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hatsukeii · 11 months ago

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Kuroo Tetsuro has survived just about a hundred confessions in his lifetime. No, really, he has. He's survived meek, stuttering schoolgirls who bring him boxes of intricately wrapped chocolates, bolder, riskier classmates who offer to fill in the empty spot as his plus-one for school events, even girls from schools they play against who ask for a signature across their tits after Nekoma matches (which he has definitely never taken up before, for sure, not even a question.)

He is rendered speechless for the first time in his life, as he rummages through his brain, looking for the right words to either declare his undying infatuation, or to put together some sort of excuse as a backup plan if his confession goes sideways. Somehow, he fails to do either, which is how the two of you end up stuck inside the storage room of Nekoma's gym, surrounded by the seductive scent of rubber and leather volleyballs, and sweaty, unwashed school jerseys.

It was supposed to be easy, he was supposed to offer to pack up, and wait for the rest of the team to leave first, before ushering you, the team manager, over to him. He was supposed to tell you that he thought you were totally cool (not awesome yet though), one hand pressed up against the wall outside the storage room so his body could lean into it, and the other one spinning a volleyball on his finger like he just #didn't care lol if you said yes or no (which was a blatant lie). After that, since you would obviously have said yes anyways, he was supposed to flick the ball up and catch it with one hand only, flip his hair back like the totally awesome and nonchalant guy he thinks he is (he's not), and give you a wink for good measure, just so you remember how totally hot he is and never lose interest in him. Then, he would retreat into the storage room, and toss the volleyball into the basket with the others, waiting to hear for your giddy skips out of the gym. Once you were out, he would scream and jump like a teenage schoolgirl who just got their tits signed by Kuroo Tetsuro, and go home with a skip in his step. It was a perfect plan, down to the minute details.

Everything went south the second he decided to lean against the wall. It seemed that he had miscalibrated how many inches away the part of the wall that he was planning to lean on was from the door to the storage room. He instead opted to place his entire body weight onto the door that was kept ajar, so as to make sure Kuroo could go inside and toss the volleyball into the basket. It was already too late to salvage his plan when he sensed the shift in his centre of gravity, and the lack of surface beneath his feet as he tumbled straight into the storage room right in front of you. Obviously worried (of course, since you're supposed to be blindly in love with him), you ran in as well, too quickly for Kuroo to stop you before the door slowly swung shut behind your back, drowning the room in a blanket of pitch darkness.

The door unlocks from the outside. The keys are in Kuroo's pocket, which are now stuck inside the storage room that he had to unlock from the outside to keep open so he could toss the ball into the basket with the others after confessing his totally lowkey, "they don't even matter at all" feelings for you. See? This is what happens when Kuroo tries to do new things.

"You sure you don't want the lights-"

"KEEP THEM- nah, just keep them off, I like it better this way anyways."

He will stand in front of the light switch to block it completely if he needs to. He will threaten to strip naked right then and there if it means you will not even try to turn those fucking lights on. His entire body is so fucking red right now it's not even funny anymore, just embarrassing, and really, really lame. On the other hand, you just really want to find your phone, which has miraculously slipped out of your pocket and slid onto the ground of the storage room somewhere.

"Can I at least borrow your phone for a flashlight? I need to find mine, gotta let my parents know I might actually not make it home tonight."

Now Kuroo isn't a selfish person, and he is happy to offer his phone for you to find your own, so long as you don't try to look at him while you sweep across the floor of the room. He is happy to offer his phone, but it is sitting outside on a bench, far away from the horrors of the storage room. His free hand, now clammy and grimy from falling onto the ground and sweating bullets from his embarrassment, reaches up to rub his temples. Not only did his meticulously crafted plan blow up in his face, he now has to spend how many hours stuck in here with you, knowing full well he was going to confess. He can't even offer you help in finding a fucking phone in here. This isn't funny anymore, just humiliating, and really, really, really lame.

"Yeah, uh, that's somewhere outside too, my bad."

You stretch your hands out in front of you, feeling for a cart, or a wall, anything to lead your way. Your fingers manage to graze over the wall, and you almost cry out in relief when you can vaguely tell where in the storage room you are. Pressing your back against the wall, you slide downwards to sit. You don't have a watch, or any indication of time for that matter, but you can tell it's going to be a long night in here.

So why not probe a little further?

"Well, Tetsu, since we'll be stuck here for a while anyways, what were you saying before?"

The way his nickname rolls off your tongue makes him reconsider giving up on his efforts, until the rest of your question ensues. Kuroo can make out where you are from your voice, and he too tries to feel for a wall of some sort to walk along. Instead of a wall, he walks straight into you and trips over, falling into a pile of old jerseys. He isn't even sure how you're sitting here with that chemical weapon right next to you, but this will have to make do for now. He settles himself down beside you, his hand pressing against the ground.

"Me?" Who else? The Boogeyman?

"No, me. Yes, obviously you, dumbass, before you locked us both into this place."

He is sure of one thing: He does not want to confess to you right now. He did, twenty minutes ago, but as of now, he doesn't. His eyes dart wildly from one place to another, looking between nothing in particular in the pitch black room. Fuck me! Kill me now! Put a stop to this never-ending suffering! You think those old jerseys might actually have fatal effects on the human body?

"Nothing, don't worry about it haha it's literally nothing." God he sounds so fucking stupid. Haha? Seriously? Like that's going to save him now?

"Alright, then, guess we'll just sit here in silence for however long it takes until someone finds us. It will probably be tomorrow morning, just letting you know. But that's fine." No, it is not fine. You're itching to know what he was going to say. You're really hoping it's what you thought he was going for, but being hopeful leads to getting locked in a storage room, sitting next to a potential biohazard for the next 13 or so hours.

The motion activated lights outside the storage room shut off, and you can tell that it's dark out by the way that no light seeps through the bottom of the door anymore. Your stomach rumbles, unaccustomed to running this empty at this time of day. If only you can find your phone, which is lying unceremoniously somewhere in this room, and order something. That is your main concern. Kuroo's main concern is something way bigger, and much, much harder to fix. He is locked in a pitch black room with his team manager, who he's been head over heels fawning over ever since they graced the club with their presence. His phone is somewhere outside, which is not ideal. Your phone is somewhere inside, but to find it, you would have to turn the lights on, which is clearly the most reasonable thing to do. Except the second you turn the lights on, you will be able to see how the red from Kuroo's face and neck is slowly, but surely seeping into his white t-shirt, the amount of red enough to begin staining the collar pink, which is also not ideal, and is in fact, much worse.

"God, what the fuck am I doing?" Kuroo's hands travel to his ears, and the tips are smoking hot. He cups them in his palms, before rubbing his face in agony. This was supposed to be easy, and cool, and he was supposed to walk out of the gym with a new girlfriend. Now, he's not even sure when he will get to walk out of this gym. Should he make some small talk? Lie on the ground and sleep? Try to find a bottle to piss in for the night?

"If you help me find my phone, we can order food, and I'm telling you right now I need that, so badly. Can you please just turn the fucking lights on, Tetsu? Please?"

He doesn't respond, partially because he's too scared to, and mostly because he's trying to think of what excuse he can vomit out for being piping red everywhere the second you flick the lights on. He can feel you standing up by the way that your knee makes that little clicking sound when you extend them, the little sound he's heard so many times before during packup. You take one step, two steps three steps, hands outstretched and feeling for the smooth plastic of the light switch. Just as the coolness hits your fingertips, you flick the switch on.

Click!

"I'm like, really into you."

Oh! This was definitely not what you expected! Fuck me! Kill me now! How do you keep it cool when he's sitting right there!

You don't spare a second in turning the lights back off, drowning the room in darkness again, this time to hide your own flushing face. You're supposed to spend the next 13 or so hours in here with this guy, and he's just dropped a bombshell onto you. Not to say you don't reciprocate, because you obviously do (who wouldn't?), but you have to admit, it's a little scary thinking about the possibility of it, and it's really scary when the possibility is confirmed, for better or for worse.

Meanwhile, the possibility has been confirmed for Kuroo, for the worse. Much, much worse. Was it that bad? Was he so pathetic in his antics, that the second he truly meant what he said, you had to shut the lights off? He should've just waited longer, for more signs, or more tells, anything. He should've waited until his chances were maximised, so that there was no margin of error, and he definitely should not have planned to lean on a wall so close to a door that unlocks from the outside. Instead of his carefully orchestrated confession going swimmingly, it is drowning, and it's kicking and flailing its arms and legs everywhere, gasping for air.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sorry. Wow! This is really fucking embarrassing! I need to die, like right now! Feel free to stay on that side of the room, you go girl!"

You try to stifle in a laugh, but it leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Typical Tetsuro, he just can't help but end everything with a joke. Time to test his sincerity.

"Alright, well what if..."

He can hear your footsteps approaching. He shuts his eyes, he's ready for anything. Kuroo has thick skin, he knows it. He's been hit more times that he can count in every single area of his body by the force of leather balls being struck by teenage boys, he's ready for it, trust guys! He's got this! In the bag! (The bag is a soggy paper bag that just broke from the bottom. Everything inside is rolling away from him on the ground.)

Instead of the stinging slap he's expecting, your extended hand brushes his shoulder, and then two hands cradle his face from the sides. The musty air of the storage room dissipates, and he smells chapstick instead, minty, almost unnoticeable. He braces himself. You're about to break his neck, he's sure of it, and honestly, that doesn't sound like too bad of an option right now.

"...I do this?"

Goodbye, beautiful world, and volleyball, and fans asking him to sign their tits. And most importantly of all, goodbye, you.

Then he tastes mint. It's a miracle that you even manage to find where his lips are in the pitch black darkness of the room, but a shot of luck works out in miraculous ways sometimes. This is one of those times. Kuroo has no idea what he's doing. Should his hands go on your waist? Or your face? Or your neck? Why is he thinking about those things right now, as if he can see where you are, and as if you aren't kissing him in the middle of the gym storage room? Fuck it, he just shuts his eyes and lets it happen, placing his hands wherever he can find you.

After all, he's Kuroo Tetsuro, and he just pulled his team manager by locking himself in a room with them on accident at 8pm on a Wednesday night.

"This was all a part of my masterplan, you just weren't aware of it."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Tetsu."

“Oh, this definitely does.”

You pull him close by his collar, and you can feel the heat radiating off his face. You smirk, can’t have a guy like him getting too cocky.

“Don’t embarrass me, motherfucker.”

Kuroo grins at your threat. Never has he ever had to make his own confession, let alone receive a threat in response. To be fair, never has he ever been locked in the gym’s storage room with his team manager either. Truly a night of new experiences.

He thinks it’s hot. Like really hot. He might just embarrass you a little once every so often to hear you say it again.

“Whatever you say, princess.”

____________________________________________

Kenma comes in for morning practice the next day, and for once Kuroo is earlier than him, judging by the way that his duffel bag is slouched over the bench, and his regular sneakers are sitting beneath it. Coach has given him the spare keys to the storage room, just in case Kuroo has lost his set again. He goes to unlock the door, seeing that it's closed, which means Kuroo has definitely lost them.

He opens the door to the two of you asleep, half of your body sprawled on top of his, and one of his arms resting inside your shirt, right on the dip of your back, atop a pile of old, musty jerseys. He winces, not at the sight of the two of you finally together, but at the fact that you two have managed to fall asleep in the centre of a bioweapon.

author's note:

i cracked myself up so many times writing this you have no idea, and i hope i have cracked you up too as you read this.

here are the tags!

@chuuya-brainrot @starlysama @bailey-reeds

will see you all in the next one, love u guys, bye bye

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x reader #hq imagines #hq crack #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo testuro #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu oneshot #kuroo tetsuro fluff #haikyuu fluff #kuroo tetsuro imagine #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo fluff

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hildergard · 11 months ago

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just thinking about aemond x lowborn!reader (I found myself in love with that trope) he helps her by giving her food, money, clothes, and stuff. but the reader is a younger daughter or lives in a toxic environment and everything is monopolized by her family and when aemond finds out he simply sees red. i'm sorry if this doesn't make sense, but the idea is there!!!

PRECIOUS ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Swearing, suggestive content, dysfunctional family

WORDCOUNT | 2.7k

NOTE | Enjoy this thing I wrote in one sitting and did not edit. If you see any mistake... no you did not. There probably is⏤English is not my first language. In my mind, they are "rich" enough to buy food so I focused on gifts instead. I hope you'll like it nonetheless. I tried to keep it short this time and, for once, I think I succeeded! Thank you for requesting this great prompt <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Downstairs, the intoxicated patrons sang their bawdy songs and shook the walls of the inn. Their lewd rhymes travelled through the dingy floorboards and vanished against your parted lips.

A hand went up your spine, grazed your shoulders, and stopped on your sweaty neck.

“Where is it?”

The voice hit the air and sent shivers down your spine. That authoritative tone, those proudly exhaled consonants, those whispered vowels... His words exuded nobility and education and set your whole body ablaze. You closed your eyes for a second and imagined yourself blessed with such gift of the gab, but your sentence fell awkwardly from your bruised lips.

“What do you mean?”

The sticky sheets crumpled under your weight. You squinted to make out the silhouette of your lover. In the moonlight, his hair looked as if it had been woven from the stars.

“Where is your necklace?" Aemond asked.

Mindlessly, your fingers hit an infinity of naked flesh. You gulped.

“Oh... Well... I didn't want to wear a beautiful object liked that in Flea Bottom. Thieves are everywhere with the blockade–”

“I gave it to you for you to wear it," he cut you off.

The pitch-dark night itself could not hide his discontent.

“I know, my love," you say softly.

He had been so happy to give it to you. The gold chain and the sapphire still sparkled in your dreams. Sometimes, at night, you would remember Aemond's delicate fingers against your neck, the refreshing coldness of the precious metal on your flesh, its weight against your throat... And then, the sun would tear you from your dreams and the only thing left around your neck would be the knot of your guilt.

“No matter," he finally said.

Your prince's fingers descended on your chest, brushed against your nipple but did not linger, much to your regret. Aemond got out of bed and left your body cold⏤it was so easy to let yourself be consumed by dragonfire. It burned your heart oh so beautifully.

Without a word, Aemond bent down and took a packet out of his leather bag. You looked away from his naked body, your cheeks aflame. The many nights you had spent with him, learning the map of his muscles and flesh, had done nothing for your shyness. It died in an explosion of pleasure each night but would always be reborn in the painful awareness left in the vanishing carnal bliss.

Aemond came back and handed you the gift, one knee resting on the thin mattress. A lump twisted in your throat and rendered you speechless. With a trembling hand, you pulled the ribbon and let the fabric fall to reveal a magnificent dress.

You closed your eyes for a moment and forced a smile onto your face.

“You shouldn't have," you said through clenched teeth.

“You say that every time," he laughed. “And you know very well that I will not stop. You deserve to be pampered, my love."

You don't command a nobleman, let alone a Targaryen. Perhaps that was why Aemond kept ignoring your request, for it never changed. Every gift was answered with this phrase. There was no false modesty there, just the familiar, creeping guilt⏤an old enemy coming to torment you.

“It’s beautiful.”

Your fingers brushed against the blue bodice, where golden threads wove in a fine, expensive, embroidery⏤a huge dragon slumbered in a field of flowers.

At your words, Aemond smiled brightly and kissed your forehead. His lips left their wet imprint, which you did not wipe away. You would cherish its feeling a little longer. He moved down your cheeks and finally attacked your lips. You groaned and buried your hand in his hair before pressing your chest against his.

“I must go now," he said reluctantly between kisses.

You stepped back with a sigh and glanced at the window. The hour of the wolf was darkening the sky. Downstairs, the patrons had quietened down. Heavy, awkward footsteps echoed in the corridor and doors slammed.

At last, the more festive souls were going to bed.

If you listened carefully, you could hear the bakers already hard at work. The first to rise, they sweetened the dreams of citizens with the sweet and greedy fragrances they distilled in the streets.

Aemond slumped onto the bed one last time and pulled you in for a last kiss.

“The next time I see you, I will rip that silk off your body," he smiled before pointing to the discarded dress.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, and kissed him one last time.

Aemond⏤hood falling on his head⏤disappeared with an uttered I love you and left you alone with your guilt. A sigh shook your chest.

You got dressed and went downstairs, leaving the stains on the linen as the only trace of your love. You absently nodded at Denyse, busy wiping the tables, and set off into the streets of Flea Bottom.

It would take you a good hour to get to the forge.

You already longed for your bed on the other side of the town.

Flea Bottom, for all its faults, provided the discretion you needed to meet your prince every night. It was Aemond who had shown you this little inn after you refused to use the secret passages leading to the Red Keep⏤you would not throw yourself into the dragon's jaws.

Your feet cursed you, but your heart thanked you for these precious moments⏤away from the reproaches and the forge, the vices of the court and the pressure of power. In this dingy room, the Prince softened and removed his iron mask to reveal the gentle soul hidden behind it, while you forgot the shrill cries that tormented your days.

It took you longer than usual to reach the Street of Steel. As you passed through the wooden door, the hour of the Nightingale was casting its first rays of sunshine and waking up the workers.

Your mother was waiting for you, arms crossed and a bucket of water at her feet.

Without delay, she ripped the dress from your hands and replaced it with the bucket. A few drops splashed onto you, soaking the front of your sweaty tunic.

“Where did you get that?” her sharp voice asked. “You stole it, didn’t you? How many times do I have to tell you–”

“I didn’t– It's not–”

She cut you off before you could come up with an excuse.

Her fingernails scraped at the embroidery, which held firm.

“That’s some good work..." she mumbled. “We'll get a few silver stags out of it... Maybe enough to repair the oven. Meredyth? Meredyth! Come downstairs and take this to the weaver next door!”

You held out a shaking hand to try and retrieve the dress, but your mother glared at you. You lowered your head, your eyes wet. Aemond's face appeared in your thoughts and the guilt⏤always there⏤ignited.

You no longer had the strength to fight the inevitable. Dawn, beautiful as it was, always had its share of disappointments in store for you. Every morning, your prince's gifts were snatched from you without remorse and sold to the nearest merchant. All that remained of your jewels and dresses was a thick leather purse hidden under the floor of your parents' bedroom⏤both took great pleasure in lecturing you about stealing and sinning.

Your mother could pretend all she wanted to be pious and kind, a good believer with a guiltless conscience, but you knew the truth. She would never go through with her threats, far too happy with the gold dragons piling up under her pillow.

Your sister ran down the stairs and grabbed the package before examining its contents.

“Oh, Mum, it's so beautiful…” She took the dress out of its wrapping and pressed it to her chest before twirling around, not minding the dirt on the silk with her ashen fingers. “Can we keep it?”

Your mother scoffed.

“To do what? You don't need an embroidered dress to forge swords and shoe horses. Why don't you go and see if Claere can take it? And you!" she turned back to you. “Clean the grindstone. You’ll sharpen the commissions next. Corwyn isn't here.”

The knot tightened around your neck as you nodded and disappeared into the workshop.

The hours passed. Sweat stuck to your forehead and the sparks from the grindstone bit your fingers. At last⏤to your delight⏤ nine o'clock struck the end of the day. You gave Duncan⏤a golden cloak⏤the dagger he had ordered, pocketed the fifty silver stags and wished him a good evening.

When he closed the door, you hurried up to your room, washed yourself with the bucket of cold water, put on one of your best dresses and ran to Flea Bottom, ignoring your mother's cries, which faded under the beating of your soles.

You arrived at the inn out of breath, but happy to be away from home. Denyse greeted you with a wink and watched you stride up the stairs. The steps creaked under your weight, but you did not care. Habit and euphoria carried you to an innocuous door.

You opened it and a body flung itself against yours. A smile lit up your face. Aemond did not wait and pulled you to the bed.

As his lips peppered your neck with kisses, his hands slipped under your body and roamed the length of your back. They clung to your dress and sought out the threads of your bodice, but suddenly stopped. You tensed. Gently, Aemond straightened up. He looked at you before his eye fell on your cotton dress.

“What is this?”

“Aemond, I–”

“Wasn't it to your liking? You should have told me. I would have asked the royal weaver to make the necessary alterations. We just received Essos fabrics. Perhaps it would have been wiser to talk to you about it before commissioning it,” he frowned.

“It was perfect.”

“Was?”

You sighed and embraced him. Immediately, Aemond's hands searched for yours. Your fingers intertwined. He pulled you against him and tucked his chin into your neck. As he spoke, his breaths hit your skin and made you shiver.

“What are you not telling me, my love?”

His closeness calmed you. With the tip of your pointer finger, you brushed his back and caressed the hollow of his spine. Your hand came to rest on the small of his back and traced invented letters that told of all the love you felt for him. He smiled against your neck and kissed it, understanding the gibberish you were writing with an ignorant hand.

The language of love knew no illiteracy.

“Y/N?”

Your sigh struggled to come out, blocked by the muscular torso against your chest. It struggled to find its way to your lips and when it did come out, it poured all its guilt into the air before suffocating you.

“It's just that... I mean... Don't get angry, please, I couldn't bear it,” you begged.

“Never, my love. Now tell me.”

“Your gifts… My parents… They sell them.”

He straightened up and sought your gaze, but you turned your head away. Guilt lacerated your throat. You swallowed to get rid of the horrible feeling, but it remained.

The Gods were punishing you.

“They sell them and use the gold for the forge or when they feel like it.”

He said nothing, which worried you.

“Stop offering me more," you stammered. “I beg you, Aemond. I can't bear the guilt any longer. Please, Aemond. You must understand…”

He hushed you and gently caressed your cheek. You took refuge in the warmth of his palm and closed your eyes. His lips wiped away the few tears that rolled down your cheekbone.

“It is all right.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, my sweet. Now please, do not cry. I cannot bear this sight.”

After your conversation, Aemond stopped bringing you gifts. Your heart sank, but you told yourself that it was for the best⏤your parents would, at last, no longer monopolise his fortune. Now, all your prince had left to offer you were his caresses and words, but you felt richer than if he had given you a piece of jewellery.

Your hammer struck the iron, sending sparks flying. They nicked at your cheeks but did not dim the smile on your face. Your thoughts drifted back to last night, Aemond's warm skin against yours, his hand between your thighs, his warmth and his thrusts…

A metallic noise brought you back to reality. You raised your head and blinked, expecting to find Corwyn in the workshop, but there was only you.

It comes from the shop, you realised.

You frowned⏤thinking about the person behind the counter⏤and wiped your hands on an old towel before walking to the front. Worry settled in your chest as you quickened your pace.

Your father never dropped his tools. Years of experience had turned his hammer into a part of his hand. He was no longer the young apprentice you or your siblings still were.

You stumbled into the shop.

“M’prince!" your father stammered. “To what do we owe this honour?”

Your wide eyes met Aemond's satisfied one. The towel fell to the floor.

“Would you like a sword? I have several that might please you. No Valyrian steel around here unfortunately," he chuckled, "but they cut just as good.”

“I’ve come to discuss your daughter's affairs.”

“Meredyth?”

“Your youngest daughter," the Prince replied.

Your father gave you an incredulous look when you reached him. His fist tightened around the hammer he had picked up.

“I heard a rumour that rather annoys me, I must admit. A rumour about valuable objects that have an unfortunate tendency to disappear.”

Your father grabbed your upper arm to keep you in line⏤ unwilling to sully his image in front of the Prince Regent.

“Her mother and I...! We've told her a hundred times not to steal! She's a good girl, m’prince. She's just a little... lost. Youth, you know," he smiled nervously. “No need to make a big deal of it. Don't you think?”

“Oh, your daughter is innocent. You are the problem, sir.”

“M-me?”

“You see, those objects were gifts. From me, might I add. And I take great offence that you not only stole them but shamelessly sold them for your own gain, embezzling money from the crown. This is an act of treason, did you know that? I could have your head for this.”

You massaged the bridge of your nose between two fingers and sighed, cursing your lover's hot blood and praying to the Gods to give you the strength. Three eyes burned at your temple⏤two of embarrassment, one of pride. You met your father's gaze and shrugged.

“I… I beg your pardon, m’prince. We didn't know.”

Your father set down his hammer on the counter and curtsied. His callused fingers waved, unsure of what to do, before plunging into the centre pocket of his leather apron.

The prince stared at your father for a few more seconds, gloating as he squirmed with embarrassment, and moved towards you. Gently, he took hold of your wrist. You gasped when a cold sensation touched your hand. You looked down and found a magnificent ring on your finger⏤a fine circle of twisted gold with several sparkling sapphires.

“And there it was. Something as precious as you," he smiled, stroking the jewel with his thumb. “A thousand stones could not compare with your eyes, but I must admit I cannot wait to see it on your finger tonight. It will be all the more beautiful under the moonlight.”

Aemond kissed your hand before straightening up to glare at your father.

“If I hear this ring has been sold, you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

“Yes, m’prince.”

“Hmm. Good.”

He left the forge with a confident step and slammed the door behind him.

Silence stretched on. Your teary eyes remained riveted on the jewel. The imprint of his kiss still warmed the back of your hand and made your heart race. You shook your fingers, welcoming this new weight, and smiled brightly.

After several minutes, your father, his mouth ajar, finally turned to you.

“Now, what on earth did you do to seduce a prince, girl?

#★ WRITING #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #hotd x reader #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond angst #aemond x reader smut #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic

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redvexillum · 9 months ago

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TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, masturbating!vox, sex toy, penetration, bondage, dom/sub undertone, lots of f-bombs dropped, consensual play

The leather cuffs bit into your wrists, the taut straps digging into your skin as you squirmed against them. Your legs were spread wide, forced apart by a thick, cold metal bar hooked behind your knees, rendering you completely exposed. The surrounding room was eerily sparse, save for the gleaming obsidian-coloured machine at the centre. Its dark surface shimmered beneath the cold, artificial blue light cast from the array of monitors encircling you. Most of the screen flickered blank, their glow barely illuminating the space by making the shadows seem deeper, more oppressive.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your body already thrumming with anticipation. Your cunt clenched involuntarily, then relaxed, the slow, pulsing need growing nigh unbearable. You bit your lower lip, trying to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape as your arousal dripped out from you, a slick heat sliding down from your inner lips.

“B-boss,” you breathed, shivering at the sensation of the cool air caressing your bare skin, teasing the sensitive edges of your desire. “How long are you going to keep me like this?” You asked, voiced laced with playful defiance as you smirked despite yourself. “Time is money, after all,” you added with a low, husky whisper, your tongue teasingly curling around his name. “Vox.”

A sharp crackle of static filled the room, and then Vox’s face appeared – surrounding you, filling every screen. “Oh, Sunshine,” he chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re off the clock tonight.” His lips pulled upwards into a wicked grin as his piercing red eyes locked onto yours through the cameras, narrowing slightly in dark amusement. “So don’t worry about that. This isn’t company’s time, after all.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a laugh that threatened to betray your own excitement. “What are you going to do, then?” You taunted, raising an eyebrow as you let your gaze drift down your body, your nipples hardening under the cool air. “Just sit there and stare at me, like this?” Your voice dropped to a sultry murmured as your muttered, “Pervert.”

His low, dark laughter filled the room, echoing around you, before a sudden mechanical hum cut through the sound. A sharp yelp escaped your lips as the machine came to life, the phallic-shaped appendage rising from its centre. It pressed its cool, metallic tip against your throbbing heat, sending a jolt of desperate want through your entire body. Slowly, agonizingly, the bulbous head nudged into you, parting your slick folds with its firm, unyielding girth. You gasped as it stretched you, every inch sinking deeper, your wetness making it easy for the machine to claim you.

"Oh fu–" The words caught in your throat as the machine hissed to life, juddering forward. Inch by inch, its cock sank inside you, stretching you wide, filling you in ways you hadn’t imagined. “Ah–mhm,” you moaned, your head lolling to the side, your breath shuddering with every push. The machine hummed, almost as if it were pleased, burrowing deeper, filling you completely. It hit places within you that made your toes curl, sparking sensation that jolted your body to life.

Your breaths turned into heavy pants, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you squirmed beneath the machine’s relentless pace. Each inch of its smooth length glided against your inner walls, the sensation overwhelming as it pushed further, deeper. When it finally reached the tender, fleshy wall inside you, a sharp gasp escaped your lips – a mixture of pleasure and pain as your cervix strained to accommodate the size.

“Ah–!” Your cry was soft but desperate, the intense pleasure teetering on the edge of too much. Just before it crossed that threshold, the machine stilled, its presence a heavy, pulsing weight deep within you. Your body responded on instinct, your walls clenching and twitching around the thick cock buried inside you, begging for more. You could feel the heat blooming between your legs, your body trembling with the need to be filled and used.

“You like that, don’t you?” Vox’s voice echoed through the room, distant yet commanding, dripping with dark amusement. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes, followed by a soft, satisfied sigh that made your skin prickle. “Mmm…tell me, baby doll, tell me how much you like being stuffed full, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll reward you.”

Your face flushed with heat, the fire in your cheeks spreading down to where the machine still stretched you wide. The last remnants of your pride crumbled under the pressure, replaced with sheer, unadulterated need.

“Oh, fuck–Vox, please,” you grasped, your voice breaking as you strained against the bindings, your hips wriggling on the machine’s cock. “Please, fuck me… I feel so full, so stretched – Vox, please!” The words poured out of you, each plea more breathless than the last. Your cunt clenched tight around the artificial cock, squeezing as if to pull it deeper.

You made the mistake of imagining it was Vox inside you instead, and that single thought send a flood of fresh arousal rushing from your, your slickness coating the machine. The ache in your core only grew stronger, your entire body sparking like live wire.

Vox’s voice crackled through the speakers again, but this time it was low, roughly, dripping with lust. You could hear the unmistakable wet sound of his hand working himself, the soft groans slipping past his lips as he watched you write on the machine. “That’s right, baby doll,” he growled, his voice laced with heat. “Keep begging. I want to hear every filthy word.”

“Please, Vox,” you whispered, voice trembling as your body quaked with insurmountable need. “Fuck me good, please…”

That was all it took. The machine’s crimson eyes lit up, glowing ominously, and with a loud whirl, it surged to life again. The first thrust was slow, almost teasing, the thick cock easing in and out, deliciously stretching you out once more. The wet squelch of your arousal filled the air as it slid through your soaked folds, each pump driving deeper, harder, making your entire body tremble with desire.

It began to pick up pace, the rhythmic thrusts intensifying, each one sending jolts of pleasure through your core. The wet, lewd sounds grew louder, echoing through the dark room, as the machine relentlessly fucked you – just the way you’d begged for.

“Ah, fuck,” you moaned, head falling back as the machine drove into you relentlessly. Your neck exposed, a vulnerable column of bare skin glistening with sweat as your chest heaved, breathless from the onslaught. The cold floor beneath you was unforgiving, adding to the harsh contrast between your restraint and the brutal way the machine was fucking you.

The cuffs bit into your wrists, holding you in place, and with each thrust, you were reminded that you had no choice but to take everything Vox was giving you. The thought made molten liquid pool between your legs – a mix of demeaning and deliciously erotic, knowing you were being used as his personal plaything, his private material to get off.

“L-like what you see?” You panted, trying to hold on to some semblance of control, though your voice was shaky and breathless. The air pistons hissed louder, the machine’s pace increasing as it plotted into you harder, faster. “Ah, ah, fuck!” You cried, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge, each impact against your g-spot sending electric currents down your body. The wet, obscene sounds of your arousal bounced against the wall, sealing your approval in a way that words couldn’t.

“That’s right, baby,” Vox’s voice was thick with lust, his breathing uneven as his arm worked in a steady, repetitive motion. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore, his ragged pants and grunts proof of how much he was enjoying the sight of your being fucked brainless. “I’m recording this,” he growled, the strain in his voice growing as his strokes became faster, more frantic. “Gonna watch it every time I need to jerk off,” he panted, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as his breathing hitched.

The machine, as if sensing its master’s own impending climax, kicked into overdrive. With a sharp surge of energy, the pace became wild, erratic. Each thrust pounded into you with ferocity, the thick cock slamming into your g-spot again and again, your cervix kissed with every brutal stroke.

Your ears were filled with the sound of wet slaps, the machine whirring, hissing, louder and louder. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” You gasped, your body squirming helplessly beneath the ferocity of the machine as your orgasm approached like a tidal wave, ready to crash over you. “Fuck me!” You screamed, saliva slipping from the corner of your mouth, your head thrashing side to side. You were desperate – so, so close, the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

“Fuuuuck!” Vox’s moan was long and drawn out, the sound distorted as his voice glitched, signalling his release. The wet sounds of his climax filled your ears, and it was all you needed.

The moment his groan hit you, your body tensed, your cunt spamming violently around the thick shaft inside you. Your orgasm hit with explosive force, your walls clenching and pulsing as you cried out, the waves of pleasure completely crashing over you and taking you under. The machine didn’t slow, continuing to pelt you with overwhelming sensation, picking you further and further into a new territory you have never experienced before.

Your mouth hung open, a silent scream on your lips as your body convulsed, something warm and wet spilling out of you in a powerful spray. Your squirt red hard, drenching the machine, your arousal coating every inch of its cock as it milked every last drop from you.

It wasn’t until your moans turned into small sobs of over-stimulation that the machine finally slowed, its movements easing into a crawl. The thick cock remained buried deep inside you, your cunt still twitching and squeezing around it as if refusing to let go. Your body trembled as you tried to catch your breath.

Your vision blurred with exhaustion as you blinked your eyes open, barely able to focus on the monitors surrounding you. There was Vox, staring at you with a mixture of triumph and satisfaction, a droplet of his own release smeared across his face.

A weak smile tugged at your lips as you exhaled a shaky laugh. “So, boss, when are you going to come down here and fuck me with your cock?”

Vox blinked, his expression faltering for just a moment before something sparked – literally. A small arc of blue electricity snapped from the tip of his antenna, and his face flickered until it turned into a solid blue with small white writing across it.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Looks like I’m not the only one who got fucked brainless,” you teased, your voice hoarse, but filled with a satisfied warmth.

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

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hawkinsbnbg · 1 year ago

Text

Silver fox Steve meets fox hunter Eddie.

When Steve accepted the teaching position at IU, he didn't expect to stumble upon Eddie Munson–an enigma—who loved metal, who wore leathers with chains and rings, who always stood out with that wild mane, those attractive tattoos and devil-may-care attitude, and who had been trying to get into his pants for months now.

“Is this still a violation to the college’s policies, Professor?” Hot lips planted by his ears, strong hands held him down, stopped him from getting away.

“N– No,” Steve gasped and rolled his eyes back as Eddie hit that spot again. They had been at it for over an hour now, and Steve only had himself to blame for being weak-willed.

He had half a mind to worry about what his colleagues might say tomorrow about having seen him slink away with one of the graduates. But his head was rendered blank when those long calloused fingers wrapped around his neglected cock and started jerking it.

“Am I still too young for you, Professor?”

“Ye– Oh, god–” Steve writhed and slobbered as his sweet spots were battered again.

“Just Eddie is fine,” the younger man nipped the tip of his ear teasingly before setting up a brutal pace.

Steve couldn't even talk, he just fisted the sheet beneath him, overwhelmed and overstimulated. He was kind of appalled and thrilled by it all. Because sex had never felt so good to him before.

“Am I good enough for you, Professor?” Eddie asked, voice husky and gravelly with lust.

Steve dropped his mouth open to maybe form a proper word or breathe, he didn't know. His brain was too fucked out to remember why he had kept turning Eddie away in the first place.

The guy clearly knew how to plow. Fucking Christ.

He nodded blindly, moaning and losing his mind as Eddie hammered into his prostate as if wanting to knock his soul away.

He came with Eddie’s name on his tongue, twitching and clenching around the thick cock that pulsed inside him. He milked it for what it was worth, and lamented inwardly Eddie had filled the condom and not him.

Once the post-coital high finally passed, the clarity of the situation dawned on him. Steve didn't regret it, but he was mildly disappointed this was just a one-time thing.

Because of all people, he knew Eddie’s kind the best. Always curious, always eager to take on challenges. And who else was better to conquer than Professor Harrington who was known for being a rule stickler?

Except, tonight was the first time he let himself be swayed by those charming smiles and big impish eyes. Maybe it was old ages having mellowed him, or maybe it was loneliness wearing his guard down.

Either way, someone brilliant like Eddie would never stick around for a boring old man like Steve. Which was completely understandable. But it didn't hurt less to think he was just another pitstop in Eddie’s life. Easy to forget, easy to leave behind.

“Hope you haven’t gotten tired of me yet, Mr. Harrington,” Eddie returned from the bathroom with a washcloth in hands, looking far too chirpy in only a pair of black boxers and not at all as drained as Steve felt.

God, what a time to be reminded that he was too old for this.

Sitting against the headboard, Steve said nothing and just watched Eddie climb on the bed and kneel over to him. When he intended to take the washcloth, Eddie just grabbed his hand to kiss the back of it instead.

“Allow me to take care of my date,” the younger man said cheekily before proceeding to wipe him down with practiced ease.

“Your date, huh?” Steve snorted, laughing at himself for being so pathetic to perk up at that.

“Yeah, my date,” Eddie smiled softly, tone still light-hearted but eyes intense when they met his own. “We’re kinda doing it backward here but I can fix that.”

Jesus. Steve didn't think he knew what he was getting himself into. And still, he couldn't help but listen to his stupid heart, the one that was telling him to give Eddie a chance.

“How?”

“I know this place has really good tacos,” Eddie rested a hand on his bare thigh and stroked it slowly. “They also serve quite decent drinks and mean buffalo wings.”

“What if I say no?” Steve raised his eyebrow.

“Well, in that case,” Eddie deflated, looking like a kicked puppy as he braved on. “I’ll respect your decision and get out of your hair soon.”

Steve sighed, wishing pretty boys with big eyes weren't his weakness.

“Listen carefully,” he leveled Eddie with a serious look. “If you’re just looking for someone to fool around with, then I’m not the right person for you. But if you want to try for a real relationship, then we can do it together. And I’ll expect you to be fully committed. No polygamy or anything alike.”

Eddie grinned at him, dimpled and bright, before cupping his cheek and kissing the side of his mouth.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been committed to you since the first time we met. Been yours even before you noticed me.”

The fact that Steve could tell it was true made his heart flutter in his chest.

“Well then, Mr. Munson, I have no problem with you fixing our date tonight,” he turned his head slightly to press a chaste kiss on Eddie’s lips.

“So polite,” Eddie chuckled and kissed him again, but it was deeper and more tender this time.

Although Steve still couldn't quite believe Eddie would stick around, he decided to take the leap of faith anyway.

And many years later, when he glanced up from his newspaper to see Eddie showing him another new sweater for their dog, he knew he had made the right choice that night.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #professor steve harrington #college graduate eddie munson #silver fox steve harrington #fox hunter eddie munson #eddie ‘ages is just a number’ munson #steve ‘with old age comes more cakes’ harrington #eddie randomly got into crochet and became invested in their dog's fashion choices since then #steve crocheted as well but he only made one or two things every blue moon #and eddie hoarded all of them stating that limited handmade goods were also included in his marriage insurance #sionewritesatmidnight

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ivypos-writes · 1 year ago

Text

with my touch (i have cursed you)

— aemond targaryen

summary: His first touch plants a seed of desire, and it is only a matter of time before it blooms.

Or, all the times Aemond touches her, and the one when he lets himself be touched.

warnings: 18+, au—no dance of dragons, targcest, aemond being a tease and a little shit, mutual pining, unhealthy amounts of tension, first times, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, multiple orgasms, aemond being pathetic (he whimpers), smut with plot (and the plot is just prolonged foreplay)

word count: 8.7k

notes: so. i wrote this thing. english is not my first language. all reblogs and comments are very appreciated! aemond girlies, we are so back.

(also available on ao3.)

The street is bustling with life.

She is little more than a dull spot against a variety of colours, and something about the thought of blending with the surroundings is more comforting than anything she has ever known. She tightens her hold on the large hood of the cloak and pushes past a gathering of haggling customers, giggling as they shout in indignation.

It is still early, though the skies above head are spotted with warm oranges and pinks. The air is different here. Sultry. She traverses the cobblestone paths and passes through alleys filled with shops and boisterous merchants, and her eyes grow brighter with each step.

She has known life in its subdued form—in gold and jewels, and soft-spoken words, and lullabies sung at nighttime. She has been sheltered, and dressed in gowns, and taught to wield practiced smiles and pretty countenance. It is the first time that she experiences havoc. There is dirt and dust, and curses falling left and right, and women dressed scarcely in anything, scraps of fabric falling down their shoulders without care for decency.

In these streets, life is fervent. Chaotic, unashamedly passionate, and lewd in ways that render her breathing shallow.

At once, she is filled with greed.

Led by impulse alone, she blurs into the masses of depravity. She forgets about her name and titles. Here, she is just a woman—not a silver-haired maiden, or a dragonrider, or her mother’s daughter. It is easy to forget duty when it is nowhere to be seen; when it is replaced with pure, unadulterated perversity.

Something flutters in her heart, and it must be freedom.

She passes by multiple stands, and because here she is not a princess, she catches the string of a flower pendant and snitches it from its spot. The trader doesn’t notice, too engrossed in his attempts to sell his goods for a too-high price. She is quick to hide it deep inside her pocket, and the smile that lightens her face is radiant.

Her feet ache, but she stubbornly speeds towards the nearest corner. It is right there, and she almost reaches its edge—

“Are you up to no good, niece?”

A gasp tears out of her mouth. She turns, wide-eyed and flushed, and finds a splash of silver-white strands shining against worn-out fabric. She scans the porcelain skin and the puckered scar that paints it in pinks; traces the leather of the eyepatch. He looks different in this particular light. Warm hues of the sky bathe him in a gleam that softens the curves of his features; there is an odd gentleness in him that she doesn’t recognise.

“Aemond,” she murmurs.

He seems pleased with himself. She catches a glint in his eye that whispers of carefully restrained mischief; his lips are curved into the beginning of a smile. She’s seen this particular expression only a handful of times, and always in the face of chaos.

It suits him. More often than not, and only ever quietly, she thinks he was carved for it.

“I didn’t take you for a little thief.”

Her cheeks burn. They must be scarlet red, and she inwardly curses both the humidity and the weight of his gaze that only fuels the onslaught of the tint. Aemond’s smirk grows. The blatant exhibition of her shame appears to have entertained him.

“A thief?” she repeats, eyes rounded with what she hopes is a convincing display of innocence. “Have you any proof?”

He breathes out a little laugh. It’s sharp and fleeting, and she drinks up the sound of it, oddly enthralled. She is not familiar with his laughter. Her skin prickles as its remnants linger between them.

Aemond moves closer, and soon the distance between them is so small that their cloaks brush against one another.

She is so caught off-guard that she barely notices the pendant dangling from his finger. Aemond swings it in front of her face, and when she reaches for it with a surprised gasp, he moves his hand away in the blink of an eye.

Her mouth twists in displeasure. His grin grows.

“Give it back,” she demands.

“It wasn’t yours in the first place.”

“I claimed it as mine.”

“Did you?” Aemond’s eye lights up in flames. From this close, she can almost sense the heat. “Is it as simple as that?”

“It is.”

She doesn’t expect him to truly return the pendant into her waiting hand, and her eyebrows furrow in surprise when he does. Aemond says nothing more. His expression is meticulously crafted—it is layers upon layers of riddles that she does not know how to solve. She imagines peeling them off one by one and finding him as he is—bare before her eyes. She wonders what she’d find written over his face when it is unspoiled by composure.

His fingers briefly tickle the skin of her palm before they’re gone. They leave a searing trail in their wake.

“It’s a poor disguise.” Aemond eyes the hood that falls onto her forehead, and the few curls that cascade down her face in silver streaks. “If you want to sneak out into the city, you ought to be more clever.”

She scowls. “And you, of course, know everything about it.”

There is contemplation in his eye. He rids himself of the smiles that she doesn’t recognise, and puts on a calculating face that she’s seen many times before. It makes him look more familiar. Most of the times that their paths cross, she finds him lost deep in thought.

“Come.”

She eyes his outstretched hand with scepticism.

He will likely drag her back to the Red Keep—to the judging stares and stinging reprimands and her mother’s burning disappointment. There is nothing she loathes more than being forced to endure interrogations regarding her behaviour. She will be scolded, as if it is a crime that she, a girl, has decided to experience something more than feigned propriety.

She thinks she would rather stay within the dirt and stench of the city.

Aemond hums in response to her silence, and the sound is so low that she needs to chase it through the clamour of the street. There is something akin to understanding that appears on his face.

His hand remains still.

“Do you wish to see the city or not?”

She blinks, perplexed, and it takes a mere moment for her fingers to lace with his. His are warmer than hers; heat engulfs her, and she unconsciously presses against him with doubled force.

When her eyes return to his face, Aemond is already watching her. He leans towards her. His breath tickles her cheek.

“Stay close,” Aemond orders. He stands in such proximity that they breathe the same air. “And don’t be a brat.”

She lets him tighten his hold on her hand, and soon they are walking the path side by side.

Aemond shows her the city in all its glory, and not once does his grip waver.

She spends the night tracing the remnants of his fingertips on her skin.

He smells of smoke.

It is a cloudless day, and she has decided to forsake the red walls of the castle in favour of the sun-soaked yard. There is only the scent of grass and parchment. It is why she senses him before he speaks. He permeates the air like he owns it.

“Shouldn’t you be with your septa?”

The skin of her palm tingles with the memory of his touch; she clutches at the silken fabric of her dress, if only to smother the sudden urge to hold something between her fingers. There is a large tome in her lap, and she flicks the pages absentmindedly, determined not to look at him.

She hasn’t seen him since their escapade through the streets of King’s Landing. It is not that she avoids him—only she does, because it feels as if the line between them that she’s known all her life became blurred. She searches for its remains and finds them long shattered. There is void space in its stead that she knows not what to make of

“Shouldn’t you mind your own business, uncle?”

She hears him snort quietly. There is a rustling sound that follows, and soon Aemond’s arm is brushing against hers. It is a feather-like touch, but she freezes all the same.

He smells of smoke. Fire. Scorching flames. Her skin burns beneath the sleeve of her dress in all places he has touched.

“The Seven-Pointed Star,” Aemond reads, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “I didn’t take you for a woman of faith.”

Slowly, a little hesitantly, she turns her face towards him. His own is perfectly neutral, but she finds a glimpse of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. She squints at him, feigning offence.

“Did you take me for a woman of sin, then?”

He doesn’t answer. She supposes it is an answer in its own right. Before she can think it through, her arm shoots forward; she elbows him in the side and smiles at the startled gasp that leaves his mouth.

It is a nice sound. Her cheeks warm.

When her eyes return to the book, she finds herself eager to continue the conversation, though whatever it is that urges her to do so remains unclear.

“Septa Marlow is under the impression that I lack virtue,” she says, voice dripping with venom. She glances at him, suddenly needing to add a rushed, “It’s a vile accusation.”

Septa Marlow is a cunt. Her mother will not say it aloud, but she knows that they both hate the woman with equal passion. The septa is stuck in her old ways, and no longer remembers youth well enough to comprehend it. Her teachings persist only for the sake of upholding etiquette, and only for as long as it’s necessary.

Not much longer. She is almost a woman grown.

Aemond chuckles. “Certainly.”

She shoots him a withering look. The corners of his lips tremble; he seems to be holding back another fit of laughter, and she narrows her eyes at the sight.

“Do you disagree?”

He faces her fully, and she can now see the scar marring his skin. It looks softer in sunlight; its edges blend with his flesh. She traces its shape and length; wanders through every inch. If she tried to touch it—to caress it with gentle fingers—would he move away? Would he give her his scorn, and his anger, and would the fire that they share turn deadly? Aemond keeps the scar out of sight for a reason. He must hate her for looking at it.

But Aemond doesn’t shy away from her gaze. He doesn’t seem to mind the way she is watching him; his body tilts towards hers, and now both their elbows and their knees touch.

He’s beautiful. It is a thought that never once crossed her mind, and yet it’s true. Sunny spells hit his face in all the right places, and the purples of his eye glow, and the sight of him steals her breath away.

When he speaks, it is closer to a whisper, as though meant for her ears alone.

“I wouldn’t dare question your virtue, sweet niece.”

Fire returns, stronger than she remembered it to be. It’s all she knows.

“Good.”

Silence befalls them again, and her eyes revert back to the tome in her hands.

They widen when nimble fingers grab the book. It is gone from her grasp before she can blink. She opens her mouth to scold him; to demand that he give it back, even though she doesn’t truly want it.

Words die on her tongue when the heavy weight of the old tome is replaced by softness in the hues of silver-whites.

Aemond’s head is in her lap.

Her heartbeat jumps.

She stares at him, and then around the yard, and then once again at him. They are sitting in a fairly private area of the yard, but she knows that they’re never truly spared from eyes that are hungry for controversy. Someone will see. Someone will see, and then talk, and soon they will become yet another spectacle for vicious tongues. Protests rise to her lips—numerous, and each of them quite rational. Surely, he will see reason.

But then he turns, and his eye reflects the sun, and she forgets what she wanted to say, or why she wanted to say it, or why it matters if they were discovered at all.

He looks so peaceful. She’s never seen an expression quite this soft on his face. There is a trace of pink on his cheek, and his lips are curved, and he eyes her with emotion she cannot fathom.

She couldn’t possibly disturb him when his face is smoothed with serenity. Just a little longer, she thinks. She wants to see him like this for a few more stolen moments.

“Go on, then,” Aemond says without a care. “Read to me.”

Her mouth is dry. She clears her throat and hopes that her face doesn’t betray her.

“My lap isn’t your spot to rest on.”

Except it is. She will not say it—she’ll never say it—but having him this close feels right. Like this, his softness is for her eyes only.

“I have just claimed it as mine.” His eye speaks in a language of pure intensity, and in response she burns. “Is it not as simple as that?”

She bites her tongue and says nothing else, and the stray strands of his hair tickle her arms. Her skin is on fire. She’s sure that her cheeks are, too.

When she reads to him, she prays that her voice does not waver.

The feast thrown on her name day is a boastful one. She weaves her way through crowds of faces she doesn’t recognise, and pleasantries fall from her lips as befitting the daughter of a royal household.

A woman grown. It seems half the realm had been eagerly waiting for her to come of age. She is mostly surrounded by men, and they all appear to be looking for excuses to touch her.

She is in search for any of her brothers, hoping for a moment of respite from the dancing. It isn’t that she dislikes it, but she has long since grown tired of foreign hands palming her body as though they owned it. She would rather dance with Jace, or even Luke whose clumsiness precedes him—or all by herself, uncaring for the crowds that wish to sink their claws into her.

Respite evades her. Just when she spots familiar heads made of brown curls, another stranger forces his way into her personal space. The man is twice her age, and she immediately finds herself repulsed by the leering expression that he cares not to veil for something more respectful.

His palms are clammy. They will surely leave stains on her skin.

The man leads her towards the centre of the hall, and his spine is straightened in a pathetic display of pride. His hands find her hips before she can protest; his grip is harsh, verging on bruising.

The dance couldn’t last longer. Her head spins from the force with which the man whirls her around, and she must steady herself by gripping his shoulders, even if the prospect disgusts her. She prays that Daemon sees them; that he comes with his sword in hand, ready to spill blood.

But it isn’t Daemon that grabs the man by the arm and sends him backwards. It isn’t Daemon that takes her hand into his own, shielding her from the eyes of the stranger.

She is at peace. Safe. Fire licks at her skin and sinks deep into her bones.

Aemond remains silent. He leads her away from the man, not sparing him a glance. As always, his hand is warm.

“Uncle.” She cannot help but grin. “It would have been more polite to wait your turn.”

He hums, quick to find the right steps. He is a good dancer. His body was made for it.

“Would you rather have him paw at you like an animal?”

She twirls, and the colours of her dress blur into a rainbow.

Aemond is a pitch-black spot against the canvas of vibrant hues. She is drawn to him; drawn to his darkness, and the violet of his eye that disrupts it. Her palm finds his, and she bites back a smile when he boldly presses his skin to hers.

It is not a dance meant for touching.

“What if I liked it?”

Once more, she spins.

They stand back to back, and her spine tingles from the proximity. He is close; too close. His scent is all she can feel.

He has corrupted her with his disregard for propriety. She knows it, because not once does she consider what their family would say if they saw them.

“Did you like it?”

Heat spreads from her back towards her chest. There are many things she has come to like, and none of them are quite related to some unnamed lords.

She could say it. Whisper every perversity her mind has conjured.

But more often than not, their short exchanges seem to be a game that none of them truly understands. She must keep playing. It is what keeps him returning for more.

She turns around to face him and shrugs. “I’m not made of glass. There is no need to handle me gently.”

There is a beat, and silence, and hands itching to touch. Suddenly, without any warning, she is pulled into Aemond’s embrace; a gasp escapes her throat when she feels his hand tighten around her waist.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip. He holds her firmly against his chest, and she imagines their bodies blending together into one.

There is nothing appropriate about this kind of proximity. She stands before him as a woman, and he holds her like a man would, and surely no one sees through the flames that have flared around them. This—whatever it is—belongs to them alone.

But her skin tingles.

“Uncle,” she pants, face scarlet red with something unspoken. It is not shame, but something of a darker nature. She is not yet ready to name it. “People are looking at us.”

“Let them look,” he says, and each word has his lips brushing against her ear.

They are so close that she feels his heartbeat. It is as quick as hers.

Not alone. They’re not alone.

“Aemond.”

“Do you want me to let go?”

She doesn’t. He must know that she doesn’t. There is something perverse about his hands on her body—right there, in a hall full of strangers and curious gazes. In the centre of everything. She would gladly let him hold her like this forever—until everyone in the hall understands that she is his, and it is his arms that she belongs in.

“I do,” she says instead.

In a rush of boldness, with utter disregard for her own words, she presses her chest closer to his.

She hardly knows where her body ends and his begins, and if she wanted to—oh, how she wants to—she could step onto her toes and reach towards his lips—

“You're not very convincing,” Aemond whispers into her hair, and then his hands are gone.

He leaves her amidst crowds, surrounded by dozens of onlookers, and yet she sees nothing but the lines of his shrinking silhouette.

It is hours later that she lays amidst silken bedcovers, a sheen of sweat clinging to her bared body, and furiously rubs the spot right between her legs. Her teeth are clenched, and her eyes are burning with vexation, and her hand is not enough. It’s not enough.

She is half-sprawled atop the wooden table.

Her braids have long since come undone, and her hair now cascades down her back like a shield. She plays with one of the strands, curling it around her finger. Her other hand flips the pages of whatever book she is pretending to read.

The library is quiet. It is located deep enough into Maegor’s Holdfast that she knows none of her siblings will find her. It offers the kind of solitude no other place in the Red Keep ensures. Dozens of shelves thrice her height have been installed within the walls, all filled with the oldest and rarest of volumes in the realm.

She cares not for the scent of parchment. It is not books that she came for.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A small smile creeps onto her lips.

She knew he would come. His presence no longer takes her by surprise. Everywhere she goes, Aemond dutifully follows; no longer does she need to search for him in dark corners.

He is her shadow.

Every day, she breathlessly waits for night to come.

“Aemond.”

“Niece.” His footsteps echo through the walls. “It nears the hour of the owl.”

She rubs the tiredness from her eyes and swallows the yawn that has crawled up her throat. The book is now forgotten; she pushes it away, no longer interested in keeping up the pretence of studying its contents. When she turns, she does it slowly, if only to conceal her traitorous eagerness.

It is too dark. All she sees is a mark of silver painted on pitch-black canvas. His face is shielded from her view, and she bites back the bitter disappointment. She has gone the entire day without a single glimpse of him.

“Why do you care?”

Her eyes trace the outline of his silhouette. He strides towards the chair in front of her, and though she wishes he would sit beside her instead, she appreciates the closeness all the same.

The table is too large. She should have chosen a different one.

The air grows heavier, like it always does when she is with him.

“A princess shouldn’t be spending her time alone in the darkness.”

She wishes he could see her coy smile; wonders if he would offer her one of the private smirks she now knows by heart, or if he’d playfully scold her, or throw a comment that would induce a blush in response.

“It is a good thing, then, that you’ve found me.”

“Yes,” Aemond murmurs, and his voice is so guttural that she nearly melts at the sound. “It is.”

Then it is them, and silence, and darkness. It seems to have become a usual setting for their meetings, as though they required the shroud of night’s secrecy to conceal something illicit.

It isn’t wrong. Whatever it is—whatever looms above their heads—it is not wrong.

Absentmindedly, she reaches for the book; as always, he is quicker.

Their hands meet. There is nothing innocent about the touch, and she no longer desires to pretend that she is not burning. Aemond’s fingers trace the skin of her palm; tickle it, and she bites her lip at the sensation. It lasts only for a short moment��too short, never enough—and then his touch is gone, and so is the book.

She wishes he would forgo this restraint. She has long since grown tired of it.

“I was reading this,” she lies.

“Were you?”

She wants to tear the tome away from his grasp, if only for their hands to touch once more.

“No.”

“No,” Aemond repeats lowly.

If there was any light, she imagines that she’d find his eye intense and hungry; or maybe playful, betraying his endless desire to leave her breathless. He would look at her without a trace of shame, just like he always does. He would set her alight with one glance alone.

There is a thudding sound that cuts through silence. It breaks her out of reverie, and she flinches, squinting into the darkness.

Silver wisps cut through the air. Then they’re gone.

She straightens her spine, brows furrowed in confusion. It looks like he dropped the book and bent to pick it up, only she cannot see his hair. She opens her mouth, not quite understanding this particular game of his, until she feels it.

Something slithers up the skirts of her dress. Fingers wrap around her ankle, and then the other one, and suddenly her legs are forcefully parted. She gasps, and the sound echoes against the empty walls.

“Be quiet, niece,” comes Aemond’s muffled voice. “You’re in a library.”

This is madness. She cannot let it happen—cannot let him touch her like this, right there—

Aemond’s hands slide higher up her legs.

Her muscles tremble. He holds her with enough strength that she cannot escape his grip, forced to yield. Her vision swims, and there are only his hands—his hands—

He uses them skilfully. She has seen him hold a sword, and he now holds her skin with equal passion. His fingertips draw patterns down the length of her shins, and if she could—if she wasn’t possessed by a blinding desire—she would try to discern their meaning.

She feels his breath on her knee.

A small moan falls from her lips, and she clasps her hand over her mouth to cover it. It’s too late. He’s heard it.

Aemond’s grip turns vice-like.

He sears circles into her thigh. One of his hands is replaced by something softer, plushier, and she knows that it must be his lips atop her skin. He leaves fiery kisses on both her knees, and her heart gets stuck in her throat, threatening to jump out.

Higher, she thinks, and immediately bites her lip to prevent herself from begging aloud. If he moved his mouth higher—just a bit, only a bit—he would find out how much she needs him. Her desire has long since become choking. It takes a single brush of his skin against hers to get her slick and wet and ready.

Her skin is engulfed by flames. She must be touched, she must be touched—

Aemond’s lips are gone. She holds back a whimper when she feels fingertips brushing against her thigh in a parting gesture—little more than a caress, gone sooner than it came.

She closes her legs when Aemond’s head resurfaces from underneath the table.

Empty. She remains painfully empty.

“You should return to your chambers.” Aemond stands from the ground. He sounds cocky. “Who knows what lurks in the darkness.”

In the privacy of her bedchamber, she finds the mark that he left on her thigh. It is there for her eyes only. The mark haunts her, and she finds no sleep.

“I know you’re there.”

It seems that they only ever exchange words in darkness. Just today, she was seated opposite him during dinner, and he didn’t look at her once. She wonders if it is fear that holds him back in daylight. Her own fingers forever burn with the desire to hold him, and more often than not, she forgets about the reality of their relationship. Perhaps avoiding each other in the presence of others is safer. They were never meant to burn together.

Her steps halt.

“I’m beginning to think you’re looking for trouble.”

She bites back a grin. “What if I am?”

Finally, he emerges from the shadows. She looks at him without a hint of shame; traces the line of his jaw, and his nose, and the purples of his eye. His hair looks soft. She finds herself overtaken by the desire to grasp it with her fingers and tug.

“You’ve found it.”

“Have I?” she says, and her throat is oddly dry. She watches him, and he watches her, and flames arise. “You don’t look much like trouble to me.”

Aemond’s steps are slow. She has learned their pattern by heart. He has a habit of moving at a leisurely pace, and more often than not, she imagines that it’s yet another way of tormenting her. He knows of her impatience and aims to use it to his advantage.

When he stops, he is still outside of her reach. He raises an eyebrow challengingly.

“What about now?”

It is another game, and she shakes her head because she must.

Aemond hums. His eye wanders down her neck, and her skin prickles underneath his gaze. She holds her breath when he takes another step forward.

Still, he is not close enough.

“And now, niece?” Aemond asks. “Do I look like trouble?”

“No,” she breathes.

His scent wafts through the air, and she ravenously inhales it. Aemond’s eye darkens. He moves closer, and she laces her fingers together in order not to reach out for him.

Maybe she should stifle the last of self-control. Maybe she should grab him by the collar of his riding leathers; pull him as close as she needs him to be. Sometimes, it feels as though he is waiting for her to do it. To make the first move.

Before her contemplation turns into action, his fingers catch the skirts of her gown. She takes a gulp of air when he easily tugs her closer.

“No?” Aemond mutters.

He studies her mouth in silent deliberation, and it prompts her to take her bottom lip between teeth. His nostrils flare.

“No,” she repeats firmly.

His smile is pure sin.

“Good.”

Aemond’s lips claim hers before she can say anything else. Words die on her tongue, and she scarcely remembers what it was that she wanted to say at all. His skin is scorching hot, and his mouth is demanding, and when she gasps into his mouth, he swallows the sound like a man starved.

She throws her hands around his neck before he disappears; before once more he flees from her touch. He is both soft and solid, and her fingertips go alight from the fire flowing through his veins. Aemond pushes into her, and soon her spine connects with the stone wall. His hands wander over her body, tugging impatiently at the endless pieces of material that separate them.

His kisses are flames. None of her dreams have done them justice. Her tongue dances as led by his own, and her teeth graze his bottom lip, and she can no longer think straight when he whimpers into her mouth.

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, and she drinks up the words straight from his tongue.

She pulls him closer, closer, and he hitches her leg over his hip, and she thinks that there is no going back from it. She will forever be cursed with the memory of his taste.

Her lips are full of him even when he’s gone.

She is a woman possessed by madness.

An entire moon has passed, and he hasn’t touched her once. It is as though he forgot that she exists; as though her existence meant nothing at all. Distance stretches between them, sharp and thorned, and it cuts through her skin with vicious force. She burns with want. She burns until there is nothing left but ashes.

When she dreams, it is of his lips. Their taste has long faded, and though she chases the memory every night, she is left with emptiness. Sometimes, it feels as though she’s dying of hunger. She must taste him again. If she won’t, she thinks she’ll wither away.

She once thought that his teasing touch was torture. It’s only now—only when it’s gone—that knows it is the lack of it that elicits true torment.

It’s been three days since she saw him last. Even their last meeting was only in brief; he was gone as soon as her eyes found him amidst crowds of the Red Keep, his steps too quick for her to catch up with.

He has left her to burn alone. Now the flames have grown wild and lethal, and she succumbs to this insanity because she must.

She stays close to the stone wall.

It is nighttime, and most of the residents have retired to their bedchambers. The corridors are empty, guarded only in a few spots; her footsteps echo through the walls, accompanied by complete silence. She appreciates the semblance of privacy that has come with sunset. It is easier to slip by unnoticed when the lights are subdued.

Less than an hour ago, she caught a glimpse of Aemond in the courtyard, sword in his hand. He looked composed as ever, and by the end of the training session his forehead was sheen with sweat. It is what brought about this madness—the sight of him panting for breath.

It’s why she follows him now. He is quick on his feet, and so quiet that she cannot even hear him. All she sees is the broadness of his shoulders and silver-white wisps resting on his back.

She moves faster, determined not to lose him. Her pace turns unrelenting; she watches Aemond reach for the gilded knob. Just before the doors close behind him, she slips inside.

His bedchamber is swallowed by darkness. It is the first thing she sees; her eyes strain, eager to scan the entirety of the room. It looks pristine. His inclination for tidiness doesn’t astound her. She now knows that he keeps all his chaos leashed, preferring to build walls of purity around himself.

She sees through it all. Knows his vices by heart.

Aemond watches her without a trace of surprise. He must have known, then, that she was hunting him down.

It is different this time. The air is thicker. They are alone, and no one can enter his bedchamber without explicit permission. He must realise it. The purple of his eye is darker, and all she finds in it is desire.

Because it is him who has this time become prey, she is the first to make a move.

“I’m here, uncle. I came to you.”

It takes only one step for their chests to come closer, now on the verge of pressing together. Aemond’s face is a perfect image of indifference, but she knows better. There is something dangerous in his eye. She must push further than this to draw it out.

Her eyes go round with feigned innocence, and his own become hooded.

She wonders if his lips still taste the same.

“Won’t you touch me?” she whispers, never letting her gaze falter.

Aemond’s face remains carved in stone. “Perhaps you should ask nicely.”

It is as though he had struck her.

A beat passes, and she knows not what to say. Her mouth is dry. Her hands itch from the constant urge to sink into his flesh.

“Ask?”

He repeats without hesitation, “Ask.”

She bites her tongue hard enough to wince.

It was foolish of her to come. He must think her desperate; corrupt, with her displayed flesh pulsating from the desire to be touched. She is wanton and wicked, and shame burns her cheeks upon the realisation.

A woman of sin.

If he wanted to, he would have touched her already. He would take her into his arms, and breathe in her scent, and bury his fingers deep in her soul. If he wanted to, all hesitation would shatter into pieces, and there would be no need to collect them anymore.

And yet his hands remain still.

She must have been wrong. So, so wrong.

With her eyes stinging, stubbornly downcast, she moves towards the door. If she leaves quickly enough, perhaps he’ll forget she was there at all. Perhaps she’ll awaken the next day and it will all turn out to have been a nightmare. Perhaps she—

Aemond’s hand clutches her forearm. His touch is gentle but firm; she can feel his fingers slither around her skin, closing his grip to prevent her from moving.

She holds her breath. All air is gone.

“Ask,” he says again, “and you shall have it.”

He pushes into her from behind, and his heat engulfs her in wild flames. Aemond’s chest presses against the length of her spine; his hair tickles her skin. She bites her lip when his nose brushes her cheek.

Her heart beats in a wild tune. Does his own match it?

It must. Surely, it must.

“Ask.”

There is something desperate about him; something in his tone that whispers in a language she knows by heart. He is half-begging. She recognises it, because he has done the same in her dreams.

She yields. Utterly. Completely.

“Touch me,” she whispers.

He does.

Aemond grabs her hips and turns her around, and all softness she has come to know him for is gone. His eye is blown wide; it burns, it burns, it burns.

The kiss is bruising. His tongue enters her mouth before she can reciprocate; her spine connects with the surface of the door, and she welcomes the chill it provides with relief. Aemond’s lips are demanding and forceful, and he gasps into her mouth when her hands finally touch his bare skin. She digs her fingers into his neck, and tugs at his hair, and pulls him closer. It is not enough. She needs their mouths to mould into one—to never separate again.

He kisses her without his past control. She gasps for air, and Aemond breathes out into her skin, refusing to let go. His teeth nibble at her bottom lip, and she swallows down a whimper.

His fingers find her neck. The rings that adorn them are cold.

“Here?” he pants, breathless. “Do you want me to touch you here?”

She wraps his hair around her fingers, searching for an anchor. Her head swims, and all air is gone, and if it weren’t for his grip on her hip, she would crumble to the floor. Aemond groans when she pulls at the strands in her hand; she wants to bottle the sound and keep it as hers forever.

“Yes,” she whispers into his lips.

Aemond’s hand wraps around her throat; she sees stars.

Their tongues are at war, and she matches his tempo with determination. He tastes like smoke. Like the sun. Like oxygen. His thumb comes up to stroke her cheek, and the gentleness of this touch is a stark contrast to the way he devours her. She throbs with want. Now that she has touched him, she doesn’t think she could ever stop.

She didn’t know it could feel like this.

Because she’s possessed by greed, she breathes out a quiet, needy, “More.”

Aemond’s lips part with hers, and she immediately wishes to cry out in protest.

She burns under the weight of his gaze. Without once taking his eye off hers, Aemond’s hand leaves her throat, trailing down to her collarbone. His touch is feather-like; fingers tickle her skin. She sucks in air when his hand moves lower, playing with the lace neckline. One of his fingertips sneaks beneath the fabric.

“Should I touch you here?”

His hand boldly grabs her breast. She has never been touched like this. Her mouth dries, and she pushes her chest into Aemond’s grasp, flushing at the low hum he lets out in response. His lips find a spot on her neck that has her panting, and he sucks at the sensitive skin with such ardour that she’s certain he’ll leave a mark.

She moans when his fingers find her pebbled nipple and flick against it, and the wanton sound induces hot shame. He touches her through the fabric of her dress, and it is not enough. She needs more. She needs everything.

Embarrassed, she covers her mouth with her hand.

Aemond’s eye flashes with a wicked glint.

“Here?” he asks, pinching the nipple.

The sound that escapes her throat is smothered by her palm. Desperate, suspended on the verge of madness, she nods. Aemond’s lips curve into a smile, but his fingers refuse to give in.

Their lips touch when he whispers, “Say it.”

And because she’d do anything, anything, her hand obediently falls down.

“Please.”

“How prettily you beg.”

There is a tearing sound; she watches Aemond rip the corset of her dress apart, tugging it down so that her chest is exposed. She has no time to cover herself in scarlet shame, nor to complain about him ruining her favourite gown. His mouth finds her nipple, and she cries out when he sucks at it.

She knows nothing but his tongue that swirls around the nipple in torturous circles; nothing but his teeth when he bites down. Aemond presses her body further into the door, and there is not an inch left that separates them. They are one. Her arms hold him tightly. If she lets go, she will collapse.

His lips are gone. Before she can object, Aemond slides his palms lower—between her breasts, down her waist, over the curve of her hip bone. He sinks to his knees before her, and she watches, wide-eyed and unable to move. Aemond’s hand catches the skirt of her dress and hitches it upwards, bunching the fabric so that her skin is on display. His fingers find her bare thigh, and they are quick to wrap around its width. She whimpers when he pushes her legs apart, forcing himself in between. When he puts her knee over his shoulder, holding her upright with the sheer strength of his arms, she is gone.

“You have cursed me,” he murmurs into her skin, lips nibbling at her inner thigh. “I spend my days thinking of you.”

Her mouth parts; she gasps for air, chest rising and falling with increasing speed. Aemond’s hold on her thigh tightens when she squirms in his arms.

“I spend my nights dreaming of you.”

His sinful lips traverse the expanse of her exposed skin. They move higher, higher, and her muscles twitch with anticipation. He’s too slow, and her hips involuntarily push forward, seeking his touch. Aemond cruelly holds her still. She’s convinced that he’ll leave her skin bruised; convinced that before he reaches the spot where she aches most, she will have died from this torture.

When his tongue first touches her cunt, her vision blurs.

It feels nothing like her fingers. He is skilful and hungry, and the wet muscle laps at her clit in furious motions. Moans spill from her lips, and she has long since forgotten all about propriety. It means little when Aemond’s head is buried between her thighs; when the sinful act feels this holy. All thoughts dissolve into nothing, wiped away with his expert tongue. Aemond’s grip turns vice-like. There is nothing she can do but take whatever he wants to give.

Her clit pulsates from the onslaught. He spits, and then licks up the saliva, rubbing it in between her folds, and she nearly squeals at the sensation. It’s wet and filthy, and when he moans into her cunt, sending chills down her spine, she knows she won’t last much longer.

“Aemond,” she gasps, because his name is the only thing she knows anymore. “Aemond.”

Whines fall from her lips, and she no longer cares to smother them. Her hips rock, and his mouth keeps moving against her cunt, and she can’t, she can’t—

Right there, with his wicked tongue inside her, she erupts.

It’s like a storm. A wildfire. She shatters into thousands of pieces, and Aemond dutifully collects them all, drinking up everything that she offers. Her body rocks, and he soothes her with his touch and keeps her still. Their hands are joined, though she doesn’t recall the moment when they first touched. Aemond doesn’t stop until her gasps turn into cries. Before he moves away, his lips plant one more kiss right on her oversensitive clit.

Her body trembles. Aemond pulls her down, and she allows herself to be led by his hands. His touch is strong and gentle, and she cannot quite believe that he’s real. He puts her thighs around his waist; right there, on the cold ground, she straddles his lap. Aemond’s fingers weave through her hair, and he brushes them away from her face with such gentleness that she thinks she might weep.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking her wet cheeks. “Such a pretty girl.”

For a moment, they just breathe. Their chests heave with equal fervour, and there is only silence and tender caresses. Her fingers trace the curve of his cheek; she follows its shape, searing it deep into her memory. She wants to remember this. Every detail.

Aemond’s mouth glistens in the spells of moonlight. He is wet with her. Her trembling fingers collect the moisture, and when she brings them to her lips and wraps her tongue around them, he groans.

Involuntarily, her hips rock. She sees him swallow down another sound.

Not once did he demand that she touch him. Aemond is hard beneath her, and yet he stubbornly clings to the restraint she thought to be long erased.

As though he didn’t think himself deserving of her touch.

“Take it off.” Her fingers reach for the eyepatch that separates them, tugging lightly. “I will see all of you.”

He eyes her with emotion she cannot name.

There is something achingly vulnerable about him. She watches as Aemond’s trembling hand reaches for the leather strap, brushing against hers in a feather-like manner. His good eye drops to the ground beside them, and she is quick to put her palms on his face.

She wants him to see himself as she sees him. To rid himself of whatever shame clings to his soul. She wants him to know that all she finds in him is heart-wrenching beauty.

“Aemond,” she whispers. Her fingers find the clasp, and she awaits his permission.

He hesitates. His gaze is dark. She counts the seconds, prepared to let go, but his voice stops her.

“Whatever you want,” he says at last. “It is yours. It is yours.”

Just like that, the eyepatch is gone. The scar stretches from above his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and although her hands are shaking, she reaches to stroke the mangled flesh.

Aemond wheezes. She catches the slightest trembling of his lips. His head drops, and for a moment she fears that he’ll move away from her, but he doesn’t. He pushes closer, as though seeking warmth. She will give it to him. She’ll give him whatever he wants.

He seems at war with himself, both touch-starved and unable to give in. But then he faces her once more. Her eyes trace the scar, and she bites back a gasp when she sees the sapphire in the place of his eye.

“You’re beautiful,” she tells him, because he is.

When he says nothing, she replaces her fingers with lips. She kisses every inch of the slash, and his sharp inhale is the only answer she receives. It is enough. She just needs him to know that she wants him as he is.

Aemond’s arms wrap around her waist, and it is enough. It’s everything she wants.

“I dream of you,” he tells her. “Of this.”

She opens her mouth, prepared to pour her heart out—to confess the lengths of her own desire, and the way it has rendered her mad. But Aemond grabs her hips, breaking them out of tranquility, and pulls the dress up so that it no longer sets them apart. She sees questions in his eye, though she doesn’t understand why he feels the need to ask them. Surely, he knows how deep the roots of her want go.

Wordlessly, she reaches for the laces of his leathers. It is enough of an answer; Aemond’s face softens, and then their lips collide again.

There are so many layers between them. Too many. She claws at his shirt, and he tears the last shreds of her bodice, and then they are skin to skin. She touches every single part of him, learning his shapes and curves. His body is toned, and his skin bears multiple small scars that must have come from a sword, and he is soft. Warm. Hers.

Aemond’s fingers find her entrance. She is slick for him—aching, pulsating, dripping. He circles her clit and swallows her moan, and then he is knuckle-deep inside her.

“Please,” she whines, though she knows not what she’s begging for.

His finger thrusts, and then it curls, touching a spot she never knew existed. She throws her head back, mouth open in a silent gasp. Aemond attaches his lips to her throat.

Release comes in waves, quicker than the previous one. It crashes into her body with full force, and she is helpless against the currents. Before she comes down, Aemond lifts her up and buries his cock in her cunt.

It hurts. It hurts, and he holds her close, and she whimpers into his mouth. Aemond is patient with her. He peppers her face with kisses, sighing into her skin, and stills his movements. The stretch burns, and she cannot help but clench around him. Her hips move on their own accord; her body chases what it inherently wants.

There is tenderness in his eye. It’s enough for her body to melt.

Aemond grunts and pushes deeper into her. The pace is slow, agonising, and she cannot take it. Her muscles spasm beneath his hands; she is completely at his mercy, waiting for each thrust. She tugs at his hair and whispers into his ear, demanding that he fuck her properly.

Time stills. Her clit throbs, and she aims to seek relief with her own fingers, but then Aemond pulls her hand away. The hunger in his eye has turned dangerous. It’s more black than purple.

“As you wish.”

She whimpers when he grabs her by the thighs and moves her body away from the door. He pushes her into the ground, spreading her dress beneath her back to soften the surface, and climbs atop her. His moves are frantic, and there is a glow on his features that must reflect her own. His hair tickles her face. She gives him a beaming smile, and his breath hitches.

His cock drives into her, and at the same moment his sinful fingers find her clit. She cries out. Her eyes roll back, and she tries to close her legs, trembling from the onslaught of pleasure. Aemond grabs her knees and holds them apart. Her dripping cunt is on full display; she sees him watch the place where they’re connected, his lips swollen and eyes glazed over. Aemond rubs her clit and thrust into her like a madman, and the bedchamber is bathed in sounds of clapping skin and wanton moans.

She makes no sound when she peaks. Her mouth falls open as she convulses beneath him, and Aemond pushes his fingers down her throat.

“One more,” he grunts. “Give me one more.”

Her body trembles. She can’t. No more, no more—

But Aemond’s torturous fingers keep flicking against her nub, and his rock-hard length twitches deep inside her, and she can’t stop. She can’t stop.

She is boneless. Her spine arches, and Aemond topples over her chest, and their orgasms come at once. They’re amidst clouds, suspended in the air; above turbulent waters; high enough to be scorched by the sun.

They burn. Together, they burn.

Their hearts beat in the same tune. Aemond puts his hand on her chest, in the hollow between her breasts, and she weaves her fingers into his hair. When he looks at her, all she sees is scorching affection.

He stays buried inside her, as though equally reluctant to let their bodies part. Purple and sapphire glow in the dark, and she watches him, breathless and enthralled, unable to look away.

“I have claimed you,” he whispers into the night.

Her eyes are soft. With her fingertips, she writes letters down the length of his spine. She knows the words, though for now they remain invisible to the eye. Aemond looks at her with awe, hands still warm against her cheeks as he holds her. She wishes she could hear his thoughts. Wonders if she’d find remorse and guilt, and the desire to turn back time.

There is no regret in her heart. This—their bodies woven into one—was fated. His first touch planted a seed inside her, and its destiny was to bloom.

“Then I’m yours.”

His hands find hers, and there is only fire.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond smut #hotd #aemond x reader #asoiaf #aemond fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon

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stararch4ngelqueen · 2 years ago

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Overachiever

—

Time Written-12:01 a.m.

Jason Todd/fem!reader smut (gave up looking for an image for this guy so yea)

—

Faint blotches of muted blues and crooked gray shadows shroud your closed eyes, your heartbeat drumming in your head. Loud, thick gurgles ring in your ears, forcing all thoughts from your head.

Short, guttural grunts erupted above you. The sting along your scalp from a fistful of hair being clutched helped control your involuntary speed, coming to a sudden halt.

“I said,” his voice breaches through your muddled mind. “Keep those eyes open.”

On demand, you do so. Your watery eyes opening to a blurred vision of him; a rugged, sweat dampened mess, still clad in his leather uniform.

His hand eases off the back of your neck, allowing you to pull yourself off his fat, curved cock with a loud, lung expanding gasp. You cough after short chokes, a mix of spit and thick precum dribbling down your chin, seeping in between the valley of your breasts through your own suit.

“Look at you,” Jason huffs, guiding his heavy cock again to press against your glistening lips, feeling a sparkling pride over your ruined makeup.

“Pretty little whore. Y’see that?” He questions, guiding your head with his free hand to gaze down at him in question, focusing on the faint ring of bright red lipstick marking a good three quarters along the length.

“You’re getting better at this, Princess,” he breathlessly chuckles, tapping your outer cheek with his drenched dick.

“Bet your throat hurts, huh? Be honest.” His question has you nodding without much thought, feeling the muscles in your neck tingling after getting bullied and bruised by an eagerly horny vigilante.

“Tsk tsk. New hole’s just getting used to me, sweetheart,” Jason cooes with highly detectable mockery before leaning down, grasping your chin with two fingers to have you look at him, taking in his crinkled, amused expression.

“All that big talk when you’re stealing shit, now you got nothing to say.” After a condescending chuckle, Jason traps you in a hot, tongue heavy kiss, feeling himself throbbing at the sounds of your measly little whimpers.

“Aww, What’s the matter? Too fucked out already?” He whispers in between short pecks, swiping off a hint of spit along your chin before bringing it towards his lips, sucking the digit clean.

“Maybe it’s a little too much for ya,” Jason insists in a second guess attempt, fighting back a smirk from your growing eyes loaded up with denial. “Bit too big for you to take—“

“N-no!” You insist, your once balled up fists reaching up to grasp along his wrists. “I can do it, I know I can. Please, Jay.”

“Easy, easy. Fun’s barely starting, babygirl.” Jason displays his full smile, sharp teeth making an appearance with his chuckle.

Alongside pride, he was still giddy that he got you to agree to this.

“I know you wanna make me happy. Know you wanna earn your little reward.”

A hot, gushy load down your throat became your solid priority in an instant. Jason had that ability to suddenly render you absolutely starving in seconds, manipulating you into wanting what hadn’t come to mind before.

Your answer was a solid nod, eyes glowing in anticipation to further please him. His heavy palm clasps your throat in a snug hold, holding your head in place. His voice is low, quiet and lustful, but you hear him loud and clear.

“Tell you what,” Jason proposes with a quirk in his brow. “You take all of me; every last inch, an’ I’ll give you what you want.”

Eagerness leaves you automatically agreeing; pretty, kiss swollen lips with a pretty pink tongue eager to lap at the fat bead that threatened to drip off his length.

“That what you want, pretty girl?” He questions. “Want to make me happy? Wan’ me to make you come?”

You feel your whole body heating up from the fire that's burning deep inside you; your pussy painfully untouched and drenched. Jason promised he’d give you what you wanted if you played along in being a pretend thief, the motivation keeping you barely stable as it is.

It was like your brain was hard-wired to urge him towards his release. Or, maybe the mix of arousal and oxygen deprivation swirling around in your head was making you more submissive to set your own desires aside for him.

Eagerly nodding was your only form of answer, but Jason would gladly take it.

“Prove it then,” His hands leave your neck and head, settling them back along his sides. “Show me.”

Adjusting your sore knees against crooked gravel, you greedily lap up the fat, clear bead of precum that called your name, the saltiness drowning your tastebuds.

He lets out a short groan, brows furrowing slightly as he watches a bit of himself disappear between your lipstick smeared lips. His hum rumbles low in his chest as you bob your head back and forth at a steady pace, swirling along him with your tongue.

He's quickly drunk off of your persistent eagerness to please him, peering up at him through wet lashes. You were more focused on his reactions, watching his head slightly raise, threatening to tilt back if he wasn’t so stubborn to watch every second of it.

You looked a gorgeous sight already as you changed direction, pressing your glistening lips along the underside of his heavy cock, feeling the majority of his heavy dick rest along your face, settling against the corner of your cheek, nestled beside the small grove of your nostril.

A perfect picture to capture the memory, if it occurred to him to pull out his phone. His obedient, needy girl eager to please whenever he needed you.

He's panting harder now, shoulders rising quicker with his slightly labored breathing.

“Ready?” He had the decency to ask, waiting for your muffled hum in response before grasping hold of himself.

“Open.”

You obey, sticking out your pretty tongue.

“Eyes on me,” he taps the fat head along the muscle at least three times, too impatient to warn you of what happens if they close.

His hips lurch forward, sliding himself deep in your throat with a relieved groan. He fills your mouth up easily, his tip pushing past something hard in your throat until he's blocking your airways. You try to settle your reflex, nearly choking on him at the start.

Your soaking wet lips slowly passed where you last reached, your nose brushing against thick curls at his base, taking in his musk while choking on cock, hooking your fingers over the tight harnesses securing his meaty thighs.

You furrow your brows, trying your best to keep your throat from rejecting him, but you're not able to hold him there for long before you choke.

The vibrations left him shivering, watching spit bubble from the corners of your mouth, dripping slowly down your chin and neck, disappearing down your constricting suit zipper.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his head tilting back in pure, raw pleasure, feeling his balls tighten with every constrict of your throat as he fucks your face.

Maybe it was his fault, getting off on your vile, arousing gags, your sickly gray tears rolling down your ruined face. The ultimate ego boost, nothing could ever top this.

You could've cared less of the mess you became, focused on him and his pleasure alone. His deep, aggressively hot tone serenaded through your brain like melted dark chocolate, leaving you addicted for more.

A rich, heavy moan left his mouth, vibrating through his chest as his head tilts back, Adam’s apple bobbing with thin beads of sweat as the nightly breeze bats against his shivering skin.

The sight of those gorgeously shiny lips clenching along the base of his drenched dick left him teetering on the very edge, your eyes watering from the sheer size of him being a bit too much for you to take.

Jason raised you higher up on his cock, nearly forcing your buckling knees off the ground.

The sounds that came from your pretty little mouth as you reached your limit, forcing you to take more than you were used to were vile and filthy, but he loved every second of it. A private symphony just for him alone.

“Nice and messy, babygirl,” Jason rasps out, glancing down at your flushed face with heavy lidded eyes.

“Gonna clean up that messy little pussy,” he murmured through heavy panting, reinforcing his interlocked fingers behind your head. “Then fuck those wet tits next.”

#who wouldn’t give this guy head on the top of GCPD #dc jason todd #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd x female!reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd #I would 🙋🏽‍♀️#it’s me I’m y/n #jason todd x plus size reader #jason todd gotham knights

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letters-from-the-gaps · 6 months ago

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Gun Witch I

AKA "Letters tries to write a Western." Shoutout to @inbabylontheywept, who saw the first draft of this bad boy. Part 1 of ???, so stay tuned!

The thing about guns, Marigold has come to know, is that they are singular tools. They are skeleton keys that can only ever open a single kind of lock. They are hammers that, in the moment before they have completed their swing, transmute whatever lies at that swing's endpoint into a nail. They are levers by which the universe acts upon itself, levers that can only produce a single kind of reaction, a single kind of product.

The thing about guns, Marigold has come to know, is that they can only do harm, the greatest harm, that singularly final harm that renders everything before it paltry. Temporary. They are tools which can only escalate a conflict; even the clearing of leather is an act that signals a terrible trajectory, a course that will not yield to even the soundest of rhetoric.

The thing about guns, Marigold has come to know, is that many people still think of them as tools for preventing violence, for halting bloodshed. They think that you can use a gun to posture, to intimidate. The issue there, of course, is that an implied threat can only live in Schrodinger’s box for so long before people start itching to open it. The issue there, of course, is that a gun is no passive participant to a scene like that: nothing wants to see implication become action more than the gun.

Marigold’s first words in this broke down, backwater, dead-on-its-feet town were the single greatest kindness she was still capable of showing.

“I have held a gun from the cradle: if any of you feel as though violence against me might get you anything worth getting, disregard those feelings as swiftly as you are able. I am a Gun Witch, and I have yet to find myself out-drawn.”

Her second words, uttered after a long pause in that silent, waiting bar, were far simpler.

“Barkeep,” she said. “What’s the closest thing you can make to a Mule?”

She had tucked herself into a corner booth–its occupants had swiftly vacated as they calculated her trajectory–with a drink that might’ve been able to call a Mule its distant ancestor. It had something like vodka, and something that might’ve been near ginger in some cabinet somewhere, and it had some sort of citrus. It certainly wasn’t good. Marigold didn’t really care.

She sipped from the glass she had been given in slow, methodical pulls, a careful eye turned inward to watch for the first signs of creeping dull. She hoped desperately that this place would listen to her, would recognize the old and familiar violence in her voice, would mind their own fucking business and keep to their own fucking drinks. She had spent a long time out in the sands between towns and was more than happy to avail herself of the drink, the marginally cooler air, the sounds of people. The piano player wasn’t even half bad–she didn’t recognize the melody, and the keys were horribly out of tune, but they played with an easy smile and practiced hands, and it was remarkably easy to imagine that things were normal.

She didn’t look up from her drink when they walked in. Four of them, rough looking, shabby dusters and boots that hadn’t seen polish in an age. She didn’t look up as the bar started to hush. She didn’t look up as the piano player started to falter, fingers stuttering over the ivories. She kept her head down, hat brought low over her eyes, and she thought, No, go! Go out! Go away! None of you have to do this! You can all still live! Go! She was half finished with her Mule (this startled her–she should’ve drained it all by now. How long had she been here?), watching the last few bits of ice slowly melt into the remainder when those four rough looking young men decided they wanted to die.

“Hey! You!” He was a little on the scrawny side, with a voice still figuring out its range. The four of them had started walking towards her table, and as they passed through the bar other patrons started to flee out into the evening. “You the one who announced herself earlier today?” The other three fanned out behind him, and Marigold guessed he was their leader. They were all around the same height, with a slightly malnourished edge to them; the one who fanned out to the right could’ve been a downright intimidating fellow with a few more years of good eating in him.

Marigold didn’t say anything. Didn’t really look up from her glass, either. The ice had melted all the way. If anyone had been looking at her glass they’d have seen the condensation on it, thicker than it should’ve been in that air-conditioned room. Nobody was, though. At her silence he stepped up a little closer, his voice a little sharper.

“You deaf, woman? You hear what I asked you? Cause if you make me repeat myself, I swear to G-”

“You should watch yourself, throwing around names like that.” Marigold’s voice came out in a slow, scarred exhalation, the first crackling arms of some great inferno. “We should all be so thankful that He isn’t here.”

“Oh, so she can speak! And she can do it in riddles, can she?”

“Riddles? Lord have mercy if you think I’ve woven a riddle for you. See, if I had spoken to you in riddles,” she said, and now she tipped her head up just a fraction, “They might’ve frightened some sense into you four, and you’d have all gone scampering away.” The glass was running with sweat now, water soaking into the wood beneath it. “No. I’ve spoken plain, boy.”

The boy bristled at that, his eyes darkening. They were a deep, dirty green, and Marigold thought they must’ve been brilliant in the right light. He took another step forward and twitched his duster to the side: the plain, worn, poorly-kept handle of a revolver glinted meanly in the lamplight. The bar was empty by now, the piano player and the barkeep having fled together. The other three followed his lead, twitching aside ratty coats to reveal rattier looking holsters, housing guns that had clearly never known the touch of oil nor rag.

“Who you callin’ boy, eh? You? Some vagabond from out in the desert? Some crazy old bitch–” one of his posse, the bigger one to his right, flinched– “who thinks she’s hot shit?”

Marigold took one long, slow breath. The liquid in the glass was simmering now, ever so slightly, the beginnings of a boil. She leaned back in her booth, and she tilted her head, and she fixed the four thugs before her with eyes that had seen the creation of countless ghosts. She had not looked at a mirror in a long time, but she knew what they were seeing: deep set, slightly bloodshot, dull yellow irises and coal black pupils peering out from a face lined by age and heat in equal measures. She watched all four of them look to the right side of her face, watched their leader try to wrench his eyes from the horrid river of scar tissue that ran from her right eye down below her collar. He didn’t do a very good job. She didn’t fault him for it. She knew that it was knotted and angry, and that when you looked at it for too long you could see a dull glow like embers beneath the skin. Her hat was still low over eyes, but she tilted her head back so they could get a good, long look at her. Then she spoke, and that inferno was starting to come closer now, and she said:

“I have already given you the greatest kindness I could when I warned you all earlier today, so I will give you the second greatest kindness I can: leave. All of you. Hide those shoddy things at your hips, and go out into the street, and see if you can’t correct the courses of your lives.” The one on the left of the pack finally looked down at the glass and started, for its contents were bubbling and hissing against Marigold’s naked palm. He looked back at her when she said, “I am Marigold Velfor; I am a Gun Witch; I do not particularly want to kill any of you. You can all still turn around.”

“You know…I ain’t never killed a Witch before, Marigold,” the boy in front hissed, and her heart sank at the naked violence on his face, “But I’ve always wondered what it must be l-”

In one liquid smooth motion, before the boy had finished his empty threat, Marigold drew her six shooter and put a single holy bullet directly between his eyes. It exited out the back of his head in a spatter of bone and brain and flew perfectly into the shoulder of the fellow behind him, where it lodged itself. Before their leader’s ghost had even figured out it needed to get the hell out of dodge, Marigold had pulled the hammer back with a terrible click and calmly fired again at the gentleman on the far left–this one took him in the heart, carving through skin and muscle and bone and organ like so many pieces of paper laid before a train. By the time this had resolved itself the boy was a corpse on the ground, and the man to his left was a corpse rapidly approaching the ground, and the man behind them both was a not-quite-corpse collapsed into a table, and Marigold’s cannon was pointed serenely at the man on the right. This had happened in seconds. This last man’s hand had managed to grab the handle of his piece but, seeing the smoking barrel now leveled at his head, had stopped. Marigold thanked the Lord for this, and said to him:

“The first and third are dead: the second will live, as long as you get him to a halfway decent doctor in the next couple of minutes. Neither of you will live if you draw. Do you understand?” He nodded, mutely, eyes never leaving the gun. “Good. I’m going to stand up now, and I’m going to find someone to pay for the damages I’ve left here, and then I’m going to leave. Before I do that, though, you’re going to take your friend, and you’re both going to go outside, and you’re going to tell whoever’s out there that anyone who draws on me will die. Ok?” He nodded again, and at a gesture from Marigold he set out to comply. As the bar door clanged shut behind their wild exit she sagged a little in her seat. Her cannon was displeased: it whispered that she still had four rounds in the chamber, that she could probably take this whole Podunk town before they got a shot off. She ignored it, pushed forward the hammer, slid the thing home in the holster on her hip. The Mule on the table was at a low simmer now; Marigold didn't flinch as she drained the thing in one pull on her way out.

#prose #short story #woah! new writing!#gun witch

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bisexual-horror-fan · 4 months ago

Note

For the Valentines Ask Game: How would Danny Johnson force a very overworked bitch to forget all about work? NSFW would be much appreciated. For a CIS-lady, if that becomes of relevance. I'll be at work as per usual so no need to hurry with this one. I hope you have an awesome Valentine's day, and a fine weekend following it too! You are truly doing God's Work with these. Love ya Bexxx

Oh my GOD! YES! Hi Furball! I was hoping you would submit something and fuck me did I miss Danny! I hope you like this, I went kinda off, a good 1K all for you! I am really happy with this, it feels totally him and I wish I could have this kinda treatment, I hope you agree with his methods! I like this so much I might add onto it eventually, make it longer, who knows!

---

Rating. Explicit. Length. 1.2K. Danny Johnson X CIS Female Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Stalking. Obsession. Breaking And Entering. Restraints. Man Handling. Mask Kink. Sex Toy Use. Forced Orgasm. Banter. Taunting. Teasing. Praise.

---

Relax, Take It Easy.

---

Rest is so important, without proper rest, good self-care, absolutely no one can function at their best, you are included in that, so why do you act like you aren’t? It isn’t enough to leave work for the day, you have to actually leave work at work, not bring it home, you are not supposed to drag the heavy oppressive mood through your front door, clinging to your shoulders like a backpack you can’t take off, weighing you down. This behaviour you engage in? It does you a great disservice, makes your life harder and worse still, it is selfish.

You used to be Danny’s favourite form of entertainment, stalking you, watching you, cataloguing your life and planning your shared future, your ultimate end, how perfect it could be, but then you stopped taking care of yourself. It was yet another night of you collapsed on your couch and doing literally fucking nothing and Danny was frustrated, bored, this felt like a chore, and he realized he wanted to change the channel. He hated that thought, he loved you as much as he is capable of loving anything. He has invested so much time and effort, the last thing he wants to do is abandon it, he wants to see it through to its end and further still, he wants that end to be satisfying.

You have provided so much joy to him, the least he can do is invest a bit more to try and salvage this before he thinks of cutting this thing between you short. This is what led to him breaking in while you were asleep on the couch, you were still dressed in your uniform from work, you hadn’t even bothered to get into your comfy clothing, he pulled out the cuffs he brought and set to work. The restraints were leather, padded comfortably and came with means to hook them together, two went around your wrists, two around your ankles, and then you were unceremoniously dragged onto the floor. You wake up with a start, body sluggish as he arranges you, to his liking. You are on your stomach, and he has your arms and legs positioned to connect the wrists to the ankles, leaving you effectively hog tied from the four points of contact and rendering your body totally useless.

The lamp on the end table is turned on, you blink against the bright light, your brain is struggling to catch up to the new situation and information, but the two heavy black boots stepping into your line of sight help wake you up.

“Hello.” The voice makes your head snap up, as much as it can, your eye line following up the black pants and further, up, up, to that white mask with the hollow eyes and mouth twisted to that permanent scream.

“Glad you are awake. Hate the fact this is our first formal meeting, but drastic times requiring drastic measures and all that, hm?” He was speaking as if he knew you, were friends, the tone mostly conversational but with an edge of resigned frustration? It was not only odd, but terrifying, a strange masked man in your house who has bound you helplessly, you take a moment and then find your voice, “Hi, uh, I’m sorry, who are you and what are you doing here?”

“You don’t know me, but I know you, the particulars are not important, I am here to help you.” He stated simply, staring down at you, even with no way of seeing his eyes you can feel the weight of his gaze on you.

What kind of presumptuous asshole has found his way in here? You feel a wave of difference rising above the fear as you bite out, “Who says I need help?”

He scoffs, “I do, obviously.”

You scoff in return, “And what are you here to help me with, exactly?”

“Help you unwind from that little job of yours, it has clearly been effecting every other aspect of your life, so I am going to ease your burdens.” He said it with authority, like he truly believed that he knew best and was sure he was going to be able to help.

He turns and steps away, not acknowledging your question of, “How?”, as if it was stupid and unimportant, if you just waited a minute more you’d get your answer.

“Hello?! Stop ignoring me!” You call, and he laughs, “I am not ignoring you, trust me, you will get more attention than you will be able to handle in a minute.”

The masked stranger was behind you, leaving you unable to see what he is up to, but you hear some shuffling around, and soon enough, he falls to his knees beside you and then something is put between your legs, pressed against your pants clad crotch, leaving you squirming and saying, “Woah, woah, what are you-”

Then he clicks the on switch, and you are hit with the strong vibrations that can only be from a wand. The stimulation is strong, immediate, and it knocks the air out of your lungs, your sentence breaks off into a weak moan of, “-ooooooooh.”

He laughs again, delighted, “This is what I am here to do. I am going to use this-” He turns the wand up one notch and your breath hiccups, “-to wring as many orgasms as it takes to make you brainless.”

What? You moan in a confused pitch that has him pressing onwards, “I’m not going to stop until it is impossible for you to be holding any thought in that pretty little head, let alone any tension.”

Overstimulation was quickly bleeding into genuine pleasure, it had been too long since you had experienced this, you had been neglecting yourself physically, and apparently needed this much more desperately than you had been consciously aware of.

“I’m gonna start out easy, and after you cum like this, then you lose the pants, and then after another, your underwear, and I will keep on ramping it up, on and on. Who knows? If you are extra lucky and beg good enough, I might fuck you for the grand finale’ but that will take some serious convincing on your part.”

No fighting it you suppose, might as well settle in for a long night, that first orgasm isn’t going to take much, you feel it starting to well up. "Just give in, you need this, you need to relax."

You can’t help it, no stopping it as you are hurtling towards it, moaning, hips moving of their own accord, causing you to grind against the instrument of your blissful torture.

“There you gooo, look at you already! I knew this is just what you needed. Come on, give me that first one.” A black leather gloved hand is on your back, he moves the toy as you grind, helping you out further, cooing to you with his praise as it sinks into your skin.

Your head is swimming, your clit is throbbing, and you are so close, a few more seconds and with a strangled cry, forehead to carpet you stiffen as he forces your first orgasm of the night from your cunt. Your hips make small stuttered movements, wringing all the enjoyment you can from this, he doesn’t move the toy, but he turns it down one level, holding it looser to you.

“Good job! One down. Let’s see how many you need to get you into the right relaxed frame of mind.”

#Furball891 #BHF writing #BHF asks #DBD Ghostface x reader #Danny Johnson x reader #Valentines Ask Game #Enjoy!#I love this one fuck me do I love this

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theunholybastard · 9 months ago

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Kinktober: October 8th - Praise (Frater Imperator x Female!Reader)

Tags: Light Dom/Sub, Established Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Mentions Of Death, Praise, Body Worship, Oral Sex, Riding, Light Possessiveness, Unprotected Sex, Cumshot, Aftercare, Fluff And Smut, 2nd Person POV

Copia stares blankly into the mirror, fiddling with the cuffs of his newly tailored suit. It hasn't been long since his recent promotion, and since Sister Imperator... He still couldn't think about that for long without crying, so he decided it would be easier to bury his grief. He was able to avoid the anguish and anxiety that was slowly eating away at his very core for months, but now that he was seeing himself in the uniform, it's all he could think about.

He almost didn't recognize himself. Change wasn't easy, he already knew that very well. When he first ascended to Papa, he struggled way more than he let on, despite how he prepared for this moment pretty much his entire life. But now the role of Papa, everything he's worked towards for decades, is gone; now what? It's bad enough he had to give up his beloved title, that's fine, he'll get over it, but at the cost of his mother? He couldn't handle it.

A tear escapes his eye, quickly wiping it away with a leather-covered thumb, smudging his eye paints. He sighs frustratedly, smoothing the fabric of his jacket. No matter how much he adjusts himself, he can't seem to look quite right. Everything about this feels wrong. As he sniffles, wallowing in his self-pity, he hardly notices you entering the room, coming up behind him and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You look very handsome." You coo tenderly, running your hands up and down the fabric of his new suit, familiarizing yourself with the feeling. Copia smiled, snapping back to reality at the comforting feel of your soft hands, subconsciously leaning in closer to your addictive touch.

You were always there for him, there to encourage and support him through his transition from Cardinal to Papa. You always knew how to soothe the endless pit in his stomach. But despite the years you've been his rock, he worried that this time might be different. But surely you didn't just love him for his status and power. You wouldn't just stop loving him now that he wasn't Papa, you weren't like that... right?

"You flatter me, amore..." He teased, but the playfulness that was usually in his voice was noticeably faltered as a different type of self-consciousness slowly crept over him. "You... You really like it?" He asks hesitantly, his eyes searching yours for even a hint of dishonesty.

"You know I go crazy for you whenever you wear a new suit." You flirt, biting your lip as you look him up and down slowly, like an animal staring down a piece of fresh meat. Copia chuckled, remembering the way you looked at him when you first caught a glimpse of him in his Papal robes. It was a mix of desire, barely contained arousal, and worship, the memory pulling a sly smile from his lips. "Do you like it, Copia?" You asked, tone dripping with concern, causing his heart to sink. It was both a blessing and a curse, to not be able to hide his feelings from you.

"I..." Copia swallows against the lump forming in his throat. "I don't... I don't know, honestly. I should be fine. I've known this was coming for a long time, but still, I just... It doesn't feel right. I mean, come on, 'Frater Imperator?' That isn't who I am." He answered, his voice barely above a whisper. You nod along, appreciating his honesty. You reach your hands up to cradle his face, pulling him closer to you and rendering him unable to avoid eye-contact.

"You're right; That isn't who you are." You say, catching him a bit off-guard. Where were you going with this? "You aren't Frater Imperator. You aren't Papa. You aren't a Cardinal. You're Copia, just Copia. Whatever title you have at any given moment, it doesn't define who you are, it doesn't change you. You're still the same man. You're still the man that I love." Copia's breath hitched at your words, his eyes widening and welling up with unshed tears.

"Your mother would be so proud of you. I'm so proud of you. You're going to get through this, you're going to be fine, like you always are. And I'll be right here next to you, every step of the way." Your kind words trigger the tears to flow from Copias eyes, exhaling shakily as some of the tension in his shoulders loosen from the gravity of your words. You'd really love him no matter what form he took, wouldn't you?

Copia suddenly pulled you close, burying his face in your hair. He breathed in your sweet scent, relishing in the comfort you always provided him. You hugged him back, letting him hold you for however long he needed, running your fingers through his hair soothingly. "I love you, I love you..." Copia murmurs, his voice soft and shaky. "Ti amo, tesoro. Più di quanto tu possa mai sapere..."

You kiss his cheek, your arms wrapped around him like a protective shield. "I love you too, Co-Co. So much..." You mutter, trailing your kisses down to his neck; an innocent gesture at first, but each little kiss lingers for just a moment longer than the last. Copia shivered, the sensation of your lips against his sensitive skin igniting a familiar heat in his gut. Your grip on him tightens, your bodies pressed so tightly together that the two of you are practically melting in each others hot embrace.

"Will you let me show you how much I love you, Copia?" You whisper breathlessly in his ear, your voice dripping with lust. He groaned softly at your words, relishing in the feeling of your body pressed against him, stirring a primal desire within. The last time the two of you were intimate together was before his last show. Since then, it's been complicated, to say the least, caught up in the stress of his new promotion and his mothers passing. It's been a long time, too long. He didn't even realize how badly he needed this, how badly his body had been craving satisfaction, until now.

"Amore..." He gasped shakily, his voice strained with need. "Please…" Your lips were on his in an instant, clashing together feverishly as your fingers tangled in his hair. His hands clutched at the fabric of your clothes, his body responding instinctively to your touch. The room seemed to grow warmer, the air crackling with tension and desire. Copia was completely lost in the moment, his focus narrowing to you, and nothing but you.

You push Copia onto the bed, climbing on top and straddling him, toying with the buttons of his suit, desperately trying to get his clothes off as quickly as possible. He watched you unbutton him, the intensity in your eyes and the hunger etched on your face sent another jolt through his body. He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you undressed him with an urgent need. He reached up, tugging at your own clothes as well.

"Mmm, amore..." He breathed, his hands roaming over your body, groping whatever part of you he could. "You're driving me crazy..." Your eagerness was both thrilling and overwhelming, Copia's heart racing as you quickly removed his clothes. Every touch, every graze of your skin against his sent a wave of electricity through him, he was nearly in tears once again. "I know, baby, I know..." You purr, yanking off the final piece of his clothing: his boxers, exposing his already half-hard dick.

"Look at you, my sweet boy..." You coo, trailing your hands over every inch of his body, taking your time to truly admire the sight before you. "So beautiful, so perfect. My perfect boy, hm?" You lower yourself down, kissing all over his soft, squishy belly that you've grown to love so much, trailing your kisses lower and lower until you reach his twitching cock. He gasps as you take it in your mouth, moving up and down on his length, sucking him to full hardness.

His hands fisted the sheets, throwing his head back with a groan and spreading his legs as an invitation for you to continue your ministrations. His eyes close tightly, a familiar feeling starting to build up within him. Knowing he's about to cum, you stop, pulling your mouth off of him, causing him to let out a low, guttural whine, protesting the sudden halt of his pleasure. His body instinctively arches towards you in search of more contact, eyes snapping open to look up at you in confusion.

"W-why'd you sto-" His words catch in his throat as he watches you straddle his hips again, only to impale yourself on his shaft. Copia's reaction was immediate and involuntary, his hips bucking up against your touch with a sharp gasp. You moan in sync with him, starting to ride him at a rhythmic pace. "Fuck, Copia! You're so b-big! You always reach so deep inside me, make me feel so fucking g-good..." You whine, a particular slam of his cock hitting the back of your pussy causing the both of you to cry out.

Copia was completely at your mercy, lost in a haze of divine pleasure and ecstasy. Copia was used to being underneath you, having you dominating and controlling him, but this felt different, softer, gentler. No rules or punishments, no slapping, biting, scratching, no degradation. As much as he loves being ruined by your sadistic wiles, this is exactly what he needed right now. Not fucking, but making love.

Copia's noises were whiny and pathetic, his back arching off the bed slightly as the waves upon waves of pleasure washed over him. His hands clutched at your hips, his knuckles turning white as he tried to control his body's reactions to no avail. "Mmm, more," he panted, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly agape. "Please, I need more, I need you."

"I know, Co-Co. I need you, too. I've missed this, m-missed how good your perfect body makes me feel. How hard you make me cum." You huff, bouncing faster on his dick. "You're everything I've ever wanted, Copia. You're perfect for me. You're mine. All fucking mine." You cry sweet praises, moaning pornographically as you ride him into oblivion.

Copia's breathing grew more ragged with each stroke of your cunt, his mind growing clouded by pleasure. Your words, the possessive claim you made on him, send a shiver through his body. He looked up at you, his mismatched eyes dark with lust, his face flushed. "I'm yours," he heaved, the words punctuated by a sharp gasp. "All yours."

It isn't long till Copias whines and whimpers grow louder and more labored, hips bucking up to meet yours wildly, all signals that he was close. He taps your thigh in warning, and with that, you lift yourself off his cock, allowing him to finish all over his stomach, ropes of cum shooting impressively far, nearly reaching his chest. He sighs, thoroughly satisfied, his body relaxing, save for the occasional twitch.

You grab a few tissues from the nightstand, cleaning up his cum- covered self to the best of your ability. Before you could kick back and cuddle up next to him, Copia sits up and grabs you by your hips, pushing you onto the bed, clumsily positioning himself between your legs. "Now it's time to make mia bella ragazza cum, too..."

His tongue delves in your hole, devouring you like a starved man. The tip of his nose rubs deliciously against your clit, and the mixture of clitoral stimulation and the frantic flicking of his tongue has your orgasm hitting you within minutes, already sensitive enough from his cock. Once he's had his fill of your cunt, he plops down beside you, the two of you laying side by side.

Copia lay on his back, a light sheen of sweat on his bare chest, panting. He turned his head to look at you, a ditzy, fucked-out smile on his lips. "I missed that..." he said, his voice raspy. He reached out to take your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. You nod, panting along with him, sweat-dampened hair sticking to your forehead uncomfortably. "Me too..." You agreed.

Copia turned onto his side, shifting a little closer to you. He moved a hand to push a strand of sticky hair out of your face, his touch gentle and tender. He studied your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and slightly disheveled appearance. It made his heart surge with affection. "I've been pushing you away, haven't I, amore?" He smiles sadly, his heart twinging with regret for how he's been handling things as of recently. You frown.

"Honestly? You have. But I don't blame you at all for it, not one bit. You just lost your mother and your title, you've been mourning. It's okay that you needed space. You've been going through a lot, my love..." You squeeze his hand reassuringly. Copia sighed, his brow furrowing slightly as he squeezed your hand back, dissatisfied with himself.

"I just... I didn't want to burden you. I know I'm not the most stable person, and with everything happening... I wanted to protect you from everything happening in my silly old mind." He kisses the back of your hand earnestly. "But not anymore. You are the last person I want to be dishonest with, to push away. Not now, not after everything." He assures, looking down at your intertwined hands, focusing on the feeling of your skin against his. This is all he wants. This is all that matters.

"Besides," He grumbles sleepily, pulling your body close to his for post-coital cuddles that he so dearly missed. "You have taught me I am more than just a title, no?"

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1-800-deactivatednearu · 10 months ago

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click to see the first image at full size!

[image description: two digital drawings. first is of scout's ma as a drag queen. she is posed like the engraving on the side of the ambassador, standing with one leg bent slightly and a smug smile. she holds one open fan in front of her thigh and the other behind her head, both blue and with "Bang!" written in white cursive. the front fan is slightly bloodstained. she wears a navy pinstripe sheath dress that buttons up the front and a detached shirt collar and bow tie. the collar is square, with lapels like a suit jacket. she has blue eye shadow, red lipstick, and sharply contoured cheekbones.

second drawing is of spy sitting at her feet as she lights his cigarette, holding his jaw in her hand. scout's ma wears a lighter blue dress with long sleeves and a back cutout, striped with yellow and dark blue. spy is a drag king is a large black furry coat with light brown trim, a straw hat, pink pants, and a leather harness. /end description.]

shes mama but she also responds to mommy ;)

(she/her pronouns for mama, he/him pronouns for james bondage (drag king spy)!)

the thought process talk got a little long, see more under the cut!

the main inspiration was honestly her beehive and the hand fans in the ambassador engraving and then i ran with it :) was looking at her and thinking that her design is so distinct its fairly easy to keep recognizable (for anyone curious, its the beehive, headband, mod dress, square neckline, belt)

the first design is based off spy films! the ambassador was an incredibly strong influence . i would not call this a masc look by any stretch of the imagination but i was aiming for relatively more masc . i was somewhat inspired by james bond i think? but its not too unique of a look . it can be any spy . it could even be tf2 spy! which is why she has a matching belt and watch

a bit of a relic of the past (as in ideas on the cutting room floor) is that her sleeves are so puffy because i was considering having her dress be made of a shiny material and i like how light looks on scrunchy shiny material :)

the fans say bang because i think it would be incredibly funny to snap them open . dont worry about the blood . i was planning for her to have a gun strapped to her leg but theres no space for it, unfortunately :(

the second is the result of challenging myself to vary her dress a little more while keeping the same silhouette . its not too exciting in changes construction wise! but the back cutout is because i love rendering skin and if the angle permits it then... i was leaning more into the mod dress look with the patterning this time around, its a lot lighter this time around in colors because i deserve more fun coloring this time around! tossed in yellow as the popular accent color of choice .

james bondage is far less inspired whoops . the plan was more or less "i want to make him look like an expensive cat" . the leather harness was realizing i have got to capitalize off the bondage part . i do not know how to feel about the wearing it over a jacket that big

with james bondage i went pose first, then clothes, then clothes on the pose. which is to say, this outfit is probably more exciting without the jacket . whoops!

[image description: digital sketch of spy's full outfit from the drawing of him with scout's ma. obscured details: his black gloves are at opera length with belts attached, the straw hat has a ribbon that match his pants, the pants have two buttons as opposed to one for the fly, and he is wearing ankle length boots with stilettos and red soles. end description.]

#my art #tf2 #team fortress 2 #scouts ma #scouts mom #tf2 spy #smoking tw #my bimonthly tumblr post lol

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XII : Venus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A/N: I realized shortly after posting chapter 11 that I’d made a small mistake in the timeline I’m intending this to follow. I included a line from Din saying Paz had already tried to take the Darksaber from him and failed, but where we’re at now, chapter 5 of The Book of Boba Fett hasn’t happened just yet. So I’ve gone back and deleted that small detail from the previous chapter, and why am I even telling you this, idk, but if you guy could do me a solid and pretend to forget my fuck up, I’d love you forever for it.

Writing Star Wars is hard

Also, the indomitable @dirtysouvenir has rendered the most gorgeous artwork imaginable of Din and Sithy, and I still can’t quite believe my eyes every time I look at it. Everyone please go show Jonis all the love and praise she deserves.

Anyways… like always, forgive me for the wait. I love you all for being so patient with me. And shout out to chapter four of Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband which served as inspiration for this. You will always be famous to me!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

CHAPTER XII : VENUS

What are we doing here, and why are our hearts invisible?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

“Just like that, yes. Good girl–keep doing what you’re doing.” His hand slides to circle your wrist, leather and the thick weave of your tunic, the slight shake of your nerves caught between. “Grip it firmly, but squeeze it gently. Yes– yes, good. You’re doing so well.”

You suck in a trembling breath, too hyper aware of the feel of his chest plate brushing against your back, the cap of his left knee gently bumping the back of your own, his arms wrapped in a loose and careful cage around your frame where he’s helping you direct the blaster at the target he’d set up several meters away for practicing. He’s got one of your wrists wrapped in the leather of his fist, the other cupping the underside of your elbow to keep your shaking arms steady.

“I don’t know why I’ve never been very good at this,” you whisper over the sound of the burning desert winds lashing you in the brow. “It’s just never come very easy.”

“That’s alright. That’s why we’re practicing again.” The hand cupping your elbow moves slowly to your waist, all his handling of you these past few days has been so intentional, cautious and patient and aware of himself and you and your reactions. Your heart beats, thumps and thumps hard enough to make you a little dizzy, a little sick. “Keep your right arm firm, but fluid. Try not to lock your elbow, let the recoil move through you steadily.”

He’d covered your hair and face in soft white linen wraps to keep you from being scorched by the sun and sand, and his voice is so deep, head pitched low so that the modulator is vibrating right at the level of your ear, the sounds of him sluicing through the linen to curl around your ear. You shiver again, squeezing your fist too tight around the butt of the blaster. You’d asked him if he’d help you practice just before you’d made planet fall a few hours ago, and now here the two of you are. A few clicks outside of Mos Eisley, he’d found a cluster of sandstacks to land the Crest amidst for a couple hours of target practice—near an area he’d told you is called Beggar’s Canyon.

You’re not sure if it’s just an excuse to have him touch you, but here you are now, in the circle of his arms, shivering with nerves and heat and want. The sun burns, but the places where he grips you burn worse, and your heart rings in your skull.

“Focus your gaze between the eyeline, eventually, it’ll come naturally, your aim, but for now, use the field the blaster sets. Squeeze gentle–” He grips your now healed elbow firmly, anchoring your arm, the hand holding your wrist moves to your waist, securing you in his hold so that when you pull the trigger, the zing of the blaster bolt leaving its chamber moves through your limb, into your chest cavity, electrifying your heart, and his hold is steadying all the way through. He’s there to keep you up, keep you strong, and so it’s almost thoughtless when you do it, a gut instinct or some muscle inside your brain desperate to flex and stretch or come awake because faster than you can blink or think, you take hold of that bolt of plasma with your mind, freezing it midway between where the two of you stand and the target he’d set.

You feel his hands flex around you, but he keeps still and silent, watching, waiting for what you’ll do next. And your heart beats faster and faster, the bright of the sun gleaming and nauseating, refracting off the sand, the plasma, your eyes. The bolt screeches and writhes and defies the laws of nature by your hand, and it does not feel good, but it does feel right.

The first time you’ve really wielded the Force since the night you escaped.

There’s something painful and uncomfortable and familiar about it coming back to you. Your breath goes fast within your chest, the taste of the desert on your tongue and the grit of sand sneaking beneath your clothes, sweaty line of anxiety down your spine, and his steady, calm breaths up against your back every other moment, this power inside of you that’s always been the cause of everything bad and only some things good. It vibrates in everything, moves through all living things, the Force, within you, within him.

“Let it go, cyare. It’s okay if you miss.” You shut your eyes and let it fall away and now it’s not the Force or you or anything else, it’s only him keeping you up against the rest of everything.

The two of you, like grief and the mountain.

“How did you meet this woman again?” You ask for about the third time, seemingly unable to keep your mouth shut and your nerves to yourself.

“She’s been keeping up maintenance on the Crest for a while now. And she helped out with the kid, watched him for me a couple times—I trust her.”

“Peli,” you repeat the name contemplatively, taking in the sight of him as he checks the pre-landing codes, flipping switches and punching toggles a little too roughly. He’s agitated, covered and swathed in it. You know he’s worried about you, the way you’ll feel being around someone else, scared you’re still feeling fragile or tired or weak. And you’re accepting it for now because you are. You are tired and you do feel fragile and you do need taking care of. If only for the time being, if only for a little bit longer. A sort of end feels very near, and you’re still working out what that such end is going to be.

“Peli,” he sighs, hitting the last button and finally swiveling in his chair to face you, and you eye him suspiciously, you know that sigh and head tilt. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not tired?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

Hurts. “Fine.”

“Cyar’ika.”

“Din.” Another sigh. Another shake of his head. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath that stupid lug of metal he wears on his fat head. But you hope that he’s smiling too, and you give him a soft, small one of your own, twisting your fingers together tightly in your lap. You want to reach out for him, to go to him and sit with him and kiss him again like the other day. But you don’t feel ready again. Again, fragile, tired, a weakness of heart within you that you can’t understand the source of, or you can, but you don’t want to accept it, you want to be able to move on, to get over it, to be like you once were. But that you also know he’ll let you feel for as long as you need to.

“I promise I feel okay, and that I’ll tell you if I don’t.” The target practice had left you tired and awake, and there is something moving inside of you—a recognition of sorts you can’t pinpoint exactly, but which you know is going to show or tell you something about yourself soon, the Force, the things you’d done or the things you’d do. And there’s patience too, a waiting, a readiness to receive whatever this would be without pressure or urgency. You feel entirely strung tight, a knot about to be set loose, entirely at ease, as well. Something strange about the anxiety you carry within yourself, like it doesn’t really matter much anymore and is only waiting for the right moment to be expelled.

He gives a soft grunt and turns back to face the control panel. The rolling golden sands of Tatooine like an ocean before you, and then there in the distance, the littered smattering of sand blighted little buildings that make up the spaceport of Mos Eisley. He directs the Razor Crest towards Hangar three-five, the ship jostling with the lowering of the landing gear.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” You ask nervously, following him down the ladder once he’s eased the ship into the landing bay, fretting over this ordeal of having to meet someone else from his life, a friend, which wasn’t even something you were aware he knew how to have. You hear the heavy thud of his boots against the durasteel, and then his hands are circling your waist and pulling you down the rest of the way, paying no mind to your indignant squawking.

He’d been strange with his touch, as well. As if he couldn’t help himself some moments, overcome by habit and familiarity, and then afraid and cautious in others. And you can’t understand how you feel about this either. Grateful, a sort of soft that makes your eyes smart and your cheeks bleed with heat. He’s so aware of you, so aware of what you might want or need, but then overcome, as well, needing you, wanting you. And you feel so afraid you won’t be able to give him those things—the ones he wants or needs, that you won't be able to find your way back to the way things had been between the two of you before.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, little compassion to be found for your fretting. You stick your tongue out at the back of his head, rolling your eyes and steeling yourself as he lowers the hatch, and a chirpy little voice calls, Mando!

The plank lowers, and lowers, and lowers, and finally, a mess of springy dark curls come into view. The small woman, Peli, claps her hands excitedly and spreads her arms in wide welcome of him, and something in your heart throbs.

A friend, indeed.

“Peli,” he greets her, heavy, swaying gate stomping down the gangplank, voice serious and not all matching her enthusiasm. You roll your eyes at him again as the reverberations of his steps tickle your feet through the soles of your boots.

“Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando,” she says to the chittering droids whirring around her. You follow him slowly, slinking directly behind him so that the breadth of his shoulders conceals you for a second longer before, “And who do we have here? Another unlikely companion?”

He pivots, letting you step into full view and brave shyness, a hand coming up to hover around your waist, urging you forward, but not actually touching you. The sound of your name rings in tune to the thump of your heart through the modulator. Careful, so careful, and it makes you hurt at your own self. Wanting to touch you one moment, unable to stop himself from ripping you into his arms; another, afraid, feeling like he can’t even put a gently motioning hand on your body, and how will you ever fix this? How are you going to ever be able to get the two of you back to where you were?

You take a hurt little step away from him, swallowing the heat in your throat several times before you can force a smile onto your face.

His body shifts and sways towards your retreating one.

But the small woman steps towards you, pit droids spinning and skittering frantically around her, and she claps a work hewn hand on your shoulder. “Let Peli take a good look at you.” Her gaze is cheerful, full of a youthfulness that belies her age and an even more cheerful, gap toothed smile. “Pretty girlfriend, Mando.” She waggles her bushy brows up at him. “Brought me another set of bright eyes, didn’t’cha?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peli.” Your throat feels humiliatingly tight when she takes your hand in her smaller one, giving it a swift shake, no gentleness about the way she handles you, and there’s something comforting about the forsaking of the kid gloves. Your fracture isn’t obvious for the whole world to see, there’s still normalcy to be found for you.

She looks up at Din as you avoid his burning gaze, laughing scowl on her sunny face. “Who woulda thought you had it in, ya, huh?” She thumps a fist on his chest plate, shaking her head and moves to take a look at the Crest. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Chasing down some elusive bounty? Carbon scoring’s worse than last time.'' She chatters a million miles a minute, pulling out some sort of electric scanner, assessing the old gunship.

“We had a long trip,” he sighs, hands fisted on his hips as he watches her impatiently, turning his gaze back to your face every few moments. You want to bare your teeth at him in a snarl and tell him to stop fucking worrying. You want him to take you into his arms or hold your hand.

“Long trip, sure. That’s what he always says,” she tells you over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “Turns out it’s usually a gun fight or something just as idiotic.”

You snicker, enjoying the easy way she handles your Mandalorian’s surliness, grateful for the cheerful buffer she provides between your own internal angst and his overzealous worrying. “It was a long trip this time, I swear. We’re coming from the Core,” he grumbles, and the two of you follow her while she inspects the damage on the ship, and in a moment of bravery or desperation for normalcy or closeness or just him, you reach up to grip two of his thick fingers in your fist. His hand immediately adjusts and curves to wrap around yours, intertwining your fingers and taking you securely in his grip. You feel him turn to look down at you questioningly, but you refuse to look back. This is normal, this is how it should be, this is what feels right even if you need the barrier of his gloves to feel like you can breathe.

“The Core! Long way’s.” Hmm, she muses as she goes. “Got a fuel leak.” Again. He huffs. “Taking a vacation now?” She turns back with another smarmy smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Nice little honeymoon?” She teases. “I could use one of those myself.” She scans something else, and the pit droids chatter and chirp around her, almost full her height, she’s so small.

“Peli–” he grumbles. Your grumpy, shy boy; you wonder if he ever blushes under that thing, squeezing his hand in yours as tight as you can.

“Yeah, yeah. No droids, I know. When are you gonna get over that nonsense, huh Mando? It’s about time, you know!” She bends to inspect something closer near the landing gear, covered in carbon scoring here too, examines her scanner again, then clips it back to her utility belt. “Alright, here’s the deal–” But he cuts her off, pivoting while pulling his blaster in one fluid motion to shoot at a poor little droid that's gotten too close. “Hey! Hey! What’ve I said before? You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” She shouts.

“Din–” you scold, gripping the thick of his arm to pull the weapon down.

“What’ve I told you?” He barks.

“No droids. No droids. Blah, blah. You have got to get over that! I’m tryn’a make a deal with you here, ya womp rat.”

He jerks aggressively towards another little droid that wanders too close, sending it skittering away in terror, and you pinch his arm beneath the thick duraweave, frowning up at him, be nice, when he looks down at you, giving him a jut of your eyebrow and thrusting your chin at Peli. He groans, cursing low and grumpy in Mando’a. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“If you let them work on the Crest–” She jerks her chin at the little pit droids quivering behind the crates strewn about the hangar in abject terror of the mean Mandalorian.

“No,” he cuts her off, stubbornness in every line of his frame.

“Din!” You scold again, bumping your hip into his.

“Come on, Mando! I’ll charge you half price–”

“Deal,” he cuts her off again immediately, the cheapskate.

“Ha!” She hoots and claps loudly. “Droids! Get to work on this lovely man’s ship. Lemme see the cash.” She holds out a grubby palm, wiggling her fingers. “He’s pretty easy, you ever notice that?” She says to you conspiratorially.

“Constantly,” you can’t help the laugh in your voice. Your first laugh in what seems like years.

“Loose knickered is what they used to call it back in my day.” And you have to turn your face into his arm to muffle your cackling, listening to him start up another string of curses beneath the helmet.

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before, ever,” he mutters sullenly.

“Well, you’re young.”

“Not that young,” you provide helpfully, big cheesy smile that feels slightly unnatural and rusted spreading across your face.

“Whoopee, Mando! I like this one! You really do know how to pick ‘em.” She claps him roughly on the shoulder, her little paw slapping loudly against his pauldron. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to be for the next couple of days, you see. I’m dating that Jawa again—the one I’d told you about,” she announces, proud as anything, big smile across her leathery face.

“A Jawa?” You repeat, making sure you heard right.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, bright eyes. They’re quite furry… very furry, but…” She clicks her teeth together, “You know…” Grins.

You look up at Din, squeezing his arm in your grip. “Guess I gotta try it.” You’re pretty sure you hear him grumble something to the effect of over my dead body, before he’s agreeing to Peli’s deal with a clap and a shake, and the promise of two hundred and fifty Imperial credits and absolutely no harm done to her droids while she’s gone and they work on the Crest.

“Treadwell, get in there!” She shouts, and the little pit droid chirps fretfully, trembling behind an R5 unit. “You can’t say no, you’re a droid. Oh, he’s not going to shoot you. Stop being a coward! What is this, a democracy all of a sudden?” Losing the fight, the droid wheels forward to get to work. “Yeah, thought so.” She turns back to you and Din. “You two can stay here, look after the shop while I’m gone? It’ll only be a few days.”

“We have some resupplying to do, but we’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises.

“And you’re not going to shoot my droids?”

“And I’m not going to shoot your droids,” he agrees, but later, you catch the too rough nudge he gives one of the little droids with his boot when he thinks no one’s watching. This man and his droid complex, you roll your eyes.

“How’s the N-1 keeping up?” He asks as she’s packing up to go.

“Just how you left her. That honey’s faster than a fathier. You should take her out while you’re here, give that baby a spin. Oh! And I added that turbonic venturi power assimilator I’d mentioned before. Remember? S’how I reconnected with my Jawa,” she nudges you with a wink. “You’re gonna be the fastest ship on the Outer Rim.”

“You got a new ship?” You ask curiously.

“Just a side project we took up while I had some spare time.” But the way he says it is a little strange, making you pause to look up and try to read the blank face of his helmet. Ah, and he smooths that same hovering hand from before along the line of your spine, an attempt to soothe or quell your curiosity without actually giving you the gift of his touch.

Peli leaves a few hours later, and she really does have a Jawa lover. The little critter comes to collect her right before the suns set, off to catch the sandcrawler before it journeys off into the desert, leaving you alone with only Din and the little pit droids for company.

And suddenly, that shyness from earlier is back for some reason. The distraction of travel and the buzz of hyperspace lost to the calm silence of the quiet spaceport as the suns set over the horizon and night settles in, cool winds coming in on the sand gusts from deep in the desert. After hours of work, Din posing as the menacing overlord barking orders and complaints, intruding on their work when it isn’t up to his ridiculous standards, the droids finish up for the night, and Din engages the hangar security system, and then the ship’s, locking the two of you in safely for the night.

“Dinner?” He asks as he moves slowly around the hull, pulling the cloak from his shoulders, a river of sand sluicing in a rain sheet onto the steel floor. The sound of it has a shiver moving through you as you lower yourself to the floor, crossing your legs beneath you at the edge of your makeshift bed. You desperately want to crawl between the covers without a shower and find the peace of evasion through sleep, secure in the knowledge that he won’t follow you into bed. He’d refused since you’d reunited, even though you’d invited him several times to share the much more comfortable pile of blankets than what you know his pilot’s chair or bunk provide. He’d not taken you up on the offer yet, and right now, fluttering heart and hot eyes and sweating nape, you’re glad for it.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you—or you do. You’re overwhelmed with want and fear, of him, of his touch, of having lost what the two of you had before. And as you watch him start to pull his armor from his body, first one pauldron, then a vambrace, then a thigh guard, no sense of congruity to the pattern with which he divests himself of his Creed, it’s suddenly like he’s standing right in front of you, and yet you miss him anyway. Miss him in a way that makes you sick and devastated.

You must make some sort of sound, a funny look on your face or a change in your breathing because he turns suddenly, a too worried, “What’s wrong?” on his tongue.

“Nothing.” You look up at him from your spot on the ground, head falling back on your neck, and you can feel the wet of your eyes, trying to force yourself not to blink so that they won’t fall—the tears. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He comes to a slow crouch before you, long legs folding down, down. “What is it? Tell me.” Half missing his armor as he poses now, it’s like he’s half him, half yours, half only-man, half Mandalorian. A little bit like what you feel yourself; half, half, half.

Pulling one glove from his hand, he lifts it, palm spread towards you, showing you his intention before he carefully cups the side of your face; thumb at your pulse, pointer and middle fingers giving your temple a soft pressure, pinky poised at the bridge of your nose. Your lashes brush against his index every time you blink, and his skin is smooth and rough at the same time, and warm—sun-hearted man.

You press your face harder into his palm, letting him support the weight of your head, nuzzling against the rough of his calluses, blaster blister scratchy against your carotid, and heat pulses all through you from the crown of your head, sliding down the length of your, still yet, too long hair, the back of your neck, your chest, pooling to settle deep in the pit of your belly.

And yet there’s something missing or different or off, like you feel empty but too full of trepidation to conjure up that old desire you’d always had, that need for him to fill, fill, fill you. Like the heat is there, but it’s remembered, not necessarily present. It all makes you want to cry and scream and go to sleep.

The truth, and plainly: you’re terrified of anything that might hurt, can’t fathom the idea of it.

Your heart beats in your throat, you taste it on your tongue, and it mixes with the sad when you say: “Do you remember when we were on Kashyyyk—when we sparred?”

“I remember,” he says, voice deep and low—through the modulator. You hate his helmet. You wish you could get beneath. You wish you were brave enough. The feeling of it coming on sudden and unexpected, thought, bitter and foul and not something you’d necessarily felt before, certainly not so viciously. It’s just that you hate that all this has happened—you want to feel the press of his lips at the crown of your head and the wash of his breath like heat moving through your hair—that you are not in the same place you once were, that you’re too afraid to move forward.

“When we switched weapons—”

He hums: “Yes.”

“It was so green there.” You turn your face further into him so that you’re speaking into his palm now, words pooling there in the cup of it like a well of truths and fears.

“It was.” The pointer and index stroke your temple, press once, twice, thrice—harder on the latter. It feels good, it feels real and reminding. He lets a heavy silence pass for a moment, he’s thinking of something, contemplating a push. “Do you remember—” He passes a swallow you can hear the thickness of, “Do you remember how I had you in the dirt—like a fucking animal? How you let me do whatever I wanted, however I wanted.” He gives the hardest press he’s given yet, at your temple, you think you feel the press against your brain, and you open your mouth to let the edge of your teeth dig hard into the meat of his palm. He growls a rough sound, a hungry sound, a sound like one he’d have made when he had you in the dirt like a fucking animal.

You drag your teeth along the hill of his palm, closing your mouth at the end. You don’t give him the wet of your tongue, you don’t feel ready to taste his skin like that just yet—an assimilation of violence.

“Yes,” you finally say, realizing that he understands what you were thinking without having to say it, or knowing how to, that you’re full of memories of past desires and how badly you want them back and how out of reach that all feels, but also, that suddenly now, in a single blink, the heat in your belly isn’t remembered, but present, alive, awake. That you’re cunt clenches once, twice, thrice around nothing—harder, hungrier on the latter. That you’re wet for him. “I remember.”

“Good. I remember every single thing we’ve ever done.” You roll your face in his palm so that you can look up at him now, feeling something like brave. “Every word, every breath, I remember all of it. Alright?”

“Alright,” you say quietly.

“And if you need me to help you remember too, then I will.”

“Alright.” And then: “What if I can’t, though?... What if we can’t ever have that again? What if I can’t remember? What if I can never give you that again?” A tear slides over the bridge of your nose, and now it’s not only truths and fears cupped in the palm of his hand but the saltwater of grief too.

“Then we’ll find something new. A new way, a different way. We’ll do it however you want now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” It’s very much a promise, a new Creed being established here.

“Okay.”

He nods, “Okay.”

The water is warm verging on hot verging on scalding. It feels incredible slithering over your tired and sore muscles, the ligatures in your arms still trembling from the blaster practice earlier today, from your overwhelm of emotions.

You hate that you’re not good at it, that the only weapon that seems to become you is a lightsaber.

The suds of his earthy smelling soap slide through your hair, slipping down your spine, over your ass and along your legs to pool around your feet and disappear down the drain. You shiver once, as though letting something fall away as you slide your hand down, over the swell of your belly, to cup the palmful of your cunt, wedging your hand between your thighs. You pet slowly at the wet curls there, realizing some of it is also the sticky slick of your desire. You were right, you’re wet for him and your clit pulses, slightly swollen and wanting. Your body is awake and hungry for him for the first time in what feels like eons.

You explore slowly, your cunt slightly trembling at the feeling of being prodded and touched for the first time in you can’t remember how long. Moaning softly, you pull your fingers from between your legs, hands sliding up now to cup the weights of your breasts in each palm and squeeze tightly. Oh, you want him, you want him, you’re afraid. Your head falls back on a thump against the fresher wall, loud enough that you hear his lurking voice through the door, you okay in there? And instead of being annoyed at his overbearing caution, his hovering, you shiver again, something coming back to you now.

Your desire.

You shut the water off, grabbing one of the soft linens he’d slung over the warm pipe for you to wrap yourself in. He knocks a knuckle against the wobbly little door, “Cyar’ika?”

Looking at yourself in front of the steamy mirror, too long, naiad hair, bright, strange eyes, you want him, you want him, you want to feel alive, awake, anything. You can’t deny your shortcomings, fears, whatever they might be called, but there is yet still a soft place inside of you that they’d not snuffed out, that wants Din still.

You turn to slide the fresher door open just as he’s readying to knock again.

He’d showered before you, after he’d fed you your soup and your disgusting fake bread he’d promised he’d find a real substitution for soon enough, and you’d needed a moment alone to sit in your grime and silence, digest your feelings. He’s clad now in one of his soft, dark undershirts, his flight pants and the helmet, opposite your towel and water dewed skin, steaming from the hot fresher.

You watch a swallow pass through his throat, words caught, slow and heavy. He clears it once, twice, tilts his head down to take in the state of you, before he says, “You alright?”

You nod, wide eyed awake. He’s standing right in front of you and you miss him and you want to shock him wide eyed awake too. “The water was too hot. I got dizzy,” you lie, swaying towards him a little, letting your lashes flutter dramatically.

Not all the way, but enough, just a little, as much as you can bear, that’s what you want from him right now.

His hands come up to grip the sides of your arms immediately, his bare hands, soaking up the wet of your skin. He pulls you into himself, pressing you carefully against his chest, and you shiver and shake against him, teeth rattling with a sound entirely lacking temperance. Your blood feels like it’s boiling, there’s desire alive and writhing in your tummy, and you squeeze your thighs together tightly, shifting from one foot to another while you drip a puddle onto the cold floor.

“Come here, sit down,” he murmurs, gently moving you to your bed, easing you down onto it slowly. “You need to take it easy,” he clucks over you, gripping your elbow to let you down carefully, keeping his hands on your bare skin until the last moment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re still tired, you’re still recovering. And you never listen. You have to listen to me when I’m trying to take care of you. You don’t eat enough, and I know your shoulder still hurts, little liar. Your elbow is barely better, and I saw you making strange faces when you were walking up the plank the other day. Your hip hurts doesn't it? Or your knee, something. No, don’t answer. I know you’ll just say no.” He talks and talks and talks, and you love him and you think that—

There’s a name for this…

He’d told you he loved you and he’d not said it again, neither had you, it felt too huge a thing to talk about again just yet while there was still so much left to discuss and bridge, but what does it matter if your body sings or screams in pain when you have the love of this beskar titan? What could you care for all the rest of everything?

Yes, Din. Yes, Din. Whatever you say, Din, as he huffs and puffs and arranges you, brings another pillow and blanket from the bunk, his only one in there, not that he cares, lovely man.

And it’s not only that you feel like you need to give him the things he wants or needs, because of course you do. You love him, you need to be able to give him things, everything, you want to be able to give him the whole galaxy. But it’s also that you want to. That to give him what he desires is to feed yourself, to live together, to be together, to give each other the things you need to stay alive.

You let yourself fall back onto the soft blankets slowly, this nest where you’ve always felt so safe and so protected and so loved, even when neither of you knew it was love that was holding you here. And you watch him for a few anxious moments as he pulls the covers this way and that, tucking them here and there, trying to avoid looking at the bare expanse of your dew damp legs. But then, taking hold of his hand, you still his nervous movements, and he finally looks up at your face, letting go of his fretting, taking hold of the bravery in the palm of your hand.

Shy—but brave. Brave—and wanting.

“We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?” You want to tell him you love him again, but there’s something slightly terrifying, gloriously intimate and fragile about the words.

“Always.”

“And we’ll keep each other alive?” Maker, I hope we keep each other alive.

“Yes.”

You take hold of the edge of the linen covering you, revealing your naked body to him slowly, exposing your soft underbelly. You hear his breath hitch, exhale on a groan that sounds like dying. His grip on your hand goes tight to the point of bone crushing pain for one brief, brief moment before he remembers himself and gentles again. You shiver at the pain, belly swooping and quivering with fear and nausea and lust.

You wish you could see his eyes, his face, his want.

“You—” he stutters, swallows, “You don’t have to, my love.” My love. He doesn’t need to say it out loud again now with teeth and tongue, he says it in all the things he does.

“You have to know that I want you so much. That I want you more than anything, Din.”

“I do know,” he says immediately. “I’ve never doubted that.”

“I want to show you.”

“You don’t have to. I know—” His other hand comes up to grip yours with both of his, caging your limb within the strength of his fists—to keep himself from touching you anywhere else, you think. But you can feel the intensity of his gaze along your skin, over your bare breasts, quivering with your hitching breaths, water droplets translating the frantic beat of your heart in their trembling on the surface of your skin. The line of your belly, the slope downward to the soft place between your thighs.

He’d seen the scarring on your hand, it was inevitable as much as you’d wished you could hide the deformity they’d left. As much as you wish you could’ve kept it from him, held an illusion for the rest of your lives together to spare him from the reminder of the things that’d been done, happened, chosen. But now… now he is to be subjected to the whole truth of it. Scars like cobwebs, strangely shimmering in silver lights beneath the surface of your skin—they’d been clever and ingenious in their torture—covering the whole circumference of your left hand up to your elbow. But also, from the lowest point of your last rib, over your right hip, traversing lower down the contours of your skin to wrap around the uppermost swell of your thigh.

They’d left their mark like they’d intended, and it wasn't something you could ever hide from him, the reality of what’d been done, what you’d chosen. It was obvious in everything, etched into your skin, a chasm in the still present distance between the two of you.

You feel like a bruise; tender, vulnerable, incongruously desperate to press on it harder and feel that dull throb, dark and ugly and on display.

His hands go tight around yours again for a moment, before he’s snatching them back to grip his bent knee, white knuckled, silent anger on display when his eyes reach the scarring.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over your hip down to your thigh to grip yourself there, digging your fingertips lightly into the plush softness. Your skin vibrates. “It doesn't hurt now.”

“What did they do?” His voice is like gravel, restrained fire-full fury.

“They wanted to see what it’d take to leave a mark. They figured it out.” The helmet turns away sharply, a short, brutal curse spit from his mouth. The tongue of his mother, beautiful despite his violence.

“It’s okay, Din.” You take hold of your thigh, pulling it up and apart, spreading yourself for him. Brave, wanting heart, be brave. He turns back immediately. “I want you to see how much I want you,” you whisper. “How much I still need you.”

You let your fingertips flutter lightly over your swollen, needy sex, and you can hear the obscene, sucking sound of your wet lips spreading apart when you part your legs wide enough for your sex to bloom. Cunt hungry and weeping for him.

Fuck, he spits, leaning closer, and his hand snaps forward to grip your ankle all the way around, pulling your foot up onto the uncompromising muscle of his thigh—your only point of contact.

“Show me, cyar’ika. Show me how much that pretty cunt missed me,” he growls.

You start slow, wide eyes fixed on the dark tee of his vizor, fingertips swirling around your clit slowly, it pulses and throbs and beats to the rhythm you can feel his own heart beating at within his own chest. But you pet it slowly, teasing both of you, and then feel lower down to the clenching mouth of your cunt—fuck, he spits again—slicking your fingers in your sticky wet. You start to rock your hips against the flat of your hand, the sound of your cunt, loud in the quiet hull, nothing to interrupt but the too desperate sound of your mutual panting. His fingers around your ankle are so tight they’ll leave a sore spot, and you can't think of the later hurt now, afraid it'll scare you out of this, all you can focus on is the beat of your cunt, the way it cries for him.

You swirl your fingertips at your opening, again, again, “Put them inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” And it’s a demand.

You start with one, slow and tentative, a little, shocked gasp as you probe shallowly within the tight, little hole. Then further, wiggling inside until you’re impaling yourself with your own small finger, the first thing inside of you in so long, and suddenly, you wish it was him. Your eyes fill with tears at the thought, spilling over at the wish that he could’ve been the first thing inside of you after all this time, but the reality that you’re just not ready for it yet. The salted proof of your inevitable shortcomings slide back along your cheeks to drip into your ears.

“Another,” he demands. “Oh, it sounds so pretty, little one. Give it another.” You pull your single finger out, sucking, wet-cunt sound that he groans in tune with, to press another one in, mewling at the pinch and stretch of it, the slick slide. Yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, he says, a mirror of his earlier words to you today during target practice. “Roll your hips, ride your hand.” You hitch another sob, “Don’t fucking cry,” he grits, pressing your heel hard into the meat of his thigh. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re going to come for me, you’re going to let me see it.” He spreads his thighs wider in his kneeling crouch, pushing his hips forward into nothing, drawing your gaze to the heavy bulge behind the plaquette of his flight pants. He’s so hard.

You crook your fingers inside yourself, hill of your palm against the swell of your engorged clit, fingertips against the spongey ridge at the front of your cunt, rolling your hips faster, chasing the orgasm you need to give him. Your foot feels numb in his grip, your cunt, on fire, so tight it hurts. Your belly hitches and heaves, open mouth gasping and you cry his name, moaning and writhing wantonly, your stomach slick and glistening again with sweat now instead of water. One of your palms reaches up to take hold of your breast, nipple caught between your fingers, squeezing tight, tight, tight. And suddenly he’s surging forward, letting go of your ankle to lean over you and rip his pants open, freeing his furious erection. The tip is red-purple and swollen fat, drooling a thick string of sloppy, white precum, and he wraps one massive fist around the angry thing. Din, Din, Din. He beats at his cock furiously, the sound of your name, the slick thwack, thwack, thwack of it sends you spilling into your orgasm, belly pulling tight, cunt twisting even tighter.

“Fuck, fucking come—fucking come,” he snarls as he twists his fist cruelly around the head and the thick white viscosity of his semen starts to spill from the fat head, bubbling up and over his fist and between his fingers, splattering heavy and hot onto your spasming cunt, coating your fingers so that you’re pushing the thick of his come into yourself, slicking you further. “Yes, yes, yes, like that. Let me fucking see it…Look at what you do to me.” And there's so much furious want in his voice, and he’s so big, long and thick, and you know it’s going to hurt when he puts it inside of you for the first time again—you remember how it hurt before, how you loved it—and you’re afraid you’re not going to be able to handle any sort of pain ever again, not even the sort you’d been so hungry for before.

But your womb pulls tight, pulses and throbs, and suddenly your two skinny fingers arent enough, you want the thick heft of his cock fucking hard and fast and deep inside of you, punching at the deepest spot within you.

His orgasm ends on a fierce groan, panting, thick chest heaving, his head hangs low between his shoulders. You pull your shaking fingers from your clenching hole, and he gives a few last lazy strokes, squeezing the last drops of come from the slick tip to splatter against your pussy. “I fucking missed this—your cunt covered in me.” His dripping cock bobs so close, and you have the sudden insane thought of him just shoving it in, holding you down prone and fucking all of his spend into your sloppy cunt, forcing you to take it and be his again. “I can’t wait to eat it. I can’t wait to fill it with my come again and eat it out of you.” There’s a part of you that might want it, that might wish for it.

“Maker, Din…” you moan, rubbing the thick semen into your overstimulated clit, your mound, up the curve of your belly, slicking yourself in him.

If you can’t have his touch, this is enough, and you bring your sticky, soaking fingers up to your mouth, sucking the come from them. He groans, not fair, sitting back on his knees, spent cock hanging obscenely from his open pants, wet and glistening. He reaches behind his head to tug his shirt up and off, leaving his sweaty chest bare and gleaming. Your eyes flutter shut, cupping your cunt in the palm of your hand, covering the slick curve of it, and you arch your back, spreading your thighs further, putting yourself on display for him.

“Gorgeous, cyar’ika,” he says between pants. “So pretty, my love.” He reaches down to squeeze his half hard cock once more. “I can be patient for you, I promise. You’re so worth it.”

He lays beside you in the dark, stretched out long and entirely clothed, but here with you, forced and convinced to share your bed with a line of pillows as a protective moat between the two of you at his own insistence.

You’re on your side, hands folded beneath your smushed cheek, wide eyes searching fruitlessly for the shape of him in the pitch dark. You want to say something else. You want to tell him you love him again, to hear the words fall from your tongue.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You hum a barely breathed laugh. And then, “I know you’re scared or regretful or worried that we’ll not get back to where we were,” he reads you.

“Yes.”

There’s a name for this…

He sighs long, goes quiet for longer, and then finally: “What’s happened’s happened, which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the galaxy.”

“Fate?” You muse, a little unbelieving.

Dark red—

“Call it what you want. We met, we separated…you were—gone. We waited. Now we’re here again. It’s meaningful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You believe in this—fate?” I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you.

“Call it what you want, but yes.”

—String.

There’s something about this that you need to consider, chew on. The fact that you’d felt, all your life, cursed to know how a thing would happen, be, end, always. Something like fate, perhaps, the whisper of it making a home for itself within the shell of your ear, and now the truth that he too believes in this thing you’ve always lived with. Destiny, what have you—you believe in the same things, you believe in each other.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He turns over, reaching to twine his fingers through yours; large, rough palm against small, soft palm. You want to tell him you love him again, you want to hear the words for him, but they feel trapped, tender, timid.

You’d always thought your destiny fixed, poised, on the tip of your tongue. A thing was what it was birthed unto the galaxy in perpetuity, and no amount of desire could absolve you of its sunken teeth. But this—this desire is like the creation of myth, that dark red thread that goes by the name of fate being pulled taught, humming in accord with a frequency heard only by the two of you.

Now: “Will you kiss me?” A beat of silence, his fingers around yours going tight, tight.

“Come here,” his voice blends with the darkness, and tugging you into himself, protective border between your bodies and his hand around your jaw, he slips a kiss onto your tongue. His mouth holds the hot recollection of being alive; the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the taste, your fingers weaving through his hair, your names sounding together, a pair because they belong on the same breath.

You pull back, and it’s only a small brevity, but it’s enough, and that confusion from earlier, that shiver of letting something go or taking it back into yourself, settles.

You’re afraid or regretful or both, yes, sure. You also find yourself to be, suddenly, forgiving, full of empathy. You won’t be able to have him unless you take possession of yourself first, and on the tail end of a comet breaking across the sky: I love him, but I must also love myself. He deserves someone who loves themself, but more than that, I deserve it too. To be able to give him the things he wants and needs: I deserve to be in love with myself.

You let the Tartarian memory become nothing.

Love manifests itself primarily in forgiveness.

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mossgh0st · 2 months ago

Text

gethsemane

a/n: no one asked for this but I’m doing it anyway! it’s probably going to be slow with lots of build up. let’s see how long it takes for me to get freaked out and leave it unfinished. for now, enjoy, and go easy on me pls.

desc: a series of moments throughout the growing relationship between two detectives, and the case that will define the rest of their lives. in this moment, we arrive on the scene in Erath.

warnings: descriptions of violent crimes, blood and gore, mentions of drugs and alcohol, possible drug and alcohol use, adult themes and language, religious themes

Previous: I. Sleep // Next: TBD

II. Absolution

You see the outline of his slim frame before anything else. Ramrod straight, ledger gripped in weathered hand. His back is to your dust caked windshield, but you don’t need to see his tired face to know the look resting upon it. Marty turns at the sound of the gravel under your tires, Rust stares on ahead, frozen in time it would seem.

The air is damp and sticky. Too early for the full heat but the cicadas are going at it full force. The smell of charred leaves and scorched earth burns in your nostrils, sunglasses low on the bridge of your nose. Striding over to the two men in matching CID jackets, Marty turns, stern.

“Might want’a take a shot’a somethin’ before ya take a look. This one’s bad.”

He stretches out the syllables before whistling an exasperated breath. When you look to Rust, he’s already regarding you, blue eyes clouded by something unnameable. Removing your sunglasses, your eyes meet and an unspoken agreement passes between you when he gives a slight affirmative nod. You start a slow walk around the base of the tree, scanning the ground and twisted roots. Rust follows behind, like a stray dog, a wide berth separating you as the full view of the scene makes itself known.

She’s kneeling in what one would assume is prayer, but this is a grotesque and violent display of faith if ever there was one. Knees sunk into the soft of the earth, grass skimming the top of a fleshy thigh. Her skin is so pale, almost translucent, the bruises in varying shades of purple and yellow look fluorescent.

The antlers adorning her head are not placed in grace or delicacy, the sharp angles giving way to the totality of the depravity here. The departure point is marked by blood and tufts of soft deer skin; jagged and messy. Her hands come together unwillingly, bound with the same gnarled cords as her ankles, ligature marks present. Fingernails cracked up through the bed, pieces pushed into the quick below, smudged with blood and dirt and fear.

To you, the viewer, the worst part is her face. Stuck in a permanent grimace, bruised and swollen, it preserves the most horrifying truth: the soft animal of this girl was not shown mercy. She felt every punch, every kick, every stab, every broken bone. You can feel it in the hair on the back of your neck, that this was someone’s idea of a masterpiece. A stray blonde eyelash, almost white, sits upon the high point of her cold cheek. You fight the urge to blow and make a wish.

It’s the sound of the ledger’s leather cover opening that pulls you from your observance as Rust closes the distance and settles stiffly at your side. The muscles in his shoulders flex and then settle, like he’s a skittish doe in a forest clearing. His eyes slide to you, waiting, pen in blue-latex-covered-hand.

A hum escapes you, dry lips cracking as you open your mouth to speak. “This is not his first, and it will not be his last. The imagery here screams religious iconoclast, the level of detail suggests obsession, but I can’t figure out with what. Is it the act itself or what the image represents?”

You cross your arms and kick a small piece of gravel. “And the fire. Why the fire? What’s the significance to him, or was it just a cover?”

His hand stills on the page, in the middle of a perfect rendering of the victims hands, posed in prayer. You can see the twitch of his Adam’s Apple before he licks his lips and his once clouded eyes, now clear, stare deeply into your own.

“No,” he says, “this is about his nature, his programmin’. The fire’s the absolution from what he is.”

Rust’s stare is too strong, eyes squinting against the sun. You feel the need to shrink away, scared he’ll uncover secrets if he looks deep enough into you. Secrets you’d keep until you were dead and buried. Still, his attention is something you find yourself seeking out more and more, like you’d snap the collar on yourself and hand him the fucking leash if he stretched out a hand and asked. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, attention fully turning back toward the tree and the girl at the center of it all. If he notices your growing unease, he doesn’t show it.

A throat clears behind the two of you, Marty standing almost sheepishly with his hand on the back of his neck.

“D’ya think you two are done chattin’ it up or what? Don’t know how much more I can take outta Rustin’s shit dark brain ‘nd I’m drawin’ a line at whatever the fuck an ‘iconoclast’ is.” He emphasizes with finger quotes, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear a smirk laid itself across Rust’s lips for the briefest of moments.

Turning on your heel, you look over your shoulder as you make your way back to the beater you drove there in. “Shut the fuck up and read a god damned book sometime, would ya Marty?”

He just laughs.

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year ago

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Like No One Does

Part 3: Take Me By The Hand

The pitiful image was burned into your mind, the statement that was such an anxiety producing point in your life. The account number that was on the top of the statement might have well been ash and dust—there was no need for it to be as mocking as it was. The bare bones of your bank account had rendered a familiar feeling of you struggling to comprehend and take care of your parent's house.

At least when you weren’t in the hospital, or when you weren’t in Danah’s house pretending like you weren’t one additional bill away from being flat broke. Your parent’s terminal sickness had already been the starting point of anxiety for you, but then to add insult to injury was your extended family’s inability to care.

If it wasn’t for the Levinson’s you would’ve been homeless at 16. You were already an orphan at 16, with no extended family who cared. And adding homelessness to your decrepit standing wouldn’t have been a far fetch. But the Levinson’s, they saved your life. Danah was your best friend, Mrs. Levinson was your second mother, Mr. Levinson your second father.

And Ari…

Ari Levinson was a stronghold you didn’t know you needed, he was a stalwart support system that you didn’t deserve but received anyway.

Maybe that’s why you were so nervous as you waited for him to pick you up. You’d accepted a job offer from him to become his new assistant/secretary, and you had quit your jobs like he wanted you to. You had completely freed yourself to be his assistant and accepted a job that paid enough for you to not just survive, but thrive. This job would give you incredible benefits and health insurance that you wouldn’t have been able to afford otherwise.

Of course, Ari insisted that you required more or better clothes for this job. And you couldn’t have even pretended to argue with him because you knew it was true. You had no appropriate clothes for this job, even if you hadn’t been struggling as you were, there was a certain expectation he had. Or likely had.

“Empty bank account would be better than this.” You crumbled the paper in your hands and tossed it aside, the wrinkled and discarded statement landing somewhere in your dismal place.

With it departing you by your hand, you had turned your attention to the window on your right. You had been watching the window for Ari’s vehicle, not only not wanting to keep him waiting, but knowing that this neighbourhood wasn’t the greatest. And Ari’s didn’t deserve to spend more time in this hellhole than necessary.

“You should move in with my sister, princess. Or move in with me, I’d be a good roommate.” Ari had brought up that particular argument many times over when you would talk, and every time you would let your stubbornness get in the way.

“Danah has her dance studio, and even if she didn't, I’ll be fine.” You denied Ari and you denied Danah, as often as you could.

Your bank account may have been in the red, but at least you had paid rent, insurance, and utilities for your apartment. You might not have had any money, currently, to your name, but you had necessities in your place to eat and not go hungry. However, there was the increasing desire to want more, and that desire pushed you to accept Ari’s offer.

At the very least, you would be able to pay off your parent’s medical bills easier, you’d have good health insurance, and you could save enough to move to a new place. You could potentially afford to get a newer car that didn’t seem like it was running on it’s last rusted bolts. At the very least, this job would be able to give you more of a financial pillow.

“Princess, let’s get going!” Ari’s voice filtered from the street below, and it was a look out the thin glass that made your heart race at the sight of him.

Wearing a plain white v-neck shirt with a leather jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans, he looked like a massive yet ethereally gorgeous runway model. It was unjust how attractive Ari Levinson was, and how easy you could get irritated at him—for seemingly just being beautiful.

“Don’t make me come up there!” He had leaned against the side of his car, something sleek and black, with his arms crossed over his chest. Covering his eyes was a pair of mirrored aviators, which you wouldn’t have liked on anyone else, but on him, they looked good.

Through the thin glass you waved, once, and then stepped back. You grabbed your cheap second hand purse and your phone, on the verge of breaking and couldn’t hold a charge. Once you had your things, you slipped your shoes on and left your apartment, locking the door behind you, before you headed down the stairs.

You pushed on the main door to the building and stepped onto the sidewalk, watching him watching you from across the street. Your feet carried you with purpose, and your fingers tapped against your palm in a rhythmic dance to quell your nerves.

“Baby,” Ari spoke to you, his voice deep and husky, and his blue eyes fixated on you with wholehearted anticipation, “I was about to come up and grab you. Get in the car, hertzeleh.”

You paused and looked at Ari when you were just a foot away, your neck craned to be able to look into his eyes. With his casual yet striking clothing choice and his endearing smile, it was almost impossible to understand why he was currently single. The women he had spent time with and slept with in the past had all been flings, by his account and his claims, yet none had managed to win the bachelor over.

“What does that mean?” You asked him with a soft voice, walking around the front of the vehicle to the other side and as you got into the passenger seat, you took notice of the box on the centre console.

The food distracts you from Ari not telling you what he called you, although given his track record, it must be something sweet.

“Food, sweetheart. For you.” Ari climbed into the driver’s seat and lifted the glasses from his face to set them on the dashboard. “Ma sent your favourite and I picked up coffee for you.”

“Ari, you didn’t have to.” The iced coffee sitting in the cupholder came from one of his parent’s Jewish bakeries, and it was your absolute favourite combination.

The hazelnut blend mixed with a dash of cinnamon and whipped cream was your go-to whenever you and Danah went. And as for the breakfast, you could only imagine what food Mrs. Levinson made Ari bring you.

“We have a full day ahead of us.” His cordial smile and pleasant tone were nothing new to you, nothing you hadn’t expected from him. It was only natural for Ari to be the kind of man who was firm and levelheaded, yet tough when it came to business, and a giant teddy bear when it came to family and friends.

“A full day? How long can it take to go clothes shopping?” You scoff and turn away, biting into the delicious flaky Jewish pastry. As you get a few pieces of the sugared crispy top stuck to your lips, Ari’s laugh fills the void—and his thumb brushing the pieces off sends shivers down your spine.

“Princess, your ass is mine from right now until I drop you off at your new apartment.” The sudden bombshell announcement nearly makes you choke on your food, and you find yourself sputtering to catch your breath.

You turn your head and stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. You seemed completely mind blown by this revelation, although to your shock, Ari simply cups your chin and closes your mouth.

“Buckle up, hertzeleh. I mean it.” He leans away from you and his broad shoulders touch the driver's seat, and then he winks at you. “Your sass-pot ass isn’t dying today.”

“You don’t get to slide by the fact that you said new apartment, Ari Levinson.” You set the pastry down and wipe your hands, steeling your gaze.

He’s ignorant to you, or maybe just ignoring your stare and your tone. Whatever he’s doing, it doesn’t bother him and more than that he seems to smirk. Even though he’s not looking at you, and he's slipping a pair of aviator sunglasses on, you can tell he’s rather pleased with himself.

“Ari Levinson—“

“Cut the attitude, baby girl.” His smirk only grows, and he reaches out to tap your knee. “You eat first, and then we’ll talk.”

“No, we’ll talk now.” You shift in the seat to face him more head on, as far as the buckle allows, and then you tuck your chin to your chest. “What the hell are you talking about? New apartment?”

He doesn’t answer you immediately, though you doubt he’s at a loss for words. Rather, it's all part of his ploy, of his plan to control the conversation, simply because he can. After a moment, Ari finally speaks and when he does, he tips his head, conveniently stopped at a red light.

“It’s part of the contract, sweetheart.” He flashes you a grin, one that’s convinced countless women to fall into his bed—but it just annoys you.

“I didn’t sign a contract, Ari.” You enunciate his name with force, your jaw ticking as you briefly grind your teeth. “And I don’t need a new apartment.”

“It’s part of your benefits, Y/N. You don’t need to be so stubborn all the time, little bug.” Damn him and damn the way his voice eases you, regardless of how much you want to smack him. “It’s got everything you want.”

“Oh yeah? Like what? What does this new apartment have that mine doesn’t?” You want to challenge him, you want to fight with him because if he thinks he can tell you what to do with your place…

“For one, honey….” Ari’s hand reaches for yours, and he squeezes lightly, drawing out a soft huff from you. “…no one’s been shot in the building. Or stabbed.”

You roll your eyes and almost wish you could have defended the building, but you couldn’t. Truthfully, it felt like every time you went into that place, or even near it, you were risking something. You knew it yourself that you needed a new apartment, but the fact that you couldn’t afford one was holding you back.

“Ari—“ you start to protest again, finding yourself unable to raise much of an argument when his hand touches your leg. His fingers spread above your knee as he squeezes lightly—telling you nonverbally that you don’t need to be so stubborn and let him do this for you.

After a minute of silence, he speaks, like what he says would be the final nail in the coffin. “It’s in the Lexington, sweetheart.”

And you suppose it is. The Lexington was a building you’d always wanted to live in, a place inside the city that seemed to be so improper. The building itself was brick and mortar, but there were these marble-esque pillars that stood outside the front entrance. They were like guards over the building, and it had given it such an aged yet fresh feel to the place.

The apartments inside were just as beautiful as the exterior with rich dark hardwood floors, private balconies that overlooked the park. Each apartment had onsite laundry, which would’ve been a selling point on its own; however, the bathroom would’ve been your convincer.

You’d seen pictures of the bathrooms on the rental site, and you’d been amazed from the beginning. Each apartment had a large two-person soaker tub with clawfoot details and had a seamless view to the outside world. The window let in natural light that made the whole room seem otherworldly. It was a big draw to why you’d only wished to live there, meanwhile the causality of being unable to always boiled down to money.

The rent alone was more than you’d make in 6 months, and it never seemed to be in the realm of possibilities for you. The Lexington was always unreachable, it felt as far from you as the castle you’d dreamed of as a child. It was a noble or even tender dream, but it was never within any realm of reality.

“Ari, you can’t just get me an apartment, or pay for an entire new wardrobe. Or…” you wanted to continue listing off reasons why he didn’t have to spend all this money on you, or why he didn’t have to put in the effort.

You were a grown woman, and he was your best friend’s brother. He didn’t owe you anything, and you weren’t going to take advantage of his time or money. You knew the entire Levinson family was generous, they’d taken you in when you had nothing, when you had nowhere to go. But that was over now, yes Ari had offered you a job, but he didn’t owe you more.

The job was enough. The job would make you capable of paying off the debts from your parents' hospital bills and funerals. You’d be able to pay it off on your own, you didn’t need him to do anything for you.

“Ketzeleh,” he squeezes your knee again, briefly splitting his attention between the road and yourself, “I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.” It slips from your mouth before you can stop it, the irrevocable sentence unable to be retracted. You feel stupid for a minute, like a fool for saying what you had. At least until you hear Ari’s deep rumble, the husky laugh that fills any minute slip of silence.

“Ari, I mean it, I’m not sleeping with you.” You cross your arms over your chest, your lips pressed firmly together. “I’m not going to be one of those girls that falls into your bed.”

“Of course not, baby.” He removes his hand from your knee and rests it on your cheek. “You’re too strong for that, right?”

You roll your eyes and smack his hand away, huffing poignantly. You retain the silence and draw your attention back toward the pastry Ari’s mother sent for you. It remained half-unfinished during the conversation, and you pick it up again to finish it. You shift away from him back to your original position and sink your teeth into the flaky dessert, ripping a piece off.

Ari has leagues of women falling at his feet. He’s Boston’s most eligible bachelor, and no one woman has been able to hold him down. Although they’ve tried, all he seems to want to do is sleep around and have everything be temporary. You’d seen some of the women he’s messed around with, all of them beautiful and striking and modelesque.

You, on the other hand, had few relationships. You didn’t have an opportunity to have relationships, not when you were made an orphan. Not when you were saddled with a suffocating amount of debt that you had to pay off.

“Ketzeleh, look at me.” Ari had finally stopped the car, parking in a private and gated lot for a series of expensive boutiques he was taking you to. “Ketzeleh…”

You raised your head and looked his way, your eyes searching his blues. He had unbuckled and turned to face you, the car still running and the faint sound of the radio in the background. Once you had faced him, Ari had reached out and brushed a piece of the fine sugar from the pastry off your cheek. His thumb grazed your skin and his eyes were solely on you. His voice was quieter than expected yet no less husky.

“You don’t need to ask, you don’t need to feel like this is an IOU situation. This is a gift, there is nothing you have to pay back.” His husky Boston accent had drawn an illicit shiver down your spine as he slowly leaned in and kissed your forehead. The moment was tender, and you were easily distracted by the feel of his plush lips on your skin.

It felt like you were 16 again, sitting in your dark room with nothing but candlelight. It was as if Ari were comforting you again, whispering to you that everything would be okay. You felt like that 16-year-old, scared and frightened for the future.

“You’re okay,” one hand wove into your hair at your nape while the other cupped your cheek, “you’ll be okay.”

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