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fioiswriting · 6 months

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Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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alltheirdamn · 7 days

Text

DECLINED | Mechanic!Joel x f!reader

*The Bet*

Summary: Joel makes you a bet during a night out. Rating: 18+ Explicit Word Count: 3k Warnings: Pre-outbreak AU, mechanic!joel, established relationship, mentions of alcohol, banter, teasing, semi-public sex, unprotected piv sex, oral (f! receiving), edging, ROUGH sex, squirting, hair pulling, choking, cum eating, facial, light spanking, light face slapping, heavy kissing, explicit language, pet names (darlin', cowboy, babydoll), brat taming (kinda?) A/N: This is just pure FILTH. Eat it up, kids, I know you love it.

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Friday nights always meant date night with Joel. With Tommy babysitting Sarah and the work day done for you both, he insisted on taking you to his favorite bar on the outskirts of town. You were looking forward to a night alone, especially when you had a surprise up your sleeve. Earlier in the week, you came across a boutique in downtown Austin that sold very…niche t-shirts…and couldn’t help buying one. Putting the finishing touches on your makeup, you stepped back and admired your outfit. You had on the tiniest pair of cut-off denim shorts hugging your ass, a pair of worn black cowboy boots, and a fitted tank top with Cowboy Pillows written across your chest. It was perfect, and you knew it would drive Joel crazy.

Joel stopped dead in his tracks when you came waltzing out of the house and toward his truck; the hand holding open the passenger door tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Staring you down with a fire lit behind his big puppy dog eyes, Joel shook his head in protest.

“Absolutely the fuck not, babydoll,” he swore. “Take that pretty ass back inside and change.”

You stood before the truck with your arms crossed and the biggest pout forming on your lips.

“Did you even read my shirt, cowboy?” You asked, moving your arms to reveal the words stretched over your breasts.

“It’s very cute, darlin’, but you ain’t goin’ out like that,” Joel grumbled.

“Why?” You frowned.

“I ain’t tryna get arrested tonight. ‘Cause if one man lay eyes on those perky tits, I’m killin’ them.”

You strode toward him, pressing your body against his. His hands found their usual spot over the swell of your ass, his fingers prodding into the supple flesh hidden under the denim. You hummed as his mouth dipped to your ear, his teeth grazing over the shell as his voice dropped low.

“Why don’t we just stay in?” He breathed. “Wanna take you right back in the house and fuck you ‘til you can’t walk.”

“You promised me a night out, Joel,” you whined.

He made his way down your neck, peppering you with open-mouthed kisses before responding to your demands.

“Fine,” he muttered against your skin. “Get your sexy ass in the fuckin’ truck, and let’s go.”

He released you and climbed into the truck with a mischievous grin. Joel quickly pulled you across the bench, tucking you into his side as he pulled out of the driveway and toward the bar. You brushed your hand over Joel’s thigh, your fingers creeping up to the zipper of his jeans. He shifted in the seat, spreading his legs a little wider to welcome more of your touch.

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, babydoll,” he warned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied innocently.

His hand shot out before you could drag his zipper down, bringing your fingers up to his mouth to place gentle kisses along each digit.

“I’ll make you a bet,” he smirked, turning his head to look at you.

“What kind of bet?”

“No touchin’ each other tonight. The first person to do it loses.”

A giggle bubbled out of you as you considered his offer. Knowing Joel, he’d lose before you stepped into the bar. The idea of teasing him all night already had your thighs clenching tight, the friction of the denim against your aching clit nearly too painful to bear.

“What happens to the loser?” You asked.

“Loser gets to do whatever the other one wants.”

The truck slowed to a stop as the streetlight turned red, and you moved closer to reel him in for a deep kiss. If this bet was going to happen, you wanted all the attention before you set out to win the bet. Joel’s tongue brushed over your lips, coaxing your mouth open wider and deepening the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, tangling your hands in his hair to hold him closer.

“You’re on, cowboy,” you grinned, pulling away as the light turned green. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

“We’ll see ‘bout that, darlin'.”

The bar was mildly crowded for a Friday night. Most of the patrons were older men sulking around or flirting with the bartenders. Soft country music floated out of the jukebox in the corner, and you found yourself swaying your hips to the melody. Joel watched you as you danced, his eyes never leaving your body unless he caught wind of another man admiring you from afar. You laughed each time he scowled at them and upped the movement of your hips just to get a rise out of him. Watching him try to hold back from touching you was cute, his hand nearly crushing the beer he was nursing.

After your third drink, the tipsy feeling started to settle in, and self-restraint was slowly phasing out of your body. Joel noticed the shift in your mood as you perched yourself on a barstool. You tried to hide the way you clenched your thighs, chasing the friction of the denim rubbing against your aching clit. Leaning in as close as he could, Joel lowered his head and chuckled.

“Doin’ okay, babydoll?” He whispered in your ear, his mouth a breath away from your neck.

You shivered at the phantom touch; he was so close, yet not close enough.

“Stop it,” you exhaled. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Not playin’ fair?” He questioned. “You ain’t been playin’ fair since you walked out the damn house.”

“Aw, poor baby,” you feigned sympathy. “Am I driving you crazy with my lil’ outfit?”

“You have no fuckin’ idea, darlin’.”

Scootching off the barstool, you tilted your head toward the vacant pool table. Joel’s eyes followed the motion, raising his brow at your silent invitation.

“Y’wanna play?” He asked. “Hope you’re ready to lose, darlin’.”

“You talk a big game, cowboy. You’re on.”

You grabbed a cue stick and waited for Joel to rack the balls and center them on the green velvet table. He grabbed his own stick and gestured to you to start.

“All you, babydoll. Let’s see it.”

You rounded the table and leaned over to line your stick with the cue ball. Inhaling on the pull of your stick, you exhaled and drove it into the cue. The sound of the resin balls breaking shattered the music in the background, their triangle formation scattering across the table. You managed to sink two striped balls into the left corner pocket and rose to assess the damage. Joel stared at you, impressed, nodding as he lined up his stick with the cue.

“Y’got stripes, babydoll. Solid’s are mine,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the ball.

You watched, mesmerized, as Joel’s shoulder muscles moved fluidly with each extension of his arm. With a strong drive of the stick, Joel sunk the four ball into the right-center pocket. Giving you a cocky grin, he rounded the table again, this time directly facing you. He stared up at you, his eyes dark under the furrow of his brows. You bent over the table's edge, propping your face onto your hands and shimming your shoulders slightly. Joel’s eyes snapped up to your chest, fixated on the way your breasts pushed together.

“Not fair,” he gritted before sending his stick into the cue ball.

The ball scratched on the table, missing the solid he aimed for. You smirked at him, sticking your tongue out as you skipped around the table to settle into position against the table. You eyed Joel as he moved to stand behind you, and you rewarded him with pushing your ass out further. Giving your hips a little wiggle, you sent a forceful shot into the cue, sinking the nine ball and ricocheting it against the twelve ball, sending it into the right corner pocket.

“Damn,” Joel mumbled, tracking your body as you lined up for your third turn.

“Didn’t think I was good, huh?” You laughed.

“You’re good at everythin’, darlin’.”

The dip in his voice vibrated up your body as you pressed your legs against the table to line up for the next stroke. Joel leaned his hip against the corner of the table, folding his arms as he watched you aim your stick at the cue.

“C’mon, babydoll,” he whispered, drawing your focus away from the shot and causing the cue ball to sink into the pocket rather than the fifteen ball you were gunning toward.

“You play dirty,” you grumbled.

Joel crowded you, his body inches from yours. You arched into the distance between your bodies, barely keeping your chest from brushing his.

“I bet those panties are already soaked, huh?” Joel teased.

You gave him an innocent smile, ready to deliver the final blow to his restraint. Rising onto your toes, you kept your mouth close to his ear.

“They would be if I were wearing any, cowboy.”

You pulled back to see Joel’s nostrils flaring, his eyes roaming down your body and back up.

“Bathroom. Now.” He demanded.

“But we’re still playing,” you whined, gesturing to the pool table.

Joel’s hand shot out to your waist, dragging you to his body.

“Fuck the game. Need you in that bathroom now so I can fuck that sassiness outta you,” he growled.

“I’m not sassin’ you, cowboy. You’re just a sore loser,” you taunted.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, babydoll. You either walk to the bathroom right now, or I fuck you on that pool table in front of everyone.”

“Maybe I want a crowd,” you shrugged with a coy grin. “Bend me over right here, cowboy. Show them who’s yours.”

“Bet you’d like that, huh? Have all them eyes on you while you scream my name and soak the table. Y’wanna show everyone how good y’take my cock?”

“Do it,” you smiled.

Joel’s hand traveled down your ass, squeezing it hard enough to make you yelp before smacking it hard. A few heads turned at the sound, their wandering eyes scrutinizing you and Joel. Even though Joel could be all talk, you knew he wouldn’t actually fuck you in front of everyone, not when he was the most protective and selfish man there was.

You were too turned on to fight it now. Turning toward the bathroom, you glanced over your shoulder and smiled as Joel watched you walk to the dimly lit hallway of the bar. You didn’t have the care to notice heads turning to stare at you as you passed, the excitement too strong as it coursed through your veins. You barely had a hand on the door when you felt a warm body pressed against your back, and Joel was quick to shove you inside the one-stall bathroom. With a quick turn of the lock, he had you pinned to the ceramic sink and his mouth crashing against yours. While you tangled your fingers into his messy curls, Joel worked at your shorts, tugging the tight denim down your hips and thighs. He broke away from your lips, staring down at your bare sex as you spread your legs slightly.

“Fuckin’ christ, babydoll,” he exhaled. “Can’t believe you been keepin’ this from me all night.”

“Like what you see?”

Joel wrapped two strong hands behind your thighs and lifted you onto the edge of the sink. You gasped at the shock of the cold against your bare ass, bucking your hips forward to search for his warmth. He lowered himself onto his knees, keeping a firm grip on your thighs as you settled your calves over his shoulders. Peering up at you between your parted legs, Joel gave you a wicked grin before brushing his nose up your inner thighs.

“You know I won, right?” You questioned as his tongue pressed against your throbbing clit. “Technically, I should be calling the shots.”

Joel glared up at you, his pupils blown wide under the red lights of the bathroom.

“Y’can call the shots all you want later,” he mumbled. “Right now, you’re mine.”

You cried as his tongue dipped inside you, his jaw working overtime to pull each pitiful sound from your body. He drew circles around your slick folds, purposefully avoiding your aching clit. You whined every time his tongue brushed close to it, that agonizing surge of pleasure coursing through your body. Music from the bar drifted into the bathroom, layering over the frustrated cries leaving your lips.

“Stop teasing, cowboy,” you panted, bucking your hips against his tongue.

“This is what ya’ get, darlin’,” Joel spoke against your wet cunt.

“Please,” you begged.

He pulled away entirely, leaving you chasing the orgasm you never got. Spinning you toward the mirror, Joel worked at freeing his cock with one hand while pressing the other hand into your spine. You flattened against the sink, your hands pressed against the mirror. Glancing up, you met his eyes in the mirror, watching as his lips twitched into a devilish grin. That was all the warning he gave before he drove into you in one fluid stroke.

“Fuck!” You cried, your head falling between your shoulders.

Joel’s hand wound around your hair, twisting it into a ponytail and yanking your neck back until you strained against his grip.

“Nuh uh, babydoll,” Joel grunted. “Watch me while I fuck you.”

You locked your eyes with his through the reflection, watching as his face twisted into something carnal. He pounded into you with enough force to make the sink underneath you creak with the weight pressed against it. Joel kept a relentless pace, dismissing every whine and sob falling off your lips. He reached around you with his other hand, wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing tight. You heaved in a breath as your vision blurred, the pleasure mixing with pain every time he slammed into you.

Your orgasm started surging up through your core, snaking into your bloodstream and becoming unbearable to hold back. You choked out a sob, your thighs quaking as the pleasure built inside your stomach.

“Joel,” you choked.

“Y’need to cum, babydoll?” Joel taunted, driving into you hard.

His cock hit the right spot over and over again until he felt your cunt clenching around him. He pulled out at the exact moment your orgasm exploded through your body, liquid gushing out of you and down your thighs. Joel growled in approval, sinking back into you as the aftershocks sent tremors through your limbs.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praised. “Keep takin’ my fuckin’ cock. I ain’t done yet, babydoll.”

His hand was still gripping your throat, his fingers applying more pressure to cut off your ragged whimpers. You clawed at the edge of the sink, entirely at Joel’s mercy as he wrecked into you harder…faster. He didn’t lie when he said he was going to fuck the sass out of you; you were helpless in this moment.

But you fucking loved it.

“So. Fuckin’. Good.” Joel punched out each word through every thrust.

Joel released your throat and wrapped both hands in your hair, using it to guide your hips back against his cock. You were so full of him and so sore, but you couldn’t deny the pressure swelling inside your stomach. You gasped for air as each thrust grew stronger, his cock assaulting you until you spasmed under him and let your orgasm rush out of you.

“Fuck! Fuck… fuck… fuck,” you chanted, chasing the throbbing pulse inside your body.

Warm liquid drenched his cock, the lewd sound of his hips meeting yours echoing around you. Joel pulled out suddenly, leaving you hollow and soaked. Wrangling you to your knees, Joel pumped his cock over your open mouth, grunting out your name as his release painted your tongue and lips. Bending down to eye level, Joel lapped up the cum dripping off your swollen lips before bringing his hand up to slap your cheek. He rubbed a hand over your face, smearing your makeup around, leaving you a fucked-out mess.

“Y’look so pretty like this,” he hummed, pulling you in for a hungry kiss. You whimpered into his mouth, his tongue intertwining with yours.

“I love you, babydoll,” he sighed, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“I love you too, cowboy,” you preened.

You were used to him being rough—dominant—but this possessiveness was intoxicating. You wanted more.

“I think I should sass you more often,” you giggled.

“You enjoy bein’ fucked like a bratty lil’ slut?” He smirked.

“Love it,” you exhaled, dragging him back to your mouth.

Joel helped you back into your shorts after you both took a moment to breathe. You turned towards the mirror and admired the complete mess that you were; your hair was mangled into knots, your shirt was askew, and your face was covered in streaks of mascara, smeared lipstick, and drool. A giggle bubbled out of you as you tried to tame down your hair and wipe away some of the makeup coating your rosy cheeks. Joel grabbed your hand, tugging you away from the mirror.

“Leave it,” he whispered. “Want everyone to see how filthy you are.”

“Seriously?” You gaped.

Joel nodded his eyes, his eyes coasting over your body.

“Seriously, babydoll. Need to show them you’re mine.”

“I think they already know,” you said pointedly. “I’m pretty sure I was loud enough to break the jukebox.”

He chuckled at your statement, tapping your ass and guiding you toward the door. Dropping his mouth to your ear, he softly kissed your neck before twisting the lock open.

“C’mon, darlin’. Let’s go home so y’can have your way with me.”

“I’m going to make you pay for this, cowboy,” you warned. “I'm going to have you on your knees begging for it.”

“I’ll happily worship you all night, babydoll,” he smiled, kissing your cheek before guiding you into the hall and out to his truck.

#mechanic!joel #joel miller x f!reader #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #pre outbreak!joel #one shot #drabble #this is just filth

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 5 months

Text

You don't need to worry about the ATSV fandom dying. As someone whose been in the Marvel fandom over ten years - I can assure you this is natural.

The ATSV Fandom Isn't Dead: A brief look into the science of fandoms.

[me standing beside Hobie beaming my thoughts of love and adoration into his head like I'm professor x]

A lot of people are afraid of the ATSV dying - and I don't blame them.

In the era of shows releasing all in one day, or movies coming to streaming almost immediately - it's not hard to say we're in an era were content is consumed at ridiculously rapid rates.

I mean, this time last year Wednesday was breaking records on Netflix. Where's the hype now?

I know you see it too, there's less posts everyday in the Hobie tag, less screenshot breakdowns, etc etc etc.

But I'm here to tell you - The ATSV fandom is doing just fine. Better than fine. All of this is meant to happen.

Let me put it into perspective.

ATSV released on June 2nd - it's November.

ATSV released a little over six months ago.

For reference: The Avengers (2012) was released on May 4th.

The Avengers DVD wasn't available for purchase until SEPTEMBER 25th - almost SIX months later.

The time that the Hobie fandom has formed and existed - is the same amount of time people had to wait just to see The Avengers again.

Large periods of time where tags only get three posts a day TOPS was nothing to fear. xReaders and fanfics held the fandom over until the next trailer, the next sneak peek or leak.

Prior to the release of streaming, only a little more than ten years ago - it was NATURAL for a fandom to wait six months before even seeing the movie for a second time.

And mind you - streaming didn't exist. If you wanted to see The Avengers again, you had to go out and BUY it. $26.99.

If you wanted to order it online - you'd have to get it shipped to you. Before Disney plus, we watched on BlueRay Discs.

And the fandom was fine and healthy.

If a fandom that doesn't even have a DVD release can keep up content for six months, I think we'll be fine.

But I'll admit - there's still the question:

If the ATSV fandom is 'doing fine' then where is everyone going? Why are the tags getting slower?

The answer is simple:

FANDOM BIOLOGY

I LOVE social sciences and the systems people create and how they work - even unintentionally.

And I have a theory - one about the natural evolution and regeneration of fandom. Hear me out -

When it comes to ATSV:

We are leaving the Analysation Phase, the phase in which content creation is centered around deciphering and breaking down the most recent installment in the fandom.

During this phase usually see art of newer characters, new ships, meta breakdowns, easter egg point-outs.

We were in that phase.

Once the Analysation Phase dies down, usually main content creators may remain. The intermediate or liminal period.

The intermediate is usually when you'll see more x-reader art pop-up, the levels of fanart evening out as artists return to their favorite characters - usually incorporating any new ones they gained from the last installment.

Shitposts usually also become popular around this time, as the shock and weight of the story wear off, and we're more able to joke about the storyline a lot more light-heartedly.

That's why the intermediate point is often see as the passion 'dying out'.

When in fact, it is the fandom getting comfortable. Resting for the next phase.

And after a few months, the next phase comes:

The Speculation Phase:

The Speculation Phase cannot come until the Analysation Phase is over.

During the Analysation Phase the fandom begins to breakdown and digest the writers intentions. They integrate the new character into the story, and the fandom.

As the audience and fandom talk amongst each other, we get more solid ideas of who the characters are, what their motivations might be, and most important of all-

What they might do.

In the Speculation Phase we turn from the last installment - and start looking towards the future.

Let's take Hobie for example.

Looking at the timeline of the Hobie fandom, we can see a progression.

Originally taken as a punk-rockstar and little more, throughout the months the fandom began posting things about punk culture, the 70's, Hobie's motivation in the comics, and how that all correlates to him.

As the fandom analyzed, the collective zeitgeist and understanding of Hobie grew into something a lot more sound, and telling.

We looked at the parellels he provides in the story, and what kind of person he is.

And because if that we have seen a marked improvement in people's contextual understanding of Hobie - as a punk and a hero.

And now that we can understand him - we can predict him.

The same goes for Miguel - over the months, a lot of us have began to question if we know him as well as we think we do , if we really know the kinda person he is -

And if we really know what he's doing to do.

That's where the Speculation Phase comes in.

The Speculation Phase in fandom is when we see some of the most passion - and instead of tapering off overtime, it builds. More and more until the next release.

The Speculation Phase is when the fandom takes the analysis' and from there, they begin to theorize.

Now that we understand, we can begin to predict.

And this is arguably one of the most interesting parts in a fandoms natural ecosystem.

During the Speculation Phase, we can see a number of diverse opinions appear.

As more and more creators begin to gather their understanding, tips from the writers, new released news, and past comic book arcs, we start to see dozens of triguing paths the writers can take us on.

As more news releases, the more hype people get. I mean - imagine how you'll feel when they release the first new poster of Hobie, or Miles? Or when we get to see Miles.G in the trailer?

And with each new poster, or trailer, we're given clues. The theorizes develop more. And the plot thickens.

It's all natural.

So I can understand the fear. Only getting one or two new posts when you visit the Hobie tag can be a bummer. But it's natural and it's GOOD.

Y'all, we need to conserve our energy. We are in the liminal phase. And they never last long.

With the news of the voice actors back in the studio, and a cliff-hanger like we have - I can assure you, it's only a matter of time before we begin to see the theories, the trailer breakdowns, the people guessing what Miguel might do, or exactly how much tech Hobie is hiding.

And when that time comes we need to be READY. I can already feel it on the horizon.

I really wonder what they'll do with all that left over Hobie concept art.

Plus with explosion of Hobie approval, I wonder if they'll add him in even more. Hobie fan-service anyone?

Hmmm...

But chill y'all, we're on the right track -

-------------------------------------

If you read this far, as always THANK YOU SO MUCH!! And as a token of my appreciation, I hand you this Hobie. Hold him gently please

Bye 💗

#no proofread ever ever EVER #spiderman #atsv #spider man #marvel #across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spider punk #spiderpunk #Miles morales #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #peter parker

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orchidyoonkook · 6 months

Text

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 5

Title: Shocking Announcements and Camouflaged Explanations

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: I'm sorry the prince is dating WHO?

Warnings: PG16, swearing, drinking, pining, angsssttttttttt, Jk has a lot of feelings, and so does Reader. Yuri being Yuri. Adaline being Adaline. TOUCH of fluff.

Word Count: 6,006

Release Date: October 20, 2023, 2:00PM

A/N 1: brain mush. finally out. Thank you for understanding. Already working on 6.

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

It’s 2:30pm on the Wednesday before fall reading week.

Saturday’s looking so beautiful. Sunny skies and comfortable temperatures.

It’s 2:30pm on the Wednesday before the Friday you get to see Nel for the first time since August.

And by god you can’t wait. You’re counting the days, minutes and seconds till he’s in front of you again.

But it’s also 2:30pm on the Wednesday after you mysteriously woke up in your bed after movie night. And that thought alone has been in the back of your mind since you opened your eyes Monday morning.

You’d thought about asking Jungkook what happened, but also didn’t think you could face the mortification if his answer was the one you almost 100% knew it was going to be. Hell, you could already feel the nose dive your stomach would make towards pavement the second you got confirmation.

So instead, like any other rational person, you shelved it away in the back corner of your brain. Far, far back, hopefully being covered with dirt and cobwebs and lint as the days pass on.

Though you have a nagging feeling that someone or something keeps dusting—anyways, there are much more important things to be focusing on.

Currently at the greenhouse cafe, you’re sipping on hot chocolate and painting this week's florals on a canvas almost half the size of you. Perched onto an easel, a bunch of sunflowers is beginning to take shape when your phone dings so many times you're worried someone’s dead.

Dropping your brush, you scoop it up from its place on the edge of the table, only to see a series of texts from Yuri, and you loose a worried breath.

Her contact name is the same from when you two went to a party the first night of freshman year. While you were sipping from your first and only drink that night, Yuri was sloshed out her mind and slurring her words. And thus, SlurryYuri was born.

She whines every time she sees you still haven’t changed it. You were never going to, of course.

SlurryYuri [2:32pm]: BITCH

Oh, here we go.

SlurryYuri [2:33pm]: YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHO WENT SOCIAL MEDIA OFFICIAL TODAY SlurryYuri [2:33pm]: BABE ANSWER SlurryYuri [2:33pm]: ANSWER ANSWER ANSWERRRRR SlurryYuri [2:34pm]: YNNNNNNNN

You [2:34pm]: Take a breath why dont you

SlurryYuri [2:34pm]: FINALLY. SlurryYuri [2:34pm]: By the gods YN… SlurryYuri [2:35pm]: ANYWAY SlurryYuri [2:35pm]: JUNGKOOK SlurryYuri [2:35pm]: as in PRINCE Jungkook SlurryYuri [2:36pm]: is dating ADALINE. SlurryYuri [2:36pm]: as in #1 ENEMY OF THE STATE EVIL BITCH ADALINE.

You spit out what was left of the hot chocolate in your mouth.

Thankfully, you had some of your mind about you and managed not to ruin your painting by turning your head…couldn’t say the same for the cafe wall though. Rustic brick now splattered with a lovely, Pollock-esque spray of brown.

Oops.

But Jungkook and…Adaline? That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.

He hasn’t mentioned anything about this to you. You speak to him every day, see him almost every day, and nothing? Not a peep? A morsel? A hint? Nothing?

Maybe you two aren’t as close as you thought you were.

To be fair, you didn’t tell him about Nel. And now that you think about it, you haven’t seen or heard much from Jungkook since Sunday, which is unusual. He’s normally stuffing your inbox full of messages as the sun rises and sets, yet he’s sent maybe two a day since then.

You thought he was just busy with schoolwork.

Spiraling, you can’t help but wonder how long they’ve been seeing one another. How long he’s kept this little secret—not that it’s any of your business anyway, but he’s always seemed so open with you, with just about everything. So the fact that he kept this from you? What does that say?

Does he think you’d react like any other girl? That you would scream and cry and mourn and tell him he’s making a mistake, that you’re his true love? Like Adaline would if he weren’t dating her?

As if! And he knows that.

He knows that…right?

Doesn’t matter. Yes it does. No it doesn’t.

Ugh! Whatever!

Does he even know who Adaline really is? Or does she put on a mask in front of him too, like she does everyone else. She must because now you wonder how he could even possibly like someone like her, knowing…well her!

Bitchiness and duchess-ness aside, you and Adaline are incredibly similar, and Jungkook has never had any interest in you whatsoever, thank god. You and Adaline are both fine arts majors, both top of your class, talented, driven. You both work tirelessly for what you want, and don’t let others get in your way to success. Though only one of you will cheat if you have too, morals be damned. You both want your lives to yourself, to make your own path, to be trailblazers in your chosen fields.

That kind of woman doesn’t seem like Jungkook's type.

He needs someone who will follow him, and allow him to lead the nation. Someone who is okay submitting to him and his needs for the good of the people and the betterment of the Western Shores. He needs a politically inclined cheerleader, for lack of better phrasing. And that isn’t Adaline at all…or you, if you're still putting yourself in this conversation, which you’re not.

Also, wasn’t it a rule that princes could only marry princesses? Or was it that nice, genuine people shouldn’t end up with assholes who use and abuse those around them for social status and power? And isn’t that a thing for him too—that he hates when people use him for his name?

So how could he go for her? You can’t fathom a goddamn reason as to why—

Ah…Well.

You can, but you hate it.

Adaline is beautiful, and while no, not a princess, she does have a title the prince can be seen with in public without ridicule, friend or more than. Someone who wouldn’t be looked at like a charity case or a flavour of the week. Someone who’s used to the media. Adaline doesn’t have to hide from them. Isn’t scared to be seen by them with him. It wouldn’t ruin her future. It’ll only add to i—Wait.

Holy shit.

Adaline comes from one of the most influential families on the Eastern Shores. One with a lot of political power. Like, best friends with the Queen of the Eastern Shores, political power. Though she was only ever graced with sons. Adaline’s probably the closest thing she has to a daughter.

A marriage between Jungkook and Adaline could potentially unify the two sides again.

Jungkook and Adaline could re-unite the East and West after centuries of war and separation, and current amicable co-existence.

Now that’s a reason he would date her. to become power couple of the century.

The next step in history.

The whole idea of them makes more and more sense the more you think about it. Adaline, darling of the East marrying the future King of the West. And your stomach curls in on itself.

Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean you have to like it.

And you pray to whatever god or gods there are in this universe that he keeps her away from you and out of your conversations. Jungkook’s relationship isn’t any of your business, nor your interest, but you don’t know how well you’d be able to keep your mouth shut about her if he asks anything.

You know he likes that you’re honest. That you don’t hide things from him others would just to please him. But at what point do you put that aside to keep the peace in an otherwise very comfortable and still blossoming friendship? At what point does honesty become an obstacle rather than a building block?

You know that if Jungkook ever meets Nel and happens not to like him he would keep his mouth shut, mostly. Hopefully. He may give you a hard time but that’s just him. Jungkook knows your relationship is important to you, that it and Nel, make you happy. He would respect that.

So again, who are you to speak ill of the person he’s chosen for himself? Maybe he knows something you don’t, sees something in her that you haven’t.

Just…Why did it have to be Adaline?

He could have anyone, anyone—on campus, in the West, the East, for the love of god, he could have anyone in the entire ass realm he wants! It’s easy to forget when he speaks with his mouth full, dresses in baggy, comfy clothes, and whines about movie choices, but Jungkook is still Prince of the Western Shores.

He’s still the most eligible bachelor on the continent.

Yet somehow he chose the one person you can’t stand to be within 1000 feet of. He chose the one person you never thought he would’ve liked for himself because underneath everything, she is everything he claims to hate.

He chose Adaline Dupree.

So yeah, you wonder why he hid it from you. Why he felt like he couldn’t tell you. Sure, you hated her, but he doesn’t know that. Probably.

Maybe his love life is something he keeps private? Everyone has that right, and maybe that’s what he’s used to doing due to his every choice being splashed on every news and media outlet there is.

You roll your eyes. Merciless vultures.

So maybe he’s not used to sharing this side of himself with others. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you anything.

And with all of this chaos now flitting around your brain, you failed to notice the little slice of pain behind your sternum the more they ricochet around up there. You’re hurt.

You didn’t expect it to hurt.

Out of everything you could feel about this: confusion, anger, exasperation, annoyance, you don’t feel any of them. You just feel upset that he didn’t come to you about it. Didn’t feel like he could discuss it with you.

You are the person your friends—old and new—come to talk to. Always have been. You’re the one who has the rational, well thought out advice. The common sense distributor. The one sought out to help, regardless of the situation.

And you love it. You love that you’re able to help your friends. Love that they trust you with such things. That you’re the person they seek assistance and guidance from. The ear they bounce their thoughts off of. You’ve always been told you have ‘knowledge beyond your years’ as your mother says. You take pride in that. It gives your life that much more meaning.

So even though you don’t want to, and know you shouldn’t, because it has nothing to do with you and you know that…you’re taking this as somewhat of a personal blow.

Maybe you’re losing your touch. You hope not.

But, you need to react like you normally would. Like you still hate the prince for how he humiliated Yuri, just like she hates Adaline for you. Solidarity between best friends, even if it’s fake.

Come on YN you got this, you think to yourself.

You [2:40pm]: I almost feel sorry for him. After how he treated you tho? They deserve each other

No they don’t, no they don’t, no they don’t.

He deserves so much better.

SlurryYuri [2:40pm]: I’m just surprised he went for her tbh SlurryYuri [2:41pm]: isnt she like a total bitch? To you at least? SlurryYuri [2:41pm]: like just knowing what I do from the tiny bit of time I spent with him, she doesn’t really seem to be his type

Vindication!

You [2:42pm]: uh yeah, like 100% yes. Shes a rich party girl who doesnt know the word punishment, always gets what she wants, regardless if she works for it or not. And takes it when she especially doesnt deserve it You [2:43pm]: probably explains how she got him 🙄

Vivian pops outside to check in, and takes the couple steps to reach your table, some napkins and a large cup of water in hand.

“Hey! Are you okay? I saw that spit take and one; wow, that was impressive. But two; is everything alright?” she asks, passing you the napkins. The water gets thrown on the wall to wash off the splatter.

You wipe up your chin and remnants of projected hot chocolate on the table.

“Sorry, thank you. Yes, I’m fine,” you lie easily. A little scared of how easy it’s becoming. “I just learned some really shocking news is all. I shouldn’t have read it with a full mouth.”

“Oh! That makes sense. I hope whatever it is turns out fine.”

“Thanks, me too.”

You know Vivian means well, but she doesn’t know that that is the very last thing you want. You want Adaline’s corruptive, cutthroat, cruel nature away from Jungkook.

But is he just Jungkook anymore?

You’ve spent enough time together to consider him a friend, a close friend even. You’ve grown to care for him, platonically, similar to the way you do Yuri. And the fact that you want Adaline as far away from him as she can get so he doesn't go through whatever shit she’ll inevitably get him wrapped up in, definitely says something.

Adaline loves many things—art, fashion, publicity—but the thing she likes better than anything else?

Attention.

She thrives on it. The more eyes on her the better. She’s a ‘there’s no such thing as bad press’ type, and you worry what that means for him.

Especially now that she’s taken them public—because you know it was her that did it, he would have never—and she’s going to be the hottest topic in all of the newest news cycles.

Say they’ve been seeing one another since the beginning of the school year? Just a guess, but a likely correct one—you shiver at the thought. That’s less than seven weeks to get to know one another before camera crews and reporters start breathing down their necks. They’ll ask and comment on everything you thought you might go through at one point. But unlike you, Adaline will face it head on with a smile and win them over. Gladly welcome them with open arms.

Because exactly like Jungkook fears with everyone new, she desires everything a relationship with him would give her.

Status, fame, power, wealth, brand sponsorships, popularity, jealousy, people wishing they could be her. You couldn’t build a better trap to lure her into if you tried.

Jungkook is potentially unknowingly feeding her already enormous ego simply by publicly dating her. And it dawns on you that your classes with her are going to become even more insufferable.

Great.

You don’t even know if she’s going to care that she has him. As wonderful, kind and talented as Jungkook is, you have a very good sense that she’ll be just like rest; happy to receive what he can give her, and not a damn to be given about him.

So now you worry. You worry for him and for his safety and for his feelings.

Because that’s what friends do.

Right?

“Hey.”

You look up to see Jungkook rounding the back corner to the cafe, backpack slung over a shoulder, mask, hat and hoodie all too familiar. You’d be able to spot him a mile away now, it’s all in his posture and eyes.

Maybe he should invest in some sunglasses.

And slouch.

You’re elbows deep in yellow and brown paint from the sunflowers that now fill the canvas in front of you. You’ve been experimenting with texture, oil paint thicker in some places to give off a more 3D effect. Stripes of green carved into the medium by the edge of a long palette knife mimic stems, and fat leaves placed with precision also riddle the cloth.

As he nears, you try your best not to come off as upset, pissed off or worried when you reply.

“Hey,” you fail miserably, sounding exactly like you’re all kinds of upset, and pissed off, and worried.

Shit.

Like always, he notices immediately.

“Everything okay?” he’s taking his spot at the table beside you, the one that seats four, having abandoned his original one weeks ago.

You two both found yourselves here so frequently that over time, he started sitting next to you without asking. Always in the same spots. Always side by side. Him at the closest chair to you, you at the same one you always have.

Sure, you two shared movie nights and fun messages, you talk everyday and pretty much talk about whatever you want. But when it comes to academics, he knows he has to tread water a little differently around you. He can’t constantly start conversations the way he would at movie night when you’re at the greenhouse cafe. You’re here to work and to study, and if he wants to be there too, he has to respect that about you, and know not to take it personally.

So you work together in comfortable silence most of the time, occasionally breaking it to have a conversation, get snacks, or pose for one another’s homework. It’s become another routine you share, an unspoken agreement that when you were both there at the same time, you worked together.

And you haven’t minded since that first time. The one when you decided to say yes to your friendship.

You welcome it. Welcome him. His presence.

Company’s nice to have when it’s wanted.

When it’s him.

And whether you know it or not, you seem to work better when you are in each other's immediate orbit. You work better when he works alongside you, able to focus better due to body doubling and to have a second opinion at the ready when you need it. Just like he worked better when you worked alongside him, a willing model any time he needed, and an open ear when he wanted to work something out.

You two just work. And because of this, he also picks up when something isn’t quite right with the atmosphere you two have created.

Play it off YN.

“Yeah, just focused. Sorry.”

He doesn’t believe you for a second. When you focus you have a very distinct look on your face, eyes clearer, an eyebrow constantly quirked in self reflection, and that isn’t the one you have on right now.

But he lets it slide. For now. Somethings up with you, and he knows better than to push you before you’re ready.

“That’s okay. I’m running in, need anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you go back to painting, barely acknowledging him and shutting out the outside world.

Yeah, something’s definitely up.

You’re ignoring him so hard you don’t notice Jungkook lifting your hot chocolate just enough to feel it’s empty.

Vivian’s behind the counter as he enters and takes off his mask to flash her a wide smile.

“Hey Vivian, how are you today?”

She blushes like she does every time he comes in, hands slowing in their task.

“Hey JK, I’m good. You?” He had to ask her about a hundred times to drop the ‘your highnesses,’ ‘you majesty’s,’ and ‘prince’s.’ Telling her it really was okay, and that no, she wasn’t going to get in trouble for it. It took her some time, but eventually she came around and it’s made his experience here so much better. So much more normal.

She’d settled on JK because ‘it makes me feel like I’m listening to what you want while also not feeling guilty and weird about calling you Jungkook without the prince part.’

He could work with that logic.

“I’m alright, could I get my usual and a hot chocolate for YN? With a little extra secret ingredient if you're so inclined?” You shared the not so secret stash secret with Jungkook about a week after you said yes. “She seems upset. Have you noticed anything off lately? Has she said anything to you?”

Jungkook peruses the pastry display while Vivian starts on his drink.

“Not really, she did a wicked spit take earlier about some news her friend told her, but said she was fine, just surprised. Besides that, focused maybe? Or maybe the opposite of that and a little distracted?” She thinks for a second. “Does she have an exam coming up that you know about? She gets a little weird before those.”

He knows exactly what’s meant by that. Witnessed it himself, bunny slippers and all.

But no, you don’t. Your midterms aren’t until the first week of November, nearly two weeks away. You started studying for them last week.

He spots egg tarts in the back corner of the pastry display, hiding. Perfect.

“I don’t think that’s it, but thanks though. I’ll get it out of her eventually, especially if I have one of those egg tarts to butter her up first,” he says in a questioning tone to ask for one while pointing at them.

Vivian smiles a knowing smile. He wants to know what it means because she’s worn it around him for a while now, and he’s half tempted to ask at this point.

“I think that could be arranged.”

Jungkook pays and heads to your tables again. You’re still locked into your own world of colour and canvas. He subtly sets down the hot chocolate and bagged tart so that you won’t notice until you pop the bubble you’re in.

Halfway through a business assignment he hears your surprise. The weird look on your face finally breaking, a grateful one taking its place as you peek at him.

A soft, genuine, “thank you,” finds his ears as your lips meet lid, and you can’t meet his eye. He knows you often forget to drink or eat when you’re in the zone.

Maybe now with a warm drink and some goodies in your belly, you’re willing to talk about it.

“You sure everything’s okay?” he asks again.

Your deep sigh and unfocused gaze says enough to him.

You are willing to talk.

Quietly, almost ashamed sounding, you ask, “Why didn't you tell me about her?”

Her?

Oh.

Oh…

You meant Adaline. Why hadn’t he told you about Adaline.

“Why did I find out an hour ago from Yuri screaming at me through text messages and not from you? Is it something you’re private about? Do you not trust me?”

The truth was that he was hoping to keep it under wraps for a bit longer, actually, hoping you never found out so he wouldn’t have to explain the reason why.

He still doesn’t have too, and he won’t. Not the real reason.

He won’t ruin things. He can’t.

But he also should have known better. Should have known that not telling you would hurt you instead. Of course he trusted you.

You talk everyday, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to check in. You hang out during the week, whether it be at the cafe like you are right now, or for Sunday movie night.

Six weeks isn’t a long time, but it was plenty when he thinks about how much time you two have already spent together, how much you’ve gotten to know one another.

How comfortable you are in each other’s presence.

Six weeks isn’t a long time, but it feels like you’ve always been there with him, listening, cheering, supporting.

Six weeks isn't a long time, and yet it feels like it’s been forever.

Of course you’re hurt he didn’t tell you. So he doesn’t lie to you, but he also doesn’t tell you the full truth.

“Oh…uh, that.” He rubs a hand at the nape of his neck. “That just kind of happened recently actually, like Monday recently. My father’s been really pressuring me to find someone to court,” and I couldn’t go with my first choice. “So I did.”

“And you went with Adaline?” You ask carefully.

“Uh, yeah? Is there something wrong with her?”

Adaline isn’t his first, second or tenth choice. She's his father’s choice. Might as well appease him and at least try with this girl. It’s going…fine, so far.

Adaline wanted to make it social media official as soon as possible, wanted what he could give her, like everyone else. Like he expected. And so he willingly suffered through a photo session where she staged everything to make it look perfectly unposed and natural. Even though none of it was.

She’d told him to put his arms around her waist and kiss her forehead, and it worked. The picture wasn’t bad, they both looked great. But he hated it anyway. It wasn't a spur of the moment decision, or sincere. It wasn’t a picture of two fools drunk on love, wanting to capture something beautiful for their future selves to look back on to reminisce over.

It was an uncomfortable hour and a half of touching and kissing a complete stranger, and it is the complete opposite of what he wants in a relationship.

He wants genuine and carefree and candid. He wants honest, true feelings and social media posts saved for anniversaries and birthdays instead of using them as a mini documentary of every part of his life through pictures.

He wants shitty birthday cakes made from scratch, and blurry polaroid pictures of kisses in the rain to put in his wallet when he’s away from them. He wants silly nicknames and inside jokes no one else will understand.

He wants midnight walks hand in hand under moonlight and quirky habits he picks up from them. He wants pictures of precious moments and holidays celebrated between just the two of you and movie nights under blanket forts with popcorn and hot chocolate and egg tarts.

He wants real.

He wants authentic.

He wants love.

Not some staged artificial bullshit for an online presence that means nothing once you’re dead.

But this is new and exciting for Adaline. He understands that a relationship with him is a very big deal, that she’s not used to it yet, and that it hasn’t been nearly long enough for him to see the true her yet.

It’s only been 44 hours. Not that he’s counting.

So he’s going to give her some time, and have some faith that maybe she shows him that side of herself if it exists. He doesn't think she's going to change all that much for several reasons, the first being her enormous reputation, and the second being that she’s a politician's daughter, but he’s going to at least try. The way he hopes she will.

And if nothing does change, and she stays the exact same, at least she’s pretty enough to distract him.

He knows that’s not the most mature or princely thing to do or think. In fact, he knows it’s quite asshole-ish of him, but if Adaline’s going to openly use him for her own personal gain, why shouldn’t he be able to use her just a little bit too?

She isn’t unfamiliar with political relationships, having been born from one, so he doesn’t think she would be against it either. And it’s not like he’ll be mistreating her, quite the opposite in fact.

He’ll shower her with expensive gifts and happily take however many pictures she wants. He’ll smother her in physical affection and get or do whatever she needs in order to make her happy.

Because as much as she clearly wants this relationship with him for whatever reason, he desperately needs it more with every passing day. He needs somewhere to put everything he’s feeling. And if that happens to be in a beautiful woman his father approves of who he could possibly, eventually grow feelings for? It’s a win-win in his book.

But at the same time, sometimes he really hates the shit he has to navigate in his Royal Life.

While Jungkook is caught in his thought spiral, you bite your tongue. Like actually bite your tongue.

Don’t say shit Y/N.

Don't say anything.

It’s not your business. What they have together and what’s between you and Adaline are completely separate, unrelated things. One’s a rivalry and one's a relationship. Those are not the same.

At. All.

So, still untrusting of your mouth, you shake your head and dodge his question by changing the direction of the conversation.

“Why did you go public so quickly?” you ask, feeling like it’s the safest question you can muster. “It’s literally only been two days.”

He shrugs. “She wanted to, and I didn’t say no.”

“Courseshedid,” you mutter under your breath. That should’ve been red flag number one. Two days? Who goes social media official after two days!?

“What?”

“Nothing,” you try your best to give him the closest thing to a smile you can currently muster, forcibly removing any acid from every word. “I hope she makes you happy.”

He doesn’t tell you she was hand picked by the king for him.

That at twenty-four, he still isn’t pulling all of his own strings. It’s pathetic.

“Me too.”

He hopes she’ll help more than anything. Even if it’s just for a little while. “I’ve never been in a public relationship before. But the kingdom and my father seem to like her, so I’m sure I will too, with time.”

It takes all of your focus not to roll your eyes.

Of course they do. Of course the King already likes her, she’s got the attitude and knowledge for politics, so she’s perfect! Strong potential to be the heartless, ruthless Queen to what you already know will be Jungkook's kind and giving King.

Great! Just great. That’s just…great…

Maybe you’re biased. Maybe there’s something in her that you can’t see because of your past with her.

Maybe they really are perfect for one another and you just refuse to see it. Opposites attract, isn’t that what they say? Well Jungkook and Adaline couldn’t be more opposite of one another.

So you decide that you won’t let your personal feelings get in the way. That you’ll keep the peace and support his choice, regardless of your opinion of her, even if you hate his choice.

And you really hate his choice.

“I have no doubt.”

The seat heater in the car you rented to pick Nel up from the airport keeps your tush toasty while you drive.

Friday night has never felt so exciting!

You can barely sit still, the leg not pressing the pedals won’t stop bouncing and you have to sit on your hands at stop lights to try and keep calm.

God you missed him, it's only been two months since you last saw him, and yet it feels like forever.

You have the piece of printer paper with ‘Smoosh’ printed on it in the biggest font you could have horizontally. It’s something you do every year, and every year it never fails to bring the biggest smile to Nel’s face when you wave it wildly the second you see him.

Pulling up to the terminal you keep your eyes peeled for the first parking spot you can find. Never an easy feat at this particular airport but you manage to find one somewhere in the J lot under section 1, whatever that meant. All you care about right now is that you’re decently close to the doors as you grab your phone, bag, sign, and that you’re perfectly on time.

Entering through sliding doors, you find the waiting area mostly empty, so you pick the best place to sit as you wait for his flight to land: dead center and up front.

You can’t wait. Just a few more minutes and you’ll see him.

You can’t wait. You can’t wait. You can't wait!

Your phone dings and you jump at it, looking for the ‘I’ve landed’ text from Nel, but it’s not from Nel.

It’s from Jungkook.

Me [10:42pm]: See you in a week. I hope you enjoy your time with Nel.

That sounds okay, right? It sounds neutral? Safe?

Like he hasn’t been dreading this week since that day you told him about it?

Jungkook hopes so. Because he wants you to enjoy your week off.

Your week off with Nel.

And not him.

That’s normal, he has to remind himself. That he’s not anyone particularly special to you, just a friend. Not someone you would go out of your way for to spend all your free time with over break. Not even for two hours on Sunday nights.

Just a regular, average, nothing important about him…

Friend.

He doesn’t want to feel like this. Doesn’t want to have all of these… whatever these feelings are, about and for you.

He really doesn’t want to. But more than that, he can’t.

He can’t have any sort of non-platonic feelings for the first person who didn’t give a shit about who he was. For the person who makes him feel more like himself than anyone else.

For the person who has a boyfriend.

For the person who isn’t his girlfriend.

For the person who’s you.

But he can’t fucking help it!

So he’s been shoving them down, down, down. So far down that he’s able to function around you.

Because it’s you.

You’re kind, and caring. Talented, beautiful, giving. Driven, smart. You respect what he asks for and what he wants for himself, not because he's the Prince demanding, but because it's him—because it’s Jungkook—that asks you, and you liste–

No! Stop it. He can’t. He can’t!

Stop, stop, stop—

You have Nel! 5 years in, loving, loyal boyfriend, probably soon to be more after graduation, Nel.

It’s expected that you would spend what little time off you have with the boyfriend you barely get to see, wouldn’t it? Makes sense that every second you have, is saved for him?

For being happy with who makes you happy?

Jungkook wants to see you happy. And Nel makes you happier than he’s ever seen you before, so he can’t be too upset with the guy, even though he wants to be. He wants to hate him. But how could he hate someone that gave you the smile that completely shatters his heart.

Picasso [10:43pm]: Thanks! I will. See you soon😊

With a broken smile, he turns his phone off and puts it in his pocket.

He’s up against a wall, red cup in his hand filled with something that he’s barely touched yet, trying not to be too noticeable.

Adaline’s dragged him to some party on campus he really doesn't care about. But she said it would be good to be seen out together now that things are official.

Out in the open, for everyone to see. For everyone to talk about.

So he went, because she asked him to.

And now he’s regretting it. The music is shit, the people smell and everything he touches is damp or sweaty. This isn’t a part of the university experience he ever intended on participating in, but here he is.

Adaline appears from the crowd, walking over to where he stands, a cup of her own in one hand and the other finding its way to his neck.

One thing Jungkook’s glad for is the alcohol. Something to help his racing thoughts, pounding heart, and roiling gut. Something to drown out the world. Even if he’s only had two gulps so far.

More, then.

Taking a hefty swig he revels in the burn that crawls down his throat. It feels good, it makes him feel less. So he takes another one and another, and then pours his turmoiled feelings about you and Nel into Adaline’s lips. Shoving them down, further and further, until it’s like they were never even there in the first place.

The only thing that's there now is the fire in his stomach, Adaline, and her cherry flavoured lip gloss.

Chapter Six: Eastern Arrivals and Unwanted Doubt

A/N 2: I'm so sorry this took for literal ever. I never intend on taking forever but unfortunately real life gets in the way and I'm left with no creative energy to output writing I'm proud of.

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

<- Back

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slash-me-please · 1 year

Note

can I request you an alpha!thomas x omega!reader?♡

Omfg i wrote something!?

Volunteer Work

For a moment you had thought of going back home. The cold breeze during such a dead night had kept you on your toes, looking over your shoulder- looking for something. The walk to the Hewitts was just as dead as the night, nothing but old roads guiding you to their dilapidated mansion- you should've told your folks no, having been offered up as some kind of half-hearted help, as they couldn't find it in them themselves.

It all started when you and your mother stopped by an old gas station near your home, and she handed you a few crumbled dollars and told you to give it to Miss Luda-Mae at the counter. "Just take whatever she'll give you, we need to get home soon." She spoke to you, waving you away and out of the passengers seat. You stumbled out of the car, shutting the door behind you with an attitude your mother would ignore. With that you walked yourself over the dirt pathway, lifting your sundress slightly and ignoring the lingering looks from a gang of bikers. Then when you opened the door, it should've rang, but it seemed the bell had broke between now and the last time you had been here.

You released a sigh of disappointment when at least three of those bikers had been in line already, Luda-Mae arguing with one of them about the price of gas- although this had to be the only gas station in town, so there were no ongoing rates. The two of them ran about for a bit, before the man gave up and the line moved after what felt like five minutes. As expected, the door opened once more for your mother, a scowl on her face as it seemed you took too long. She walked over to you, as soon as it was your turn to talk to Miss Hewitt, and she huffed at you with an annoyed glance.

"Hi Miss Luda, how are you doing today?" You smiled, flattening out a five dollar bill against the ridge of the counter as you conversed. "Busy day, these bikers were raised with no respect. Makes 'em harder to deal with- insults to their mamas." She responds, looking over her glasses at you. "I completely understand, this one here always has something to say. This- that- my momma woulda' hit me." Your mother interjects, snatching the money out of your hands to give to Luda. "We ain't got much, just seven dollars on... One? Yeah, One." Luda nodded. "Thomas is like that now, he's getting older and-" her voice lowers, "All them ruts alone are getting to him." Your mom shakes her head in understanding, her eyes shifting to you and you laugh- pushing her away. "Actually, Y/N, if you're interested, he just built this little dresser for his room- and he's talkin' about painting it but he ain't patient enough to paint the darn thing. I think he would appreciate if you helped him out some time soon." She continues, looking over to your mother. "Of course she can! She'll be over tonight, ain't got nothing else to do."

And that's why you're walking over to the Hewitts after dark, speed-walking down the side of the road. After a while you reached their home and familiar smells welcomed you. Luda-Mae always smelled of cigarettes, She was a respectable beta woman, living with a shifty beta man. You'd only met Charlie a few times, he'd wink at you then and there, he smelt of rotting wood. There was something off about that man. Then there was-

"Thomas! I didn't see you there," You yelped, stumbling back a few steps as he emerged from behind a tree, axe in his hand, previously doing lawn work- probably. His eyes moved down your body, admiring your sundress, only to nod at you. "Your mother said you needed some help painting your dresser?" He nodded again, dropping the axe at his side and beginning to walk towards his house. When he makes it up the stairs and you don't follow, he turns to you and gestures up to the door- as if to say "let's go."

You follow him through his house and into his room, the white paint and brushes on the floor catching your attention. He looks almost ashamed of the outcome, strokes of paint coming from every direction and some of them hitting the wall- you release a breathy laugh. "I can fix it, don't worry." You tell him, but he still looks disappointed. "I wish I could build like you, must be a good quality- yknow- for the omegas 'round here." He shakes his head no immediately, watching as you sink to your knees and begin to brush the paint against the rough wood. "C'mon, last week I saw you talkin' to one of those bikers that are always hangin' out with Luda. She had those bright eyes and enthusiastic too- that's all an alpha could want." He shakes his head no again, this time seemingly annoyed and you drop the subject.

For a moment you two sit in peace, and even though the paint is strong his scent seeps into your skin, leaving you practically dizzy. You realize you shouldn't have done this in his room of all places as the heat builds and starts to soak your underwear. He practically tastes it too, and he rests his head back against the wall, hands balled into fists. "You like it?" You ask, setting the paintbrush down on the floor. His head snaps up, eyes wide until he realizes you're talking about the dresser and he nods. "Im only half done, but I'm tired, I'll finish it for you tomorrow?" And he agrees, walking over to help you off the floor.

When he grabs you, your head spins and you inhale more of his thick smell unintentionally. It makes you whimper in the heat of the moment and his eyes narrow at you. "Sorry- my knees are hurting." You stutter, pushing your hair away from your face. "Can you bring that outside? It's getting kinda congested in here." He nods again, and you're not sure he's even listening to you as you begin to say your goodbyes.

"I gotta get going but maybe I'll be back to finish this tomorrow?" And he nods once more, his arms opening a bit to invite you into a hug- one that you took eagerly. Thomas' arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest, keeping your face pressed against his scent gland. And he held you there. Your self control was not apparent today, legs squeezing and rubbing together immediately. He stumbled forwards, trapping you against the wall and adjusting his arms around your waist so he could place a kiss against your bare shoulder. You buried your face further into his neck, a low whine on your tongue as you began to lick at the thin skin on his throat. "Alpha?" You purred. His fingers twitched against your back in a display of unwanted self control, one that had your omega whining once more.

His throat rumbled, he was pleased at your reactions- a heat spreading through you that he smelled and wanted. Thomas lifted you up, his strong arms carrying you over to his bed, just to lay you down in his heap of pillows. His sheets smelled of him- sweat, caramel and power, it make you keen. As you basked in his scent, he made his way with your clothes. Yanking down your sundress, he gifted unspoken praises to your body as he noted the lack of a bra. His hands made quick work of you, calloused hands rubbing against the soft, thinner skin of your nipples with an admiration your last lovers hadn't given you.

His scent had gotten stronger by the minute, seeping into your body and melting your brain into a puddle of mush. You couldn't help yourself but to pull the edge of your sundress up, exposing yourself to his greedy eyes. His grunts of approval music to your ears, even moreso when you pulled his unoccupied hand to your drooling pussy. He held a sharp breath within, dipping a finger into the heated hole he'd soon bury his knot inside. His left hand moved from your nipples to your throat, holding you down as his right began to thrust in and out of you, thumb rolling over your throbbing clit. "T-Thomas!" You moaned, wrapping your smaller hands around his forearm, leaving it covered in thin scratches- none deep enough to scar. His fingering began quicker, pulling you to a high end before you wanted- but your begging for his knot convinced him not. "Alpha! Please god!" Grinding against his hand, that would eventually have your end. With a loud whine, you came on his fingers, and he retracted. His mouth immediately moved to his belt, undoing the clasps and pulling his cock out and pulling your recovering body to the edge of his bed.

Pressing a kiss to your sweating forehead, he entered you fully. And soon he began to thrust inside of you, your walls singing happily, head craned to the side presenting an unmarked throat to him. Which he'd take your offer, listening to you worship his title as his canines punctured the vent of your skin, mark fresh and bleeding. Your arms wrapped around Thomas' chest as his thrusting sped up and you heard whispers of "Omega," under his breath as he filled you with his seed as you finished underneath him. He began to slow, but didn't stop there until you released a sleepy whine into his chest, eyes closing with a rumbling purr.

#slasher x reader #horror x reader #slasher x reader smut #smut #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x reader smut #leatherface x reader #leatherface x reader smut #leatherface

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littlejuicebox · 5 months

Text

Astarion and Tav at the nail salon.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader/Tav

Summary/Setting: The city of Baldur’s Gate. Pure ridiculous drabble and fluff.

Rating/Warnings: PG / I don’t really think there’s any spoiler warnings besides brief mentions of places in BG3 I guess / NON-CANON

Word Count: I wrote this on my phone so tbd.

Notes: Okay I KNOW this doesn’t follow lore. But it’s cute, and heavily inspired by an interaction I had with my cutie patootie husband. Simple things make me happy.

“Two manicures, please.” You say to the tiefling attending the front desk.

“Okay, please go pick your color and come back to me when you’re ready.” The hostess responds with an opened-handed gesture toward the wall of nail polishes.

You smile and grab Astarion’s hand, leading him over to the array of polishes. The rogue trails behind you, simply following your lead. He’s never been in a place like this before, and doesn’t have the first clue about what to do. It’s clear he’s trying to go with the flow and simply trust your guidance.

“You can pick a color, if you’d like. Or if you don’t want to do color, you can do a clear coat.” You explain, gesturing to the colored polishes and then lifting a bottle of clear varnish to show him the alternative.

“Hmm.. as it’s my first time, my sweet, I think clear is a good starting point.” He responds, eyes brimming with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “Though, if I like it… maybe I’ll do color the next time.”

You nod understandingly and then lift up a few different polishes, examining them closely as you aim to choose one for yourself. Perhaps a pale, neutral color… nothing too crazy. Astarion peruses the selection with you out of pure curiosity. While you’re focused on the more muted tones, he’s examining the bottles filled with sparkles and remarkably bright colors.

“Ooh. How about this one, my love?” He asks with a smile, wiggling a tiny bottle filled with a striking, bright shade of lapis.

You stared at the color. It wasn’t in your nature to pick something so… flamboyant. But the look of wonder on his face as he examined the little bottle convinced you to take the leap.

“For you, my Star, I’ll do it.” You respond, grabbing the bottle from the elf’s pale hands as he releases it with a pleased smile.

The two of you return to the counter, and the tiefling ushers you behind the curtain and into a room filled with several stalls for manicures and pedicures.

You two are sat side by side, soaking your hands in small bowls of warm, scented water. Astarion is loving it, and you can’t help but watch his genuine reactions at the new experience. They’re adorable. Another worker comes to you with glasses full of flavored water, and Astarion furrows his brows.

“We didn’t order these.” He says, looking at the glasses in confusion.

You can’t help but giggle, “My heart, they’re complimentary. They come with the service.”

Astarion’s mouth opens and his eyes widen in delighted shock. And then he’s happily sipping his flavored water from a straw as the worker starts to clean his cuticles. The tiny pile of dead flesh and nail clippings that the manicurist collects at the end causes the vampire’s nose to wrinkle.

“If I’d known all that was going on, I would’ve agreed to do this sooner.” He mumbles, eyeing the detritus in disgust.

He always kept his nails trimmed and clean, but this was another level for him entirely. You giggle at his face and then turn to focus on your own manicure, where the worker is painting a second coat of bright blue on your nails.

Before long, the two of you are finished with your services and head out the door with well-wishes. You two walk toward Elfsong Tavern, happy to take your rare day off to relax in the tavern lounge or at the bar. You’re examining your bright nails with interest, as Astarion is running his fingers over the smooth surface of his own shiny nails.

“You know… I never would have picked this for myself, Astarion. But I think I really like it.” You say, smiling at the vampire as you take his manicured hand in your own, interlocking your fingers with his. Astarion lifts your hand closer to his face so that he can intently examine your nails before looking at you.

“Well, of course, my sweet. You should know by now that I have excellent taste.” He gives you a sly smile and a wink, before pressing a quick kiss on your temple.

And really, how could you argue with that?

#astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x tav #baulders gate 3 #baulders gate astarion #baulders gate tav #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion drabble #astarion fluff #astarion x gn!tav #astarion x gn reader #rosemary and bergamot is a great essential oil combo

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aceing-is-writing · 3 months

Text

Steddie Love Month Prompt 2

Protection rating: M cw: oral sex tags: first time, Steve is a little bitch, Eddie likes it prompt: Love is protection (@steddieas-shegoes) word count: 1,181

----------

It started as with most things to do with Eddie, in a DND session.

"Harrington, Harrington, Harrington," Eddie tutted from atop his throne as Steve once more took on a hit from a mimic.

"It's a desk! Why would I be worried to touch the desk!"

"Au contraire my small minded fellow!" Eddie proclaimed rising from his chair dramatically once more, the rest of the party groaning around him at the speech they knew was about to begin.

"Just a desk? Just a desk! Why I never!" he said grabbing his chest to clutch imaginary pearls. "Where is your sense of style? Your sense of adventure Harrington? It's as if you're looking for protection against all sense of whimsy and wonder!"

"Whimsy and wonder sure," he muttered under his breath.

Clicking his tongue in reproach Eddie finally dropped back down into his chair to the collective relief of the rest of the members at the table.

"We'll convert you one day Harrington. One day you'll see. Until then I'm willing to offer you my protection over your delicate sensibilities anytime" he said with a wink before dropping the subject to focus once more on the combat in front of him and in doing so missing the way Steve's ears reddened and he turned away to mutter once more.

"Protection my ass."

--------

It happened again of course, because Steve was unsure how to turn off his mother henning even when the youngest members of the party weren't present.

"Brakes Munson! Jesus," Steve yelled out clutching the handle above the door in Eddie's van with one hand and the other gripped tight to the seatbelt across his chest. Eddie merely laughed in reply as the van came to a halt at the red light perfectly stopped on the line itself.

"You were saying?"

Shaking his head Steve finally released his death grips from the car.

"I'm insane," he muttered. "Why do I do this to myself?"

"What was that big boy?" Eddie laughed out, smiling all the while with the smirk he seemed to resolve for driving Steve insane. He hadn't figured out whether that insanity was going to lead to him punching Eddie or kissing him, but it was going to lead somewhere eventually.

"No, no, you know what," he said unbuckling his seat belt.

"Leaving already are we-" Eddie said as Harrington turned towards him instead of the handle of his door. Reaching across the front of Eddie's seat Steve grabbed the seat belt from where Eddie had left it unfastened and clicked it into place.

Eddie's words cut out as he felt Steve's breath hit his chin and his knuckles graze the edge of his hip when the buckle clicked into place. Having completed his task Steve looked up towards Eddie now entirely too close.

"Uh," he mumbled out unsure what to say back.

Steve looked confused for a second before smirking at Eddie's lack of speech. Looking dead in his eyes he leaned in closer and Eddie drew in his breath and held it unsure what was happening.

"Protection Munson," he said before smoothly transitioning back to his seat.

Sucking in his breath Eddie coughed.

"Uh, what?"

Steve laughed before gesturing back out to the street.

"Protection." Eddie coughed awkwardly once more at hearing the phrase he thought at that phrase coming out of Harrington's mouth directed towards him.

"You're gonna need it with the way you drive. Light's green Munson." he continued nonchalantly.

"Jesus," he said turning back towards the road and pressing his foot to the gas pedal once more. Goddamn Steve Harrington with his stupidly natural womanizing ways. Eddie started in once more on a retelling of one of the previous campaigns he'd run for hellfire so he could pretend they didn't work on him just as well.

---------

It ended as with most things in a bed.

"God Harrington," Eddie stuttered out as Steve tossed his shirt to the side and scrambled down to grab onto the tops of Eddie's jeans, looking back up towards Eddie in question. Unable to believe this was happening to him let alone with King Steve himself Eddie scrambled to continue.

"Yes, yes, god, anything you want Harrington."

Smirking Steve unbuttoned Eddie's pants before grabbing them boxers and all and dragging them down Eddie's legs till he could throw them to the side of the bed. Crawling his way back up Eddie's legs he left kisses and nips on any easily available inch of skin skirting past Eddie's dick entirely.

Eddie groaned once Steve made it all the way up his torso to his lips grabbed his hips hard, pulling him forward towards him but refusing to connect either his lips or his hips to Eddie's.

"You're killing me here man," he groaned out.

"I could always offer you," Steve started before pausing to reach into his pocket and pull out a condom.

"My protection," he continued with a smirk.

Eddie's mouth dropped open as the pieces clicked together in his brain fully. Throwing his head back into the pillows at the top of the bed he laughed fully.

"Anyone tell you you're a little bit of a bitch sweetheart?" he said with a smile. "I mean goddamn Harrington. How long have you been waiting to pull that line out?"

He finally looked back up to Steve only to falter at the expression on his face.

"I think the better question Eddie," he said pausing to rip the condom open with his teeth, "is how long I've been thinking about you like this."

Slipping the condom over Eddie's dick he blissfully ignored the groan of relief he let out at the touch alone.

"You and your goddamn mouth," Steve continued starting up an agonizingly slow pace as he stroked Eddie up and down, "I've been wanted to fuck those smirks off of it since the upside down.

"Whatever," he panted out, "whatever you want sweetheart just goddamn it Steve I need-"

"Shh," he said nipping his neck as he travelled downward once more again to hover with his lips just above Eddie's dick. Eddie stared down in wonder unsure if one of his longest standing wet dreams was about to become reality.

"Less talking, more moaning," Steve said before taking Eddie all the way down to touch where his hand gripped him already.

Eddie finally shut his brain off and stopped trying to speak. After all, his mouth had got him into this mess, and he'd be damned if he tried to get himself out of it.

Eddie could definitely get behind being protected, especially if it meant the way Steve twisted his wrist and his head at the same time. He didn't know he'd said that out loud until Steve pulled off to laugh, smiling up at him in delight.

"Anytime Munson," he said, "anytime."

He smiled once more before going back to his task, flicking his eyes up towards Eddie with his eyes closed in rapture on the bed.

"Delicate sensibilities my ass," he thought to himself smiling as much as his stretched mouth would allow.

Steve could definitely get behind protection too.

-----

Will be cross posting this to ao3 soon once I go through and grammar check and edit it but for now that's what you get. Enjoy!

@steddielovemonth

#steddielovemonth #steddie #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie x steve #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #steddie first time #wip

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 9 months

Text

Is It Really That Bad?

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like the universe actively conspired against something until I witnessed the production of The Flash.

Since 1991 there have been quite a few proposals for Flash movies, but they never really got off the ground for whatever reason. Following Barry’s debut in Justice League, a movie finally was announced before multiple delays due to rewrites, in particular to cut Ray Fisher’s Cyborg from the story after he went public about the awful shit he had to deal with under Joss Whedon. Things seemed hopeless until It director Andy Muschietti came onboard, at which point production on the film finally started to go smoothly. Sure, there were rumblings about Ezra Miller having episodes on set, but that’s just typical actor nonsense, right? Surely it couldn’t get any worse!

Look, I’m here to review a movie so I’ll keep this brief: Miller committed crimes. Lots of crimes. So many, in fact, you’d think they were method acting for the role of Reverse-Flash. The thing is, despite all of this, Miller was basically given a slap on the wrist by the studio, being forbidden from doing promos and press tours (oh no! The horror!). And as if the situation wasn’t already a fucking mess, while Miller’s crime spree was ongoing WB canned the nearly-complete Batgirl movie that featured Michael Keaton and Academy Award-winning actor Brendan Fraser while simultaneously inflating The Flash’s budget to nearly $300 million with reshoots. It seems baffling to cancel a movie that was nearly done and that people were marginally interested in for the sake of a movie that people were losing interest in quickly due to its star’s erratic behavior, but remember: Leslie Grace isn’t white, while Ezra Miller is. WB is never beating those racism allegations at this rate.

With a normal movie, this is where the nonsense ends. BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!

This film was meant to smooth out the clusterfuck continuity of the “Snyderverse” with a soft reboot, with Henry Cavill filming a end-of-movie cameo alongside Miller, Gal Gadot, Keaton, and Supergirl’s actress Sasha Calle to establish the new direction of DC going forward. Unfortunately, the hierarchy of power at DC changed, and Gunn shot that down. While this meant the ending would probably not get people confused with regards to upcoming projects, it also meant the movie wasn’t going to really have any closure for the old universe. Affleck, Cavill, and who knows who else are just gone, and the future is just a big old question mark. At least Aquaman is safe, maybe?

Literally none of this news was very reassuring to fans. Nothing above is any good for a film’s perception to audiences under normal circumstances, but here we have all this news coming to a fanbase that genuinely did not want this fucking movie. The DCEU was already divisive when the film was announced, and Miller’s portrayal of Barry doubly so; the fact it was adapting Flashpoint was seen as lazy and uninspired, not to mention its not really a story that lets Flash stand on his own merits, making it seem more like this movie was just an excuse to reboot; it was a multiverse story in a day and age with an abundance of such stories, and it was releasing around the same time as Across the Spider-Verse to boot; and Gunn’s reboot plans meant this story was likely a narrative dead end. This movie had an uphill battle the likes of which haven’t been seen since Sisyphus.

But much like that mythological figure, the boulder came crashing right back down when the numbers came in. The movie would likely need to gross $500 million at minimum to break even after factoring in the reshoots and advertising, and it only managed half of that with a pitiful opening weekend followed by a massive 73% drop. It now sits alongside films like The Lone Ranger and Mortal Engines as one of the most expensive bombs in history, to the point where WB would have saved more money by cancelling it like they did with Batgirl. And despite glowing praise from the likes of Tom Cruise and Stephen King, it received middling reviews from mainstream critics.

Audiences haven’t been any less mixed, but considering most people weren’t particularly excited or invested in this film’s existence this is basically a miracle. Sure, there’s plenty of people out there saying this is the “worst comic book movie ever” like they do every time a new superhero movie drops, but even more people are saying they enjoyed the film… although even they tend to have some severe criticisms.

Even though I knew most of what was going to happen in the movie going in, I wasn’t really sure what to expect given everything surrounding the movie. But you know me, I’m willing to give almost any movie a chance, and bombs this big don’t happen every day, so even before it was voted on I was trying to make time to check it out. So sit down, microwave yourself a snack—

—and watch as I try and determine if The Flash is really that bad.

THE GOOD

The biggest shock of this film is that Ezra Miller is actually really good here.

Their Barry is still a bit of a goofball, but he’s clearly matured as a character since his precious appearances. They managed to make him much more charming and likable than he ever was, and this gets compounded when he interacts with the younger Barry and gets confronted with how annoying he was before. I think young Barry could have come off as really insufferable, but the fact he annoys everyone around him and also ends up maturing makes him a lot more endearing.

Miller really kills it with the emotional moments, particularly the ending encounter with Barry’s mom and the scene where old Barry snaps at young Barry. The film is really carried by the dramatic, emotional moments far more than any of the superheroics, and Miller manages to sell a lot of it very well. It was to the point where I started thinking, “I really wouldn’t mind if they stick around.” Then a scene where Barry says the Justice League has no real psychiatric help or where his younger self ends up repeatedly exposing himself in public by accident happens, and then I remembered, “Oh yeah, aren’t they a mentally unwell criminal?”

Unsurprisingly, Michael Keaton absolutely kills it in his role as Batman, but much more shockingly is that Ben Affleck's brief return as Bruce is pretty great as well. I always thought Affleck, much like Henry Cavill, was desperately trying to give a great performance while weighed down by bad writing; here, he gets an actual poignant scene where he talks to Barry about how dwelling on tragedies isn't the way to do things, and you should try and move forward instead. It shows he really could have been great if given better material to work with.

Okay, enough being nice to Affleck, I wanna talk about Keaton again. As much as the marketing hyped him up and as much as he is obviously the most blatant fanservice possible, it's still so cool to see him in the suit again. I am not immune to nostalgia pandering, and as corny as it could have been from anyone else, the zoom into his face when he says The Line really is a highlight of the movie. Keaton has a great deal of charisma, and while there are issues with Batman they aren't his fault at all. Most impressively, he doesn't steal the show away from Miller like I thought he would; he enhances the scenes he's in without stealing the spotlight completely from their performance. I feel like this is a problem in a lot of movies like this, where the lead gets overshadowed by a hyped up character, but somehow The Flash of all things managed to avoid this.

And as bad as the cameos could get, this movie gave two of the greatest cameos ever put to film with the return of the GOAT George Clooney Batman and, best of all, Nicolas Cage Superman from the unmade Superman Lives, fighting a giant spider to the death just as God intended. I am not immune to the charms of Nicolas Cage.

Overall, this movie presents us with a solid story, plenty of fun moments, great character dynamics, and more... for the first two acts, anyway.

THE BAD

Once this movie hits the third act, it basically just loses any and all focus and becomes a big dumb video game-esque battle against Zod and his forces in a bland desert landscape. While both Barrys admittedly get some pretty cool moments sprinkled in and Keaton’s Batman’s second death is actually a well done emotional moment, Supergirl ends up being completely wasted, with her sole role being to angrily scream and then die repeatedly.

This actually highlights the problem with Kara in this movie: She’s basically nothing but a plot device and has zero personality, and a good 80% of her dialogue is just angry screaming. As hot as Sasha Calle is and how much she obviously wants to make Kara compelling, she is given so little to work with that her efforts end up being fruitless. She does nothing of consequence after helping Barry get his powers back, and could be replaced or written out of the story and it would still make perfect sense.

Zod’s inclusion is pretty baffling as well, especially since they chose to water down one of the only good things from Man of Steel into a boring, generic doomsday villain. You can really feel that poor Michael Shannon would rather be doing anything else, and his bored performance just highlights how poorly implemented Zod is in the plot. Like, the Fladh has some of the best and most colorful DC villains in his rogues gallery, one’s that are often overlooked because Batman’s villains sell more toys. Why not highlight some of them instead of taking a Superman villain and stripping him of all personality to the point the actor clearly has no passion for the role? Cutting Zod would make cutting Supergirl even easier, and then two of the biggest problems with the movie are gone!

The third act does manage to mostly rerail itself once it goes back to Barry trying to unfuck the timeline, with only a disgustingly egregious bit of fanservice that I’ll discuss in the next section hampering it. But at the end, despite the incredibly based George Clooney cameo, there’s just so many unresolved and unanswered questions, with the biggest one being who killed Barry’s mom? Considering her death is what kickstarted the whole plot, you’d think this might come up, but it never does. A lot of other things come up and get dropped too, like whatever was going on with Batman in the opening, but maybe I’m just crazy for wanting elements introduced in a plot to have significance beyond just being there to be cool.

Even beyond that, there’s the fact that Supergirl and Keaton!Batman’s final fates are never really resolved, something that apparently wasn’t a problem in early versions of the film since they showed up alive in the final scene. As much as I loved seeing Clooney, I think trading him for getting some closure for Keaton and Calle would have been more satisfying.

Everyone harps on how bad the CGI is—and it absolutely is, don’t get me wrong—but for the most part I found it endearingly bad. Like the opening with the CGI babies? That’s too goofy for me to hate. But once the movie revolves into bland grey and black CGI bad guys and creepy deepfake celebrity cameos, I stop being quite so forgiving.

Oh, and on the subject of cameos, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one as pointless and unfunny as Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman showing up out of nowhere (complete with theme music) to make Bruce and Barry look like dumb assholes. Imagine thinking this was a good idea.

THE UGLY

The biggest point of contention surrounding this movie is the CGI necromancy used in the aforementioned cameo clusterfuck from the climax, which gives us George Reeve, Christopher Reeves, and Adam West posthumously reprising their DC roles in non-speaking appearances (there’s archived audio from West, but his cameo isn't really focused on to the point you can barely tell it's him) where they just stand there before the camera swoops around like in that Saul Goodman gif.

I think this is one of the very few times where I actually think the outrage is mostly justified. To be clear, I’m not getting mad on behalf of dead celebrities I never knew, and as long as the filmmakers went through the proper channels and the estates of these stars were properly compensated, I don’t have any legal objections. All of my distaste is coming from a subjective, moral standpoint.

I have never liked this CGI necromancy ever since Rogue One popularized it. I find it really gross and distasteful, and in most cases I think finding a lookalike actor would be preferable than playing Weekend at Bernie’s with a computer generated facsimile of a dead person. In The Flash, I understand having lookalikes would diminish the wow factor of the crossover, but there was an extremely easy workaround to this: Have cameos from all the living DC stars.

Was Brandon Routh not available to put on the Superman tights? Would it have been so bad to let Grant Gustin pop in for a cameo? They acknowledge Helen Slater, so why not Melissa Benoist? Hell, if you want to reference bad, campy movies, have Shaq show up as Steel or Josh Brolin pop in as Jonah Hex! Or even Ryan Reynolds, I’d bet he’d be down to return if you gave him a real suit this time!

Like there’s just no excuse for ghoulishly parading around dead guys when there’s so many alive guys you could use instead. People can complain all they want about the fanservice and cameos in the past few Spider-Man films, but at least they only had returning characters played by living actors. And when this movie already has the niche, out-there Nic Cage Superman cameo, proving they were down to do things as out there and inoffensively creative as reference unmade movies, it’s really just inexcusable. It doesn’t ruin the movie for me, but it makes me lose a bit of respect for the people who okayed this over less offensive cameo ideas.

IS IT REALLY THAT BAD?

To my surprise, this film actually turned out to be pretty good. Not “great,” not “the best superhero movie ever,” but genuinely mostly good and enjoyable.

My opinion is that the movie is good in spite of itself. The third act is truly a hot mess, the stupid desert battle against Zod is awful and boring, Supergirl is depressingly pointless, so many plot points are just dropped or otherwise forgotten, and the CGI necromancy is nothing short of ghoulish. But the rest of the movie is truly a lot of fun. Barry and his younger self have a fun dynamic, Keaton really manages to take what little he’s given and show that he’s still got it as Batman, the Clooney and Cage cameos were delightful, and most importantly the emotional moments are actually effective.

I think with a bit more polish this film could have actually lived up to the hype around it. There is a great movie in here being suffocated by fanservice and CGI but still managing to get a few gasps of air regardless. I think if they’d kept the conflict more grounded or made Reverse-Flash the primary antagonist, things might have turned out better.

I think its score is pretty fair. My friend @huyh172 described this as “the worst good DC movie,” and it’s an assessment I fully agree with. It’s not as good as Aquaman, Wonder Woman, The Suicide Squad, the Snyder Cut, or Shazam!, and it’s definitely not as bad as stuff like Wonder Woman 1984 or Josstice League. It’s also a bit too enjoyable to be mid. It’s just a really solid movie held back from true greatness by some damning flaws… and really, that makes it the perfect capstone to the "Snyderverse," a cinematic universe that had some solid movies but was held back from greatness by incredibly bad ones.

#Is It Really that bad?#IIRTB #review #movie review #The Flash #The Flash 2023 #Ezra Miller #andy muschietti #DC #DCEU #Snyderverse #Michael Keaton #Batman #Sasha Calle #Supergirl #Barry Allen #superhero movie

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lucky-clover-gazette · 5 months

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Creature Comforts

Rated G | Vidow Cottage AU | 2557 words

Vio notices literal and figurative similarities between Shadow and Pinecone the cat.

I wrote this fic back in September for the Four Swords Winter's Delight zine, which has now been released! Please check out the tumblr page @fswintersdelight for the PDF, which includes art, fic, and other goodies from fandom creators. A special thank you to Kalh, aka @vagueandominousvibes and WriterKalhsScribbles on ao3, for creating and managing the event!

“I love it,” Vio says, turning the rock over in his hand. It reminds him of sunset dragon rides, the heat of the Fire Temple, the sweet taste of marshmallows roasted over fires they set together. “Thank you, Shadow.” In retrospect, Vio knows he probably shouldn’t have been so permissive of Shadow doing villainous things to impress him back in their evil days. It’s something Blue, Green, Zelda, and even Shadow himself have all since commented on, with various degrees of moral judgment. And to his credit, Vio typically attempts to walk it back, to express retroactive distaste for Shadow’s more violent and macabre ‘gifts.’ But deep down, some part of Vio will always take pleasure in the degree to which Shadow will go to prove his devotion. “We should probably dispose of the dead mouse, though,” Shadow mutters against Vio’s lips.

Read the rest on AO3 or under the cut:

Evil root beer is not meant to be served warm.

“Okay, yeah, experiment’s over,” Shadow gags, pouring the contents of his stein into the kitchen sink.

Vio winces at the waste. “To be fair, some beverages can be served hot and cold.” He retrieves the pot from the stovetop and begins to wash it, while Shadow sits up on the counter. His expression, Vio can’t help but notice, is almost comically sour.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Vio says, reaching for a sponge.

“It was pretty bad,” Shadow disagrees with an exaggerated shiver. “Oh hey, Pinecone.”

Their cat acknowledges them with a glance as she wanders into the tiny kitchen, headed straight for her food bowl. Wet food waits for her, as always.

Vio turns off the faucet and places the the pot on the drying rack, joining Shadow on the counter. “I know what might get the taste out of your mouth,” he says with a smirk.

Shadow returns it. “Yeah? I’d test that theory.”

Skrch-skrch-skrch.

Their attention returns to Pinecone, who scrapes the tile beside her food bowl with one dainty paw. After a moment of expressing her displeasure, she gives her roommates an indignant stare.

“Why?” Vio exclaims, gesticulating his offense. “It’s the same exact food as usual!”

“Relax,” Shadow says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You’ll… what?”

Shadow winks, and suddenly he’s not Shadow at all. A lean black cat with familiar eyes replaces him on the counter, taking a quick second to nuzzle against Vio’s leg before he hops onto the floor.

Vio frowns. “Oh, right.”

Shadow crosses over to join Pinecone at her bowl, trilling a friendly greeting towards his three-legged friend. Pinecone sniffs him for only a second before she bonks his forehead.

They two cats communicate in a series of meows and chirps, none of which Vio can understand. After an especially long monologue from Pinecone, Shadow nods and leans down to sample some of her freshly-served, perfectly good chicken pate. After a few bites he consults with Pinecone once again, and then makes his way back to Vio on the counter.

Vio gives Shadow a full-body pet, enjoying the way he leans into his touch. And then Real Shadow is back, doing the very same thing, only his hair is purple instead of black. Shadow’s eyes are closed and he wears the dopiest smile, almost lost in the affection.

Vio clears his throat. Shadow opens one eye, as if remembering where he is and what he’s doing. He straightens his spine and leans against the kitchen backsplash.

“Well, nothing’s wrong with the food,” Shadow says, glancing over as Pinecone scrapes the floor again. “She just isn’t in the mood for chicken.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Vio huffs, crossing his arms over his sweater-clad chest. “I don’t want to waste food, and she’ll get another tin in twelve hours anyway.”

Shadow shrugs. “Seems reasonable to me. She’s fine, just being a little bit of a drama queen.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Vio teases. “Experiment’s still on the table, by the way.”

“I’ll ignore the insult if you kiss me.”

Vio indulges Shadow for only a second before he pulls away with his own exaggerated disgust. “Cat food! Your mouth tastes like cat food!”

Shadow bursts out laughing. “Sounds like someone isn’t in the mood for chicken!” Leaning back, he slams his head against the upper cabinet. “Aw, sh—”

Vio pats Shadow comfortingly as he reaches towards the shelf.

“Vi, what are you—”

Pinecone chirps happily as Vio opens a tin of tuna pate.

─────────────────

Vio found the book on cat behavior at the Castle Town library a few days ago, but this is the first time he’s actually been able to read it. Lounging on the couch beside a crackling fire, he hums as he turns the page.

A familiar chirp startles him to attention. Pinecone sits at the foot of the couch, staring intently towards Vio’s lap. He smiles, shifts his book to an admittedly less comfortable position, and pats the wool blanket. “You can come up.”

And so she does, immediately claiming her favorite spot on Vio’s stomach. She circles for only a moment before collapsing, resting her chin on his chest and meeting his eyes. He senses the soft rumble of a purr, and watches as she begins to knead the soft blanket.

It’s a weird angle, but Vio still manages to check the book’s index for ‘kneading.’

Kneading, also known as ‘making biscuits,’ is an instinctive feline soothing behavior.

Vio looks fondly down at his feline. “Are you making biscuits, Pinecone?”

She trills and kneads harder.

“Biscuits are in the oven!” announces Shadow, standing in the doorframe between their kitchen and den. He has flour all over his black apron, and looks very proud of his hard work.

Pinecone hops off Vio’s lap to rub against Shadow’s leg, and Vio finds himself on his feet as well. “You’ve got some flour on your face,” he observes, stepping closer.

Shadow smirks. “Totally not on purpose.”

“Of course not,” Vio agrees, running a finger gently down the other man’s cheek. He wipes the flour onto Shadow’s apron, and then pulls him by the waist for a kiss.

─────────────────

“Can you maniacs please get the zoomies one at a time?” Vio complains, seated at the kitchen table with a stack of handwritten notes and a warm cup of tea.

Pinecone responds by running straight into a wall.

Shadow, meanwhile, has been bouncing his leg uncontrollably for the past fifteen minutes. Vio finally leans down to place a gentle hand on Shadow’s knee, steadying both his partner and the table itself.

“I know the meeting was long,” he says, meeting Shadow’s eyes. “But we need to finalize this summary while the discussion is still fresh in our minds.”

Shadow glances longingly towards the den, where Pinecone gives an enchantingly peculiar yowling performance.

“She’s fine,” Vio reassures him. “Normal feline behavior, my book said so.”

Shadow sighs, trying his best to settle. “Yeah. I know. I can focus.”

Vio kisses his cheek, free to work uninterrupted for several peaceful minutes.

That is, until he hears the scraping.

Vio’s head shoots up, startling Shadow enough that he freezes mid-action. He appears to have been slowly sliding Vio’s mug closer to the table’s edge.

“What are you doing?” Vio asks, raising an eyebrow.

Shadow appears genuinely confused by his own strange impulse. “I… I’m not sure.” He pulls back his hand and examines it, bewildered. “It’s like I got possessed or something.”

They both hear a loud crash from the den.

Sighing, Vio caps his pen. “Wanna go see what she broke?”

Shadow is already gone.

─────────────────

This is the third dead thing Pinecone has brought him in a week. Vio winces down at the mouse’s corpse, only wincing harder at his cat’s self-satisfied expression.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he mutters, toeing the ‘gift’ with a sock-clad foot. “Where’s Shadow? He’s supposed to be watching you.”

Pinecone is almost entirely an indoor cat, but during the late autumn Shadow allows her to accompany him into the yard while he chops firewood. Vio can’t really blame Shadow for losing sight of the cat, who at the end of the day is naturally inclined to hunt and present trophies to the people she loves.

“Good kitty,” Vio tells Pinecone, petting her soft little head. She preens.

“Please tell me the cat’s inside,” Shadow calls from the front door, shutting it quickly behind him to keep out the November chill.

From his cozy spot in the den, Vio smiles. “Yes, she’s in here.”

Shadow stumbles into the room, wrapped up in a black and red flannel, still clutching Vio’s Four Sword. “I’m so sorry,” he says, slightly out of breath. “I was trying really hard to split this one stubborn log, and—”

Vio stands up and grabs Shadow by the waist, enjoying the lingering smell of trees.

“Hi,” Shadow tells Vio, tenderly stroking his back. “I’m a little sweaty, are you sure you want to hug me right now?”

“Too late.”

“Ah, I see Pinecone has brought you another present,” Shadow observes, somewhere between amused and disgusted. “I’m surprised she was able to do it in only a few minutes.”

Vio smirks, out of sight. “What a pragmatic little creature.”

Pinecone trills—probably at a bird out the window, but Vio likes to think she understands.

“She learned from the best,” says Shadow, and Vio pulls back to meet his eyes. His hands wander from Shadow’s waist to the pocket of his flannel, which contains… something?

Shadow blushes, and Vio loves that Shadow can still, once in a while, have his bashful moments. “It’s nothing, really, just…”

Vio withdraws the object from Shadow’s pocket and holds it between them. It’s a rock about the size of his palm, ash-brown, with strange irregular jutting edges. Shadow sighs and turns it over in Vio’s hand, revealing a smooth caramel-colored face.

“Found it and thought you’d be interested,” Shadow explains, still slightly embarrassed. “Could make a nice paperweight, too.”

Vio searches his brain for any knowledge of the peculiar specimen. “Petrified wood,” he vaguely recalls. “It’s sort of a fossil, I think. At some point, this area was affected by a volcano, or just a lot of fire, and the trees went through a sort of mineralization process.”

“Do you think that’s because of me?”

Vio blinks, genuinely puzzled by the question.

“Because of all the fire,” Shadow clarifies. “And the volcano.”

Vio releases a short laugh, but stops himself immediately. Shadow is genuinely concerned, he wants to take this seriously. “Love,” he says, reaching for his partner’s flannel-clad arm, “this is a fossil. Its creation might as well be ancient history.”

Shadow exhales. “Oh. Right.”

Vio feels Shadow’s muscles loosen—which, by the way, have become noticeably more pronounced since Shadow started chopping firewood.

“It’s just weird,” Shadow continues, not appearing to notice the blush on Vio’s face. “I know it’s been, like, more than a year since I did those awful things, but I still…”

In retrospect, Vio knows he probably shouldn’t have been so permissive of Shadow doing villainous things to impress him back in their evil days. It’s something Blue, Green, Zelda, and even Shadow himself have all since commented on, with various degrees of moral judgment. And to his credit, Vio typically attempts to walk it back, to express retroactive distaste for Shadow’s more violent and macabre ‘gifts.’

But deep down, some part of Vio will always take pleasure in the degree to which Shadow will go to prove his devotion.

“We should probably dispose of the dead mouse, though,” Shadow mutters against Vio’s lips.

From beneath them, Pinecone hisses.

─────────────────

The frequency of cat purring has been shown to fall between 25 and 140 Hz. The same frequency has been shown to aid in the healing of broken bones, joint and tendon repair, and wound healing. The combined effects of their relaxing presence and their purr make cats powerful against stress and anxiety. Cat owners report that—

“Put down the book,” Shadow mutters into Vio’s shoulder. “You need to rest.”

Vio sniffles and does as he’s told. Shadow holds him closer, pulling Red’s handmade quilt from fully over them both.

“You’re lucky,” Vio says, his throat dry, “that you don’t get sick very often. It sucks.”

Shadow hums sympathetically. “Strong immune system means I can still hold you, contagion be damned.”

“Are you sure that’s, like, a real thing?”

Shadow kisses the side of Vio’s forehead. It’s warm from his fever, but colder than it had been a few hours ago.

“Hi, Pinecone,” says Vio as the cat joins them in bed. She goes straight to Vio’s chest, plopping down and rolling on her side. Shadow scritches her soft belly with one hand and rubs Vio’s side with the other.

Pinecone’s purrs are immediate and much louder than usual. With wonder in his eyes, Vio gently presses two fingers to her throat. It vibrates steadily under his touch, and a slight press seems to make the purrs even louder.

“I’ll research her anatomy later,” Vio decides. “Too tired now.”

“Good idea,” Shadow says, completely earnest. “I love it when you know your limits.”

Vio musters the energy to roll his eyes. “Well now I have to—uh, Shadow?”

“Hm?”

Vio raises both eyebrows, turning his head to see Shadow’s face. “Are you purring?”

After a second of consideration, Shadow presses two fingers to his own throat. “Huh,” he remarks, self-satisfied. “Would you look at that.”

“Have you always been able to purr?” Vio asks, a little too weak to muster appropriate levels of bewilderment.

Shadow shakes his head. “Must have picked it up from shapeshifting into a cat so often. Neat.”

Vio has so many questions. Does this mean Shadow could just take on any quality he pleases? Could he take on more feline features, like really sharp claws and fangs? Just how weird can he get with this, if he so chooses? Because Vio already has a thing for his fangs, and—

Shadow purrs louder, adding to Pinecone’s steady rumbling. Vio shakes his head, too sick and too comfortable to stress.

─────────────────

“Please bite me somewhere less obvious next time,” Vio tells Shadow, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Shadow pouts, already bundled up for the snowy walk into castle town, and bats at the scarf’s fringes.

“They look nice,” he says, only earning a huff. Vio agrees completely, but one of them has to at least pretend to care about propriety. “Got your library book, nerd?”

Vio holds up the text on feline behavior. “Got it.” He then tucks it safely inside the tote bag they use at the farmer’s market when it’s in season.

Scritch-scritch-scritch.

“Oh, come on,” Vio mutters, craning his head towards the den. “Pinecone, not the couch! Red just helped us reupholster that thing!”

The scratching stops for a moment, then starts again. Vio pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, love,” Shadow says, although Vio knows he’s more amused than apologetic. “I think we’re just going to have to accept a certain degree of property defacement. Take it as a compliment—she only wants to claim what’s hers.”

Vio sighs. “Yeah, whatever.”

Shadow removes Vio’s scarf, scrunches it into a ball, and tosses it into the den.

─────────────────

Shadow works in the kitchen again, while Vio and Pinecone share the couch in front of a crackling fire. She’s right on his chest again, purring away, staring directly into his eyes. Vio is still disappointed that he can’t talk to her directly, but borrowing the feline behavior book definitely helped him understand her. Vio will always treasure the unique bond they share, even if it’s not as verbose as hers and Shadow’s.

Pinecone blinks slowly.

“I love you, too,” says Vio.

Shadow abruptly leans into the den, holding a wooden spoon covered with pumpkin soup. “Did you say something?”

Vio smirks, bumping Pinecone’s forehead. “Not to you.”

Shadow traces Vio’s gaze to Pinecone as she slow blinks again. He smiles, shakes his head, and leaves them to their conversation.

#my writing #vidow #four swords #fs #vio link #shadow link #pinecone is BACK babyyyy #cottage au oh how i missed you <3

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redmelawashere · 1 month

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Alright I got woken up at like 3 AM with FORBIDDEN MEMORIES™️ and remember that MelloNear literally had a fandom video game. What other fucking fandom has SHIPPING VIDEO GAMES.

I think it just hit me since recently I've been thinking a lot about how fandom spaces shift over time (especially as we have re-boots, live-actions, or other media that helps reinvigorate fandoms like currently with A:TLA) and honestly, MelloNear has had so many ups and downs and like…as someone who was in this fandom WAY too young and grew up with it I want to see how many people on tumblr, who were there in ye olden wild west days, remember the stuff I do and also for those of you who weren’t around back then but are big now, here’s the insane history that I remember:

1 - LiveJournal (LJ) and the LOST FICS LJ was initially one of the better places to find fics – but a lot of authors jumped ship when FF.NET started to take over and for other reasons that were before my time. Finding fics on LJ that haven’t been deleted was/is hard and their UI is trash I never could get a grasp on it. (The irony of FF.NET now being dead and people jumping ship to AO3 and Tumblr lol.) Astyzia_ii used to write really fucking good MelloNear stuff there. She was one of the first people I ever read that had insanely good Near characterization. Unfortunately, her account no longer exists. But some of the things she wrote were things like:

Near being a total brat (at the time, no one else was really writing Near like that. Including Near lying to Mello about being assaulted by other children at Whammy's, just generally putting him in his place, etc.)

Mello painting Near’s nails black (then this trope just went off on FF.NET and everyone was writing fics like that - I really like when stuff like this comes out of fandom)

Mello finding out that Near, despite being in love with him, thought Mello was so unapproachable he had sex with someone else (implied Giovanni) and Mello is basically confronting Near about it at a time when Near was treated as a prudish virgin in fandom

Finding each other in the apocalypse AU

Mello and Near being like high school sweethearts (salthearts?) and Mello wanting to go to a University in the BIG CITY but would ignore the offer if it meant staying with Near (and super tragic fic too. They pull over on a freeway after an argument about it and then Near just straight up gets hit by a car after pushing Mello out of the way 💀 and you don't know if Near survived)

And obviously, many more really creative AUs

2 - KurosakiAkane and VIDEO GAMES Akane, as Spanish artist and the original “cursed moons” drew some of the most viral and prolific MelloXNear doujinshis and EVEN MADE FANDOM VIDEO GAMES. Like I can’t believe I forgot about this. Akane literally made fandom yaoi video games and they were SO GOOD. What other fandom has shipping video games you’d think it’d be the norm I can barley wrap my head around it

Pretty sure her website (www.cursedmoons.com) is down so you can’t download them directly from there or see her full doujinshis anymore

Her DeviantArt account is still live so you can see some stills and teasers from her doujinshis.

Her LJ account is also still live but more so as an archive.

Her first game “D.nD Poisoned” can be downloaded here if you scroll to the bottom (but I haven’t checked the link so be wary…) but it was basically taking place during Whammy’s days, and yes, Mello has a knife cause he’s unhinged since those were just the times ig.

“D.nD Infection” was her second, unfinished game, which would have been when they were mid-Kira investigation post Mello blowing up the base. I found a website that hosts the short demo she released.

Her games literally inspired a new wave of AUs for the fandom in the fic department and she was just a titan who kept everyone together on all corners of the internet. When she decided to leave the fandom in like 2011 after 2010’s great FF.NET purge of M rated fics it kind of felt like the beginning of the end.

3 - Doujinshis (fandom comics) Most doujinshi artists had their own websites and MANY were Japanese / Chinese translated into English (pretty sure Akane was the first one to create them exclusively in English...). There are so many archived on YouTube that I used to watch all the time. You can even still find some of Akane’s doujinshi’s on Youtube like:

January

Lost Innocence

The Last Birthday

Game Over

Chocolate Kiss

One of the ones that was most impactful on me was this one that I cannot remember the name of, and it wasn't by Akane, but basically Mello, freshly 16 trying to stay alive, resorts to prostitution, and the big revealer at the end is he’s just kind of left there, alone, opens up his hand and there’s a little white puzzle piece he stole from Near and pretty sure the last line was something along the lines of “no one else” and I just 😭

4 - Lost Art and the Famous Water Colours

A lot of that water-colour MN art you see floating around was from, if I'm not mistaken, a Chinese MelloNear artist and their website I think was just "w" or something and she had created 100s of MN art.

5 - ForbiddenSoul562 and FF.NET Beef and Fan Fic Rap Battles

Soul was one of the BIGGEST creators on FF.NET (and luckily, she’s still active both on FF.Net and here on tumblr!) I remember when she had like a fic battle with another creator FragilePuzzle (who is also on tumblr and active – but they post M-ll-M-tt stuff now and pretty sure they deleted all their MelloNear fics... Their active handle on tumblr is mizzmellos I think? Anyways, they’ve also switched from writing to art and its really good!) And there was like a whole “vote who you think wrote the better fic” and it was like Clash of the Titans. Shame that Fragile, as they used to go by, doesn’t like MN anymore since they also wrote a lot of really good stuff. When Fragile stopped posting and Soul went on an extended hiatus that also felt like another beginning of the end loooooool (pretty sure Soul and Mzz had an interaction here on tumblr reminding each other of each other and I had so much social anxiety I was like headbanging watching this interaction go down and if I'm remembering correctly it started cordial but didn't really end well but I could be 100% misremembering the tone of the interaction but if you dig through Soul's tumblr you can probably find it or mzzs for that matter.) 6 - Kids Writing Dark Tropes

I feel like I should make another post and just…describe how Mello and Near were portrayed individually and in a relationship during that time since it was honestly insane. Very toxic, very star-crossed lovers who revolve around each other but are devastating together and are healthier a part, and so much more. I’m much happier with where their characterization and how the fandom has evolved currently from those times lol. But I think over the years I’ve also realized how fucking young all of us were (I was literally like…13 consuming all this media which retroactively, I’m like YIKES 18+ is 18+ for a reason and I even realized some of my favourite authors / creators who I thought were way older than me or like “cool teenagers” were also close to my age and not that much older so no wonder we were all writing crazy unstable relationship shit like that - which can be fun! - but this was literally all. the. time.).

Honestly that’s all I can remember for now but what a wild ride. I know FF.NET is like, a super hard platform to use now (and just gets worse every day 🙃) but if anyone wants some MN fic recs from the vault lmk and I’ll make a post about it.

-Redmela

#redmela screams #redmela rants #death note #mn #mellonear #meronia #cursed moons #like shit I wish Akane could have at least finished Infection I can't even begin to grasp the talent of writing/scripting/drawing/codding #ALL BY YOURSELF #FOR FREE #FOR THE FANDOM AND THE PEPOLE #mEANWHILE I have like 50 WIPs for multiple fandoms byeeeeeee #Mello | Mihael Keehl #Near | Nate River #D.nD Poisoned #D.nD Infection #Fandom video games #fandom culture #fandom history

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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Needing Miller pt 4.

Summary: It's a shit hole of a world that you're living in, and it gets even shittier when you're ambushed in your sleep. It's a slippery slope that leads you from being tucked cozily in your sleeping bag to joining the raiding group lead by the most infuriating (and intimidating) man you've ever met. You need to survive, above all else- either in this group (without smacking its leader over the head), or in the world alone after somehow escaping. Easier said than done, when your mind loses all sense of focus, tactics and skills the second that Joel Miller rolls up his sleeves and shows his godforsaken forearms.

Warnings: Violence, swearing, adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N:

Masterlist

-----------------------

Front sight. Barrel. Release. Back sight. Grip. Hammer. Slide stop. Magazine.

Joel loses any sense of teasing or testing as he walks you through the gun’s components- a 9mm pistol, semi-automatic. His tone is even, and his words are systematic and factual. There are no anecdotes or mnemonics or anything remotely unscientific, spare the occasional Never hold it like this if you don’t want to shoot your foot and your ears will ring like hell.

You try to keep your gaze focused on the gun, matching each name to each part, and then each explanation to each name. But, against your wishes, your body betrays you, and you risk glances at him. Only to see what he’s thinking you tell yourself. You briefly study the crease in his forehead, the steady focus of his eyes, his tanned skin, the hair that is starting to grow too long at his temples. Focused. Assured.

“How do you know all this?” The question slips out quietly before you can even stop it.

For the first time, he looks up to you.

He’s so close with the both of you hunched over the gun, and you can see the dark ring of his iris enclosing warm, earthy tones.

Coffee, you think. Not the shit that FEDRA tried to ration, that was bitter and off-putting. But the warm, rich one that your mother used to drink in the mornings- intoxicating, and sweet and home. You wonder what he sees when he looks into your eyes.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.” His voice is low, and rough, rising out of his chest.

“Fine.” You scoff, shaking your head. You turn your attention back to the gun, watching his finger tap against the barrel.

Tap.

“Texas.”

Tap.

You keep your eyes trained downwards, afraid that if you look at him while he speaks, you’ll scare him away.

“My father. He owned some property, needed security when I was growing up. Said it would be good f’me too. Make me a man.” He scoffs. “He was dead hours into the outbreak.”

The words sound bitter when he says it, and you tentatively raise your gaze. His jaw is set and his brow isn’t furrowed from concentration but old, worn anger. All that and for what? Is what you read in the curl of his lip and flare of his nose. All that apparent authoritarian and masculine parenting only for Joel to be the one standing here.

“My dad was a drunk.” You offer, carefully trying to extend words of understanding. I get it. Joel doesn’t jump at your words, but the tension in his face fades a little, and he looks into your eyes. You clear your throat and continue.

“He wasn’t that useful, though. Never taught us anything like this. I mean, I know how to patch up holes in the wall ‘cause of him. But nothing that would help out here.”

Joel’s lips raise slightly, even if you see a darkening in his gaze when you mention your dad’s wall-punching habits. “Yeah, well I’m sure that’ll be handy one day or ‘nother. I was a carpenter.”

“Oh. Cool.” You nod, trying to seem understanding.

He sees right through you and rolls his eyes. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

“You worked with carpets?”

He laughs briefly and you want to hear it more, hear it when he’s not holding back. “Mm, with building houses.”

You huff out a snort. “So we both have the perfect skills for an apocalypse then.”

“You can fight dirty. Thank FEDRA for that at least.” He shrugs, the movement casual, but his tone holds back curiosity.

You indulge him. It didn’t seem often that Joel Miller was one for conversation, and if he was up for it today and never again, you would curse yourself for telling him to piss off preemptively.

“It wasn’t FEDRA. I mean they taught us the basics- how to spar, how to use someone’s stance to your advantage. But my knife was,” You hesitate, trying to find the right words. A dead man’s belongings? “A gift from my brother. He taught me how to fight, and not in a clean way.”

Joel huffs, and his hand flexes against the gun. There’s a scabbed wound on the back of his hand, still red and healing. You had almost forgotten you had tried to stab him.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Look at you!” You glare at him, gesturing with your hands to him- his broad shoulders, his height, his fucking biceps. “You were a big man in front of me after someone had already attacked me. I wasn’t gonna wait ‘til the count of three and start boxing.”

His eyes find yours again, and there’s a heaviness to them, and his voice is quiet, hushed; surrounded by the grass, the soft breeze, and the blue sky seem to soften him.

“I know. You did the right thing.”

You stare at him, trying to remind yourself to breathe, to not blush, to not think about how his thighs felt around you or his hands on yours. Think of anything else. Think of the scar on your cheek, the heat and pain that was still present around the stitches, and the uncomfortable sense of itching that had begun as it started to heal. Your eyes dip down to his neck. The scratches on his skin are still there, even if they’re less angry and jagged. You want to lick them. Mark up his neck again and kiss it better.

“You’re weak though. You should work out more.”

You clench your jaw, thoughts of him with any sense of longing being replaced by annoyance. “Right, because there’s so many gyms here. I’ll get on a treadmill next to a stalker.”

Joel’s lips stay in that infuriating, wolfish grin. “I train in the mornings. Don’t need equipment.”

Was that an…invitation?

“Right. I’ll make sure to train at night then.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath, but his lips still tug up at your joke. You smile at him before you can stop yourself, pride welling in you that he might find you funny. You feel your cheek strain, but you ignore the pang of pain. His eyes crease and for a split second, it seems like he’s going to smile back at you.

He doesn’t. His lips fall, and the lines deepen on his face as his brow furrows. He tilts his gaze back down to the gun, and the conversation doesn’t simply die- it shrivels and burns into ashes. Back to business.

You feel your stomach drop slightly, and anything in it curdle in a soup of shame. What was all that? Was that a pleasant conversation with Joel Miller? What the fuck were you thinking? Distance, you hiss to yourself. Distance is what you need, not sharing stories about your parents or crappy jokes to try and make him laugh.

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

That was what he said when you met him. That is what you wanted. You shouldn’t have been feeding into any possibility of something different.

You don’t talk again after that. He shows you how to hold the pistol, and you nod along. He makes you practise tucking it into your jeans, into your pack, and taking it out, over and over, quicker and quicker, each time thumbing the safety on and off, on and off. You don’t offer any words or answers, and your lips stay in a closed line. You don’t do any real shooting. It’s a waste of ammo, and ten shots wouldn’t be enough practice for you to be perfect anyway.

The sun is lowering by the time you finish. Not quite dark, but the grey dusk of late afternoon that is a harbinger of a storm. You shoulder your pack once more and set out, stepping away from the field.

Joel doesn’t walk ahead of you this time. He walks beside you, matching your pace. When you stubbornly slow down or quicken, he continues to mirror you in his long strides. He doesn’t talk to you though. He simply stays beside you, watching ahead.

You ignore him. If he wanted silence, then he could have it.

So what if you liked talking to him, so what if you liked that calm, quiet part of him more than the snapping, angry raider that everyone else knew, so what? You knew that nothing could come from this; knew that he was hotheaded and had to be partially insane to survive out here. You knew that being friends with Joel, or anything else for that matter, was not a possibility. Survival was all you had to be focused on.

You are still adamantly ignoring him when he grabs your elbow. You turn to him, already scoffing and preparing to break your vow of silence to tell him to fuck off when he tugs you closer. In just a few rushed steps, you’re in an alleyway, with your back pushed harshly to the brick wall. You open your mouth, once more ready to use expletives to ask him if he wants his balls kicked again when he firmly grips your lower face.

Your cheeks are smushed beneath his hand and you hiss in pain, feeling your torn, stitched cheek throb and bleed beneath its bandage. When you bare your teeth to bite him, he grips you tighter. You had lapsed in your comfortability around him; forgotten the real strength that he had, where he could crush you before you could even resist.

Your hand reaches up to his, and you dig your nails into the scabbed wound on the back of his hand. You dig in deeper and feel the wet of blood greet you. He still doesn’t let go of you.

“Stop.” He hisses through his teeth, leaning in closer to you with wide eyes. He jerks his head to the side, back to the street you were walking on.

You’re trying to tell him to eat a dick with your eyes, but your gaze snags on what he gestures to. There. At the entrance of the alleyway. Just shambling into view, dragging its feet. The sound of popcorn popping at the back of its throat.

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to inhale so sharply, but it turns its head so rapidly, looking straight at you. It has no face, no eyes, nothing to reconcile its lost humanity with. Fungi bloom from its skull, and its skin is torn, bloodied and thin. Clothes, or the worn remnants of them, hang off its body. It takes a step closer, letting out a shriek of a dying cat.

Run. RUN. RUN!

Joel presses himself to you, his pelvis against your lower stomach, and you realise you’re shaking. His body crushes into yours, and you feel yourself squished between him and the wall. He keeps you still and upright. His other hand pins at your waist, holding you steady to the wall. You let him support your weight, afraid that if you try to balance yourself you’ll accidentally scuff your shoes to the ground. You grip his bloodied hand tighter, squeezing onto it; not trying to make him let go of you anymore, but begging him not to.

You think of the gun, tucked into your waistband. Still with no magazine. Fuck. There was no way you had the skills nor expertise to quietly and efficiently lock it back in place. And Joel’s gun was tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, snug to his spine.

The clicker steps closer, and it tilts its head, trying to pin the sound it had heard. It screeches again.

You think of your brother. Dragging you through the QZ's perimeter when flames had consumed buildings in the riot. Not letting you trip or stumble, but always keeping a firm grip on your arm and tugging you on. On towards the rest of the city, towards the train lines that would take you somewhere better, somewhere safer, somewhere where your mother wasn’t lying dead in her shit hole apartment and where your other siblings weren’t strung up by revolutionaries and where you still had a home to return to. Head East. Head East and start again and when everything was alright, when everything was normal, grieve and mourn and cry. But for now, just head East.

He didn’t make it to the train lines.

Didn’t make it past the goddamn library you had stepped in, just to rest, just to let your feet stop for a second, just to sit down and eat something. That same crackling popping was what you heard before he was suddenly on his back, his chest being ripped into, his flesh being shredded, his neck being torn like pieces of mache. His knife is quickly thrown to you. His screams, his guttural voice yelling at you to Run. Run! RUN!

You’re going to die.

Your other hand slips down, to Joel’s lower back. If you can grab the gun, get it out from beneath his jacket and jeans without making a sound, maybe you stand a chance. Your fingers press against the gun beneath the layers of fabric, feeling it there.

Joel tenses, and turns to face you. He shakes his head softly, and his eyes have a clear message. No.

You shake your head with a minuscule amount of movement, still clutched tightly in his hand. You have to. At least try.

Your fingers begin to fumble at his back, searching silently for the edge of his jacket. They’re shaking. The fabric rustles slightly and you feel your blood run cold.

Fuck. You’re going to die, with two guns in arms reach. You’re going to die with your brother’s knife tucked into your pack. You’re going to die. Fuck.

A bird caws somewhere, and the clicker turns. You stare at it from the corner of your eye, and you can’t tell if you’re still breathing.

The sound of flapping wings and high-pitched hissing. A fight between crows.

The clicker drags its feet, and screeches, loud and piercing; so loud you would think it’s right beside your ear, tunneling into your skull and engraving into your brain. You stop looking at it, shaking even more. You’re going to die. You’re going to die, staring at Joel. His eyes are trained on the clicker. That same furrow in his brow. You feel something bloom inside of you when he shifts his weight, and you’re suddenly hidden from view, tucked behind him and against the wall; protected.

The shuffle of dragging feet rips your gaze back to the side. You can barely make out anything over Joel’s shoulder and he shifts impossibly closer to you, exposing his back to the infected and tucking you into him. The jacket’s zipper digs into your skin through your clothes and you think if you could control the panicked tilt of your breath, you might be able to hear his heart beating in his chest.

The clicker moves, and if you could move, you would bury your face into Joel. Instead, you watch, a notch caught in your throat and tears stinging your eyes. It was going to turn and hear you breathing and it was going to shred you to pieces. Tear into your chest. Eat your heart. Your blood runs cold and fear pins you in place. You’re going to die.

But…it shambles back out of the alleyway. Into the street. The clicker continues before the brick wall obscures your sight and you no longer see it.

You can’t believe it. You’re not sure if you should.

Joel drops his hand from your face, and your cheeks throb with the sudden loss of pressure. You feel blood dribble onto the gauze tapped to your face and begin dripping down to your chin. Your hand follows his, still gripping it. He’s still pressed against you.

He turns his gaze back to you, swallowing and chest moving heavily.

“Fuck.” He whispers, and if anything he leans his head in closer to you.

You don’t, can’t, form any words, instead letting out a wrecked, relieved sigh that bubbles out with a quiet laugh.

He leans closer, and you look up at him, trying to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. His dark eyes bore into yours, his breath fans across your face. It fades- the fear, the alleyway, the clicker that is a block away already. It’s only his ragged breathing, the loud pulse of your blood in your ears, the feeling of his hips pressed so tightly against you, the bricks digging into your shoulders, his hand still at your waist gripping you like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“Fuck.” He says again, this time barely audible. A ghost of a word.

His head dips closer, angling to the side and you don’t know what to do when his lips press against yours. You don’t know your name, don’t know your body, all you know is that his lips are warm his beard scratches against your chin and the hand at your waist squeezes even tighter.

Your hand at his back grips his jacket as if you need even more support to stay on your feet. His tongue swipes out, licking against your lower lip. The fear that was chilling you to your core is replaced by something fiery and hot that warms you instantly. Adrenaline courses through your bones and your mind feels fuzzy and warm, and there’s not one cohesive thought other than Oh my god he’s kissing me. After what feels like an eternity of stillness, your brain kicks into gear and you kiss him back, pushing yourself against him even more; feeling his broad chest against yours, his shoulders hunching over as he deepens the kiss, his leg stepping in between yours. His other hand reaches around you, tugging you closer to him and pressing firmly to you. It’s a tangle of heated breaths and a whiny sound from the back of your throat and a deep rumbling from him and all you can feel, all you can taste, all you can think is Joel, Joel, Joel.

He bites against your lip, drawing it between his teeth and everything feels natural; this was the same as anything else the two of you had done. He was pushing and teasing with each swipe of his tongue and movement of his lips, and you were biting back and giving him all you had.

When you break apart, you’re not sure you know exactly what just happened. You knew about kisses, sure. Knew that two people were supposed to put their lips together and feel butterflies. Whatever this was, was not that. This was crushing exhausting and exhilarating. This was not a fairytale kiss from a prince but something that was raw celebrating and terrifying.

Your eyes dip down to his lips, and you like the plump, blushed look they’ve gained. Your blood is smeared slightly across his cheek, through his bead; he doesn’t reach up to wipe it away. Your face is aflame and you look up at him. He’s looking down at you, breathing somehow more ragged than before, and his gaze is heavy, consuming and pinning you in place. Again, you wonder what he sees when he looks into your eyes.

You see the shift even before he pulls back from you.

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

“Don’t.” You say, and you hate how pleading it sounds, how pathetic.

He swallows, and unwraps his hands from you, untangles himself from you and steps back. Your hands fall from him, hanging limply by your side.

You shake your head, and the tears are back once more, threatening to spill over. You don’t allow them to. You are not going to cry in front of Joel Miller. Not because of something as stupid, as immature as a kiss that he immediately regretted. You are not going to do that. You swallow past the notch in your throat, you replace the quiver of your lip with a straight line, and you tense your eyes into a hard glare.

He watches you, only a metre away but feeling a million miles from you. He bites his lip, and his face is hardened, and worn.

“We-,” He clears his throat with a deep cough. “I shouldn’t have-”

You huff out a laugh. “Fuck off.”

His jaw ticks. “Watch it.”

“Fuck. Off.” You shake your head, pushing off from the brick wall, straightening yourself, trying to be every bit as big and intimidating as you can be. “You don’t get to play me like that, Joel.”

He opens his mouth to rebut, but you step closer, cutting him off. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to be a dick,” Another step closer, “An arsehole,” Another, “A fucking prick and then do that!”

You shove against his chest and he doesn’t step back; a reminder that he was stronger, that you were not, and that he was the one consistently who called the shots. The one who decided if you kept kissing, if you talked more, if you lived. He looks down at you with…sadness? Regret? It vanishes quickly, whatever it is, and is replaced with a hard, blank face.

You shove against him again, angry and with as much force as you can muster to bruise him, and this time his hands whip up, grabbing yours and pinning them to his chest. He leans closer, growling.

“Stop.”

You glare up at him, seething, digging your fingernails into his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, ya don’t.”

He smiles, but there is no kindness; all just self-assured cockiness. You gouge your fingers in, practically begging him for a reaction; a wince, a hiss, a cry, anything to show that you had any sort of effect on him.

Your nostrils flare, and you spit. “You are the most temperamental and psychotic person I’ve met. One minute you’re threatening me and shooting people, and the next you’re,” You glare at him, throwing his own words in his face. “Trying to get in my pants.“

“You think you’re some peach?” He snarls, canines showing. “All you fucking do is run your mouth. Where’s that gonna getcha? Do you want me to hate you?”

You laugh, you laugh right in his fucking face. “You’re trying to say you don’t? Everything you do is about keeping people under your boot. Making sure I don’t fuck up. Making sure Tommy doesn’t run off because he hates your fucking-”

Suddenly you’re back against the wall, and it happens so fast you get whiplash. He leans closer, snarling.

“Don’t fucking talk about Tommy.”

“You know. You know that he’s not happy here.”

Joel’s jaw ticks, locked heavily in place. He shakes his head, rearing in closer to you. “Newsflash- I don’t give a shit if he’s happy. If I’m keeping him alive, that’s all that matters. Stay out of it.”

“I hate you.” The words come out quieter than you thought but still laced with venom.

“I’m not a big fucking fan of you either, Dollface.” He spits the name like it burns his tongue.

“Sure seemed like it a minute ago. Miller.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He blinks, and his brow hunches, but he still doesn’t know what to say, seemingly lost for words. Everything that swarms between the two of you, your shared breaths, your heat, your anger and ire is tense and rigid. And then his gaze flicks down, to your snarling lips. And everything on his face melts for a second, and he’s leaning closer, and tilting his head to the side and then his mouth is on yours and his hatred is in every swipe of his tongue and his annoyance is in every bite to your lip and his ire is in every movement of his mouth and you can’t breathe and you’re kissing him back like it’s the last thing you’ll do and again it’s JoelJoelJoelJoel-

You pull your head back.

“Go fuck yourself.” Your voice sounds more wrecked than you let it be

You wrench your hands out from under his, hating how he was able to cover them completely, hating that he could have stopped you if he wanted to, hating that he didn’t. You shove him back and barge past him. You boil with anger and you think that right now if the clicker showed its face, you would be the one sinking your teeth into its skin and tearing its flesh apart.

You don’t bother looking back to see if he follows you. You just turn onto the street and walk back in the direction of the church.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic

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livyjh · 1 year

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In Bloom

Din Djarin x AFAB reader (no gender specific terms used, just body parts)

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+

Word count: 2.7k

Can be found on ao3 here

Summary: You’ve been teamed up with the Mandalorian for a few months now, but are still an amateur bounty hunter. Fresh to The Guild. He was kind enough to train you as long as you helped him capture bounties. When looking for a bounty on a weird, woodland planet, you manage to get affected by a poisonous flower.

Din Djarin Masterlist

A/N: This takes place while Grogu is away, training with Luke Skywalker. But the Razor Crest wasn’t destroyed.

I was blushing so hard writing this 👀 enjoy!

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“Just remember not to touch anything. This planet is full of dangerous plants and animals.” Mando tells you for the hundredth time this day.

“I know. I know. Poison and venom and all that.” You roll your eyes as you zip up your boots and stand.

“Okay. You ready?” The Mandalorian turns to you.

“Yep.” You nod and smile.

“Okay. Let’s go.” He opens the gate of the Razor Crest and the two of you step down onto the grassy planet.

There were bright purple flowers and blue trees as far as the eye could see. The trees were weepy; long, drooping branches covered with little leaves. The flowers were small, but there were millions of them.

The gate closes behind you and you and Mando start looking for this bounty.

“This was a… smart place to hide.” Mando sighs.

“How so? There’s hardly anyone here. I’m sure he’s gonna be the first person we come across.” You squeeze your fists lightly, just feeling the texture of your gloves on your hands. You hated wearing them because they made your hands sweat but Mando had told you over and over not to touch anything because “humans aren’t immune to this shit”. That’s a quote. From him. When you tried to question further, he seemed hesitant to tell you but you figured he was just being his non-talkative self.

“Doubt it. There are many farmers on this planet.” He sighs again.

He pulled out the tracking fob that was blinking much slower than you had anticipated. You were hoping to be right on top of this bounty when you landed. No such luck.

You two kept following a shallow path that had been walked through in the grass. People used it frequently enough to wear some of the grass away there. But not often enough for it to qualify as a trail.

Suddenly, a blaster shot flies between you and Mando. You duck and he puts his arms out to shield you.

“Stay back!” He warns you and you move to run behind a tree as another blaster shot flies by.

With your adrenaline suddenly pumping, you don’t watch where you’re going and trip on a tree root, falling face first into a bunch of the purple flowers. Their petals spread and release some sort of dust into your face.

Mando is shooting back and then suddenly everything stops. The blasters stop. The world stops.

“Fuck.” You curse, tears forming in your eyes as you stand up.

You look over at Mando and start to cry. “Oh, Maker. I’m dead aren’t I? I- I- I breathed it in! The flowers- they spewed poison on me!” You say hysterically.

Mando shakes his head and walks over to you, putting his gloved hands on your shoulders. “No. You’re… you’re not dead. But in a couple hours, you might wish you were.” He sighs.

“Not helping!” You shout.

Mando shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Shit, I shouldn’t have brought you. I’m sorry.” He apologizes. “Let me- I’m gonna grab the bounty’s body. I’m sure that was him shooting at us. Then we’ll get you back to the ship and everything is going to be fine.”

You sniffle, breathing in harshly. “How do you know?”

He sighs. “I just know. Trust me. I’ll be right back. You start heading back.”

You nod, wiping the tears away from your face. “O- okay.” You turn and head back to the ship.

The Mandalorian arrives only a few minutes after you, throwing the body in carbonite before he closes the gate. He turns to you. “Okay. Listen. Sit down.” Mando takes ahold of your shoulders and guides you to sit on the edge of his little bed compartment.

“Will bacta spray help? How am I- how do I-?” You start to panic again.

“I don’t think it will.” He shakes his head and you drag a hand down your face.

“What’s gonna happen? I’m gonna get all red and itchy? Scratch myself to death?” You raise a brow at him, trying to keep your breathing even.

“Those flowers… they’re…” he puts a hand on the back of his neck. “They have this pollen. That’s what you breathed in. Let’s call it… an extreme aphrodisiac.”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms and smirk a little. He’s got to be joking.

“It makes you…” he starts.

“Horny?” You laugh. “I can handle that.” You shrug.

“More like feral.” Mando corrects you and your shoulders slump.

Fuck. Maybe you were gonna wish you were dead. Being around Mando while extremely chemically turned on? That was a recipe for disaster.

“I’ll just lock myself in here and sleep till it’s over.” You say, trying to fool yourself into thinking this wasn’t gonna be as bad as he’s making it sound.

“You’re welcome to try.” Mando steps closer and you feel a heat wave go through your body. You could smell his sweat and you wished he’d get even closer.

“If… there’s anything I can do to help… let me know.” He says shyly.

You’re not sure how to interpret his words at this point. “Can you just get me some water?” You gulp.

“Of course.” He nods and grabs a canteen, handing it to you.

Your fingertips barely brush his, both of you still wearing gloves. But it sends a jolt through you nonetheless. “Th- thank you.”

“I’m gonna get us heading for Nevarro.” He says.

“Okay.” You smile at him for a second before he disappears up the ladder.

You start whispering to yourself. “It’s gonna be fine. I’m gonna be just fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Famous last words, you remind yourself.

You shake your head and try to change what you’re thinking about. It starts with Grogu. You miss him. You and Mando had just visited a couple weeks ago, but… you weren’t allowed too close. Jedi weren’t supposed to have attachments to other people.

You then thought about Mando. How sweet of a father figure he was. How bold yet kind he is. Sometimes intimidating, but is really just like a cuddly ewok.

Cuddling. With Mando. That would be nice.

His body pressed up against yours…

“Shit. No. Not going there.” You shake your head and make the thoughts go away. These weren’t the first intimate thoughts you’ve had about the Mandalorian. But they were certainly prevalent at the moment.

You tried not to think about Mando this way, because he was technically a business partner. But it was so hard when his voice was so… and his hands were really…

“Nope.” You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Fuck. How were you going to survive this if you couldn’t stop thinking about him?

You needed to distract yourself.

So you climbed up to the cockpit, deck of cards in your pocket.

You looked out the glass and saw that you were already pretty high up in the sky, leaving the planet’s atmosphere and entering the stars.

“Once we get on course we should play a game. I have cards.” You say happily, sitting down to Mando’s left.

“Alright.” He turns his head back towards you and nods.

Maker, his voice. Nope. No. You were going to be fine.

And you were. For awhile.

An hour had passed and you were only mildly tingly all over while still playing cards with the Mandalorian.

Another fifteen minutes go by and you can’t stop staring at Mando’s hands. He had taken his gloves off to play cards and wow.

Twenty more minutes. You’re pretty sure you’re soaked through your panties by now and you want to get up and check, maybe change them, but you’re afraid of getting up and there being moisture in your chair. So you keep waiting.

Mando is waiting too. You know it. He’s waiting for you to explode and start crying or something. But you were determined to muscle through.

Ten more minutes. You’re trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, squeezing your thighs together every time you moved to hand him a card or take a card from him.

Five more minutes. “Oh-“ you moan softly when his fingers brush yours as you’re exchanging cards.

You start to blush something fierce, one of your hands flying to cover your mouth. “Shit.” You mumble against your palm. “I’m sorry- I don’t- I’m gonna excuse myself.” You lower your hand from your face and set your cards down behind you as you rise from the seat.

You nearly orgasm the way your thighs rub together as you go down the ladder and into the bed compartment, closing it with the push of a button. You were going to be loud, and if you could muffle that and save yourself some embarrassment, that’s what you were gonna do.

You lay back on the bed, legs spread as you reach down under the hem of your pants and panties. “Fuck!” You gasp as your fingers move down your vulva.

This was the most sensitive you’d ever been in your life. Do you dare?

You do. You rub two fingers over your clit and let out a shaky breath, hips rolling upward.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Mando and how badly you wish his hand were in place of yours. How much you wanted him to take off that stupid helmet and kiss you from head to toe. You would kill a man just to have the Mandalorian’s fingers inside of you once.

You’re rubbing almost with full force of your middle and ring fingers, doing your usual little dance with your clit. A dance that would bring you to orgasm quickly every time.

You kept going and going and ten minutes later, you’ve switched hands back and forth and still can’t finish. It’s agonizing and you’re ready to cry out of frustration when you remember — “If there’s anything I can do to help… let me know.” — he said that. Mando said that to you.

You pressed the open button and called out to the ship. “Please, come here!” You pant. “Quickly!”

You hear a couple rushed steps down the ladder and assume he jumps down the second half, walking past the fresher to find you laying there, hand down your pants, cheeks ruddy, pussy soaking wet.

“Fuck.” He curses and you see his helmet tilt down just the slightest so he could see you. All of you.

“Please, h- help me. I can’t- I’m not- I don’t know-“ you’re nearly sobbing.

“Shhh…” he hushes you and crawls up into the bed between your legs. “Let me help you.”

You nod up at him and suddenly his bare hands are on your hips, just holding them for a moment. You pull your hand out of your panties and let him pull them off along with your pants.

The cool air of the ship hit your heat and you whined, feeling how tremendously wet you were. You felt two of his fingers come down the side of your hip, over the front and inside of your thigh before grazing over your labia.

You shook, almost violently, as you squeezed your eyes shut and balled your fists in the sheets. You couldn’t even look at him, you were so riled up. You were afraid if he looked you in the eyes he’d see how embarrassed you were or how much you truly wanted him.

As his fingers tease your folds, they become slick and slide into you easy when he pushes them forward.

“Ohh, yes.” You groan, whole body tensing up.

“Just relax.” He coos and you try to relax as many of your muscles as possible.

Instead of holding your legs up and away from each other, you let them drop apart against the walls of the compartment, you relax your hands and shoulders, trying to even your breathing.

He starts to pull his fingers back out slowly, being cautious and waiting for your instruction.

“Please, for Maker’s sake, go faster.” You whimper the last word and he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of your pussy at a quick pace.

“Fuck… that feels so good.” You sigh, gasp, and then sigh again with each movement of his hand.

He curls his fingers, searching for your g-spot and — “Mando…” you whine — there it is.

He makes it a point to brush over this spot with every thrust of his fingers, making your toes curl.

“I’m gon- gonna- oh fuck.” You cry out, thighs quivering as you cum hard, pulsing around his fingers.

“Fuck.” You hear his modulated voice over you.

You orgasm hard enough to see spots around the edges of your vision, and as you’re waiting for the come down… it never really comes.

“It- oh, fuck, baby-“ your eyebrows draw together and you reach down to grab his wrist when he starts to pull his fingers out of you. “It’s w- worse.” You can barely get the words out.

“You’re probably going to need to go a few more rounds before it goes away.” The Mandalorian explains.

“What?!” You ask, surprised and starting to sweat.

“It’s happened to me before.” He admits and you buck your hips, trying to get his fingers deeper inside of you.

“Please, k- keep… going.” You pant, looking up at him with seriousness in your eyes.

He nods and his fingers start to thrust in and out of you once more, and within ten seconds you’re cumming again. You throw your head back and feel yourself soaking his fingers.

“Ple- please,” you take a deep breath before you ask a question that can’t be unasked. “Will you fuck me?” You beg.

Mando nods and sits back on his knees for a second, undoing his belt and zipper before pulling himself out of his pants.

You moan at the sight of him, cunt tingling with anticipation.

“Protection?” He asks.

“No time. I’m on medicine for it.” You blurt out, biting your lip.

He nods and gets into position, guiding his cock to your entrance. He rubs the head up and down over your clit before pushing into you painfully slow.

“Baby, please,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

He almost growls as he pushes in quickly to the hilt, making you whimper. Your jaw drops open and you let out a long, shaky moan, reaching up to grab his shoulders.

He pulls out and slams back in once, pushing you up the bed slightly. You wrap your legs around his hips, angling up so he could go deeper.

He starts a quick pace, fucking you down into the thin mattress. Your eyes screw shut and you’re cumming again, groaning a string of curses.

He slows down to let you regain your senses, but just for a moment. And then he’s slamming into you again, hips slapping against your ass. The sound only eggs you on, gets you more sexually intoxicated.

He reaches down between you to rub your clit, trying to help you get off again so you can be cured of this. You can’t believe it when only seconds pass and your fourth orgasm washes over you. Your body nearly convulses as you cum hard on his pulsing cock. “Mando- oh my, fucking yes-“ your hips buck up.

He’s grunting as he fucks into you, keeping the same speed. He was just gonna keep going until you told him to stop. He was committed.

“One more time.” You breathe out. You’re getting exhausted, soaking the mattress, and you know he can’t go forever either. “Let’s t- try one more time.” You stutter.

He nods and keeps thrusting, playing with your clit for a minute before that hand moved up under your shirt to grab your breast.

You moaned in unison with him, panting as he kneaded and squeezed your tit. He somehow speeds up and then you’re gone. You nearly scream, arching your back as you tip over the edge.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and your pussy squeezes around him, and then you feel his cum filling you as he groans your name.

Finally, finally, you start to come down from your orgasms, body relaxing and you start feeling less lightheaded.

He pulls out of you with a soft groan, tucking himself back into his pants before collapsing down next to you, breathing hard.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long ti-“ you start to say something and then slap a hand over your mouth.

He just laughs softly, rubbing your thigh. “Me too.”

Maybe falling into those flowers wasn’t the worst thing after all.

378 notes · View notes

orchidyoonkook · 1 year

Text

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 1

Title: Assembly’s and Introductions

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Mild Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: There’s a new kid at your prestigious university, he’s tall, tattooed and muscular, and oh yeah, he’s the Prince.

Warnings: PG13, mild swearing, a general ‘lets get the ball rolling’ first chapter

Word Count: 5410

Release Date: January 26, 2023, 12:40PM

A/N 1: I’ve been working on this since September 2022, got 80K in, and have accidentally taken an extended break from Dec 1st until now. I need a kick in the pants to continue writing it so here’s the first chapter. I hope you enjoy as I have read this about 400 times and I’m sick of editing it.

A/N 1.5: it’s pronounced ‘Nehl” not “Neal”

“Come on, come ooooon!!” Yuri says as she drags you by one arm down the corridor, the other filled with books and study notes. You’re being dragged from your mid morning study session and she's starting to stretch your favourite sweater from how hard she’s pulling.

Slipping from her grasp to save it from any permanent damage, Yuri uses her new freedom to take the lead.

“Not everyone cares as much about this as you do,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I get you’re here because your parents put you here but I worked for it. I can’t just abandon my study plans for some guy,” voice echoing in the corridor as you succeed in keeping up with her quick pace.

Yuri mocks your words in gibberish, matching your tone, just more nasally.

She’s heard this hundreds of times since becoming your best friend in first year after being assigned your roommate. She may force you to go to places and parties you don’t find nearly as important as she does, but you also know she’s the only reason you’ve had any fun since starting university.

That doesn’t deter you though.

“I’m serious,” you insist, refusing to back down.

A look you know well flashes over her face. One that’s a mixture of absurdity and exhaustion— specifically at you.

“You know, sometimes I can’t even believe we’re friends. He’s not just some guy YN,” she looks over her shoulder to make eye contact. “He's the prince.”

Ah yes, the prince.

How could you be so foolish?

The fancy name given to the poor bastard who doesn’t get to decide his future—or work for it for that matter. Just has it handed to him because he was born at the right place, right time.

The prince who’ll be king to the biggest nation in the west one day.

The prince everyone freaks out over.

Sure, he’s cute enough, and will eventually have lots of money and power, because those are so important for someone like him.

But what’s money and power if you’re miserable or an asshole or you don’t know what to do with it? What’s money and power for someone who’s never known poverty and helplessness?

The title of Prince means nothing if you don’t earn it. Means nothing if you don’t know how to use it properly.

Who knows if this one does? So why should you particularly care?

Unfortunately, most people can’t get past the ‘young, handsome, future king of the Western Shores, hunk-a-hunk of dreamy’—blah, blah, blah, the media splatters over every magazine cover they possibly can, earning the prince a hefty social following of adoring, screaming—slightly brain dead if you had any say about it— ‘followers’ aka fans.

And Yuri, like every other girl on campus, is one of them. Minus the brain dead and screaming.

Well…Sort of minus the screaming.

She has screamed, in the past at least. So maybe just minus the brain dead part…

Anyways, she’s grabbing your wrist and you sigh, wringing yourself free of her near iron grip, again. But you can’t blame her.

Yuri’s focused on one thing, and one thing only.

And it’s beginning in 15 minutes.

“Plus I want good seats!”

You scoff.

“He’s just a person, Yuri. I get he’s got an important title and fancy job, but that’s all that separates him from us.”

She glares at you as you reach the courtyard of your school.

Trees surround the perimeter in evenly placed lines, a large running fountain at its center. There’s plenty of open grass space the students use to study, picnic or throw a ball around on. And its cobblestone walkways are currently covered in rows upon rows of filled up seats.

Most of those filled seats are in the middle though, which surprises you. You would’ve thought girls would be lining up at the front row to see their prince.

“Yeah, just the title and fancy job,” Yuri says, taking her turn to scoff and opens her hand to count on her fingers. “Let's not count the fact that he’s insanely hot—have you seen his body? His face? Or what of the land he’ll inherit on top of the land he already owns? And money! Can’t forget that. Or clothes. Not enough? I can keep going,” she switches to her other hand. “How about control over the largest kingdom in The West? They don't call him ‘Prince of the Western Shores’ for nothing, Sweets. Also the mass of adoring fans, security and advisors following his every move, nice cars, fancy vacation houses…should I keep going?”

You’re pretty sure she only stopped because she ran out of fingers and you don’t deign her with a reply. Yuri seems content to have made her point and she did.

But you’d never admit that to her. Instead you keep walking, taking in the sights around you.

Your school is The Royal Academy of Business and Fine Arts. Anyone can study here if they have the cash, or the brains, though one method is much more abused than the other.

It’s one of the most prestigious schools in the world because it’s where nearly every royal on this half of the continent goes to university. Hence the “Royal'' in the title.

Ladys, lords, dukes, duchesses, princesses and yes, princes all go here—are most of your classmates, actually. But there is only one prince everyone cares about. The one who, in the next few short years, will not only be at your school for whatever it is his father deems appropriate for him to study in his post secondary education, but the one who is also first in line and heir to the biggest kingdom in The West—if it hadn’t been mentioned before.

His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook.

Okay… look.

It’s not that you don’t like him, he hasn’t done anything to make you hate him, and you’re sure he’s a decent guy once you get to know him.

It’s just that you don’t really feel any type of way about him, positive or negative. And that confuses so many people around you.

Which in turn, confuses you.

Most people seem to think he’s some sort of god sent angel carved by the hands of whoever created the universe. Fawning over him and thinking he can do no wrong. But what they all fail to see is that he’s just like them.

Got a bit more of a leg up on life than most, sure, but still human. Like you, or Yuri.

He eats and showers and uses the bathroom. He gets a runny nose and puffy eyes when he’s sick. He has bad hair days and ties his own shoes… you think.

He’s just a regular guy with an irregular job. So no, you had no opinion on him other than disinterested neutrality.

But if you had to feel something? You guess you probably felt pity.

You worked your ass off in highschool to get where you are. You and your mom screamed until your voices were hoarse when you got your acceptance letter two and a half years ago. One of 25 scholarship students accepted on a full ride every year.

You were doing a major in fine arts and a minor business, wanting to milk your education for all it’s worth on their dime. Lucking out that your two areas of interest were not only at one school, but at one of the best schools in the world for both subjects.

You chose what you wanted for your life and you worked for it for years. And now you sit comfortably at the top of your class in both fine arts and business, not taking your opportunity for granted for a second.

Jungkook though? He’s expected to go here. Doesn’t have much of a choice about it, and he doesn’t have to work for it either.

A small part of you that has yet to mature envies him for how easy he has it, for the privileges he is given simply because of one six letter word in front of his name. That he didn’t have to put in 60 hour weeks and give up his teenage years just to prove he was good enough to be here.

He was born good enough.

But that’s a small part of you, and you can ignore it if you try hard enough.

The point is you felt pity because he’s probably never had to work for something a day in his life. He doesn’t know the satisfaction of working towards something, to not only succeed, but to be the best.

To earn what he has.

He won’t know what to do when real life hits him.

Yuri lets a baby scream loose as she spots her desired seats and yanks you out of your thought spiral.

The front of the courtyard is still relatively empty, middle still filling up faster than anything else.

“Yes! Score! First row, left side, that’s perfect! He'll definitely see us.”

She grabs your arm a third time and it’s an effort not to drop your books and groan at her.

Yuri’s like you in the sense where she is not royalty, but unlike you she—or should you say, her parents—are loaded.

Family business perks.

She’s here because she can be, because her family can afford to send her and make donations, not because she wants to be or because she worked for it.

But don’t misunderstand that, Yuri works hard. She just happens to party more than she studies most days. That and plan her future with a very rich and handsome guy who has yet to be determined.

You’d jokingly deemed her a royalty hunter after about an hour of meeting her for how badly she wanted to ‘marry up.’

“See you,” you correct, or has she forgotten about Nel, your boyfriend of 5 years? Your high school sweetheart and who is currently, much to your dismay, at school about 5000 miles away.

“I’m sure Cornelius wouldn’t be mad if the prince charms his girl just once, seeing as his royal highness can do that to most people just by breathing near them,” she quips. ”And even if he would get mad, Jungkook can just have him thrown in a dungeon for being overprotective and jealous.”

“The royal palace doesn’t have dungeons, but they do have a series of interrogation rooms on the third lower level,” you inform her. You did a project on the history and architecture of the royal palace in tenth grade—and Nel really wouldn’t care, he knows where he stands, just like you do.

“How do you just know that!”

Yuri didn’t know you in highschool and you used that to your advantage every single time you could, laughing bright and loud.

She starts dragging you down the walkway again, a habit of hers. Like she’s worried you’ll try to slip away if she isn’t forcing you where she wants you to be.

It’s a good instinct on her part.

You're nearly there, so you focus more on the trees just starting to turn colours overhead, casting slightly pigmented shadows on the ground. Fall is just starting to creep up on the heels of summer, the days of sunscreen and chlorine slowly being replaced by pumpkin spice and crisp apples.

She sits exactly where she wanted too, and you plop beside her, glad you’re wearing a light sweater and tights. They are just warm enough to keep the slight breeze from giving you chills, but also keep your legs from sticking to the plastic seats.

For such an expensive school to go to you’d think they’d have better assembly furniture.

You notice a news camera off in the distance and suddenly understand the empty front seats. No one wants to publicly embarrass themselves on national television from seeing the prince, rewindable and replayable, forever seared into the internet.

It’s times like these you’re happy you’ve never been one to get starstruck. They’re all just people, why be shocked or surprised when they exist near you?

Opening up your books on your lap, you figure you can kill the next ten minutes in a productive way, considering what happened to your original plans for the mid morning.

And as you do, you feel the seats around you begin to fill, not a single one empty by the time the event starts. Not even the ones up front.

A jerked movement catches your eyes and you see that two seats closer to the pedestal from Yuri is Adaline.

Great.

Adaline Dupree is basically a princess from the Eastern Shores. ‘Basically’ because she’s not, but she certainly acts like she is. A fake princess, an even bigger royalty hunter than your best friend and your not so secret arch nemesis.

She’s in your fine arts classes—all of them, unfortunately—her proper title being ‘Duchess of…’ some province you never bothered to learn the name of, and she’s one of the most well known people on campus.

Tall, with beautiful blonde hair, hazel eyes, freckles, a slim figure and quite the socialite. You’re surprised she went into fine arts and not modeling. She’s got the ego part of the job down pat.

Good for her for being pretty. But anyone could be beautiful on the outside with enough money and a surgeon. That’s not why you considered her your nemesis, you don’t give a shit about any of that.

She was your nemesis in the academic world. Because not only was she beautiful, she was also brilliant at her craft.

Which happened to also be your craft, and it pissed you off to no end.

Where you were first, she was second and where she was first, you were second. Always neck in neck with one another, always trying to one up each other.

You only considered yourself better than her because unlike her, you hoped at least, Adaline was a complete and total bitch. She took what she wanted without remorse and she wasn’t above sabotage to get it.

You learned that the hard way in your first year. And you’ve always wondered if that was her privileged upbringing speaking or if she’s just like that naturally, so unused to not getting what she wanted that she’d take it.

Therefore, it is of absolutely no shock to you that she’s sitting as close as she possibly can to where the prince will be standing. Directly in front of the pedestal at the base of the fountain in the center of the courtyard.

A door opens to your right followed by a couple screams, and you can only assume the man of the hour has arrived. A red camera light flicks on in your peripheral vision and you take that as your confirmation and cue to close your books.

The Dean of Schools, a few advisor looking people, a good handful of terrifyingly large security guards, and a head of black hair you conclude to be the prince all make their way towards their destination.

A smirk graces your face at all the girls batting eyelashes or screaming his name, as if that would get his attention. You’re about to mention that exact thought to Yuri, but you notice her eyelashes looking awfully similar to those around you and can’t help failing to stifle a laugh.

She catches it. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say. “You might just want to pick your jaw up off the ground.”

Her response gets cut off when a voice comes over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for such a warm welcome,” says the Dean, calm and assured. She knew exactly the welcome they'd receive. “I’ll keep my introduction short. Today, I present to you not only the newest addition to The Royal Academy of Business and Fine Arts, but the future King of our great nation. He has requested to formally address the student body before he starts classes this fall semester, so without further adieu: His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook.”

Riigghht. Did you mention he was the prince of the country you’re living in?

Well…he is.

The crowd soars in volume once more, a couple “I love you’s” thrown in for good measure as the prince steps up and you zone out.

From your angle, you can see his whole body from the side, and that even though he’s holding cue cards, he doesn’t use them, placing them face down on the pedestal.

His dark hair is swept back in a suave styling and he’s wearing a simple navy long sleeve button up, black dress pants and matching leather shoes.

The outfit makes him look ever so princely and very much not like a student. More like one of the faculty.

However, what you don’t expect are the small patches of ink on his arm peeking out of his right sleeve. Or just how tight the clothes he wears are on his apparently very muscular form.

You remember Yuri’s words from earlier, only now registering. You knew he had muscles, no one ever shut up about them. But seeing them in person… wow.

You kind of want to sketch him—for anatomy practice, of course.

The prince begins his address to the crowd and an eerie silence replaces the roars from earlier. You take a quick look around and notice that not one person isn’t completely transfixed on him. Even the dean can’t keep her eyes off him.

You give him credit for not balking under the intense gazes of literally everyone. You know you sure as hell would have, never being one to like being the center of attention. At least, not like this.

You clue into his speech as you look back at him. He’s talking about how he found himself as a teenager thinking of what he wanted his future to look like and what he wanted to do with his schooling, which is not only why he took a couple years to explore the continent before enrolling, but why he will be doing a major and a minor at the school.

One for his career, and one for his heart.

You won’t admit to yourself that the sentiment very closely resonates with you.

He continues.

“All that said, I asked to address you all today for one very simple reason, being that, for my time here at the academy, I wish to be treated like any other student. I am not unaware of my celebrity and how I am seen to the outside world. It is not lost on me my place in the world and who I am to become. I know for some that it may be… difficult to see me for anything other than who I am, and this is why I ask you humbly, just for the short while that I’m here, you all treat me no differently than you already do one another,” he pauses for a moment. “I extend my request most deeply to those who will be studying alongside me in my business administration major and photography minor, as I don’t want it to affect my studies.”

Yuri slaps her hand down onto your leg causing you to jerk forward and you clamor to not drop any of your books. Business administration is her major. Her parents want her to take over the family biz after school.

That was probably why she partied so much. Living as much as she can before being thrust into a job she doesn’t want for the rest of her life.

Pity creeps back up your throat at the thought.

Jungkook notices your jerking movement, but only for a second. His eyes meet yours and you hope yours convey ‘sorry for interrupting’.

You may not care about him, but just like him you are not unaware of his status in the world outside the walls of your school.

Yuri, of course, thinks he’s looking at her and not only does her grip on your leg tighten to the point of circulation cut off, she returns to her earlier routine of batting her eyelashes.

You roll your eyes away from her sight, but unbeknownst to you, well within the gaze of Jungkook.

He suppresses a smile at your response to your friend's clear attempts to gain his attention.

You, on the other hand, seem indifferent to him. He has the entire student body watching his every move with hawk-like precision, enraptured. Normal, for him.

But you?

You just seem to… not care. Like he wasn’t anyone special. Like the word in front of his name meant nothing.

And if it wasn't the most freeing feeling he’s felt in a long time.

“Thank you so much for your time, and I’ll see you all around campus,” he finishes before stepping down, security wrapping around him again until he’s barely visible. The dean pops up to conclude the gathering but you aren’t paying attention anymore, too busy trying to peel Yuri’s hand off your thigh.

“Yuri, retract the claws please!” you whisper-yell to your friend. And she does in fact, retract instantly.

“Shit, sorry. My brain is running a million miles a minute,” she says as she pinches herself, shaking her head and smiling. “I’m three years ahead of him in his major. His major YN! But he’s still older than us, which is so hot. I'm so glad he did that tour in the east and whatever else that kept him back for a couple years, it makes this whole situation even better,” you start to worry at the look in her eye as she continues.

“What if he needs a tutor? What if I become his tutor, and we fall in love like a cliche romance movie. I could be the future queen. YN, this could actually happen for me. I could actually get the prince, it’s not some wild dream anymore. I could talk to him and he would talk back and this could happen.”

You can feel that she’ll just keep spiraling, nothing being able to stop her train of thought at this point, so you try your best to at least have her do her thinking in her head.

“Maybe! I wish you nothing but luck!” And you mean it. You don’t think it will happen the way she does, but you never know. And you don’t want to give her false hope.

You’ve always been the realist to Yuri’s optimist.

With the assembly over, most of the crowd files out of the courtyard quickly, prior plans calling to them or classes starting soon.

Only a few stragglers are left behind. You and Yuri are two of them, as well as Adaline, and a couple more you don’t know.

Security starts to spread out and you watch as Jungkook makes his way to the people farthest from you, much to their delight.

It’s a group of guys, all of whom look muscular enough to be varsity athletes. Maybe Jungkook will want to do sports while he’s here. You know that he’s an accomplished rugby player, greatly to his fathers dismay, but to the pleasure of anyone who has about $10 and has access to magazines or wifi.

“Oh my god he’s making his way over. Do. Not. Move. I want him to come to us,” Yuri says, forcing you to stay in your spot. It would be fruitless to try anything anyway. Another lesson you learned the hard way in first year.

She starts fluffing her hair and asking you to check her teeth. You do. She’s in the clear.

Unfortunately, you two would most likely be the last people he greeted, so you had to watch as he made his way down the line of people.

He greets the guys with a handshake and a clap to the back, and the girls with a kiss to the top of the hand.

One thing you notice as he meets more and more people is that everyone still calls him ‘prince’ or ‘your highness.’

It’s automatic for them, they’re not even thinking twice about it, but it’s also completely besides the point of half of his whole speech. He wanted to be treated like everybody else.

It especially irked you when it was Adaline’s turn and she put on her most feminine, formal, and ridiculously overly flirty, “Hello, Prince Jungkook,” before curtseying, blasting her full facade of charm and courteousness.

Ever the dainty, prim and proper duchess, she’s all small laughs and less than subtle flirting, never impolite, and never speaking out of turn.

You wanted to gag, and you’re quite sure that’s exactly what your face conveyed. But Jungkook smiles wide for her, and is as kind to her as he was to everyone else prior. He even flirts back a little bit.

Yeah, you definitely want to gag. What a match those two would make.

But just as soon as he greets Adaline and her friend, he politely steps away and moves on to you and Yuri.

“Hello ladies, what might your names be?” he asks ever so formally.

You gently laugh at being called a lady and Yuri shoots you a look. Jungkook doesn’t appear to take offense though.

“Hello, your highness!” Yuri chirps in the most ‘I'm trying to flirt but trying to not sound like I’m flirting’ voice you’ve ever heard her use. “My name is Yuri Yeun, and I’m actually a business admin major too, just a few years ahead.”

Jungkook lifts her hand to his mouth, giving it a light kiss and she looks like she’s about to explode.

“It’s lovely to meet you Yuri, I’ll look forward to seeing you around the halls,” he says in the same tone he’s used for everyone else. He’s about to face you, but Yuri cuts in quickly.

“If you ever need any help with your studies, just let me know. I’d be happy to help you with anything you might need help with. Having already been through it, I may be able to give a students insight versus a professors.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Thank you for your generosity.” Again that same tone, you mentally dub it his ‘greeting the public like the ever so good royal I am’ voice.

He turns to you and extends his hand for yours.

You reach for it, twisting it so that instead of a hand turned upright to be kissed, it’s a regular handshake. If he wanted to be treated like anyone else here, you sure as hell were going to.

“I’m YN, it’s nice to meet you Jungkook.” At the mention of his name untitled, he pauses, eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not a bad pause, just a surprised one. And by the looks of the small smile on his face, a good one.

Yuri's eyes, on the other hand, almost bug out of her skull at your informal greeting.

“Likewise,” he manages to get out, completely unlike his usually composed self.

You're the only one who hasn’t addressed him with his title, and it’s the most like him he’s ever felt.

Twice in one day—in one hour—you’ve managed to make him feel more human and more like himself than he ever has. With your distinct indifference to him of all things.

Jungkook decides then and there he’s very sure he wants more of it in his life.

He still hasn’t stopped shaking your hand, and you don’t know why that’s the only thing you can focus on. His hand is firm and calloused, the kind that can only be built over years of hard work.

Releasing you the second you think it, he looks as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding on too.

Quick to step back into his princely role, Jungkook says, “Pardon my forwardness, but I just have to say that the two of you are beautiful, and that it’s been lovely to meet you both.”

You swear you see Yuri’s soul ascend from her body at his words. “Thank you, Your Highness! That means so much coming from someone as well met as yourself,” she nearly fawns, and you roll your eyes out of her sight for the second time today.

And for the second time today, Jungkook does not let the gesture go unnoticed. How you hold no fear in showing how you feel in front of others, even those you’ve just met. As if it holds no consequence.

It doesn’t for you, he realizes.

You can freely show how you feel without worry of anyone over-analyzing your every facial tic. No fear that a slight misuse of a lip quirk or eyebrow raise could give away national secrets or offend a visiting diplomat.

He envies you for it. For having that freedom he so rarely does.

“You’re most welcome, Yuri. I’m glad you hold my opinion in such high regard.” He flashes her that well practiced bright smile and you already know what she won’t be shutting up about it anytime soon.

“I’ve always been told I have my fathers bone structure but my mothers beauty. I’ll be sure to let them know their Prince thinks the combination is worth complimenting,” you respond, not braggadocious or sarcastic in the slightest.

You know it would make your mom so proud to hear the future king found you pretty, even if you knew the compliment was given to every girl here.

Your father wasn’t in the picture, but that didn’t matter and the prince didn’t need to know.

“I hope they won’t mind a stranger's compliment on their daughter then,” Jungkook says, ducking his head slightly and giving you a smaller smile.

This one felt genuine, like he wanted to hold it back but couldn’t. So you return a small one of your own, to let him know this was an even exchange. You may not feel any type of way about the prince, but you were raised to be kind.

“Any praise for their daughter from the future King would be welcomed any day, I’m sure,” Yuri cuts back in, killing his smile along with it.

You’re sad to see it go.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” he responds, princely public persona back on. Stupid flashy smile back on. “What will you two be heading off to do now?”

“What I wanted to be doing for the last half hour in the first place before being hauled down here by this one,” you point a thumb at Yuri. “Finishing my study hour at the library,” you add quickly, before Yuri can get out her answer. You almost wish you hadn't because the hand that had your thigh in a death grip earlier now only somewhat playfully swats your shoulder.

“YN!”

“What!? I’m just being honest. He wants to be treated like anyone else right? That comes with people being honest to you instead of glazing over their answers with pretty little white lies to appease you.”

Yuri looks ready to rip you a new one, but she’s cut off again before she can open her mouth. This time by the prince.

“No, no it’s okay,” Jungkook says before she can swat you again. She stops mid swing at his words, eyes as wide as saucers at being stopped. “YN’s right, I appreciate the honesty, and I apologize for the interruption. I hope your studies will not be too greatly affected because of it.”

“Guess we’ll find out during midterm season,” you say with a smirk that turns into a genuine smile as you see Jungkook look panicked, like he actually thinks he messed up your education by disturbing your study session.

Relief quickly replaces the panic when he sees your smile and realises it was a joke.

Being treated like a regular person also meant being joked with at their expense, and he takes it in stride as his small smile from earlier makes a comeback.

“Well I have class in half an hour,” Yuri says, finally answering his question, “So probably grabbing a coffee from the cafe near the biz-admin building… I could show you if you want?”

“That sounds great actually, I’m still trying to figure out where everything is.”

“Great! Let’s go.”

Jungkook, ever the gentleman, lifts an arm for her to take and you watch them walk off, Yuri absolutely beaming as she glances back at you. You give her a thumbs up before collecting your books and heading back in the direction of the library.

Chapter Two: Unknown Numbers and Sharp Tongues

A/N 2: and so it begins.

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hpsnooze · 9 months

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Rules & Guidelines 2023 🛌💭

Do you like sleeping? (Who doesn't?) Do you like reading/writing/drawing your favorite characters sleeping? Auror Harry hitting the sac with Draco after a long day in the field? Post-War Pansy curling around Hermione when she gets a nightmare? Or maybe Neville conked out in History of Magic again?

Well, look no further! HP Snooze Fest is here for all your sleeping needs 😴 We are a non-anonymous self-posting fest focused on sleeping and dozing. Simply upload your work to the collection or post on Tumblr between Oct 1-Dec 31.

💤 Schedule

Prompts Released: Sep 1 (here) Claiming Opens: Sep 1 (here) Self-Posting: Oct 1-Dec 31 (here)

💤 Rules

Participants must be age 18+! There will be explicit and dark content as part of this fest. Please follow the age restriction.

MUST FEATURE SLEEPING! We have a list of 50 snooze-worthy prompts to choose from, each one related to sleeping in some way.

All mediums welcome! Fic, art, podic, craft, bookbinding, playlist, moodboard, ASMR video... you name it, we love it!

Any length welcome! No length restrictions. Microfics, oneshots, and multi-chaps are all welcome.

Any ship, any rating, any content!* We follow SALS, KINKTOMATO, and DLDR. We love all ships, kinks, and content (explicit, dark, Dead Dove, etc). We will not tolerate ship bashing, kink shaming, or any targeted forms of harassment.

Tag your works! Please use the standard archive warnings (Graphic Violence, MCD, Rape/Non-con, Underage) and include common trigger warnings if applicable.

Must be a new work! It may be a WIP but must not yet be published before the beginning of the fest. Works may be part of an ongoing series (ex: a prequel/sequel to an existing work).

No AI-generated content! All works must be human-made (or creature-made, we suppose). Computers do not count as alive.

Can combine with other fests! If they're cool with it, then so are we. The more fests the merrier.

Self-prompting is allowed! Don't see a prompt you like? No problem! Just choose the self-prompt option during claiming. As long as your work features sleeping in some way, go wild!

💤 Submitting

On AO3: Claim a prompt (or multiple), then upload your work to the collection on AO3 and fill out the 'Fulfill a Claim' field. You may claim a prompt and upload a work as soon as prompts are released on Sep 1. However, works will remain hidden until Oct 1 when the official posting period begins. Optional, tag your work with 'HP Snooze Fest 2023'.

On Tumblr: Mention us @hpsnooze and tag your post with #hpsnooze2023. We will reblog!

💤 Links

Have a question? Ask us!

AO3 Collection: HP Snooze Fest 2023 (hpsnooze2023)

Prompt List: AO3 & Tumblr

Happy creating and happy snoozing! 😴

*Content restriction: We cannot accept explicit art depicting underage characters (under the age of 18) for legal reasons.

#hpsnooze2023 #hpsnooze #hp fest #you snooze you lose #set those alarm clocks for sep 1!#mod post #rules

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kithtaehyung · 1 year

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racchanel (m) (teaser) | kth

but the thing about vengeance is...

title: racchanel (m) | ⟶ small teaser for tae day 2022! pairing: fashion ceo!taehyung x ex-photographer!reader rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; fashion au , ? to lovers summary: you were shut out from the industry before. so when an ex-classmate surprises you with another way in, you have no choice but to accept. determined to destroy the one that took everything, you’ll do whatever it takes - even if that means starting over and knowing nothing. warnings: none for teaser except taehyung being.. well, tae. full list will include explicit scenes, angst but are we shocked?, language, revenge, sexual themes, angst, this tae in general tbh, did i mention angst?, warnings will be posted with each chapter. note: so this is the secret wip that i had been holding onto for the entire year!! hope you all enjoy the snippet i have prepared for tae day 2022 because it’s but a taste of what’s to come. definitely one of the pieces i’m super excited to release in 2023! note 2: this teaser drops you in the middle of the first part! teaser word count: 2.3k | est. word count: 100k est. drop date: ongoing series in 2023! 18+ taglist link: HERE

The trek to the front entrance remains uneventful.

Respecting Taehyung’s space, you release your arm from his suit just as the elevator kisses the ground floor. You don’t want anyone starting rumors about you messing around with the CEO before you even launch your career here.

Career.

Quite a bold word for you to throw around already. After all, the contract Taehyung offered is only temporary, not to mention strapped with an early termination clause.

Essentially, you could be dropped at any point without so much as a warning.

And you don’t expect anything less brutal than that.

When you pass reception, you spare the boys from earlier a glance—much against your better judgment.

They promptly avert their gazes. Typical.

A huff leaves you before your eyes focus back on the glass doors.

“What did you do to them,” your ex-classmate questions before the panels slide open.

“They were incredibly rude, Taehyung,” you inform, trailing behind and struggling to keep up with his strides. “I just told them to think about how they represented this company. You never know who’ll be walking through those doors.”

The man abruptly stops in front of you, causing you to physically halt on a tiptoe to save yourself from smacking into his back. Swiftly, you find your balance right as he pins you with… a leer?

“I don’t remember you being this nice,” is all he has to say.

“Ah, well, nice is relative.” You look off into the property gardens, not wanting to face those feline eyes a second longer. “I don’t think your employees would exactly call me a saint.”

A rueful laugh pops out of your chest, and you turn to look Taehyung dead in the eye.

“And besides, we went to art school. When was anyone ever nice without some hidden motive?”

Your former classmate can only blink.

And blink again.

“...We’re all screwed up in the head, aren’t we?”

You offer him a tight smile in agreement before peering off again, taking in the immaculate way everything is laid out in front of Racchanel’s headquarters.

The gardens could be an exhibition of their own.

“Undoubtedly,” you finally respond. “But at least you made something of yourself. Most of us are starving artists, or bartenders at jazz joints.”

The breeze cuts right through your sweats. Quickly slipping on your hood, you wonder if Taehyung really doesn’t care about being seen with you looking like this. His single spritz of cologne probably costs more than everything you’re wearing combined.

You should head out now.

In the distance, you spot a long black limo rolling up to the sidewalk.

“I think that’s you, Mr. CEO.”

Taehyung looks at you a beat longer before turning to see his ride.

When you expect him to leave without a goodbye, you stand there in confusion when he doesn’t budge.

What’s he doing? There’s no way he’s not already late for that appearance.

“Tae—”

Huh? Why’s he looking at you like that?

…What storm do you see brewing on his horizon?

“Come with me.”

“What?”

Immediately, your brows furrow impossibly close as he repeats himself,

“To the press conference. Come with me.”

“I look like a hot pile of garbage—”

“It’s fine—”

“No. No way. Find someone else—”

“I don’t have anyone else.”

You still.

“At least,” he weakly clarifies. “Not right now.”

Before you can wholeheartedly shut him down a final time, you take in his appearance—actually take it all in.

You aren’t in a dimly lit bar, or frantically thinking your contract offer was a mistake, so you’re finally seeing him with a clear head.

And what you see is frankly alarming.

Used to seeing this man radiating confidence on anything from cereal boxes to billboards across the globe, you’re suddenly dialed into the changes in his demeanor. Taehyung’s shoulders droop just enough, the spaces under his lashes hollow just enough.

Why didn’t you see any of this before?

Reddened eyes from the bar on Christmas Eve come back to you, causing your mountain of excuses to crumble.

He’s obviously under a lot of pressure from the recent changes in his life. And while change for you means a temporary six-month modeling contract, change to Taehyung means inheriting a multi-million dollar company—seemingly by himself.

There’s nothing else but a desk. In his entire office.

He may feel… So alone.

You remember that feeling. Loneliness. It’s dark, and cold, and in the end, you have to pull yourself out of its clutches all on your own.

Maybe Taehyung can benefit from an extra set of hands.

“Okay,” you agree, startling him out of a stupor. “I’ll go with you. I can hang in the back, or a hallway, or something.”

A little flame flickers to life in his eyes as he offers a close-lipped smile.

“Thank you,” is all he says in return.

And you don’t make him say anything more than that.

“Shit.”

You stop playing with the leather surface of the space next to you. “What.”

It’s been like this the whole ride. Even though Taehyung begged you to accompany him, as soon as you were both settled in the back of the limousine, he seemed to be regretting the impulsive choice.

As if the multiple times he rakes a hand through his hair aren’t enough of an indication, his chin rubs add on to your own anxiousness.

He’s clearly uncomfortable with something. But what the hell is up?

Now his nerves seem to jump out in the form of another curse instead of clarification. Which annoys the heck out of you.

“Taehyung, what’s wrong?”

The man still doesn’t reply, let alone look your way.

Maybe he’s not answering because the answer is way too obvious.

Arriving at a press conference with some random woman in a bunny hoodie and sweats? Yeah. That would make any self-respecting person in fashion shake in their Chelsea boots.

This was a mistake.

What was he thinking? What were you thinking!

The trip to Racchanel was supposed to be a one and done! Tell Taehyung he made an error in the applications, have him verify it, and make your escape.

But ending up in a limo on the way to a media event? You wouldn’t have been able to write this outcome if you tried.

Sparing another glance at Taehyung, you realize he’s starting to get downright antsy.

So you offer to help. “Hey. If you don’t want to be seen with me, I get it. Tell your driver to pull over before we get there and I can get out—”

“Stop,” Taehyung bites, his expression hard. “Just…” He lowers his head in between his legs, large, ring-studded hands shielding the top of it from the world. His houndstooth coat cascades down his sides, and you want to save him from drowning in those black and white waterfalls.

You didn’t really hang with him in university, but you always remembered him as the guy that didn’t have to try hard to succeed. He was never under any pressure, academically.

Really, the only time you remember seeing him upset was when he went through a breakup one year. Kim Taehyung apparently held a grudge as well as he held a pose.

Reaching out, you lay a hand on his shoulder. After his initial tense, he doesn’t shake you off, so you comfort the model superstar the only way you can think of.

Tiny circles. Comforting, warm, tiny circles.

You don’t know if they will work. But it’s something.

Slowly, Taehyung comes back to life like a plant sprouting from a seed. You retract your arm as he straightens against his seat, watching as he rolls his shoulders and tilts his head to stretch.

From this close, you get to see the skin of his neck.

And wonder how even that part of him is beautiful.

Turning to you, he scoots closer to tug your hood off in a rush.

What—

“Shh,” he hushes, proceeding to fix your head to the best of his ability.

Your eyes roam his face as you stare in shock, wondering why the hell he’s committing to having you here and why he’s styling you himself.

When was the last time someone else even touched your head? This determined yet this tender, at that? You can’t believe this is happening.

Never mind that. You can’t believe you’re here with him at all. His famous fingers sliding through your strands; his perfect eyelashes brushing his cheeks with every solid blink of his eyes.

While he’s trying to salvage the mess that’s your head, his hair’s appropriately slicked with just the right amount of product and flawless styling—

That’s when you realize.

Oh, fuck.

Taehyung’s getting you ready for the onslaught of cameras.

Shit, shit shit.

Being judged by two cowardly receptionists is one thing. But being judged, photographed, and written about by a swath of Kim Taehyung paparazzi?

That’s a thousand times worse.

Barefaced and carrying evidence of the sleepless night you had yesterday, you’re suddenly grossly self-conscious about your entire appearance.

The gap between your statuses, experience, and overall lifestyle suddenly resembles a canyon. One so wide you can’t even see him on the other side.

Taehyung’s right there.

And yet you feel the furthest you’ve ever felt.

There’s no way you belong in his world.

What the fuck are you even doing here?

“Taehyung,” you hiccup, quickly interrupted by the shouts of people outside as the limo approaches the conference building. Rattling erupts and rings from inside your skin, and you stare back at him with equally trembling eyes. “I can’t do this—”

“You can.”

“Please—”

Unfazed, he simply asks,

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Why did you say that so confidently? Why was that so easy to decide?

Do you really?

“Of course you do,” he sighs before pulling you in for a forehead kiss that catapults your heart into your throat.

But you don’t get to question it before your hood is tugged over your head, dark sunglasses shoved onto your face right as camera flashes and jumbled yells spill into the opened car door.

People. Hands. Phones. Multiple camera snaps and lights and voices bombard your senses, and you’re grateful for the shades over your eyes as you hoist yourself out of the vehicle.

Taehyung exits right after and blazes a trail for you to walk.

“Excuse me, miss—”

“Who is she?”

“Taehyung, who is the mystery girl!”

Through the whirlwind of paparazzi, your thoughts only convene on the cold spot where he kissed you. The freezing wind only makes it more prominent, and you barely even register that you’re walking by yourself as you follow right after him.

It’s only after you get through the heavy doors that your surroundings snap back into focus.

Wait. What?

How long were you out in the crowd? How did you even get here in one piece?

The sounds outside muffle as the entrance bangs shut, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were hiding.

“This way,” Taehyung directs to both you and the security detail that materializes behind you, striding heavily to the right.

When did these guys…?

Whoa.

You have no clue where you are, but you are miles away from your apartment block.

Taking in the expansive building, you see that it’s a true conference center, with a grand, open lobby and square footage for days. The right wing looks to house large event rooms, judging by its wide hall and the multiple sets of towering double-doors.

Scampering after Taehyung, you make sure to stay behind but as close as possible.

Which makes you almost collide when he stops on a dime. Again.

You have got to stop walking behind him.

Face scrunched in annoyance, you’re about to tell the man off—security be damned—before he blurts,

“When we get in there, just relax and follow my lead, okay?”

“Oh, I can wait out here,” you reply, more than happy to leave him to the masses now that you’ve got a taste of them outside. “I don’t mind.”

Hands set in his trousers, Taehyung peers down at the floor before regarding you with what looks like…

An apology.

There’s dread in your veins.

“I wasn’t planning on putting you through a press conference this soon, but you can do this.”

And it seeps right into your bones.

“What?”

His palms land on your shoulders before you can flee.

“Look. The Board isn’t giving me a lot of time to introduce Astral, even though I told them that’s the only thing I need right now. I just…” Running a hand through his hair, Taehyung looks years older and yet years younger all the same. “I need a familiar face.”

Hell no.

There’s no way you can do this.

Going with him and braving the paparazzi was horrid enough. But a press conference?

What the fuck are you supposed to say? You aren’t even dressed.

“Taehyung. Look at me.” You gesture to your entire wreck of an ensemble, fingers trembling. “I’m gonna make Racchanel look like a fucking joke.”

“I don’t care. This new project is going to work.”

What? How is this possibly going to work? What single thing about this is gonna go well?

Has he lost his mind?

“What do you mean?”

Instead of responding to your question, Taehyung only gives directions,

“When we go in there, just keep your face neutral and your back and neck straight. If anyone asks you a question, just say you’re grateful for this opportunity. Understand?”

“Tae—”

“I’ll owe you.”

You clamp your jaw shut, eyes unblinking as you drink in your former classmate’s entire expression.

“I’ll owe you. Big.” He breathes in deep before looking at the doors, then back to you. “Just do this one thing. For me.”

What is he thinking?

You pause for eternity before closing your eyes, wondering if he can even see how uncertain they are behind your dark shades.

“Fine. I will.”

What are you thinking?

“That’s a good girl,” he sighs in relief, embracing you fully before planting another quick peck on your temple. As he pulls away, your hand is clutched before you’re led right up to a set of imposing doors.

To give a press conference.

What are either of you even remotely thinking?

tbc. :)

how do we feel! | taglist + extra optional teaser

a/n: ahhhh it may not make much sense now since this is dropping everyone in the middle of the first part, but i wanted there to be some mystery to everything that’s about to happen! hope you’re all ready to see what’s on the horizon for this tae and reader<33

other links: masterlist | permanent taglist (i check each entry so have your age displayed somewhere in your profile!)

#ahhhh wanted to get something out for today!#hope you enjoy :D #bts #taehyung #bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #taehyung fic #bts fanfic #taehyung x you #bangtanarmynet #*latest #ryenwrites #racchanel #*ryenfictalk #happytaeday22!#taehyung smut #taehyung angst

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