teaches you how to write Chinese words please? Thank you.

𝜗𝜚 rainy day learning.

𝜗𝜚 OVERVIEW requested! zhanghao x gn!reader 𝜗𝜚 GENRE fluff, drabble/scenario 𝜗𝜚 MASTERLIST 𝜗𝜚 TAGLIST (open!!) 𝜗𝜚 REQUESTS OPEN

note — I am not chinese, i’m using a translator for the character meanings, so please please PLEASE!! let me know if any of them are wrong in any way and i will change them <3

A predictable rainy day set in. Though gloomy, it was comforting, since it hadn’t rained in quite a bit. The shared apartment you were cramped in produced shakes at the harsh, yet calming downpour. It was quite nice this morning!

“good morning” you flashed a smile at your roommate, as he walked out into the kitchen in the most adorable periwinkle-colored star pajamas. The ones you had gotten for him on his last birthday. “you look dumb hao” you say, cracking a laugh at his messy hair, and wrinkled pajamas. He just waved you off and began to make his coffee in silence.

after having your mini breakfast, you’d thought it’d be a good day to nap, since work had gotten canceled due to the sudden stormy weather. And zhanghao ofcourse was off that day, so you two could just chill for the day.

Or so you thought..

as you lay down on the couch, snuggling in with the warmest blanket you could find, you heard him speak up from the kitchen.

“yknow the dare you gave me last night?” You thought to yourself for a moment… a dare? a dare… oh.

“you have to.. teach me chinese..!” you slurred your words a bit, tired eyes looking down as your body collapsed into his arms. “it’ll beeeee fun hao.” eyes closing now, you had almost passed out drunk. Zhanghao had taken you home from the place you had drank at with your coworkers, since your workplace had a big promotion party.

“Are you really going to want that? I won’t teach you easily, yknow.” he spoke with a pouty tone, still holding you. His calm appearance barely hid the extreme anxiety and redness that he felt deep down. You two had never been this physically close.

“hello? yn..?”

“I was drunk haoooooo..! i didn’t mean shit i said, you know that. I just wanna nap today.” sighing, you tried to lay to your side to avoid facing him. “nope, you asked and i’ll deliver! I’ll go grab some paper and two pens.” he seemed to add a bit more excitement to his tone, you found it comforting.

after about 3 minutes, he came back bearing a paper and 2 dark purple pens. Placing the paper on the table, he sat down, slightly nudging you to sit up, and eventually with a few more pushes you sat up.

“so…” your eyes scanned around the room, avoiding contact with him. “i’ll teach you how to write each word, and then we can make a sentence!” you thought it would be simple enough, just a couple of characters you had to draw and then you were off to nap to your hearts desire!

“we’ll start with the first one!” he took the pen, and began to write the character. 我 “soooooo what does it mean? cmon hurry i wanna sleep..” out of interest, you didn’t even notice the space between you both was almost non existent. “don’t rush me. In basic terms, it means I/me, but in this case we’ll say it means I. Can you try and write it?” You obliged, slowly copying the character that he wrote: 我

“this one, it means love. Could also mean affection, passion, and other things related to that!” 爱 he wrote this one slower, but you payed little attention to it. Just copying and doing as you were told. You were trying extra hard to copy as exact as you could, but you’d have to admit it was pretty hard. “move the pen like this” his hand hovered over yours, before eventually grabbing it. You felt a bit warm inside when he did this, but shook it off and continued to listen.

as his hand controlled yours, guiding the pen to show how it should be written, you felt butterflies in your stomach. It was truly an unreal feeling, so much so that you spaced out when he started talking again. 爱

“hey, wake up! one more to go and then i’ll spell it out.” You snapped out of it, nodding and locking in. “this one means you, it’s pretty simple. Just copy it and let me know if you need help!” 你 smiling, you focused on writing it. You could feel hal’s presence right next to you, unbeknownst to you, he was smiling ear to ear.

“so.. what’s it say?” you spoke, in anticipation “我爱你 or.. well..” he quietly replied. The sound of the rain stopping, the faint pitter-pattering coming to a halt. His face heating up, turning towards you and looking into your eyes. You titled your head in confusion, before he spoke up.

“i love you.”

AAAAAAA!!!! Writing this was SO FUN!!! I hope you like what i wrote <3 thank you so much for requesting!! and also let me know if you’d possibly like a short part 2..?

req by @sadfragilegirl

THANK YOU FOR READING

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kenobihater · 1 year

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javert is WRONG: the thesis of les mis is that legality and morality aren't synonymous!

i just found the internet's most unbelieveably dogshit hottake that makes anything woobifying javert written by Die Girlies Auf Tumblr Und Twitter galaxy brained in comparison. rest is below a cut because i got Wordy in my goal of ripping this motherfucker a new one.

The point about “fault” is very important here. Following Rousseau, Hugo believes that the poor become criminals out of necessity. They “fall” (i.e., become poor) and then become morally “degraded.” Therefore, our response to crime should be “charity,” not punishment. This is a classic Romantic view that became the basis for modern liberalism. According to Rousseau, people are basically good and are corrupted by society, committing crime only out of ignorance and desperation; the solution to crime, then, is education and welfare. Christians obviously worry that this view has no place for the doctrine of original sin, and conservatives object to this view because it leaves out personal responsibility for crime.

i know this is a christian publication but the concept of original sin even factoring into criminality and criminal justice genuinely pisses me off. stop forcing your shitty worldview that everyone is popped outta the womb an evil sinner, i beg. the seperation of church and state is a vital part of democracy. also, you can believe people are shaped by society and driven to crime through desperation without taking away personal agency. those two things are not contradictory.

If I am right about the Rousseau subtext, then Javert is not necessarily a villain; he’s just a conservative, albeit a liberal caricature of a conservative. There are two good examples of a liberal bias in Les Mis. First, notice that Valjean’s position in his society is roughly analogous to an illegal immigrant in our society. When he leaves the prison, Valjean can’t get work because he doesn’t have the right papers. He’s an undocumented worker. In a scene from the musical cut from the film, a farmer allows Valjean to work for him, but then only pays him half as much as the other laborers. The farmer reasons, “You broke the law….Why should you get the same as honest men?”

i've never seen anyone, even javert fans, try and argue he isn't a villain. this is breaking new ground here, folks. it's a hell of an assertion, but it's demonstrably false. jean valjean is the main character. we root for him and wish to see him succeed. javert is hunting him for the entire narrative. thus, he is the antagonist. there may be some moral ambiguity on both their parts, but he structurally is the villain and that is a narrative fact.

next, as an american i am fucking BEGGING on my HANDS and KNEES for other americans to learn about the differing political terms for different countries and times if they are speaking about them with any supposed credibility. i'm not asking you to memorize every country's parties and political intricacies, but at least acknowledge that even if there is some overlap between 21st century american conservatism and 19th century french politics, that there is no one-to-one analogy!! modern american christian conservatism is a consequence of hundreds of years of unique geopolitics and religion stewing together, and you can say similar things about french politics of the time! you CANNOT just say shit like "javert is a liberal caricature of a conservative" without sounding like an utter clown because hugo was not an american liberal and javert is not an american conservative. now, if you were to alter your language a bit and say something like "javert is a leftist caricature of an arch-conservative," you'd sound less foolish (hugo's politics are hard to pin down but leftist is i believe the best label for him at the time of LM's publication. and to my understanding javert isn't really a fervent arch-conservative but it is at least a plausible reading bc he's a traditionalist, deeply religious cop and 19th century french arch-conservativism actually existed in 19th century france (shocker, i know!)). but that change in language would require actual intellect and effort to learn about other times, places, and worldviews on the part of the author, and judging by his ignorant politics, something tells me he's lacking that!

then there's the bit about illegal immigration. hoo BOY is this fucking stupid. jean valjean is a white, culturally catholic, working class french male citizen. he's an everyman of the time, his name and story of class struggle couldn't be more generic unless he was named john doe or jean dupont (the french equivalent) from nowheresville, france. hugo had a point here, and that is that as a member of the wretched poor, les misérables, valjean, representing a large swath of the french populace, is so removed from education and self reflection and truly living life that he's more akin to an animal or an object, that he's so beat down by the daily grind that he verges on inhuman. this is only magnified by his time in toulon. i'll stop there, but it is very important in jean valjean's story that he's impoverished, yes, but a french citizen. he is as french as the king, but treated like dirt because of his social status and criminal record. this sets up a dichotomy in the france of 1832 between the wretched poor and those with privilege, which is an important part of the novel.

the issue of "illegal immigration" both in france and america is a modern one. there was still bigotry and xenophobia, obviously, but the discourse around the intersections of border control, the nation state, and citizenship is a very modern one. to say "valjean's position in his society is roughly analogous to an illegal immigrant in our society" is ignorant. yes, both jean valjean and many undocumented immigrants are faced with similar abuses, but that does not mean it's intended by hugo to be a reading of the text or political commentary because let me restate this: 21ST CENTURY AMERICAN POLITICS DIDN'T EXIST IN 19TH CENTURY FRANCE!

also, valjean is the opposite of undocumented. he has his yellow papers, which are quite literally documents that are the root cause of the daily discrimination he faces, hence why him ripping them up is a radical act of freeing himself from the control of an unjust state. i don't even know how you miss this, it's stressed in the movie musical multiple times.

“Men like you can never change,” he tells Valjean. But Javert is not simply being prejudiced here. He knows from his own experience that it is possible for the poor to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Javert, too, was born in poverty. He is “from the gutter,” as he puts it, but he embraced law and made something of himself.

oh, of course the bootstraps ideology rears its ugly head. not even gonna waste my breath on this one other than to call it stupid and wrong. all javert made himself was a class traitor and a bootlicker, and that's honestly tragic.

Consider a second example of liberal bias. The character of Fantine is designed to elicit the viewer’s sympathy for “welfare mothers.” Fantine, a young, unwed mother in Valjean’s factory, faces persecution from her coworkers. The factory foreman expresses a conservative attitude toward charity: “At the end of the day, you get nothing for nothing.”

this part. this part was so unbelievably cruel and so far removed from the empathy that this narrative bleeds that i had to step back from writing this and take a smoke break. firstly, fantine is NOT a stand in for "welfare mothers", which is, once again, a modern conservative strawman! the welfare state did not exist in 19th century france. there was little to no support for mothers in fantine's position, and to my knowledge, none stemming from the state. hugo was writing her character to bring to light the unfairness of her position. she had a lover who left her flat out, with a child to care for and no financial support. she was ostracized, eventually fired, and resorted to survival sex work.

Fantine shouldn’t expect special treatment, but rather should take responsibility for the consequences of her own sexual license.

fuck you, john. where in the text did she ask for "special treatment". where in the text did she do ANYTHING but take responsibility for her child. she sold her hair. she sold her teeth. she sold her body. she got sick because of her living conditions. she died. all out of love for her child. also, framing children as "a consequence" is disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourself and reflect on why you think that's an alright way to view a living, breathing, human being. if you don't wanna take my word for it, psalm 127:3 clearly states "children are a gift from the lord; they are a reward from him," so your stance is decidedly unbiblical. children aren't punishment.

Likewise, when Fantine turns to prostitution to feed her child, Javert is unmoved by excuses. Valjean’s family was starving, and Fantine’s daughter was sick, but these facts don’t excuse them for breaking the law. Theft and prostitution are wrong, and it is Javert’s duty as police officer to arrest them.

how is theft to feed a starving child immoral. how is sex work to ensure your child lives immoral. give me ONE reason aside from your and javert's religious worldviews that either of those things is wrong. "but the bread didn't belong to valjean!" and would inaction, watching his nephew die simply because a windowpane and empty pockets separated him from a piece of bread be more moral? is watching a child die when you believe you can save them the better option? the whole point of this damn book is that legality is NOT synonymous with morality. javert may have the legal high ground, but he does NOT have the moral high ground, and when he realizes this, the thesis of the book, he fucking kills himself! for an example outside the text to perhaps get it through your thick skull: slavery was legal. biblical, even! does that mean it's morally right? no!

Thus Les Mis is designed to get us to see Javert’s conservatism as cruel and to elicit sympathy for Hugo’s liberal social policies. It should be noted, however, that Les Mis is a caricature of the conservative position. Conservatives agree that we ought to treat the poor with dignity and compassion. They think that compassion programs, however, should be administered by the church instead of the state, and they think true dignity requires personal responsibility and submission to the law.

how can javert both be an exaggerated, cruel conservative caricature and be right? i'd argue he's both an accurate portrayal of the inherent cruelty and misanthropy present in the politics of the political right, and that he's decidedly wrong as proven in the text. jean valjean is a good man, despite it all, but javert couldn't see that because of his worldview and chose to relentlessly hound him until he finally realized his mistake, a realization that overcame him so strongly that his only solution in his mind was to kill himself!

and do conservatives actually agree they should treat the poor with dignity and respect? it's in the bible, sure, which christian conservatives hold as the absolute truth, but in this very article you, a christian conservative, have expressed nothing but contempt and cruelty for undocumented immigrants, for unwed mothers, for thieves and sex workers. for les misérables - the wretched poor. and why shouldn't the state handle "compassion programs" as you call them? the gov't is electable and manageable (in theory), unlike the beast of untraceable wealth and power that is the church. we don't live in a theocracy, so the only reliable way to ensure people get the help they deserve is through the state, which can actually be held accountable for these expectations (again, in theory). that's more than you can say for the church.

The fact that Les Mis contradicts evangelical theology does not mean apologists shouldn’t use it—on the contrary. We can help non-Christian fans of the musical see how the vision that draws them toward the story can only be fulfilled in Christ.

his conculsion is LAUGHABLE. personally, the "vision that drew me to the story" at age twelve was my attraction to men. i'm a flaming homosexual, you see, and a transgender one at that. the overwhelming majority of musical theater fans i've encountered are some variety of queer. at age 22, ten years later, i'm drawn to the story still partially because i find these characters attractive and magnetic, but much more so for the literary and socialist political value i find in the narrative. i'm an unrepentant leftist as well, as are literally every other les mis fan i've ever met (besides yourself, of course). i've found more fulfillment through reading les misérables than i have in my exploration of the new testament, and i'm not even done with the book yet!

i don't really know how to conclude this other to point and laugh at john and his publictaion, because somehow i stumbled upon a conservative fan of les mis and the lack of self awareness is more baffling than i could have ever imagined it being

#len's meta #les mis #les mis meta #les miserables #les misérables #les miserables meta #les misérables meta #javert #javert meta #god this took forever to write up bc i had to keep taking mental health breaks. it ticked me off THAT much

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