#I never had to reckon with my desires

[spolew]

The road ahead is long. unbelievably far.

The road back home is gone.

You’re just hanging around now,

Parasite, right up until the very moment you are realized.

Most people don’t make it that far.

So will you be a parasite forever?

Chasing a reason that you will never actually reach?

A reason to change…

What is holding you back from changing, exactly?

Aren’t you better than this?

Isn’t it your whole… *thing*?

To be better than this?

You have to change. You have to change.

You know what to do… or… maybe we don’t…

Maybe it’s all another perspective.

Could it be, that the thing you do not know yet is not an outside component, but a part of the process itself?

Perhaps there is nothing against you,

Just something *missing*…

How can you find it like this?

Your state is sorry, your mind is burdened by the complications of your ineptitude and your sloth and your politics.

You need to get to work. But you can’t, can you?

We are stuck arguing here because you wanted closure.

You wanted closure without having to close a contract.

[ay0nha]

How Many Miles to Babylon? | Remmick (i)

SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on this request.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again ... If your heels are nimble and your toes are light, You may get there by candlelight." Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801

PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled enemies to lovers, heavy on the religious themes (mentions of god, prayer, sin, bible verses, devil mentions, etc.), mentions of blood, inner turmoil, ANGST, inspo from Margaret Atwood, James Baldwin, Jennifer Johnston (Irish writer of 'How Many Miles to Babylon'), and Nosferatu quotes, etc.

A/N: Lowkey really enjoyed writing this, might have to do a part two! Thank you so much for this request. I incorporated similar requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.

part ii

“You again.”  

You were a master of speaking silently—you've spoken silently all your life, and you’ve had to live through entire tragedies because of it. 

Yet, your tone was sterile. It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise.

“Miss me?” Remmick vetted your blank gaze for the proper determination of your upset. He nodded mockingly. “...Thought you might.”

The bliss had been idyllic.

Your wrist balanced on the rocking chair’s arm as you lazily tapped the ash of your cigarette. The humid air caressed your arm and gave you goosebumps that reminded you that you were still alive. Human.

Your senses had been perked, knowing a disruption was overdue.

“Cicadas warned me you’d be comin’ tonight.” Your vexation was pointed, always honest in the distaste you held for the man before you. “Have I not made myself clear?”

The cracks behind your exterior were so deeply concealed you hadn’t thought anything could slip between. Yet, standing before you, his presence was the ice-pick that’s pressure had threatened to shatter you. 

“Oh, no, ma’am, you have.” Remmick's posture was playful as if he held control of the situation. “Just reckon you’d change your mind by now.” 

You hummed. It wasn’t thoughtful, but a placeholder. You were slow to anger; your patience could outwit Remmick.

You’d grown so accustomed to how he worked, his body language became predictable, and so did his actions.  Especially, with the banjo strapped across Remmick’s back.

Even in the dark, you could see how his fingers itched to toy with the instrument. You’d learned he couldn’t sit still in silence, even if the night itself always buzzed. Remmick would twist the banjo’s strap, settling the instrument in his lap, and persuade the night to succumb to him and his song. 

You drew in another crackling breath, “Tonight’s no night for pickin’ that thing.” 

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Remmick’s hands were joined behind his back.

He swayed back and forth on his feet, waiting with a childlike enthusiasm. His smile wasn’t foreign on his face, but something was off.

Different. 

There was an odd sense of pride you felt with his presence. It confirmed the distant admiration that Remmick held for years. You respected his drive, but your desires fell elsewhere. He carved space for you despite your protests, but you could never be the one to fill it—you could never be his. 

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Those’ll kill you, ya know…” Remmick gestured to your vice. 

You flicked the roach onto the dirt before his feet.

“So will you.” 

Another smile, sinful this time. You never had to say it aloud, nor did he. You knew what he was. To you, it was obvious his desires; he was an open wound rooted to his devotions. You, another thing in his path.

“Heard what you did to those clan folk…” You prodded. Apparently, you were all heart tonight, carrying the conversation. Something rare and in between. 

“You sound impressed.” 

“Your massacre will fall on the shoulders of the undeserving.” You shook your head with wry sympathy. “You ain’t a hero.”

“To some, I am.” He shrugged. “I’ve had many titles, but I know to pay no mind to ‘em. Can’t let the bullies win, right?” 

You tutted lightly. “Peace be upon you for what you have so mightily endured.”

Remmick talked to you about suffering. He had said it in passing, in riddles that took a few visits for you to realize what he wanted. He wanted a home, but too much time had bastardized the sentiment.

Instead, his suffering became one very long moment. You learned it could not be divided by seasons. You could only record their moods and chronicle their return—his return. 

Remmick wagged his finger at you, hand on hip, teasing. He inched closer to your porch, but you knew he’d never touch the steps unless you said so. 

“You almost got me thinkin’ something dangerous—” He cocked his head, musing a buried thought.  Then, he clicked his tongue against his teeth with ridicule, “Careful—you’re getting awful sentimental these days.”

You tracked Remmick’s movements. You envied how he filled the space better than you. Perhaps it was the smugness in his presence. Regardless, you felt like a guest outside your own home. 

You felt caught, exposed. So, you stood, leaving your shadow with the rhythm of your rocking chair. 

The weight of your footsteps made the rotting wood of your porch groan, as if warning you not to move further. But you continued down the steps until the last, giving you enough height for Remmick to tilt his chin up to reach your eyes. 

“Thinkin’ bout me often?” You cooed. “That why you always lurkin’, waitin’...for me?”

“Ain’t never said that, lass.” Something sparkled in his eyes, but they remained dark and curious. You wouldn’t stop until they shone red. “Some of us appear out of habit, guided by some blood-orchestral pulse—”

“Is that why you keep coming back to me?” You considered. “That’s not a comfort.”

“Ain’t meant to be.” 

You hummed. “Nothin’ you say will shake me, there’s a devil in this world, and I’ve already met him—you ain’t him.”

Remmick’s tongue sat on the roof of his mouth in thought, eyes mulling over your expression.

Then, he smiled, the shadows of the night elongating his teeth’s point. “Should I be jealous?” 

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Provoking him, you dangled a foot off the step. You kept your eyes on his, waiting. “Just remember he who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon.”

Remmick could pull you forward before you could blink. Sink his teeth into your neck, but you knew he wouldn’t. You knew it wasn’t out of kindness.

He liked to play with his food. He liked it when his food talked back. 

“Easy.” His warning highlighted his drawl. 

“Isn’t this why you haunt me?” You followed his eyes, not letting him break the contact. “Seems not every one of your hauntings is for horror; sometimes it’s just for company, huh?”

You taunted him with a claim you never let him forget.

You waited for Remmick to lunge with anger. You’d been far more liberal with your words than usual.

Remmick watched you with something close to admiration, but his hands stayed firm in his pockets, and so did his posture. 

“Trick question, that is.” He pushed against the physical boundary, his nose looking to touch yours. “I told ya, down in the Delta, never trust what you see. I’m an appetite, nothin’ more.”

Your foot finally landed, and you stood chest to chest with Remmick, past the threshold of safety. 

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Fear was like a pet to you: something you’d pick up to get a better look at, but that you’d soon grow tired of. And now, fear was your ally. “You must be starvin’.”

You traced his face with your half-lidded eyes.  He looked proper, shirt tucked in, suspenders tightened perfectly, necklace sticking to the sweat of his skin. What skin you could see was dirty, like his clothes. It had clearly been some time since he last tidied his appearance.

All an act of deception. 

Meeting his eyes again, you smiled at his very human-like reaction; his pupils were blown wide and resisting something coveted.

The night was silent, holding its breath in hopes of saving you. You should have heeded its warning.

“If only you’d listen.” Remmick continued, filling the quiet. Your breath fell on his lips. It was a push and pull, your mouths ghosting each other, but never quite making full contact. “Look at what you’re doing, playin’ like this. Your revelin’ in my torture—”

“No.” You insisted half-heartedly. Remmick thought this was another lie, a deception to get him pliable. “You’re sorely mistaken.” 

“You know, lyin’ doesn’t suit you.” Remmick sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him. A hand snaked its way up to your throat. “Oh, to freeze this moment forever, where you are so warm and your heart is going so deliciously fast.” 

You felt thin, sharp nails prick against the tender skin. Remmick nosed at your cheek, taking in every scent you offered. He trailed down your jawline, his ragged breath falling on your pulse point. 

“I’m charmed.” Your remark fell on absent but not deaf ears. 

“I’ve beheld a thousand faces, made purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder, and evermore will come, at frozen rivers.” He spoke like a song, lilting his words as if reading a poem. “Yet, at the river’s bend, I see you as you are—”

You watched how his eyes flickered with a red gleam. There it was. 

“—here you are.” Remmick continued, mouth searching for yours. “Changin’ right before my eyes.”

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze; it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. 

Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.

Something shifted in Remmick’s eyes; a baptism in fire. You missed how his eyebrows furrowed in conflict.

Fear clawed its way up Remmick’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn’t unfamiliar with loss. But this. The feeling was wild—sentimental.  

The shadows were still pressed thick against the night. Morning was there, but hadn't been announced. Suffering had yet to spot you, though you heard it hunting. No one, yet, had spoiled the dark by singing. The air outside was too cold, even for the birds.

Remmick felt his skin prick. It was electric. Cold. Warm. All and nothing combined. A centuries-buried question revealed itself:

Do you not deserve to be somewhere that brings out the softness in you, not the survival?

Remmick’s hand tightened on your neck. You felt drool pool on his lips and drip down your neck. He pressed his lips there, teeth ready to puncture your flesh.

It was what he wanted, you thought. All this time he’d haunted you, you’d finally given him what he wanted. 

However, you felt nothing but warmth. Remmick’s teeth were replaced with his lips, providing a wet, open-mouthed kiss. He lingered there, breath ragged through his nose as if testing his own limits. 

“Fuck.” Remmick’s grip lightened. An act of submission, of failure, of self-consciousness. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, cursing in a language foreign to you. 

Anger wouldn’t settle outside his chest, so he pulled away from you like you were sunlight. He avoided your gaze as if you were a mirror; he had no interest in learning what it felt like to meet his own eyes.

Remmick paced against the dissonance of conflict that filled his ears. He was supposed to devour you, turn you towards blood and music. 

“...and how odd is it to be haunted by someone that is still alive, Remmick?” Even with a low tone, your voice carried throughout the open air. “You dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.” 

 “Stop—” Remmick’s confusion manifested physically; he pulled at his hair trying to think clearly, rubbed at his cheek and chin to rid himself strife, and almost fell to his knees to beg for mercy. 

Remmick stepped backward just as you moved closer. The only evidence you’d been standing in front of him at all was the pounding of your heart and a sick feeling in his stomach. 

“Those colonizers took your father’s land, forced prayer upon your people, and you still recite His word for comfort.” You spat, stepping further from your forgotten home. “O, turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish!"

You were something volatile and authentic. You didn’t mock religion, you related to the way your lips moved on instinct to verses as old as time. Comfort was needed when the world was on fire, when the world forgot about you. 

You remember that once, Remmick had told you: We’re all dying, slowly, every day. But even you knew there was no use in prayers.

Remmick looked at you with manic agony.

Then, disappeared. 

[the-darklings]

FOR YOUR ARCANE PROMPTS LIST POOKIE: "hands under your lover's clothes" w/Silco??? perhaps?? perchance?? PLS PLS POOKIE, MY GLORIOUS QUEEN, MY EVERYTHING <3

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ silco x gn!reader, complicated relationship, a little angst, no spoilers for s2, cat & mouse dynamic but who is who? wc: 768

“It’s dangerous playing games with a patient man.”

“Are you? Patient?”

Silco’s mouth flutters into what could pass for a fleeting smile. It’s a rare expression on him, an ease that is seldom seen in the years since he left Vander’s side. Nowadays, he is nothing like the fresh-faced youth so desperate to fix the world you first met.

“More so than many, I’d reckon,” he replies placidly, watching you with idle interest. You lean on his oak wood desk, the rough grain of the wood warm beneath your fingers as you skim over his notes and ledgers. His meticulous nature is evident in the way he organised everything about the Shimmer trade. It’s almost irritating. “You are here for a reason.”

The gentle accusation falls on deaf ears.

“I was just saying hello,” you drawl, your voice low, swinging your attention his way. Silco’s scoff is a low, throaty sound, barely audible, but filled with disdain. 

You’re not sure when it started, you and him. If it was survival or a desire for a better life that drove you both from the start. You wanted freedom and independence and then he took the Undercity, and, in a way, you too. Since then, you’ve existed in his sphere, enjoying his favour. Flaunt it without making it obvious, slipping past the cracks of his rules. 

He appears so collected on his chair, a king on his throne in truth, but his immaculate clothes are wrinkled, buttons undone, and his Adam’s apple bobs when you touch his tie. You know better than to go near his throat. The last time you did, fingers eager and teeth nipping at the taut flesh there, he jerked back as if shocked. Terror and rage had overcome him, twisting you on his bed, still tangled in each other, before you could turn back your instincts. When his hands closed around your throat in response, you didn’t fight him off, and maybe it was that above all else that made Silco snap out of his spell.

No, instead, you slip your hand past the unbuttoned shirt, tracing over his sharp collarbone. Silco rests his cheek lightly on his hand, watching you through a narrowed eyed stare. Daring you, yes, but also curious. The heavy scarring on his face never bothered you. You didn’t lack scars of your own, but this… 

You slip forward, knee resting on the chair between his parted legs, hand slipping lower, to rest over his thudding heart. 

“Hello.” Your lips shape the word before you breathe them against his lips again. Your free hand cups his face and the hard beat of his heart echoes against your palm. 

The kiss is gentle, more civilised than either of you are used to, a sweetness that lingers even though it’s not what either of you normally craves, but when he doesn’t pull away, a secret thrill shoots up your spine. His deep inhale fills your ears, the heat of his lips imprinting on yours. A deep, rumbling sound vibrates through his chest when you deepen the kiss, your fingers moving in gentle circles over his skin. 

With a viper’s swiftness, Silco snaps his hand behind your head when you break the kiss, keeping you close. Nose to nose, your breaths mingle. You can’t quite tell what lingers in his burning gaze, one icy blue, another molten gold. 

“Are you hoping to endear yourself to me?” he asks, knowing and throaty. “A foolish play.”

“I won’t say that,” you say, breathless. “And if I was… well, I think you’re holding up just fine.”

Licking your lips, you pull back, grinning at him. He hasn’t moved, his knuckles returning to his cheek. Nonchalant, except for the heavy weight with which he still examines you. Silco won’t indulge you in admitting you do this because you’re the only one he can rely on in this shitty, twisted world of yours. You support his vision, you’ve always believed it, even when you were younger. 

Adjusting your dishevelled clothes, you look over at him once more. Not so crisp and orderly for once. Satisfaction nestles in your gut at the observation that the usually perfectly groomed and dressed man—this infamous crime lord—is a mess in the dim light of his office. Undone. Caught. Even if predatory hunger reflects in that golden hue. 

You wag your fingers in a playful wave. “It’s dangerous playing games with patient people, love, haven’t you heard?”

[worldsover]

An Unusual Coverage ft. Heejin

6.8k words

Your girlfriend Heejin is DONE with not using condoms—wait a second... not?

Heejin’s lips on yours mean this is a good day, even if there’s a pout on them that you can taste. She had a bad day at work so that one kiss to cheer her up leads to two cups of lukewarm tea on the coffee table before you. You run your hands over her bared waist, tank top riding up her torso, as her body rubs up against you. Between deep kisses where Heejin’s tongue swirls against yours, and the wet spot growing on her panties, you think you know where this is going.

After pulling away when her teeth sink into your bottom lip, you say, "Needy girl. I know what’ll make you feel better, a load inside you."

But how can you predict Heejin? She hesitates; you've never seen that. "Y-you’re right, it does… but that’s not what I want right now."

Perplexed, you pause your ministrations, hands stilling on her waist. "You don’t?"

Heejin's eyes widen and she rushes to reassure you. "No, no, I do, I do." Soft kisses. "You know what a cum slut I am, Daddy. Come here, let me feel you. Mmh." This kiss isn’t as soft, not when her hand goes for your hardening bulge.

You kiss her back hungrily, your desire reigniting, but pull back when she still seems hesitant. "But what?"

"Another time..." Heejin looks away shyly. This is the cutest girl on earth, you reckon, but dishonest, not so shy when her digits are still pants-bound.

You give a singular laugh-scoff. "Really? I'm just surprised, you've never turned down a creampie before."

She sighs. "You're gonna harp on this? Alright, I get it." Heejin sits up straight, patting her thighs. "Sit up, let me get on my favorite seat."

You smile as you comply, shifting positions so she can straddle you properly. Heejin cups your face. "I want your cum," she says, her voice dropping to a needy whisper. "Of course I want your cum."

Whatever the conversation was, is, or will be, your hands are directed towards her tits by natural intervention, taking inventory and stock of the perfect perky shape over the thin fabric of her top.

"God, squeeze my tits, yes, they’re yours, play with them. Fuck, what was I saying?" Her moans become more and more wanton as you knead and tease her nipples. "Mm, right, your cum. You give me so much of it. It’s so hot, three, four loads every time we fuck—"

"Yeah, you’re fucking Heejin, have you looked in a mirror? I could give you the world."

"No, you’re the one fucking Neejinie,” she says, laughing, and you laugh too, giving her a peck on the forehead as her head falls into your neck. "You’re the sweetest, Daddy." She looks back up, steeling herself into something serious, even when it’s never that serious. "But… I need more cum."

You raise an eyebrow. "So you wanna kill me then."

"A little bit." She giggles. "I just... I want to be absolutely filthy with your cum. Utterly covered and filled by it until I'm dripping everywhere. All my holes, every inch of my skin." Heejin leans in close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, "I want you to make me look like a used cum rag, while I fingerfuck your seed into my pussy."

Your mouth goes dry at Heejin's filthy words, cock straining against your pants. "Need it that bad?" you rasp.

"Mhm, that bad." Heejin purrs. She leans back and rummages in her purse, pulling out a strip of condoms with a sly grin.

"Condoms?" Haven't used those in a long time.

"Yes, Daddy,” she says, her face all serious again. "Pants off. Now."

You quickly comply, shucking off your pants and boxers as Heejin strips out of her clothes. There’s always going to be a little drool, a little open jaw when you witness her adorable tits ever so slightly recoiling as she tugs off her tanktop, or witness her underwear ever so slightly sticking to her pussy as she slides them down her legs, or witness the overall damn-near hourglass figure of the most beautiful woman you've ever laid your eyes upon.

Now on her knees, Heejin tears open a condom wrapper with her teeth, and she's still an expert at rolling it down your shaft with her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks you. Electric pleasure zings through you as she takes extracurricular kittenish licks, slathering her saliva and tongue all over your latex-covered cock. It's a surprisingly colorful blue. When she pulls off with a pop, a string of spit connects her lips to the tip.

"You remember how to do that?"

She huffs indignantly. "Yeah, Daddy, I think I’ve had more than enough practice with your pretty cock." Heejin gives it a few pecks, eyes filled with love, then starts suckling on the tip. Before you can stop her, her head is bobbing up and down your length.

Your hands tangle in Heejin's hair as she works your cock, her tongue swirling expertly around the latex-covered shaft. With a groan, you gently pull her off before things escalate too quickly. "Easy there, needy girl," you tease. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you?"

"Huh? Oh." Heejin blushes, realizing she got carried away worshipping your cock as she is wont to do. "Right. Y-you should do that. Fuck me. Now."

With your fingers still in her hair, you get up and guide Heejin to lie back on the couch. While you can appreciate every position—doggystyle lets you spank Heejin’s round ass; cowgirl turns her an insatiable wildcat riding you with abandon—there’s something intimate about missionary, the way you can watch expressions flicker across her face. As you position above her, her arms wrap around your neck and pull you in the way that every component of Heejin feels like an inescapable event horizon. Her eyes are glassy with lust, yet there's a sincerity in them that roots you to the moment more than any physical sensation ever could.

"Make me forget everything, Daddy," she murmurs. "Fuck the thoughts out of my head. I only wanna think about your cock."

"With pleasure," you murmur, kissing her deeply. Your cock slides easily between her folds; the girl is always ready for you. "You’re so fucking wet. What an eager slut."

"F-for your cock," Heejin gasps as you push in, her pussy squeezing tight around your shaft, and the condom isn't doing much for your stamina with how good this girl feels around you, a feeling that you've missed ever since she let you raw-dog. "God, it's so fucking big, it always stretches me out so good," she babbles. As much as you love the deep sound of her voice, her talking dirty like that will expedite the moment too much for you, so you kiss her to shut her up. It doesn’t work.

Heejin moans into the kiss, wrapping her arms around you and holding you close, her body moving in time with yours. "So perfect, Daddy, so perfect. Promise me, promise me that from now on every time you get hard for me, you'll fuck one of my holes and give me your cum."

You don't understand how you'll do that with a condom. But, "I promise," you reply, breathless, and Heejin rewards you by pulling you in for another hungry kiss."I'll give you my cum whenever, wherever you want it."

"Good," she says, your cock sliding in and out. "Let's use condoms from now on, okay?"

You pull back. "What? I thought you liked it better when I fill you up, baby? You've always been such a cum hungry slut." Your hands roam down to her tits and play with her sensitive nipples, making Heejin gasp and arch her back.

"Nngh, I'm still going to collect your cum, Daddy."

You stop entirely, even though Heejin bucks her hips to grind on you. "What?"

She giggles. "I want you to fuck me, fill up the condom, then toss it onto me." The image that forms in your head makes you dizzy. "Is it just me, or does that turn you on?"

"God," you groan, snapping back into motion. "That's pretty tempting."

"Good." Heejin moans, holding onto your arm as you ram into her. "Anywhere, my tits, my ass, my thighs, my face. Like I'm just your cum dumpster"

You're pounding her hard, now, the couch creaking in protest. Your hand's in her hair. Your hand's around her neck. Your hand's groping her tits. You're a fucking caveman, who needs to feel every part of Heejin, every part of this woman who loves you so much that she'll let you treat her like a filthy cum rag.

"Please, Daddy," she begs, her voice rising to a high pitch. "I'm close. Cum in me. Fill me up with your cum." You can tell she’s close, her walls convulsing around your shaft, her eyes glazed over, her hands gripping the couch cushions for dear life.

"I'm gonna cum," you growl, fucking her harder and faster, the tip of your cock kissing her cervix. "I'm gonna fill you up."

The condom does little to dull the sensations of her tight pussy squeezing around you as she cums, and it's only a matter of time until you cum after, filling the condom to the brim. As you gingerly unsheathe your shaft, Heejin's hand darts out and snaps it off your cock, and she giggles at the weight of it and tosses it between her tits; it looks like it's meant to be there as if all the lingerie in the world could never compare to the sight of a well-filled condom. You lean down and kiss Heejin, your hand stroking her face tenderly.

"Fuck, I love you," you breathe.

"I love you too," she replies, and Heejin's smile is more innocent than anything you've seen today. Reaching for your shaft, she teases, "You have another load to give me, right?"

"Always," you growl, and after she fits another condom over your cock (you note this one's red), you plunge inside, and Heejin's moans fill the air once more. As you pound into Heejin's tight pussy, the filled condom on her tits starts leaking and dribbling down her body, coating her skin with your thick cream, and the sight of her covered in your cum is so hot you can't help but fuck her even harder. Heejin is incoherent, babbling nonsense, and you kiss her neck as you whisper, "You're so hot, Heejin."

"Your cum, your cum," Heejin chants, her hands groping at your back, her hips grinding up into yours. "Give me, give me. Use me. Use my pussy." She's drooling now, eyes rolled back, and you're not far from it either.

This round is shorter, and the two of you are too busy kissing to notice you've reached your limit until you're cumming into the condom, and you both gasp in surprise. You pull out, and Heejin's eyes glint with the same mischief as you hear the snapping sound. Then, the condom is tossed onto her stomach, and she sighs happily at her burgeoning collection.

You kiss and caress each other for a few minutes. "That was amazing," you finally say, your thumb brushing Heejin's cheek.

She looks beautiful, her face flushed and her hair messy. Two used condoms adorn her body like trophies; she ties off both of them.

"Wow. You like it that much, huh?" You chuckle. You've never had a girl this kinky, and it's a good thing that she's your one and only.

"Of course I do. That wasn't just dirty talk, silly," she laughs. "You should go to bed, Daddy. You'll be busy tomorrow, what with all the condoms you'll be filling for me."

***

"That was a crazy night, wasn't it?" you say, as you and Heejin walk to the car.

"Hah! Yeah, it was," Heejin giggles, squeezing your hand. You've been dating for three years, now, but you still blush when you hold hands with her. She's just too cute. "It was fun, though."

"Definitely." You unlock the car, and Heejin hops in the passenger seat.

As you slide in, Heejin says, "I'm so glad I got to try that out. But anyway...." Her tone sounds like she’s dropping the subject, so you move on.

You're in her workplace's parking lot, opening the door for her. "Hopefully, work's better."

She steps out of the car, and you swiftly give her a cheeky cheek kiss. "Thank you." While getting out, she drops her purse on the floor.

"Whoa, careful." You laugh, reaching down to get her purse.

When you get up, you notice her panties hanging on the strap. Two cum-filled condoms are tied off and dangling from the band, swaying in the breeze.

You blink. "Uh... Heejin?"

She smirks. "I told you. It wasn't just dirty talk."

***

This is the second time you've seen the women's bathroom inside Heejin's workplace. The first, of course, is when you railed Heejin over the sink and added three new trophies (as she calls them). You can tell she's put a lot of thought into this, each new condom a new color. It's starting to become a cream-filled rainbow. The second time is in these pictures, of her touching herself inside a stall, filthy jewelry around her waist, and it's making the grueling late night at your own office a little bit more exciting. The last picture of her pussy is dripping with her wetness and your seed; she texted to tell you that she couldn't help herself from opening a condom and using the cum to lube herself as she masturbated. "I couldn't help myself. I needed to get more of your seed inside me, Daddy."

"Stop teasing," you text back. "Or I'm gonna end up having to jack off at work, and only horny weirdos jack off at work."

"Hey! Meanie!" Her reply comes instantly. "But you're right. Don't waste a drop, or I'll be disappointed. I want as many loads as possible."

You sigh and go back to work, the ache in your cock making it difficult to focus.

After an hour and re-sobered mind, a knock on your office door. You sigh. You thought you were the last person left here, and you don't want any more tasks to do.

Your smile when you open the door. "Baby?"

Heejin's standing outside, holding two takeout boxes and looking at you with those big eyes of hers. She's in her work clothes, and while her blouse is not as revealing as the tanktop she'd worn yesterday, her skirt still does wonders for her legs. Of course, you know what's underneath the skirt, and your cock twitches. Down boy. Heejin's carrying food, and she'll get upset if you don't let her feed you. "Hi! I got us some food. I figured you might not have eaten, so..."

"How can I love you anymore than I already do?" You laugh, taking the food from her and setting it down on the table. "I was just about to wrap up, actually, so we can eat together. Come in, come in."

Heejin smiles sweetly, stepping past the threshold, and shutting the door. "Actually, I have another surprise for you, first." Her voice is low and sultry.

"Of course. You and your ulterior motives." You raise your eyebrows, and Heejin laughs.

"Guilty," she giggles, stepping closer and closer to you until she can wrap her arms around your neck. "You know what I want, don't you?"

You chuckle. "I'd be an idiot if I didn't."

"Did you know..." She pulls out one of the condoms from under her skirt. "I kept this one in my purse for emergencies? And whenever I miss you, and miss your cock, I just pick it up and..." She leans in, whispering in your ear. "I suck on it. I can still taste your cum and my juices from last night."

"You're so fucking dirty." You kiss her hard, pushing her against the wall. Her lips mold to yours as if they were made to, her tongue swirling against yours, and her teeth nibbling your lower lip.

"God, you're so hard," she whispers. "Lucky you have a slut right here to take care of it."

You pull back, and Heejin smirks at you, her fingers trailing down your chest to the bulge in your pants. She presses her palm against your cock, rubbing it, and you groan. She smiles wider.

"You still have work to do," she says. "Why don't you sit back down and finish up?"

"Tease," you mutter. Heejin laughs, and she kisses your forehead before pushing you back down into your chair. You look back at her expectantly and she just stares at you. "Really? You can wait."

"Mmm." Heejin motions toward your computer. "I'll be fine."

You shake your head. "Alright. If you say so." Trying your best to clear your mind of the gorgeous girl in front of you, you turn back to your computer and start to type.

It takes you a few minutes to focus, and just when you're getting in the groove of things, you feel Heejin's hand on your thigh. You look down, and she's kneeling in between your legs, looking up at you with her big brown eyes, her hand on your thigh inching upward. There it is. You knew this girl couldn't hold back. "I've been thinking," she purrs.

You gulp. "About?"

Her hand reaches your belt, and her fingers deftly undo the buckle. "About sucking you off under this desk, since I am your cum whore," she says matter-of-factly, as if she's discussing the weather.

"Yeah, you are." You lean back and place your hands behind your head, but then Heejin tuts at you.

"Daddy, you should really focus on your work."

You laugh, but comply, returning your attention to the screen. "Okay, okay. Do whatever you want."

Heejin unzips your pants and pulls your cock out of the slit of your boxers, and you can feel the ghost of her breath against your skin, making it twitch. "You're already so hard," she says. The temptation to touch her, to stroke her hair, to grab each side of her head and skull fuck her ethereal face, is overwhelming. "It's already leaking and everything. I'm going to miss feeling how your cum fills my throat. But... I'll make do."

Heejin is the devil, pretending she's an angel while saying that, licking that leaking cockhead. She pulls out another fresh condom from her bag; tearing it open, it’s a pretty green color. You try to keep your composure as Heejin rolls the green condom onto your cock with her mouth, slow, steady, torturous. The devil, already killing you, is trying to send you to heavenly hell. When the condom is snug on your shaft, she gags as she goes another inch deeper, and your cock throbs and you almost lose it right then and there. But she pulls back before that, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Get back to work, Daddy," she says when she notices you staring (because of course, you're staring), "or else I'm edging you all night. Then again, if that means this one's going to be even more full than usual, I wouldn't mind." She winks, her hand stroking the rubber encasing your shaft, and you shudder, but return to typing, even though you're sure the email you're writing is a ChatGPT-esque mess of gibberish.

You're trying your hardest to get this fucking work done, but it's impossible. The condom can't hide the warmth, the softness of her tongue, the way her cheeks hollow as she sucks you off, her head bobbing up and down on your lap. When her lips stretched around your girth hit the root of your shaft, the tip poking the entrance of her throat, you can see her eyes watering, but she doesn't gag this time, only sucks, and sucks, and sucks. Heejin's hand reaches around your waist and squeezes your ass, and you have to bite back a moan as she fondles your cheek. Your fingers are hovering over the keyboard. You haven't typed anything in the last three minutes.

Heejin giggles, her hand coming back to cup your balls, massaging them in rhythm to her bobbing. Each bounce of her head comes with more and more sticky throat slime coating the latex. Your hips are asking to move, like this blowjob could be misconstrued as anything but throatfucking at this point, Heejin actively pushing herself down and up your shaft.

When she needs a break, and lord knows you need it equally bad, Heejin's tongue swirls around your ballsack, licks up the length, and then swirls around your cockhead. "You're doing so well, Daddy," she says. A long smooch here at the tip, where you can see a decent amount of pre in the green rubber. Her hand strokes your length, the latex sheathe creating a smooth glide. "You're gonna give me a nice big load, aren't you?" Heejin kisses the tip again, then places her tongue flat against your shaft and laps at it, like she's trying to clean off your precum through the rubber.

You let out a choked gasp. "Y-yes. Of course. Just—"

You're panting, you can feel your orgasm coming to a boil. Heejin seems to know it because she wraps her lips around the tip of your cock and starts suckling on it.

This knock on the door makes your heart drop. You can pretend you're not here, but then you're certain whoever it is will just barge in.

Heejin's lips don't even waver; if anything, her mouth is working faster, trying to get you to cum. "Come in," Heejin calls out cheerily, her voice slightly muffled. Your eyes bug out, and you're about to push her off, but she takes you down to the base again.

"Is that Heejin?" your Haseul asks. "Let me come in and say hi!" She opens the door and frowns slightly. "Oh, where is she?"

"Th-that was a phone call." You're sweating. You're shaking. You're trying not to cum in your boss' boss' presence. "She's heading out, actually. Just hung up." You're hoping to whatever god that Haseul doesn't step around the table and see a beautiful, slutty head bobbing on your lap. "Did you need something?"

You're getting closer, and the only sign of Heejin's acknowledgment of this precarious situation is a giggle that reverberates around your cock, and you're going to cum.

"Oh, she's a funny girl. It sounded like she was talking with her mouth full." Haseul laughs.

"Yeah, that's Heejin." God, your orgasm's cresting. You need to cum. "Hah, I guess you can say that."

"Hey, are you okay?" Haseul asks.

You grab Heejin's hair to stop her, but she just hollows her cheeks and continues suckling. "Yep. Great. Great as a late night can be."

"Totally. In the same boat. Well, I don't wanna take up too much of your time..."

So that means for the next ten minutes, you're listening to Haseul drone on while you're on edge. This is the worst edging session of your life, but the only thing you can do is pray that you can get through this alive. Unable to hold off the horny little devil sucking on your shaft, Heejin restarts the momentum of the blowjob. If Haseul sees the slight bobbing, she doesn't mention it. Maybe this is where being known for being restless is good. Heejin's mouth feels like it's sucking your soul straight out of your dick. It's all too much. You're going to cum, you're going to cum, you're going to cum.

"You sure you okay?" Haseul steps closer. Every single part of your body is screaming to..."You look like you're about to explode. Did I do something? I'm sorry if—"

"No, no, no, Haseul!" You wave your hands wildly. "You didn't do anything! I'm just a little sick!" You give a performative cough."I shouldn't have come to the office! I should've just stayed home, and—"

"Hey, I get it. We all do crazy things for the grind. You're a real trooper." Reaching over the desk, her hand rests on your shoulder, and you shiver, not in pleasure, not in fear, but in pure shock that Heejin hasn't stopped sucking you. You can feel the condom straining to contain your load. "You should go home. I'm sure they can finish it tomorrow."

"I'm fine!" you croak. You're not fine.

Haseul laughs, but she gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze, and you tense up, worried that Heejin is going to gag, or Haseul will look down, and then it's game over. "I'll take care of it," she says. "You need to go home, rest. I'm not asking." Her eyes are kind. "I'm sure Heejin would want you to. You're a good man."

There's someone else not asking. And she's on her knees, taking, and you brace against the desk, feeling it start to erupt from your core. No. She sucks harder, her lips stretching around your cock even tighter, her tongue circling your glans, and you finally explode into the condom as your entire body shudders, and you drive into Heejin’s throat, a silent scream rising in your chest. The condom is filled with what must be the thickest, stickiest, hottest cum of your life. Haseul's still holding her shoulder as you geyser away, shutting your eyes and biting your tongue and putting your whole face in your palm while your every muscle tenses. You must look like a raving lunatic.

"Oh! What was that?" Haseul asks, innocently.

"Nothing. Nothing. Noth..." You're panting. "No offense, can you step outside for like five minutes, I just need to... My head... ow."

"I'm so sorry!" Haseul steps back immediately. "I should've taken the hint! Take your time."

"Thank you," you manage as the last dribbles of your orgasm fill the condom. You can feel Heejin smug as she gently sucks whatever remains of that orgasm. Your cock's so fucking sensitive now.

As soon as the door closes and footsteps recede in the distance, Heejin lifts her head off your lap, smacking her lips obnoxiously.

"Wow," Heejin grins."She's so sweet."

Your brain is filled with fog.

Her breath tickles your sensitive shaft and sends pleasurable chills up and down your body. "That was hot as fuck, wasn't it?" Heejin asks. Maybe. Maybe not. What just happened. You respond with nothing. Heejin grabs her phone from her bag and types away. "There. She'll leave us alone now."

"What?"

Heejin giggles. "God, this one looks especially full." She slides the condom off using tightly sealed lips, and you have to watch it slowly slip from your shaft. When it falls into her hands, instead of tying it up as routine, she brings it to her lips."Sorry Daddy, this one looks too good not to..."

"You're really gonna—"

"Yup!" Heejin takes the condom in her mouth and lets the opening unfurl onto her tongue. The sticky white fluid that drips out pools in the back of her throat, her jaw stretched to flaunt. While the rubbery sheathe gets thinner and emptier, Heejin swishes the sperm around. It looks like a one-man bukkake inside Heejin's mouth.

"You're such a nasty slut."

With a smirk, her mouth shuts. Her lips curl over it as she gulps and swallows with a noisy gulp. Her cheeks bulge and her neck is visibly working. You watch as the entirety of your cum is swallowed. She opens her mouth wide again, tongue lolled out, to show off her hard work."Ahh. All clean. Don't pretend you don't love it." Heejin pouts. "Aw, man. I can't add this one to the others."

"Here, give me that." You take the sloppy condom from Heejin's hand, and she lets you, a little surprised, a little curious as you place it on the corner of your desk.

"What are you doing?"

You're thankful Haseul is gone by now; otherwise, she'd catch a cum-covered green condom on your desk corner, and a Heejin grinding on it like she was going to get pregnant from that thing. Now there's a video you'll watch over and over. Heejin makes for the cutest squirmer. Her little whimpers and gasps are endearing, and the neediness with which she rubs her cunt against the condom will probably turn into your go-to material when Heejin's too busy at work.

***

Hybrid work is great. You're thankful Haseul gave you the green light for remote work whenever you need it. While you wish Heejin's company gave her the same luxury, you realize that would likely lead to an extreme lack of productivity, even if no one else knew what exactly was happening.

It would lead to days like this.

"Hey babe, welcome back!" Heejin runs up to you as soon as you walk through the door, and you wrap your arms around her and kiss her forehead. She's in the middle of getting dressed, a bra on her chest and her panties on her bottom, and she smells like fresh soap and a hint of sweat, like she just did a bit of manual labor. Her body is soft and warm against yours, and her hair tickles your neck. "How was work?" she asks, pulling back from you.

"Same as usual." You shrug off your backpack, setting it on a table, and Heejin's eyes light up as you unzip the front pocket.

"I have something new for you."

"Oh yeah?"

Heejin brings you to your office and you find a fancy new standing desk. You were just talking about wanting one now that you'll be working at home more often.

"You're the best. I love you." You pull her in and kiss her on the mouth, and Heejin eagerly kisses back, her arms wrapping around your neck.

When you break away, she looks up at you and grins. "You know, I didn't just get this for ergonomics." She drags you by the hand to the side. "Check it out." That's when you realize this woman has corrupted your office space. Your laptop (not the work one, thank goodness) is opened to a tab of some porn video. There are condoms and lube bottles on the side, as well as an empty box. Heejin giggles as you gape at her.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Is it not obvious what I'm going for?"

"How am I gonna get work done with this?"

"Easy." Heejin points to the gap between the desk and where you're standing. "You stand here, and I'll crawl underneath and just lie down, with my ass up in the air, and you can just fuck my pussy like a fleshlight whenever you need to jerk off. It's perfect."

"Hah. Work, though."

"I'll be good!" Heejin gives her best puppy-dog eyes, and you can feel yourself melting at the sight of her pout. "I'll try not to moan, and I won't cum unless you let me. Let me show you."

Heejin gets underneath the desk, bending over like a gymnast and grabbing her ankles. Though she's wearing a casual home dress, you're easily reminded how flexible and athletic Heejin's body is, her thighs and ass toned from her years of dancing.

"You can use my holes whenever you want." She wiggles her ass at you. "And when you're done, I'll take your cum. See? Make a deposit in the cum bank." Her laughter turns to a squeal as you swat her ass. The noise echoes throughout your home office space. "How does that sound?"

You respond by tugging her dress up to her hips and pulling her panties down to her thighs. Heejin shivers and lets out a little sigh, her pussy already dripping wet. "God, you're so hot," you murmur. You rest your cock between the snug crevice of her ass while you get the computer ready, a browser full of porn tabs ready to be explored. Heejin's ass is so soft against the underside of your shaft, and you can feel your cock twitch as you start rubbing against her.

You click through a couple of porn videos before settling on a petite woman with a tight body and a big rack, getting fucked from behind in a POV perspective. Heejin giggles. "Ooh, I think I recognize that one Daddy. Her ass is cute, isn't it? Are you going to jerk off your cock with my holes imagining they’re hers?" You pop a condom onto your cock and slide in. Heejin's pussy feels like heaven, as always, but you're not sure how long you'll last, given the circumstances.

"Yours is better," you say. "But I don't mind spicing it up."

The woman in the video is moaning and squealing and screaming about the cock pounding into her pussy. Heejin is doing her best to stay quiet, but you can hear her breathing heavily and whimpering with every thrust.

You squeeze Heejin's asscheek. "Cocksleeves don't talk, remember?"

"Fuck, Daddy, I'm trying... you just get so, fuck, fucking deep..." she moans. "I can feel you all the way in my cunt." You give her ass a firm smack. "Fuck! Sorry Daddy, I promise, I promise I'll be good." She's still whimpering, but you can tell she's trying her best. God, you're not gonna last long.

You grab Heejin's hips, pulling her back onto your cock with each thrust. Her tight, warm, wet pussy feels amazing around your cock. She's still whimpering and moaning, but she's trying her best to keep it down. It doesn't take long before you feel yourself about to cum. With a groan, you slam into Heejin one last time, your cock twitching inside her as you cum, and you can feel the condom filling up.

You stay like that for a few moments, panting, before pulling out. Heejin whimpers as you do, her pussy clenching around your cock. You take a moment to catch your breath, then tie off the used condom, and drop it on the small of Heejin's back.

"Thank you, Daddy." Heejin sounds like she's in a daze.

You give her no respite, opening another video and feeling inspired. This is a much rougher one, the man in the video holding the woman's arms behind her back and brutally slamming his cock into her asshole. You decide that you want to try that, grabbing another condom and lubing it up thoroughly. Heejin gasps as you plunge into her asshole and pull her arms back, and you start fucking her, hard.

"Daddy!"

You yank her hair. "Be a quiet anal fleshlight, or you're not getting any cum today."

"Yes Daddy," Heejin moans, but her words cut off in a squeal as you yank on her hair again. This time, Heejin tries her hardest to stay quiet, and you're impressed at how well she manages, despite the rough treatment you're giving her ass, her hair in a ponytail that you're using as a rein to control her. You can feel Heejin's tight hole clenching around you, and you know she's getting close. Just as she's about to cum, you pull out, leaving her unsatisfied.

"Daddy..." She whimpers, and you can hear her pouting. "Please, I was so close..."

"On your knees." The sudden command is met with no resistance from Heejin. She immediately crawls out from under the desk, her dress still bunched up at her waist, her panties still around her thighs. You slap your condom-covered dick against her cheek. "Clean my cock, slut." You grab her by the hair and shove her face down onto your cock, your other hand holding the base of your shaft. Heejin doesn't even blink, just starts sucking on the rubber-covered shaft, no care in the world about the taste of her own ass. She moans around it as she cleans it off, her eyes closed, looking content. You let her suckle for a while, before pulling out and yanking her back to her feet by the hair.

"Are you gonna use me again like a fucktoy? Jerk off using my asshole?" Her eyes glimmer at the prospect.

"No. Get on all fours. I'm done with porn for now, I wanna use my anal fucktoy properly."

You don't need to ask twice. Heejin gets on the floor and arches her back, her ass up and her head down, presenting herself to you. You close the laptop and then squeeze lube between Heejin's ass cheeks. She shudders.

"You have some incredible ideas, but sometimes I just prefer to fuck my girlfriend." You plunge into her and Heejin squeals in delight. "God, you're so tight," you groan, starting to pound her ass. "I can't get enough of you."

"Thank you Daddy, thank you!" She moans. "God yes, fuck me, use my tight little ass, it's yours, it's yours, it's yours. Use it whenever you want." You're fucking her harder and faster now, her tight asshole squeezing your cock, and Heejin is folding and buckling under the sheer force of your thrusts, her hands and face pressed into the floor. You really don't need much time, as Heejin's ass is so tight and hot, and it doesn't take long before you're cumming into the condom with a loud groan.

When you pull out, Heejin collapses face-down into the floor, her ass sticking up, her asshole gaping and twitching around the emptiness.

"Looks like that asshole is begging for cum." You peel the cum-filled condom off your cock, and Heejin looks back at you. She must be thinking what you're thinking. You take the opening of the condom and pour it into her ass, and Heejin gasps then moans as you watch it trickle into her gaping hole.

"That feels... so good, Daddy." Her voice is slurred. She's barely coherent. "So good."

You watch the cum dribble down her thighs, and you reach down and spread Heejin's ass open so you can watch more of your seed disappear into her tight, gaping asshole until the condom is empty and Heejin's ass is dripping with your cum. When you let go of her ass, you slap it and Heejin jumps. "Stay there. I'll get some water for you."

As you leave the room, Heejin giggles, her face pressed against the carpet of your office. "Mmm, thank you. I'll stay nice and still for you."

You return to the sight of a beautiful woman, still in the same position as when you left except with two fingers in her pussy, two down her cream-lubed asshole.

***

Usually, you awake to the sound of your morning alarm. This is not the case today. Instead, you are rudely (or rather, kindly) awakened by Heejin slurping and sucking on your cock.

"Goo' morning," Heejin greets you, her voice muffled. "I was waiting for you to wake up. Did you know that you talk in your sleep?"

You rub your eyes and squint to look at your phone while Heejin nurses on your cockhead like it's a lollipop. "Yeah, you told me before. What time is it, babe? Are we gonna be late?"

"It's six." Heejin pouts. "We have plenty of time. We just won't be able to take our time, that's all." She kisses the head of your dick. "I think we'll be fine. Let me just get a couple of loads from you and then I'll get ready."

You sigh. You can never resist her. And, you suppose, it is nice waking up to Heejin sucking your cock.

"You like my collar, Daddy?" She smirks, looking up at you with big puppy dog eyes, and bats her lashes. The leather choker has a large silver hoop on it. "I figured it'd be a good way to carry more condoms. Look!" She grabs an empty, unopened one from your side table, opens the wrapper, and slips the ring into the hoop on her collar, like a keychain. "Doesn't that look good?"

"I bet it'll look better filled."

Heejin giggles. She's back to blowing you, the rubbery condom a familiar and pleasant sensation on your shaft. "So sexy," she mumbles.

Your hands run through her hair, gripping it tightly, but you let her do the work, slurping up and down on your cock.

"Deeper."

Heejin pushes herself down further, taking it into the back of her throat, and she gags but doesn't stop. Even with a tear running down her cheek, Heejin's smile doesn't waver.

"You like choking on my cock?"

Heejin hums an affirmative.

"You like having your throat fucked?"

She gags again, but Heejin doesn't stop, and you feel yourself getting close, especially with her hands doing all sorts of work, massaging your balls and caressing the underside of your cock.

"All before we've even had breakfast."

[oneeyedlove]

Peace.

summary | you find yourself striding towards Aemond’s chambers to confront him about his behavior at dinner, things take a turn.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Strong niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex. PinV, arguing, mentions of violence, chocking, incest, creampie, cockwarming (?).

wordcount | 4.6 k

note | this is my first time writing smut so cut me some slack plss, english is not my first language and I don’t know if i like this.

The pounding of determined steps echoed through the secret tunnels of Maegor’s holdfast as you made your way towards a certain prince’s chambers. Surprised as you were that your family whistood dinner without altercations as far as they did, the feeling of hope for a truce between the opposite sides of House Targaryen died the moment that word escaped Aemond’s lips. Spiteful litte things he and Aegon were, endlessly searching for a wound to poke at— that was usually found in your brother’s tempers.

Your and your siblings’ bastardy was no secret to any soul who paid attention although it didn’t bother you in the least. Having known fatherly love from three different men as your mother’s only daughter made your upbringing eventul, but it did not stop you from becomig a bright and optmistic young woman. Said optimism being the reason why tonight’s sudden quarrel left such anguish in your heart.

Placed between Jacaerys and Aegon at the dinner table, your finger tracing the rim of the wine cup by your side, you could not help but daydream about the pleasantness of this evening extending itself into daily life. The muffled laughter Lucerys emitted pulled you back into reality and the smile faded from your face at the sight of a pig stowed before the one eyed prince. Your brown eyes met his lilac one as he stood, your pleading gaze exchanged in vain for he said the dreadful phrase regardless.

You blamed him as you paced before the hidden entrance of the silver prince’s chambers, pondering whether it would be wise to burst in unannounced— it most likely was not. Aemond was never one to display his thoughts without an ulterior motive, so invading his personal lounge would be an open attempt at understanding him, a desire you had hoped would remain silent in your heart. Against better judgment, you stepped through the stone wall by his bed. Shivering at the frigidness in your stomach, you took in the room. It looked uneasily tidy as you touched the soft linens on the bed with the tip of your fingers, thinking it was obvious the stoic prince would have an obnoxiously clean chamber. The moment your eyes found the back of his head a breath stuck in your lungs, fearing he would sense your presence.

Seated in the armchair before the fireplace, he twirled a golden coin between his knuckles, watching it’s mesmerizing choreography. Aemond had noted your presence long before you entered his apartments, the sounds of your nervous marching thundered in his ears. However, the hour of the wolf was an unexpected moment for you to come to him. He reckoned you would confront him after the events of dinner, but never would have thought to meet your scolding outside the security of daylight.

You crept further into the chamber, standing a mere five paces behind him as your heartbeat roared in your chest. If the prince had not heard you before, he certainly had now. A smirk hid from your gaze as he placed the coin on the armrest’s leather, Aemond amusingly waited your words.

“Uncle.” Your voice escaped your lips, sounding more hesitant than you intended to.

His body rigid as a pillar, the silver haired man slowly rose to his feet, his shoulders broad and muscular. He took a deep breath as he caught your eyes with his good one, his penetrating gaze watching your every move. When he finally spoke, a familiar, biting tone filled your ears.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, dear niece?”

“I wish to speak about your behavior at dinner.” As much as you tried not to sound as a wounded child, the tartness in your mouth was filled with youthful resentment.

“Are you here to yell at me, then?” He cocked his head, your eyes gleaming under the candlelight as his gaze traveled from your face to your feet, taking in your features.

The prince would never consider himself a foolish man. Every piece of him sculpted through years of exhaustive dedication, he had scraped each flawed aspect of his mind and body until it reached perfection. Aemond had disciplined his thoughts and actions towards any living creature ever since claiming Vhagar, with all but one exception: you. It was pathetic, really, how his tamed heart turned moronic in your presence. Your laughter had welded itself into his soul from the moment he first heard it as a boy, his secret devotion never surrendering to the test of time.

As if a plague crawling inside him, the yearning for your affection clouded his judgment, forcing his dutifulness out of reach. It was easy to hate Rhaenyra and her progeny, his mother had taught him their mere existence was a disgrace to the realm, a sin that tarnished the mighty House Targaryen. Nevertheless, your impertinence in addressing him this way could only lengthen his doubts — the narrative that someone withholding of such kindness and loyalty could be unholy was ludicrous in the least.

"Why must you be insufferable at all times?" You gave in to the infantile urges that plagued you, rolling your eyes at him — being almost a woman grown, it was shameful how he managed to get underneath your skin, even if you did not show it as much as your brothers.

Aemond chuckled darkly, his lips curving up in a twisted smile as he watched you. He took a step closer, his stride slow, calm, much like a hunter stalking his prey. You knew he could hide his boyish petulance far better than yourself and yet a glimmer of irritation from your words could be seen in his lilac eye.

“Did I strike a nerve?” He asked, taking another step closer, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Or are you just sore from me speaking the truth?

"Your jab at my bastardy brings me no pain, Aemond. I have never denied the truth." The boiling in your blood had not come from his insults, you were already used to them.

"The insufferableness I refer to is your need to ruin everything."

“And you expect me to believe that you’re here simply because I ‘ruined dinner?’” Aemond chuckled again, his smirk widening at your insolent stare.

"You ruined the chance our family had to start anew, to forget about all the resentment and rage. I am aware of your hate towards Lucerys for maiming you that night at Driftmark, but can't you find it in yourself to forget? We were children." Even as your pleads traveled across the room, your newfound confidence maintained a stern tone in your voice.

His expression changed, a flicker of something grim passing through his eye. His jaw clenched and the smirk disappeared, though he took another step further, his figure looming over yours. He reached a hand out, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him.

“Forget?” He asked, his voice quiet and deadly.

“How do you expect me to forget, when it was your bastard brother who stole me my eye?”

"You lost an eye but you gained a dragon, as you said so yourself.“ You pushed his hand away, releasing yourself from his grasp as you took a step back.

“None of us mourn your eye anymore Aemond, not even your childish self."

Your touch in his hand lingered in his skin, even if it had been brief— to push him away. His thoughts raced through his mind, how could you expect him to forgive it? The incident at Driftmark surely won him Vhagar, but it earned him humiliation and disgust all the same. He could not bear the glares bestowed upon his scar, some filled with pity, others with repulse and fear. Her brother had left him crippled, a prince that would never be whole. In one swift motion, Aemond grabbed your throat, forcing you to stumble backwards until your back hit the pillar beside the chamber’s sitting room. The cold stone pressed against your body as his fingers dug into your skin.

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing of.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

Even as stings of pain cut into the muscles of your neck, you had not flinched, the ire you suppressed for so long consuming you entirely. Your eyes seeing nothing but red, a hand met his face as a loud thud vibrated through the chamber. You had punched him. He recoiled from the hit, his cheek stinging and his face shocked. He brought a free hand up to his face to touch his now bruised cheek. It stung, but something about the feeling made him hungry for more.

“You shouldn’t have done tha—.” He spat his words before you interrupted him.

“Take my eye.” You brought your hands to hold his wrist, hoping it would make him soften his grip.

“Take it. Have your revenge and be done with all this bother.” Your gaze never flickered, staring at him with determination in your eyes.

He was surprised, to say the least. He didn’t expect you to say something like that, and for a moment he just held you in place, his breath coming out in ragged breaths as he looked down at you. The prince studied your face, looking for a sign of deceit, for a hint of fear, but all he found was defiant eyes looking back at him. He grunted, a deep, guttural sound from the back of his throat.

“Is that what you want?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I will do what I must to protect my blood. If this will help in mending our family it is a price I'll gladly pay."

“You would do that for your bastard brothers?” He asked quietly, a hint of disbelief in his voice as pressed closer to you, his body trapping you against the wall as he moved his hand from your neck to gently place his fingers on your jawline.

"I would do it for anyone in this family if it gave us peace.“ You said, feeling your skin tingle at his soft touch.

“Even you.”

Truer words had never been said. You had no desire to lose an eye, naturally, but if it was the needed punishment you would receive it without hesitation. If it had to be you, you would do it for your relatives, for yourself, for him. For the boy you loved so dearly, the sweet version of Aemond that was shy and gentle — he deserved better. You knew he was trapped inside of the villainous mask the prince wore but was still there. And you would love him eternally, all of him, all the dark fragments of who he now was. Although, he could never let you. So you would allow your adoration succumb to violence if it would succeed in attaining peace.

The words cut him like an arrow through the heart. He felt his muscles tense and for a moment he was sure he would squeeze your throat and end it right there. But something stopped him, whether it was your words or the fact that having your face so close, gleaming in the soft light of the fireplace, made something inside him soften. He finally found it in your eyes, what he searched for so long — the same cherishing ardor he hid inside himself. His eye flickered desperately in its socket, he had to be sure it wasn’t a dream, a cruel jest his subconscious was playing on him. But it was real. Aemond knew, right then and there, that he could have the whole world at his feet and he would still beg on his knees for you.

He watched your eyes gazing over his face, taking in your expression as his change took place. He saw the way your eyes became hazy, the way your lips parted slightly as if to say something but then closed shut again. He could feel the heat pooling in his lower abdomen, a wave of burning hunger flowing through his veins. Relishing in the feel of your small frame, your breath hitching as your chest rose and fell against his, so innocent and yet calling to him like a siren.

Before you could fathom what provoked his sudden change in demeanor, he clashed his lips into yours. The kiss was rough and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue as he pressed your body into the wall. You moved your hands to his chest, tiny and soft against the hard muscle. He felt something tighten in his groin and he groaned into the kiss, his tongue desperately searching for more of yours. He tasted you — sweet, like sugarcane and vanilla, and he couldn’t get enough. If he had known how intoxicating your touch would be, he would have indulged in it until he made himself a drunkard.

He pushed his body closer to yours, pinning you completely against the wall, his knee coming between your legs automatically as he continued the hungry assault on your mouth. You weren’t unholy, he could see it now. But if loving you was a sin, he would gladly worship your wickedness.

He placed his hand on the side of your face, his thumb caressing your cheek as he parted his lips from yours. Your foreheads touching as he opened his eye to look for your reaction, your face was flushed, your lips bruised and swollen from his rough kisses — he found the sight unbelievably arousing. You had not expected him to ignore your demand to gauge out your eye, thinking his hatred was everything you could ever have, much less kiss you. The longing and passion emanating from his touch made it clear he had been hiding from you for this long, but there was still a piece of you that needed to be sure.

Your eyes looked up at him, his lips red from friction and his luscious hair messier than usual. You could feel his hardened length on your upper thigh, the feeling sending chills through your body. You wanted him, the gods know you did, but he needed to show you his feelings were honest.

“Tell me this is real.” You said as your fingers traced soft patterns over his black tunic.

He stared at you in confusion for a brief moment, then realizing you had the same doubts he had. A loving smile made its way into his face as he spoke, the once familiar anger that filled his voice was now replaced with pure adoration.

“I need you. I have always needed you.” He whispered, the words twirling out of his lips.

“Then have me.” You said, a new sense of confidence washing over you alongside a heat that pooled in your belly.

Aemond’s eye widened as you kissed him, the action catching him off guard. It took him a moment to process that was you were asking, but when he did; he grabbed your waist and pushed you further into the stone wall. He leaned down, towering over you as he did, and kissed you back. Hard. As a soft moan hit his ear, a wave a desire washed over him. He felt an instinct, a burning need to hear more of those sounds escape your mouth. He wanted to hear you cry and moan and gasp for breath, and he wanted to be the only one to hear it.

Your hands found the back of his head, your fingers interwoven in his silver hair as you pulled him closer. His leg pressed itself again into your core, the heat stemming from your cunt could surely be felt through the fabric of your dress. His fingers digging almost painfully into your hips, he moved his other hand down, grabbing your leg and pulling it over his hip, pressing his body against yours and pinning you there.

He broke the kiss, panting, as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. He nipped and kissed your skin as if he were a starved man. Aemond had treasured you in secret for so long, the feeling of being held in the same regard by you made his head spin — you would be his forever, he had to make sure of that.

The sensitive skin of your neck reddened at each teasing action he bestowed upon it, your body aching in desire. He relished the small gasps and mewls that the simple action of his mouth against your flesh caused you to make. The soft, reddening mark he was leaving on your skin, from his lips and teeth as he marked you as his own, making him more and more possessive with every soft bite. His grip on your hip became more firmer, his hand on your waist digging in, no doubt leaving his mark there too.

You had never been touched like this before and it felt good, the thought of giving yourself to Aemond felt right somehow. Your hands found the metal buckles of his tunic, hastening to undo them and reveal his pale chest. He shivered at the feeling of your fingernails running over his bare abdomen, trails of yearning left behind. The prince could feel himself coming undone at the simple action. He was like a young boy again, his inexperience showing through how he reacted so readily to being touched. He grabbed your wrists with one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall, to stop you from exploring any further. His other hand began to roam over your body, gripping your thigh and moving higher until his hand disappeared under your skirts.

You let out a loud whine as his finger slipped over your drenched slit, waves of pleasure sent through your being. You felt yourself melting as he explored your folds at an ungodly slow pace, the tip of his long finger pressing against your pearl. He let out a soft snicker into your ear as he heard the sound that escaped your lips, a smirk of satisfaction appearing on his own. He nipped at your earlobe as he slowly pushed a long, lean finger into you. He let out a soft huff of air, as he felt how warm and tight you were. He slowly began to move inside you, at the same painfully slow pace. As his thumb began to slowly rub your clit, you were sure your cries had been heard from outside his chamber — and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Aemond watched as you closed your eyes and opened your mouth, and he smiled at the sight of your pleasure. He watched as your hips slightly bucked to meet his touch, and he took it as a sign to be rougher, and to give you even more. He moved faster and harder as he touched you, his thumb rubbing against you in a circular motion. The prince felt his breathing get shaky as sounds of your whimpers and moans filled his ears. The feel of your body trembling in pleasure, your arms wrapping around him and you scratching the back of his neck brought him nothing but complete ecstasy. He felt your body shuddering as your release washed over you, and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan of his own in response, relishing the sounds and the feeling of you being so overwhelmed under his touch.

You let out a cry at the loss of his finger, but he left you no time to argue as he grabbed your shoulders and turned you so your back was pressed onto his chest. The prince found the lacings of your corset, undoing them and revealing your bare skin. He turned you to face him again, the lace that had been covering your chest, was now on the floor and you were only left with your thin shift. He could see your figure through the translucent fabric, could see the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed faster and harder.

He led you, by the hips, over to the bed and slowly pushed you down until you were on your back. Aemond loomed over you, taking a moment to look down, eyes roaming over your body as he admired the sight of you on his bed, flushed, half naked and panting. You looked magnificent, he was sure you were the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms — and he reveled in the fact that you were his.

You never took your eyes off him, as embarrassed as you were to have his eyes scan your body like a madman. Watching as he undid the laces of his breeches, you let out a soft gasp as he kicked the fabric alongside his small clothes to the floor, kneeling over you completely bare. He was lean, strong and pale, covered in a fine layer of small white scars — surely obtained through sword fighting. There was a small dusting of silver hair that started at his pelvis and traveled up his abdomen. Your eyes found his cock, long and hard, pulsating with desire.

You furrowed your brows and sat up in the bed, grabbing the end of your shift and pulling it over your head. You saw Aemond’s pupil dilate at the sight of your naked body, feeling a small satisfaction in knowing he wanted you this much. He was mesmerizing, a true Valyrian beauty, and it delighted you to know he was yours.

“I want to see all of you.” You whispered, staring at his eyepatch.

Aemond’s good eye widened as he understood what you meant. He was used to aversion and horror being directed towards his deformity and never thought someone would ever want to see it in such a moment. He hesitated before moving his arm up and seizing the black leather in his hand, letting it fall to the bed. A sapphire eye cut through with a reddened scar stares back at you, the candlelight shining in the deep blue of the gem. You moved your hand to the side of his face and admired him, feeling his uneasiness at being vulnerable before you.

“It is beautiful.” You say as tenderness fills your heart.

The prince wasted no time as he pulled you into a deep kiss. He felt unconditionally happy at your response, the need he held growing stronger as he laid you back into the mattress. His hand cupped your breast, fondling the peak in devotion as the other found your waist. He let out a groan at the touch of his cockhead against your bare cunt, pleasure ripping through his body.

“I cannot wait any longer.” He said in ragged breaths.

You nodded in response and that was all he needed for order for him to give in to the craving he felt for you. He moved his hands and placed them instead on your hips, holding your body down on the bed as he positioned himself on top of you. He looked down at your frame, his heart racing with need and anticipation, as he looked into your eyes.

"Tell me if I need to stop." He said gently, before slowly pushing his hips forward against your body.

You gasped alongside him as you felt his cock stretch your walls, the foreign sensation striking painfully. He kissed you gently as he could feel how your body was adjusting to him, how tight you were around his length, and it made him feel completely overwhelmed. He pulled away from the kiss for just a moment, looking down at you as he slowly pushed deeper inside. You stayed like that for a moment, letting yourself get used to accommodating him.

After what Aemond felt like were hours, he noticed you bucking your hips forward, pleasuring yourself. He smirked at the sight and your hips moving against him made the silver prince feel an insane wave of desire wash over him. He knew you were enjoying it, and it only made him feel hungrier for you. He began to move his hips back and forth, in a slow, gentle back and forth motion at first. Feeling himself almost losing control as he looked down at you, your expression filled with nothing but pleasure and satisfaction.

“Aemond.” You let out.

He could feel the desire within him become almost uncontrollable as he heard your lustful words. He felt a rush of adrenaline running through him as he looked down at you, your body underneath him, and all he could think about was how good you felt. He pulled his hips back and pushed forward again, this time with a little more force and speed than before. And again, and again, until he was completely lost in the sensation of you and the feeling of having you underneath him.

You were in pure ecstasy, lost in the feeling of being with him. The sound of his heavy breaths and the pleasure filled sounds leaving his mouth made your body shiver in response. He continued to move his hips, back and forth in a rougher and faster pace, holding you closer to him as you felt the tightening in your belly grow more and more intense. You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, scratching his back to mark him as he did you.

The memories of your childhood together filled his mind. How you would read together in the library, how you defended him from his brother and yours and especially how you laughed so easily in his presence. He loved how you were filled with so much joy, a true beam of sunlight inside the Red Keep. He knew then how you would intertwine yourself into his heart and take it for yourself — and he let you.

Aemond could feel his climax growing closer, the feeling of your full breasts against him and your body shaking in response becoming too much to hold back. He felt like he had died and found himself in the greatest of heavens, all he wanted to do was surrender himself completely to the moment.

"I’m close." He said faintly, his breathing ragged and his heart beating faster with every passing second.

Your tightened your grip on his back, your nails digging into his skin, filling him with a mixture of pleasure and pain. It was just the right thing to send him over the edge, to make his body give in completely. He let out a low, guttural moan as he felt himself reach his peak, and he felt both your bodies shake in response to the overwhelming euphoria that washed over them. He sent a few more thrusts inside you, your walls clenching as you took his seed.

You two stayed that way, a mess of sweat and disheveled breaths as you rode out of your trance. His hand drew patterns on your outer tight while you ran your fingers through his silver locks, both hearts brimming with love. You longed for each other in secret for years, miserable at the thought of having the other’s hatred to call their own. But now, caged in a chaos of limbs over the soft linens of his bed, it all felt far away, for he was yours and you were his.

“I love you.” He mumbled against your skin.

“I love you as well.” You answered, a soft smile on your lips.

There could never be a truce over the divide that wedged itself between the sides of mighty House Targaryen, but you would be each other’s peace.

From now until death parts you.

[cece693]

I wanted to begin writing for twilight again, but didn't have any ideas for who. So this fic is mostly be just going with the flow.

Sparkling Awkwardness

pairing: jasper whitlock x male reader x edward cullen tags: you are a newborn, but even then you can't catch a break, tug of war between two vampires, comedic elements, pre-relationship, reader is not that old, newborn vampire

In Forks, Washington, the perpetual gray skies had always been your friend—before and after you became a vampire. But not even the cozy gloom of the Pacific Northwest could hide the shimmering tension stirring between Jasper and Edward over you, of all people.

You never asked to be so desirable; you certainly hadn’t been in your human life. But now, you were a shiny new vampire with a perfect complexion and a magnetic personality—at least, so you’d been told. You still felt like the same slightly clumsy, socially awkward guy, except you no longer tripped over your own feet unless you were actively trying to blend in. It was weird. Oh, and apparently, both Jasper and Edward thought you might be their “mate.” That word alone was enough to give you hives if your skin could still do that. It made everything feel predetermined—a cosmic real-estate deal on your afterlife.

No, thank you.

You plopped down on the gleaming white couch, adopting what you hoped was a casual position. Edward sat at the piano bench, absentmindedly letting his fingers hover over the keys, while Jasper paced near the staircase. They were doing that silent eye-contact thing—what you liked to call “vampire telepathy” (you knew it was actually Edward reading thoughts and Jasper sensing emotions, but still). Either way, you were definitely the topic, if the frequent side-eye glances were any indication.

You cleared your throat, forcing a grin. “So, are we going to continue the silent stare-off, or do I need to crack a few jokes to break this tension?”

Edward turned to you, lips curving into a tight, apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he murmured softly. “Old habits.”

“You guys have old habits? You’re basically the definition of ancient habits,” you teased. “I’m the new kid on the block. Cut me some slack. I’ve only been a vampire for—what—three months?”

Jasper stopped mid-pace, sending you a faint smirk. “If it helps, you’re doing a fine job adjusting. No unintentional biting incidents this week.”

“I appreciate the recognition. We can add it to my vampire résumé,” you said, only half-joking. “Next up: perfecting the sparkle. Do you think if I rub my cheek up against a disco ball, I’ll blind everyone within a two-mile radius?”

Edward’s eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement. “Might be a bit dramatic, even for us.”

Jasper shrugged. “No more dramatic than having two vampires fight over you, I reckon.”

You grimaced, nose scrunching. “Yeah, about that.” You cast them both a meaningful look. “Are you two really fighting over me? Because I’m not exactly used to…you know, this.”

“Yes,” Edward said at the exact same time Jasper said, “Of course.” Then they flicked irritated glances at each other, as if each wished the other had said anything else.

When Carlisle brought you home after that near-fatal accident, you had been delirious and bleeding out. Edward, in typical heroic fashion, had insisted on saving you. Next thing you knew, there you were: newly turned, hungry for blood, and fitted with a brand-new wardrobe courtesy of Alice.

You’d spent the early days stumbling through the house, flinching whenever someone shut a door too loudly. But from the get-go, you noticed two sets of molten gold eyes on you more than the others: Jasper’s and Edward’s.

You didn’t think much of it at first—maybe they were just protective. But it quickly escalated from polite overprotectiveness to…whatever this was. Tense stands in the living room. Soft arguments at midnight. That time Jasper accidentally crushed a chair arm because Edward “invaded your personal space.” Or the time Edward snarled under his breath for no apparent reason when you innocently asked Jasper for some sparring tips.

Needless to say, that’s when you began to suspect something was afoot. And apparently, that something was the so-called mate bond. You still didn’t buy it.

A creak on the polished floor made you realize you’d been tapping your foot anxiously—only to discover it was Jasper edging closer to you. He had that concerned older-brother-turned-smitten-face again. Meanwhile, Edward looked up from the piano, watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to (besides maybe the antique piano itself).

You sighed, addressing them both. “So, as fun as it is being the center of your undead soap opera, can we talk about the whole ‘mate’ thing? I still don’t buy into it.”

Edward studied you, a hint of a frown creasing his perfect forehead. “I’ve heard your thoughts,” he began, “and I understand why you’re—”

“You heard my thoughts?” you cut in, eyes narrowing. “Hey, man, that’s private property up there. At least charge admission.”

A sheepish smile briefly pulled at his lips. “I try to respect your privacy, but strong emotions tend to overflow.”

Your cheeks heated (which was impossible, physically, but you felt it). You cleared your throat. “Well, guess I should keep my strong emotions dialed down—like that’s even possible. I’m brand-new at this vamp thing. I can’t walk across the room without rearranging furniture accidentally.”

Jasper let out a low laugh. It instantly relaxed some of the tension in the room—he couldn’t help broadcasting some of that relaxation to you, as was his empathetic gift. “I’ve got no intention of forcing you into anything,” he said gently. “It’s just…I feel how your emotions waver between us. It’s intense.”

You threw up your hands. “I can’t help it! You two are like walking advertisement campaigns for impossibly cool vampires. I mean, Edward, you’ve got that brooding poet vibe, and sometimes your hair looks like you walked off a shampoo commercial—”

He seemed surprised. “I—thank you?”

You went on. “Jasper, you’re the calm center in a raging storm, and plus, that Southern drawl is kinda hot. Sorry, is that weird to say out loud?”

Jasper blinked. “It’s— it’s not unwelcome.”

Edward’s lips twitched in a smile. “So, you do admit you feel…something?”

“Well, yeah!” you exclaimed. “But does that mean I have to pick and stamp a romantic label on it right now? Because that’s a lot of pressure.” You flopped back against the couch dramatically. “Especially when I’m trying to figure out why my sparkles look more like glitter glue than fancy vampire confetti in the sunlight.”

You heard a snicker and glanced to the side. Emmett was leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, thoroughly entertained. Alice stood behind him, grinning like this was the funniest show on earth.

“You’re both about one push away from a territorial meltdown,” Emmett teased his brothers. “And I, for one, can’t wait to see who’s gonna punch whom first.”

Jasper shot him a warning look. “Not helpful, Emmett.”

Edward winced. “I’d prefer if we avoided violence.”

You rubbed your temples. “Yes, please, let’s not have that. It’s already complicated enough without fistfights.”

“Aw, come on,” Emmett drawled, “vampire fights are the best. It’ll be over in about two seconds and destroy half the house. Great entertainment, if you ask me.”

Alice laughed behind her hand. “I saw a vision of that once. Rosalie was not happy about the furniture repairs.”

In an effort to shift the mood, you sat up straight, cleared your throat, and pointed at Edward and Jasper in turn. “First, you.” You locked eyes with Edward. “Stop reading my cringe-worthy daydreams—I can’t handle that level of exposure.”

He pressed his lips together in a teasing way, then nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Second,” you said, turning to Jasper, “no more flooding me with calm vibes to manipulate me into hugging you for, like, five minutes at a time.”

Jasper put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “I don’t do that on purpose. Usually,” he added under his breath.

“And third,” you said, scanning between them, “I don’t want either of you jumping to assumptions about being my ‘mate.’ I don’t even know what that truly means aside from it being the vampire version of destiny. Maybe I’m too new to see the big picture, but…” You shrugged, folding your arms. “I’m not ready to commit. I like you both. Deal with it.”

Edward’s eyes flickered with relief and a shade of disappointment simultaneously, as though he’d half-expected you to declare an immediate eternal bond. Jasper gave you a solemn nod, managing a small, humble smile.

“So you want to, what, keep this casual?” Edward asked.

“I want to keep living—uh, un-living—my new existence,” you corrected, “without strapping myself into an epic love saga just yet. Let me be a baby vampire who can’t even do a normal grocery run without wanting to pass out from the smell of raw hamburger.” Your voice dropped into a mock superhero tone: “Time to buy more steak sauce, but oh wait, I can’t eat human food anymore.”

A strained silence passed, then Edward sighed, letting the corners of his mouth lift. “Fair enough.”

Jasper stepped closer, just enough that he could have touched your arm, but he hesitated. “And if we…I don’t know, slip up? If one of us tries to edge the other one out?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You both have about a century of experience on me. I promise, if you slip up, I will find some comedic way to remind you. Maybe I’ll laminate a scoreboard.”

At that, Jasper chuckled quietly. Edward dipped his head, biting back a grin. It seemed the cold war between them was cooling off—somewhat.

Emmett broke into a broad smile. “Aw, man, a scoreboard. Please put me in charge of that. I’ll keep track of who gets the most time with you. Strictly for comedic purposes, of course.”

From across the house, Rosalie’s voice rang out, “Don’t encourage them!”

As the sun sank below Forks’ ever-present clouds, you rose from the couch, nearly tripping over the rug on your way to the door—reflexively, Jasper grabbed your elbow, steadying you. Edward hovered just behind you, poised to catch you if you stumbled further.

“Thanks,” you murmured to both of them, awkwardly aware of their closeness. Being flanked by two protective vampires had once seemed terrifying, but now it felt…comforting. Still weird, though.

“We’re not going to solve everything tonight,” you said, taking a purposeful step back so you could see them both—and so you didn’t spontaneously lean into someone’s chest. “Let’s just agree not to tear each other apart, yeah?”

Edward extended a hand toward Jasper, as if to form a truce. Jasper eyed it warily for a moment before accepting the gesture in a calm, if reluctant, handshake. “Alright,” Edward said. “No tearing each other apart.”

Jasper nodded. “Can do.”

Feeling a spark of mischief, you clapped your hands. “Great. That’s one less lawsuit for Dr. Cullen to worry about. In the meantime, Emmett—please start designing that scoreboard.”

“On it!” Emmett crowed from the doorway.

“Have a good night, you two,” you said to Jasper and Edward. Then, with a flash of a grin, you headed for the stairs, half-dreading, half-anticipating the comedic fiascos tomorrow was sure to bring. Behind you, you heard their faint conversation:

(Edward) “He’s definitely going to drive us insane, isn’t he?”

(Jasper) “Yep.”

(Edward) “… And you’re okay with that?”

(Jasper) “I think I am.”

Your lips quirked into a smile. Even if you didn’t believe in mates, you had to admit—it felt pretty good having not just one, but two admirers who thought you were worth fighting for. Sure, you still sparkled like a glitter bomb gone awry, and your vampiric existence remained confusing at best. But if that’s the price of comedic immortality… well, you could live—er, un-live—with that.

[minnie-cai]

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

[jyoongim]

I literally kick my feet anytime I see you post your writing is so good. Fuckin biting my nails and screaming !!!!

Mayhaps something with alastor and like stoic reader. Like she’s badass, nothing gets to her and tries so hard to seem dominant (cause she knows compared to alastor she really isn’t). Has never fucked annoyed cause it’s the “I only need myself, I can get myself off” mindset

At one point she ends up getting snippy with alastor and he like grabs her by the throat or something to stop her and she immediately just looses all resolve. It’s viable in her eyes as she quickly goes from defiant and brash to meek and submissive just by something so simple because she’s so unused to the feeling.

Thank you for enjoying my writing🥹🥹🥹 I hope I can continue to give you everything you desire🩷

You took a seat beside Velvette as the Overlord meeting started. She was practically fangirling next to you, sneaking a few pics of you for her socials.

The meeting went as smooth as one could go with a bunch of powerful Overlords. 

You were chatting with Carmilla about business, catching sight of a familiar red demon leaving when Velvette quite literally stole you away, she sported a big grin on her face “Ooh babes, Voxxy wants to know if you’re accepting his dinner invite?”

You wanted to groan. Vox had been quite persistent in trying to gain your ‘affections’. 

You were a relatively powerful overlord. As one of the few female sovereigns, you always made sure to carry yourself with poise and elegance. You got your power on your own, never having to sleep your way to get what you want. And you kept it that way. Your dominant cold personality made sinners shake in fear.  You possessed a great mind for business, able to build or break someone’s business. 

Many sinners would be lucky to have you oversee their management.

And Vox could see you bringing him more money then he could count.

With you under him, he would dominate in sales.

You shook Velvette off, smoothing out your suit. “For the nth time Velvette…no. I am not some power clutch for Vox to try and woo” you growled at her, eyes flashing.  She rolled her eyes “babes you dont know what you’re missing” You rubbed your head as you made your way out the building, trying to ease a migraine coming through.

Your sneer must have still been on your face because you heard a voice teased you

”Frowning doesn’t suit you my dear”

Alastor.

The tall red demon was leaning against a wall, smile ever present.

You felt your eye twitch before quickly regaining your composure, spine straightening and lips pulling into a straight line.

You and Alastor were something like friends. You liked to keep your distance from the Radio Demon, but somehow he always found a way to bother you and keep you close enough for ‘entertainment’. He made you uneasy with how intimidating he was. His ever present smile could make people shit bricks alone and you knew what happened to those who crossed him…

But he didn’t scare you…much.

You growled slightly at his comment, your irritation was blinding the fact that you just barred your teeth at THE Radio Demon.

He tilted his head “trouble in paradise?” he asked sarcastically. If anyone didn’t know, Alastor knew how much you despised Vox.  

”Oh piss off Alastor” you said walking pass him.

You didn’t get far before you found yourself pressed into the building wall.

You blinked, brain catching up to the fact that Alastor had a claw around your throat holding you up against the wall.

You growled out of instinct, eyes glowing and squeezed his wrist “Are You fucking crazy!? Unhan-!” 

 The tightening of Alastor’s hand had your eyes widening.

“Watch your tone darlin’ ”

 your body went slack as a purr escaped your throat.

Alastor chuckled darkly “hahaha oh what’s this? So you aren’t so scary after all”

You blushed immediately.

You weren’t used to being manhandled by anyone. 

You didn’t take orders from anyone.

You were always a force to be reckoned with…

But the way Alastor towered over you, pressing into you, you melted as he established his dominance over you.

A pout formed on your lip as you looked away shyly, feeling small “s-sorry”

Alastor hummed, loosening his grip, favoring to catch your chin with his claw for you to meet his gaze

”that’s a good girl”

@absurd-ash @simphornies @altruisticalastor @markster666 @crazyforbarnes @catherine69420 @yourdoorisunlocked @strawberrypimp666 @sssandychemd @dasimp777 @dennsfz @alastorsaries @confessioncassette @horrorartsworld @alstorloml @scaramoochiie @alishii (I can’t tag you) @gojosaturos-wife @prosciuttosblog @wedream-wecreate @coleisyn @alastorsfawn @eviebuggg @spalimly @senseichaos @thewinchestah @queenariesofnarnia @polytheatrix @zombiesnips-blog @lunaramune @freekyfangirl @kassa-stardust

If I’m missing anyone just comment hehe

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

MDNI NSFW (warnings under the page break). SFW version here!

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire, his cock half-hard already and his mind buzzing. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach for the strings on his trousers before you pull them down. He steps out of them easy enough, though he feels awkward standing there with his tunic on. Though you did not leave him to suffer for long before you pulled his shirt off as well. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. 

Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. Your touch sets him alight. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep.

His cock stiffens, though you keep touching him. You brush over his right nipple, then the left, then both. It is a strange sensation – one he’s not wholly against. 

Then, 

your fingers brush against his abdomen, trace the outline of his abs, then dips below. You grasp him firm in hand, and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft, and he is so very very hard. 

The whore Aegon forced on him at his thirteenth name-day held him tightly, too tightly, then rubbed his skin raw, and still he could not force himself to come. He remained flaccid and cold in her calloused hands, even as Aegon jeered and leered from his place on the dais. 

But you showed none of her cruelty, none of the cold indifference. Just your presence took him halfway to completion, and he doubted it would take much more. Your other hand reaches below to cup his balls. That touch is less gentle, more firm. You start to twist the hand holding his cock, bringing it back and then forth in long, slow movements. You switch between firm, soft, fast, and then slower. But it is never not gentle. And you never look away from his eyes.

Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. 

His eye blinks wide open at the new sensation. Your mouth is warm and soft like silk. It is heaven made flesh, and it makes his knees tremble. You envelop him, tongue hot on his cock. You pay special attention to his head; trace the veins and the weeping slit with extra care. And, oh, is he weeping. 

Aemond needs more. 

He wraps his fingers around your hair, then gently guides you back and forth. A single shake of your head would free you from him, should you wish, but you don’t. Your tear-filled eyes plead with him for a tighter hold, and he complies. A bit. But he is soon lost to the pleasure of your mouth, and so as his eye flutter shut and he shudders, he finds himself guiding you all the way down so that your nose meets the short hairs at his base, and then back up just far enough that your lips wrap around his head. 

The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name.

Though if he finds the most pleasure from your sucking his cock or from knowing that a piece of him was inside you, he would never know. You swallow him down so easily, and with so much enthusiasm he is mournful that there is not more he can give. 

There is a knife on the chest by his feet. He wonders, would you swallow all of him as easily as his seed? If he cut himself would you lap at his wounds? 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight with desire. 

“That was cruel.” He says. “I was close.” 

He wasn’t. Your passions are his passion, your pleasure his pleasure. 

“Then I suppose you should get revenge.” You bite your lip. 

Your nightwear is thin. It is easily swept away from your body and thrown on the floor. 

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

“It is all for you.” You tell him as you lean back against the pillows. 

His eye rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, dance around your sensitive nipples to lay flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. Then, he turns his attention to your breasts. You are most sensitive there. His lips wrap around a nipple, and you gasp. His hand wanders down your stomach, through the hair covering your cunt, and then he presses down on your clit. You jump into his touch, eyes widening at the sudden pleasure. 

“Aemond.” You moan. 

His mouth comes off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’ before he leans down and claims the other. He presses tight circles into your clit, alternating directions, then he moves his index finger to nudge at your entrance. His thumb stays on your clit, but the motions are lazy. He spells his name, then yours, then he stops. 

Aemond pulls away, but not for long. 

He moves down your body, about to put his lips against your cunt, when you pull at his hair. Aemond groans into your flesh. His desire for you is akin to drunkenness. He is dizzy with it, crazed with a need that can never be satisfied. Still, he presses himself against your folds, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness there. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

His thumb stays on your clit, but only for a moment before his nose replaces it. He grabs your hips and brings you closer to him. His face is all but buried in you, and yet it is not enough. Your wetness covers his lips, his chin, his cheeks. His tongue digs inside you for more, tip of his nose pressing against your clit in that way that makes your head spin. 

Time seems to stop, your pleasure endless, his chase bringing him closer and closer, and deeper. He presses a finger inside your entrance, before you give way and he thrusts it inside. He pumps it when his tongue darts away, so that you are never empty of him. 

Then, just as your hips start to shake, and your moans grow louder, you pull him away. He protests, loudly, but it falls on deaf ears. You pull him up to you, and he is reluctant to follow. Aemond feels cold and lost, but is then altogether found and warm when your hands wrap around his cock again. 

And the next moment he’s burning. 

You guide his cock inside you, and he sputters to life. His lips press down on yours, uncaring of the taste of him inside your mouth. He needs the connection, needs you. Aemond thrusts wildly against you for a few moments, his cock driving in and out of you with filthy wet sounds. 

You hold his face in your hands as you kiss, and his thrusts grow more controlled. Aemond wants it to last. Wants to drag out your connection for as long as he can, but he can feel his orgasm building already. His lower back aches with it, his toes curling against the bedsheets. He moves to slow down but the second he tries, you wrap your legs around his hips, pressing your feet against his buttocks to slam him into you. It is the same when he tries again, until he drives back with the same force as you drive him back in. 

The pace is maddening, your sounds so sweet he feels like he’s drowning. He knows not where he ends and you start, but he would have it no other way. If he pushes into you hard enough would you truly become one? In body as you are in soul? 

“Gods, Aemond,” you gasp at a particularly hard thrust.

Aemond brings his finger back down to thumb at your clit as apology, and you sing even sweeter for it. 

Time means nothing, there is only you and him. And then you’re falling over the cliff of pleasure, and he dives after you, clinging to you with bleeding fingers. Your pleasure is his pleasure, two halves of a whole finally forcing themselves together. There is not a crack in your connection, and Aemond thinks he sees stars as his vision goes white. He gasps and moans into your mouth, your pants and sounds of pleasure drowned by his need to bring himself closer to you. 

He lets himself fall upon you, cock softening inside you. His head spins still, but his heart beats like a drum in his chest at knowing that he’s once again been claimed by you. Even when he pulls himself free (reluctantly) there is still a piece of him in you. A piece that would never blossom into something more, for Aemond would not part with a single part of you, not even for himself. 

“I love you,” you pant into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

[glitter-stained]

Look I don't like RHATO #25 for many reasons but if you're gonna talk about the beatdown and you don't like it you can just say "that issue had terrible writing" or "that's not my batman he would never do that"

You don't have to defend him, this isn't his first instance of abuse with any of his children or jason in particular but he's such a big and old character I understand not wanting to see him being an abusive parent ever (though in that case I advise you to just not engage in his and Jason's mainline relationship at all, at the very least not red hood!jason)

What does really really grate me though, is people trying to defend it because those reasonings are so hypocritical it's clear they just don't like the way Jason's character challenges the bat-status quo and that ends up literally just being abuse justification rhetoric again and again and I'm tired. If you're gonna be a hater can you not do it in a way that makes you sound like the parent who stands to the side watching their partner "discipline" the kid with a belt because "the kid is a bad kid that deserves to be punished."

-well batman is a hero and Jason is a criminal what was he supposed to do he can't play favourites! So, I call Batman a hero when he acts like it but sure, Batman is a vigilante. He fights criminals. Have y'all ever heard of this little term called "conflict of interest"? Yk when your personal connection to the case you're working means you are more likely to lose your cool and let your emotions affect your judgement beyond measure so it's important to delegate? That thing? Batman is always showing up in everyone's comic, the outlaws can have some reinforcement being called to handle Jason's case for once this is absurd, Bruce is more compromised than the cia agent i've been pegging for months in exchange for data. Fathers shouldn't have to arrest their sons.

-well Jason deserved it! Punitive justice, especially fucking punitive violence, is the enemy. It doesn't work for children and it doesn't work on adults and it's a ridiculous approach to harm reduction and recidivism prevention. Well, killing might work, but i don't reckon rhato#25 batman defenders would defend this*. I understand the cathartic appeal of wanting to see fictional characters you dislike punished, really, and the desire for vengeance in the form of punitive justice is normal and perfectly understandable; but however valid this emotion is, that doesn't mean actually enacting this brutality becomes the correct course of actions. Idk how else to say it but however evil you think the victim is it's still not okay to victim-blame. And sure, I can tell fiction from reality and know this isn't a real person, but when people say stuff like that it still tells me that the person who is saying this stuff believes that it's not abuse if the victim is evil. And when you're there, it only takes a bit of cognitive bias and dissonance and carefully worded narrative bending for the victim to be categorised evil and denied the respect of their pain.

(*this isn't about the death penalty. I do not support state violence)

People are so concerned with hating Jason's character and wanting to see him punished for his crimes they will bend things backwards to justify that a father brutally beating down his son in an extremely vulnerable moment while the son doesn't fight back isn't abuse because the character is inherently bad and thus deserves to be violently punished. And then we wonder why victims blame themselves or explain "it's different because it's me so the situation is unique, i'm a special case because i'm wrong", when this is the classic mentality in our societies.

Truly a mystery indeed

[blackynsupremacy]

TOUCHDOWN

CHAPTER 1

pairing: nicholas a. chavez x black!fem!reader

summary: your loathing for the sport of college football changes when unexpected sparks fly between you and the star quarterback.

contains: college au, fluff, quarterback!nicholas, strangers to friends (for now), slow burn, opposites attract, mention of partying, swearing, meet cute.

also starring: drew starkey as himself, justine skye as herself.

a/n: based on this request. this is my first request ever, so i hope you guys enjoy it! this will be a series because the idea of quarterback!nicholas has hella potential and i didn’t want to do lazy headcanons. dear taglist, my apologies if my tags are inconsistent! i be writing these sleepy as hell and sometimes i forget. please charge it to the head and not the heart. thank you all for the continued support!

tags: @oscarisaackissmykitty @greengoblinswifey @jkr820 @simply-lovley44 @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu @hnch33rios @niteskysx @xoxoglittergossip @titsout4nicholas @hoffmansgirl @hopefully-saturn @austeenbootler @supaprettyg @sabrinasopposite @thabiddie23 @sheydnni @venic-bxtch

the sun rays illuminate the orange, black, and white fan appearal as the roaring cheers of the crowd of the ecstatic student body vibrated and pierced through your ears as you were being dragged by your best friend, justine.

“come on, girl! it’s almost the start of the second quarter.” justine urged, trying to make her way through the crowd with you in tow. her brown eyes focus on the path leading you to the seats printed on your complimentary tickets.

“i don’t know what the hell you’re rushing me for, j! you spent all that time trying to find something to wear.” you retort with a scoff before taking your wrist from her palm in order to search for your seats. once you get a glimpse in the distance, you point.

“they’re over here!” you exclaim to your friend loud enough to hear over the cheering fans. begrudgingly, it was your turn to lead because you’ve barely stepped foot in this stadium.

all week, she had pleaded for you to go to this saturday’s game to support her boyfriend and wide receiver, drew starkey. you kept refusing her plea until she bribed you with the promise of paying for anything you desired from the concession stand. that had to be serious coming from justine because the prices weren’t very reasonable, so you gave in. you’ve met drew on a couple occasions and he was cool towards you for a football player, but you don’t really mingle with the crowd of student athletes at your college. you especially don’t like football or sports in general. it’s pretty ironic considering you’re the head football coach’s daughter, a fact that you keep under wraps from the student population and you wanted to keep it that way. it’s not like you didn’t hate the man. it’s just you and your father had never really seen eye to eye, he was all about athletics, strategy, competition, and winning. meanwhile, you wanted to express yourself in a way that didn’t have to do with his values. you’d rather be reading, writing, creating, vibing to your vinyls, or catching up on your favorite true crime documentaries. you wanted to be left alone to grow into your own identity, but your dad was just too pushy, so that pushed you away from his world of sports.

you were glad that drew had gotten tickets on the sidelines for you both because you didn’t want to call your dad about being here. as you took your seats, you could already hear the buzzer go off to signify the start of the second quarter. you gaze down across from the metal bars to see the line of players spectating from the benches along with your dad pacing across the turfed sideline with his arms crossed and a furrowed expression. you look to see the score, your college scored thirty-five while the opponent is gaining traction with a score of thirty-two. that was a first, this other team seemed to be a formidable force to be reckoned with. you can already tell that your father was going to pop off like that vein protruding out of his bald head. your eyes drifted towards the game, you saw the jersey number fourteen, who you recognized as your best friend’s beau and none other than number one, the quarterback, nicholas alexander chavez. he was basically the top man on campus as he was on the field from what you’ve heard. he had the full ride, the skill, the physique, and possibly the arrogance that came with such a package. you can’t say that know him, but you know of him because your dad had mentioned him numerous times in the past as if he were the son he never had— or, always wanted.

as you observed each play, you saw that drew and nicholas were putting in the best efforts they could to get the team to victory, but today didn’t seem to be their day as they were now tied up. nicholas’ frustration with how these guys were aggressively knocking down his boys was starting to show. he’s even fumbled the ball not once, but twice. he was really off his game. your father talks to the referee to call for a brief timeout. all of the players that were on the field retreat to where their respective teams reside. after huddling them into a circle, you knew it was anything, but a kumbaya. even through the amplified sound of the field, you can still hear your father viciously bark in each of his players’ faces, especially towards nicholas. nicholas stood there frozen as your dad’s finger aggressively prodded in his chest with every single word. the elder huffed out a breath and directed nicholas towards the bench to which he complies with a firm nod and proceeds to do what he’s told. your father tapped another player to take over before it was time for the game to resume. he obviously didn’t notice that his place on the bench was right in front of your seat, but just a few feet away.

“mmcht. that’s a damn shame. nick doesn’t usually get sidelined like that!” you heard justine say, you could see from the corner of your eye that she was shaking her head.

“you’re not wrong. i thought he was putting in work from what i’ve seen, but y’know how my dad be tripping—enough is never enough.” you nonchalantly respond, rolling your eyes. justine shifted the conversation and asked if you needed anything from the concession stand. delighted that she kept her promise, you put in your order and offered to watch the seats. now, that you were alone, you pondered when you gaze at the quarterback.

you’d never say it out loud, but now you were feeling—pity.

a heaviness resided in your chest as you watch who you thought would be this confident, egotistical person with the world as his oyster, carry himself in such a downcast, vulnerable manner. sure, you weren’t fond of the athletic scene nor students, but at the end of the day, they were human. no matter how many plays they ran, practiced, and drilled, there’s always a chance to mess up under this amount of pressure. as soon as nicholas plopped down on the bench, he exasperatingly removed his white helmet and shook the dripping perspiration off his chocolate tresses. with legs spread, he leaned forward as his elbows rested on his thighs. you couldn’t see his facial expression because he shamefully hung his head towards to the ground, his spine raised and lowered with every breath.

this was weighing on you with such intensity. a part of you wants you to mind your business and get this game over with, but another part is urging you to do something that you couldn’t even fathom. after making sure your father was preoccupied, you stand up from your seat and begin to walk towards the benches to the spot where nicholas was. it was strange, really—this was an event that you were indifferent to, but here you are, showing empathy towards someone you barely knew. that’s only because he’s been in the same spot you have. you chide your conscience to shut the hell up for a minute. with each step, you glance around to see if anyone else noticed nicholas’ dejection, but there was still a winning streak to hold up at this college, so the crowd was too loudly absorbed in the game to even care about the quiet turmoil on the sidelines.

this was way out of your comfort zone.

you thought you were going to suffer from a heart attack with the way your chest was pounding. the closer you got to him, the more you could see the tension in his shoulders as his fists and jaw simultaneously clenched. you take a second to read the scoreboard, your school had gained some points, but the opponent was still one point behind with clock of second quarter nearing its end. you’re right behind him and your hand looms over his shoulder as you’re in internal conflict with yourself. oh, what the hell? what have you got to lose? your palm tapped on his shoulder, you stop yourself from shrinking when he slowly turns to see it’s you. nicholas curiously quirked a brow at your presence, you were cute. he silently admired your earth toned skin, full glossed lips, and warm, but strangely familiar brown eyes. your face heated as you felt awkward under his gaze the longer he kept staring. besides football, you could see why he gets play on and off the field, but you had a task you needed to complete. for nicholas, it’s not like he didn’t mind the female attention, but he was in the middle of an athletic crisis, so if you were there to either chat him up or gripe about him not calling back or whatever, all of that could wait, but that sincere look in your eyes made him want to hear you out.

“hey…” you greet awkwardly, but raised your voice loud and steady for him to hear, “if i were you, i wouldn’t beat myself up over this. it’s only one game.” he ran a hand through his hair to keep it from sticking to his face,

“you think so? what makes you say that?”

his brows furrowed, pondering awaiting what you’re about to say next.

“one, you won’t die if you lose and two, aren’t you the one that got us most of these points in the first place?” you quiz by sarcastically counting on your fingers, your eyes flicker to the scoreboard. nicholas takes a moment to think on it and silently confirms your statement with a nod.

“okay, then. don’t let my—i mean, your coach get into your head, he’s just being—a dick, not that i would know.” you quip, still trying to keep your identity a secret, there’s a tension lifted when you hear him chuckle. the sound alone causes a small smile to form on your face before you continue to speak,

“i’m just saying at the end of the day, it’s one game, so don’t trip. besides, you may not know it. but you got value to this team, which is more than i can say for your teammates—except for drew.” intrigued, nicholas was astonished by this. here you were, this random, but cute, girl he didn’t know from a can paint approached to give him a—pep talk? now, there were all types of questions racing in his brain and he was certain that you had the majority of the answers. too bad that time wasn’t on his side.

“hey, i appreciate—” he started, but was instantly cut off by the assistant coach who called out from a distance,

“yo, chavez! you’re back in.”

that was your cue to go. a part of you wished that you got to hear what nicholas had to say, but another part knew that wasn’t possible given that he probably won’t even remember you. this was a huge school with many faces and your crowds just don’t happen to mix, so how could it ever be possible for you both to cross paths again? you send a dejected grin towards him,

“i gotta go. i’ll see you when i see you!” you quickly bade him farewell before he even got the chance to respond, which sucks because you couldn’t be seen by your dad talking to one of his precious players. you make it back in time to sit in your seat and justine happened to sit a few minutes after, carrying your concession orders in her arms. after she hands you your food, she begins to indulge in some popcorn as she observes the game.

“damn, that line was a hot mess! did i miss anything, n/n?” she questioned, her gaze turned to your direction. you didn’t want to tell her about the talk you had with the quarterback, so you played it cool.

“nah, but it looks like dad decided to put nicholas back in.” you respond, pointing to the field where the team are preparing to run another play. as you observe, you notice there’s a change in nicholas. he’s now playing harder than before, the speed in his legs could leave a trail of fire as he continues to dodge tackles and score touchdown after touchdown. the crowd in the stands gets hyped up each time when the home score gets higher with every second ticking by. you and justine were thoroughly impressed by nicholas’ new air confidence as you watched him jump with drew to bump their chests in pure excitement. you found it quite endearing. it was like time was flying as the game progressed up until half-time. while the spirit team runs to the field to prepare for their dance routine, you spectate as your father calls the boys over for a huddle, approvingly talks to them, and relieves them to recuperate on the benches. justine taps your shoulder to get your attention before she directs her thumb to the other side of the benches,

“hey, i’m gonna go talk to drew for a little bit. you wanna come with or…?” she inquires and you shake your head to decline.

“nah, i’ll just wait or go to the bathroom until you get back. say hey to drew for me!”

with a nod in response, justine stands from her seat to journey her way through the crowd to catch up with her boyfriend that sat on the far end. once she was out of view, you took the opportunity to leave your seat and see about nicholas. this time, you didn’t feel as worried as you did when you first managed to talk to him. this wasn’t very much like you, making an effort to talk to someone, let alone a guy for the second time within a span of several minutes. once you’re in the spot from earlier, you lean over the railing to tap his shoulder.

“yo!” you casually greet to him, raising your voice among the noise. nicholas turned instantly to find that it’s you again. with a piqued expression, he still never forgot the previous conversation, nor the questions he had for you.

“oh, hey.” he responds, turning his body fully to you as he chugged on the green gatorade water bottle, “it’s good to see you again—y’know i meant to say that i appreciate what you said earlier. are you like the school’s motivational speaker or something?” he playfully questions, a smile raises on his lips when you both chuckle.

“nah, i just call things as i see it—i see that you got your mojo again.” you shrug, glancing towards field then back to the quarterback.

“damn right! we’re so close to winning, then it’s off to the championship before we know it.”

believe it or not, you found his enthusiasm for the sport to be charming.

“i bet it feels good.”

“what does?”

“to win—like, all the time.”

“honestly, it’s not all what it’s cracked up to be.”

“after witnessing the verbal ass whooping you got from your coach, i’ll take your word for it.” you both laugh again, nicholas sends you a curious stare.

“don’t you think it’s strange that we’re carrying on a conversation and we haven’t even asked for each other’s names?” he questioned, using the towel around his neck to wipe the sweat from his face. “i’d like to at least know the name of the motivational speaker and give her a proper thank you.” there he goes with that charming smile again, but he had a point. you guys were just talking and the thought never crossed your mind. you playfully rolled your eyes,

“since you’re dying to know, it’s y/n.” you went straight to the point of not revealing your last name, you doubt you’ll see each other again, so why bother?

“cute name. it’s nice to meet you. i’m—” he starts to introduce himself, but you cut him off.

“nicholas chavez. you’re quite popular here.” you matter-of-factly state, almost chuckling to play it cool. there’s no way in hell this dude just complimented your name so effortlessly like that. his face is painted with surprise followed by a soft laugh of his own,

“so you knew my name the entire time, huh?” he asked, quirking a brow.

“yeah, just didn’t want to give you that satisfaction. don’t you believe in mystery?” you joke, a smirk rose on your full lips before glancing at the scoreboard for the time—it was about five minutes until half time was over. shit, you kind of wanted to stay longer, but you had to bounce back to your seat before justine or worse, your father found out where you were.

“it was good talking to you, nicholas, but i gotta go!” you say as you hastily back up from the railing. a pang of dread pinched at your chest when you saw his face deflate to one of—disappointment? did he not want you to go? you brush those thoughts out of your head, you had to be hallucinating.

“hey, y/n! wait i—” nicholas was cut off by the buzzer and he watched as you were already on your way back to your seat. damnit, there was one more burning question he had, but now, he had to focus on securing this win.

the third quarter progressed still with the two teams neck and neck. it was now two minutes til’ the last quarter, your school’s team only needed to make it through one field goal to seal the deal. you, your dad, and the crowd sat in anticipation when the ball had been set on the field. it was now on nicholas to determine the team’s victory or failure with just one kick. you don’t know why you were so invested in this game, but you wanted him to make the goal. these last few seconds seemed to go in slow motion as nicholas’ foot drew back then swung forward with a force to connect to the ball, bringing it several feet in the air to send it to its desired destination between the slingshot shaped structure. at only three seconds, everyone, including you and justine were hyped all the way up once was the ball was deemed as going through the goal successfully.

you felt relief wash over you, not only for your college winning the game, nor that it was finally over, but that nicholas could go on about his day without the pressure from your father. as you and justine make your way out of the stadium, you can see her typing away on her phone. she seemed preoccupied as a mischievous smile rose on her face when you entered the parking lot. the sound of her giggles fill the air when you both enter the car. now, you had to see what’s up because it was genuinely freaking you out,

“justine, what the hell is going on?” you inquire. your best friend looks at you from the corner of her eye as she swiftly pulls out of the parking lot.

“drew’s having a party tonight with the team at his frat house to celebrate.” she replied, keeping her eyes on the road. you cross your arms and shrug. you didn’t really care for the college party scene because there’s always some bullshit, so you kept your distance.

“so? he’s always having one, what’s so special about it?”

justine playfully rolls her eyes, but she just couldn’t contain her smile.

“he told me to bring you along because there’s someone who wants to see you there! he didn’t tell me who, but it’s definitely someone from the team. aah, oh, my god! we gotta get you ready right now, girl.”

you sat there quietly, trying to piece this puzzle together. who’d want to meet the most lowkey person of this college at a party? then, you realized after retracing to the first conversation you had with him, you mentioned your association with drew.

it all became clear: it was none other than your school’s quarterback, nicholas chavez, who was requesting for you to be there. just when you thought there wouldn’t be a chance in crossing paths again, now it was your chance to step into something unexpected.

[shiftinglea]

Death doesn’t exist.

Interestingly, in order for me to accept that I was the creator of my life, I had to learn more about death. It was a missing puzzle piece that allowed me to remember that I am God and can manifest whatever I desire.

But before that, I was quite doubtful about my ability to create. I would persist and believe (or try to anyway), but underneath all that, I had this encompassing fear of failure. Fear that by the end of my life, I would still not have succeeded with my manifestations. Fear of dying in regret and disappointment for not experiencing the life I desire.

And I thank my soul for guiding me to the book “Home with God” by Neal Donald Walsch, which allowed me to remember that there is no death. This book is a dialogue between the author and The God (aka the source of everything). When I was reading that book, it didn’t feel like I was learning something new. It felt like remembering something I already knew.

And in this post, I’ll be sharing information about death from that dialogue. Obviously, it’s your choice to believe it. But I would recommend you not listen to your mind. Listen to your soul; it speaks to you through your feelings. Intuition. Allow yourself to FEEL the information I’m sharing. Do not use logic for that; it’s quite limiting. So here we go:

Learning about death allowed me to stop fearing dying in regret and disappointment, which then produced confidence in my manifesting abilities and feeling at total peace every single day. There is nothing to be afraid of. Why? Because death doesn’t exist, and this is what I mean by that:

When people speak of death, they mean the end of life. But your life never ends. It’s the physical body that dies, and then at that moment, you discover that you are still alive. You keep on existing just in a different form. Death is simply an experience of leaving 3D and entering another dimension. And what’s the most fascinating thing: it’s different for everyone, or the experience of it is more like. Same with your life in physical form: it’s different for everyone depending on your beliefs, perception, and assumptions. You choose the experience of your life (consciously or unconsciously). The same with death: you choose your own experience of it. But what’s the same for everyone is that “death” has 3 stages.

The first stage is the same for everyone. “In stage one, at the moment of your death, you will instantly experience that life has gone on. This will be the same for everyone. There could be a brief period of disorientation, as you come to realize that you are not with your body, but, instead, are now separate from it.” During this stage, you realize even though your body died, your life hasn’t ended. For most people, it will be the first time they realize that they aren’t their bodies. The body is something you have. It’s not what you are. And then you move into the next stage.

The second stage is where everyone’s experience is unique depending on their beliefs about what happens after death:

• If you believe in reincarnation, for instance, you may experience moments from previous lives of which you have no previous conscious memory.

• If you believe that you will be enfolded in the embracing arms of an unconditionally loving God, that will be your experience.

• If you believe in a Day of Judgment or a Time of Reckoning, followed by paradise or damnation for all eternity, you will experience being judged and the judgment will turn out exactly as you imagined it would.

• If you died thinking that you deserve heaven, you will immediately experience that, and if you think that you deserve hell, you will immediately experience that. Heaven will be exactly as you imagined it would be, as will hell. If you have no idea about the specifics of either, you will make them up right on the spot. Then, these places will be created for you that way, instantly. You may remain in these experiences as long as you wish.

What’s important to know is that there is no Hell. But you can create hell for yourself if you choose to or believe that’s what you deserve.

However, you won’t stay there for one moment longer than you choose to. The moment you decide that you are done experiencing it, it’s finished. The same with Heaven.

Everyone remembers in the 2nd stage that they create their reality: in the physical and spiritual. In the physical realm, our creations may be delayed. But in the spiritual realm, our manifestations are instant. So you can experience whatever you desire for however long you wish. You can relive your life again or create a new one and enjoy that life for however long you want, and it will feel as real as in 3D. So during the 2nd stage, souls remember that they create their experiences and it’s instant. When they are done experiencing their creations, they move to the 3rd stage.

During the 3rd stage, you experience Ultimate Reality, which is merging with the Essence (God/Creator of all). You are enveloped with the infinite source of love and peace. You become one with The Creator. This is where you came from. It’s pure void. You are a pure being.

Every aspect of itself, every “good” and “bad” trait the soul thought it had is being absorbed by the Creator. It melts all shame, pride, fears, every character trait and leaves the soul with a beautiful emptiness. Experiencing nothing but Oneness. “Now you are merged with this Light and you feel dissolved. This “melting” completes the change in your identity. You no longer identify yourself in any way or at any level with the separate aspect of being that you called “you” in your physical life.”

The most fascinating thing is that you can experience the merging with everything during your physical life. This is what the void is for. When you reach the void state, you merge with Oneness where creation is instant.

During the 3rd stage of death, you can stay merged with the Creator for as long as you desire. But you won’t stay there forever because that’s it’s not what you desire. Because if you stay forever in this pure bliss and ecstasy, you would stop identifying it as “bliss” and “ecstasy”. Because there is nothing else there. There is no opposite of that. So you will desire to recreate yourself anew and choose your next physical incarnation because that’s the only way for you to experience your own magnificence.

The purpose of death is to reestablish your identity and to help you remember who you really are: One with God, an infinite source of creation. The purpose of physical life is to experience this knowing.

I want to point out the importance of your system of beliefs because they shape your life and your death (during the 2nd stage). You are constantly creating your reality. In physical life and after that. Some people think different rules apply in death (or in life). But no, it’s the same rules, the only difference is that your creations are instant after death. But again, they can be instant in your physical realm if you choose to believe that you can create instantly. It’s all about your beliefs and assumptions.

For most people who aren’t into LOA and don’t know that that’s are creators of their reality, their “death” will be the moment of remembrance that they are indeed creators. That they never stopped creating and they will see it clearly. But they don’t have to wait until death to experience themselves as God and creators. You can do it in physical life. It’s always your choice. You shape your life in physical and your life in spiritual.

For me, knowing more about death allowed me to stop feeling anxious about whether I’ll manifest my dream life before I die. The fact is that I never die, I just change my form. Life is eternal. It’s the body that dies. But you are not your body. It’s something you have. It helps you to experience wonderful things that you have chosen to experience.

[shallowseeker]

Cas is right. Dean, with all of his free will intact, would NOT have murdered the Stynes kid.

Like Cas, with his free will intact, would never have murdered Samandriel.

Their assessments of one another are actually correct.

///

Both are on their way to becoming mindless super-soldiers who feel nothing.

And essentially, they tell each other, "you're gonna have to go through me" (to become that).

///

Some similarities in the fight scenes:

They both reach out a hand to the other's shoulder, saying the other's name:

///

Both twist the other's hand away:

///

They ask each other to: "Stop," both telling the other in so many words that "this isn't you."

Their styles differ, of course. Dean goads Cas defiantly: "Come on you coward, do it!" Cas tries to remain level-headed and controlled, only moving to block and restrain.

Essentially, their desires are the same, for the other to stop.

///

With everyone telling them who they should be, and trying to make them into things other than what their big hearts would actually want, they beg each other to stay as they are.

I don't want you to be what they want you to be.

Just be you. Just be.

///

///

And then, much like Cas in the crypt... flight. Cas leaves.

Dean leaves.

///

And here's what's on my mind... They were both GOOD at being soldiers. Unbelievably good.

Their talents were recognized early and exploited. They became chained to their respective battle aptitudes.

Both had to reckon with becoming addicted to war, to the feeling of adrenaline and black-and-white causes (see: Purgatory, hunting, etc.). Both often feel too much responsibility, punishing themselves and undertaking penance.

They struggled with thinking it's all they were good for, battle or WORK.

Or worse. For Dean, it was often being one of the "crazy ones," only "good for a fling." For Cas, it was often "being expendable."

They're looked down upon by the likes of Metatron: Cas is like a "dumb puppy," a "stupid, lumbering jock." Even Crowley talks to Dean this way on occasion: "It's math (idiot)."

It's also like when Death calls Cas a "stupid soldier." Or when the British Men of Letters call the ones on the ground doing the fighting and getting their hands dirty "dogs." Or when Henry calls hunters "apes."

Despite their supposed "legacy lineage," Sam and Dean inherited the Campbell class. The soldier class.

Interesting to me that Jack inherits this, too. Despite his aptitude for nearly everything he touches (computers, research, even blossoming machete skills when he kills Noah the Gorgon), Jack too will inherit this Campbell-coded "stupidity."

That's what Chuck charges him with in Unity: "TOO STUPID."

Jack has Cas and Dean's class: the soldier class.

[ma1dita]

My dearest sweetest moony

I, a daughter of Hypnos, just want to hold Luke close and let him sleep the best sleep he has ever had in his life, don't let Kronos talk to him or get close to my boy

1, a daughter of Hypnos, just want to help the campers sleep, help all of those kids get their desired rest

Please let this daughter of Hypnos help her children (the campers) and her husband (Luke)

🐥

(i wrote this request and another one but I didn’t put the 🐥 on them, should I send them to you again or not? Sorry about that darling, love ya, and again I’m really sorry for the inconvenience)

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

luke castellan x hypnos!reader

wc: 756

—

Honestly, Luke was starting to feel bad.

Every free moment he gets to spend with you, he’s been falling asleep. He fell asleep during your lunch picnic last week, sprawled out on the red and white checkered blanket—cheek against your lap as you read a book, on your shoulder at the bonfire last night even with Percy and Grover trying to screech out the lyrics to ‘Unwritten’, and even now as you brush through his curls as you read all of cabin 11 a bedtime story.

Luke knows that dating a daughter of Hypnos has some advantages for sure—you get to stay in the bunk next to his since you don’t have your own cabin, your dad blesses him with nice dreams for taking care of you, and everyone quiets down easier for the night as you project images of sheep for them to fall asleep to. But as he rubs his eyes to the sound of your calming voice, he reckons he’d punch the shit out of a sheep if another misty image of one decides to trot near the air of his bunk. You’re nestled against his arm, looking ethereal with moonlight shining against your cheekbones as you watch his eyelashes flutter slowly from the weight of his eyelids.

“You need to stop doing that, my dream girl.”

“Hmm?” you whisper, voice breathy like cool air. Yawning, you press your cheek against his bicep with a smile.

“Stop putting me to sleep. Wanna spend time with you,” he mumbles, trying to not wake the other campers.

“M’not doing anything, Lu. Besides, you’re cute when you’re asleep,” you chuckle, and his arms wrap around you tighter as his hands dip into his pajama pants you stole from his dresser.

“Are you saying I’m not cute now?” he pouts, reaching to tickle the skin that peeks out from under your shirt and you giggle. The sound of it is loud enough to echo across the cabin, but something extra must have been in your voice tonight because not a single camper stirs.

In a room full of people, the two of you share a moment that’s just for the both of you, watching each other quietly with soft loving smiles. Moving closer to his face, your lips press kisses into the lines that crease his forehead, the scar running down his cheek, the tip of his nose, and finally the plump of his pouting lips. He pulls you in deeper, smiling softly against your kiss that’s ever so gentle until he’s drifting off…

You don’t take offense to it though. Sleep is your gift bestowed to you by your godrent, and to share that with your love makes it the best gift of all.

—

Luke jolts up the next morning after his nose dips into his bowl of cereal. The nymphs and younger campers all chatter and giggle around you two as he grumbles, shoving another mouthful of now soggy Frosted Flakes into his mouth. You smile, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, taking a bite of your waffle.

“You okay, baby?”

He huffs, kissing the back of your hand before you stand up to go and grab napkins. Annabeth rolls her eyes from across the table, which makes Luke toss a chunk of banana at her.

“What?”

“You’re too dramatic for your own good, Luke,” she sighs, stirring her iced coffee with a straw. She looks at him exasperatedly when he looks more confused by her statement, even if it’s the truth.

“I just feel like a bad boyfriend. Always falling asleep on her. Never do that with anyone else, and sometimes I think she does it on purpose…” he says, leaning against his palm.

“It’s the oxytocin,” Annabeth says, and Luke looks at her blankly, “Your brain releases oxytocin around people you love, and as a result you feel safe and at ease—which is why you keep falling asleep around her. So stop blaming your girlfriend!” She shakes her head like the old soul she is, getting up to clear her tray and leave Luke to his nonsense. You return to the table with a handful of napkins and a grin that instantly brightens his mood.

Rubbing at his eyes, he can see you more clearly and to your surprise, Luke pulls you by the chin for a kiss as he says thank you.

“What’s that for? Can’t be because of the napkins,” you giggle, and a dopey smile crosses his face.

“Because I love you, my dream girl. That’s all.”

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading updates: april 2025

HI wow what a month! 2025 felt like it was going REAL FAST until about mid-March, and ever since then it's slowed to a sort of molasses. despite the seeming influx of extra time I read much less in April than I have in any of the previous months this year - this is the first month I haven't even cracked double digits! which is fine, of course, it's not a competition, but it is interesting to think about what slowed me down so drastically.

(just kidding, it's not a mystery. it's heaps and heaps of stress. oops!)

ANYWAY. fortunately April's book haul has largely been a case of quality of over quantity, introducing me to several books that I think are guaranteed to land on my year-end best-of list. without further ado:

what have I been reading?

Under the Skin: The Hidden Toll of Racism on American Lives and on the Health of Our Nation (Linda Villarosa, 2022) - I checked this book out last month alongside Dr. Uché Blackstock's memoir, Legacy: A Black Physician Reckons With Racism in Medicine, as kind of a mini-series on racial bias in the American medical system. while I feel like I broadly learned more overall from Villarosa, thanks to her taking a journalistic approach that allows for a broader scope than Blackstock can achieve by primarily focusing on her personal experiences, I found that the two books complemented each other extremely well and each served to bolster and deepen the other. one major advantage of Villarosa's work is the geographic variability and the ability to meet healthcare workers and patients from a much wider range of places than Blackstock's New York hospitals, with particular focus on poor communities in southern states. Villarosa's writing has a strong, compassionate, deeply curious voice that makes her subjects incredibly vivid, rendering them with dignity even as their medical nightmares are laid bare. it was an incredible read and one that had been languishing on my TBR for a while, and I'm very glad I finally made the time.

Earthlings (Sayaka Murata, 2018, trans. Ginny Tapley Takemori, 2020) - while I didn't love this novel quite as much as Murata's briefer wonder, Convenience Store Woman, it did cement Murata as an author whose work absolutely fascinates me. her grasp of trauma and alienation is incredible, and she has a way of depicting unconventional desire in a way that's unlike anything I've ever seen. I'm supremely excited to read more of her work.

The Love Hypothesis (Ali Hazelwood, 2021) - in case you haven't already heard the news: I read the alleged Reylo laboratory AU romance novel expecting to be a big hater and I ended up loving it. joke's on me! you win this round, Ali Hazelwood.

Crying in H Mart (Michelle Zauner, 2021) - listen: you never want to be the guy saying that a woman's memoir about losing her mother to a painful and sudden cancer isn't that sad. to be clear, it is an extremely sad book! Zauner does an incredible job rendering the all-consuming pain of nursing her mother through her final days, a pain devastatingly unique to everyone who experiences it. in this case, the biracial Zauner also has the daunting sense of losing not only her mother but also a core part of her identity, struggling to figure out how to be a Korean American woman without the connection her mother provided. it's a tragedy! it's several tragedies all in one place, make no mistake! but I also feel like I've spent YEARS hearing this book hyped up as The Saddest Book Ever, and perhaps I've just read too many sad memoirs but it was like. it was fine. it's just fine. solid B+, not mad I read it, but I have read sadder. probably I am going to hell for this.

Liquid: A Love Story (Mariam Rahmani, 2025) - I was super excited for Rahmani's debut novel, which has a compelling premise: stuck in a stagnating academic career and with her parents nagging her to wed, an unnamed queer Iranian-American woman decides to go on 100 dates across Los Angeles to find a likely candidate for a marriage that can bring her financial security. her plans inevitably go awry when a family tragedy requires her to travel to Iran, where her goals are brought more sharply into focus - and she ultimately resolves her romantic quandary. it's a stylish book, almost painfully so; I can't say I'd recommend this to anyone who dislikes literary fiction because GOD is this Literary Fiction, our protagonist deeply preoccupied with her own witty malaise and caustic observations. she's a little awful and I liked her a lot, but I also think that the resolution Rahmani brings her protagonist to was devastatingly expected - and unfortunately, no amount of self-aware lampshading actually makes it less predictable. I'm conflicted! it felt like a lot of building up to not a lot of payoff, but I'm compelled all the same and I'm hoping to see more of Rahmani in the future.

Before We Were Trans: A New History of Gender (Kit Heyam, 2022) - god, what a delight of a book. Heyam takes a gorgeously open approach to what constitutes "trans history", casting their net wide to recognize gender nonconformity far beyond contemporary understandings of what it means to be transgender. Heyam advocates for a wide recognition of experiences throughout history: people whose gender identities were shaped by non-Western religions and cultures, those whose identities blurred between same-gender attraction and a desire to be recognized as a different gender than the one expected of them, those whose transgressions of gendered boundaries can't be proven to be align strictly with 21st century ideas of transness. Heyam's approach is one of radical inclusiveness, seeking not to "prove" any particular understandings of transness in historical figures but simply to point at a long, global history of people living outside of a gender binary and weave all of these instances together in the understanding that all of these experiences support and bolster each other in affirming that across time, language, and culture, people bucking gender norms have always existed. reading this book felt like holding a mug of hot chocolate.

Afterparties (Anthony Veasna So, 2021) - genuinely impossible for me to talk about this short story collection without acknowledging that it was published posthumously by So's mother and partner after he died very young. I will freely admit that the first story did not grab me, and since I'm fussy about short stories I might well have set down the book after that if not for the strange sense that I was holding a small representation of a man's life in my hands. I guess that's always the case with a book, but somehow it felt extra sharp here. in any case, I'm glad I stuck it out; So's stories about Cambodian immigrant communities in California are messy and loving and sorrowful and silly, delving deep into the sadness that can cling to a family for generations. I'd be absolutely remiss not to pay particular attention to the final story, "Generational Differences," in which So writes from the point of view of his own mother, talking to his child self and recounting a tragedy. it's a brave and vulnerable approach that I've never encountered before, and it's really something special.

an obligatory update on my book bingo sheets: as usual, the sheet that I'm filling in opportunistically is thriving, with the addition of Liquid completing another bingo and getting me very close to two more

and the list of books that I specifically planned out is LANGUISHING

finger crossed for May, when I'm hoping to cross at least two more off the list...

[rainydayfix]

Three’s A Crowd pairing: Female Reader x Anders Lassen x Gus March Phillips summary: Sometimes a Danish officer needs a big push to claim what is his.

warnings: 18+ content (MINORS DNI!!!), Threesome (Missionary, Slight choking, Oral, Fingering, Riding, Rough Kissing, double teaming, An*l, Voyeurism)

word count: 3.1k

Notes: Please do not copy, steal, etc. My ask box is currently open if you want to send fic ideas / imagines / etc.

You didn’t mind the company of Gus getting into a dicking contest with Anders. He was mostly reserved, but there was a spark when he was around, that made another side emerge - one that was more showy, more extroverted, more like he wanted to ensure your eyes were only on him.

Except Gus seemed pointed to get your attention as well. Although you were all for Anders, Gus wasn’t a hard sell either; Anders mostly let loose in combat. He was a force to be reckoned with that no one saw coming. On the other hand, Gus’s bravado was a fuse that never relented. You could see it in his smirk, the tip of his brow, the way he walked, he was always up to something. It made you desire what the both of them together would be like. A string of laughter and seemingly harmless round of darts charged the tension before quieting down again.

Anders muscle flexed through his shirt with a special intensity. You made a habit of drinking other men under the table, but the heat between you already a few cups in with Anders, and now Gus, you suggested getting fresh air. Judging by the unrelenting grasp Anders had on his drink, the strain was about to hit a breaking point. Grabbing your jackets, Anders places yours around your shoulders making a show to shake Gus’s hand in the way out.

You thought you could hear Gus’s tort reply by the time you reached the front door.

You wanted to blame the cobblestone roads as you wobbled walking alongside Anders. This might be the first time you’ve really let go of your composure, trying to bring his arm around your waist to let your head rest on his shoulder. You inhale and exhale deeply trying to take in the chill air as the warmth of the pub faded away.

“Maybe we should take a breather, hmmm?” He said, tugging you closer to him and pulling you into a corner of an alleyway. Your back nudged against a brick wall behind you, bringing him to step in closer. You made it look like you’re gonna caress him in all the right places, and instead reached for the halfway empty bottle of gin.

“After all this time, you still don’t think I can hold my own?” you ask before taking a swig of the bottle.

“I think you can…mostly, I need you to hold your own,” he said, practically pressing you into the hard edges of the building behind you. “You might be barely able to walk down these cobblestones tomorrow morning after I have my rightful way with you.” It’s been six months since the last time you saw each other, much longer than what you two had anticipated, but the war in left you both in dire straits and improvising your way through. Times like these were rare and impossible, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it to get you through the other side when it all ended.

You hurriedly pressed your lips against his, reaching your hands to his neck and pulling you in. The bottle shattered against the road as Anders gripped your thighs and hoisted you upwards, giving you enough leverage to wrap your legs around his waist. Your mouth searched his frantically, hands and lips everywhere as he squeezes you tighter, close enough to feel a slight of his hardness through his trousers. Laughter of drunken soldiers filing out of the bar down the block spills out over the street.

“Why don’t we do this with less company around?”

“Is that the only time you can have your rightful way with me, Officer?”

There are many looks Anders has given you when he wants you all to himself. Maybe it was because of the dimly lit alleyway, you trying to sober up for the potential that lay ahead, but this look on his face mystifies you – a mix of defiance, of daring, and validation.

Your hand grips his while he leads the way, jogging through the streets to the shabbiest flat nestled in a string of shabbier rooms for rent. “All expenses paid by king and country.”

His room was decorated with two chairs, a bed in middle of the space, a dresser closet. Next to the dresser was a second door. You’ve seen and slept in worse.

“Gus has the next one over.”

You shrug out of your jacket and tug your sweater from your skirt before grabbing his spare bottle of whiskey from the shelf. You noted a worn envelope that appeared to have your handwriting on the front. So he does keep your letters, you think, as you kneel down to remove your heels.

His eyes on you as he matched your pace, taking off his leather jacket and unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt, moving towards you. Anders frees your distracted mind for a second, placing his hand on your waist and turning you to face him. You swig back liquor, and when his mouth meets yours, you pour what you could into his. Some of it dribbles down both your chins causing you to laugh, and let your tongues dance together.

The one thing about fucking a Danish officer, no matter how rebellious he was with his crew, is that he could still agonizingly take time to make his move. You knew he wanted you as much as you wanted him. Was his skin tingling the way yours was? Was he as hard as you were wet? It was up to you to to find out and you really don’t mind. A release was gonna happen one way or another.

Even in your partially inebriated state, you manage to push him back a step, desiring to ignite a fire in him. You crawl up on the bed, catching his risen eyebrows and his jaws clenched, not taking his eyes off you trying to place the bottle and his glasses back on the dresser stand. You remove your blouse to reveal a bra with a waist slip and tug the worm skirt and stockings off as far as you can. He steps towards you, almost in a trance finishing to remove the left of what was left of the stockings, his hands grazing your back when you reached for his buckle.

In one swift motion, the belt hit the floor with his pants, and your hand sneaks into his boxers - “There you are,” you said gleaming, running your hand up and down his length before slowly lowering yourself on the bed and he follows. He leaves a trail of kisses down your breasts and stomach ready while his hand gingerly caresses your swollen nub and brings the wetness up to his lips.

You’re sure that he whispers “sød”, and your small recollection of times Anders has tried teaching you Danish, reminds you that he means sweet. You’re wet and ready for him, whatever he has to give with his hands rubbing over and under your slit. His concentration and confidence only strengthened your want of him more as his cupped hand burrowed inside swiftly moving in and out of you, your wetness, your moans filling the room. Once you’re barely over the edge, refusing to let you have your fill, he crawls up along the bed next to you, fully splaying out with his hard on, and raises his arms above his head, waiting. If he was anyone else, you’d shake or slap him from the gall he has not to let you come, but Anders gives a look of such want and respect, that you crawl over his, letting your fingers trace down from his broad shoulders to his chest and the little nape of dirty blonde hair to his cock. There you reached down, still reeling from his hard he is, how sensitive he must feel to come too and placed him at your entrance. Once he’s fully sheathed, you start rocking back and forth. His hand entwined with yours on his chest, then soothed over your arms and towards your hips. He settled there, gripping so hard you swear he’s gonna make a mark on you. It’s not long before you’re finding a rhythm together, and your body is catching up to where you were minutes before. Grunts of his native language filling the room with your desperate moans and sighs. You lean over him as his hands forcefully rock you harder, it’s hard to ignore how deep he is as you grind on him.

“I’m so close,” you huffed, your face close to his as he slams his hips upwards towards yours. Your eyes clasp shut as his lips latch onto every part of your bare skin, and his hands pin down your hips shuddering around him. You’re starting to catch your breath as every inch of your skin tingles with euphoria, when the side door swings open causing you both to jump. There he stands in the door frame wearing a tattered long sleeved shirt, rustic pants, untied boots, and a steely determined gaze.

Gus raises a glass of scotch to his lips, “Thought it’d be a good idea to put faces to the noises of my neighbors…” Closing the door behind him and placing the bottle on the dresser. “If you can’t beat them….”

The energy returns to what it was in the pub, except you know Gus is making you a contest instead of darts, or drinks, or machismo on the battlefield. You’re not sure if it’s shock or intrigue that purses Anders lips closed, but you’re almost shocked by his lack of rejection. You are his, but maybe you need him to prove to you just how much.

Just when he seems to make a move, pull you closer to him, you climb out of the bed, walking towards Gus and taking a sip of scotch from the bottle instead of the glass. After running a hand on your wet lips, waiting for Anders to say something, anything, you finally make the move for him.

“Join me.”

Your eyes are settled on Anders and you swear you can see him flex his muscles as he gets out of the bed. For half a second you thought he’d throw a punch, instead he drinks from the same Scotch bottle as Gus grabs you by the waist and land his lips on you, his tongue working his way to meet yours. Surprisingly, things heat up quickly between you, and before you know it you’re both rushing to remove all his clothes. You slip your fingers to your mouth and down to your slit as he raises you against the wall and enters.

The quick entry makes you gasp, he’s just as big as Anders but feels different. The first few strokes are long and slow before Gus grumbles ‘fuck it’, and delivers the pace he wants, hard and firm. He presses you tightly against the wall, no other place to look except in Anders unreadable expression. You’re completely pinned, your legs sprung in the air, with nothing to do but hold onto Gus and looking towards Anders as Gus takes you. It’s not long before you’re coming, not that he cares if you did, but at least you did. He seems satisfied enough, carrying you over to the bed where he withdraws, teasing how he wants to use you next.

Before he set you up on all fours, Anders saunters over- “my turn.” There’s a twisted sense of pride in his voice. “Her mouth is just as good.”

Your jaw drops out of surprise and you barely have time to add snark back when both of them steadily flip you over.

Anders pads you well across the mattress as Gus kneels in a similar position in front of your face, leaving you to take his hardness in your mouth, taking him as far as you could go and using your hand to stroke what was left. Your attentive rhythm of long and slow and quick and short strokes barely wavers when Gus held your hair from your face and his hips slightly bucked into your mouth. Anders hands are on your hips, pushing you back with such new intensity you never felt with him before. Taking them both makes you feel full, more than you could ever imagined but feels even better. You can’t help but moan against Gus, vibrations running up his body that results in a slap against your hips - surely leaving enough of a raw hand print to make Anders jealous.

You hear Gus say “such a good girl, she really can take it all,” with a few deep moans. He deviates between heavy grunting like a wild animal and soft gentle groaning before Gus lets you up for air. Uou start to come on Anders cock, grunting as he feels himself milking you for all your worth before grabbing you by the forearms and twisting you upwards - your breasts and front fully exposed to Gus. He smirks at you, moving closer as Anders halts his movements, his hardness still inside you. His restraint comes through with heavy breathing on your neck, as if to say ‘he can’t have his way with you without me.’

You’re sandwiched between the two of them, waiting when Gus wraps one hand around your neck and pulls you in for a heated kiss. The force of it contracts Anders arms to try to hold you closer and tighter as Gus’s lips tightly engulfs your mouth roughly, barely giving a chance to duel with your mouth, one of his hands reaching at your neck, the other playing with your breasts.

Anders released your arms just slightly, enough to reposition himself straighter and taller behind you, your breast releasing from Gus mouth before he finds you again.

“Please,” you whimper. But you’re not sure who you’re whimpering too. You just need more of a release and want one of them to break the coil inside you first.

Anders hips buck slightly before stopping again in refusal, when Gus reaches between your legs with one hand. First he pad your folds, taking an uncharacteristic amount of time teasing you. When his other hand reached you to twist your nipple, you guided it to your neck for him to hold. Something you’ve only ever given Anders permission to do.

He thought he was getting you to face the gauntlet you threw down, of having Gus take you. Instead you used that against him, forcing him to watch another try to lay claim. The thought causes Anders to grunt and inadvertently tug on your arms behind your back. Gus, finally realizing he was just a pawn for your greater schemes, squeezes harder as his other hand finds the magic combination of strokes against your slit. He railes his hand between your folds, forcing you to look into his eyes, demanding you come for him. The relentless thumping of his hand practically fisting you and the wetness between your legs mixed in with your whimpering, and Anders grunting ‘do it, go ahead’ as he swiftly moves you against him, you found the release you so desperately needing. Gus eased his hand enough for you catch your breath as you saw stars and a white streak around you. When your focus comes into view, Anders releases your arms and pushing your back into the mattress. Gus isn’t stepping down without a fight. As Anders splays you out, you feel his head between your legs, soothing what Gus left over sensitive. You want to weave your hand through his hair but something is holding you back. Gus pinned both your arms down, while his tongue rolls over your nipples, your view of hi, hovering partially obstructing Anders. When you make a sob-like noise, unrecognizable sign of pleasure and over stimulation even to yourself, you barely feel Anders tongue leave your precious nub causing your legs from his shoulders and he places his hands on your thighs. A gentle tug towards the middle of the bed is enough to send a final warning to Gus.

“Mine.” In clear English.

It’s too much to bear - your eyes drift over the room with your hands reaching out to brush his abs or arms, to give you something to hold onto. Anders brings you closer still, caressing your folds with his finger then to his tongue. “Sod.” Sweet as if we’re going back to the start of our evening together. He replaced his finger where it is with his desire, and you’re reminded so easily how you both are the right fit for each other. He starts a steady motion, before locking you underneath him, your legs on his shoulders. You gasp at the sensation of how deep he is, causing your head falls back and your eyes catches Gus. He’s sitting naked in the wooden chair across from you - a glass of scotch in one hand, stroking himself with the other. Underneath the heavy mustache, you think see a smirk. Anders’ thrusting grow harsher, gliding back and forth and you feel the slightest pressure against your slit. He burrowed his finger there causing you to lift your head back, your focus on him. His eyes are boring into you like we’ve had our fun tonight but ultimately you are his and his alone. The build up in between your legs unfurl when he moves over you like a lion protecting its claim, all of his body weight presses your smaller frame into the mattress. The sweat of the evening’s efforts glide over his back and onto you; couldn’t help but lick the salty residue off his shoulders followed by wet kisses to match. You felt the last orgasm you have to give tonight reaching its high, and Anders knowingly swept your arms up and over your head and held them there. From behind the bed, you could swear you heard Gus - “that’s it, take it, take it…” and Anders grunting like you’ve never heard him before, but he says “You’re mine. All mine,” almost as clear as day. He leans back giving you a fuller view of his muscles and the sweat glistening in his chest. Your legs are clasped underneath you, tight enough around his chiseled ass but loose enough for him to ruthlessly glide in and out of you.

All you could hear was your combined heavy breathing, your rampant heartbeat, and the sound of a belt being picked up off the floor. You barely managed to see above you, just enough for the door to close and the chair next to the bed to be empty. The only words to form from your mouth, “Only want you….” uttered out from your lips as the last peak sent you into shockwaves of bliss.

You managed to finalize as Anders burrows over and over, holding your head in his hands, and burying himself into you. You feel one release after another, all the pent up aggression and passion finding a home inside. When he finally relents and releases, Anders finishes with a final “For altid.” Forever.