#and also falsely using tone tags

[rat-rosemary]

I think if you on purpose twist a common way of talking or expression into something negative that was clearly not intended there is a special place in hell for you

[valdevia]

Very funny that tumblr is having discourse about whether my art is misinformation or not, after I've been posting it all over the internet for years without any controversy. So let's talk about it!

I know people arguing are a vocal minority, but I'm not going to dismiss anyone's concerns. It's an actually interesting topic that I really consider, and it touches some important issues in society. So here's my (rambly) two cents.

My art is meant to misdirect, in some way. Photomanipulation and the tone I typically use are meant to briefly confuse the person reading it into thinking they're hearing a real story, at least for a few seconds.

The Intended Experience™

In this sense, I feel like my art can be misinformation! And it's not only people who don't think critically about things like "how come I never heard about mermaids being real before?".

So, no disrespect to anyone that fell for one of my pieces! My work plays with reality, so if you fell for it for more than a minute, it just means my tone and style worked a little too well for you! And there are legitimate reasons to be confused when you see something online, too. For example, there are people who can have trouble telling real and fictional things apart. When you post something that goes out to a million people, you'll get one million different reactions.

That's why I always take care to make it really clear, outside the main piece and snippet of text, that my art is no more than fiction. There are tags, the tone of my account, even my profile picture is meant to reinforce this. I also have a website which, in part, is meant to capture the clicks of people to wonder if my stuff is real and google it, so they can find a real source that's clearly an art website. You can try googling "mycelium infection 1806" or "pupillosarcoma" to see how my website tends to appear first.

If I get this comment I know I've done something believable!

But let's say, for the sake of argument, that my art wholly constitutes misinformation. What we need to understand is that misinformation is not the same as disinformation. Misinformation is just incorrect information. It's your grandma seeing a little bit of a found footage movie on TV and thinking it really happened. She might be spooked, but nobody is harmed. Disinformation is false information that's purposefully crafted and spread in order to cause harm, division, or further a political view.

Now I ask you: what real world harm does my art create? The worst that can happen is that a tiny percentage of those that see it get a little scared thinking a weird bug is real, or that mushrooms really grow on faces, or that scientists have released millions of trilobites into the oceans. Is that really that bad?

Anyway, that's my take on the topic! I'm obviously biased, but this being my style, I do put a lot of thought into it and I'm always open to people's opinions! (Just don't scream at random people on the replies or you'll get blocked!)

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER SIX: Humanity’s Aegis

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue | Chapter Five| Chapter Six (Here) | Chapter Seven

w/c: 4.2k

a/n: could not figure out how to cut/end this so this chapter is a teeny bit lengthier than the previous ones. also, am playing with the idea of writing one shots of Kent and Mark. I’m kinda playing with an Absolute!Kent X Mark too

The ballroom glittered in gold and crystal. A sprawling art-deco dream with vaulted ceilings and marble floors, it looked like something out of a movie rather than a fundraiser for a city initiative. Dozens of the cities most elite mingled under the soft light of chandeliers, drinks in hand, false smiles plastered across expensive faces.

You stepped inside, instantly hit by the wave of perfume, cologne, and the underlying scent of old money and polished ego. Lois still had your wrist and was weaving through the crowd like she’d done it a thousand times. Jimmy followed with his camera already up, snapping shots of the crowd, pausing briefly to admire the lighting.

You tried not to fidget. The jacket felt too stiff, the shirt too crisp, and the city suddenly too loud again.

“You know,” Lois whispered over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd for prey, excuse you, interviews, “you could learn to loosen up.”

“I’m loose!” you hissed. “I’m the definition of loose!”

Jimmy coughed behind you. “You sound like someone who rehearsed saying that.”

You sighed and looked to Jimmy. “Want to tag-team the mingling?”

“Let me get a few more wide shots,” he said, lifting his camera. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

You nodded, making your way into the throng. The deeper in you got, the more chaotic it felt. People clinked glasses, posed for photos, and name-dropped like they were giving out candy. You were pretty sure three different people claimed to be the one responsible for funding the city’s new railway reconstruction effort.

Still, you did your job. You kept your eyes open. Listened. Asked questions, quietly and curiously.

And you didn’t push. That was the key.

Lois, on the other hand, was pushing, with the subtlety of a bull with a battering ram.

You found her again about half an hour later, mid-interview with a tall man in a very expensive suit. Her brow was furrowed, her arms crossed.

“So you’re saying you don’t know where the funding came from?” she asked, tone sharp.

“I’m saying I don’t have the clearance to discuss it,” he replied coolly.

Lois leaned in. “So it’s private money?”

The man stiffened. “I really couldn’t say.”

You watched as his smile grew thinner by the second. Lois opened her mouth again, but you gently stepped in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you said with a small smile, looking up at him. “But I overheard you mention you’d visited Coast City recently? What was it like this time of year?”

His gaze flicked to you, visibly relieved. “Oh—actually, quite nice. Weather’s been better than expected. They’ve done wonders with the waterfront.”

You nodded, jotting that down like it mattered. “And was that a personal trip or something to do with development?”

“Business,” he said, more relaxed now. “We’re looking into expanding energy partnerships out west.”

You smiled again. “That’s exciting. Can I follow up with your office sometime next week?”

He nodded, offered a card, and left with a polite bow of his head.

Lois stared at you. “You asked him about the weather.”

“And he told us about the energy partnerships.”

She made a face, but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned away with a loud sigh and waved toward Jimmy. “Get this. Apparently weather talk is the new journalism.”

Jimmy chuckled as he joined you both. “Well, you did kind of come at the guy like a steamroller.”

“I just want answers!” Lois huffed, lifting a tiny quiche from a passing tray. “These people think their money makes them bulletproof.”

“It kind of does,” Jimmy muttered.

“I heard that!”

You grinned. The three of you slowly fell into rhythm, circling the room like a mismatched flock of birds. You trailed behind them, asking lighter, friendlier questions that made people forget they were being interviewed.

“How long have you lived in the city?”

“What inspired you to get involved in local reconstruction projects?”

“Do you think the mayor will actually follow through on their housing promises?”

That last one made Jimmy snort behind his camera lens. “You really are sneaky, huh?”

“I just ask them to talk about themselves,” you said. “People love that.”

Eventually, you all reconvened near a buffet table that had been thoroughly picked over. Jimmy flipped through his shots, Lois reviewed her notes, and you checked your recorder for anything interesting.

“You know,” Lois said, nudging your elbow, “for someone who didn’t want to come, you’re doing scarily well.”

“It’s my job,” You shrugged your shoulders simply, trying to avoid the compliments. “I should be good at this.”

“Lois isn’t doing good,” Jimmy said with a poorly hidden smile as he grabs a drink from a moving tray.

“Lois is the reason I’m getting answers. We’re like a one-two hit.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Kansas,” Lois rolled her eyes at you.

“Flattery gets me everywhere here.” You shot back with a smile. “These people like getting to stroke their ego with the idea that all the flattering stuff will get printed front page.”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please, enter the main room. The unveiling is about to begin.” A voice rings through some loud speakers.

The crowd started to move like a lazy tide, drifting toward the large double doors at the end of the room.

Jimmy quickly raised his camera. “Time to catch the money shot.”

Lois tucked her notepad into her purse. “And time to see what kind of PR stunt we’re all here to pretend we care about.”

You followed them, notebook and recorder tucked under your arm. You couldn’t help the unease that crept up your spine, not because of nerves, exactly. Something felt off.

The second you stepped into the main hall, you understood why.

At the center of the room stood a massive object draped in a deep velvet cloth. Beside it: men in suits with military posture, clearly not just part of the event staff. Their eyes scanned the room, unmoving.

“Okay,” Jimmy whispered, already snapping photos, “this is either government-funded tech… or alien.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “You think they’d unveil alien tech here?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy listening.

Your focus zeroed in past the surface-level noise of champagne flutes and murmured pleasantries.

And then you caught it.

Lex Luthor. Speaking quietly to someone near the front of the room. You didn’t recognize the other voice, but you did recognize the words.

Names.

Names you remembered writing. Names tied to an investigation you and Lois had been digging into for weeks.

Names that had no business being spoken aloud at a public event like this.

Names that belonged in an article about organized crime.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath.

Lois glanced at you sideways, catching the shift in your tone, but didn’t ask. Not here, not yet.

You reached the side of the main room just as the lights dimmed and a spotlight landed on Lex Luthor, standing tall and proud at a sleek podium near the veiled shape.

He smiled, all teeth and practiced charm.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we live in a time of miracles and monsters. Of beings who can move mountains, bend steel, and level cities. For too long, the people of our city have relied on hope, hope that someone else will protect them. Hope that they will show up.”

Lex continued, voice rising with theatrical flair. “But the world needs more than hope. It needs certainty. And certainty… comes with strength.”

With a dramatic sweep of his arm, the velvet cloth was pulled free, revealing a massive robot standing at least fifteen feet tall. Gunmetal grey with glowing green eyes, it looked more like a weapon than any kind of protector.

Murmurs rippled through the room.

“I give you: humanity’s Aegis.” Lex gestured to the machine. “Fully autonomous. Controlled through secure satellite uplinks. Designed to protect us, from them.”

Lois muttered, “Oh, hell no.”

Before you could say anything back, a loud crack sounded overhead. Then came the smoke.

Dozens of small canisters exploded around the room, flooding it with thick, gray fog. Screams broke out. People stumbled. Cameras flashed wildly, trying to catch the moment before disaster but only causing the fog to light up.

You caught sight of someone running across the stage just as the lights flickered, and the robot powered on with a deep mechanical hum.

“I’m going to call the cops!” you yelled over the chaos, “You two get out of here!”

You were already bolting toward a corner to get out of sight.

The robot moved.

It stepped off the platform, metal feet shaking the floor, as several dark-clad figures pulled at a hidden panel on its back.

And Aegis responded.

Its eyes flared.

Its arm cannons slid open.

And you didn’t even hesitate.

You pulled off your jacket mid-run, ripped the dress shirt off, ducked quickly outside of the room, and tore free the hidden scarlet skirt and cape from your bag.

You crashed through a side window, high above the crowd, hoping it would pull attention away from civilians.

The air was thick with smoke, screams, and fear.

But your voice cut through it as you hovered, cape billowing behind you.

“Step away from the machine.”

The masked men turned and looked at you a few pulling guns from concealed holsters, as Aegis took one slow, thunderous step forward, and then another, before its thrusters flared, launching it through the shattered ceiling and into the sky.

You barely had time to process before bullets started flying.

Your body moved on instinct, arms raised in a half-shielding gesture.

But the bullets didn’t tear through you. They bounced off.

One struck your shoulder, another pinged off your ribs with a metallic clink. It didn’t even hurt, simply felt like someone tossing pebbles at you.

Your breath caught. You were bulletproof. Oh thank God-

One of the gunmen froze in disbelief. “What the hell is she?”

You shot forward, grabbed the nearest metal rail that had fallen during the chaos, and bent it around two of the men like a steel bow. They hit the ground with a grunt, pinned and disarmed.

Another raised his gun again, but you were faster

You closed the distance in a blur, yanked the gun from his hands, and crushed it in your fist like it was made of clay.

Grabbing the man by the shoulder, you zip him over to the other two, using your free hand to bend the metal around him as well.

You weren’t about to hit them. They hadn’t actively hurt anyone, so you weren’t about to hurt them in return. You didn’t even want to, regardless.

Running back out of the building, you scanned the crowd. The selfish bit inside of you looking for Jimmy and Lois first, letting out a small breath when you saw that they were fine. No one else was hurt, and you could hear sirens approaching, so you ran back inside and flew through the hole the robot left.

You hovered, squinting into the skyline, tilting your head slightly to isolate frequencies, your cape catching the wind behind you. Your brows furrowed.

Where did it—

WHOOSH.

A sudden rush of air beside you broke your focus as someone rocketed into your peripheral vision.

You turned sharply, shoulders tense, ready to defend yourself—

Only to freeze.

Because floating there in front of you, hovering with practiced ease, was a figure you didn’t recognize. At least, not personally.

But you knew of him.

Blue and yellow suit. The goggles. The dark hair poking out from under the mask. Breathing a little hard from the flight.

“Lose something?” Invincible asked, tone light, but you could see the shift happen mid-sentence. He froze. Mouth still open. Then he shut it, jaw tightening visibly.

“Luthor has. Or so it seems,” you replied, keeping your voice as steady and confident as you could manage.

You caught it, just barely, but you caught it. The twitch in his jaw. A subtle shift behind the lenses of his goggles. An emotion you couldn’t quite place a finger on. But one that definitely didn’t seem good.

“I’m handling it,” you added.

“Yeah?” His voice was cool now. Guarded. “That thing looked like a walking nuke.”

“It’s definitely been stolen, if not sold off and a made to look stolen.”

That snapped him back to focus.

“Then let’s find it,” he said, already accelerating, his body cutting through the air like a bullet. You followed close behind, heart pounding in your chest.

You hadn’t exactly had practice flying. At most you floated. So you struggled to keep up with him as he shot through the air, but based on how short his responses were, you were completely fine flying behind him.

It wasn’t long however, until you picked up a voice talking about the robot in the warehouse district.

“Down there!” You call it out to him as you let yourself dive down. Invincible paused before following you down.

The warehouse was dimly lit, its metal walls groaning in the wind. You landed just outside the entrance, Invincible touching down beside you with barely a sound.

Inside, Aegis stood motionless. The glowing red core in its chest pulsed slowly like a heartbeat, casting a sickly light across the empty space. It didn’t move. Not at first.

“I don’t like this,” you muttered, eyeing the thing.

Invincible took a cautious step forward, voice low. “Trap?”

Before you could answer, the robot’s eyes lit up.

And it fired.

Twin beams of concentrated energy blasted toward you both. You dove right, tucking into a roll, while Invincible darted left, the shot narrowly missing him and melting a steel beam behind him.

“Definitely a trap!” you yelled.

The battle was fast, quick in a way that nearly made you sigh with relief. He moved before you did. Invincible punched it square in the chest, cracking the core’s casing, only to be swatted into a stack of crates that exploded in splinters.

When it aimed its arm cannon at him again, you grabbed its wrist and crushed it in your grip until wires sparked and snapped as you ripped the arm from its socket.

Then, while it staggered, Invincible launched forward and drove a fist into the cracked core. The casing gave way with a blinding surge of light.

Then silence.

Aegis collapsed with a metallic groan, the light in its eyes flickering out.

You stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling, dusting yourself off. Your ears rang from the blast, and for a moment, all you could hear was your own breath.

And then the scrape of boots on concrete.

You turned, but Invincible was already walking away, shoulders tense, his silhouette vanishing into the darkness of the warehouse entrance without a word.

“Thanks for the help,” you said, voice just loud to carry.

He didn’t turn back. Didn’t say anything. Just left.

You stood there, still catching your breath, confusion knotting in your chest.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a more horrifying sight.

Pinned to the corkboard in the intern office, bold and unmistakable, was the front page of today’s Daily Planet.

And there, dead center?

Was you.

Blurry, sure. Back turned. Cloaked in harsh shadows, cape fluttering behind you in the wind. But you’d recognize that symbol anywhere.

“Smallville! About time.” Lois snapped you out of your frozen panic, tugging you fully into the room. “So, last night? New hero shows up. A Superwoman, literally. Crashes the party, wraps up the robbers in metal, and takes off like it’s a Tuesday. I’ve got it on good sources that she helped Invincible take down the Aegis.”

“Oh, wow, that’s… uh—” You stammered, brain stalling as you tried not to look directly at the photo of yourself.

Lois was still talking, practically buzzing with excitement. “She’s strong. I mean really strong. Did you see how fast she moved?”

You tried to recover, playing it off with a shrug. “What makes her so special? I mean, there’s already a bunch of heroes out there.”

“That’s just it,” Jimmy cut in, turning his phone to show you another photo, this one much clearer. A woman in white floating midair, wind tossing her short hair. “She’s different. Like Omni-Man different. Or like this villain Invincible fought a month ago!”

You nodded numbly, recalling how hard Mark had struggled in that fight.

“Exactly,” Jimmy said. “Who just shows up like that and ties guys up in a stainless steel rod like they’re a Christmas present?”

“She’s powerful,” Lois said, eyeing the blurry photo like it owed her answers. “And smart. No wasted movement. No ego. Just in, out, done. The city is eating that up. But I want to know more. Who is she? What does she want? Is she just playing nice?”

You tried not to flinch under her gaze. It wasn’t accusatory, but Lois Lane didn’t miss much. And the glint in her eye was making your stomach twist.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she added, flipping through her notes, “I like her style. But anyone that strong? They don’t stay anonymous for good reasons.”

You laughed, weak and nervous. “Well, maybe she just wants to help. Do good, you know?”

Lois raised a brow. “You’d be surprised. Not everyone is like you, Smallville. People aren’t good to be good.”

“Yeah. Sure.” You frowned as Lois and Jimmy, mostly Lois, began to discuss how they could find ‘Superwoman’ to force her into an interview.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You don’t think you’ve ever been so excited for lunch.

Well—you were excited. That changed a little when you realized Lois and Jimmy were coming too.

Normally, you wouldn’t mind. But today? Today they wouldn’t stop talking about Superwoman. Every second was a new theory, a new article idea, or another blurry photo Jimmy swore he could clean up. It made your stomach turn.

Still, despite the growing knot of anxiety, you sent a text to Mark. He’d been quiet since the warehouse incident. Too quiet. But maybe this would be a good way to break the silence.

You: Me, Jimmy, and Lois are heading to the cafe on the corner of 4th and 16th for lunch if you want to come with!

You sent it, locked your phone, and tried to stay focused. Tried.

Then, a few minutes later, the read receipt popped up.

Read 11:38 a.m.

And that was it. No bubbles. No reply. Nothing.

You stared at the screen for a moment too long. Mark could be bad at texting, sure—but he never left you on read. Ever. Even when he was late to reply, he always said something. A thumbs-up emoji. A dumb meme. A joke about Jimmy's hair. Anything.

The silence wasn’t just strange. It was pointed.

Your stomach twinged.

You tried to shake it off, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket just as Lois returned from ordering.

"Two coffees, one iced tea," she said, sliding into the booth beside you with a tray. "And one ridiculous sandwich for Jimmy because he refuses to accept normal portion sizes."

“I need the protein,” Jimmy defended, squeezing in on the other side. “You don’t know what it takes to carry two cameras and Lois’s drama.”

Lois shot him a glare that could’ve melted metal, and you smiled faintly, grateful for the distraction.

“Anyway,” Jimmy added, already halfway through his sandwich, “do we think Superwoman’s from this dimension?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Jimmy had already claimed a table by the window, flipping her notebook open before the menus even hit the table. “Okay, new theory: what if Superwoman is a plant? Like, not from here. An alien.”

Lois snorted. “We’ve already got Omni-Man. You think there’s a whole lineup of them waiting in the wings?”

“Maybe she’s an alien too,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “Or government-grown. Clone? Weirder stuff’s happened.”

“Can we not accuse her of being a government weapon until she’s done something bad?” you mumbled into your drink.

Both of them paused and looked at you.

“What?” you asked, too quickly.

Lois narrowed her eyes, her expression shifting just enough to make your palms sweat.

"You're defending her," she said, almost amused. "Again."

You forced a laugh. “Sorry for not jumping on the paranoia train. She saved a whole building. That’s a point in her favor.”

Lois leaned back. “Just saying... you seem pretty interested in her lately, Kansas.”

Jimmy smirked. “Didn’t know you were into heroes.”

You made a show of rolling your eyes. But your hands stayed curled into fists under the table, nails biting your palms.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It wasn’t long after you got home from your shift that the front door opened without a knock.

Mark.

You’d given him a spare key months ago, just in case Pa ever needed anything and you couldn’t make it. He promised he’d be there if that ever happened.

Thank goodness it never did. But that key still got plenty of use. Mark used to stop by all the time, inviting himself in like it was second nature. You didn’t mind. Neither did Pa. He always said Mark was “a good one, raised right.” and was practically family by how much he’d visit.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

Mark shut the door harder than necessary, his expression unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw and the way his didn’t soften when they met yours.

"Was it all just for show?" he asked, flatly. Coldly. Colder than you’d ever heard it directed at you.

You blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

He took a step closer, his voice rising. “Being my friend. Getting close to me. Pretending to be human. Was that all just an act?”

“Was it all fake? What? Were you just working up to the big pitch? Gonna try to convince me to join Viltrum too?”

You stared at him, stunned. “Mark, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You!” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward you. “You—you stood there last night, in a cape, flying. Like him. Like them. And you didn’t say anything.”

“Who’s them?” you asked, quieter than you meant to, your voice cracking.

“Oh, stop pretending.” Mark laughed. It wasn’t kind. “What’s next? You going to ask me to join Viltrum too?”

Your heart stopped.

“What are you talking about?” you breathed again, trying to hold your ground, even as your pulse pounded in your ears.

“Everything! You lied to me!” Mark’s voice cracked, filled with anger and betrayal. “All this time, and you never said a word. Then you, Superwoman, just show up out of nowhere—”

“Mark.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but even to your ears, it sounded fragile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop lying!” Mark shouted, his voice echoing off the apartment walls.

“I’m not!” you snapped, your own voice rising despite yourself. “I—I don’t even know what the hell Viltrum is! I don’t know why you’re so angry—”

“Because you’re an alien lying to my face!” he yelled, taking a step forward.

“I’m not! I mean—” you hesitated, your throat closing up, “I am an alien, but I have no clue what you’re talking about!”

Mark stared at you, chest heaving. “So what, you just conveniently left out that you’re not human? That you’re bulletproof? That you fly?!”

You looked away, guilt slicing deep. “Because I don’t know who I am. I—I don’t know.”

And once you started, it was like the dam broke.

“That’s why I left home. I came to Earth in this ship, but there was nothing in it but me. This time, when it activated, I got some insane vision of this man, but I couldn’t understand any of it. It was all fragmented, jumbled. And when I came to, I was in that suit, and—”

Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard.

“Good people help people,” you said quietly, eyes dropping to the floor. “If I can do the things I can, why wouldn’t I?”

Your words felt like shattered glass in your throat. You didn’t expect them to fix anything, but at least they were true.

Mark let out a long breath through his nose, the fire behind his eyes finally dimming. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at you with a mixture of caution and something close to regret.

“You really have no idea?” he asked, more gently this time.

“None.”

Mark sank down onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have come in like that. I thought you were… something else. Someone else.”

“It’s fine. I get it. I probably would’ve been—” You stopped yourself mid-sentence, blinking as a realization crept in. You turned to Mark with a confused look. “The picture in the paper didn’t show my face. Jimmy and Lois didn’t see me clearly either, so how did… you…”

Your voice trailed off as you stepped closer, narrowing your eyes at him.

Mark’s ears turned red almost immediately.

You stared, studying his face. “Wait… no. No way.”

A second passed.

Then it clicked. A bit embarrassingly slow, but undeniable.

You gasped, eyes wide. “Mark. You’re—”

[grimmsbride]

false heroics …. ! ₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣.

mohawk! & headcap! mark ╲ the instructions were to fight the two invincible variants, not fuck them you silly, silly girl.

𖥔 ࣪˖ tags⠀⎯ sex in mid air | fear kink | dub-con(? reader is into everything this is just incase) | manhandling | overstimulation | multiple orgasms | threesome | short little blurb | degradation | etc.

𖥔 ࣪˖ author’s notes ⠀⎯ i made a post about this idea like weeks ago, and just made a silly little blurb. also if you aren’t sure who headcap mark is, it’s the finest one that fought oliver and cracked his fucking shoulders just to turn me on. please enjoy.

You were a hero, someone people looked up to during their time of need. There eyes would simply focus on the sky, watching you soar by and knowing everything would be alright. You had that much of an effect on people. So much responsibility weighing on your shoulders, mistakes weren’t something you could afford.

So, why exactly, were you committing the biggest one of your entire career. Sorry, not one, but two.

Why on Earth instead of defending your city against its sudden invaders, were you getting completely ruined by not one— but two of them.

All above the wrecked streets they left behind.

“Hey, hey— where are you looking!?” The voice tugged you from your mind, dissipating as complete ecstasy shrouded your thoughts. The words felt so far away but close all the same, cloudy judgment no longer able to comprehend a thing.

Another voice came, one in the form of a chuckle; detailing their amusement in the most condescending manner.

“What a fucked out mess, can’t even think straight can you— little miss hero?”

The holder of such tone, Mohawk!Mark stared at you with several emotions swirling in that crazed gaze. He watched the way you withered around him, how each time his hips moved you were babbling incoherent sentences and moans that dripped with honey. With each push your body was jerking, legs threatening to close— but never budging.

Curtesy of the other Invincible flush behind you, his hands tight on your chubby thighs, spreading you for all the world to see. Headcap!Mark’s chin rested on your shoulder, watching the way your pussy so desperately sucked up his variant’s dick, squelching with each thrust, a sound that combined with the wind passing by the three of you.

Just a second ago the two intended to kill you, even briefly fighting over who got to do it. But in some sort of miracle — whether for you or them — the two quickly realized what a waste it would be.

Deciding the best course of action was this. Angstrom’s wishes could wait after their little fun.

“Mm—!” Tears pricked at your eyes from both the air and pleasure, screwing shut as your hands clenched and unclenched. You hadn’t a clue how long this has been going on, how many thrusts, how many times you’ve gushed around his dick. Your focus was completely gone, a mess of a hero; a disappointment who seemed to only think with what’s between her legs.

But you didn’t care. You didn’t need to think right now, didn’t need to focus on a thing but how good you were feeling. And it truly did feel amazing. Mohawk!Mark’s shaft dragged across your velvety walls so pleasantly, veins pulsing inside you. He was pushing deep, tip striking against that special spot at the most perfect angle; your already blurry vision suddenly being dotted with black spots with each hit.

“Fu—fuck.. please, please—!”

Pretty, desperate whines escaped your lips in a wet gasp, the two men eating it up entirely. Headcap!Mark carefully released one of your legs, instead reaching over for your face. Taking your cheeks within his fingers, the man turned you to face his half-masked features.

“Is this really one of Earth’s best heroes? Hm.. I’m starting to feel bad.” He watched the way your eyes opened, gaze glossed and full with pleasure filled tears. Such a sight had him grinning, thumb lowering to your lips and rubbing the area roughly.

“Come on, push us off, don’t you have a city to protect?”

A particularly hard thrust caused you to nearly shriek, shaking and struggling to find the response to his question.

“Y—you, I.. can’t..”

“You, I, can’t—“ Your attention was stolen from the Invincible behind you to the one infront of you, spotting that shit-eating grin capturing his lips as he mocked you.

“Use your words, or is the only thing that whorish brain can come up with are moans?”

“Fu..fuck, you—!”

You shuddered at the way their laughter surrounded you, vibrating against your already weak body.

“You already are, miss hero.”

“And you’re enjoying every second of it.”

You suddenly felt Mohawk!Mark grab your discarded thigh, pushing even closer as he drilled into you. You hadn’t a clue how he was fucking you so well in the air, but the explanation was quickly added to the growing list of your least worries. Your head tossed back against Headcap!Mark’s shoulder, whimpering as your pussy clenched so tightly.

The Invincible infront of you groaned, fingers digging into your flesh as he rutted into your aching body. That coil inside your stomach tightened, a familiar pressure building as hurried breaths dragged off your tongue.

With one final thrust you were coming undone, coating his lower half in your arousal, a flash of white even invading your vision.

You were truly thankful their hold on you was pretty tight, given how your body slumped from the exhaustion.

Soft pants escaped, chest rising and slowly falling as you sucked up the air. Your eyes closed in hopes of relaxing for a moment, only to feel familiar fingers clench your cheeks once again, stealing your attention back.

You peeked slowly, spotting the way Headcap!Mark’s lips pulled into a splitting grin. His body was close, bulge rubbing against your ass, aching for attention.

“Don’t pass out on us just yet. It’s my turn, after all.”

[winterarmyy]

Steal Me Away

Glimpses of the grumpy chubby alpha!bucky's love life.

Summary: When Bucky was stuck in an unpleasant lunch with his co-workers; he thought about how nice it would be if someone comes and steals him away.

Navigation: Prequel || Main Story I || Main Story II || Main Story III

Pairing: chubby alpha!bucky x omega!female!reader

Words: 2.6k++

Warnings: a/b/o dynamics. no plot, just fluff. low-key body shamming, bullying, bucky and his omega being adorable. (tell me is there's anything else I missed)

P/S: Impulsive writing at 3am in the morning because I couldn't sleep, then left the draft to rot for weeks, now posted. Also tagging @serendipitouslife90 because she's the biggest fan of this au. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this short fic and happy reading! 🤍

Read my other works here: Masterlist

The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Bucky’s cubicle, casting narrow strips of light across his cluttered desk. The office was its usual sanctuary of muted tones and hushed conversations. Colleagues navigated the aisles like cautious explorers, their brief nods to Bucky barely concealing their unease.

He didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it this way. Solitude was his comfort zone, and he relished the uninterrupted focus on his work.

Bucky tapped away at his keyboard, the rhythmic clacking serving as his meditation. His thoughts were like the lines of code he worked with; orderly, precise, and devoid of unnecessary embellishments. Socializing was a distraction he neither wanted nor needed.

The occasional murmurs of sympathy about his less-than-ideal body shape for an Alpha like him, or the prosthetic arm he wore to make up for his imperfection, had long since ceased to bother him. They were background noise in the symphony of his workday.

Two weeks had passed since Bucky had last seen y/n, their second date now a vivid but distant memory. Their time together had been cut short, both of them consumed by the relentless demands of their careers. Especially for Bucky, the high-pressure world of software engineering was unforgiving.

Ever since he was in school, he always had the knack for tech but as he grew up, his path lead away from it. Then after his abrupt release from military service, he was lost for a moment. He lost his position and quite literally his limb. After he was introduced to Stark Technologies for is prosthetic, his interest in tech bloomed once more.

Fast forward, he had transitioned to civilian life with a single-minded focus on his career. The transition from soldier to software engineer had been a challenging yet rewarding shift, one that demanded every ounce of his dedication.

His days were a blur of client meetings, coding marathons, and sleepless nights, leaving him barely enough time to recharge. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't escape the gnawing sense of guilt that tugged at him.

Y/n had been understanding, insisting that they could take things slow and that she was patient. Yet Bucky felt a pressing need to make up for the lost time, to show her that she was more important than the endless stream of work that consumed him.

His longing for her was a constant undercurrent in his daily routine, a reminder of the connection he cherished and the promises he hoped to fulfill, even amidst the chaos of his demanding schedule.

Lunchtime arrived with an uncharacteristic intrusion; Brock’s insistent presence. Bucky had settled into his usual corner of the break room, anticipating a quiet meal alone.

But Brock, with his usual smirk, plopped down across from him, completely unfazed by Bucky’s visible discomfort.

“You know, Bucky,” he started, his tone laced with false camaraderie, “maybe you should join us for lunch this time. Walk off that fat in your belly, and maybe, just maybe, might help you lose a few pounds and get that soldier body of yours again.”

The comment triggered a ripple of reactions around the break room. A few colleagues, particularly those who fancied themselves as superior alpha, snickered behind their coffee cups, enjoying the moment at Bucky’s expense. The rest of the room fell into an awkward silence; some looked away, unable or unwilling to get involved, while others exchanged nervous glances, wary of crossing the line with either of the alpha males.

Bucky’s mind raced with a mix of frustration and contemplation. Brock’s taunts were nothing new, but the timing was particularly irritating. With his packed schedule and the constant pressure of meeting deadlines, Bucky had barely had a moment to breathe, let alone deal with petty office politics.

The jabs felt like an unnecessary complication in an already strained day. His thoughts were a whirlwind of frustration; he wondered why he always ended up the target of Brock’s remarks and whether it was a reflection of his own choices or just Brock’s way of asserting dominance.

The palpable tension in the room only added to his mounting irritation.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his irritation simmering beneath a thin veneer of politeness. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He didn’t bother hiding the grumble in his voice. His work would have to wait, and so would his patience.

The café buzzed with conversation and clinking dishes, an atmosphere of forced cheerfulness that did little to mask the underlying tension. Bucky took his seat with a sigh, his mind already drifting to y/n, the image of her smile a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.

Brock wasted no time in launching his passive-aggressive jabs, each comment about Bucky’s weight or his vibranium prosthetic arm more cutting than the last. Bucky could feel the rage bubbling up, but he forced himself to stay calm, focusing instead on the thought of y/n. The warm glow of her presence seemed to wrap around him, even in the midst of Brock’s taunts.

Brock leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “You know, Bucky, it's always something watching you eat alone. Maybe if you spent less time working and more time mingling; hit the gym with us after work or something. Who knows you might actually find yourself a date for once.”

The remark seemed casual, almost playful, but it carried a veiled sting. It wasn’t just about Bucky’s solitary lunchtime habits; it was a pointed jab at his single status, suggesting that his lack of romantic success might be due to his social ineptitude and undesirable body.

Bucky’s patience snapped. He leaned forward, his voice cold and controlled. “I don’t know, Brock. Honestly, it’s much better to be alone than to ‘mingle’ with someone who’s all bark and no bite.” He fearlessly maintained his cold gaze; eyes seemingly bore the words his lips never spoke. “…Like you”

Brock's face flushed a deep crimson, and his jaw tightened in a futile attempt to maintain composure. He muttered something about needing a smoke before hastily exiting the room, his pride stinging from the unexpected jab. The rest of the team sat in an uneasy silence, the tension almost tangible.

They watched as Bucky’s eyes bore into Brock’s retreating figure, cold and unyielding. There was something almost feral in his gaze, a silent promise of consequences that only someone with true authority and control could convey.

Everyone knew better than to provoke him further; Bucky's look was a chilling reminder that he played by his own rules.

Brock stepped out of the café, his frustration boiling over as he lit a cigarette. With each inhale of nicotine, he muttered darkly under his breath, cursing Bucky and grumbling about how that fat-ass loser like him had the audacity to undermine his clearly more superior alpha status.

His anger was a tempest, raging against the affront to his ego.

As he paced, his gaze drifted to the sidewalk next to the café, where a striking woman in a sundress was engrossed in her phone. The late afternoon sun highlighted the gentle curves of her figure, and her unblemished skin glowed softly, exposed at the back of her neck.

Brock’s eyes raked over her with a predatory appreciation, the male gaze undeniable in his scrutiny.

Her poised stance and soft demeanor hinted at an aura of femineity that intrigued him. A smirk curved his lips as he took another drag from his cigarette, already imagining how he might woo her, hoping that a little charm could be the distraction he needed from his bruised pride.

Back in the café, Bucky was still seated at the table, surrounded by the typical midday hustle, yet he remained ensconced in a bubble of tranquility. His attention was focused solely on his phone, where a soft, contented smile played on his lips. The noise of the café faded into the background as he read through y/n’s messages.

Each word from her was a thread that connected him to a part of his life that felt more real and meaningful than the relentless grind of his daily routine.

Y/n had inquired about his lunch, her questions laced with genuine curiosity. “How was your lunch?” “Was it any good?” “How’s your day been so far?” The inquiries seemed almost innocent, yet they carried a warmth that enveloped him.

And then, the message that tugged at his heartstrings: “I miss you.” It was as if her words had the power to reach through the screen and touch him directly, offering a solace that was hard to find amidst the chaos left from the prior event.

He missed her deeply.

The absence of her voice, the comfort of her presence. He wished that she could just steal him away; or perhaps he would be stealing her away?

Eitherway, he just wants to get out of here.

As he glanced at the time, noting that he still had about thirty minutes before he needed to return to the office, he made a quick decision. He would step outside for a moment, away from the unnecessary drama, and maybe give her a call.

The thought of hearing her voice, even if only for a brief conversation, was a beacon of light in his otherwise frenetic day. As Bucky stepped out of the café, his gaze remained fixed on his phone, where y/n’s last message glowed softly on the screen.

Unbeknownst to him, the scene unfolding just a few paces away was far less pleasant. Brock, still nursing his bruised ego from their earlier encounter by relentlessly flirting with the girl. “Come on, sweetheart, just one date.” Brock said, his voice low and laced with insincere flirtation.

He leaned in close, a smirk playing on his lips as his hand reached out, brushing against her exposed shoulder. Y/n recoiled slightly, her discomfort palpable. “I’m really not interested,” she said firmly, though her voice carried an undercurrent of unease. “and I have a boyfriend.”

Brock’s persistence only grew more insistent. “I doubt that. I can see you do not have his mark here,” he persisted, his hand lingering uncomfortably on her shoulder, close to where her mating mark supposed to reside. Despite her attempts to shrug off his advances, Brock didn’t relent. His touch was intrusive, and his words edged on harassment. And she can sense the scent of arousal coming from the alpha.

Y/n’s eyes darted around, seeking an escape from the unwanted attention. As her gaze fell behind Brock, she caught sight of a familiar figure; one that seemed to offer a lifeline amidst her distress.

“Bucky?” she called out, her voice tinged with both relief and surprise. The name escaped her lips before she could fully process the situation, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of Bucky walking toward them.

Bucky knew that voice. It was a sound that resonated deep within him, as familiar as his own heartbeat. He lifted his eyes from his phone, and the world around him sharpened into focus. The scene before him was both infuriating and unmistakable: Brock, with his sleazy smirk and inappropriate proximity, stood uncomfortably close to Bucky's omega, his hand hovering dangerously near her exposed shoulder.

A surge of primal fury shot through Bucky, a blaze of anger that burned through his veins and coiled tight in his chest. His eyes blazed with a fierce intensity, a low, guttural growl forming in his throat as he prepared to confront the intruder. His body tensed, ready to pounce.

But before he could make a move, y/n was already in motion. She leaped into his arms with a mix of desperation and joy, catching Bucky off guard. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her, holding her securely against his chest.

Her arms clung tightly to his nape, her face burying itself into the crook of his neck as if seeking refuge; shamelessly scenting him. Her warm breath and soft sighs was a soothing cure to his simmering rage.

The anger that had been boiling inside him began to fizzle away, replaced by a profound sense of relief and love. The sound of her happy purrs, the feel of her soft body pressed against his, and her intoxicatingly sweet scent; all of it made his anger dissolve into a tender, protective affection.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, his arms tightening around her waist as he relished in the comforting closeness. “Hi, sugar.” he whispered, his voice thick with affection and relief.

Bucky's hold loosen as he leaned down, his gentle smile never faltering as he closed the distance between them. His eyes softened with affection, and he pressed his lips against y/n's in a kiss so tender it felt like a whisper. It was a soft, loving caress that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

But before he could pull back, y/n’s playful energy erupted. She cupped his cheeks in her delicate hands, pulling him down to her level with a sudden, joyful enthusiasm.

Her lips attacked his with a flurry of kisses; quick, warm, and full of exuberance. Each kiss left behind a trace of her strawberry-scented lipstick, creating a trail of smudged rosy color across his face. The marks dotted his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and even his lips, a vibrant testament to her affection.

Amused laughter bubbled up from Bucky, the sound a rare and delightful departure from his usual stoic demeanor. His eyes twinkled with genuine mirth, his grumpy alpha persona completely melted away in the face of y/n’s loving onslaught.

He reveled in the smothering of her kisses, his initial tension and anger forgotten. A satisfied rumble vibrates on his throat, across his chest. The contrast between his earlier anger and the unrestrained joy he now experienced was stark; the shift was almost palpable.

Lost in their own world, the two seemed oblivious to their surroundings. Their display of affection was unabashedly public, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. Y/n looked up at him with bright eyes, her voice filled with eager excitement as she asked if he still had time.

“I want to steal you away.” she said with a playful smile.

Bucky’s smile widened, his heart swelling with happiness. “Of course, sugar. Anything for you.” he replied, his voice tender and filled with genuine warmth.

But as Bucky’s gaze shifted away from y/n and landed on Brock, his soft features momentarily disappeared. His expression hardened, the warmth in his eyes turning to ice. The switch in his demeanor was chilling; an instant transformation from the tender lover to a menacing figure.

The coldness in his eyes was a silent, yet unmistakable warning. It was as though a dark storm cloud had settled over him, a clear signal that Brock's earlier arrogance had crossed an unforgivable line.

The intensity of Bucky’s stare spoke volumes, a silent promise of retribution and a reminder of the strength behind his calm exterior. The abrupt shift in his demeanor was a jarring contrast to the affection he had just displayed, sending a clear message to Brock that any further provocation would be met with unspeakable consequences.

As Bucky and y/n walked hand in hand away from the café, Brock stood there, fuming and humiliated. His attempt to belittle Bucky had backfired spectacularly.

Inside the café, Bucky’s colleagues had their jaws dropped. They were astonished not only by y/n’s ethereal beauty but also by the sight of Bucky, usually so composed and reserved, smiling so openly. They were completely stunned by the unexpected display of vulnerability and affection from the grumpy loner.

The couple continued down the street, their hands clasped together. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as they headed towards their next destination.

Bucky’s smile was genuine, a rare and precious sight as he looked down; memorizing the way her hand perfectly intertwined with his. At that moment, he couldn’t help but think how much he wished y/n would steal him away more often.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Thank you for staying to the end of the fic. Hope you enjoy reading it!

[satosugusandwich]

His Angel and His Brat

Part 1!!! Part 2

Hard!Dom!Geto x Brat!Gojo x obedient!afab!reader

(I also try to write my fics to be racially ambiguous! No mention of skin tone or hair type!)

Summary: Gojo is a mega-brat to y/n and Suguru and likes to push buttons cuz he can so Suguru decides to overstimulate Gojo until he thinks he’s broken. (Key word: thinks.) To add to Gojo’s humiliation, he ensures that the reader is getting princess treatment while watching Gojo suffer endlessly. But, of course, things don’t always go as planned with Satoru Gojo.

CW and whatnots: Overstimulation, vibrators, cuffs, finger sucking, condescending!geto, usage of the word “cock”, gojo’s boundless stamina and cocky attitude, anal play, cum licking (off the floor and gojos pp) praise, cocksucking, angel ass reader that ends up in trouble cuz gojo can’t shut his mouth, geto is actually so mean to gojo but so soft cuz he’s actually a teddy bear dw. Use of “brat, princess, angel.” There will be aftercare in future parts cuz imagine leaving pathetic satoru a cum drenched mess. Poor baby. :(((

There will be additional tags in future parts. This is how I cope with ch 236.

Suguru runs his thumb along your bottom lip, licking his own lips while you whimper. Your pretty eyes fixated on his blushing face and half-lidded eyes. He looks at you with so much lust and is so gentle with you, just so in love with how much you please him and how willing you are to do what he wants. You eagerly await him and his orders, always ready to obey.

But.

“Suguru!”

Satoru’s cry makes his face go from pure admiration to utterly sadistic. “Satoru.” He says, looking at the man to the right of you, the same man that’s panting and whining as the vibrator in his tight hole runs relentlessly. “Jealously doesn’t look very good on you.” He grins and hits a button on the small remote he holds in his hand that isn’t occupied with your mouth.

“Fuck—FUCK!” Satoru’s eyes clench shut, the whirring sound coming from his bottom getting faster and bit more high pitched. You’re grateful you aren’t in his position, you don’t know if you could handle Suguru having full control of how much pleasure you get to feel. Especially if that pleasure is ongoing… and nonstop.

Satoru looked unusually pathetic and… weak. It’s insane to think that the so called strongest sorcerer, the cocky, the arrogant, the man on top, bends to the will of his pretty best friend. Suguru’s change in character comes as a shock too. The sweet, soft-spoken, gentle, and empathetic sorcerer is now grinning down at his partner, showing no mercy, no kindness, and is only sending Satoru into deeper throes of overwhelming pleasure. You almost didn’t want to look at Satoru, what if Suguru surmised you wanted the same treatment. Would he show you mercy?

“Now, now,” Suguru muses, “if you can beg me properly, I’ll stop your torment. And of course you’ll need to apologize to Y/n and I for being such an impatient little shit.” He chuckles softly and withdraws his thumb from your mouth. “She’s being so well-behaved while you whine and whine and cry and cry about how much it is.” He mocks him, furrowing his eyebrows together in a false pity. “I suppose I should expect it, after all, you’ve cum how many times? That pressure against—“ Suguru crouches as he speaks “—your prostate—“ he runs the tip of his fingers up Satoru’s base “—it’s been nonstop for 30 minutes now.”

You can’t help but watch as Suguru’s hand starts to stroke Satoru now, giving expert attention to his neglected yet tortured cock. Suguru notices how you eyeball his actions and can’t help but smile wider.

“Ah, do you feel left out?” His false pity changes back to his gentle expression. “It’s alright, princess, why don’t you show Satoru how impressed you are with his stamina. Give him a little reward?”

Suguru is evil.

“I don’t think he could take it, Sugu.” You answer honestly.

He looks a bit disappointed but he relents his ministrations. “I suppose you’re right. But he still owes us an apology before his punishment ends.”

You nod and meet Satoru’s eyes. He can barely speak as his next orgasm approaches. “I-I’m so—“ his body is shaking. “I’m so sorry! I’ve been so—Suguru—so impatient! Please, I’m so so soo!!! So sorry!” He’s almost in tears now, you can tell Suguru is even beginning to feel pity for his best friend and his brat.

“Ahh… cum one more time and I’ll take it out. Show me you deserve mercy by pleading. Plead for mercy.” Suguru’s fingers tug at your nipples now, clearly losing interest in Satoru’s torment. You know that you aren’t being punished, but seeing Suguru like this… makes you a little weary.

“Please please!” Satoru repeats the word over and over. “I’m so sorry! Please, mercy!” He keeps prattling on, thrusting into the air as he struggles to keep together.

“Y/n.” Suguru looks to you. “Clean up his next mess for me. Lick his cock clean and then it’ll be your turn.”

Satoru starts to mumble and moan out different variations of thank yous and Suguru’s name as he reaches his final high. And when he cums, It’s a mess. Semen spills from his cock and your immediately there to catch it. Suguru’s eyes widen, absolutely loving your eagerness to take his cum down your throat.

“Good boy, good girl.” He pets your head and clicks the toy off, causing Satoru’s to collapse completely, his body weight bearing into the now standing legs of Suguru. He catches his breath, still whimpering as Suguru pets his head. Satoru looks you in the eyes, his beauty keeping your gaze fixated on his body. His six eyes are a little red, probably from the tears that he held back, and his body is flushed beautifully, his pretty cock slowly going soft as he does his best to calm down.

Satoru relaxes back on his knees while Suguru goes behind him to remove the toy from his ass and undo Satoru’s hand cuffs. You breathe a sigh of relief for him, always impressed by Satoru’s unwavering stamina and attitude. You wondered how Satoru enjoyed pissing Geto off so much, does he really enjoy these punishments that much? Suguru seemingly loves the after effects of a good punishment, his adoration of Satoru is evident in the way he kisses his head and gently rubs his back while Satoru regains his strength.

As much as you love watching, you are wondering why Suguru invited you to observe Satoru’s punishment. You’re not really complaining and it definitely isn’t the first time you’ve seen it, but, all you’ve had is a thumb in your mouth and a little bit of cocksucking. After all, Suguru can’t ever stay entirely focused on Satoru, he needs some pleasure himself.

Satoru seems to be wondering the same thing. “So, baby, why did you bring her in to watch?” He asks, rising from his knees to give them a break.

Suguru looks down at you. “Just on a whim.” He strokes your face before looking back toward his brat. “And I’ve noticed you get more worked up with an arousing audience.”

“Well, wouldn’t you if she was licking your cum from the floor?” Satoru grumbled, sitting on the bed.

Suguru turns his attention back toward you. “She does love cum in her mouth.” He strokes himself slowly, catching your attention.

“I want yours next.” You tell him, shifting your weight and sending him a smile.

Satoru watches as you lean forward to lick Suguru’s cock, taking his precum on your tongue. He doubt he could handle anymore cumming, but he certainly loves to see you take cock down your throat. If he had more energy, he’d love to stuff his down as well. “Like it that much, y/n?” He chuckles.

Suguru’s eyes shoot to Satoru. “Jealous again, Satoru?? Well, the question is are you jealous cuz my cock is down her throat or are you jealous cuz it’s not down your throat?”

Satoru sucks his teeth. “I want to watch her take me balls deep.”

Uh oh.

Suguru removes his cock from your mouth. “Satoru,” you start, “I don’t think you have enough energy to keep that attitude up.” Indeed, his stamina is incredible.

Suguru waits to see his reaction.

And of course, the other man grins and only adds fuel to the fire. “Think she’d look better with my cock in her mouth. She’s been paying more attention to me than you anyways.”

“Satoru…” you sigh and in seconds Suguru has him pressed back into the bed and is beckoning for you to get on with him.

Satoru laughs. “Aw, did I bruise your ego, baby? What are you gonna do about it?”

Suguru points to his mouth. “Sit on him to shut him up and I’ll give him a nice view of my cock in your mouth.”

Fuck, that sounds hot. Satoru just grins and motions for you to ride his face, pointing at his eager tongue that’s already out and waiting.

“Y/n, make sure he stays quiet I don’t want to hear him make a single peep. And since he likes being punished so much, I’ll punish you instead if he speaks.”

What?

You blink. Undeniably aroused but a bit scared of his now very evident sadism. “You know he’s going to try to speak now on purpose?” Mercy isn’t exactly his thing right now but you’ll pry at it for sure.

Suguru gives you an evil grin as you lower your weeping pussy onto Satoru’s face. “Then keep his mouth shut.”

[novaursa]

Legacy (dragonfire)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)

- Previous part: of dragons and gods

- Next part: contingency

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.

The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.

Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.

The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.

Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”

The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”

A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.

The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”

Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”

The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”

The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.

You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.

The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”

You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”

Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”

But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”

Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.

You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”

Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.

The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.

“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”

The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“Dracarys.”

Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.

The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.

Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.

Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”

Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”

You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.

And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”

You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”

Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.

The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.

Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.

The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.

“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”

The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”

Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”

“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”

Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”

Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”

The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”

Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.

“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”

A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”

“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”

Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”

“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”

Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.

Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.

You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”

“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”

A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.

You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”

You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.

As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.

The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.

“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”

Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”

“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.

Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”

Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”

Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”

Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”

“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”

Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”

“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”

Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”

The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”

Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”

Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly—before I left King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”

Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”

Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”

Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”

Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”

Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”

Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.

The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.

In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.

The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”

“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”

Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”

Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”

Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”

Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”

Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”

Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”

Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”

Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”

“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”

Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”

Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”

Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”

Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”

Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”

Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.

Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.

For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.

The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.

At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.

“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”

Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.

From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”

Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.

“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”

You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”

You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”

Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”

“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”

“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”

You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.

Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.

“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.

You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”

Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”

You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”

There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”

“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”

Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”

Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”

Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”

Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”

Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”

You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”

Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.

And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.

For your son. For the realm.

And for the future yet to come.

The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.

Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.

You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.

You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”

“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”

“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”

Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”

“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”

His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”

Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.

Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.

For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.

“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”

Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.

“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”

For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”

“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.

He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.

“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”

Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”

You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”

He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.

For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.

[jjjjeonww]

hong joshua - "Dear, Diary. Damn my academic rival."

genre - romance! ~~in which you've seen joshua as your academic rival for years, but lets see how he sees you in his perspective. (just wanted to switch it up a bit heh) a/n: this is a little thank you for 108 followers hehe<3!! also, this is a fic requested by the one and only, @hanniescookie! you keep coming up with amazing ideas and requests my angel, and im always happy and always honoured to complete them and be the person who receives them <3 ( @wonkierideul, here's your tag my lovie! you've had a tiring day, take a break and rest up. a junhui fic will be coming soon, just for you🤍)

(remember, this is all in joshua's pov!) 28th December 2024 Dear Diary, Today I felt so stupid. Why? I couldn't take my eyes off Y/n as she pored over the latest batch of data, her brows were furrowed in concentration. The flickering lamplight casted shadows across her face, it highlighted the curve of her cheekbones. Honestly, to me, Y/n was a vision of focus and intellect, a force to be reckoned with. And damn if she didn't look gorgeous in the process.

When she glanced up and caught me staring, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was a rare sight, that smile... but it was all the more devastating for its infrequency. I felt my heart stutter in my chest, my breath hitched slightly as I drank in the sight of her.

"You've got that look again," I said. I have no idea how, or why my voice came out more huskily than I intended. I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. "Like when Tom thinks he can finally eat Jerry. What are you so smug about?"

I saw her smile widening, a glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "I'm not smug," she said, and I know I heard the stupid note of false innocence in her tone. "I'm just...satisfied with my progress." Note by Joshua: (As if she could do any better than me. Well, she did do better than me this time. Won't let it happen the next!)

5th January 2025 Dear Diary, Today we got our test results. Obviously I looked around to find Y/n and to see her reaction to her grade, only to find her right next to me, holding up her test results, the paper rustled softly in her hand. I leaned forward to see, my glasses slipping down my nose as I squinted at the numbers. My jaw clenched as I took in the scores - hers were higher than mine, by a margin that made my gut twist with reluctant admiration.

"What?" I scoffed, pushing my glasses back up. "You've beaten me again?" I leaned back in my chair, and crossed my arms over my chest. "Damn you Y/n. Next time... don't get too comfortable. I'm not going to let you stay ahead for long." Her smile turned into a full-blown grin, those eyes... they sparkled with that familiar competitive fire. "I wouldn't expect anything less," she said, a note of challenge in her voice. "But don't worry, Joshua. I have no intention of making this easy for you. I want to see you push yourself, to reach for even greater heights."

I felt a surge of determination, a fierce need to prove myself and rise to her challenge. But beneath that, I felt something else, something softer and more intense. A longing to see that smile on her face again and to keep this fire alive. Note by Joshua: (I guess I got another longing; For her to stop calling me by my name and instead call me 'hers'. And I'm cringing at my own joke haha! until next time diary!) 13th January 2025 Dear Diary, The days have turned into weeks, and my isolation and forced collaboration with Y/n only seemed to intensify the charged atmosphere between us. We clashed over theories and methods, our voices raised in heated debate as we paced the confines of the cabin. The air grew thick with tension, but it was a different kind of tension than before. There was an undercurrent of something else, something that made my skin prickle and my heart race.

Note by Joshua: (Today's note of 'love' was a short one. Guess our isolation was bigger than our forced proximity.) 27th January 2025 Dear Diary, Something happened this evening. As I was reviewing our notes by the flickering fireplace, I glanced up to see Y/n staring at the flames, a distant look on her face. She looked gorgeous in the firefight, shadows dancing across her delicate features and highlighting the curve of her lips. I found myself wondering what she was thinking about, what dreams or fantasies played behind those captivating eyes.

"You know," I said softly, to me, my voice was barely audible over the crackling of the flames, "sometimes I wonder what goes on in that brilliant mind of yours."

And she turned to face me, a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I felt a smirk tug at my own lips, a hint of playfulness entering my voice. "I think about it more than I should," I admitted, my gaze locked with hers. "Especially when you look at me like that."

Her smile widened, a soft blush coloured her cheeks. "Like what?" she asked, a note of innocence in her voice belied by the heat in her eyes.

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, my eyes never leaving hers. "Like you're trying to figure me out," I murmured. "Like you're seeing right through me, past all the bravado and the competition, to the heart of who I am."

I watched how her breath hitched, and how she swallowed hard. "Maybe I am," she whispered, her voice was barely audible. "Maybe I want to know what makes you tick, Joshua. What drives you, what you dream about, what you...want."

I felt my heart pound in my chest, a fierce longing surging through me. I wanted to tell her everything, to lay bare the secrets of my soul and hope that she would do the same. But I held back, I didn't want to scare her off. Note by Joshua: (Maybe next time, we'll see what'll unfold for me and Y/n. But hey, at least today's 'love' note was a long one right?)

[anxious-witch]

I apologize for irritable tone of this post, but a portion of this fandom is starting to irritate me, so let's analyze catwin through the lens of how age works for ghosts and how situational irony is used in a scene where Edwin and Niko talk about kissing.

Let's start with age. Right at the beginning, when Emma asks Charles and Edwin to take her case, she tries to play it off as her being just a little girl. This is what Edwin replies:

And before anyone jumps the gun and says: "He said SUPERNATURALLY speaking! He is still physically 16!"

Okay. Let's unpack that. Considering how for people who are immortal, which ghosts essentially are, and as such unchanging, that isn't quite a proper argument, is it? Because the way I see it, there are two ways someone could argue this. Either your gripe is about the Cat King finding Edwin attractive despite him physically being a 16 year old or your gripe is that Edwin is mentally 16 and as such, cannot consent.

If it's the first, I think that argument is quite lacking here, because we know the Cat King is aware Edwin is older than 16. And as someone who is an adult and often gets mistaken for a minor, I think the idea that you can just always tell someone's age by looking at them quite funny. Also, by that logic, I shouldn't be able to consent either, because people generally gauge my age to be between 16-18, when I am in my mid 20s.

If it's the second, your point doesn't work because being frozen at 16 would mean being unable to learn and develop firther than what you did by that age. Which we know is false for ghosts, especially Edwin. He changes and develops constantly throughout the s1, and we have a front row seat to that! Human brains aren't clear cut, and before you jump under the post to say your brain isn't fully develop until age 25, I will kindly tell you that human brains, in fact, never stop changing and developing. And that experiences, traumas, etc hugely impact developments of individuals.

One argument I can sort of is perhaps Edwin and Charles having somewhat stunted emotional growth, but as we also see throughout the season, that has more to do with them stagnanting rather than them being unable to emotionally develop. And frankly, I know bunch of adults with the same issues, so.

Now for the "But Edwin said he doesn't want to kiss the Cat King!" argument. How about we look at what Edwin says before that, huh?

He says he has never been kissed and didnt understand the appeal, until recently. And you cannot tell me it wasn't the Cat King who made him realize it. Yes, he wanted to kiss Charles and I am not saying he didn't like Monty too, but if it wasn't for the Cat King getting physically close to him and playing into his desires, he wouldn't have realized that he too, feel physical attraction!

As for him saying "Absolutely not!" When Niko asks him if he wants to kiss the Cat King, I think that's laughable argument to saying "Well, see, he didn't want him!" Because first of all, characters can lie. Edwin most certain, lies about things he wants, both to himself and others, up until pressed.

Besides, if I am not mistaken, given English isn't my first language and I learned this stuff in a different language, this is also called situational irony, aka, someone say something won't/can't happen and then it happens. This is very often seen in romance plots too. A characters says they hate someone and then they end up dating them.

Think of Lizzy Benett and Darcy

And then she goes ahead and married him later, once her opinion of him changes. It's a classic romance trope!

Similarly, Edwin says he doesn't want to kiss the Cat King and what happens at the end? Oh yeah!

He kisses the Cat King. Shocker.

But yeah just like. Y'all are free to not like the ship for whatever reason, but for the love of god, stop making up stuff that's just blantantly untrue. There is an "anti catwin" tag for a reason, if you truly cannot stop yourself from commenting, but in all honestly, you could just enjoy your own ship without putting other ppl's ships down. Cat King is not perfect by any means, but this isn't a predator type of situation. I and many others have addressed the whole "coercion" bit quite a few times so I won't get into it again, but these two arguments I have seen pop up and I just had to address it. Thank you for coming to my ted talk

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 11 - Choking + Restraints

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : Hey everyone ! Started working on this Kinktober episode (part of the Dom!Marshall x Sub!Reader series) a lifetime ago but I finally took the time to finish it. Hope you enjoy it ❤️. Tagging @tiny-gay-satan who always showed love for this series 🥺

CW : BDSM - Dom/Sub dynamic - Punishment - Restraints - Choking - Spanking - Brattiness

It was another weekend you spent with your Dom. He’d had a rough week at work and the usually firm structure had given way to something more relaxed. You still had your rituals but you could tell he didn’t feel like enforcing protocols. He went surprisingly easy on you, but you didn’t mind. You had spent most of Saturday lounging around and cuddling lazily on the couch, true crime documentaries playing in the background. He made a few comments about you needing to get to your chores, but you suspected it was mostly out of principle, since every time you attempted to get up, he pulled you back to him. This caused you to relax even more, enjoying Marshall’s presence, happily indulging his need for proximity. However, you couldn’t help but gently tease him. « You’re unusually clingy, Sir » you playfully remarked. « You’re complaining about that, now? » he asked, rolling his eyes. « I’m just thinking it’s time you admitted you can’t get enough of me » you giggled. « Yeah, you wish » he mumbled with a false exasperation, though you could feel him tighten his embrace around you. 

By Sunday morning, the playful mood was in full swing, and you shared some witty banter while you prepared breakfast. Marshall was leaning against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a slice of toast while you were flipping pancakes in a sheer nightdress that left nothing to the imagination. He was staring at you, shamelessly admiring your body, which he had leisurely mistreated the night before, leaving a whole new set of bruises and hickies all over it. 

« I see you staring, Sir » you hummed teasingly. « Has no one ever told you it’s rude? ». He shook his head and took a few steps, standing behind you, as he placed a hand on your hips. « I can stare all I want. Because you’re mine » he reminded you in a low voice. « Also, you might want to think twice before trying to call me out on my manners. Don’t forget your place, sweetheart ». The smirk on his face made it impossible for you to resist. You just had to keep teasing him. « If you don’t want me to call you out on your manners, maybe you should start by having some… Marshall ». You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew for a fact that the deliberate use of his name was testing the limits. Unfortunately, you were unable to turn the « chaotic mode » off. And, deep down, you wanted to blame your dom. After all, he was the one who hadn’t enforced the usual structure. It was on him, really… However, the way he raised his eyebrow made it clear that he would not agree with your analysis of the situation. « Uh-huh » he said as he reached for your arm and forced you to turn around and face him. « You want to rethink that, Y/N? ». You shook your head, feigning bravery, though the sparkle in your eyes betrayed your amusement. «Nope. You’re not that scary. » you giggled.  

Annoying him had been one of your favorite activities for years and, clearly, when you started, you couldn’t stop until he made you. And by judging on the look in his eyes, he was planning on it. The grin on his face grew wider as he straightened up, unfastening his belt with deliberate slowness. The soft clink of the buckle made you freeze, your gaze flicking from his hands to his face, where he wore an expression of playful authority. You stared into his eyes, biting your lip. You weren’t planning on him having his way with you, pretty sure that he’d opt for some punishment, but you were not going to complain.  « Shall we go upstairs? » you asked in a tone that wavered between defiance and anticipation. « Or are we doing this here? ». He shook his head and reached for the buttons, turning off the stove. Clearly, the pancakes would have to wait. « Turn around » he ordered, his voice low and teasing. You did as you were told, arching your back so that he could appreciate the view of your bare ass under the see-through nightdress. You heard him. Pull the belt free from his jeans and understood just how mistaken you had been. He was indeed planning on punishing you. 

It had been a while since you had been disciplined but maybe it was what you needed. He got closer to you, trapping you between the counter and himself. You could feel his chest against your back, the weight of his presence making an impression on you. He grabbed one of your arms, then the other, and you felt the cool leather of the belt slide over your wrists. In a couple of movements, he tugged so that you’d move where he wanted you to, and looped the belt through the nearest drawer handle, your wrists gently but firmly secured in place. « There, » he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. « Now maybe you’ll think twice about slacking off and calling me by my name when I’ve clearly earned better. » 

Any other day, it would have been enough for you to back down. Not this time though. A flicker of mischief appeared in your eyes. « Right. Sorry. I should have used your title… My apologies…Dumbass ». He raised a hand to your face and cupped your jaw, holding it firmly. « My title, Y/N » he ordered. « Fine » you whispered, and he let go of your face. « Dr Dumbass ». You could see the exasperation on his face, mixed with playfulness. You had never been this bratty before. Before you knew it, he was grabbing your throat, gently squeezing. « You really are a little bitch, this morning » he commented. « Thankfully, you made just enough pancakes. So I’ll eat while you think about your actions, pet ». 

Without another words, he helped himself to a plate of pancakes and went to eat at the table, while you were still restrained, attached to a drawer. You looked at him in disbelief. « Wait… really? » you mumbled, to which he replied with a smirk. « Look, I get it : you clearly don’t like when I’m nicer » he shrugged. « So now, be a good girl and let me eat in peace, will you? ». The amusement on his face was visible and you arched an eyebrow. If he thought restraining you would make you less of a nuisance, clearly, he didn’t know you. You moved your wrists a little, just enough for the drawer to make an annoying noise. You could see him roll his eyes, but not waiver. « You’re cute. But it’s not working, pet » he chuckled. « And the longer you keep this going, the longer you’ll stay like this » he warned. He went on to enjoy a few more bites of pancakes, unbothered by the clinking and chattering of the drawer, before getting up to make coffee. « Might want to be careful there, Sir » you hummed innocently with a hint of amusement. « Why? » he asked with a raised eyebrow. « Because that’s an awfully hot coffee pot » you chortled with a nuisant smirk. 

He let out a loud sigh and crossed his arms, but you could see a faint smirk on his face. « You never stop, don’t you? » he asked as he gently shook his head. You giggled and shook yours in turn. « You know you like it » you teased. « You know you like me ». He took a step towards you and cupped your face. « Yeah, pet. I do like you. Please don’t forget it » he hummed. Before you knew it, he was grabbing a roll of gaffer tape from a drawer and cutting a piece, before slapping it on your mouth, muzzling you. You stared at him in shock, though your eyes betrayed your amusement. « Since you can’t use your safe word or safe move, if you want to stop, you hum three times, understood? » he directed, to which you nodded. 

If the past few months had taught you anything, it was that when he gave these kind of instructions, there was no coming back. You could feel the tension between the two of you, his eyes slightly darkening. « Now that we shut up that mouth of yours, I think I should get to the next step and give you what you deserve for running it » he said sternly. He cupped your face and stared at you with a grin before turning to grab a spatula. « You’re lucky I’m taking a clean one and not the one you used for the pancakes » he hummed, before forcing you to turn around. You didn’t think much of his choice, highly doubting that a spatula would inflict much pain. Rookie mistake, apparently. Yours arms were a little contorted as he turned you around and pushed the nightdress up to reveal your bare ass, before inflicting the first blow. You couldn’t help but gasp - which, due to the tape on your mouth, translated into some sort of whine. Your dom gently shushed you, reminding you of who was in charge. «That’s fine, doll. You need a little reminder of your place. And I’m going to Gove it to you ». You let out a sound, half-hum, half-wine that betrayed both your approval and anticipation. You were at his mercy, your harms contorted in an unlikely and, frankly, uncomfortable position that only added to the feeling of surrender. For what seemed like an eternity, your dom reminded you of who was in charge, smacking the brattiness out of you, hard enough for the sting to be replaced by a sensation of numbness. « Still want to make fun of me, pet ? » he whispered in your ear, to which you replied by shaking your head. « Good girl » he praised in that low voice of his, that had you feeling like putty in his hand. He gently cupped your face and brushed the tears that had rolled on your cheeks with his thumb. He knew they weren’t tears of pain, just proof of the emotional release caused by the blows he had inflicted. 

Marshall leaned down to press a chaste kiss on your forehead. « Guess you needed that, huh ? » he asked softly. You nodded vigorously and you could see his eyebrows knitting. « More ? » he asked carefully. You froze for a second, pondering the implications. Did you need more ? Did you want it ? You stared into his eyes and slowly nodded. « Okay » he almost whispered, before examining your ass cheeks. He carefully ran the palm of his hand over them and you immediately winced at the contact. Clearly, you couldn’t handle more of that impact play - and you knew you were in for a rough next couple of days. When Marshall faced you again, he looked almost apologetic for a second, before stepping closer and wrapping his large hand around your neck, not squeezing yet. His baby blue eyes stared into yours, waiting for you to consent. When you finally nodded, he allowed himself to slowly squeeze, positioning himself so that he could choke you from behind. Your ass was burning, your contorted arms were hurting, and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, the airflow already being limited by the gaffer tape over your mouth. You had no choice but to fully surrender to him, and it brought you a feeling of peace absolutely unmatched. You closed your eyes, enjoying the sensation of him behind you, one hand on your throat, the other on your hip, firmly maintaining you in place. « You done being a bitch, now ? » he growled in your ear. His tone had you melting, and it clearly didn’t do anything to solve the mess you were making in your panties. You let out a desperate whine that betrayed your challenged breathing but, before he could do anything, you heard an all too familiar voice. « Marshall ? ». 

You froze and so did he. But before he could move and free you of your restraints, you were faced with his brother, who had clearly let himself in, as you knew he often did when he came over. Nate seemed absolutely terrified, a look of horror plastered on his face. « What the fuck ?! ». 

[libellule-ao3]

🔞 Painted & Pinned

Ominis couldn’t see the painting, but he felt it— her gaze burning his skin, the silence heavy, the air thick with anticipation. Then, the first stroke of the brush.

@annarielmidori , I had originally planned to publish this in March, but when I found out your birthday was on the 18th of February, I couldn’t resist trying to bring it forward (despite my snail-paced writing 🐌). I hope you had a wonderful day and that you’ll enjoy this OS! Once again, happy birthday! 🎉

OS | 🔞 | Ominis Gaunt x MC (Annariel Midori)

tags: painter x model | handjob | tigh riding | paint kink (light) | orgasm denial | teasing | smut | Ominis'POV

Ominis stifled a sigh as he heard the brush gliding across the canvas, a muffled, almost inaudible sound, but one that vibrated in his nerves like an invisible caress.

He couldn’t see the image taking shape under Annariel’s hand, but he could sense its evolution through the weight of her gaze that pressed against his bare skin. He stood vulnerable under this subdued light, designed to accentuate his shadows, under this pressure that thickened the air around them. Naked, exposed, with nothing but a simple sheet wrapped precariously around his hips.

‘Stop moving, or you’ll end up looking like a mountain troll!’

The threat was teasing. Ominis could hear the provocation behind the light tone. She was testing his limits and always knew what to say to brush them aside.

Of course, he would have liked to retaliate with a sharp word, something that would make her shudder as much as he shuddered at being used as a male nude study model. But the wizard was too aware of his position, of the heat of the sheet against his skin, of the tension in his muscles from standing so still.

So instead of fighting back, he let his voice slip between them, soft, yet dangerously treacherous.

‘Is that a threat... or a promise?’

A low, husky laugh, laden with innuendo, answered him.

‘More like a prediction,’ she said, dipping her brush in a hue he obviously couldn’t name. ‘But if you keep on being provocative, I might just smear you with paint!’

He sensed a smile tug at his lips before he knew it. It was their usual game. They played the balancing act on a glowing wire, ready to give way under pressure. Caught between lightness and tension, between defiance and abandonment.

‘Why did I agree to this again?’ he murmured, falsely pensive.

‘Because you’re irresistibly devoted to me?’ she suggested, applying the colour to the canvas.

He tilted his head slightly in the direction of her voice.

‘I think it was more the threat of refused kisses.’

The silence thickened around them, saturated with possibilities. With all his senses on the alert, Ominis heard a rustle of fabric close to him, then a breath against his bare skin.

He also perceived the stronger smell of paint mingling with something more intimate, more intoxicating. Annariel’s perfume warmed by desire.

She was there. Close by.

‘Ah, so that’s the kind of ransom you’re asking for?’

He had no time to reply. Her lips locked with his. Everything disappeared. The pose, the canvas, the very reason for his immobility. All he registered was the languor of her kiss, the warmth of her sighs against his mouth and the delicious shiver that ran up his spine like a wave.

His free hand — the one not clutching the sheet around his hips — naturally found her waist and pulled her against him.

Annariel pressed herself against him with exquisite slowness, her clothes brushing against his torso, the friction stealing his breath away.

Then a gesture.

Her arm jerked, and the brush skimmed over his side before gliding lower. A cool trail of paint slid down his skin, sending a shiver down his spine as it trickled toward the sheet, seeping into the fabric. Annariel froze for a moment. He sensed the smile that blossomed on her lips. A grin, dark and satisfied.

‘I told you not to move...’

A deep rumble rolled down Ominis’ throat. He was about to reply, but his words were strangled when he felt the brush against his chest.

‘You make a beautiful canvas, you know,’ she murmured, tracing a wet line from his sternum to his lower abdomen with the tip of the brush.

He lost control. His body tensed under the icy caress, every nerve electrified by the contrast between the freshness of the colour and the lava pulsing through his veins. He didn’t know what colour she was applying. He didn’t care.

What mattered now were her fingers.

The ones that had replaced the brush and were touching the wet pigment, spreading it slowly over his skin in lazy circles.

‘If you want to paint me, you’re going to have to convince me to behave,’ he murmured, his tone huskier than he would have liked.

A slight laugh, a breath brushing his lips and a light pressure on his taut crotch.

‘What if I’d rather have you begging me to keep going?’

She knew exactly how to stoke his desire.

She pulled away.

The absence gnawed at his patience. Just long enough for him to rage at no longer having her against him. Then she came back.

This time, he didn’t just feel her fingers.

He felt her bare skin against his, and her warm, wet palms.

The pigment.

Her hands were coated with it.

A sigh escaped Ominis, a murmur of abandonment to this exquisite torture.

She slid against him, every calculated movement heightened by the colours staining their skin, creating a vivid tableau of desire and provocation. She didn’t hurry.

That was worse. Worse than raw haste. Worse than greedy conquest.

She let him feel every second, every heartbeat suspended in anticipation of the next caress.

‘Darling...’

His tone had become a low growl, a threat veiled in impatience.

She pressed her paint-smudged digits on his chest, tracing arabesques he couldn’t see but felt in every fibre of his being.

‘Hush,’ she whispered against his mouth, amusement in her tone. ‘Let the artist do her thing.’

A shudder ran through him as, with a barely perceptible movement, the sheet slipped from his hips, pooling on the floor in hushed whisper. Ominis bent gently under the force of a languorous kiss and found himself lying on the fabric, a rising heat filling him as Annariel sat down on his thigh.

Then her hands left him for a few moments and her fingers, now clean, trailed down, brushing over his lower abdomen before encircling his throbbing erection, her grip both light and unyielding.

Ominis felt her rubbing slowly against his thigh, her arousal smearing onto his skin in a calculated provocation. A guttural groan escaped him, his hands clutching the sheets in a desperate bid for control.

She knew his limits. She knew exactly how far she could push him before he snapped.

At first, she merely teased him with her fingertips, brushing over the sensitive curve of his tip, tracing soft circles before coating her palm with the moisture already beading at his swollen head. Then, torturously slow, she stroked down his length, her firm grip gliding over him like a silk glove. Every movement was precise, measured—neither too fast nor too slow.

Ominis tensed beneath her, his hips instinctively seeking more friction.

But she dictated the pace, amusement lacing her voice as she asked, 'You like that, don’t you?'

Her palm slid over his cock in an unbearable caress, alternating pressure and release—the same exquisite torment she was inflicting upon him with her own body, rolling her hips against him.

A deep, low growl rumbled in his throat, a sound laced with both frustration and pure pleasure. Yes, he liked it. The way she played with him so deliberately, controlled him so effortlessly, treating his pleasure as though he were a masterpiece in the making. And yes, he wanted more.

His cock throbbed in her grasp, the anticipation coiling in his belly like a liquid fire. She picked up the pace slightly, tightening her hold, twisting her wrist as she slid down to the base before gliding back up in a seamless motion, her fingers teasing the sensitive ridge of his crown with every stroke. Then, just as she tightened her fist around him, enough to send molten fire coursing through his veins—

She let go. Abruptly.

Her hand left him, abandoning him on the very edge of his release, offering him nothing but an aching, excruciating denial.

‘Annariel...’ he growled, his voice hoarse with need and frustration.

She merely shifted, pressing herself more firmly against him, rolling her hips with wicked deliberation, letting a throaty sigh escape her lips. Her pleasure was a cruel taunt, a reminder of everything she was granting herself while ruthlessly withholding it from him.

Ominis was a patient man… until he wasn’t.

Annariel knew this far too well. And yet, she still gasped in surprise when, in a swift, forceful movement, he surged upright and flipped her beneath him, pinning her against the paint-streaked sheets.

She barely had time to catch her breath before her wrists were trapped above her head, held firmly in an unrelenting grip. Annariel offered no resistance. Her legs parted of their own accord, a mixture of defiance and submission in the posture.

His mouth crashed down on hers, devouring her in a fierce, claiming kiss—biting, demanding, stripping her of any semblance of control. When he finally pulled back, his voice fell upon her like a sentence—low, dark, woven with dangerous promises.

‘You played with me, kitten. Now it’s my turn.’

But he didn’t move immediately. He savoured the moment.

The moment when her breath quickened beneath him, when her form quivered in anticipation of a caress that did not come.

His fingers grazed her belly, running over the cracked paint marks in a slow, almost meditative gesture. He moved lower, lazing against her hip, and felt a shiver, a tension betraying his impatience. She gasped slightly, arching her back in silent invitation. But he didn’t give in. Not yet. It was his turn to make her languish.

His breath brushed the delicate line of her throat, and Annariel froze, suspended in exquisite anticipation of what he would do next.

A bite, there, just below her jaw. A kiss immediately followed by his teeth sinking lightly into her flesh. Just sufficient to mark her. Just enough to make her moan.

She arched her back under him, trying to rub her body against his, but he refused to let her dictate anything.

‘Look who’s impatient now...’

She wriggled under him, trying to free herself, but he tightened his hold, his chest pressed against hers, their breaths intertwined in the stifling intimacy of the moment.

‘You enjoy this, don’t you? Being pinned beneath me, helpless, at my mercy,’

She parted her lips, a breath of protest forming, but he seized the instant before she could reclaim control. He rolled his hips, a slow, calculated movement, a studied provocation. His shaft slid against the slick heat of her core, teasing her pearl, a caress that never came to fruition.

‘Is this what you want?’

Annariel moaned, tried to rock her hips to force him deeper, but he pulled back, precisely enough to frustrate her further. She grunted, tugged at his still captive wrists. He smiled against her skin.

‘You’ll have to ask nicely, first,’ he breathed, his voice low and amused.

An exasperated sigh.

A strangled groan.

A spasm beneath him.

She was about to give in.

‘Ominis...’ she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire.

‘You want me to fuck you like this?’ he said, mimicking his thrusts against her soaked folds.

A tense silence.

She shuddered beneath him, her jerky breathing interspersed with moans. Her body was already screaming out the answer she hadn’t given yet.

‘Mmh... I think I hear it, but not quite...’ he breathed against her jaw, a smile trailing in his voice.

She swallowed hard. Her body trembled close to him, offered, vulnerable, ready to plead.

‘... Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

She tried to capture his mouth, but he distanced himself just enough to deny her.

‘Say it properly.’

A tremor.

Her whole body tensed beneath him, wet, offered, unable to resist the command.

‘I want you to take me like this.’

He smiled against her shoulder.

His hand dropped to one wrist to slide down her curves. It grazed her breasts, traced the line of her ribs, paused for a moment on her stomach before moving down between her thighs.

His middle finger traced lazy circles over her bud. She moaned, her frame arching under the contact.

He played with her.

Slow, calculated circles, punctuated by frustrating pauses, just to see her lose patience.

He rubbed against her again, without penetrating her, the hardness of his cock against her damp heat a deliberate provocation. Then he stopped moving.

Annariel panted, disorientated.

‘Why?’

A toothy smile stretched his lips. ‘In fact, I’m dying to hear you beg.’

She swallowed against the burning tension that consumed her whole.

A silence.

A shudder.

Then, in a hoarse voice, ‘Please... fuck me.’

Dark satisfaction blossomed in his chest. At last he released her wrists and closed his hands on her hips, anchoring her beneath him. With a deep thrust, he drove into her, stretching her wide, filling her to the hilt.

A searing jolt.

She threw her head back, a cry escaping her as her body closed in on him, welcoming him in a vice of heat and pleasure. He could feel the suffocating wetness of their skin pressed together, the irregular pounding of her heart against his chest.

He knew she wanted more. That she needed it... And he wanted to see her break under him.

So he moved.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Obviously, she tried to urge him to go faster, to plunge deeper, but he denied her that luxury, imposing his rhythm. He kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a raw demand, while his touch found her clit.

This time, he would give her no respite.

He sped up, plunging into her with a ferocious pace, each thrust sending her further into surrender.She was his.

Her body quivered, clenching around him as she gasped his name, her nails biting into his back in a desperate plea for more. She was helpless, lost in the ruthless rhythm he set.

He felt the tension inside her reach its peak.

He murmured against her mouth, ‘I can feel you unraveling... Let go, Kitten,’

And she gave in.

An uncontrolled spasm swept through her, her back arched violently beneath him as a strangled cry escaped her. Her body closed over him, pulsing around his hard cock in a wave of unbearable lust. He, in turn, lost his footing, her low moan mingling with his, the heat of their embrace sealing the moment in raw intensity. At that moment, nothing existed.

There was only the heat, the dizziness, and her.

They lay there, motionless, their bodies still entwined, the echo of pleasure resonating within their trembling muscles.

The silence deepened, thick with moisture and a languid residue of tension.

Then a breath, a sigh... and a laugh. Gentle. Playful.

‘I just wanted to do an anatomical study, you know.’

Ominis rolled onto his side, his fingers idly tracing the dried paint still marking his torso with the edge of his nails.

‘And you did. A very immersive one, at that.’

She exhaled, amused, shaking her head.

‘So immersive that the session was completely ruined.’

A knowing smirk curled Ominis’ lips. He let his hand slide to his abdomen, his fingers brushing the invisible arabesques she had painted onto his skin.

‘I’d say the artist got carried away by inspiration… and her very cooperative model simply adapted to her demands.’

‘I should have known it would turn out like this.’

A low chuckle escaped him, his voice still rough from their shared pleasure.

‘You say that as if you didn’t love every second of it.’ He caught her chin gently between his fingers, preventing her from looking away. ‘Tell me you regret it.’

Annariel didn’t answer. Instead, she let her hand slide over his chest, lazily tracing a circle around a dried streak of paint.

And she smiled.

As always, please forgive my imperfect grammar (ESL writer).

[damn-stark]

Chapter 24 Lambs to the slaughter

Chapter 24 of Moonlight

A/N- *TEHEHE*

Warning- Swearing, talks of pregnancy and SA, angst, fluff!!!, SPOILERS FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, long chapter.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- 465-469 & just a part of 480

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

Aemond. What of Aemond? Aemond this. Aemond that. Aemond, Aemond, Aemond is all you hear, it’s all anyone talks to you about like if you’re his keeper, like if…

They think it’s easy growing to hate him like they despise him, but have they really asked if it’s easy for you to view him with anything but with the eyes of love? Have they considered the fact that you grew up together, that even despite your feuding families, he and you never treated each other with anything but kindness? Don't they remember that you have a son together and have two more children on the way?

Did they forget that you married each other months before your supposed date?

Just because you left his side weeks prior doesn’t mean that you still don’t harbor the same feelings of deep love, because you do. You still hold hope and great love for Aemond—it’s a sickening fact for them to comprehend maybe; he did kill Lucerys and your grandmother. Your mother also has Daemon by her side so she doesn’t yearn, Baela is heartbroken but she loved Jacaerys, someone on the same side of the war so she could never understand, and Rhaena hasn’t found anyone to love so dearly and deeply so she doesn’t understand the ripping pain one feels when they mention killing him as easy it is to breathe; and you hope she never gets to feel such torment.

Maybe if Cregan was by your side, forgetting the love you hold for Aemond would be easier, but he’s leagues away and will remain leagues away. Thus you’re stuck being tortured with each word uttered in the Small Council hall, feeling like a blade is sinking deeper into your flesh.

“Would you have me pardon the Kinslayer, the False King, and Daeron as well?” Your mother presses your grandfather, making you suck in your cheek and gnaw on the inside as you let the winter sun bask your face as it casts through the glass doors—“Would you have me send them to the faith like Helaena and Alicent? They who stole my throne and slew my sons?”

You can hear the anger in her voice, the utter disbelief brought by such a daring suggestion.

“Spare them and send them to the wall,” your grandfather dares to continue sharing despite the visceral anger in your mother's tone. “Let them take the black and live out their lives as men of the Night’s Watch, bound by sacred vows.”

Daemon scoffs and Baela retorts against your grandfather. “What are sacred vows worth when you have dragons there to accompany you and give you an escape from such a fate?”

That’s true. There’s no use sparing them and sending them to the wall if their dragons still live, and you can’t imagine either of the three men letting their dragons go.

“And what are vows to oathbreakers?” Your mother echoes. “Their vows did not trouble them when they took my throne.”

“Giving pardons to rebels and traitors will only sow the seeds for fresh rebellions,” Daemon interjects to agree with your mother, making you dig your nails in your palms as more and more come to an agreement over something that you already knew was going to happen. Yet it never felt as real as it does now as they finally agree on the fate of your husband.

“The war will only end when the heads of the traitors are mounted on spikes above the King’s Gate, and not before,” Daemon adds. “Aegon will be found in time hiding under some rock, and I alone will finally depart to go after Aemond.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as his threatening words steal your breath and finally shove the rest of that sharp blade into your chest.

“Baela and I could go after Daeron,” you suggest and spin around to face the table of people, catching your mother snapping her head toward you and looking at you with horror she can barely hide—“Daeron’s dragon is small, Astraea and Moondancer can easily bring him down together. Or I could go with Addam and Seasmoke, Astraea and Seasmoke are well acquainted, they work well together.”

Both Baela and Addam don’t speak to argue, they look at you with determination, but your mother shakes her head right away without as much as thinking about it. “No…no. You are with child,” she finds the best and most effective excuse. “And you are my heir. I cannot put you at risk.”

You blink in disbelief and then slowly walk towards the table to argue. “It’s because I’m heir that I should be out fighting. When I was with the Green Army, men were more inspired when I spent my time with them. Now imagine when the army of men sees me fighting with them. The crown has to be seen fighting with the army, and if not you then I should do it.”

Your mother challenges your narrowed gaze but before she can counter, your grandfather does. “The Queen and you are both right,” he says but neither of you or your mother let go of each other's gazes—“You should be seen fighting along with our men, but you are with child, and already far out. It’s dangerous. Perhaps once the babes are born you can go out on dragonback again.”

“Then what am I supposed to do until them?” You ask with a scoff.

“Learn by my side,” your mother snaps back, making you hold her gaze for a tense second before you realize that you won’t win against her, so you roll your eyes away and return to your seat around the table, causing Ser Cane to push the chair in for you the moment you sit.

The truth is you knew the answer before your mother could say it but you were hoping that you were wrong. But nope.

“Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf can take the war to Daeron,” Daemon offers a solution. “They will fly to Tumbleton to help defend the town as it stands between the Hightower army and the city, and that’s where they will at last destroy the dragon and the boy.”

You glance at Ser Ulf, and right away as if he can sense your gaze, Ser Ulf spares you a glance and sits up rigidly before averting his gaze and agreeing to Daemon’s plan.

“It will be an easy feat for Silverwing and I sense you lot say the dragon is only a babe.” He still manages to be stupid, making you roll your eyes.

“My wife resides at Tumbleton with her brother,” Ser Hugh speaks with more grace. “Vermithor and I will fight with our lives.”

Your mother nods gently in appreciation and comprehension before her attention returns to her husband as he interjects. “The Lannister’s and the Baratheon’s should be destroyed as well, so their lands may be given to men who have proved to be more loyal, such as Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf,” he says ever so calmly as if he didn’t just utter the worst thing he could possibly ever suggest. And you don’t stand alone in your horror, your grandfather quickly shares his disagreement with the outlandish idea.

“Half the Lords of Westeros will turn against us if we are so cruel as to destroy two ancient and noble houses.”

Ser Ulf’s eyes that were quick to bulge out at the idea of being a Lord, then slowly droop back to normal as he hears the quick protest. And you don’t make him any happier since you too speak up against the terrible idea.

“My grandfather is right, we will lose this war if we just give the noble houses away to people who were nothing but strangers mere months ago,” you don’t shy away from being so bold even if the men share a look.

“We,” you pause and sigh, choosing to sit back with your back straight and your nose slowly rising in the air. “We can offer them pardons and fair terms. Nothing more and nothing less, they still rebelled against the crown. They should be grateful that we are not asking for their heads.”

Your grandfather looks at you and offers you an agreeing nod and a proud smile before he turns to your mother and Daemon. “The Princess is right. Her suggestion is wise.”

Your mother and Daemon share a speechless look before she focuses on her clasped hands and thinks for a moment, letting a silence blanket over the table in which you find Ser Ulf again and make him squirm once more.

Addam catches you torturing the man this time and finds your gaze to shake his head at you and share a twitching smile that he doesn’t let himself fully express. You albeit don’t feel shame, you beam at him in return before you look away and return your focus to your mother.

“Alright,” your mother breaks the silence and drags her eyes up. “I will follow the Princess’s suggestion, but only after we put an end to the usurper, the Kinslayer, and Daeron.”

Your amusement dies and you look at the table with conflict.

“Once they are dead, the rest will bend the knee,” your mother continues to spew. “Slay their dragons so I may mount their heads upon the walls of my throne room. Let the men look upon them in the years to come so they might know the cost of treason.”

You agree with her, you want to show your support, but Aemond comes to mind and you can't muster the will to want him dead. You only hurt at the thought.

“Very well, so we are agreed then,” Daemon interjects and nobody voices any protest, bringing a conclusion to the matter.

“Good, now we can go to our respective tasks,” your mother chimes in. “Daemon will go after Aemond. Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf will set off to Tumbleton. Rhaena will return to the Eyrie with Morning to at last go through our part of our pact so Lady Arryn may finally send her men. Baela will return to Dragonstone to defend it, and Addam will remain here to defend the city. Seasmoke, Astraea, and Syrax will suffice for the defense of the city.”

You nod lightly without looking back at her since your thoughts have all returned to Aemond, to the point you stay glued to your seat until it’s just Ser Cane, your mother, and you in that hall.

“What is it?” Your mother tries to probe, but when you meet her gaze you offer her a soft smile and a different response than the one she was looking for.

“May I go with the others to the Dragonpit so I may take Astraea out? I’d rather have her out so she’s able to just fly in and fight if the need arises.”

Your mother nods right away. “I don’t see why not. Ser Cane, why don’t you accompany her, the others will depart with their dragons, I don’t want the princess to return alone.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ser Cane assures your mother of something he had already planned to do.

“Thank you, Mother,” you offer her before you finally rise from your chair and leave with Ser Cane, Rhaena, Baela, Daemon, and the other two Dragonriders toward the Dragonpit. Albeit the carriage is taking a longer way to avoid the smallfolk's wrath considering taxes were raised and they don’t like that they did.

“So Rhaena,” you interject in the silence and drift your gaze to her across from you. “Are you ready to shove it in the face of the old hag that you have a fierce dragon now?”

Rhaena scoffs and shares an amused smile with Baela before she responds. “She’s not old.”

You shrug and flick your wrist. “She was a bitch, so it’s the same thing. Shove it in her face.”

Rhaena smiles at her hands and you lean toward her. “Are there any cute knights or wards there?” You continue to pester her to make the ride more tolerable. “Someone who’s caught your eye?”

Rhaena’s eyes widen and she passes her father an awkward look before she looks back at you and whispers your name, making you scoff in amusement. “What? I can ask, I’m a married woman with a child, there’s nothing wrong with it. Ah! I can introduce you to some Northnermen if you want.”

Rhaena sinks further in her seat and Baela nudges your arm so you can keep teasing her sister, letting Daemon see the remnants of what you all used to be before this war tore your old selves to shreds.

“There’s Addam too,” you say and giggle. “Mayhaps you can stay here and…keep watch with the good knight.” You nod and Baela grins. “For I am too far along in this pregnancy to do a thing.”

“Stop,” she whispers and turns her head away to look out the window.

“I know! I’ll slip something in your late-night teas and toss you in a boat!” You exclaim. “Nothing screams romance like a good adventure!”

���Oh, a good adventure?” Baela whispers in your ear. “Is that what you and Lord Stark did?”

You snap your head to her and push her gently. “Baela,” you hiss between laughter.

“Oh and Addam is good with kids, Aerion adores him,” you keep trying to warm Rhaena to Addam. “And he’s funny and sweet.”

“Then you marry him,” she mutters, making you and Baela laugh.

“Oh well if Aemond dies, then Baela and I have decided to travel to Yi-Ti and there we will find our husbands bathed in gold,” you share lightheartedly as you and Baela hold each other's gaze and try not to burst out laughing. “If not well I hear Dorne has some very handsome bachelors. Or well…we’re up for anything really.”

Rhaena rolls her eyes and you and Baela just share a teasing smile before you pat her leg and let your face fall soft yet serious. “It’s not wrong to let yourself find some pleasures, Rhaena. It’s a war not the end of the world, so don’t forsake your heart's desires.”

Finally, Rhaena looks over at you and loses that annoyance she carried on her face and offers you a soft look before she nods in comprehension, making you smile at her before you drop your gaze and caress your belly as both Aemond and Cregan come to mind.

Will you curse your twins because you let your heart love too freely?

You didn’t mean to, but you couldn’t help what you felt either. He was oh so kind, his love just consumed you, and Aemond…you loved him since you were a little girl. Not because in the back of your head, you knew that you would be married off since you were Targaryen, no, your love for him was born from your own desires. Your love for him consumed you too. And now you’re paying the price.

What a travesty...

Not loving them, just the complication of it all.

Nevertheless, the rest of the ride to the Dragonpit is silent since everyone’s mind is on their tasks, on the war, and the worry over the Smallfolk possibly seeing the carriage.

They don’t but it's not like you would have worried either way because as messy as it would've been, Daemon and Ser Cane are with you. They would’ve handled things a lot better than Aegon’s Kingsguard did when it came to protecting Helaena and Alicent that one time.

Yet, since you weren't spotted in the carriage or walking in the Dragonpit, you all had an easy transition from the carriage to the pit where you go to unchain Astraea yourself.

“<Hello, my girl,” you greet your dragon who already has her eyes set on you. “I’m here to free you at long last.>”

Astraea groans and you chuckle as you pat her side.

“<I know you’re upset, but now you can be with Seasmoke, and hunt over the water with your heart's desire,>” you tell her which she huffs to in response.

Once you set her free she shakes her neck like a dog shakes their body and then turns her head to press her snout against your belly.

“<Ah,” you breathe out and caress her. “Yes, they’re getting bigger. Heavier too.>”

Astraea keeps her snout pressed against your belly, causing the babes inside you to start moving which in turn makes you start smiling in awe.

“Oh,” you coo before you lean down and press a kiss on the top of your dragon's snout, making her open her eyes and pull her head back to look at you with her pupils wide and focused on you. “<Are you still mad at me?>” You ask before you shoot her a grin and then turn around. “<Go out, I’m going to get Shyrkos out for Aerion.>”

Astraea does as you say and you do as said, taking Shyrkos out of her crate and letting her perch herself on your shoulder before she wraps her long tail around your neck. The moment you’re out of the caves you see that Rhaena and Baela had stayed behind to wait for you, albeit Astraea and Moondancer have both put a good distance between them and the wild dragon Morning, choosing to ignore her existence and sticking close together instead.

“Be careful, the both of you,” you direct at the twins. “And Rhaena, please no more running off.”

“The same goes for you,” she redirects, making you smile at the ground but say nothing in return.

“If you find yourselves in trouble send a raven,” you let them know. “I will try to be there. Or you know, I will let someone know.”

Baela scoffs and closes the gap between you to pat your belly before she grabs your hands and gives them a comforting squeeze.

“By the time I see you again you might have already birthed twins,” she says with a tiny smile. “I hope they're boys. Jace bet that you were going to have all boys. All seven of your children.”

Your breath hitches and your eyes soften at the sweet mention. “Did he now?” You ask softly. “Well, I hope he’s wrong. Aemond and I want girls.”

Baela grows physically disgusted at the mention of your husband's name so you leave it at that and just work towards ending the conversation. “Well, I hope Jace’s ghost knows he will be wrong.”

A sad smile appears on her lips and you mirror it before you stroke her knuckles with your fingers. “Until we see each other again, cousin. Take care.”

Baela meets your gaze and nods softly. “Until we see each other again.”

You offer each other one last smile before you meet up with Rhaena, and unlike Baela, you grab Rhaena’s cheeks, and she cups yours before you embrace each other.

“Don't strain yourself okay?” She tells you sweetly.

You nod but you can’t truly mean it, you just nod to assure her. “Don't get too wild now that you have a dragon, hm?”

She scoffs softly and nods too. Does she mean it or is she just assuring you like you did with her? Who knows, but you can’t pick at it so you let it be and trust that she’ll do the right thing.

“Take care,” she says as she pulls away.

“You too,” you return the comment before you step back and watch the twins go to their dragons. When Baela has mounted Moondancer, and Rhaena has mounted Morning and starts holding on for dear life since the dragon keepers say that the wild dragon is too old and wild now to be saddled, you walk them all the way to the exit, choosing to remain hidden under the shadows of the Dragonpit so you’re not seen by onlookers as you watch your cousins descend to the skies and get lost in the clouds.

After they're gone you stay where you are and Astraea walks to the exit to wait for your okay to leave since you haven’t mounted her to descend to the skies together.

“<Go,>” you let her go free from the confinements of the dragonpit which she probably thinks is a dungeon, and once she is also lost in the clouds you crave some freedom as well before you return to the Red Keep.

“Why don’t we walk back to the Red Keep,” you tell Ser Cane as he walks up to you.

“It wouldn’t be wise,” he says right away, making you turn to face him and throw a hood over your head that covers your hair and keeps Shrykos hidden.

“And if I close my cloak,” you trail on as you button your cloak and hide your elegant and expensive gown. “My gown is hidden. See. I am like them now.”

Ser Cane tilts his head up and looks at you with a quizzical brow. “I could overpower you and force you on the carriage,” he shares but not as a threat, more as a warning. “It would save my heart from strain.”

You flash him a smile. “Strain? Ser, it’s a simple walk. Besides I need it, the twins need it. The Maester says it’s healthy to walk. I must walk actually.”

Ser Cane draws in a deep breath as he narrows his gaze to a pointed look and weighs whether to disobey your desire or give in.

“It’s a long walk,” he says as he puts his hands on his hips. “We walk halfway. The carriage will be waiting for us at that halfway point so we can ride the rest of the way back home. It’s that or I sweep you off your feet here and now.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, feeling your smile turn to a grin before you beam at him and nod. “Okay,” you give in without a fight, making him sigh deeply in annoyance before he walks away to let the carriage driver know about the plan, leaving you waiting under the exit, wishing for the sun to return and once again bask you with its warmth.

Alas, the clouds are greedy and steal the sun’s spotlight, forcing you to bask in a winter chill instead, but you don’t curse it and wish to disappear, you welcome its cold embrace and you can only do that so easily because you’ve been surrounded by a colder climate. Otherwise, you too would cower inside your home to stay close to your fire, and not even dream about walking amongst the people who need to be out and about in the coldness, and those who don’t mind the winter's chill, like you do when you leave the Dragonpit.

“…barbarity! Demons!”

Shouts catch your attention, taking your gaze to a cobbler square down the street from the Dragonpit.

“They crawled out of the pits of the Seven Hells!” A skinny man proclaims to no one. No one is gathered around him, but he still carries this passion in his eyes and in his voice that doesn't let him care that he speaks to an empty square. “They are unnatural creatures made by sorceries of Valyria!”

You finally come to a complete stop and become the old man’s only listener.

“They are a curse upon our earth! Both Dragons and Targaryens alike!” He keeps proclaiming and shaking his fist and stump.

“Princess let’s keep moving,” Ser Cane presses as he grabs your arm, but you stay put, forcing him to stay behind like a tall lurking shadow.

“Risen from the vile cesspit where brother lay with sister and mother with son…”

You scoff at the lie and mutter. “Sheep.”

“…where men rode demons into battle whilst their women spread their legs for the dogs!” He continues and this time one single person takes their time to stop not so far from him and listen to the trash that comes out of his stinking mouth.

“Sheep,” Ser Cane echoes. “But in a time of fear the Shepherdless sheep gather around the bravest of them,” he speaks wisely, making you step back to fall by his side instead and continue to watch the old dirty man, but also steal glimpses at your sworn protector.

“The Targaryens escaped the doom, fleeing across the seas to Dragonstone, but the gods are not mocked!” The man follows up with more cruel words. “Now the second doom is at hand!”

“Yes,” the single person agrees, making the corner of your lips curl to a displeased frown.

“The False King and Whore Queen shall be cast down with all their works,” the old man continues to shout. “And their demon beasts shall perish from this earth!”

You fist your hands and start to narrow your gaze to a piercing glare.

“The Whore Queen birthed a demon who disguises itself as an alluring siren, but it walks amongst fire! It’s a Fire Demon!”

“Infected sheep should be taken out before it infects the rest of the flock,” you speak to your sworn protector as you keep your eyes trained on the old man spewing nothing but false claims.

“He’s an innocent and ill man, Princess,” Ser Cane responds without hesitation so his own advice doesn't go unheard. “Take him down now and the tension between the crown and smallfolk increases. They are looking for any wrong step to use as an excuse to revolt.”

You hum and study the scene while you listen carefully. “All those who stand with them will die as well! Only by cleansing King’s Landing of dragons and their masters can Westeros hope to avoid the fate of Valyria!”

“Fear clings to anger,” you speak up and slowly take your eyes off the dirty old man. “If we let him speak he can attract attention, but a shepherdless flock leads themselves to the slaughter.”

“Aye,” Ser Cane agrees. “So it’s said.”

“We either let him snuff himself out, or let the infection spread until that takes them all out.” You finish saying and then meet Ser Cane’s gaze to seek his thoughts.

“Yes, in matters like these, there’s no penetrating them. Not us…”

“They’ll see it as an attack. They’ll believe he’s right, turning them all against us,” you continue for your sworn protector. “If attention is what he manages to get, that is.”

Ser Cane hums. “Exactly. Best leave it be. Now come on.”

You hum and steal one last glimpse at the old man, but don’t let your gaze linger so he doesn’t catch you staring and manages to recognize you.

Yet even as you continue walking away you continue to probe on the matter. “If the infection doesn’t kill then, if they don’t lead themselves to slaughter…then what?” You ask. “If we kill them that would hurt us. His word and belief would be spread and kept alive.”

Ser Cane sighs and parts his lips to give you an answer. Yet before he can he points his chin at you. “What do you think we would do at that point?”

You blink and look around to find your thoughts, finding one in particular that you pick on. “If one person turns too many then…we infiltrate them, tear them down from the inside so they think they sabotaged themselves. That would turn his words and belief to nothing because the people want to be angry, but they won't want to suffer the same fate so their same fear will disillusion them.” You say and quickly return your gaze to Ser Cane, noticing his lips tug to a smile.

“Wise. Spoken like a true heir,” he praises you, making you smile proudly.

——

*NOT SO MUCH LATER*

“Just down there,” you let Addam know as he follows you downhill where you would sneak off to train, where ocean waves hit the stone platform, and you’re far from the busybodies that occupy the castle and have a chance at disbursing your peace.

“Are you sure?” Addam queries hesitantly from behind you before he jogs down to fall by your side. “I mean I don’t want someone to get the wrong idea.”

A smile flashes on your lips and you show your amusement to Addam before you tap your belly. “The wrong idea with these two? I’m sorry but given my current state I’m not considered desirable, so no one will think a bad thing at all.”

He huffs. “I think that carrying children doesn’t make you any less beautiful,” he tries to assure you.

“Thank you, Addam, but…it’s complicated, besides, Ser Cane is with us. He'll stop you before you can even form a mischievous plan, isn’t that right Ser?”

“I’ll push you in the water and no one will be the wiser,” he deadpans, making Addam confused on whether he’s joking or not since Addam can’t read Ser Cane like you can.

“He’s joking,” you soothe Addam’s worry before you nudge his arm. “Should I worry about you? You're quiet.”

Addam meets your gaze and parts his lips, but he lets a breath of air escape first before he forms his words. “Why do you trust me so wholeheartedly and not the other two? I haven’t given you a reason to deserve your devotion and yet you are devoted to me. I…” he trails off and drops his head, bringing you to a slow stop and forcing him to one too that has quite the distance in between.

“I am no one yet you treat me like you’ve known me our whole lives. In a way no one else has. No one here I mean,” he continues to say, making your lips form to a pitiful frown—“You have every reason to look at me the same way you did at the Gullet. The Velaryon name doesn’t change who I really am, so why?”

You swallow back a thick lump that forms in your throat and study his face twisted with insecurity and confusion.

“I…tend to trust too blindly,” you admit in a lighthearted tone. “It’s a problem that’s been brought to my attention before, so maybe you’re right, maybe I should doubt trusting you. I shouldn't rely on my beliefs, but,” you pause and take a couple of steps closer to him before you come to a stop and continue softer and with a hint of sorrow in your voice. “The truth is that you out of everyone here has made me feel less alone.”

You catch him by surprise, making him lift his eyes off the floor to look at you with disbelief—“That day at the Gullet I was a bitch, I was insecure about what I thought you were going to take away from Aerion and I had no right. I was wrong and I'm sorry. You are a very great guy from what I’ve witnessed so far, and ever since that night at the dinner, you’ve kept me from sinking into a pit of darkness.”

His breath catches and his lips twitch to a smile. “And you…have saved me from feeling alone without my brother while I stay in this strange place,” he shares, making you slowly grin. “So thank you for trusting me.”

You nod softly and blink repeatedly as tears sting your eyes. “Thank you…for reminding me how it feels like to laugh. It’s been only a couple weeks but having nowhere to go has made it feel like we’ve known each other for years.”

He laughs and nods in agreement. “It really does.”

You share a breathless laugh before you close the gap between you to pat his chest with your fist, making him look at the gesture before he lifts his fist and mirrors your actions, but in a much more gentle manner. It’s like a light feathered touch that you still feel and leaves you lingering in his presence for a moment longer before you finally continue down your path side by side.

“You know I always had these big dreams,” Addam shares. “And now that I’m out here doing something it's nothing like how I expected it to be.”

You sigh deeply. “Yes,” you talk softly. “I understand what you mean. Do you regret any of it though?”

Addam shakes his head. “Not yet.”

You pat his back and praise him. “Good for you.”

He meets your gaze and offers you a tiny smile. “Thank you.”

You chuckle before you skip forward to get a bit ahead of him. “Tell me, Addam. Now I'm being serious, how many sailor shanties do you know?” You probe and peer at him over your shoulder.

“Many but unfortunately I was not blessed with the right set of pipes to sing any,” he says before he shoots you a pointed look. “I hear you have a gifted voice. The Siren of Driftmark is your name, no?”

You flash him a smirk over your shoulder before you nod proudly. “Yes. I love singing, that's why I asked if you know sailor shanties. I want to learn more, and with my father gone, I have to rely on you. It’s too bad you can’t sing though, we could’ve formed a band.” You frown dramatically before you spin around and face your sworn protector.

“Can you play an instrument or sing, Ser?” You direct your question at Ser Cane, causing the man to lay his eyes on you and remain quiet for a long moment hoping you’d drop it, but you wait with your eyes on him the entire time.

“I can play the lute…quite well,” he reveals, making you beam at him.

“Great! Thank you for sharing, I shall keep it in mind for my own personal advantage,” you tease him before you turn back around and face the platform you’re approaching. “Thank you by the way Addam, for agreeing to come train with me.”

Said man scoffs. “You didn’t really give me an option. Using your power over me kind of forced me to train with you.”

“I had to,” you remark. “No one else will because I am with child. And a woman.” You complain with annoyance before your tone quickly flips to excitement. “But I do plan to keep my promise and teach you how to do archery from your dragon. I must teach you on the ground first though, I can’t just throw you in the water and tell you to swim.”

He hums and then giggles at your choice of words before he picks up his pace to walk at your side and reach the platform at the same time.

Yet, the moment you step foot on the stone ground a racing pair of footsteps echo, stealing your attention to the incomer who turns out to be Ser Jason.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Princess, but, the Queen Dowager has requested an audience in the throne room,” Ser Jason shares between heavy pants.

Yet as out of breath as he is you don’t take his news seriously. “The Queen can handle it by herself. I’ll stay here for this audience.”

Ser Jason shakes his head. “No,” he breathes out. “Alicent requested an audience with you alone in the Throne Room.”

You’re hit with overwhelming curiosity, slight surprise, and annoyance only because of course Alicent is requesting an audience with you without the presence of the Queen in her own throne room. It makes you wonder what she’s up to.

“All right.” You nod lightly before you draw in a small breath to give Ser Jason a command. “Let the Queen know of the audience. I want her to go.”

Without hesitation Ser Jason nods before he turns around and runs off again, letting you turn to Addam with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, perhaps we can come back later, or tomorrow. Is that fine?”

Addam nods, of course, and reassures you so you don’t feel guilty. “Of course it’s fine.”

You offer him a thankful smile before you retake the path you just walked and return to the Red Keep. Once you’re inside and approaching the Throne Room, you don’t linger back to wait for your mother. You know she’ll join you eventually, she’d be curious as to what Alicent could possibly want; that’s why you let the guards open the doors for you and let Alicent see you and believe that you're there to fulfill her request without an ulterior motive.

She must think you’re like her and her children, but you’re not and the moment you strut down the room with your nose in the air, bathing yourself in every beam of light that casts through the windows on the walls, she sees that. She didn’t want to see it before out of her own hate and pride, but as her eyes follow you down the great hall she sees just how much your presence alone steals the breath of the great hall.

She looks at you now and it’s like the sun came out of hiding to shine just for you. Viserys would tell you that all the time, “the sun shines just for you,” he would say from the moment you were born and he laid eyes on you for the first time. Alicent’s stomach always twisted with jealousy so she refused to acknowledge anything great about you, but here you are now, walking past her without sparing her a glance, as if you don’t exist in the same realm and she sees it. She sees you and you are what every heir should strive themselves to be.

You are everything her children could never be. She sees that and realizes how much Aegon would have benefited from marrying you instead, but then again you would have eaten him alive. Aemond and you could have been such a glorious example of what a ruling couple should be, but you are right, he is the way he is because of her, she wronged him. She wronged them all, she sees that and so much more, but doesn’t acknowledge it. She can’t, so she pushes it to the back of her head and instead notes that you don’t even climb the steps to the throne. You keep yourself at the foot of the stairs that lead to the throne and take command from there.

“Goodmother,” you greet her with surprise. “What a surprise.”

Alicent curtsies, causing her golden chains to rattle. When she’s up right again she meets your gaze and you continue to fill the silence. “To what do I owe this surprise? I mean an audience in the throne room without her grace is quite the scandal.” You chuckle dryly.

It’s almost like she herself had an ulterior motive. It’s like she wanted you to feel superior and steal control above your mother.

“I’ve come to plead for your help,” she reveals, piquing your interest. “I heard of your mother's plan to slaughter my sons and I must ask you to save them.”

Your lips slightly part in surprise but before you can think of uttering a word she continues.

“You love Aemond. You are married to him and share a beautiful child. Y-you were on our side once, so I must ask you to change again, to save Aemond, to help Daeron who is innocent in this war. And Aegon…”

You raise an eyebrow to await what comes out of her mouth for him.

“He’s an invalid now. He can’t father any more children. He’s a cripple. He will be no threat I swear, just please—You who has the power and the skill, please help me. Save them. Save Aemond and you can be the ones on the throne instead,” she pleads desperately with actual tears creeping out of her big brown eyes. “Please.”

You narrow your gaze to watch her closely and just as you gather a breath to respond, the doors open and your mother, the Queen walks in, pausing in her stride to look at Alicent who now looks baffled by your mother’s presence.

“Your Grace,” you greet her with a mischievous smirk as you curtsy. When she reaches you you move aside to let her walk past you before you swiftly turn around and follow after her. Albeit you stop by the Iron Throne to stand beside it and let her be at the center of attention to take command now.

“The Dowager Queen has sought my audience to beg the mercy of her children,” you tell your mother to catch her up. “She wants me to spare them from their fate, but Daeron is no innocent boy. He’s slaughtered men with the armies because of the war you helped start. And Aegon,” you pause to scoff finding it crazy that you have to tell her why he’s not worth saving.

“Did you know he barged in my quarters when Aemond left for Rook’s Rest,” you begin to share, feeling your mother's eyes on you, and seeing Alicent’s hurt at what you’re preparing to share—“It was no friendly visit. He didn’t come looking for his brother, he went in there drunk looking for me. Do you know why?”

Alicent averts her gaze and with that look alone you know she has an idea. Yet you still share it.

“It seems you have some idea, but I’ll share it anyway. He went there to grope me, to assault me while Aemond was gone because he knew I wouldn't fight back. He would’ve gone further if it wasn’t for my sworn protector barging in,” you sneer and glare at her for demanding the mercy of such a disgusting man—“I can’t imagine what he’s done to other poor girls who weren’t as lucky, but I’m sure you can and still you want me to save him? And all behind the Queen's back?” You scoff and look at her with disgust as you go quiet and let your mother interject now.

“Is this your plan Alicent? Scheme behind my back hoping my daughter will betray me? Then again why am I surprised? You promised to surrender Aegon and the Red Keep, and your son was gone proving you a liar. So I’m not surprised that you stoop so low,” your mother seethes, and Alicent shakes her head before she tilts it up to meet your mother's gaze and finally give a response.

“Is trying to save my children stooping low when it’s something you yourself would have done in my position? Can you blame me for trying to save them from such a fate?” She cries. “Is that a sin?”

Your mother shakes her head. “No,” she says back. “But going behind my back hoping to plot something with my heir is.”

“And she proved ever so loyal,” Alicent mutters. “I praise you for that, but please hear me,” she begs as she falls to her knees, making you and your mother share a look before you return your attention to Alicent.

“We can divide the realm. You could have the Vale of Arryn, the North, the Crownlands, all the lands watered by the Trident, and the Isles,” Alicent shares, making you smile at the floor—“Aegon could have the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach, to be ruled from Oldtown. Please,” she pleads with tears crawling down her cheeks and eyes, and that desperation breaking her voice.

Alas, your mother doesn’t even debate what she asks. She gives her a response immediately. “No.” She feigns a laugh and scorns her. “Your sons might have had places in my court if they had kept faith, but they sought to rob me of my birthright, and the blood of my sons is on their hands.”

Alicent drops to her hands and mutters something you and your mother manage to catch. “Bastard blood, shed at war.”

You quickly look to your mother and she rises from the throne right away but stays where she is to snap back.

Yet before she can Alicent continues to throw out her angry filled words. “How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance?”

“You tell me,” your mother spats. “If you hadn’t raised your son to take my throne their lives wouldn’t be put at risk, your lover and your brother wouldn’t be dead, and you would not be in chains, but alas these are the consequences of your actions.” She huffs and walks to where you are to continue. “Speak again of bastardy, and I will have your tongue out.”

Your mother turns swiftly and storms out. You linger behind and face Alicent to speak about her. “Have her locked in her chambers with no more visits from her daughter or grandchildren. If she wants to plot behind the Queen's back again, have her tongue cut out, and then we can decide where she goes.”

“Princess,” the guards say in comprehension and then bow their heads before they grab Alicent’s arms, whilst the Dowager Queen herself snaps her head up and looks at you with her eyes widened in horror.

“Your Grace?!” Alicent asks for your mother's support and your mother stops in her tracks but only supports you.

“Do as the Princess says. It will serve as punishment for what she tried to scheme today.”

You flash Alicent a sweet smile laced with malice before you give her your back and follow after your mother, finding yourself catching up to her right away and following at her side instead.

“Forgive me, Mother,” you interject once you put some distance between you and the throne room. “For giving Alicent that punishment just now and putting you in a difficult position where you had to choose my choice.”

“No,” your Mother doesn’t hesitate to answer. “You don’t have to apologize. It had to be done. She tried to scheme behind my back. She’s lucky that her punishment wasn’t more severe.”

Yet she’s unlucky that she got a punishment. Alicent almost returned to her quarters without consequence and all for what? Your mother's soft spot for her?

Then again can you blame her when you have your own soft spot for Aemond?

“You were quick and smart with the choice,” she praises you sweetly. “Good job.”

You can’t help yourself, you let a proud smile tug on your lips as those words have a way to make you feel flustered.

“I want you to accompany me to my chambers before we go visit the children,” your mother interjects with a colder shift in her voice, but when you face her you don’t see disappointment or something that tells you that she feels concerned and therefore you should too. You instead see her lips formed into a frown and her eyes slowly filling with conflict.

“Alright,” you give in and do as she says, proceeding to follow her to her quarters and see her walk to her bed to sit on the edge before patting the empty seat next to her.

You flash her a look of confusion but you also don’t sense that you should stay put or be hesitant, so you take her offer and lock eyes to speechlessly question why you’re in the position you’re in now.

“Why,” she begins quietly and drops her gaze. You follow her line of gaze, catching her fiddling with her rings—“Why didn’t you tell me about what Aegon did?” She finally asks what was troubling her mind and what made her bring you here. And you expect to feel tears, but your chest just tightens as you recall that memory.

“The truth is,” you pause and take a minute to collect your thoughts before you scale your eyes up and look at her averted gaze. “I’ve been trying to forget because maybe I was over dramatic. I…told Alicent now to make her feel bad and give her a reason why Aegon out of all her sons can’t be saved.”

Your mother slowly brings her eyes up and catches your gaze with her eyes brimming with tears and her eyebrows knitted together as anger, pity, and agony also fill her heart and become present in her features.

“But it’s not over dramatic. Aegon…he still took advantage of his power to take advantage of you,” she says as her voice breaks and trembles out of guilt. “It’s not over dramatic and I’m sorry you had to be in that position because of me. Because you wanted to fight for our cause.”

You lean forward and grab her hands to try and offer her consolation. “Don't blame yourself, okay? It was not because of you and it was not because of anyone else. The only one to blame is Aegon, okay? Just him.” You whisper and stroke her knuckles, causing your mother to look down at the way you’re softly caressing her before her eyes find yours again, and she then suddenly embraces you.

“I’m still sorry it happened,” she whispers and cups the back of your head to press you firmly against her.

Your smile trembles as the corner of your lips pull up to a wobbly smile. Yet as much as you feel the need to, you don’t cry, you hold your tears back and put all your emotions into clutching onto her as if fearing her comfort and her warmth will disappear if you don’t hold onto her. “Thank you,” you share your gratitude before burying your face in the crook of her neck.

After a while of being wrapped in each other's embrace you pull back but just enough to lay your head on her shoulder and have her lay her head on top of yours.

“Did you tell anyone at least? I would hate that you kept it in for so long,” she says softly in the silence, and you nod gently.

“I told Aemond, he comforted me about it and only spared Aegon because he was already half dead.” You scoff with amusement and find yourself smiling softly like some love-struck fool as you remember Aemond’s comfort.

“Hm,” your mother hums and you can sense her judgment, but she doesn’t say a thing about it, choosing silence over saying something offensive. She just can’t fathom Aemond, introverted, black sheep, and kinslayer Aemond being anything but angry.

“Are you…worried about Daemon?” You change the subject as you let yourself touch on a specific matter in hopes of relating to someone about this pit in your stomach that you feel every time you think about Aemond when you’re apart.

“When he’s away I mean,” you clarify. “When he’s in a dangerous situation like now. Do you ever feel a pit in your stomach?”

Your mother sighs deeply and takes a moment of silence before she gives you a response. “Yes. I never had a reason to feel it before,” she shares. “But I do now. Why do you ask, my Sweet?”

You shake your head gently. “I just wanted to know if it was normal. I wanted to know if anyone else felt it too for someone they loved.”

Silence follows once again. It lasts longer than before but once again she breaks it and this time she’s much quieter as if she’s being careful. Not because she’s afraid of hurting you, she’s afraid of hearing your response because she knows what you’ll say and she knows the pain that comes with it.

“Do you love him?” She asks.

You draw in a deep breath and after releasing a deep and shuddering breath you give her the response that makes her stiffen. “I do,” you speak softly with each word filled with sincerity and such an obvious affection. “I love him with all that I am. All that I’ll ever be. And all that I ever was. I try,” you breathe out shakily. “I try not to, trust me,” your voice quivers. “I try, but…I can’t let him go. My heart refuses to let him go. Even if I have love for another my heart still calls out his name. The very memory of him makes my heart sing and dance even though I know he’s done things to hurt me.”

“Why?” Your mother asks hesitantly even though she knows that question is stupid. She just has to ask because she can’t imagine how someone could love someone who's killed people they love, who’s pure evil and twisted with darkness.

“I,” you pause and take a small breath. “Love him,” you sigh. “Because he’s entangled in my soul. Because he loves me, every part of me, like the darkness that would scare many others away. Because he understands what it’s like to yearn for something that’s in our reach but couldn’t be ours. Because without saying a word he knows everything I feel and everything I want to say. Because I enjoy being the one to make him smile and laugh, and because he loves me in such a deep and selfish way that I have always wanted to be loved…and I could give you thousands of other reasons without growing tired, but I know you would so…that’s why.”

Your mother swallows thickly and understands why you stayed with Aemond as long as you did when you had every chance to leave him during the war. She understands the pain that shows on your face every time someone mentions having to kill him.

“But I know he can’t be mine forever,” you mutter and she hears it now, the pain that she can’t see because you’re not facing each other—“I know what has to happen. I…know,” you say something that you didn’t even have in mind, you just said it on the spot because if you said what you truly wanted to say, then it would be a lie. And even if you have lied, even if that’s not something you struggle with, saying that you made your peace with Aemond having to die can’t even form into words in your mouth.

“It will hurt,” your mother says softly as a way to warn you of the pain that you have yet to experience. “Every time you look at your children it will hurt because you will see him in them. But before you know it, your heart will sing and dance and swoon for someone else and all he’ll be is a memory of your long life.”

You nod and want to say those two words you uttered before, but you can’t even form them in your mouth, so you just nod so very lightly that it barely would count as a nod.

“Like Lord Stark,” your mother brings him up again. “You love him too, yes?” She asks.

“Yes,” your voice quivers.

Your mother wants to probe like she did with Aemond, but it wouldn't be appropriate so she’s just left wondering.

“He’s a good man from what I hear and he’s your friend, and I want you to know that you can choose who you want to be with. I won’t force you into a loveless relationship just for some political advantage, okay?” She asks for comprehension—“You have the freedom of choice.”

“Okay,” your whisper comes out shaky and you cling onto her more firmly than before as you seek her comfort for the ache that already torments you.

If only you could hold onto her forever. The world would feel safer that way and any pain would immediately be cured, but alas what you want can’t happen, so you let her go and try to fill the rest of your day with other things that won't make that torment hurt you any deeper.

And it works.

For a time.

“<Ready?>” You ask Aerion and his blue eyes turn to his dragon, letting you place another piece of meat in front of her. “<Dracarys Shrykos>,” you command, and the hatchling steps back before she blows out fire and burns the piece of meat, making Aerion laugh and then attempt to talk or give the same command, but he can’t form the words so he coos and Shrykos crawls to him and nuzzles her head against his chest.

You smile with awe and as you do an urgent knock raps on the doors, piquing your interest and turning your head to face them. “Come,” you welcome the visitor and watch the doors of your chambers open and reveal Helaena in her night attire and with her hair flowing down her back.

“Why can I not see my mother?” She gets right to the point as she averts her eyes. “I could not have dinner with her, and now I can not bid her goodnight, why?”

You share a speechless look with Vanessa and when you get off the floor she takes your spot to watch over Aerion, while you approach Helaena.

“Your mother has to be locked in her quarters because she wanted to scheme with me behind the Queen’s back,” you share even though you know that will offer her no comfort. “She’s already a prisoner so to spare her from death we took away her freedom. I’m sorry Helaena,” you speak confidently but yet in a comforting tone so she doesn’t stress out more than she already is.

Yet she can’t seem to accept her mother's fate. “But I always bid her goodnight, and who will I have dinner with now?”

You sigh and feel pity for her but you don’t take back your decision. “It had to be done. I’m sorry.”

Helaena shakes her head and begins to pace, making your ache for her even worse.

“Helaena,” you try to speak to assure her but she puts her hand up to motion you to be quiet.

“It’s all what must be done,” she mutters something you can barely catch. “Everything. Why?”

She stops so you make your way to her and try to cup her shoulder to have her give you her attention, but she then turns around by herself and looks at you with her eyes wide and glistening with tears, but also laced with distress.

“What will you do?” She directs her question at you now. “Aemond will die in fifteen days. What will you do about it?”

You blink repeatedly in disbelief as you feel that pit in your stomach again, followed with that deep heart aching agony.

“What?” You ask breathlessly and she clutches onto her hands and slightly narrows her eyes.

“It has to be done,” she remarks with a hint of frustration. “And you can’t do anything about it.”

You shake your head as you don’t accept what she just revealed even though everything inside you knows she’s not lying. Because why would she?

“No,” your voice cracks as you look at her with desperation.

“He was never going to live through this. Everyone knows that” she continues to say, bringing frustration out of you now—“It’s his fate. And nothing you do will ever change it.”

Tears break out of your eyes as you clench your jaw and look at her with frustration and anger before your emotions flicker to desperation. “Please,” you beg and grab her arms. “There…” you trail off as you think about her words, as you think about that son that you will have in a future that you accept and acknowledge that it’s how the story will unfold, but that part of you that loves Aemond blindly and with every part of you pretends to be clueless as to what you know to only focus on what you want.

“There must be a way,” you try to get an alternative out of Helaena since she knows so much, but her expression remains pointed and frustrated.

“There isn’t. What will you do about it?” Her voice slightly hisses, making you pull back and look at her with a slow-forming glare.

You don’t continue with an answer. The room is left deafening, and since you won’t give her what she wants she leaves and you’re left standing in your agony and desperation that is so blinding and demanding that it overwhelms you with the thought of one single solution. A daring thought.

You must go to him. Convince him to let this fight go. You have to find him.

Thus you march out of your quarters and take the path to Helaena’s quarters knowing that’s where she’ll be headed, and luckily she didn’t make it far at all so you catch up to her rather quickly. And when you’re face to face it’s that same desperation that demands her knowledge of Aemond’s whereabouts.

Helaena gives them to you so you march back into your chambers and right as the doors close, Vanessa presses you since she knows you all too well. “What are you doing? You cannot go after him. He can’t be saved. He won’t want to.”

You face her with agony clinging in your eyes that makes them glisten with unshed tears before you utter one single thing. “I have to try.”

It’s stupid. Foolish and thoughtless, but you leave the Red Keep through the tunnels, find Astraea resting in the cove she usually is to be close to you if a need arose, and at last fulfill that longing to get lost in the clouds.

Once again you’re leaving without saying a word, out of desperation and high emotions. Your stance is still with your mother, that hasn’t changed and won’t change anymore. You still have the need to fight in this war, that need hasn’t left either, but you have to try and save the man you love. You have to for the sake of your love, for the sake of simply trying to save him from his doom because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you love someone.

Leaving was selfish you understand, chasing after him was selfish but the disappointment your mother, your cousins, and even Cregan will feel when they hear you went after Aemond doesn’t cross your mind when you find him, and when your eyes meet in the middle of that lush and lively forest.

In a way, it feels like he knew you were coming, that you were going to be outside of the hut he’s staying in, but after he surpasses his own self-conflict between reality and an illusion, he’s completely overwhelmed with disbelief by your presence. The kind of disbelief that has his lips parting just slightly, and makes his blue eye wide and glimmery as the spots of moonlight that burst through the treetops enlighten his long and beautiful face.

“It’s you and me,” your voice travels through the quiet night, hitting his ears and only breaking it to him more that you’re not some illusion cast by his solitude and yearning to see you. You’re real, you’re there before him holding his eyes with a teary gaze that only makes your eyes that much more beautiful.

“You and me,” you whisper again and step forward, falling in the soft and bright white light that the moon casts down on the earth, making Aemond gasp softly as he sees how truly divine you look in your silk light sea-green gown that’s accompanied with a pearl and crystal chain over your torso.

Truly your beauty transcends that of the moons, the suns, and all and every goddess that ever existed. He’s always known it, but as you stand before him under the soft light of the moon that fact is much more true because you’re there for him.

How could he be so stupid as to make you leave him? And how could you be so stupid as to return to him?

“Now and forever,” you finish and make tears run down his face as he nods in agreement.

Your lips pull to a shaky smile as you see his reaction and before you know it a force that’s not your own pulls you to each other, causing you to meet in the middle and kiss as if you’ve been apart for decades and only had each other's imaginations to feel the taste of each other’s lips. Nothing of what happened only a couple weeks ago comes to mind, it’s like it never happened at this very moment. It's like he was never angry that you left. It’s you and him and your dragons in the middle of some forest in the Riverlands until it’s just you and him in that hut unable to even think of letting each other go.

You are one flesh, one heart, and one soul for who knows how long. All you know is the taste of each other's mouths, the feeling of each other's flesh on the tip of your fingers as you run them over the perimeters of each other's bodies, and the sound of every pant, gasp, and moan that leaves your lips.

It’s all bliss, every second that your bodies and hearts are intertwined. Nothing else matters, nothing continues to matter, and the definition of love, true love was, and is clear as you take in the sight of each other while you remain in bed ignorant to the outside world.

“You know,” he speaks in that soft and gentle voice that you love and makes you feel relaxed. “I saw Alys and she told me something,” he says and places his hand on your belly, piquing your interest.

“What?” You ask in a whisper against his lips as if it were a secret that the space around you can’t know.

A smug smile tugs on his lips and he glances down at your belly covered by furs and shares what he knows against your lips. “The twins are girls.”

You look at him with disbelief for a second before you begin to grin without even bothering to question him. “Really?!” You exclaim and throw your hand on the side of his face to cradle it and press your own face closer to him.

He hums in agreement and you pull back to turn and smile at the ceiling. “So it’s Daenys and Daenerys?” You muse as you caress your own belly. “Yay.”

“What about Daenys and Naerys?” He suggests but you don’t even consider it, you just turn him down right away.

“No, Daenys and Daenerys has a much better ring to it don’t you think? Considering they’re twins?” You quire as you turn back to your side to look at him.

“I suppose,” he mutters.

“You suppose right.” You nod, making him chuckle breathlessly.

“Aerion?” He asks when his laugh dies down.

“Big,” you share happily. “Scooting on his behind to get to places. And wanting to burn down the Red Keep with Shyrkos. He keeps wanting to say Dracarys but he can’t. Luckily.”

Aemond flashes you a grin and goes quiet. He then lets his eye wander down, and it’s at that moment that you bring your hand up to cup his face with the gentlest touch, and take your time to caress his cheekbone with the pad of your thumb while you just study his face slowly falling as he grows flustered by your softness, that he knows he doesn’t deserve you after what he did to hurt you.

“Forgive me,” he mutters and moves his hand up your belly to stroke a scar that is no longer marking your skin. “I hurt you that day and I’m sorry. I…” he trails off as his voice cracks and takes in a deep breath before he slowly finds your attentive gaze. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what I was doing. Harrenhal…was driving me mad. Every night I closed my eyes, I saw you die or I saw Lucerys. My greatest fear haunted me every time. My past followed. And it all chipped away at my sanity a little bit at a time until I couldn’t know between what was real and what wasn’t. And it’s no excuse, nothing could excuse what I did, but I needed to tell you,” he says with a deep breath that lets you see that weight rising off his shoulders.

“You understand right?” He asks for reassurance, and you exchange a breath in and out without changing that softness in your eyes and give him the reassurance he seeks.

“I understand,” you say sincerely and lean in to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “I understand you,” you repeat yourself against his lips, making him bring his hand up to clutch onto your cheek before he presses his forehead against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

The corner of your lips twitch to a smile and butterflies flutter in your stomach before you echo his sweet words. “I missed you too.”

He hums and you hum back to tease him, holding his love-stricken gaze and taking a small breath in, leaving the room in silence. However, it’s in that comforting silence that the memory of why you came to him in the first place finds you, creeping into your mind and making your lips slowly lose hold of that smile, and making your eyes slowly droop and lose that happy glimmer that was caught within them.

Aemond notices your shift in emotions and looks at you with concern, but you can’t utter why you’re in agony so quickly with that breath you just drew out. You don’t want to ruin the moment that just had him smiling and enamored.

You want to live in the bliss for at least a second longer, so you close your eyes and stroke his cheek with your hand to be a part of that moment for just a little longer.

Just a few seconds longer…

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Next chapter someone finally croaks…

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens @silverlightsaber

[grandmother-goblin]

Savory and Sweet

Ao3 - Masterlist

Summary: After Astarion finally confesses to his attempted manipulations and his real feelings for Orakith, he realizes that she didn't respond as well as he had initially thought. And Astarion was not about to let their first night in a real relationship end on a sour note.

Relationships: Astarion x Female!Tav

Rating: Mature (for non-explicit sexual content)

Word Count: 4.1k

Tags: Fluff, humor, non-explicit sexual content, comfort, Gale makes a minor appearance.

The weight on Astarion’s conscious had finally lifted after he came clean to Orakith about, well, nearly everything. About how he had lied to her, about how he manipulated her feelings, how he tried to make her fall for him without falling for her, and how that spectacularly backfired.

If he was being completely honest, he had no idea how Orakith would respond to his confession. She was the sweet sort — innocent and a bit naive. She was the type to help people, cry over a sleeping fawn or baby bunny, and make flower crowns when they stopped for a rest.

She was also a sorceress whose favored spells involved fire and poison, so she wasn’t the kind of person Astarion wanted to needlessly upset. Though he didn’t think she would ever direct that sort of magical wrath toward him, experience told him to remain cautious.

Pissing off magic users was rarely a good idea. Especially ones who didn’t have the best control over said magic.

Oraktih had listened to his explanation as his slow, undead heart pounded like the living. Her eyes were wide but her expression was nearly unreadable — then again, Astarion always had a little trouble reading her. When he had said all that he needed to, she pulled him into an embrace that was so perfect and warm that he never wanted her to let go.

“I care about you, Astarion,” she had said as she buried her face in his shoulder. “You mean the world to me and I’m so happy to have you as part of my life.”

There had been something slightly off about her voice. It was sincere, Astarion had no doubts about that. But it had a certain edge to it that Orakith only got when something went disastrously wrong, or she was trying to stay positive and keep up morale as the world burned around them.

She sounded happy.

Too happy.

When she stepped out of the embrace, she gave him a watery smile as she linked her little finger around his. “Thank you for telling me.”

It seemed everything went as well as it could have gone: Orakith didn’t get angry with him, she didn’t end their relationship, she didn’t even accidentally light him on fire in a surge of magic.

In fact, she gave him the sweetest, lingering kiss on his cheek before bidding him goodnight.

So when he heard soft sniffles and shaky sobs coming from her tent nearly an hour later, that weight that had been lifted off his consciousness dropped directly onto his heart.

Shit.

He knew the sounds of someone trying to hide that they were crying all too well. The common courtesy under Cazador’s roof was simply to ignore whoever was upset. The spawn seldom had a moment of privacy, and they all broke down in tears at one point or another, and it was just easier to pretend it never happened because nothing could be done to make things better. Ignoring it was so deeply ingrained within him, Astarion nearly walked right past her tent simply out of habit.

If he had to take a wild guess, he could only assume Orakith’s tears had something to do with their conversation.

Astarion knelt beside the entrance of her tent, noting how golden tendrils of translucent magic tied the opening shut. “Orakith?” Astarion whispered tentatively. “Are you alright, my love?”

“I’m good.” Somehow, she managed to inject that falsely positive tone even through a stuffy nose.

She most certainly was not okay, considering how she decided to use her magic to effectively lock herself in her tent. “I can’t help but feel that, given our earlier conversation, you might be a bit upset with me.”

“I’m not upset with you,” she replied far too quickly.

“Darling.” Astarion tsked and shifted a little closer — close enough he could see her back turned toward him through the little slit in the entrance. “If you’re upset with me, I would really like to sort this out with you. Preferably sooner rather than later. Gods knows our friends are like vultures when it comes to any sort of… interpersonal issues.”

“Really, I’m okay.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re obviously not, so may I please come in?”

“I just need some sleep.”

“Orakith.”

Trees creaked and swayed in the midnight breeze. A lone sniffle penetrated the sounds of rushing water from the nearby river, but otherwise, she didn’t respond.

Astarion sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Part of him wanted to just crawl into her tent anyways, but he couldn’t with that magic keeping the tent sealed. It likely wouldn’t harm him, but he felt trying to dispel it and breaking into her tent was a bit too much even for him.

If she had wanted him to leave her alone, he trusted her to tell him — she had no problem doing so in the past. As much as hearing her cry tugged at his heartstrings, he would respect her decision. But she hadn’t asked him to leave, so he assumed that she just didn’t want to let him see her upset.

Which was a little ridiculous, when he thought about it. He had seen her cry before. Plenty of times, in fact. But most of those tears were the joyful sort — like when Scratch first showed up at their camp, or when Wyll made a joke at just the right moment, or when she found a trader who happened to sell her favorite cheese despite it being hard to come by.

An idea struck him and Astarion pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and didn’t wait for a response as he made a beeline toward Gale’s tent.

Orakith had bought that trader’s entire supply of that particular cheese. Since it was more perishable than some of their other rations, Gale had offered her the use of a magic bag that he claimed would preserve the food for longer. Astarion hadn’t seen Orakith ask for the cheese since, so he assumed Gale still had it (provided that he didn’t eat it himself).

Softening his steps, Astarion crouched as he approached Gale’s tent. If he remembered correctly, Gale always kept his bags near the entrance of the tent, so all Astarion had to do was keep quiet as he —

“What are you doing?” Gale asked, a floating light above his book brightening with the question, casting an accusatory spotlight right on Astation’s face.

Damn. He was so caught up in trying to cheer up Orakith, he was only focused on getting the cheese from Gale’s pack without waking him up and never considered that Gale might not be asleep in the first place.

Astarion blinked at him.

Closing his book, Gale raised his brows in response like a teacher awaiting an explanation from a student as to why their homework was late.

“I missed you.”

Gale kicked at where Astarion’s knee pinned down the corner of his bedroll. “The real reason, Astarion.”

When the first couple of excuses that crossed his mind were somehow more ridiculous than the truth, Astarion sighed. “Orakith and I had a talk tonight and she’s a bit upset. Everything is fine, I think. I just wanted to bring her something to cheer her up and I know her favorite cheese is in your bag.”

Something about Gale’s expression softened. “Aww,” he said as an indulgent smile spread across his lips. “You really fancy her, don’t you?”

Astarion ran his hand through his hair impatiently. “Yes. Now give me the cheese. Please.”

A quiet chuckle shook Gale’s shoulders as he tugged the bag toward him, quickly finding a wedge of cheese that was wrapped in wax paper and about the size of his palm. “Here.”

“Just like that?” He carefully took the offering, half-expecting Gale to zap him the moment the wrapper touched his fingertips.

“Just like that,” Gale replied. “Besides, it’s not like it’s mine. Though, I would strongly suggest that you just ask me next time, hmm? But who am I to judge? Love can make fools of us all, and a bit of cheese is hardly the most foolish thing someone has tried to steal in the name of it. Believe me, I would know.”

Love. He wasn’t sure he would call it love, per say. His feelings toward Orakith certainly weren’t ones that he was familiar with, but it felt far too soon to call it ‘love.’

Hells, just a few hours ago he acknowledged out loud that his feelings were real. Love was far too much, but the thought of it didn’t fill him with disgust, envy, or apprehension.

It filled him with something like hope, and that was terrifying all on its own.

Astarion gave Gale a curt nod. “Thank you,” he said and he backed out of the tent as Gale bid him goodnight.

Well, that didn’t go as planned, but it certainly could have gone much worse.

Pushing that slightly awkward moment with Gale to the back of his mind, Astarion returned to Orakith’s tent. He knelt by the entrance and listened for a moment. There wasn’t any sniffling or crying, which was a good sign. Maybe? Or perhaps she had just fallen asleep during his brief absence. He tapped on the side of the tent, quietly rustling the fabric and said, “I’m back, darling.”

No answer.

So either she was ignoring him, or she had actually fallen asleep. If she was asleep, he certainly wasn’t above waking her up. After everything they talked about that night, he was not going to let her cry herself to sleep.

Not without at least trying to make things right.

“I, uhh.” Astarion glanced down at the wedge of cheese in his hand and furrowed his brow. “I brought you some cheese.”

There was a small snort of laughter from inside the tent. “You brought cheese?”

It wasn’t exactly the most traditional way to bribe someone, but it was the first thing that came to mind. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic gift either…

Perhaps he should have hunted down some flowers instead.

“Yes, and I had to talk to Gale to get it,” he replied, as if talking to the wizard was some torturous ordeal despite how he actually quite enjoyed Gale’s presence. Most of the time. “Now, may I please come in? I’d much prefer your company to his.”

“I’m not going to be the greatest company right now.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

He kept his tone light despite how his worries began to weigh him down. What if she changed her mind about him after she had had a bit more time to think? What if she couldn’t forgive him? What if her feelings for him couldn’t outweigh the pain he had caused her.

The entrance of the tent shimmered, and the anxiety balled up in his chest loosened as the magic keeping the opening sealed faded away. Not wasting another moment, Astarion crawled into the tent.

Inside, the only light came from a tiny dancing lights spell, each orb no bigger than a firefly. A faint amber glow and the moving shadows over soft furs and richly colored blankets gave the space a cozy yet magical feel to it. Crumpled up in the corner were the robes Orakith had been wearing earlier that evening.

Astarion frowned.

As long as he had known Orakith, she had some deeply ingrained habit to fold clothes. Or any sort of fabric. It came from years of working as a washerwoman, she had said. She found it soothing. He couldn’t even remember a time when Orakith hadn’t folded her clothes.

Or his clothes, for the matter.

Hells, even the first time they had had sex she ridiculously folded her clothes before she let him ravish her. It was probably the first time in decades that he had genuinely laughed with someone he was going to sleep with.

“Don’t judge me,” she said with poorly concealed mirth as his hand slipped around her waist from behind. “I don’t want my stuff to get wrinkled. I’ll get yours next.”

Astarion slowly kissed her neck, her pulse racing beneath his lips. His fingertips traced the firm contours of her abdomen. “A bit of rumpled clothing is all part of the fun.”

“Until you lose a sock.”

A laugh that was more like a smile passed his lips as Orakith carefully tossed her folded trousers atop her other clothes. His hand ventured lower, teasingly close to the heat between her legs without actually touching her there. “What’s a lost sock compared to getting lost in one another?”

“Cold toes, for one,” she said, seemingly unfazed by his wandering hands. “Where did you put your shirt? I’m folding it before — ”

She squeaked when he pulled her down on top of him, and then rolled her onto her back in the grass. Astarion pinned her hands above her head. “You really want to spend your time doing that when you could do something so much more — ” he delicately nipped at the corner of her jaw — “pleasurable.”

If she wanted to, she could easily escape his hold on her. Instead she laced her fingers through his, her eyes playful and bright beneath the light of the moon. “I think you’ll find it very pleasurable when you don’t have to wear a wrinkled shirt tomorrow morning.”

“Shh.” Astarion kissed down the column of her throat to her collarbone as she drew in a shaky breath. “Why don’t we just enjoy each other, hmm?”

She swallowed and nodded. “I’ll get them later.”

Astarion began to fold her clothes as the memory faded away. It wasn’t much, but it was a little something he could do for her. Or at the very least, it was one less thing she had to do for herself.

She kept her back turned toward him, still curled up in a fetal position, as he tucked the neatly folded garments in the corner of the tent. Not knowing the best place to put the cheese, he just set it on top of the pile since he didn’t expect it would stay there for very long.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” she said stuffily.

“It was no trouble at all, my love.” Astarion crawled onto the empty space beside her on her bedroll, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of her body.

As much as he wanted to lay down beside her and pull her against his chest, he remained sitting. Orakith normally liked being held, and he realized that he quite liked holding her in turn, but it didn’t feel like the right time for that. Instead, he placed a (hopefully) comforting hand on her bare shoulder and just watched her for a moment.

Soft golden light from her spell highlighted the ruby red and deep orange veins of color that blazed through her soft jade scales like flames through a prairie. Her iridescent sheen almost made it seem like her scales were always changing colors — so much so that many people couldn’t tell she was a green dragonborn at first glance. Most assumed that she was bronze or gold or copper due to the pigment granted by her draconic ancestry.

Yet when Astarion first saw her, he just thought she looked like a giant gecko.

Now whenever he looked at her his heart ached with a kind of affection he had one believed he could never feel again.

Prior to meeting Orakith, he had never given dragonborn much thought. There were only a handful of them in the city, and Cazador forbade his spawn from hunting them simply because dragonborn were so rare and people tended to keep close tabs on them. Or, at least, that was the reason Cazador gave — he probably just didn’t want to bite through a hide of scales.

For all the times he hadn’t paid attention to dragonborn before, he was certainly making it up now.

Astarion opened his mouth to say something, but found himself at a loss for words. Comforting someone who was upset, especially someone he cared about, was completely foreign territory. What in the Hells was he supposed to say? ‘There, there, I know you’re upset about me lying to you and manipulating you, but can you please stop crying because you’re making me feel even guiltier than I did before?’

Because that would go over so well.

Orakith’s arm shifted beneath his hand as she wiped at her face with the heel of her palm. “I’m sorry,” she said with a weak laugh, as if part of her was still trying to convince him that she was perfectly fine. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I can hardly see you at all, my love.” In an attempt to get her to look at him, Astarion gently tugged at her shoulder. “Roll this way so I don’t have to have a conversation with the back of your skull.”

She shook her head. “My face is a mess.”

“I have a handkerchief. Now roll over.”

With a huff, and thankfully very little fight, she flopped onto her back. Draping her arm over her eyes, she gave out an exasperated and pathetic whine. “I feel like a big baby.”

“You are a big baby,” Astarion said as he retrieved the handkerchief Orakith had embroidered with his name and delicate purple asters and morning glories from his pocket, “but not for being upset about — well, what I think you’re upset about.”

The corner of her lips twitched into a smile but it quickly faded away. “I shouldn’t be upset at all. You just told me something huge and here I am, making it all about me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Astarion brought the handkerchief to her dampened cheek and gently nudged her arm aside as he dried her face. “This is about you too. And if you’re upset then I would be a piss-poor boyfriend if I just let you cry it out.”

The smile returned to her face, bigger than before, but this time it didn’t immediately fade away. Oraktih never showed her teeth when she smiled, even going so far as to cover her mouth when she laughed. She said she didn’t want to frighten people. But Astarion’s stomach did a funny little flip when he caught a glimpse of white in her smile.

As far as he knew, he was the only person she let herself smile in front of without hiding it. It was a little thing, but it felt special. It made him feel special.

Bright, wet, orange eyes, glowing like a warm hearth, looked up at him as he traced her sharp cheekbone with the handkerchief. “Boyfriend?”

“Partner, lover, your little love leech — pick your poison, darling,” he said as he blotted at her face more playfully.

A giggle bubbled from her throat, and the sound was enough to make him smile in turn. Even if she was a little upset with him, at least he could still make her laugh. And she didn’t feel the need to hide it either.

That had to count for something

As her laughter subsided, Astarion tucked the slightly damp handkerchief back in his pocket. He lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, gazing into the fire of her eyes as he did.

“I mean it,” he said as they both sobered, the mood considerably lighter than it had been just a minute ago. “I want what we have to be something real.”

Orakith sighed and watched the little dancing lights twinkling above them. “I do too,” she replied. “I mean, it was always real to me. But looking back on our early relationship now, I should have known that you weren’t always serious. I feel like a bit of a fool. And embarrassed. After all, the only time men, especially men as handsome as you, paid me any mind was when they wanted a discount on laundry services.”

Her tone was lighthearted and playful, but he could hear the hurt buried beneath.

“I never thought I stood a chance with you,” she went on as she picked at something nonexistent on one of her claws, “but when you asked me to spend the night with you at the party… and you actually met up with me…. Gods, I was afraid I was dreaming. No one had ever wanted me like that before, and I liked you so much that I was afraid I was going to mess everything up.”

Her eyes flickered back to his. “You were my first everything. My first kiss. My first time…. I was so nervous I think I started folding clothes,” she added with a laugh.

“Hold on,” he said as he raised his brows, his heart sinking in his chest. “You never told me that I was your first.”

As if he needed to feel like even more of a jackass, he had to add taking her virginity while he was manipulating her to his list of crimes.

Gods, how had he not noticed? Perhaps it was because she docilely let him take the lead that night. If he had noticed any nervousness on her part, he must have passed it off as the typical bit of uncertainty that came with sleeping with someone new. Not that the entire experience was new to her.

Orakith gave a little shrug. “Some of the washerwomen said that being so inexperienced at my age might scare some men off,” she said as if being in her mid twenties made her some sort of spinster. “They’d think I was saving myself, or that maybe something was wrong with me. Baldur’s Gate is a human city and…. Well, more people look at dragonborn as more of a curiosity than a romantic prospect.”

Astarion laced his fingers with hers. “Almost feel sorry for the poor fools that missed out on knowing how incredible you are. Almost.”

She gazed up at him and gave his hand a little squeeze. “You really mean that?”

“Do you really think I would go through all this effort if I didn’t?” he said and gestured toward where the cheese sat on top of her clothes. “I’ve never met anyone who cares the way you do, and I was an idiot for not seeing that sooner.”

A fresh tear rolled down her face, and for a brief moment, Astarion thought he had said the wrong thing before a little smile pulled at her lips. Her eyes crinkled with such genuine affection that it made his heart ache.

Astarion wiped away the tear with his thumb. Then he laid down beside her, propping his head up with his hand, and tsked. “You really are a mess tonight, aren’t you?”

“I warned you,” Orakith replied and shifted downward so she could nuzzle her face against his chest. “I would have been fine by the morning. I just needed some time to process.”

He slipped his hand behind the delicate that framed her face and she gave a little sigh of contentment. “For what it’s worth, my oh-so-brilliant plan backfired long before we first spent the night together.”

The tip of her tail draped over his calves as she slung her arms around his torso, hugging him closer. “That does make me feel a little better. So does you being here.”

“I also brought you cheese,” he recalled and trapped her tail between his legs.

She giggled. “That also helped.”

The floating lights above them dimmed as a comfortable silence fell between them. Astarion idly traced the scales on her back as a sense of calm gently washed over him. The doubt that had been lingering in his mind faded away with each passing second.

“Stay with me tonight?” she asked quietly, her voice muffled against his shirt. “We don’t have to do anything, I just like waking up next to you.”

Though it was new to him, Astarion liked waking up next to her as well. It was a pleasant surprise to go to bed with someone and have them still be there in the morning. He wasn’t sure how many more nights he would get with her like this, and he wasn’t about to waste a single one.

Even so, he sighed as if she had asked him to complete some insurmountable task. He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I can do that.”

---

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated!

[locketsvault]

「 AYATO WITH INVESTIGATOR S/O 」

pairing: ayato kirishima x gender neutral reader

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, first person, no pronouns/afab gender used, fluff

warnings: canon angst, discrimination mentioned, fluff, sfw “nudity”, back massage with no shirt on, kissing, strictly sfw I promise

request: Hii, can i request some fluff with Ayato (tokyo ghoul) with (an investigator) gn reader? (original request found here.)

word count: 835

a/n: this was honestly quite a hard topic to write about, trying to balance a character who’s angsty, usually mows down investigators happily, with an investigator partner and make it fluffy. I hope it’s to your liking, I did my best to make it fluffy!

You two are a match made in… I can’t say Heaven, that’s a stretch. But you’re definitely a match. How it came to be? That’s a little secret. Some rumors say that you rescued him from being executed, while others say he saved you from being eaten by another ghoul. No matter how though, it was hard to deny you two were a wonderful match.

It was like looking at the black cat and golden retriever trope. It didn’t matter if you were a black cat too, being an investigator made you seem much more lively than a certain emo.

Sadly you two had to keep your relationship a secret from everyone around you, of course with the treat of death on both sides. But after the events of :re you were able to see each other without that threat lingering over your head. And it only made you two closer. You were finally able to move in together, just the two of you in your small apartment near his sisters coffee shop. It was home.

“You’re late.” Ayato stated the second you walked through a door, a false look of annoyance gracing his features.

“Paperwork,” you whined as you took off your coat and shoes. “He’s the worse boss ever, I swear. He makes me write the dumbest reports up, and he always tells me to do it right before I come home.”

“Then quit.” His tone was dead serious, you knew it, and you shot him a light hearted glare for it.

You knew you couldn’t though, you worked so hard to get where you were. He knew how important your job was to you. And he appreciated an open minded investigator among all the well… close minded humans. But he still sometimes wished you quit, for your safety. He also feared having to fight you or accidentally killing you without realizing it was you. That wasn’t fair though, he knew your scent by heart.

You dragged your body to the couch and collapsed onto him with a soft groan. His fake annoyance disappeared, instead replaced with a look of amusement. He can feel your body tense against his, and one touch down your back answered to him exactly why.

“… you were dualing again weren’t you.”

“Yes, but, I didn’t expect to today so I didn’t properly stretch.” You answered as you gave him a guilty smile.

This time he actually gave you a look of annoyance. “Sit up.” He commanded, quiet but affirmative.

“Noooo, I just laid down.” You whined, burying your face into his neck.

All you needed right now was him, to be in his arms, and all the pain would go away. However, that did not work. He huffed and made you both sit up before turning you so your back was facing him. A few sputter and whines later, your shirt was removed and thrown haphazardly on the ground.

“I can practically feel how tense your body is as if it’s my own. No fighting me on this.” The words “let me take care of you” left unspoken but was clearly there.

And how could you say no? So with a faux pout you stayed still as he grabbed some muscle relaxer and started to work it into your soft skin. You couldn’t help but release a hard sigh at the feeling. Your job could be so physical demanding and it wasn’t always easy to take care of your body. Your eyes closed as you took in his touch and warmth. You always cherished soft moments like this with him. He had changed so much since you first met, he had changed for you. You needed this, and you needed some unwinding with him.

“Thank you…” you whispered, breaking the soft silence between you.

You could feel his touch hesitate a bit, still not used to hearing such words in a genuine way. You could hear the almost silent huff and could practically feel the smile he was trying to keep in.

“All done, feel better?” He asked, wiping off his hands before getting up.

You rolled your shoulders and moved around a little. You couldn’t deny, you were feeling much better now. He came back and handed you one of his own shirts, much to your pleasure. You happily put it on and wiggled out of your work pants.

“Thank you my love.” You reached out, pulling him down for a soft kiss.

“You already said that,” he mumbled against your lips before picking you up, “come on, time for bed.”

“Man, my night was just getting started.” You grumbled, rolling your head back.

He rolled his eyes and laid you down, turning off the lights before laying down with you. He pulled you close and caressed your cheek, before kissing you again. It was gentle, more gentle than you were used to from him. He must been feeling extra domestic. You weren’t going to point it out though, it was cute and you loved it.

main hub ✦ masterlist ✦ to do list

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 3 - A TREAT

Pairing : Sinclair Bryant x OC

Summary : It's December, Sinclair's favorite time of year, at least before his divorce. But this year, it will be his first Christmas with a woman who truly loves him for who he is, not for what he represents. She is his special treat.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Smut. Fluff.

A/N : And here the third story for this intense Rickmas. It's challenging but it brings me a lot of joy. Thanks for it @deepperplexity

This is the part 2 of I am yours

Part I

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Two months. It had been two months since you had finally offered yourself to Sinclair for his greatest happiness. Officially, you had been a couple for eight months, but it had taken you time to offer yourself to him and to feel comfortable enough to tell him your little secret. Well, you hadn't really told him, Sinclair had guessed and you had simply confirmed.

It was now the beginning of December. The week before, you had celebrated your birthday, a drizzly day in November but that Sinclair had managed to brighten up with his presence. And with a chocolate cake, your favorite. He hadn't forgotten. Some people like to make fun of him by saying that he always talks without ever letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, but that's not true, he knew how to listen too.

Today, you were both busy decorating the tree that stood in the beige-toned living room. The warm atmosphere of the room, illuminated by the garlands and the small colored lights that blinked all around you made the living room even more comforting than usual.

"This tree is a little too big, isn't it ?" you asked, laughing softly.

"It doesn't even touch the ceiling," Sinclair replied, kissing your temple.

This was your first Christmas together. The fifth for him since the divorce with the one-who-was-no-longer-named. Well, in your head, you nicknamed her the bitch who had fucked her brother.

"What do you normally do at Christmas ?" you asked, hanging a glass ball on the tree.

"When I was a kid, we had big, lavish parties. My parents' whole house was decorated: big trees, luxurious dinners, expensive gifts. The kids stayed in the playroom most of the time. Honestly, it was kind of boring."

You looked away, a little embarrassed. It was obvious that you and Sinclair didn't come from the same world, even if it had never bothered him.

"With... With you know who, it was always very cold. If I threw a big party, she told me she felt left out, if we were invited to my parents' house, she said he made fun of her - which is totally false ! - and if it was just the two of us... well, I wasn't enough for her. And nothing I could offer her was ever enough," he said bitterly.

He fell silent, his cheeks slightly red, as if he regretted talking about her. You took his hand in yours and gave him a small smile. Sinclair tried not to mention his ex-wife in front of you so as not to hurt you, but sometimes, it was stronger than him, he needed to talk about it. You didn't mind, you understood that he was still terribly scarred by what she had done to him and you appreciated knowing that he trusted you enough to open up and share what was still hurting him today.

"But after the divorce, and after an exorbitant amount of therapy, I learned to love the holidays again like I did before... her."

"At home, we didn't really have any traditions," you said to lighten the mood and distract Sinclair from his gloomy memories, "it was just my parents and I. We'd eat a simple meal and then spend the evening in front of the TV watching Christmas movies. But it was never really a big holiday in our house."

"Do you regret it ?" Sinclair asked sincerely.

You thought for a moment before shaking your head. 

"Not really. When I was little, we spent Christmas at my grandmother's house with my father's whole family and it was so... hypocritical. Everyone pretended to get along and smiled at each other falsely. Of course, I was too young to understand, but once I was a teenager, those Christmas parties became heavy. When my grandmother felt too old to host us all, we started to do it just the three of us and it was fine like that... And then... as an introvert, big crowds tire me out quickly," you added with a small smile.

"I know, and I am eternally grateful to you for accompanying me to all my professional parties," Sinclair said with a smile even brighter than the garland he was diligently hanging on the wall.

"It's normal, I want to be with you. That's what good girlfriends do !"

Sinclair's smile widened even more. 

"Are you glad your parents are here for New Year's ?"

"Yes, they love you," you replied, handing him a thumbtack.

Your parents had met Sinclair shortly before you moved in with him, and your mother had told you that it might have taken you a while to decide, but at least you had chosen well. Your mother never made a mistake, and you had known she was the right one. As for your father, all it took was for Sinclair to start talking to him about sea fish for him to fall under her spell.

"I'm glad to spend this Christmas in a simpler way," Sinclair said in his deep voice as he stepped down from his stepladder.

"Really? I don't want you to change your ways for me."

"Not at all. It's you and you alone that I want to be with. This will be our first Christmas and I love this simplicity."

He kissed you tenderly before deepening the kiss. He lifted you up with ease and as your legs wrapped around his hips, he led you into the bedroom to share a tender moment under the sheets filled with caresses, tender kisses and sweet words whispered in your ear.

The following days, you began to create your own traditions. You walked in your favorite park on a sunny and dry but particularly cold afternoon at Sinclair wrapped you in his wool scarf when you started to shiver despite your own scarf and your wool coat lined with silk that he had given you for your birthday.

You had also spent an entire afternoon preparing gingerbread cookies and cupcakes with delicious and colorful decorations with Christmas music in the background and in the evening, to accompany your pastries, you had prepared a hot chocolate garnished with marshmallow.

There had been Christmas movie nights of course, but also board game nights and many reading nights during which you took turns reading your favorite novels, sometimes introducing the other to an author they would never have thought of reading before.

And slowly but surely, the days had passed until December 24th. Sinclair, who had worked all month, was finally enjoying a well-deserved day off. In the early morning, you had left him to enjoy a restful sleep and had gone to prepare his favorite breakfast: fried eggs with sausages, bacon and warm toast. You had also prepared a hot chocolate that you hoped would soothe his irritated throat and you had left a bar of honey-filled chocolate, your favorite.

You woke him up with a series of kisses on the back of his neck, but without you expecting it, Sinclair turned you over with a fluid movement and you found yourself pinned to the mattress, Sinclair pinning you before his solid body. 

His lips crushed gently on yours as one of his hands moved up the t-shirt - his t-shirt - that you had worn to sleep. His lips traveled down your throat and, in one movement, Sinclair removed your t-shirt to let his lips travel down your almost naked body.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered in your ear.

"Keep going," you told him as you buried your fingers in his dark blond hair.

His lips traveled down to the bottom of your stomach as his fingers played with the edge of your pajama pants. You lifted your hips slightly and he slid your pants and panties down your pale legs before throwing them to the floor.

You placed your cold hands underneath Sinclair’s shirt, making him shiver slightly but, far from turning him away, he continued to explore your body, his tongue gently caressing your clit.

“Sinclair, please,” you whispered as one of his fingers teased your entrance.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to tease your clit, his eagle-beaked nose pressing just where it should have been to make you moan without giving you the release you craved.

Just as you were about to come, Sinclair stopped, chuckling softly when you let out a small frustrated groan. He then got rid of his boxers, and positioned himself at your entrance, his hard member teasing your soaking pussy, ready for him.

He gave you a tender look to make sure you were ready. A nod from you, and he was already slowly sinking into you, his slow and calculated thrusts sending shocks throughout your body.

"Faster," you said in a breath.

Sinclair didn't need to be asked twice, his movements intensified, but still with a certain reserve. His member was longer than average and even if since your first time you had shared several nights together, you remained inexperienced and you were still learning to recognize what you liked and didn't like while he guided you with patience and love.

"Sin... Sinclair," you stammered as you felt your orgasm building inside you.

"I love you, [Y/N]," Sinclair said breathlessly.

"I love you too," you replied, one of your hands gripping his hair and the other sliding down his back.

Sinclair picked up the pace a little more, his eyes closed as if he was trying to stay focused as your toes curled against the sheets and your nipples hardened with each new thrust from Sinclair.

"[Y/N], I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

Sinclair didn't have time to finish his sentence as his orgasm caused shockwaves into your vagina, triggering your own orgasm. Feeling your tight pussy contract against his cock, Sinclair let out a grunt of satisfaction, a primal grunt that made your own chest vibrate.

Sinclair kissed you one last time, then pulled out, leaving you with an empty feeling that he quickly filled by holding you close to him.

"Thanks for breakfast," Sinclair whispered, making you laugh softly.

The rest of the day passed in relative calm. You were wearing casual clothes. You had nothing planned and no one was going to disturb your little cocoon of warmth and intimacy. In the living room, the tree was shining brightly, on the TV, "Die Hard" was distracting you and the cinnamon and orange scented candles added a pleasant touch. You were wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, leaning against Sinclair's chest, who was totally absorbed in the movie, so much so that he had forgotten his bowl of popcorn.

Well sheltered, protected from the cold outside and the snow that had started to fall at the end of the morning, covering the garden and the windowsills with a white blanket, you felt good, safe in each other's arms. And for the first time in a long time, Sinclair felt serene.

After the movie, you headed to the kitchen. You had taken care of the main course: vegetarian lasagna, and Sinclair of the dessert, a surprise you knew nothing about. The smell of tomato sauce and grilled cheese perfumed the entire kitchen. Sinclair was busy preparing the table while you watched the lasagna. When you came back with the dishes, you saw Sinclair's effort to prepare a pretty festive table. He had laid out a pretty white tablecloth decorated with gold snowflakes. Candles provided an intimate atmosphere and in the background you could hear Wham!.

"I can't wait to taste your lasagna !" Sinclair exclaimed as he sat down at the table with an almost childish excitement.

You had done well to have planned two large dishes of lasagna. Sinclair had several helpings and he was already looking forward to knowing that there would be some more for the next day... or for the evening if he ever got a little hungry.

"Please, this is my first try so don't make fun of me if it's inedible," he said as he arrived with his dessert.

It was a Christmas Pudding that looked... unappealing. But you said nothing, waiting to taste it to give your opinion. If the visual aspect was not the most inviting, the taste was exquisite.

"You're too demanding of yourself, Sinclair. It's delicious," you said between bites.

Your sincerity, your happy and loving gaze, erased all his fears. With you, he didn't aim for perfection. All he wanted was to see that glow of pride, contentment and reassurance, mixed with the obvious love you had for him.

You shared a hot, foamy bath enhanced with lavender essential oil accompanied by champagne. You dozed gently against him as he told you how sparkling white wine had become champagne. He continued by telling you about Henry II and how his conquest of Gascony had allowed the introduction of viticulture in the United Kingdom while wrapping you in a thick bathrobe.

A few hours before Christmas, you settled back into the living room, both of you covered with a blanket. Sinclair was reading Emily Bronte's work out loud while you absently stroked his arm, wondering how you had managed to be so lucky, to have met such a man and for him to have let you into his life without knowing that Sinclair was asking himself the same question.

"A hot chocolate?" he asked suddenly, making you jump slightly.

You nodded and smiled gratefully. Except that when he came back, Sinclair was not only holding a steaming cup in his hand, but a small package that he handed to you with barely contained excitement.

You opened the velvet box under his watchful gaze. Inside, there was a gold mesh bracelet with several small pendants.

"Sinclair! This is too much!" you exclaimed, moved.

"Nothing is too much for you," Sinclair answered sincerely, taking the bracelet to put it on your wrist. "A book, because you were reading Sense and Sensibility the first time I had the courage to talk to you, a cup, for the milkshakes you drink every day, a car so that you have one of my passions with you, a clover so that you always have luck and a heart," he listed as he presented each pendant to you one by one.

"My heart," he added almost shyly, a rare occurrence for Sinclair.

You kissed him without hesitation and he hugged you.

"I'm a little ashamed to give you my gift now," you said with a little redness in your cheeks.

"I'm sure I'll love it !" Sinclair exclaimed excitedly.

You went to get it, hidden among your beauty products, and handed it to him a little shyly. You had spent weeks and weeks to finish it on time. It was only yesterday afternoon that you had finally managed to complete your work, albeit imperfect. 

You would have liked to give Sinclair something more beautiful, but he already had all the books in the world including first editions - not that you could have given him a first edition on your meager salary as a receptionist for a private school - and you had never seen him wear jewelry.

"[Y/N], it's beautiful," Sinclair said as he unwrapped a hand-knitted scarf.

You weren't really convinced, but nothing could have made you doubt his sincerity, especially when he wrapped it around his neck without hesitation.

"I know it's not much..." you started, but he interrupted you almost immediately.

"It's perfect ! Just what I needed to keep warm this winter."

And just like I will always protect your heart, Sinclair, you thought without daring to say it out loud.

He hugged you and you settled back on the couch. Sinclair turned on the TV just in time to see the beginning of Little Women, a movie he knew you loved. He absently played with the bracelet that hung around your wrist, smiling to himself. There, in the comfort of your home, in the warm caring embrace, he felt at peace.

Nothing mattered anymore. Past failures, loneliness, Natalie and Richard, nothing. Except you. You and the calm with which you surrounded his existence, soothing the demons of his past that had haunted him for so long, reminding him again and again of the burning pain of the humiliation he had felt.

As midnight struck, announcing Christmas, and the snow fell harder, Sinclair observed your peaceful face on which the glow of a candle danced. You had finally fallen asleep, totally abandoned in his arms, in full trust. His heart swelled with love. You had become, in a short time, the center of his universe, his source of joy, peace, love. 

You were his present and his future. You were his special treat.

[jay-m3]

The lid!

Imagine them trying to open a jar for you only for them to fail.

Male reader insert! * Cursing and suggestive language This was also inspired by another post from someone but idk their username. Pls help me find them so I can tag!

Characters: Vox, Valentino, Adam, Alastor, Lucifer

Vox

He would roll his eyes when you ask him for help. At first, he would pretend he didn’t hear you. Secretly watching you fail at a simple task in life. How pathetic can one be? He takes the jar, looking at you, lecturing you about focusing more on training your arms instead of laying around all day-

What the fuck? He huffs, relaxing his grip before twisting once more, continuing to throw insults-

Like what the actual fucking hell! He turns his back to you, leaning forward for more strength. He grunts as his grip slips once more.

"Uh, Vox? It's fine I'll figure something out-" You reach out, hearing him start to glitch before the noise of glass breaking is heard. You look over to see that the top part of the glass is still sealed shut but the bottom half was shattered by his grip.

"Oh, come on!"

Valentino

He'll giggle watching you struggle in trying to open a jar with no success. Sliding back on his couch as he hears his lovely little boy toy grunting and sighing in frustration. It's like music to his ears. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine you in positions that will have you sounding like that.

"Val." The sound of his name wakes him up from his daze as a jar was held in his face. Chuckling, he takes the jar with his lower hands while his upper arms spread over the back of the couch. He looks at you in a haughty manner-

Eye twitching once he fails in opening the jar, he grabs it with his upper hands now. They had more strength since-

Gritting his teeth, he stands up and holds the jar close before using two hands in twisting-

"Fuck!" You cringe as he throws the bottle across the room.

Adam

He laughs and laughs and luaghs. Tears in his eyes as he watches you struggle on trying to open a damn jar. How hilarious! He should record this shit.

"Here, you try!" You shove the jar into his hands. Tired of him laughing.

"Let me show you a real man strength." He snorts out, putting out his arms out to show you how easy it will pop off-

Sniffling, he adjust his grip to a firmer one. Grunting when his hand slips off of the damn thing.

"Fucking shitty ass stupid jar!" He yells out in frustration as his multiple attempts fail him. Once you let out a chuckle, he lets go of the jar, letting it fall to the ground.

"It's fucking rigged."

Alastor

He lets out a chuckle, leaning against the counter with his hand supporting his head as he watches in fascination. Each tactic you try to pull off fail and the lid of the jar sits in victory.

"What a wonderful display of an ordeal you're going through my dear." His voice filters through in a cheerful tone as a laughing track blares out.

"Then you do it." He grabs the jar from you, pulling in the slightly big jar close to his body before trying to pop the lid off and failing. His smile widens with a grit as he places the jar down and tries again, eye twitching as the lid still remains in place.

The sound of the door opening caught your attention for a split second before turning back to Alastor-

Where did he go?

Lucifer

His eyebrows furrowed in curiosity as he looks at a jar inside a bowl of water. What is this?

"Uh, (M/n), what is this?" You tell him about how you couldn't open the jar so you looked up a method on how. The solution is to leave a jar in warm water for at least 10 minutes to soften the lid. So far, it needs 8 more minutes. He nods before a cheshire grin makes his way on his lips.

"Since I'm here, you don't have to wait much longer." He grabs the jar, from the water and twist the jar to pop it-

"Hehe, uh, slippery." He nervously chuckles, wiping it down before trying again. Seeing as it won't budge, he smiles at you with false joy.

"Give me a second, handsome." He quickly turns around, using his magic before it pops open.

"Ta-da! What can't the King of hell can't do?"