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mrsmandalorian · 22 days

Text

nonsense

-- pedro x singer!f!reader one shot

summary: a surprise visitor at your first-ever coachella performance!

second part: espresso/main masterlist /word count: 4.5k

warnings: 18+ mdni, reader is able-bodied, smut!!!, and fluff!, drinking, drug use (edibles and smoking), switch sex, p in v, fingering, sexual teasing, pet names (mi amor, princesa, daddy, baby, baby girl, puppy, angel)

a/n: howdy everyone! was inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's Coachella performance to write this. let me know if you guys want a second story to Espresso lol. i would love to hear your feedback or comments! much love to everyone!! -maddie

Coachella was one of the most famous music festivals a musician could play at. It was such an honor to be on the setlist. It is incredible to perform a night each weekend in a row. This might be the most significant break in your career. Something felt missing.

The crowd started to get excited as the set time grew nearer. The nerves shot through you as you took deep breaths. You were trying to get over the feelings going through your mind.

“Are you alright?” one of the backup dancers asks as they help you with the earpiece. As you look yourself over in the mirror, you see the beautiful outfit that was personalized to fit you wonderfully, with your hair done beautifully.

You were ready.

“Yes, I am ready!” You smiled at your team as you took hold of your microphone. The band starts playing one of your most famous songs. The lights went dark as the band played the first cords of the song. The crowd roared in anticipation. You slowly stepped out into the darkness and started the melody.

The lights pour onto the stage, and the crowd goes wild. They get the first glance at you with your sexy and luxurious outfit. You smirk to yourself at the attention as you scan through the crowd. All the exciting and loyal fans in the crowd as they sing every verse with you. You follow the dance choreography you have practiced and performed many times. Once the music was going, it was hard not to get stuck into it and forget about the hundreds of people in front of you. The crowd was going wild as they sang along to your new song.

You continued the song as you had images of the reason for it, smirking to yourself. Pedro makes you feel like you're on cloud nine, from how he treats you publicly to the bedroom activities. A few songs highlighted the bedroom activities. You had never written such “edgy, sexy” songs before you met him. The secret love affair had made all of you so happy. He still made you content and secured in your relationship even miles and hours away from him.

As you go through the song and move around more, you look into the VIP areas and see many familiar faces. You don’t pay much attention as you have to end the song. You were so busy entertaining your fans that you did not notice who had slipped into the VIP section alongside both of your mutual friends. You were so focused on the choreography and in your element. The show was a big deal and a performance with dances and graphics for all the songs on the giant screens. You were singing your last song of the night, which was Nonsense. It was one of your favorite songs to perform, as it gave the audience the mood for the evening. The song represented something personal to you: your secret relationship with your new lover, Pedro Pascal, the whole internet’s boyfriend. It was interesting to see social media go crazy over who the song might be for. Some had the correct answers, but it was still a new and private relationship.

The lights fall as the melody starts. “I think that you guys will enjoy this next song! I have seen all the tiktoks, by the way.” You joke into the darkness and receive a wild response from the crowd. You take a few breaths and get into position in a very sexy pose, along with the dancers, waving at the sweet fans who can see you.

“No (La-la, la-la) da-ah-ah, ah (Ah-ah, uh, uh, uh, yeah)”

As the song begins, the spotlight shines only on you. You scan over the crowd with a smirk. It was one of the sexy, edgy songs you wrote because of your lover. There are butterflies in your stomach from nerves to play something as personal as this song, especially for such a big and reactive crowd.

“Think I only want one number on my phone I might change your contact to "Don't leave me alone." You said you like my eyes, and you like to make them roll Treat me like a queen; now you got me feelin' thrown, oh.”

The stage lights illuminate the whole stage as you walk around and sway your hips to the music. During the lyrics, you stop and try to sing with your fans as you make your way to the side of your VIP area to see those familiar faces.

“But I can't help myself When you get close to me Baby, my tongue goes numb Sounds like blah, blah, blee”

As you sing towards the area, your eyes linger over your friend group of non-famous friends to Sarah Paulson, which causes you to smile at them. You continue to scan the section until they land on HIM. The person that this song was written about. He was being his goofy and adorable self as he sang along with you. This causes you to mess up with a blush but quickly recover as the next verse comes.

“I don't want no one else (don't want) Baby, I'm in too deep Here's a lil' song I wrote (a song I wrote) It's about you and me (me)”

The eye contact that he held with you as you sang your filthy thoughts of him directly to him with a huge smirk. You continued to perform as you moved your hips a little more to the choreography because of him. In the following verses, you look away as you sing to your fans.

“I'll be honest Lookin' at you got me thinkin' nonsense Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in And when you got your arms around me Ooh, it feels so good. I had to jump the octave I think I got an ex but I forgot him And I can't find my chill, I must have lost it I don't even know I'm talkin' nonsense I'm talkin', I'm talkin' (ah)”

You twirl your hair and sway your hips back to his side of the stage as your dancers follow close behind you. Make eye contact with him to ensure he is focused on you now.

“I'm talkin' all around clock I'm talkin' hope nobody knocks I'm talkin' opposite of soft I'm talkin' wild, wild thoughts You gotta keep up with me I got some young energy I caught the L-O-V-E How do you do this to me?”

You follow the choreography correctly as you hold flirty eye contact with him. Once you go over the chorus again and start to finish the song, you stand in your final position in the middle of the stage. You send him a wink and blow a kiss, then turn your attention to your fans.

“You guys have been absolutely the best! I hope you all enjoyed it and hope to see you again next weekend! I love you, and please stay safe!” You say after you show appreciation to your band and dancers. You wave and bow as the crowd goes wild and chant your name as the lights go down.

As you run backstage with your crew, laughing and smiling, you give all of them well-deserved love and appreciation. Your manager is there with water and a hug.” You did amazing! They loved you!” they say as you drink your water and wipe the sweat. Now celebrate! Not too hard!”

You follow their instructions as you see your friends run up as you exit the backstage towards your tent. They all sang praises and love and hugged you. After a while, you finally met the handsome brown eyes again, but closer this time. You jog up to him in your tight-fitting outfit with a big smile as the two collide in a hug, throwing your arms around his neck. He was wearing a button-up shirt with the first set of buttons undone, dark jeans, and his oversized glasses and baseball cap.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You say with a smile as you look up to him. He smirked as he got ready to say something witty back to you. You interrupt it with a short but passionate kiss on his lips. “I’m happy you’re here! How long have you been here?” Your hands land on his exposed chest, which makes him pull you closer.

He chuckles at you as he sees the adrenaline still pumping through you as you chatter to him. “I just decided to come to see my favorite person perform at Coachella. My schedule can wait two days. I’ve been here the whole time. You were great, beautiful.” He keeps his voice so no one else can hear your conversation. You feel his hands slide down your hips a little bit. “Also, where did you get this little number, and why haven’t I ever seen it?” Letting his thick fingers run over the design against your lower sides.

The compliments give you a confidence boost on top of your adrenaline rush. You bite your lip as his hands wander slightly until they settle on your lower back. “I planned on changing before we celebrate, but if you like it, I can keep it on.” You whisper into his ear, then look back at his expression.

His eyes darkened from your comment, causing him to pull you a little closer. “I like that idea,” He whispers in your ear as his lips graze your neck with a few pecks. Before you both could continue, your friends gathered you into other event areas. The group stayed together as they went to different stages to watch other artists, including Doja Cat and Lana Del Rey.

Pedro and you both socialized and drank with all your friends as you celebrated your incredible performance. There were edibles taken sometime in all the fun. He would occasionally hold onto you as you both danced closely. You both let loose, and as you can see, everyone was far from wasted. You were letting your bodies get as close as possible, hips grinding onto his. His hands would run down your sides and tease you. Stealing kisses from each other, and the sexual tension was through the roof.

The feeling of being watched makes you look around every once in a while. The camera flashes and excited screams from people around you made you realize that your relationship might not be that much of a secret now. Pedro and you interacted with lovely, chill fans who casually recognized you. You had some groups that would call over to Pedro as “daddy” as he played it off like a champ.

“Vamos, mi amor,” Pedro whispers in your ear as he grips his gentle hands around your waist. You meet his erotic brown eyes that make your cheeks burn hard as you squeeze your thighs together. Pedro was very facially expressive because you could read his thoughts whenever you looked into him. His thoughts were highly naughty, and it was time to go home. “I wondered how you felt about calling it for a night and heading back to your room for a nice bath.”

You look around at everyone in the crew and see your friends slowing their nights down, which doesn’t make you worried about causing another upset. Meeting the brown eyes again, you give him an arguing grin as you throw back your head with a laugh.

“I thought you might like that idea, Hermosa. Let’s tell them all good night and get going,” he whispers again in your ear as he gently pulls you towards your group of friends. Both of you take the time to say goodbye to your friends and thank them for supporting you. Pedro’s loud laugh pulls you away from your friends as you meet his warm eyes. He hugs everyone and draws you into his hip with an arm around your waist. “Goodnight, everyone. Safe travels!”

There were plenty of farewells, naughty things, and cat calls as you leaned against Pedro, who turned around with a silly face and middle finger gesture. He helps guide you to the Uber you take to your hotel room for the night. As you lay your head in his lap, the car ride was full of stolen kisses and laughter.

“You were an absolute star tonight, mi amor,” Pedro says as he traces his fingers along the straps of his outfit, letting his fingers run down to his cleavage. That last song was very cheeky. I wonder who that could be about.”

“Thank you. It was about one of my lovers. You might know him,” You joke with him, trying not to moan. His wandering fingers turn into wandering palms as they slowly paw at your breast.

“Oh, you are playing hard to get whenever I already have you smitten,” he mumbles, only where you could hear him. The car comes to a stop as you arrive at your hotel. You quickly get out of the vehicle as Pedro follows closely behind you. You couldn’t keep your hands off one another as you walked through the empty hotel halls. Acting as strangers whenever you encounter a person, you giggle with each other once you come back together.

Once you find your room, Pedro checks to see if the hallway is clear. He uses a little force with his grip as he leans you against your shut door. Letting his hands explore before they landed on your bottom, kneading your ass. One of his hands comes up to cup your jaw as he lines his lips up with yours, passionately kissing yours. His body closes into yours as you let him control the situation as you follow his lead. After grinding bodies and long, passionate kisses, you pull away, trying to catch your breath as you stare up at him with your cheeks burning. “We should get inside,” you say as you turn around the door, fumbling with the door. Pedro stepped back a little and watched as you struggled a bit.

“Why are you so frizzled, mi amor?” He whispers against your neck and presses the front of his body to your back. Feeling his stiff member against your backside along with his hot breath, almost making you moan out at contact. “Let me help you.” He helps you inside as you giggle and follow him.

Pedro and you have been messing around for a while now. You have not discussed a relationship status or anything, but neither of you hooked up with others. He treats you like a significant other the way he respects your boundaries and doesn’t hide his affection towards you.

“Let’s go put that beautiful bathtub you sent me a picture of yesterday to good use,” he teases you as he takes off his baseball cap, which makes his hair go all over the place. He starts unbuttoning more of his shirt as his chest becomes bare. You can’t resist running your hands down his chest as he looks at you with a smirk.

He spanks your ass hard with a groan because of your hands on him. “Let’s go, sweetheart,” he says as he pats your ass to get you to start moving. Once in the bathroom, turn on the large white tub to create a perfect mix of hot and cold. He grips your hips as he runs his hands to the back of your outfit. “Whoever designed this little piece is a fucking genius. It is beautiful and flatters you greatly.”

“Well, thank you, Pedro. I might have had you in mind when I got it designed. I was going to send you some pictures tonight whenever I came back here,” you smirked and winked at him in the mirror as he helped you undo the outfit. He kissed down your body as the fabric went off, making chills run across your body. The time apart doesn’t affect you emotionally, but how your body reacts tells the absolute truth. The way your heart rate skyrockets as his lips make their way to your mound.

You leaned against the counter for support as your outfit fell onto the floor, leaving you only in underwear. You make eye contact with Pedro as he continues to kiss and lick down your lower half. He hooks his large fingers under the top band of your panties as he meets your eyes for approval. You give him a slight nod and grin as his feather-like kisses follow the material as he pulls them down your legs. Throwing your head back as you try not to make a noise as he runs his tongue just above your clit. You make a frustrated groan as his tongue suddenly leaves your skin, leaving goosebumps.

Pedro chuckles softly as he sees how your body reacts to him, pulling away with a smirk on his lips. He stands up as he pushes his body against yours, pulling your hips into his. “You are such a good girl for me. Your body is always ready for me,” he whispers as he ducks his head to kiss your neck. “Let’s go in, mi amor.” He gets in first so you can sit in between his thick thighs. He helps you as you slide in between his legs, back against his chest. His rigid member pressed against your lower back, his hands tease your nipples after you get settled. He couldn’t help but let his hands wander as he settled comfortably behind you. He rubs out your sore body but lets his hands focus on your most sensitive spots.

His gentle but firm hands run on either side of your hips as his kisses lay on your shoulders. He inhaled deeply against your skin, causing you to tense up your back as it chills down your spine. He moves his hands from your hips towards your mound. You used one hand to spread your left leg apart, holding it still with just one large hand. His right hand found its way down to tease your slit, playing with your sweet lips. You felt the member on your back begin to throb as he slightly rubbed himself against you. You let out your needy moans and sounds continuous as he worked his fingers against you.

He kept teasing you and kissing your shoulder and neck with his scruffy face. You had enough of his teasing and rigid member. It was rare that you switched roles, but you were both switches. (You can’t tell me that Pedro is not a switch.) You slide out of his grip as you meet his eyes once you are turned around to face him.

You grasp onto his rigid member, holding yourself up on the sides of the tub. He squirms and lets out a moan as you hold yourself over him. “I’m tired of the teasing, Pascal. It’s my turn,” you say as you ease your entrance slowly onto his throbbing tip. You find a comfortable position for your legs as you keep going up and down on his tip. He lets out a loud ‘fuck’ and moans as he squeezes his eyes close. His hands move to your hips, letting you take control. You start to ride him as you push your breast into his face.

One of his hands moved from your hips to grip your tit, “who gave you permission to touch me?” You whisper almost into his ear as he looks up at you with big brown eyes.

“Sorry, miss,” he whimpers back as your speed of volatile movements onto his cock increases. He leans back and rests his arms on the back of the tub as he lets you ride the hell out of him. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes as he groans out in pleasure. “Fuck, mi amor.”

“You like this, don’t you?” You firmly ask him as you force his face into the middle of your tits. He starts to motorboat your breast as you suffocate him gently. The scruff from his face makes you more sensitive than you thought, riding his member harder. “You start fucking me hard, baby. Thrust your big cock into me.”

He meets your eyes with pleasing brown eyes to satisfy your needs. His pleas make you smirk as you nod. Pedro begins to slam his hips into you, moaning as he does. “Thank you, thank you for letting me fuck you.” He pants as he thrusts deep inside of you, feeling his throbbing member hitting every spot.

He grips your body, and his thrust begins to become more rapid as you continue to ride his giant member. Every thrust has the purpose of pleasing you; his hand works its way back up to your breast. He plays aggressively with your nipple, pinching and sucking on it. His other hand gripped onto your ass as his rhythm stayed deep and hard. The overstimulation of his hands and the member inside of you causes you to scream out in pleasure, “Good puppy.” You whimper as you feel your orgasm coming sooner as he leans up and thrusts into you. Pedro chose the pet name on one of the first nights you had taken control of the action.

Eventually, with his rapid thrust and wandering hands, your body starts to shake as you are overcome with pleasure. “Keep going, puppy,” you whimper as he continues to work out your orgasm. “Such a good puppy.” You whisper as you run your hands over his chest. Your body falls into his as you overcome your orgasm, gripping onto his as he continues to pleasure you. He pulls out and fingers your wet pussy, licking his fingers after you finish.

You both lay in the tub for a while as you overcome your orgasm. He held you as you came down from your high, kissing your head. “Was that good for you, mi amor?” He asks gently as he pulls you into his chest. He moved the hair from your face, rubbing his hands down your waist.

You gently nod against him as the day catches up with you. After a few minutes, you get tired of the cramped space of the tub. “Let’s get out, baby,” you mumble to him as you lean up, earning a grunt in return. The guilt of not pleasuring Pedro silently overcame you as you exited the bathtub.

The sound of a low grunt makes you return to the tub as the broad man emerges. You smile mischievously at him as he glances up to meet your grin. His member is still very much erect as he steps in front of you. The fun part of being switch partners was that it could change in a flash. You give Pedro a knowing look as he meets your eyes and stands before you. His eyes and grin light up on his face as he gently guides you onto the counter behind you. “My turn, princesa,” he mumbles and spreads your legs apart as he pushes himself in between them. He pulls your body towards the edge of the counter so your legs wrap around him.

You lean your back against the counter as he holds your lower half, rubbing his throbbing cock against your slick entrance. He leans over your body, sucking on one of your nipples to get a reaction out of you, which it did as you let out a loud moan. Your body reacted as well as it pushed farther onto his member. You both let out a pleasurable sound as his tongue runs down your chest to your stomach. Your hips start to tease him as they grind against him, which causes him to spank the side of your ass. “No, ma’am, it’s daddy’s turn,” he smirks up at you as he moves one of his hands to your nipple. His fingers quickly fondle your right nipple as you moan loudly. “You let daddy fuck your sweet, sweet pussy?”

You let out a satisfied groan as his hand moved down your entrance, gently rubbing you as his thumb ran over your sensitive clit. After gently teasing your pussy with his fingers, he lubed himself up with his fingers from your wetness. His large member enters you again as he holds onto your hips. He pushes inside slowly as you both let out moans.

“You’re so fucking wet, angel. Did ya miss daddy?” He asks as he grips your hips harder, thrusting inside of you. You give a desperate nod as your hands grip onto the edge of the counter. Pedro takes his time as he edges himself in and out of you, giving you all the praises. He pulls up your upper body so your bodies grind against one another, one arm wrapped around your waist and the other holding your back. “Good girl.”

The friction from the position on your mound makes it hard not to moan and squirm in pleasure. His thrust becomes more rigid and repetitive as his grip holds you gently but firmly. You could feel your orgasm approaching as well from the position. “I’m about to cum, Daddy,” you whimpered as you gripped his firm broad shoulders.

His mouth meets your ear as he groans into your ear. His heavy breathing makes your back arch and push into his thrust more. “Wait for me, baby girl,” he mumbles into your ear as his thrust becomes more sloppy. “Come for me, angel.” He sets you down on the counter as his hands grip your breast, twiddling your nipples with his thick fingers.

Before long, both of you came together with your bodies grinding against one another, along with satisfied noises.

Pedro’s warm brown eyes meet yours before he kisses you. The two of you might not have a title, but the sparks were there every touch. “Such a good girl, angel,” he says as he gently pulls out of you. “Let’s take a quick shower.” He helps you into the shower, where the two of you help wash one another and joke around with stolen kisses in between. After getting ready, Pedro carries you into bed as the two of you order dessert from room service. The rest of the night was full of laughter and heavy makeout. The two of you cuddle up to some cheesy movie and fall asleep midway through it.

These were the perfect nights for you to write a whole album about your feelings for this cheeky, handsome man.

thank you for reading! let me know what you think!🤍

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #din dijarin fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu #pedro pascal smut #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro x you

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lemonlover1110 · 5 months

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 18] Preparing for Vacation

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Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

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You’re packing Ren’s bag, a bit in disbelief that you’re going on vacation with your ex-boyfriend. You feel nervous about it, wondering how it’ll play out since your relationship with Satoru isn’t the best– Maybe you shouldn’t really worry about it, he’s doing it all for his son. Perhaps he��ll pay you no mind. Hopefully he won’t pay you no mind.

He has a vacation home in the perfect tropical place, which you aren’t surprised about. You’ve heard of all the houses that the family has around the world, and you forgot about half of them. It was rare staying at a hotel when you traveled with Satoru.

“I’ll come pick you up tomorrow morning. At around five.” Satoru enters Ren’s room to help you pack. Ren is too focused on his cars to pay attention to Satoru, and Satoru eventually got bored of just being another track for his son’s toy cars. You hum in response before you go to a cabinet to pack pajamas for Ren. “Is your suitcase ready?”

“It’s almost ready.” You lie because it’s far from ready. You’ve been simply too busy and tired to come around to it. You’re still working as Satoru’s assistant since for some reason, you suddenly don’t have the heart to quit. Of course, since the truth came out, Satoru has lightened your workload. He doesn’t care if he has to do it all himself, he wants you to come home early to spend time with Ren. You almost hate yourself for not telling him the moment you saw him again… Almost.

“I can finish Ren’s suitcase while you finish packing for yourself.” Satoru says, and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Would that be a smart idea? Satoru is Ren’s father… But he doesn’t know everything that Ren needs for a vacation. Worst comes to worst, Satoru can buy what Ren is missing since he can certainly afford it.

“Fine.” You end up agreeing, neatly folding the pajamas you hold and putting them in the suitcase. You leave it to Satoru to pack everything else up.

You get to your room and check what you need to pack up, which is almost everything necessary. You hear your name being called, which causes you to come to a stop, “Mommy!”

“Ren!” You yell back, and you turn around to find your son at your door. He walks over to your bed and lays down, grabbing one of your fluffy blankets and throwing it over himself.

“I’m bored.” He announces. Ren can entertain himself playing with anything for hours, but the moment you’re doing something important, he’s the most bored kid in the world. It doesn’t help that you haven’t been allowing him to watch TV since he’s been misbehaving lately, which means he’s more bored than usual.

“Your dad has gotten you so many toys. Go play with them.” You tell him, but that’s not the answer Ren wants to hear. Ren wants to hear you say that he can watch TV, but you’re not saying it which makes him pout.

“Want to watch TV.” He responds which makes you sigh. It’s easier to let Satoru handle it, since he’s been telling you that he has no idea how to properly parent. The only way for him to learn is to practice.

“Satoru! Come here! Ren has a question!” You yell, and Satoru is in your room within seconds. Maybe he should’ve stood in the doorway, but since it’s his son that has a question, he doesn’t really think twice before entering your bedroom.

“What is it, honey?” Satoru looks at his son, patiently waiting for Ren to ask.

“Can I watch TV?” Ren asks, and Satoru is about to nod, but he has to look at you first.

“Since when do you ask that question? I thought your mom–” Satoru begins but you cut him off to explain why Ren is asking the question. The correct answer is no, but you know that’s how you think. Satoru is also Ren’s parent and deserves to have some authority over how Ren is raised and punished.

“Ren has been misbehaving lately. He’s been writing on walls even though he’s been scolded for it many times, and he’s been throwing tantrums to get what he wants.” You explain, and Satoru doesn’t immediately see a problem with it. Why? Because he was raised in a house where the rules were that he did whatever he wanted. No one really dared to deny him anything but he can’t do that with Ren.

“You’ve been misbehaving lately, Ren. Your mother gave you an appropriate punishment, and I’m not going to ignore it.” Satoru responds, and Ren crosses his arms as he gets up from your bed and walks back to his own bedroom. Satoru awkwardly stares before following behind, because Satoru still has to finish packing.

When Satoru walks into the room, he finds Ren sniffling in his pillow, and he swears his heart cracks at the scene. He shouldn’t walk over to Ren to comfort him… He’s surely doing it because he’s not getting his way. But he’s not strong enough to ignore his baby boy, not yet at least.

Satoru sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand running up and down his son’s back to soothe him. Satoru sighs before asking his son, “What’s wrong, Ren? You know that your actions can have consequences… And while I love you a lot, I can’t just let you do whatever you want to do.”

“Mommy doesn’t love me.” Ren claims, and Satoru is shocked to hear Ren say that. He had no idea how dramatic kids were. But maybe Satoru shouldn’t judge since he would’ve reacted the same way– Thing is, Satoru isn’t sure if his mother does love him.

“Your mommy does love you, that’s why you’re grounded. If she didn’t love you, she would just allow you to do all you wanted.” Satoru hopes he’s saying the right words to comfort his son. He isn’t the best at comforting people though, so he’s not sure if that’s going to work. Ren sits up from his bed, crossing his arms.

“It’s not because of that.” Ren will shift the attention. It’s mainly because you’re not allowing him to do whatever he wants. But of course he does feel a bit neglected lately because for the past year you’ve been so busy.

“Then why is it, buddy? So I can talk to your mommy about it.” Satoru says, and Ren debates if he wants to speak about it. Should he voice his thoughts? Is that smart?

“Mommy is never home, and when she is, she’s too tired to do anything.” Ren shares, making Satoru purse his lips together. He knows it’s not something that you can control, but maybe that’ll change in the near future.

“She’s never home because she’s making sure that you have everything you need and could possibly want. It’s not because she doesn’t love you, it’s because she loves you so much.” Satoru defends you. It’s obviously something that’s difficult for Ren to understand, after all, he’s only four (though he keeps reminding everyone that his fifth birthday is coming up). “Don’t ever say that your mommy doesn’t love you, Ren. She would do just about anything for you.”

“Okay…” Ren answers, hesitantly nodding in agreement.

“Now go give your mommy a big hug, okay? And an apology too. She just wants the best for you.” Satoru tells his son, and Ren gets up from the bed, walking out and running to your room.

It’s fair to say that you’re shocked when you see Ren running your way with his arms wide open. You crouch down to receive his hug. Ren kisses your cheek before he mutters out an apology, “I’m sorry, mommy.”

“Have you learned your lesson, Ren?” You ask and he hums in response, which makes you continue, “What is the lesson?”

“Um…” He begins, unsure as to what the lesson is. You try not to laugh.

“I have rules for a reason, Ren. When I tell you something, it’s for your own good.” You tell him, and he nods. “Now what’s the lesson?”

“To listen to you and follow the rules.” Ren responds, and you smile at him before kissing his cheek.

“Promise you won’t ever misbehave like that again.” You put out your pinky, and he intertwines his own with yours. Ren takes pinky promises very seriously, so you doubt he’ll break it. “Alright, you can watch thirty minutes of TV, but you’re still punished tomorrow and the day after that.”

“Okay. Thank you, mommy.” Ren says before running out of your room, and you stand up. You catch a glimpse of Satoru near the doorway and you signal him to come inside. When Satoru is inside, you smile at him.

“Thank you.” You tell him, going back to packing up your suitcase. Satoru decides that he’s going to try and help you when he doesn’t know what you need.

“It’s my job. We can’t have a disrespectful and entitled child.” Satoru replies, and you’re about to make a joke about it, but you bite your tongue knowing that it isn’t wise. You end up patting his back.

You don’t really pay attention to Satoru, not until your peripheral vision catches his sudden change in color. His face is burning red when he opens a drawer that he isn’t supposed to open.

“Oh that’s– Not mine.” You’re completely embarrassed. You shouldn’t be, it’s just Satoru. You have a literal child together, and that didn’t magically happen. But your relationship with him has clearly changed. “The toys are… My friend’s.”

“Yeah… They’re your friend’s.” Satoru ends up chuckling, closing the top drawer. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know better than anyone that you have certain needs.”

“Satoru, shut up. You’re making it worse.” Your face is hot. “Matter of fact, go watch TV with Ren.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t try to help you!” Satoru walks out of the room, and you lay down on your bed, grabbing your pillow and screaming into it.

It’s hard for you to wake up the next morning, but luckily your child doesn’t have an issue waking up. He knows that you’re going on a trip with his father, and he’s beyond excited. He’s finally getting on a plane though, and not just any plane but a private one (although he doesn’t know that detail). It’s nice to have someone that’s so energetic when all you want to do is sleep.

Satoru waits in his car for the two of you, sending the chauffeur up to help with your luggage. Throughout the whole car ride, Ren enthusiastically talks, knowing that he’ll be going to the beach soon. It’s a fifty minute drive to the airport, and he nearly drives you insane, but you have to remind yourself that he’s simply excited.

“I call dibs for Ren as my seat buddy.” Satoru says when the chauffeur opens the door for him. Satoru gets Ren out of his booster seat, and practically runs to the entrance of the plane. You slowly follow behind them. You can’t really complain about Satoru stealing Ren for the plane ride because while you love your son, this morning he’s too energetic for you to handle.

You take a seat far away from them, deciding that you’ll take a nap during the plane ride. You barely slept last night so you certainly need the energy for when you land. But Ren doesn’t see that logic, he just wants his mother close to him, so when you take a seat far away from the pair, Ren leaves his seat and goes to you. He grabs your hand and tries to pull you up, “There’s a better seat.”

You almost groan before standing up, but you follow him. You take a seat across from the pair, putting in headphones. Before you can put on some music, Satoru says, “Do you really want to try to fall asleep now? Before takeoff?”

“Fine, I’ll stay awake for now.” You answer. You begin to listen to Ren talk, simply staring at him as your eyes grow heavy. You’re not sure how much time passes but Satoru certainly does, a frown overtaking his face.

“Why is it taking so fucking long?” Satoru asks, and you glare at him for his language. He realizes and quickly says, “Sorry, Ren.”

Satoru stands up with the intent of asking a staff member but just as he begins to walk, he realizes the reason why it’s taking so long. He crosses his arms, a sigh escaping his lips. “What do you need, Sayo?”

“Just wanted to accompany my dear husband on his business trip. I need a vacation too, you know?” Sayo responds, already fully in vacation mode. She pokes her head to the side, since Satoru blocks her view. She calls out your name and waves at you, and panic begins to settle in your body. She moves Satoru to the side to take a seat next to you, and that’s when she sees Ren.

“Satoru!” Sayo looks at her husband, although she raises her voice but not of anger… But of excitement? “You didn’t tell me you were bringing your son along!”

#[changes]#gojo saturo #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x you #jjk satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk gojo #gojo angst #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #gojo fanfic

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months

Text

jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is staring again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

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

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

“Where are you going?” you ask.

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

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long will it take to work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

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

“Your Highness—”

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

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Failure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push him away.

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

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

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

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

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

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

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

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

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

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

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

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

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

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

It never comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod tentatively.

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

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

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I could just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only Daemon was less observant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

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

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

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

You smile.

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

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

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

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

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neckromantics · 4 months

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Astarion is the type of partner that couldn't help but laugh when you've taken a spill. Especially if you've made a proper fool of yourself by, say, losing your footing after getting stuck in the mud, or simply tripping over your own feet when you're distracted. Which unfortunately happens more often than you'd like to admit.

But of cooourse, he makes sure you're alright first. You surely can't still see him hiding a wicked grin behind his fist as he approaches, and there's no way you notice the mirth in his voice when he says, "Oh, dear. Any grave injuries, darling?"

After confirmation that you are, in fact, uninjured (just prone. and a little embarrassed.), he lets you have it. To his credit, he's never cruel about it- usually only lets out a couple of those choppy little Ha-Ha!'s of his while you stare helplessly from where you're sprawled out.

(Except for that one time you slipped on a patch of ice and tumbled face-first into a snowbank. You'd been too busy complaining about the weather to look at the ground before you. Astarion could just tell you'd be eating shit any minute by the number of times you'd had to reach out and steady yourself on his shoulder. It was comedy gold. How you'd over-corrected yourself with a series of arm movements so wild that you knocked away his helping hands? The ridiculous noise you made on the way down? The helpless look on your face before you found yourself ass up to the sky? He laughed at you for a good two minutes as you struggled to pull yourself up and out of the snow and then laughed some more when you tried to throw a snowball at his head in retribution. He dodged it easily, of course. Smug bastard.)

You roll your eyes in response, though you've never really minded his teasing nature. It's always lovely to hear his laughter come out so genuinely, even if it sometimes comes at your own expense.

Your knight in shiny armor, he is, as he outstretches a hand to help you up. He's infuriatingly good at keeping his footing no matter the predicament you've gotten yourself into, so you never have to worry about taking him down with you when he hefts you up to your feet.

Astarion's face still holds his amusement as he steadies you, making a big show out of dusting away the dirt from the seat of your trousers even if you didn't land on your ass. He'll give you a couple of soothing pats there when he's done, his free hand holding onto your elbow to keep you upright. Or maybe just to keep you close.

"Careful, lover." His smile is more than affectionate now. For a moment you wonder if the way his hands move on to smooth out the collar of your tunic may be an unspoken apology for finding your blunders so amusing. But then, "One more hilarious display like that could prove to be your last."

You could kiss that sly grin right off his stupid, handsome face.

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 tav #astarion headcanons #astarion fic #astarion blurb #The way i worded some of this doesn't sound right but i have to GO TO BED

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months

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A taxonomy of corporate bullshit

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

There are six lies that corporations have told since time immemorial, and Nick Hanauer, Joan Walsh and Donald Cohen's new book Corporate Bullsht: Exposing the Lies and Half-Truths That Protect Profit, Power, and Wealth in America* provides an essential taxonomy of this dirty six:

https://thenewpress.com/books/corporate-bullsht

In his review for The American Prospect, David Dayen summarizes how these six lies "offer a civic-minded, reasonable-sounding justification for positions that in fact are motivated entirely by self-interest":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2023-10-27-lies-my-corporation-told-me-hanauer-walsh-cohen-review/

I. Pure denial

As far back as the slave trade, corporate apologists and mouthpieces have led by asserting that true things are false, and vice-versa. In 1837, John Calhoun asserted that "Never before has the black race of Central Africa, from the dawn of history to the present day, attained a condition so civilized and so improved, not only physically, but morally and intellectually." George Fitzhugh called enslaved Africans in America "the freest people in the world."

This tactic never went away. Children sent to work in factories are "perfectly happy." Polluted water is "purer than the water that came from the river before we used it." Poor families "don't really exist." Pesticides don't lead to "illness or death." Climate change is "beneficial." Lead "helps guard your health."

II. Markets can solve problems, governments can't

Alan Greenspan made a career out of blithely asserting that markets self-correct. It was only after the world economy imploded in 2008 that he admitted that his doctrine had a "flaw":

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/greenspan-admits-flaw-to-congress-predicts-more-economic-problems

No matter how serious a problem is, the market will fix it. In 1973, the US Chamber of Commerce railed against safety regulations, because "safety is good business," and could be left to the market. If unsafe products persist in the market, it's because consumers choose to trade safety off "for a lower price tag" (Chamber spox Laurence Kraus). Racism can't be corrected with anti-discrimination laws. It's only when "the market" realizes that racism is bad for business that it will finally be abolished.

III. Consumers and workers are to blame

In 1946, the National Coal Association blamed rampant deaths and maimings in the country's coal-mines on "carelessness on the part of men." In 2003, the National Restaurant Association sang the same tune, condemning nutritional labels because "there are not good or bad foods. There are good and bad diets." Reagan's interior secretary Donald Hodel counseled personal responsibility to address a thinning ozone layer: "people who don’t stand out in the sun—it doesn’t affect them."

IV. Government cures are always worse than the disease

Lee Iacocca called 1970's Clean Air Act "a threat to the entire American economy and to every person in America." Every labor and consumer protection before and since has been damned as a plague on American jobs and prosperity. The incentive to work can't survive Social Security, welfare or unemployment insurance. Minimum wages kill jobs, etc etc.

V. Helping people only hurts them

Medicare will "destroy private initiative for our aged to protect themselves with insurance" (Republican Senator Milward Simpson, 1965). Covid relief is unfair to people that are currently in the workforce" (Republican Governor Brian Kemp, 2021). Welfare produces "learned helplessness."

VI. Everyone who disagrees with me is a socialist

Grover Cleveland's 2% on top incomes is "communistic warfare against rights of property" (NY Tribune, 1895). "Socialized medicine" will leave "our children and our children’s children [asking] what it once was like in America when men were free" (Reagan, 1961).

Everything is "socialism": anti-child labor laws, Social Security, minimum wages, family and medical leave. Even fascism is socialism! In 1938, the National Association of Manufacturers called labor rights "communism, bolshevism, fascism, and Nazism."

As Dayen says, it's refreshing to see how the right hasn't had an original idea in 150 years, and simply relies on repeating the same nonsense with minor updates. Right wing ideological innovation consists of finding new ways to say, "actually, your boss is right."

The left's great curse is object permanence: the ability to remember things, like the fact that it used to be possible for a worker to support a family of five on a single income, or that the economy once experienced decades of growth with a 90%+ top rate of income tax (other things the left manages to remember: the "intelligence community" are sociopathic monsters, not Trump-slaying heroes).

When the business lobby rails against long-overdue antitrust action against Amazon and Google, object permanence puts it all in perspective. The talking points about this being job-destroying socialism are the same warmed-over nonsense used to defend rail-barons and Rockefeller. "If you don't like it, shop elsewhere," has been the corporate apologist's line since slavery times.

As Dayen says, Corporate Bullshit is a "reference book for conservative debating points, in an attempt to rob them of their rhetorical power." It will be out on Halloween:

https://bookshop.org/a/54985/9781620977514

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong

#pluralistic #corporate bullshit #lies #books #reviews #taxonomies #labor #denialism #consumerism #Nick Hanauer #Joan Walsh #Donald Cohen #history #object permanence #taking the right seriously

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wovenintosilk · 11 months

Text

Stubborn

Received a request through a reblog for something related to Miguel's fangs. It's not exactly focused on them but they're definitely part of it!

No Content Warnings

GN!Reader

Word Count: 1100

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

“Get your fingers away from my mouth. Are you a child?”

You pouted and withdrew your hand, thwarted in your attempts to sneakily lift the corner of your boyfriend’s lip. “I want to see them,” you defended. “They’re so nice to look.”

“If you’re that bored, I will find you something more productive to do,” he reminded you and twisted his face further from your reach. “I’m not in the habit of allowing people to lounge around my workspace for the fun of it.”

“Can my something productive be getting you to smile?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sighed and sank further into your chair, head tilted back to the ceiling you stared at far too much. “You said you would be finished with this by now.”

“It was a possibility but it required far more attention than I expected. It won’t be much longer.”

Miguel’s desire to be busy never surprised you. From the day you’d met him to the day you kissed him for the first time, you always understood why he obsessed in the way he did. It didn’t hurt you but you worried – more about his own health than anything else.

When was the last time he’d even eaten?

“You know, I actually do have a job to get done,” you said. “I’ll be back soon. Try not to get too big of a headache by scowling at that screen.”

“I know.”

The grumbled words didn’t help your concerns. You cast a glance over your shoulder in his direction. The harsh artificial lighting of his office highlighted how he hunched over his work, shone off his suit in a piercing way.

It really couldn’t be good for him to stand like that.

Your first stop took you over an hour to reach and you still didn’t doubt for one second that Miguel would still be working on your return. Though he cared little about food quality lately, you insisted on getting him something healthy and what you knew he would enjoy.

If it took you ages to find, you didn’t mind too much. You knew it wouldn’t impact on your plans going forward.

Around the side of Miguel’s office, a few wires connected just behind a broken section of the wall. You had to hold your breath to squeeze half into it in order to reach them.

“This is a very bad idea.”

You jumped, hit your head against the wall in your startle, and groaned in the unexpected pain. Lyla watched with a humoured smirk from where she’d appeared, projected out of your personal watch.

“It’ll be fine,” you said. “He won’t even know it was me.”

“He will,” she corrected. “But that’s not what I’m worried about. I know you can handle Miguel yourself but I think you shouldn’t play with electricity.”

“When you asked me to get him to take a break, you should have known I’d need to resort to some extreme measures.”

She sighed and waved a hand for you to continue. You squeezed your way further in so you could reach the wire that fed his office and a few of the surrounding halls. Hobie showed you it wouldn’t turn off the rest of the complex when he did it last time as a joke.

“I’ve already backed up everything he’s working on. If he throws you out, I take no responsibility for it.”

You grinned cut the wire. Everything plummeted into darkness around you, computers shut off loudly and the ever-present hum stopped. You grinned proudly and dropped your cutter back into its space before you headed to the office.

You realised one of the main problems when you walked through the doors and spotted him on his platform. The one that wouldn’t move now without electricity.

“Wow,” you said loudly. “Can you believe the timing of this?”

He turned slowly. The silence stretched thickly between you, your smile a match for his glare. Lyla was right, he knew exactly what had happened.

“Either you have to come down here or find a way to get me up there,” you called. “Because I can’t reach you otherwise.”

You held up the food right as a bright web attached to your chest. It pulled you forward and lifted you into the air as though you weighed nothing. It might not be the first time it had happened to you but you’d never really get used to the sensation of being dragged around.

He steadied you when you landed, his hand rested on your arm until you gained your balance back. His lip curled up ever so slightly as he waited.

“I brought food,” you said and sat down in your chair.

“What did you do?”

“Went a ridiculous distance to get this for you,” you noted. “Do you know how far this place is? And then I got back and the power disappeared. Had to walk here in the dark.”

“Do you know how busy I was? How much you may have gotten lost?”

“I’m sure Lyla managed to get it saved. You can take a break while she finds the fault.”

He loomed above you, leaned down and opened his mouth ever so slightly. Finally, you had an opportunity to see those massive fangs you loved so much. You loved his habit of using them to intimidate. He didn’t even do it purposefully.

“You can’t really be blaming me for the electricity,” you said.

“I’m not stupid.”

You finally placed the packet of food aside, reached up and grabbed the front of his suit so you could pull him closer. You used your free hand to cup his jaw, ran your thumb over his bottom lip. Those fangs really were beautiful. What you’d give to have them showing more often…

“I need you to take a break,” you said. “It might take a while to fix. You may as well give your body a small rest, okay?”

Before you let him go, you pressed a small kiss to the underside of his jaw. He leaned into the touch just enough to let you know you’d been somewhat forgiven for your meddling.

He took the food from you, muttered something about stubbornness, and listened as you spoke about everything you’d been waiting to tell him.

#across the spider verse x reader #atsv x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara

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veryinnovative · 15 days

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@jegulus-microfic | april 30, prompt: sky | word count: 1.927 featuring older ceo regulus black and younger secretary james potter part 2 | part 1 AKA word on the street is i Excel in the sheets

“Erh…” he tries after a stretch of silence. “So, how was your day?”

Regulus pins him frozen to place with a look, a sign spelling ‘stupid’ nailed right into his forehead. “You know how my day was. You manage my schedule.”

Damn, tough crowd. “Okay,” James drawls, a little unsure. “But, like, how did it go?”

The place functions as any other hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves just a handful of people throughout the day, most of whom are loyal customers returning every so often for a comfort meal when homesickness becomes a little too much to bear. Even now, there are only a couple of people scattered about, none of which pay any mind to either Regulus or James.

“So, first impressions?” James asks when he takes a seat across from him.

“It’s satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory.” James blinks.

Regulus is quiet. He looks terribly out of place wearing a luxury suit exported from one of the globe’s corners and James can’t help but feel a little guilty. He’s seen Regulus carve into lobster with only a fork and knife but still can’t help but worry about future dry cleaning prices for which he may or may not be responsible.

“Erh…” he tries after a stretch of silence. “So, how was your day?”

Regulus pins him frozen to place with a look, a sign spelling ‘stupid’ nailed right into his forehead. “You know how my day was. You manage my schedule.”

Damn, tough crowd. “Okay,” James drawls, a little unsure. “But, like, how did it go?”

Regulus, perhaps finally acknowledging his poor attempts at small talk to ease the awkwardness, studies him intently for a long, close moment before acquiescing. “Enervating.” Right, because Regulus is the type to unironically use words like enervating.

“The business deal?” James asks and Regulus nods. “Dude from Jakarta, right?”

“The CEO from the biggest real estate company in Jakarta,” Regulus corrects him.

Tomato, tomato. “Does this mean you get to leave work at a reasonable hour starting tomorrow?”

“I’ve never had reasonable working hours.”

“Of course, I forgot the very important detail you’re a raging workaholic.”

Regulus’ mouth sets into a firm line as his brows knit together into a censorious frown—his entire face contorting into something that’s one odd remark away from turning downright petulant. “I am not—” He stops. Breathes in. Probably recognizes James is very carefully pulling his tail and for some reason becomes decidedly collegial. “Allow me to rephrase myself. I am meticulous. I prefer finishing tasks before going home and don’t mind when it results in me staying at work a little longer. It’s inevitable as a CEO when timezones don’t work in my favor.”

Absolute bullshit. “Just last week you kept leaving the office after the cleaning shift already came by to sweep the place clean. I know because they told me.”

“I can’t see how any of this poses as a bother to you.” And there it is, the good ole Regulus Black-esque deflection.

“I’m just worried. That is all.”

Regulus’ nose twitches and he looks away, a clear indication that he no longer wants to be a willing participant in the conversation. When Regulus becomes like this, James has learned to leave it be.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long for the food to arrive. James can stop pretending to take in the beautiful sight of the night sky, cracked asphalt, and the flickering colors of traffic signs when the plate is placed on the center of the table, carrying an assortment of different meat cuts and a modest side salad that will probably be Regulus’ for the taking.

Using the table etiquette of a properly groomed aristocrat, Regulus carefully selects some vegetables to put on his plate and a modest serving of rice. He skillfully carves out some pieces around the skewer.

“Seriously,” James deadpans. “Go on, Your Royal Highness, you can use your hands for this.”

Regulus almost bridles at the mere suggestion.

“Seriously, there’s no shame in it. Here, let me do it for you”

Regulus watches as James grabs one of the skewers and uses his fork to tear chunks off, dropping a generous portion of roasted vegetables and meat on Regulus’ plate. “You want some of this flatbread?”

Regulus shakes his head and James shrugs. He swiftly mouths off a dollop of sauce on his thumb, which earns him one of Regulus’ notorious James-exclusive grimaces.

Right, table manners.

They get to eating and James is once again reminded of how much of a slow eater Regulus is. It’s like he counts his chews, jaw working diligently with the faint scrapes of his cutlery against the plate. That and he works even as he eats, almost on auto-pilot with how he takes out his phone to open Outlook.

“Using your phone at the table is rude manners,” James teases.

“I got an e-mail.”

“Of course.” He nods. “Nothing workaholic about that, no.”

“It’s an important e-mail.”

“You know I read something about how it’s also important to spend time with your employees.” He waves around a piece of the flatbread as if to emphasize the point. “Get to know them better and all.”

“I know plenty about you,” Regulus answers as he types away.

“That so?”

Regulus looks at him, entirely indifferent as the phone is placed face-down on the table. “James Potter. Twenty-three years old. Finished your master’s degree at Oxford, with flying colors might I add. You took a gap year to travel, working all sorts of jobs to pay for your accommodation. Currently, you live near Camden and spend most of your spare time enjoying hobbies or going to the pub with your friends. You have a Joe and the Juice stamp card.”

James tries not to physically reel back. “That…” He starts, absolutely nonplussed. Someone come pick his fucking jaw off the table, it’s dropped off its hinges. “You know what Joe and the Juice is?” Impossible, all things considered. Regulus is in a tax bracket where chain restaurants might seem like fanciful inventions, the kind of places mentioned only in tales where fine dining is unheard of. There's a brief curiosity about whether this is the equivalent of discovering that Toy Story's Pizza Planet is a real place that actually serves food.

“I've come to understand that it's a venue offering juice among a broad array of meals and beverages, yes.”

Still, that’s doesn’t explain… “How do you even know all of that? I hardly even know anything about you other than that you recently turned thirty and were homeschooled for this position.” And that he’s quite fond of the occasional handful of candied macadamias when feeling particularly indulgent. James keeps a packet of it in his bag.

Regulus’ throat bobs. “I do thorough research on the people I employ”

That’s not more than thorough research at this point, far beyond the usual background checks done on new personnel. “Uh-uh. Or you stalk my Instagram during your free time.”

Regulus promptly chokes on his food. His fork falls onto the plate with a loud clatter. James nearly knocks his knee against the table as he too scrambles for the pitcher to pour him water, almost knocking over his can of Sprite in the process.

“Easy, I was just kidding.” He has half the mind to stand up and start patting him on his back to dislodge whatever molecular-sized cucumber wedged itself in his airpipe. “I doubt Mr. Black Enterprises even uses Instagram.”

Regulus looks up startled. Definitely not from the lack of air.

Oh.

Ohohohoh.

“Oh my god.” James’ face splits into a distinguished, shit-eating grin. “You do.”

“What?” It’s barely a wheeze with the way Regulus has been caught. His grip is deadly around the fork, something that should warn James to be wary.

“Instagram,” James repeats, trying his hardest not to gloat when Regulus shivers. “You use it? The Regulus Black uses Instagram? I thought you would be a member of some upper-echelon-exclusive platform instead of mingling with us.”

The worry swiftly dissipates, giving way to confusion, and then settles into something far more at ease. Although James enjoys those fleeting moments where he gets Regulus riled up, he much prefers seeing him relaxed. “Oh—I—Yes. Occasionally,” he stammers, swallowing and reaching for a napkin to dap at his mouth with. “Barty convinced me,” he hastily adds. “It’s a very private account. I’m hardly active on it.”

Sinking into his seat, James pats around for his own phone. “You should follow me.”

“Shu?”

“On Instagram. You should follow me. If you want, of course.”

The tips of Regulus’ ears turn a delicious pink as he returns his attention to his plate. “I’ll think about it.”

After some more idle talk and eating, they decide to head out before Barty ultimately decides it’s past working hours and he’s not dropping Regulus off at home—some palatial penthouse tucked away in one of London's secluded enclaves where the affluent reside, enjoying a life of extravagance as they remain shielded from the public gaze.

Nonetheless, the cherished designated driver will have to linger a bit longer, as both James and Regulus pull out their cards at the cash register. Being a very wise man, Hakeem registers the amount into the terminal and swiftly turns away, well aware that nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

James dismissively waves his hand. “You can put away your card, it’s on me.”

Of course, Regulus isn’t compliant in the slightest. “I made you feel obligated to stay longer than you intended, so it's only right that I pay.”

“I’m the one who invited you, come now.”

“And I’m the one responsible for making you miss out on dinner.”

“Nah. I told you, it was my fault. Seriously, I want to—”

He attempts to move closer, but Regulus also edges forward. Despite being shorter, Regulus exudes an air of authority that instinctively compels James to widen the gap between them and not bump into him. “And I insist.”

But luckily, James is taller and his arms are longer. “Gotta be quicker than that then.”

He extends his arm, shooting right past Regulus’ and taps his card against the terminal, smiling smugly when Regulus scowls up at him, not in the least impressed by his playing dirty. James’ lips part, a jab resting right on the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of ‘They don’t teach you this at fancy pants school?’ only for a chime to disrupt his train of thought.

Card declined.

“Low funds, Yakup,” Hakeem announces without looking over his shoulder like James isn’t sinking to his knees in embarrassment already.

“You got paid four days ago,” Regulus murmurs at his side.

“Rent and utilities were due yesterday.” It nearly comes out in a whine.

“I doubt your rent takes up your whole salary.”

“I also had to pay off my credit card,” James grits out, fumbling through his wallet looking for some cash. In an alternative universe where they’re starred in some cartoon show, the poor faux leather division coughs up dust motes.

“Seriously? How much do you make?

“Might I remind you that you pay me.”

The way Regulus clutches onto his credit card, unlimited of course, one might think the poor thing is about to fold in half. James might as well, to be honest. “Move.”

“No.” His pride’s already been hurt. “Hakeem, can I pay in installments?”

“Only if you take young Khadija out on a date.”

James considers it for a moment, but Regulus the comment only makes Regulus seethe further, “Potter, if you don’t move I’ll give you a reason to worry.”

That’s enough to convince James. He steps away, all kicked puppy-like, and watches how Regulus’ payment gets processed far quicker. “Next time’s on me.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, even as the apples of his cheeks dust pink. “Come, I’m tired and want to go home.”

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #jegulus fanfiction #marauders #marauders au #jegulus microfic #starchaser #sunseeker #ino microfic tag!#arab jegulus <3 #i had to split this in two and i fear the first half shan't see the light of day for a while yet #for now it's just in a doc for mil's perusal..#this is v low effort but it's why i love it #ceo reg save me #fic / word on the street is i excel in the sheets.#i forgot the title </3 #80% is asleep but matter not... it shall find u

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aneveningsword · 6 months

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𝑭𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮

pairing: Jordan Li x gn!reader warnings: not proofread, hurt/comfort words: 1498 summary: a video from a party leads to accusations being thrown, with betrayal and jealousy clouding the mind it is only expected something goes wrong.

masterlist

Fights with Jordan were never malicious; they were always about something stupid or the stress of class. When the two of you fought, it was always followed by a heated makeout session and hushed apologies. It was never serious, and there was nothing you couldn't forgive each other for. However, the subject of the fight was sometimes just in someone's head.

The aggressive knocks on your dorm room door were nothing new; with your headphones on, you could barely hear anything. Rising from your couch, you cross the small space to the door, opening it with a smile that only grew as you saw Jordan on the other side.

"Hey, I wasn't expecting you." Your voice trails off slightly as you notice the deep frown on their face. Taking a moment to take in their appearance you notice their vphone clutched harshly in their hand, for a moment you wonder if it is going to shatter in their hand. Pushing past you to get into your room you were a little shocked with their aggression.

Shutting the door quickly, you turn to face them, confusion written on your face as you try to figure out what's wrong. "You good?" Their nostrils flared slightly as you huffed in response to the question. "Am I doing well? Are you okay? "What the hell is this?" Their voice was accusatory, their dark eyes boring into yours as if they were looking for a flash of guilt to prove they were correct in their accusation.

A video was playing on their vphone, which was thrust into your face. From what you could tell, it was from the weekend party you attended. It was supposed to be a small gathering for your friend's party, but it was blown out of proportion, and many more people showed up. Regardless, it was a fun night that you will never forget. However, Jordan stands there with a video of someone performing a keg stand that you wish you could remember.

"Looks like someone having a good time?" The video loops again as you try to figure out what caused such a reaction from the person in front of you. Your words pull a scoff from Jordan as they watch you with anger swirling in their eyes. "The fucking background, I shouldn't have to explain it." Their words were laced with venom as you tried to see what they were talking about. What could possibly get them so upset to storm into your dorm and begin yelling at you over something.

After a few moments, you realised what had gotten them so worked up. You and a guy were in the crowd that gathered around the person of the moment, encouraging them to keep drinking. Matthew? Max? Martin? His name slipped your mind, the alcohol erasing it from your memory. They were attached to your side, their hands a little too low, and their face whispering something in your ear before hovering over the exposed skin of your neck in the video. You couldn't help but frown as you saw it, desperately trying to recall how you got into the situation.

You could remember the disgusting feeling of his hands on you, the drunken flirting, and the kiss they tried to give you in small fragments. You'd put a stop to it before it got too far, telling them to get lost and that you weren't interested in them at all.

"That was nothing-" "Nothing? I sure looked like something." Jordan's anger-filled voice cut you off before you could explain yourself, their emotions clouding their judgement. You knew you should not rise to their bites, to begin yelling back and fighting with an equal amount of venom. But you were feeding off the anger and betrayal in the room.

"I don't know why it's any of your business. It's not like we are together." What Jordan and you had was delicate, you weren't officially together yet treated one another as partners. There had never been a conversation on exactly what you two were, simply a couple of people who fool around and seek each other out at times. Not a couple.

"It became my business when you act like a fucking slut." You it was not the yelling that caused the pang in your heart, not the tone or the way they looked at you with such anger. But the accusation of you being a slut, as though you were asking for a man to accost you while trying to celebrate your friend. "Go fuck yourself Jordan. God, I don't act like such a brat when you flirt with people. If I knew you were so insecure I would've wasted my time with you."

Your words seemed to strike a nerve with them, and your choice of words hurt them. There was some distance between you two, a small safety bubble in your eyes. But when Jordan took a step towards you, it popped, and you quickly took a step back to regain the distance between you. In reality, you don't know why you did it; you weren't afraid they'd hurt you physically because you knew they weren't like that. But the possibility of it existed.

In their masculine form, they could be rather intimidating, they were tall and muscular, and their voice was deep and loud without even trying. They towered over you with little effort, intimidating you without even trying.

Jordan's expression changed from one of rage to one of guilt and concern. It was never their intention to scare you or make you fear they would attack you. When they saw the video, they were just frustrated and hurt, feeling betrayed. A part of them knew they were wrong; you weren't together, you weren't their partner; you were simply someone who held a special place in their hearts. The sting of betrayal for what had happened was still there. But it was overshadowed by the guilt he felt for instilling fear in others. They knew in their masculine form they could be intimidating, they often used this form to make sure people were listening to them when making a point.

"I-" The shift to their feminine form was instant, their voice becoming softer, their features more rounded and their frame much smaller as though they were trying to curl into themself to appear less threatening. Their voice was laced with guilt, words dying in their throat not knowing what to say to make this better. To make you feel more comfortable and safe with them, instead of fear that they might do something. "I didn't mean..."

"I know," Your voice is soft as you speak, you feel stupid for allowing a small fear to consume you. To think that they were that low may that they may hurt you over a video and harsh words. Embarrassment flooded your system along with a small sense of guilt for the whirlwind of emotions you have caused them. "I just... I don't know why I did that."

"I would never hurt you," Jordan's voice matches yours in tone and volume, eyes searching yours for a hint of fear that you may still possess. "I know," Your small confirmation pushes Jordan towards you, their steps are slow and small giving you enough chance to back away or shoo them off. But you don't, needing the sense of comfort only they can bring.

Jordan's hands grab your hands softly, starting small to ensure you are okay with physical touch. When you give on negative reaction, they wrap their arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. You sink into their touch, arms wrapping around them as a small sigh leaves you. "I didn't mean for him to be all over me," You begin, finding this calm moment the perfect time to explain your actions. "I didn't want to cause a scene, not at my friend's party. It didn't go further than that, I promise. I got him to leave me be, he was just a stain on a good night."

There was silence for a moment, Jordan allowing your words to sink in and for a moment they felt silly. To think you would eagerly be all over a guy you just met at a party. That you would throw away what you both had for some man you clearly barely remember. But the jealousy and betrayal was still there, gnawing at the back of their mind.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have barged in here to yell at you. I didn't want to scare you." The small apology brought a smile to your face, it was easy to forgive Jordan and it was easy to love them.

#jordan li x reader #jordan li #gen v #gen v jordan li #gen v x reader #gen v imagines #jordan li headcanons #jordan li imagines

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mystra-midnight · 11 months

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Language of Lust

summary: a botched hunt means that you need a refresher in latin thankfully sam is there to help.

warnings: mentions of a panic attack. forced orgasm. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. anal sex. unprotected sex. squirting. creampie.

words: 3.2k

notes: so a while ago i saw a post about being dommed in another language. and honestly it unlocked a kink i never knew i had. that post spawned this idea. please ignore the latin translations if they aren’t correct as i used google to translate. :)

In the days following the botched demon hunt, the atmosphere within the base had become tense, and that meant the three of you had been at each other's throats. It hadn’t mattered how many times you’d apologized or promised to do better next time, how much pie you’d bought for Dean, or that you’d cooked Sam's favorite meal twice; nothing had fixed it.

In truth, you all needed some space.

You most of all.

That panic attack came out of nowhere and left you completely shaken. Even a week later, you were hyperfocused on the details of it—the way the walls of the room had shuddered and groaned as you spoke the ritual words, making dust and old cobwebs fall around you. When you thought about it, your heart would race so fast and slam against your breastbone so hard that you could have sworn it started to crack.

The ringing in your ears had been a deafening crescendo, and your eyes had been a waterfall of tears even when Sam had knelt in front of you and pulled you into his chest. You remembered the sound of his voice and the beating of his heart as he whispered to you soothingly until the tears finally stopped.

You still didn't remember much about what had actually happened, but you knew that the demon had gotten away, and you knew that Dean was pissed and Sam was disappointed. Neither of them needed to say it out loud.

So for the past few days, you've busied yourself with whatever task you could find to take your mind off the entire situation. Dean had very much done the same; you hadn’t seen him since this morning, when he’d come back to grab a few things and then left again.

You knew that Sam was somewhere in the base; you’d seen him in passing a few times, but the two of you hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other.

Normally, that would have upset you. You hated fighting with the boys, but you were feeling better and in a relatively good mood today.

You sigh as you step into the kitchen after showering to wash the sweat and anxiety from your skin. Your hair is still damp, and you're dressed in one of Dean's old shirts and a tight pair of bicycle shorts. Sam entered soon after, dressed just as casually. He looked entirely undisturbed by the events of the past few days.

"Hey," you say in passing, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Hey yourself," he answers with a smile. For a moment, there was silence between you, but even that was short-lived. "You got the words wrong, you know," Sam says, leaning a hip against the door frame while he stares at you with arms crossed. He didn't sound angry, but it wasn't like he needed to say it; you knew you'd gotten them wrong.

Your head snaps around to stare at him, eyes narrowing at the fucking audacity he spoke with. Was that really what he wanted to say? "Yeah," you answer, your expression souring and your mouth in a tight-lipped scowl. "I figured that out from the silent treatment." You shrug your shoulders, trying not to let the hurt bleed into your voice as you turn away and busy yourself straightening a piece of paper on the table.

"Silent treatment?" He asks, pushing off the wall to come towards you. "No one is giving you the silent treatment."

"Sure you’re not," you scoff in response.

"We’re not."

"Then where is Dean? He’s running off doing his own thing because he’s pissed off at me for ruining the hunt, and it’s been two days since you said this much to me, Sam." You huff, clearly annoyed, as you cross your arms and glare at him. "No one learns from the silent treatment, Sam. Sure, I messed up. I know I did, and I’ll learn from that. The two of you don’t need to be assholes about it. But whatever, live and let live."

He walks briskly towards you, and you step back, not in fear but because the raw emotions in his eyes stun you—lust and dominance mingling beautifully in the depths of his iridescent orbs. Sam doesn't stop when you back away; instead, he walks until the small of your back is pressed against the edge of the table, and then he cages you between his arms, palms pressed flat against the table top.

"S - Sam?" You stutter when his lips pull into a smooth smirk. One of his hands grabs you by the hip, his fingertips biting into your skin just a little bit too much, and he pulls you against him, painting his body firmly against yours.

And then he’s kissing you, and you kiss him, and whatever anger was on your tongue dies.

Sam does not waste time and pushes his hand into your bicycle shorts, the material so tight that it fits you like a second skin. He wants desperately to rip it down your legs and feast on your pussy, but he shows remarkable restraint.

"If you wanted more lessons," he says between heated kisses that muffle your little gasps when he starts to rub his fingers against your clit. "You just needed to ask, sweetheart." His other hand grasps your jaw hard with his thumb and forefinger, pushing into your cheeks so that you were pouting when he kissed you again, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

You have the notion to argue with him but are silenced when he pushes a finger through your folds, which are slick with desire and anticipation. You grab at his arm when he prods your entrance, making your knees weak. "Sam, I—" you start but are silenced by the stare in his eyes.

"In Latin."

"Sam?"

"In Latin." He says it again, this time with more force, his words accompanied by a second finger being pushed into your tight hole, drawing a wanton moan from your lips. You’re not sure where this behaviour is coming from. Sam had never so much as hinted at liking you, but in truth, you weren’t one to complain—not when he was knuckles deep in your cunt.

Your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the table, nails scratching at the underside, knuckles white under the pressure. You tilt your head back beneath his wandering mouth, enjoying the warmth of his body hovering over yours and how he pulls your shirt up to expose your tits.

Sam trails hot, wet kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping over your racing pulse. He sucks a hickey on your collarbone until a purple-blue bruise forms beneath his lips. The entire time he’s pumping his fingers into your cunt. Lewd, wet squelching fills the room because you’re that fucking wet.

He forces your legs further apart with his knee so that you're perched on the edge of the table, feet dangling in the air. His mouth moves to your chest, his lips closing around your nipple and sucking hard so that it pops from his mouth with an obscene sound and stands hard atop your tit. And then he takes the other one into his mouth, flicking and twirling his tongue so that you had to fist a hand in his hair.

He whispers something that you can’t make out. His mouth is like fire on your skin, leaving little flames of arousal licking through your veins. And then his fingers hit that spongy part of your pussy that has you hurtling towards a climax instead of slowly building to it.

You can’t help the way your nails dig into his shoulders when you cling to him when your thighs tremble. You cling to him when the storm comes out of nowhere, sweeping you away on a cloud of bliss that has you throwing your head back. He feels your walls tighten around his fingers, fresh waves of arousal against the tips, and then he’s kissing you again, rubbing his thumb in circles around your clit to keep the aftershocks of climax trembling through you.

His mouth is hot, stealing the air from your lungs until they are burning, but you don’t mind because you're still coming down from your high.

The next thing you know, it’s been an hour, and Sam has managed to make you cum three more times, twice with his fingers buried knuckle deep in your pussy, scissoring them to send you teetering over the edge of oblivion. And then once more, with his mouth on your pussy, lips encircling around your clit and sucking so hard that all you could do was repeat his name like a heaven’s prayer.

You’re done, but he wasn’t, not by a long shot.

Sam spread you out on your back, laying you out like a feast, your skin flushed and tits heaving with heavy breaths. You feel the rough pad of his thumb rubbing circles around your clit, which is slightly swollen and much too sensitive, and you claw at his wrist to push him away. Sam just smiles at you and pins both your wrists to the mattress with one of his large hands.

"It’s too much," you whine, trying to pull away and wiggle your hips away from his fingers, but you’re trapped. And you love it as much as you hate it. Sam growls softly between his teeth, his thumb prodding through your slick folds and getting nice and wet before drifting lower to push against your asshole. Your breath hitches at the sensation, and your mind spins as he pushes his thumb inside, giving a few shallow thrusts to tease you.

"Hic tam arctus es, infans," he says, his voice heavy with lust and muffled against your heaving tits. His breath is hot against your skin, his teeth scrape over your racing heartbeat, and his tongue leaves your skin inflamed and glistening. There is a knot twisting through your belly, slowly pulling tighter as his thumb pushes in and out of your tight hole.

"Ubi vis me?" His words are lost in the haze of euphoria he’s trapped you in, as meaningless as the world around you has become. You were a slave to the sensations he embodied, desperately moving your hips to take him deeper. "Hic?"

"Sam," you whine, your voice straining as you struggle in his grasp. You need him; you need to feel your pussy stretching around his big, hard cock. You need to feel him buried inside you, fucking you into oblivion.

"Hic?" He says it again, twisting his thumb in a way that has you throwing your head back and bucking your hips desperately. You can feel him smiling against your tit as he mouths it, his teeth tugging at your nipple until your back arches.

Your breath comes quicker, little pants, when he pulls his thumb from your clenching asshole, the feeling exquisite and leaving you desperate for more despite the live wires of overstimulation snaking through your veins. Sam lets go of your wrists long enough to pull one of your legs up, laying the back of your thigh up his torso so that your knee is bent over his shoulder, and then he shackles them again, trapping you beneath him.

You move restlessly when you feel his thumb against your asshole again, except this time it's not his thumb, and your eyes go wide, a whimper falling from your parted lips. You weren’t a virgin, not at all, but this would be the first time you’d ever taken something so big in your ass.

There was no mistaking that Sam Winchester was a behemoth of a man. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and strong—Hercules reborn. Everything about him is big. His hands, his feet, his thighs, and his cock. Everything about him is solid, cut from marble; he is beautiful. His cock makes your asshole sting beautifully as he pushes the mushroom head in.

Inch by glorious inch, he pushed forward, the prominent vein on the underside of his cock dragging along your stretched hole. "Jesus, tam stricta es," he breathes against your neck, but you still don’t understand. He’s slow, letting you get used to the feeling of his cock splitting you open with short, shallow thrusts, making you moan wantonly.

He loves the little things that you do, the simple things; the pleasure that sears through him as he stretches your tightest hole; the way you’re moaning like a whore, rocking your hips desperately against his, grinding against him. He starts moving with more urgency, drawing back so that only the head of his cock is fitted snugly inside, and then he’s thrusting back in with one stroke, hitting deep, leaving you throwing your head from side to side.

Your thighs quiver, and your toes curl. Sam fucks into you at a merciless pace, stretching you out and filling you completely, and the feeling of it is beyond words. It is beautiful and exquisite—pure euphoric bliss. It makes your pussy creamy with desire, so much so that your slick drips down your crack to mingle with his thrusts. That knot in your belly pulls tighter while your clit throbs and the muscles in your thighs ache. Your lungs burn because of how you’re panting, unable to catch your breath.

His fingers tighten around your wrists when you almost buck out of his grasp, the tips of them biting into your skin so that you can feel bruises starting to form, but you don’t care. You’re so close, so fucking close. His mouth is on your neck, his teeth scraping over your racing pulse, his lips leaving hickeys behind, and his tongue leaving your skin hot and wet.

You can feel the pressure building. Your pussy is clenching desperately around nothing, and you can feel your pulse beating in your toes, your clit, even in your fingertips—you’re that close to breaking. It feels so fucking good, but you’re fighting it because the pleasure is starting to border on pain and overstimulation.

And you’re lost in it, trapped as you are beneath him.

You crave that sweet release, the way fire will race through your blood, and the way your world will be scored with lightning. You need it as much as you need to breathe, but every part of you is alive. You can hear the blood rushing behind your ears; hear the beating of your heart as it slams into your breastbone; your eyes rolling back every time his hips snap forward, pushing every inch of him deep inside you.

"Venire," he growls against your neck, his breath literally burning against your sweat-slicked skin. You don’t know what he says, but the lust in his voice and the feral look in his eyes pull that coil painfully tight. You’re breaking—he’s breaking you. He’s got you on the verge of being fucked stupid, sobbing because of him and how good it feels, but he wants more from you.

"Sam! Sam, please, please," you plead, throwing your head from side to side, desperately trying to tug your hands free. You arch your back when he hits a spot that has dots decorating your vision, your tits thrusting into the air. You can’t figure out what you’re asking for. For him to stop or for him to keep going, it’s a blur.

Every movement of his hips has that knot pulling tighter—so tight that you might die. Your pussy is twitching, clenching around nothing, and you’re so wet that it’s shining on his skin every time he bottoms out.

"Venire," he says again, this time against your ear. Your pleasure-addled brain, so drugged with pleasurable pain and desperate for the release he’s forcing from you, only comprehends what he's saying when two of his fingers are shoved through your slick folds and into your clenching hole, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles.

You struggle to close your thighs, tears streaming down your face, tits bouncing as he fucks you harder. His cock is stretching your ass beyond belief while his fingers ram into that spongy spot that has your vision decorated with stars. "I - I - I - can’t!" You manage to stutter out, hips bucking against his, your pussy clenching so tight around his fingers.

Except you can because that dam breaks with so much pressure that you scream. It feels like lightning has hit your body, sizzling through your veins until you’re thrashing beneath him, your thighs quivering violently, and your toes curled so much that it hurts. Sam doesn’t stop, not even when your ass tightens around his cock to the point of pain. He just presses his thumb against your clit, circling, rubbing, and making you scream for him.

You feel a gush between your thighs, your pussy convulsing around his fingers as you cum in a fountain spray. Sam curls his fingers into your g-spot, scissors them, and pulls them from you to draw out as much cum as possible. If you had any brains left, you might have been embarrassed by the way you came, squirting so hard that it hits his abdomen and drips from the nest of curls at the base of his shaft, how it drenches your thighs and pools on the mattress beneath you.

But you’re gone, lost, and fucked dumb, only able to grunt as he keeps fucking you.

"Tam pulchra, infans, tam formosa, tam mihi dura venit." His own voice is trembling, and his balls draw closer to his body as the muscles in his abdomen tighten. He buries himself deep so that your ass is full and your pussy tingles. And you feel it as he grunts against your neck—feel the white-hot ribbons of cum filling your ass.

Sam keeps thrusting until you've milked him dry, and then he pulls out, drawing a pathetic, desperate moan from your lips because of the sensation. Having let go of your wrists, he sits back on his haunches. You lay there, your thighs still trembling, your mind lost. Sam watches the way your pretty pussy twitches and the way your ass puckers, and his sticky cum drips from it in fat globs.

"What do pretty girls say after being filled with cum?" He asks, his voice soft, his fingers pushing his cum back into your stretched-out ass so that you were whimpering and shaking again. You manage to peel your eyes open to stare at him, tears in them, your chest heaving as he shoves two long fingers into your asshole.

He speaks English this time so that you understand, but you are still slow to react, straining to close your thighs. He kisses you without warning, his tongue in your mouth, licking yours until you're clawing at his shoulders to keep him there, desperate for his kiss.

"Gratias tibi." You managed with a weary smile, and that was enough for him for the moment.

the translations ::

Hic tam arctus es, infans. - You’re so tight here, baby.

Ubi vis me? - Where do you want me?

Hic? - Here?

Jesus, tam stricta es. - Jesus, you’re so tight.

Venire - Come/cum.

Tam pulchra, infans, tam formosa, tam mihi dura venit. - So pretty, baby, so beautiful, coming so hard for me.

Gratias tibi - Thank you.

#sam winchester #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester one shot #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #supernatural

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hard-core-super-star · 8 months

Note

Can I please request reader taking Hailee's strap for the first time or Hailee taking reader's strap for the first time, whichever you prefer! I really really enjoy all of your fics 😁

sinking deeper into you [H.Steinfeld]

pairing: top!hailee steinfeld x bottom!reader

summary: your girlfriend is the sweetest person you've ever met and yet you can't help but try to get her out of her shell for a night.

warnings: smut -> minors look away [porn with two inches of plot and by plot i mean fluff; sweet, needy, dorky hailee turns into borderline daddy hailee very quickly so keep that in mind; strap-on sex {R receiving}; like 2 seconds of strapwarming; so many pet names; praise kink go brrr; is loving degradation a thing?]

wordcount: 2.2k

a/n: not gonna lie, this is exactly what i think about every time i listen to the coast bridge so...yeah. you can't tell me it's not intentional. i sincerely was going to write this the other way around but i got too carried away and committed to this instead. thank you, lovely anon, for being my first smut request [and for the lovely comment], hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

There are a lot of things to love about dating Hailee. There's the long list of ridiculously cheesy pet names she loves calling you, the constant hand-holding, the soft reassurances whenever you're having a particularly rough day, and, of course, the way she's always so considerate about your feelings.

Sometimes, you don't even need to tell her you're uncomfortable with something for her to know she should step in. She'll just quietly change the conversation or lead you away from whatever was causing your discomfort.

Your girlfriend is lovely and supportive and you would have absolutely no complaints about it if she weren't so blinded by her need to make sure you're always comfortable. It's a strange thing to complain about, you're very aware of that, but sometimes you wanted more than the brunette was willing to give you.

Especially in the bedroom.

You’ve heard every possible excuse under the sun about why she’s so hesitant to take certain steps with you but you’re pretty sure she’s just trying to keep her dominant side in check when it comes to you. It’s truly sweet but also attractive in a way that only makes you want her even more.

Which leaves you stuck in the best yet worst cycle of your life. One that’s filled with soft pleads that fall on ears that are too busy relishing in your moans of ecstasy to actually listen to your words.

Tonight was going to be different though.

At least that’s what you told yourself. You had rehearsed the words you were going to say to your girlfriend over and over all day but unfortunately for you, they flew away the second she walked into your shared home.

She’d been gone all day, bouncing from one boring business meeting to another and while she loved her job, she loved being with you even more. So, the second she found you lounging on the couch wearing one of her old shirts, she practically pounced on you.

“Hello to you too,” you say through a laugh. “I take it you missed me?”

“You already know the answer to that, baby.” Her voice is softer than usual, traces of her earlier annoyance still noticeable in her tone. You don’t have to ask to know she’s had a rough day and you both already know you’ll do everything in your power to help her feel better.

You merely hum in response, content to just lie there with your overly affectionate girlfriend situated on top of you. Hailee seems just fine with having her face buried into the side of your neck but it takes no less than two minutes for her true intentions to come out.

She shifts a little seemingly trying to wrap her arms around you so she can feel you close to her but you know her well enough to know she’s not merely trying to cuddle with you. You’re proven correct when her hands start to mess with the hem of your shirt. “Have I ever told you how much I love it when you wear my clothes?”

“Once or twice,” you reply with a grin.

You feel her chuckle against your neck, her warm breath dancing against your skin but now quite touching you yet.

It’s been five seconds and you already want more.

Hailee, never one to leave you hanging, gives in to both of your desires and begins to press feather-light kisses onto the side of your neck. You instantly tilt your head back for her and pretend not to notice the smug smirk plastered on her face. She’s slowly winding you up like you’re her favorite toy and you can’t find it in yourself to complain.

Especially once her hands begin to move.

“Is this okay, love?” She whispers between soft kisses.

The tips of her fingers are just barely grazing against your stomach and it takes all your strength not to arch into her touch. “Mhmm…”

“I need words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

That’s all she has to say to get you to turn into putty in her hands.

“Keep going…please.”

“Good girl.” Your reward comes in the form of her helping you slide out of your shirt. She leans back and kneels between your spread legs to admire your body, her smirk growing once she realizes you’re not wearing a bra. “Always so good for me. So beautiful under me.”

“Is that why you’re taking forever?” You ask, unable to keep your inner brat in check.

She rolls her eyes at your question but you don't miss the way her hands wrap around your hips in a tight grip. It's a subtle warning but it's a warning nonetheless.

You can't help but wonder what would happen if you pushed her, though. If you truly pressed all her buttons until she had no choice but to strip away that sweet facade and put you in your place.

But that's a plan for another day.

For now, you bite your tongue and let her have her way.

She watches your face closely, her lack of words only adding to the intensity of the moment. She’s barely even touched you and you’ve already made a mess in your underwear.

A mess that only grows once her hands finally move again. They glide up from your hips, her nails lightly scratching your stomach, until she finally reaches her destination.

It takes all your self-restraint and then some to stop yourself from bucking your hips as her fingers tease your sensitive nipples. A barely audible whine slips past your parted lips the second she starts pinching and pulling at your flesh, though.

The sound makes her stop which only serves to draw out another needy sound from your throat. “What was that? Do you need something, love?”

All you can do is nod but, of course, Hailee’s not letting you get off that easy. It’s part of her charm, even though it’s also ridiculously frustrating in moments like these.

“Go on, baby. Tell me what you need.”

Here it is. The moment you’ve been searching for for far longer than you’ll ever admit out loud. You ignore the flush on your cheeks and the throbbing in your cunt long enough to ask for what you truly want.

“Your strap,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper yet full of that subtle desperation your girlfriend loves bringing out of you.

She doesn’t say anything for a few moments but the glimmer in her eyes stops you from overthinking your words. “Are you sure? I don't want to rush you, love.”

“I know but I really need to feel you inside of me.”

Her eyes widen for a few seconds before her whole face changes. You practically watch her slip into that dominant persona she plays so well when she wants to. And it seems like she desperately wants to tonight.

“Is that so? My fingers aren't enough for you anymore, baby? You need more?”

You force the confirmation she's looking for out of your mouth before you get too flustered to respond. “Yes, please.”

That's all she needs to hear and she wastes no time jumping to her feet, the action so endearing you almost forget about your drenched underwear. You hold in a giggle as she extends her hand out to you and helps you stand only to pick you up and carry you toward the bedroom.

You’ll never understand her fascination with carrying you around but you’re also not about to complain. Mainly because her radiant joy is contagious…and because the view you get of her biceps is more than enough to distract you.

“Stay right here, okay?” She mumbles as she sets you down on the bed. “I’ll be right back to give you everything you want.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that she’ll be true to her word.

The next few minutes pass by far too slowly for your liking but your suffering finally ends when Hailee comes out of the bathroom, looking far too proud of herself and the dark purple dildo strapped to her hips. “What do you think?”

You’re speechless and more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. You didn’t think the brunette could get any more attractive and yet here she is leaving you dizzy and desperate just from standing in front of you. The smirk, the abs, the pure confidence she oozes, it’s all too much in the best of ways.

“Come here…please.”

All she does is chuckle before finally joining you in bed. She helps you discard the rest of your clothes without pointing out how absolutely drenched you are for her. One hand lands on your hip while she uses the other one to hold herself up above you, staring down at you like you’re the best thing she’s ever seen.

The sentiment is mutual except you’re sure your eyes carry far stronger traces of neediness than Hailee’s. Which is exactly what she likes, if you're both being honest.

For a second you’re sure she’s going to make you beg before moving an inch but thankfully, it seems she wants you just as much as you want her.

She shifts her hips closer to you and you immediately wrap your arms around her as she oh so slowly slides the tip of the strap into your aching cunt. You let out a gasp, the intrusion feeling slightly uncomfortable but not unwelcome.

“I know, I know,” she whispers. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

“Fuck.” You groan, loving and hating the torturously slow pace she’s set.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good. Really good.”

Her slow movements allow you to feel the way she stretches your walls with every inch she pushes inside. It takes no time at all for the sound of heavy breathing and quiet moans to fill the room.

Her hand slides down between your legs and her thumb messily circles your swollen clit to help you get used to the feeling of her strap buried inside you. “Was this what you wanted, baby? To have your pretty pussy filled up by me?”

You’re glad she can’t actually feel the way you clench around the dildo at her slightly degrading words. She’s not an idiot though and she’d have to be blind not to notice the way your hips buck toward her.

“Come on, darling. I’m not a mind reader.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything really, but Hailee decides it’d be the perfect time to start moving again. You can’t form a single word or thought once she starts thrusting in and out of you.

The brunette can’t even pretend to be disappointed by your lack of words, too lost in the way your body responds to her movements and the feeling of the base of the dildo rubbing against her clit with every thrust. “Fuck, you feel so good, babe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. So wet and needy for me.”

Your nails dig into her shoulder blades as you pull her closer. “Hailee-” Whatever else you were going to say is swallowed up by another moan.

“I’m right here, y/n.” The way she so easily slips back and forth between the two opposing sides of her desire drives you to the brink of pleasure-filled insanity. “Just focus on me.”

She leans down to nip at your jawline while her hips move faster and faster against you. The only thing you can do is arch your back into her touch and beg for more.

A request your girlfriend wastes no time in fulfilling.

Her soft caresses to your clit pick up speed. Her thumb, hips, and lips all work in unison to bring you the release your body craves. “You’re perfect like this. All fucked-out and mine to please.”

You love and hate the way she knows your mind and its hidden desires so well. “Lee, please, babe.”

“Please what?” She asks, clearly loving the way you’re so willing to play this game with her. “Use your words, baby, you know the rules.”

“Please, can I cum?”

A few agonizing seconds pass by before she gives you the answer you’re waiting for. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Show me how much you love the way I feel inside you.”

If her actions weren’t enough to push you to the edge, her words are.

The world outside of her embrace disappears and you give in to the overwhelming pleasure. All you can feel is her strap pushing and pulling in and out of you as you let yourself go, making a mess on both the toy and the sheets below you.

Hailee falls over the edge with you, mumbled words of praise and breathless moans filling the space between your faces.

It takes a few moments for your brain to come back down from such a breath-taking high and once you do, you realize the way your girlfriend has collapsed on top of you. The sight is just as heart-warming as it is arousing but you’re far too tired right now for another round.

“You okay?” You whisper, tilting your head a little so you can truly appreciate the way your girlfriend looks with her face buried into your neck.

“Yeah.” She presses a quick kiss to your sweaty skin to emphasize her point. “That was incredible. How are you doing? Was that too rough?”

“I’m not made of glass, Lee,” you assure her. “And I’m not the one covered in scratches.”

She shivers as you trace a finger up and down her spine. “Feels nice…Do you mind if I stay like this for a little while?”

The way you hold her close is enough of an answer for her. You’re both desperately in need of a shower and some food, but all you want right now is each other and the peace being locked together like this brings.

#hailee steinfeld x reader #hailee steinfeld x female reader #hailee steinfeld x you #hailee steinfeld x y/n #hailee steinfeld fic #hailee steinfeld smut #hailee steinfeld imagine #hailee steinfeld fanfiction #hailee steinfeld #hawkeye #mcu #mcu fanfiction #marvel #wlw #wlw fic #writing #if you made it this far: be warned that my next hailee fic probably won't be as sweet as my previous ones

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kechiwrites · 6 months

Text

tepid

nanami kento x reader! kinktober countdown day 7 (b d s m)

synopsis: “I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

wc: 2.8k

cw: fem + afab!reader but no gendered language, bdsm + D/s dynamics, sex worker!reader, salary man!kento, angst, potentially unrequited love, mentions of unprotected sex, begging, oral sex (m!receiving), jealousy, bondage, brat-taming, toys, mdni.

author's note: FINALLY DONE. JESUS. writing/doing research for medic reader x ghost, then touched starved konig, really impressed on me how powerful saying a man’s name can be. they love that shit. thank you to kitten for proofing and to ketsl + kee for helping originate this story and giving me tiktoks as fuel.

The waitress places a teacup in front of you, plain white, with a matching saucer. The steam of which coils upwards and dissipates before it can graze your chin. Your posture is upright, but not rigid and Kento finds himself correcting his slouch to mirror you. Your ‘thank you’ to her is accompanied with a blindingly bright smile, visibly jarring the waitress, who must face the gruff, deep terseness of truckers all day. She smiles back, turning and retreating with a lighter step than when she came.

Your grin tapers down to a lukewarm smile when you face him again, and it makes Kento ache, though for what, he’s not quite sure. “I think we should start with what you’re looking for, Nanami.”

Your words from the week before ring in his mind;

He brought his champagne flute to yours, eyes twinkling under the ballroom’s low lighting. The blue of your dress is nearly black, and it wraps your figure perfectly, cresting over hip and thigh as though it was made for you. Hell, with the average tax bracket of the guests surrounding the two of you, it could’ve been.

“And what is it you do?” his question seems to startle you for a moment, and your eyes swing to the side of him, looking for your date, he presumes. Quickly, however, you school your features into a warm kind of indifference.

“There are people who need to cede their control, to relax. And people who want control ceded to them by someone. I’m that someone.” You bring your glass to your bottom lip, drinking deeply, to avoid further explanation, or to buy yourself time, Kento isn’t sure. Still, the realization of what you mean, what your career is, and potentially why you’re here, sends a tingle down his spine, curls warm and heavy in his stomach. Urges him to take your business card when it’s offered, and make the arrangements to meet with you a week later.

“I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

“I’m sure I can help you with that.”

He settles for tearing at the napkin under his coffee mug.

✧

When you meet again, it’s to discuss your terms. Time with you costs a pretty penny and if Kento was so dead set on what he had pitched in the diner, he was looking at a very extended payment plan.

He drags his spoon across the bottom of his coffee cup, stirring at the remaining sugar, unmelted at the bottom. He’d added it too late. He hates that.

“How long will you need me, Kento?” You ask. You keep saying his name, over and over.

“Do you frequent this place often, Kento?”

“Have you done this before, Kento?”

“Do you know what you want, Kento?”

It drives him crazy, gives him this frantic itch at the back of his knee so bad that it makes him jostle the limb, like he’s a dog, eager for a treat. For attention.

It’s that itch that keeps him from saying “forever”. From insisting on something he just knows you can’t give.

“Three months. I want three months. Not everyday, just-”

“Regularly.“ you cut him off. “I understand, Kento.” Your smile is so sweet. Unmelted crystals of sugar, smeared between your nose and chin.

“No one else.” He mutters, chin tucked to his chest, gaze snagged on the candy red linoleum, where he rereads the same scratched in message.

‘thee hotties were here.’

It forces an exhale out of his nose, and when he can finally bring himself to stare at you, he’s relieved to see the smile you gave the waitress. But this time, it’s for him.

“No one else.” You agree. And Kento feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he sat down.

✧

“So…” Kento tests one of the straps holding your limbs in place. It’s thick, dark, leather, the expensive kind you have to order from a specialty shop in Amsterdam.

“So…” you respond, and you’re on your knees, nearly naked, at the foot of the lush, grand hotel bed (neutral ground, you’d said) and Kento is above you, standing, not naked. But you have the power here, you’re the one with experience, with stories, with the do’s and the don’t’s, and the not ever’s, not even once.

It’s not quite what he envisioned, and it’s nothing like the porn he watched. But you with that wide belt around your waist? With matching cuffs attached, cuffs that he helped you put your ankles into, that he secured the buckles for? It’s better. Better than the wet dreams and the research and the tight fist around the base of his cock the day after you first spoke in the diner.

He crosses his arms and just stares, eating up the visual.

“What?” You ask, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue. “You don’t like attitude?”

And he doesn’t know what he likes. But he knows he wants to learn.

You start slow, taking him through the motions, explaining what exactly you have experience with, what both of your limits are, what his safe word should be, what he wants out of this.

And then, after all the discussion is said and done, he fucks your throat on and off for an hour.

After session one, you and Kento decide on twice a week.

✧

It turns out, Kento does not like “attitude”. But he does like reform. Likes for you to start sessions with a foul mouth, with rolling eyes and put upon sighs and ribs about him being an old man. Then he likes to fuck it out of you. Overwork your body until the only thing you can do is tremble underneath his palms. He likes to use his knee to press a wand to your clit until you soak the thigh of his dress pants, then he likes to up the setting from two to four and watch your chest cave in on itself.

He likes to guide your limbs into a spreader bar and slide his tongue from the cleft of your ass to your clit. Adores watching you count the strokes of his dick inside you when your bent in half so he can fuck you in a mating press.

Kento likes the way your skin looks against shiny black leather and pristine white bed sheets. He likes how you look in lacey lilac lingerie with his favourite tie stuffed in your mouth.

But above all, Kento loves how you look with his hands on you, on your throat, across your back, guiding your head down, or your hips up. His fingers inside you, his palm wrapped around your wrists, his forearms holding up your thighs.

You make the dwindling amount in his savings worth it.

You make his nights seem less lonely.

You give him something to look forward to.

✧

It’s nearly a month into your arrangement. Nine sessions, nine nights in the same hotel room, or one that looks exactly like it. Nine meetings in the lobby, nine instances of you looping your arm around Kento’s and walking together to the front desk, then to the elevators. Nine times Kento has peered over your shoulder and into the large leather purse you bring with you every time, eager to see what you’ve planned for him today. It’s always a surprise, unless he’s looked something up and texted it to you, or gotten something express shipped.

But this time, the tenth time, things are different. This time he meets you at the station by his apartment, at 6 PM on the dot. This time when you walk arm in arm, he gets eight glorious minutes of it. This time, he doesn’t have to check in with the front desk receptionist with the icy eyes and disingenuous smile who always seems to be working when Kento rents a room.

This time, you've both taken adequate measures, sharing clear bills of health and a firm set of boundaries, everything in place for Kento to forgo condoms for the first time. The hotel you regularly use for your sessions just didn’t seem concrete enough, felt hopelessly sterile, anonymous. And Kento likes to think you like him just a little bit more than your average hotel room client.

He has to think that way, or he’d never have the courage to see you again.

So at his behest, you’re in his space, in his drab beige and white apartment and he can hardly believe it. You drape your jacket over the back of one of his unremarkable dining chairs, and the sleek brown leather simultaneously blends in and stands out, he eyeballs it, while you look around, hears you comment on the amount of books he has everywhere, but he can’t respond, can’t part his gaze from the indelible foreignness of your things in his home. And when you catch him staring at the coat before he can casually look away, you fret aloud.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Kento. Should I have hung it up?” He watches you frown, your eyebrows coming together, separated by a miniscule wrinkle. He’s never seen that expression on you before.

He shakes his head, head already in a daze. You’re a worrier. You wring your hands.

He hadn’t known that.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets closer, tears his eyes from your clothing and approaches. Instead of assuring you he doesn’t mind, could not care less, the salaryman puts his hands on you, watches you sink into familiar territory, watches your eyes darken and your lips part and Kento Nanami nearly preens when you shiver.

“I’ll feed you.” He speaks softly, and he kisses you. Then quickly amends; “After.”

And it might be too much. Too intimate, to share a meal after you let him smack you across the face, and wrap his hand around your throat, and press his thumb over your tongue and fuck you unprotected.

But he doesn’t care.

And neither, it seems, do you.

“After.” You repeat. “Sounds good.”

And you smile.

✧

Three days after his tenth session with you, he sees you, outside, in regular clothing, not a ball gown or lingerie or nothing at all, but in a black t-shirt and baggy, soft looking jeans, and you’re blinking and smiling and laughing with some man. You’re in a coffee shop across from his workplace, and he can see you from his office’s window. (They’re small time, only on the second floor of a mega-corporation building, and up until that very moment, he had liked being able to see other people from his cubicle).

The man gets up, and Kento hopes he stumbles into the street and gets hit by a car, not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough that he can’t leave the hospital for a few days.

He returns shortly, with a drink for you, in a large white to-go cup. You don’t ask him anything. Don’t check the cup for details, you just take a sip and smile, slow and satisfied.

Kento blows out a large breath, turns to his desk and fishes out a small, amber pill bottle boasting the illegible, worn-down name of a medication ending in -loft or -pril or -pene. He tips it directly into his mouth, crunching down on two pills before he chucks the bottle across the room.

Kento doesn’t know how you take your coffee. If you even drink it at all. You had tea at the diner, and he was so busy with his own drink, with his own neurosis, he doesn’t remember what you added.

He calls you. Watches you pick up the phone and excuse yourself to the street outside.

Now, you meet four times a week. He starts doing overtime again.

✧

“Say it.” All the lights are off in your bedroom, save a salt lamp glowing pink on your end table in the corner. It hadn’t stopped Kento from eating up every detail of how you lived with his eyes. He saw the few pieces of underwear you’d shoved under your bed. The one pot of soup? Pasta sauce? You’d left unwashed on your stovetop. The framed picture of you and your mother or aunt or older cousin on your overstuffed dresser.

It had to be one of those. The resemblance was undeniable.

“Please.” You gasp, and wrench up off your bed, trying in vain to fight against the thick leather restraints keeping you spread eagle before him. The rabbit vibrator inside is blush pink and vibrating at full speed so deep inside you, twisted so it won’t touch your clit.

“You’re better than that, you beg better than that. Don’t make me drag it out of you. Beg. Me.” Kento can hear himself, can hear just how untethered, frayed he sounds. Every downward strike of his hand against your inner thighs is accompanied by a flash of you sipping from that godforsaken off-white coffee cup and smiling like the man from the coffee shop understands you, warm, comfortable.

Does he know who the woman in the photo with you is?

“Ken, Sir. Please, please let me come. I’m sorry for being a brat. Please.”

“Who gives you what you need?” He crouches down, sliding a finger along the straining line of your throat. Your lips are slick with your own spit, he’d enjoyed the gag for a bit, but your voice desperately warbling his name would always be better than the visual stimulation. Tear tracks have dried at the corners of your eyes, remnants of the first orgasm he’d ruined for you.

You are so goddamn pretty.

“You do.” You hiss, body arched and shaking, as if you could move the vibrator yourself if you fidgeted enough. He could hear how wet you were, could see beads of sweat pearl on your heated skin,

“Always?”

“Always.”

✧

Meals after, sometimes before, become a regular occurrence. Usually Kento cooks for you. Sometimes you cook for him. Once, and never again, you got to his place before him, hefting a paper bag of groceries he insisted on compensating you for. When you called him, he had only a few minutes left at work, and the station was so close. So he told you where he kept his extra key. Told you to let yourself in. And you had.

And when Kento got home, bone tired and overworked and wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to yours for hours, you welcomed him home. Eyes bright, smile hot and melting and so sincere.

And you had made dinner. For the both of you.

✧

“It was a pleasure serving you Kento.” You’re huddled in a winter coat, and briefly, Kento thinks about how fast the weather turned, how you chatted and teased and charmed a man that wasn’t him in a t-shirt two months ago, and now your arrangement with him is ending and you needed a scarf, and gloves.

“Mm. I enjoyed our time together.” He feels like a liar, feels like the pills he took before this weren’t enough, He can hear his blood roar in his ears. Cold bites through his coat. His nose is probably red. He hates that, reminds him of being a child, small and out of control and sniffling with a fever, at home, missing school.

Unmelted sugar in cooling barley tea.

“I…” You peter off, and frown. You stick your hands in your pocket and shrug. “Do you want to hug? I think we should…” You don’t finish that sentence either, you just open your arms at him and approach. Wrap your arms around him and squeeze. And Kento doesn’t like PDA, finds it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he thinks if the two of you stayed on the sidewalk, hugging forever, that would be fine too. He wonders if the people sidestepping around you on the sidewalk think you’re a couple. Think you’re married.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He can smell your hair.

When you finally pull back, you stare at him, eyes wide, mouth tense. So he kisses your lips, and it’s obviously not the first time, he can kiss you whenever he wants, tilt your head back and slide his tongue into your eager, panting mouth when he fucking feels like it. Because he pays for it.

But he didn’t pay for this one. He drinks from your mouth again, once, twice, three times. Sucks and bites at the surface of your bottom lip and he would chew and swallow every bit of expensive Dutch leather you own to do it for the rest of his life.

✧

“Three more months,” he says, when you answer the phone two weeks later, and he can hear his own heartbeat when you don’t immediately respond.

“I-if you’re sure.” You answer, and it’s the first time you’ve deferred to him outside of play. Gave him an out. No sugar crystal smile in tepid coffee.

He wishes he could see your face.

“I’m sure.”

so...how are we holding up? :) find the rest of the masterlist here.

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lazyjellyfish300 · 2 months

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With New Eyes Every Time 🌊🪸🐚👁️

Miguel O'Hara x Reader S/O

Synopsis: Aquarium date with Miguel! 😄💕 Not much else to say. Word count 2.6k

A/N: inspired by my amazing moot @huniedeux ! Thank you for making a post about wanting to go to the aquarium and inspiring me in the process! 🥰 All thanks to you! 🫶🏽 Also really need to thank @hikaru-sama for being so patient and amazing at helping me with Spanish translations! 🖤🫶🏽 I owe you my life lol 😫

Crocodile facts I used came from: Royal Society Publishing and Wildlife Sydney AU (I kept getting confused on the crocodile embryo fact and the Royal Society Publishing ended up being the correct one in regards to that fact)

CW: ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, A SMIDGE SUGGESTIVE SO MINORS DNI, BRIEF MOMENT OF GRIEF, OTHER THAN THAT JUST FLUFFY FLUFF. No mention of reader's gender.

"Well, actually, it's your turn to pick the date spot this time." Miguel hums as he gently blows on his oatmeal before taking a spoonful.

"Goddamn it...I'm so bad at choosing." You drum your nails against your coffee mug, the motion generating small tinkles of sound against the white porcelain.

Miguel smirks, "Thought since I'm a Libra, I'm the one who's supposed to be indecisive?"

"Doth mine ears decieve me?!" You clasp your hand to your chest, making a gasp of over exaggerated astonishment. "Astrology's #1 hater is reciting accurate lore of his own sign back to me?!"

Miguel shakes his head, blowing air out of his nose in amusement. "Nah, I'm still the number one hater." He winks. "Just proving to you that when you talk, I do listen. Even if I'm bad at responding."

"Bah." You wave your hand at him and sip your coffee, shifting your thoughts to where you'd like to go on your date with him this time. Truth is, Nueva York was huge. You hadn't been to all the restaurants and bars and every single spot just yet. You just had a few favorites that you kept on rotation.

Miguel, a man of routine and structure, didn't mind that one bit. Actually, there was a place you did really want to go to, you just hope he'll be okay with it since you were just there together for Valentine's.

"Perhaps..."

"Mhmm?" Miguel turns the page of his newspaper, doing his best to be responsive to you while getting caught up on yesterday's news.

"Don't be mad at me..."

"Mad at you?" Miguel's eyes flicker from the newsprint to yours. Scarlet spotlights on you.

"The aquarium." You say finally, your lips pull into a cheeky smile to indicate that you're well aware of your redundant choice but you don't care because you're dying to go anyway.

The corner of Miguel's mouth tugs a little into a half smile. "That's the spot, huh? You think I was going to be mad at you for choosing the aquarium again?"

You shrug. "Well, I do drag us there a lot. But it's so fun! I love seeing the fish and everything. You know me. I can't get enough of that stuff."

Miguel gives you a warm smile. "Well, the aquarium it is then. And believe me, that's farrr from one of my least favorite places we go. It's actually one of my favorites, too."

You echo his warmth, mixing it with some playfulness in your tone, "Oh yeah, I should've known, you love that under the sea, nerdy stuff too, huh?"

Miguel chuckles. "Guilty." He stands up, picking up his empty bowl. "Vamos, los peces esperan." (Let's go, the fish are waiting)

----

You can't help but smile giddily as you walk around the vast aquarium. It's dimly lit, and not very busy at this time, to both yours and Miguel's relief. The fact it was a Wednesday likely helped, since the rare occasion when Miguel's days off coincided with yours were quite sporadic and random.

First, you started with the reptiles. As you walked in the more brightly lit section, you peeled off your hoodie and tied it around your waist as the humidity of the exhibit started to get to you. Moisture hung in the air and the spattering sounds of water hitting rocks from the waterfall that stood tall in the middle of the exhibit created the illusion you were somewhere tropical, a welcome respite away from the March wind chill of Nueva York.

Frog croaks, monkey shrieks, and clicking and chattering of birds rustle in the exhibit, creating the ambiance of a rainforest. You look up at the large bird habitat in front of you, shielded by thin netting, groups of colorful birds hanging out in small clusters, rotating between perching and flying from one resting spot to another. A large smile breaks out on your face when your eyes land on a toucan perched on a twig garland hanging from the ceiling, busy cleaning his feathers.

"Babe look..." You say in a hushed voice. Miguel follows your gaze and his face breaks out into a smile as well, admiring the cute little bird as he ruffled and stroked his black feathers and puffed up his white bosom with pride.

Miguel nudges your side playfully with his hip. "He takes a long time to get ready, kind of like someone I know..."

You try to nudge him pitifully back in response, but Miguel stays anchored in place with a chuckle.

You move on to look at the geckos, lizards, snakes, and caimans as well. A baby crocodile sits with his belly dipped in a shallow pool of water, legs splayed out and mouth wide open, basking in the warmth emitted from the heat lamp at the top of his tank.

"He's SOOOO cute!" You gush, leaning your head just a little closer to the glass. Miguel looks away from the yellow poison dart frog exhibit and follows your squealing noises, putting his hands in his pockets as he stands next to you with a smirk.

"Not sure if cute is how I'd describe him..." Miguel tilts his head at the mini croc, its green eyes still unmoving. "He'll grow up to be an apex predator like his parents."

"Look at you, Mr. Wildlife." You look up at him, impressed. "What else do I not know about Kenny here?"

"Kenny?"

"That's his name, babe. It says so on the sign."

"Oh." Miguel laughs. "Well... crocodiles have three eyelids."

"Oh, you told me that one already, baby. What else?"

Miguel smiles and lists some more facts for you. You love it when he's like this. He was like a sponge, always absorbing knowledge that other people might have found boring or useless. He'd gladly tell you about it too, and he never ever made you feel silly or dumb for not knowing something.

"The sex of embryos in crocodiles is actually determined by the temperature at the time of incubation. So, Kenny here was probably incubated at a higher temperature which is more associated with producing males, whereas cooler temperatures are associated with producing females." Miguel points.

You click your tongue in admiration. "I learn something new every day. Let's hear one more."

Miguel purses his lips in thought for a moment, then says, "See those lumps and bumps on his back? Those are actually called, ‘scutes’. They actually enable them to be more stealthy in the water. They stop it from rippling."

Your eyebrows raise, your eyes still on Kenny and then they move to the tank beside him with the bigger crocs. "Whoa..." you nod. "Well, that proves my point earlier."

Miguel raises an eyebrow.

"Crocs have scutes. So they are s'cute!" You cross your arms triumphantly and head towards the ocean part of the aquarium.

Miguel thinks in his head that you probably wouldn't use that word for long if you knew how large crocodiles killed and ate their prey, but he doesn't argue. He smiles to himself and gives a curt nod in farewell to Kenny before he leaves to catch up to you.

----

Your eyes get big as you enter the room with jellyfish tanks. Soft blue and pink globs glide effortlessly in the water, sinking down slowly before using their tentacles to propel upwards, bobbing hypnotically in dizzying movements.

You and Miguel keep stealing glances at each other when the other isn't looking. You turn to look at him once more, the bioluminescence from the jellyfish mixed with the blacklights of the aquarium cast a soft glow on his features, the crimson in his eyes making him look just as ethereal as the beauty of the sea you're both gazing at. His full lips jut outwards subtly as he purses them in thought, his cheekbones sharp, framing that divine, sculpted face of his.

He looks at you, catching you staring at him this time. You take his hand, wrapping your other hand around his forearm to pull him closer to you. His head turns briefly for a moment, making sure you two are the only ones in the room before he leans down and gives you a soft kiss, that jittery feeling in your stomach when one of his hands cups the side of your throat, pressing you a little harder against his lips. Before you pull away, you add a lingering bite to his bottom lip, making him blush.

"Pórtate bien...." (Behave yourself) He murmurs, running his tongue along the slight puffiness on his bottom lip your teeth left behind, trying to calm the small flame you lit inside him.

Your mouth curls into a grin at the mini rise you got out of him, and you walk into a new area, marvelling at the saffron-colored coral and dainty seahorses.

Miguel moves to the other side of the exhibit where the largest tank resides with an assortment of fish swimming in and out of a large, fake shipwreck, but stops in his tracks when he sees the clownfish and regal tangs. A twinge of sadness pulls at his heart.

After watching the seahorse disappear behind a seaweed stalk, you turn and notice where Miguel is standing and your eyebrows knit in worry as you take long strides to come stand by his side, squeezing his hand.

He exhales at your touch and squeezes back in response, not needing to say anything because you can read him better than anyone. Sometimes this part could be rather hard for him. Clownfish and Regal Tangs were the species of Nemo and Dory.

Finding Nemo was Gabi's favorite movie.

You both watch the colorful fish in peaceful silence, darting in and out behind rocks, speeding up and slowing down, jolting and occasionally bumping into one another as they weave and glide through their underwater habitat around the large sunken ship.

Eventually, you pull Miguel gently by the hand leading him to one of the empty benches behind you. You sit and watch the fish together some more, enjoying the serenity of the buzzing undersea ecosystem before you, smiling when you see the comically large sea turtle next to all of his smaller fishy cohorts, dodging them and spinning like a rotisserie above your heads like it was second nature for him.

After a few more minutes, you turn to Miguel, "Well, last up is the shark exhibit." You try and brighten the mood a little, "That one's your favorite. You ready?"

Miguel turns and looks down at you, his arm still resting on the top of the bench behind you. His hand comes to give your shoulder a squeeze. "You sure? This one's your favorite. We can take our time."

You try to shake your head and play it off, "No, really I've seen it a hundred times, plus I think there's a new tank with stingrays or something..."

Miguel knows when you're trying to be too nice, a not uncommon behavior of yours. "We have all afternoon, really. I want to make sure you're having fun." He reassures you.

Your eyes melt as you sit back in your seat, indulging in staring at the fish for just a while longer like you wanted. Once you're satisfied, you let him know with a nod of your head and a squeeze of his hand and you two make your way to the escalators that run to the lower level, taking you to the shark exhibit.

As you do, you can't help but think about the times when you invited your friends and they practically rushed you through the whole experience, asking if there was anything new you could look at instead or passing up on going to the aquarium altogether, saying they've seen it all.

Miguel was one of the only people in your life who didn't make you feel bad for revisiting places you loved because it made you happy to re-experience it all over again. Hell, he was eager to and even expected an invite each time you did.

Source: Google search, from Las Vegas Magazine

You press your lips together in anticipation and your eyes go wide as if you're looking at it for the first time as you enter the large, underwater tunnel, dozens of sharks swimming in every direction, the shimmery reflection of the water and aqua light of the exhibit immersing you into a whole new world. It takes your breath away and you slow down, pausing in one spot right in the middle of the tunnel, losing yourself in the oceanic beauty above your head. It's one of those no camera moments, a time that requires silence, appreciation, and the person you love right next to you.

Miguel's watching you with sheer admiration, slightly envious even that something else could make you that speechless with adoration. He wants to make you feel that way all the time. It's memories like these with you that he's so glad he lowered the gates of his heart all that time ago. Never guessing when you crossed his path, it would lead to moments as blissful as these. The best part of the whole thing is that they won't end anytime soon. As long as you'd let him, he'd continue calling you all his. Could now be the time to make it permanent? Perhaps. No, you deserved something more planned out, something really special. He hadn't even gotten you that ring that you liked so much, sending not so subtle hints by texting him the link to it every so often while he was at work.

When he feels it's a good time, he approaches you from behind, touching the corner of your elbow, curious to know what's been on your mind. "¿En que piensas, mi alma?" (What are you thinking, my soul?)

You hum and turn around, following that low, mesmerizing voice of his, and you look up at him, the face of your lover looking down at you, warmth dominating his countenance that pulls you right in.

"Just thinking about how much I love coming here with you. You never make me feel bad for wanting to just take my time and see everything, you know? Even if it's my quadrillionth time seeing it. I just love the beach and the ocean, you know? It's like a brand new experience every time."

Miguel smiles down at you, then his eyes briefly wander, the group in front of you starts moving on so you two are left alone once again. He takes a deep breath and turns you back around so you're looking at the sea life once again, keeping his hands on your arms as he gives them a little love squeeze. "Kind of like how I see you, hmm?"

You chuckle, leaning backwards into him. His cologne enveloping you in that embrace that made your heart flutter and your knees grow weak every time. "What do you mean, Mig?"

"Con ojos nuevos cada vez." (With new eyes every time)

You close your eyes with your head against his chest and his arms wrapped around you for several moments. You bring your own hands up to his, sliding your fingers underneath his jacket sleeves in search of the warm skin of his forearms to which he softly exhales into your hair at the sensation.

You murmur to him, "Can we get smoothies on the way home?"

"Hmmm, you don't like my green smoothie recipe?" Miguel asks with a teasing grin.

"It had.. too much kale for my liking."

"Ouch."

"Sorry, baby."

"Ha, ha...well, I suppose we could. In that case we might as well get lunch. You need real food too, not just a smoothie. You're ready to go already?"

"Just a little longer?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

You smile and lean back into him once more, letting your bodies lean against each other in familiar, loving solitude as the sharks swim around you in the tunnel of the aquarium, white flashes of light shimmering against the glass every so often that the water hits the sunlight that's slowly begun to peek out from the afternoon skies above.

🌊🦈🐟🐠🐡💙

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse #miguel #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel ohara fluff #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #Spotify

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urlovebrini · 2 months

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arranged marriage with ayato

⋆❀ — includes: ayato x fem! reader

⋆❀ — content: arranged marriage, kokomi's little sister! reader, angst, hurt/comfort, ayato is rude, ayato is bad at feelings, thoma is a sweetheart, traditions and rules, high expectations, conflict, fluff at the end, lots of water allegories, maybe a little to poetic, sfw

⋆❀ — a/n: hello everyone long time not seen, but i am back and will be writing more here! so i always love arranged marriages more if they are traditional, i try to investigate the use of japanese words the best i can but if i make a mistake feel free to correct me.

⋆❀ — arranged marries series: alhaitham | tartaglia | diluc

⋆❀˖°·࿐ ࿔˚ ayato

the strong sound of the rain lets you clear your mind and emotions a little, and even it makes you feel comfortable, it’s like the weather has decided to match your emotions, so you walk, walk to the middle of the storm, walk in the heavy rain trying to watch away all the feelings and emotions, trying to watch them and leave them behind, leave them behind as are you now leaving this house, this life, and this marriage.

the arranged marriage with the head of the yashiro commission, kamisato ayato, was one of a show, a show of peace, a show of unity and a new beginning of relations between inazuma and ekanomiya, a marriage between one of the sangonomiya clan and one of the sanbugyou, to consolidate the peace between the two new lands, in this way, you took the responsibility, your big sister kokomi had always shouldered the heavy responsibilities alone if you could help her in something you would do, so you accepted and travelled to inazuma and married commissioner kamisato ayato, and you promised to your sister that you will be fine, in reality, you believed that you will be fine, you wanted this to work out. and maybe you were being naive, or maybe you are just weak but now you are walking in a storm hopping to get away, and as you walk you try to leave all the memories behind.

the day of the wedding was wrapped in expectation and solemnity, the gardens of the kamisato state were decorated with flowers and symbols that represent the honour of the union of ekanomiya and inazuma. the ceremony was simple and formal it was what it had to be. you remember your first big impression of ayato, cordial, charismatic, you could say charming, so you smiled, thinking that this could work better than you first thought. but when the ceremony ends and the night comes is a shift of reality, his attitude distant and cold, and you feel a gap between the two, but you try to understand.

the night came and your mind went to the room, you were nervous but you thought it would be a good chance to talk without people, get to know each other a little more, and maybe begin a friendship in the same way. so when the housekeeper of the kamisato clan guides you through hallways, surprise and confusion fill your thoughts as you take notice that your room is located apart from the main rooms. you didn't want to overthink things, but a sense of isolation starts to feel in your chest.

days passed, but the feeling grew bigger, you felt lost, but trying to take control you started to explore the new house, you were surrounded by strangers but that was a thing you thought you could change. and in the reflection of your thoughts you came to realise some things, one, the kamisato clan is always busy, the servants, ayaka, thoma and ayato are always working, two, ayato is keeping his distance from you, three, even if you are now a kamisato, you don't know what are you role or work in this house.

you were in limbo, with a clear role or purpose in your new life, you are the kamisato ojousama, but is only in word, in reality, it is almost like you are an object a decoration, just a thing that doesn't even have a purpose and is just there.

time goes by, and the rain gets heavier as the short memories started, you really never had a place here, it was clear since that afternoon that you walked into the office of your husband with nervousness and determination, and you really tried to integrate yourself in the kamisato clan.

“shujinsama” your voice is timid, his gaze rested on you, and although his expression was serene, you could see the trace of fatigue in his eyes. “yes, tsuma?” even in his soft voice, you could feel the distant formality that has characterized his interaction with you. his focus went back to the papers in front of him as you started to talk “i would like to help in the next event, maybe i could be in charge or something, or help in…” your voice stops as ayato eyes rest shortly on you and get back to his papers “is not necessary, all the events are managed fine by the kamisato clan, you don't need to worry about that things”

his voice was calm but your chest hurt with his words, even with that you tried again “i really wish to help in some capacity and be more involved” you don't know why but at that moment a tear slid down your face.

silence fell between the two, as your tears slowly fell. ayato watched you, and for a moment, you saw a shadow of something beyond his facade of formality. but in the blink of an eye, his expression hardened again “ayaka is the one in charge, you are not needed” that was the first time you cried for his words.

you remember how thoma found you crying, not noticing his presence in your room as he brought you some tea, he was warm, and his words were warm, but you knew that he had a role, and you never would want to tear him from his position in the clan, so even there you were alone. and even if you are torn inside, you tried to believe in his words, in that it was only a question of time.

for some time you tried to convince yourself that you would find a hold in this place, but is like destiny was laughing in your face, that was today, maybe yesterday, here all things have protocols, and without guidance, is difficult to not make errors. the last thing you remember before just taking a bag and getting out, was the cold eyes and cold words of ayato “your mistakes shows your negligence” you tried to control yourself, now your place “it was involuntary, i was just trying too…” but his worlds felt like knives it was confusing but you remember he saying things about responsibility, about your place, about you need to show your worth

so you try to get out, you come to a realization, even if you share the family name, you are not part of his family, even if you have taken his last name you are not part of the clan and you will never be, even if you are now a kamisato in law or paper, you realize that is not enough, there is a wall, the rain falls and in a strange way, the coldness and harshness recomforts you, without a plan you are walking away.

"what do you think you are doing" a voice stops you, clear and loud, even in the middle of the storm, his voice is a bigger tempest to come, you can find more words, but you don't want to fight more, you never were a warrior, you never consider yourself strong and you don't want to be "going away". his voice is closer like a hurricane going your way "i ask again, what do you think you are doing?" you are in the eye of the storm "going away!, ayato i can take it anymore, i can't support a minute more” you are not looking at him, but hi looking at you his voice strong like always "and you think escaping is a solution? escaping your responsibilities here?"

your tears flow with the rain, the fear, the pain, the sadness and the desesperación flow inside you like a wave of emotions that they drag more and more into the sea, and all you can feel are those negative emotions, hoping to be washed away on a shore.

the image of you can escape ayato eyes, his eyes fixed on you watching you, but in reality, seeing you for the first time. he sees you crumble, the intensity of your crying is even stronger than the rain, all the emotions in the wave that drags you more and more inside the sea drowning you, and you can't breath, all the weight of your emotions dragging you down. as more tears fall from your eyes, ayato sees how your breath runs out of air, your breathing more agitated and difficult. almost like you are drowning. he sees how thoma gets to you, face full of worry "breathe slowly, here with me..."

ayato takes his distance but doesn't leave, his eyes fixed on your trembling body, your reaction taking a toll on him, you can feel his gaze, his eyes, and you can feel him coming to you"i am sorry" "never have the intention to take you to this point, i… i should have managed things in a different way” but you feel your mind foggy like its an illusion, the rain pours strong over you, and your heart pours inside of you.

you don't remember at what moment, you are taken inside the house, you don't remember at what moment you enter the bath, but now you are here surrounded by warm water and vapour, pleasant scents of lavender and rose, the room is lith in dim light, and the sound of rain continues outside.

and then the door opens, his eyes fall on you surrounded by water and spume, his eyes observe you, seeing you, he gets close, with slow and measured movements, ayato kneels next to the bathtub, is all silence only the rain until his voice breaks the silence “i have been a stupid fool, i have been also a despicable man, i made things difficult to you, and i have made you cry” his eyes fixated in you “i know apologies are not enough, but i will say sorry, and you have the right of not trusting in me, but seeing you cry like that… i don't want to make cry anymore”

lost for words you look at him trying to form a sentence but the only thing you can say is “thanks” ayato smiles at you, and it seems like a real smile “i know I've made mistakes, that i have hurt you, and sorry is not enough, but if you are willing to give me a chance, to amend, i will change, i promise you will not longer feel trapped or unhappy”

you can only nod, this is all you wanted an opportunity, a chance, an open door, ayato hand travels slowly to your check, caressing your face, and it feels warmer than the water, his eyes are soft, his smile is soft, and he rolls up his sleeves “can i?” you nod even if you don't understand his hands travel to your hair and he starts to wash it “ayato?” your voice is soft and he smiles to you “i promise i will make the things right”

⋆❀ — a/n: it was really a long time since i wrote something creative, but i am here and i will try to stay active and post constantly. really struggled with the start and trying to not make this a bible, hope that you enjoy it a little, maybe if it is received well i can make a long version for ao3, i like the idea of a young kokomi sister. like always commissions and suggestions are open, if you want to be tagged just tell me and be my guest, love you all have a nice day

⋆❀ — lovelies tags: @oveloof,

#໒꒰ྀིっ˕ ｡꒱ྀི১ brini writes #✮⋆˙𐙚 genshin impact #𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ayato my beloved #genshin impact #ayato my beloved #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact fluff #hurt/comfort #ayato x reader #ayato x you #arranged marriage #ayato arranged marriage

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