#he has so many layers to him and it makes me cry

[recapitulation]

elevator pitch mysterious lotus casebook to me 🤑🤑🤑

BELIEVE IT OR NOT I TRIED TO KEEP THIS SHORT. this is no longer an elevator pitch. or maybe i am trapping you in this elevator with me until i finish.

ok. let me give you just a little bit about each of the three main characters bc thats what would make ME interested.

li xiangyi/li lianhua:

li xiangyi rises to the top of the jianghu/martial arts world at 18, but is poisoned and nearly dies during a fight with di feisheng. he's given about 10 years to live. (story starts 10 years later.)

he decided to step out of the jianghu altogether and live life as li lianhua, a "miracle doctor" whose reputation is 100% bullshit.

the only thing he wants is to find the missing corpse of his dead shixiong and bury him properly before he dies himself.

king of lying to your face repeatedly with no shame.

^^ will absolutely lie to you this time.

fang duobing:

fang duobing gets manipulated and backstabbed by li lianhua and immediately starts following him around

after about the third time li lianhua dumps him on the side of the road in an attempt to ditch him, fang duobing starts calling him zhiji

has a huge celebrity crush on li xiangyi, and walks around telling people he's li xiangyi's disciple because of a small interaction the two of them had about 10 years ago.

fang duobing spends the whole beginning half of the show telling li lianhua TO HIS FACE how great and awesome and cool li xiangyi is

^^ btw this is how fang duobing looks at li lianhua WHILE li lianhua is actively poisoning him. <3

di feisheng:

wants to fight li xiangyi again more than anything. like. anything.

agressively tries to heal li lianhua time and time again but li lianhua does NOT want to become li xiangyi again.

is he li xiangyi's old enemy? friend? are they working towards the same goal? do they want to kill each other? well... <3

^^ face of a guy about to throw li lianhua in a pit of snakes for the sake of his health

other reasons why i like it:

I am a fan of inescapable tragedy

I love how the ghost of li xiangyi haunts every part of the story despite li lianhua doing his very best to kill his past self

Truly delicious amounts of dramatic irony

Every time you think the most embarrassing thing possible happens to fang duobing something worse happens to him

So many interesting character interactions deepened by layers of hidden identity

Ending made me cry like a baby and I don't cry easily <3

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

Oh these two idiots are both so gone.

Ooh, "creating art is about exploring what you like" is a nice line. So often we put too much into feeling like creativity has to end up with a good product, and less about what it can teach us about ourselves.

I like how this show talks about art. And New is making it so clear here that he does put a part of himself in all of his shows, whatever people might think. Respect.

And we're normalizing taking breaks and that you can't be productive and creative all the time! Fabulous.

We love a queen who makes the most of her background time.

I mean, valid question Peem, but also - pot, kettle, etc, etc.

Oh god, their actual boyfriend era is going to end me.

You know what I really love about this Phum/Peem scene? They're making it clear that mutual attraction is just one piece of the relationship puzzle. But the friendship still needs to be there, the caring when someone is having a bad day, and being there to pick them up. So many BLs gloss over the mutual support part of romantic relationships in favor of the swoony bits, but this is the kind of thing that makes a couple seem likely to actually last.

Also what does it say about BLs that I was so relieved they actually rolled up their pant legs at the pool? (Of course they still end up wet in the end, but it's the principle of the thing!)

Phum is just 100% always thirsty for Peem and I respect it.

Haha, love Q being all "hands off my baby, stat".

And they're communicating so openly! My sweeties.

Omg, omg, Fang trying to teach himself to express tenderness to Tan, I cannot.

Just go slow Fang, or you may kill this man with happiness!

Aaaaaah, not Pun finding a little bird and wanting to help it, going to Chain (of course), AND naming it Penguin.

I am already at lethal levels of cuteness overload, and we haven't even gotten to the FangTan scene yet.

Staawwwp.

Lolol, of course he got sick, he got wet for 30 seconds. But again we get the subversion, we're paying tribute to the sick trope, but not fully engaging! Heh, this show is so fun.

Has anyone else noticed the slight tone shift for Phum when he's talking to Peem? There's a new softness to it and it's adorable.

Toey, no, no crying wolf to your boyfriend!

But the pencil case thing is adorable.

I think the Peem and Q friendship chemistry might be my favorite in the whole show.

Lol, not Peem letting slip he slept with Phum last night!

Beer, you are such a champion. Good wingmanning, while also not excusing Phum's bad behaviors.

Oh, baby Phum being sent away, that's heart-breaking. No wonder he has walls like that.

I am loving these reveals with Fang. He's such an internal character, so we are unpeeling the layers slowly. But seeing how annoyed he is to not be able to reach Tan, and how fast Tan is able to make him smile again, makes it so clear how much he really needs him.

And the way he smiles so big when he thinks no one can see, but goes right back to pouty face with Tan because it gets him the attention he craves...

Whoever dressed Q for this series, I love you.

Phum going from self-doubt to full steam ahead the moment he gets reassurance his feelings are returned is delightful to see.

Omg, domestic Fang and Tan. But also Fang, you can learn to cook other things, y'know?

Lolol, Fang absolutely loves Tan's antics, it's so freaking adorable.

Aou and Boom always frickin bring it, we thank you for your service boys.

Also more trope play! Tan holding Fang down in the cliche way, but Fang still showing agency and not playing the blushing maiden. Perfect.

Ok, I liked the Kluen scene. He's being shown as a real person with a life of his own, he's not just the "rival". And Peem is being more straightforward with him.

Hahaha, Chain short-circuiting more and more as Pun gets closer.

MATT, WHAT THE HELL?! You do not interfere with my crumbs, dammit!!

Omg, not Chain just blurting out that he likes being shipped with Pun.

I love that everyone is shocked by Phum except for Beer, who is just like "yup".

I do typically hate public declarations, but I will let it go here, because the friend group is the key to the whole series.

Also, Pun is drunk again, so Chain better be ready for some biting! Chomp, chomp.

[devourensarc]

On Sk.irk and His Mental State

warnings for: death, discussions of trauma, dissociation/depersonalization, sui/cidal behavior

Ajax fell into the Abyss at 14 years old — a child. He fell into a land of darkness and monsters, alone, barely a teenager, and this was absolutely traumatic for him. Here, he met Sk.irk.

When we see their reunion in the AQ, she dismisses him as weak — despite him fighting the Narwhal for weeks, a beast that took a fully realized Sovereign to beat (not kill; beat). She states she does not talk to him or give him much acknowledgement because of this perceived weakness.

This was the person who he found in the Abyss, as a lost, scared child. A weak child who needed to become strong to earn a scrap of her attention, attention that was key to his survival. Knowing this, it's easy to see why he is so obsessed with becoming stronger. Even after meeting her, he had to fight for every second of his survival, because to be weak in her eyes meant he would be alone again, in an unfamiliar world full of beasts trying to kill him.

The only reason she gave him any attention at all was Foul Legacy — on this blog, she did not teach him the transformation, but rather how to use it.

Even after he left the Abyss, this fear for his life stayed with him. In addition to my other hcs regarding this (his sleeping habits, nightmares, hiding food, etc), he fixated on becoming stronger because the memories of those monsters are always there. He cannot be that helpless child ever again.

And of course, when he finally returned home, his parents could not or would not help this traumatized child. He tried to prove his strength to them, but instead of acknowledging it, being proud of it, they were terrified. His escalating violence to get them to see it, to pay attention to him, was a reaction born from his interactions with Sk.irk; but this only made his parents more terrified. They treated him like a monster, for the very thing that helped him survive.

When they brought him to the Fatui, again he used a show of strength to preemptively protect himself — see, he was strong, he was not some weak child to prey upon. And again, this only served to scare others, and once again, he was outcast. Pulcinella was the next adult figure to give him any sort of attention, and the young Ajax latched onto this, still caught up in his survival mechanism from the Abyss. Someone was giving him attention, praise — so he would be exactly what Pulcinella, what the Tsaritsa, wanted of him.

Blood and violence does not bother him, but he does not enjoy hurting others for the sake of hurting them. He is not a sadist, nor does he lose control of himself during a battle. He says during the Liyue AQ he doesn't want to release Osial and harm innocents, but he does so anyway to complete his mission, with the full belief Rex Lapis will show himself to fend off Osial. During the Fontaine AQ, he shows situational awareness in that fight with the Narwhal; he knows where the fleeing civilians are and drives the Narwhal away from them, and he is able to set up the Narwhal for a shot from Neuvi, and all of this despite already having fought the thing for weeks and being clearly exhausted.

He needs to be wanted, and he needs to be seen as strong, because to not be these things would have meant his death in the Abyss. Even out of the situation that traumatized you in the first place, it sticks with you, and coping mechanisms that may have helped you survive that situation can very well be maladaptive outside of it. He never got any sort of support to heal from that mindset, and the Fatui actively fed into it.

But inside is still that child who longed to be a hero, who wanted to be loved. You can still see him in Ch.ilde's love for his siblings, his dedication to those he cares for. Ajax wants to be seen, to feel worthy of being seen without constantly having to prove himself strong enough to deserve it — and yet this is not a mindset he can readily put down, even for one person. It is ingrained into his behavior at a fundamental level.

This desire to be strong has led him to separate himself from 'Ajax'. He views Ajax as a weak, naive child, and convinces himself that is no longer him. He is a mask that Ch.ilde will wear around his family because he loves them, but that child is no longer him. (You believe that, right? Please believe that.) Yet his Harbinger persona is as much a mask as Ajax is. He chases battle, is always trying to become stronger, not only to convince others around him but himself.

Mentioned su/icidal behavior cw. He is so caught up in this he doesn't care about his own safety, his own life. Delusion that saps your life force? Don't mind if he does. Throwing himself into battle against stronger opponents? Here he goes. Pulcinella states that he craves encounters that bring him closest to his own demise. It is a sort of thrill, a comfort to him, proving to himself he can survive, but if he does die? Fine. He does not care for his own life. End cw.

tldr: he is not okay. His time in the Abyss was absolutely traumatic for him, and his time with Sk.irk and how his parents treated him afterwards has led to his current mindset today.

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. a flicker of a flame.

about. when satoru notices the flicker of cursed energy within your unborn child, he starts to feel the weight and nerves of becoming a father.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, expecting parents, reader is pregnant, hospitals, nerves about being parents, listen idk how gojo’s cursed technique works so here u go >:( canon verse, expecting father!gojo, fem!reader.

“i can see it…like…flickering inside of you.”

satoru carries an expression of intrigue, like a child who’s just discovered a new sensation.

you flip the page of your magazine, not bothering to spare your husband a glance while you instead choose to admire the many strollers and their offers that decorate the page. “don’t be weird, satoru.” you tap a perfectly manicured nail against the one you like most, leaning over to show the item to him.

“but it’s there… like actually there.” the sorcerer replies, keeping his voice low despite the loud ambience of the maternity ward’s waiting room. people crying, people celebrating, families already full of children gathering around to hear more exciting news. “i like that one. it’ll fit in the hallway too. do you want it in grey or in black?”your husband passes you a pen from the depths of your tote bag in his lap, letting you circle the stroller in the magazine so you know to come back to it.

this time, you do him the honours of looking up at him — a fresh glare settled on your glowing features. “satoru gojo please stop referring to our baby as an ‘it’.” you sigh in exhaustion, watching him slump in his seat because you know he hates it when you’re irritated with him. “i thought you were excited about having a baby girl. and the grey one, it goes with your eyes.”

that seems to perk him up enough, earning you a kiss to your cheek that has you smiling like a fool in the nurses office. “sorry, sorry…” satoru starts to coo warmly, a soft tone that’s usually reserved for you and his students. “it’s just that… every time i look at you, i see two vessels of cursed energy instead of one. there’s a flicker of a flame there, right where she would be. it’s blowing my mind.” he points to your bump, nestled away under the layer of his clothing since they’re the only thing that makes you feel comfortable right now.

you close your magazine slowly, fighting the flutter of your heart and the warmth that spreads through your body. you know that your husband is being cautious, overly observant and extremely over protective — being pregnant and having a baby in your line of work was dangerous. scary, even. but you knew that satoru wanted this with you, and you him. that he cared a little too hard or worried slightly too much because while he was the strongest, you’d become every target and every weakness to him.

you and your daughter.

an unborn child who may possibly have the powers of a god among men.

so, instead you tuck away the irritation that comes with your hormones and let your gaze slink over to the large man squished into the abnormally small seat of the waiting room — just to be by your side. “do you need me to explain how pregnancy works, satoru?” you quip and rest your head on your knuckles, just to make him laugh and ease up a little.

a wiry smile starts to tug at the corner of his soft, pink lips. “i’d rather you show me but i think we got the fun part nailed.” gojo’s face splits into a wide grin, making you roll your eyes. “we made her, yanno. she’s alive in there because you’re keeping her safe.”

“and you too, mister six eyes.” you tap his skull, brushing against pure white locks, as gojo leans over you affectionately — probably in demand for a kiss (which you give).

the receptionist calls your family name from the front desk — no doubt to call you in for your neonatal appointment. another set of scans to help confirm your little girl is nice and healthy before you tell the rest of your friends and family later today.

gojo wanted to hand out copies of your scans to everyone at dinner. show off.

but as you stand, satoru goes quiet, offering you his hand as aid. “do you think…do you want…” pressing his lips into a thin line, your husband mulls over his words whilst guiding you down the hall to the doctors office — nodding to the receptionist to thank her as you pass. “i hope she doesn’t have what i have. i wouldn’t wish this burden on anyone.” he looks you straight in the eye, blue eyes piercing your soul. you feel your baby move and kick, forcing you to wonder if she’ll have the same mind blowing eyes as her father. “i hope she’s like you. beautiful and strong and—“

“ours. she’ll be ours and the best parts of both of us. her daddy’s strength, bravery, good looks and her momma’s wits, pretty ‘get me what i want eyes’ and smarts too.” you laugh, bright and loud as you cut gojo off — turning to look at him with a happy smile. “if she turns out like that, the best parts of both of us she’ll be perfect. i’ll love her because you gave her to me, we can figure out the rest later.”

that seems to reassure satoru, who sags in relief by your side as he wraps an arm around you, his large palm splaying across your baby bump. “you’re right, you’re right,” he grins again, feeling her little feet mercilessly kick at his palm. “as long as she’s healthy, we’ll be fine. i love you.”

“we love you too.” you swoon a little too much.

satoru gojo will be a great father, you think, your baby girl is so lucky — she has the strongest daddy in the world and he loves her a little too much already.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[inkskinned]

she's three years younger than i am, and i put on cascada as a throwback, cackling - before your time! i've been borrowing my brother's car, and it's older than dirt, so the trunk is like, maybe permanently locked. when the sun comes through the window to frame her cheekbones, i feel like i'm 16 again. i shake when i'm kissing her, worried i won't get it right.

in 2003, my state made gay marriage legal. where she grew up, it wasn't legal until 11 years later - 10 years ago. if legal protections for gay marriage were a person, that person would be entering 5th grade. online, a white gay man calls the fight for legal marriage boring, which isn't kind of him but it is a common enough opinion.

it has only been 9 years since gay marriage was nationally official. it is already boring to have gay people in your tv. it is already boring to mention being gay - "why make it your entire personality?" i know siblings that have a larger age gap than the amount of time it's been legally protected. i recently saw a grown man record himself crying about how evil gay people are. he was begging us, red in the face - just do better.

i am absolutely ruined any time my girlfriend talks about being 27 (i know!! a child!), but we actually attended undergrad at the same time since i had taken off time to work between high school and college. while walking through the city, we drop our hands, try not to look too often at each other. the other day i went to an open mic in a basement. the headlining comedian said being lesbian isn't interesting, but i am a lesbian, if you care. as a joke, she had any lesbian raise their hand if present. i raised mine, weirdly embarrassed at being the single hand in a sea of other faces. she had everyone give me a round of applause. i felt something between pride and also throwing up.

sometimes one thing is also another thing. i keep thinking about my uncle. he died in the hospital without his husband of 35 years - they were not legally wed, so his husband could not enter. this sounds like it should be from 1950. it happened in 2007. harassment and abuse and financial hardship still follow any person who is trying to get married while disabled. marriage equality isn't really equal yet.

and i don't know that i can ever put a name to what i'm experiencing. sometimes it just feels... so odd to watch the balance. people are fundamentally uninterested in your identity, but also - like, there's a whole fucking bastion of rabid men and women who want to kill you. your friends roll their eyes you're gay we get it and that is funny but like. when you asked your father do you still love me? he just said go to your room. you haven't told your grandmother. disney is on their 390th "first" gay representation, but also cancelled owl house and censored the fuck out of gravity falls. you actively got bullied for being gay, but your advisor told you to find a different gimmick for your college essay - everyone says they're gay these days.

once while you were having a hard day you cried about the fact that the reason our story is so fucking boring to so many people is that it is so similar. that it is rare for one of us to just, like, have a good experience across the board. that our stories often have very parallel bends - the dehumanization, the trauma, the trouble with trusting again. these become rote instead of disgusting. how bad could it be if it is happening to so many people?

i kiss my girlfriend when nobody is looking. i like her jawline and how her hands splay when she's making a joke. there is nothing new about this story, sappho. i love her like opening up the sun. like folding peace between the layers of my life, a buttercream of euphoria, freckles and laughter and wonder.

my dad knows about her. i've been out to him since i was 18 - roughly four years before the supreme court would protect us. the other day he flipped down the sun visor while driving me to the eye doctor. "you need to accept that your body was made for a husband. you want to be a mother because you were made for men, not women." he wants me to date my old high school boyfriend. i gagged about it, and he shook his head. he said - "don't be so dramatic. you can get used to anything."

the other day a straight friend of mine snorted down her nose about it, accidentally echoing him - she said there are bigger problems in this world than planning a wedding.

[elixrr]

“Wait, Y/N—” He stops you in your tracks. He needs a rundown. He needs a repeat on why you're leaving him. “Why— why are you—”

“Why?” You stop yourself from crying out loud, “Because you're killing yourself over me.”

He stops in his tracks. Him? Killing himself over you? What are you saying? He's fine, he's perfectly fine, as long as he's with you!

“Wh– What makes you say that? Please, love, don't go away. Don't leave, tell me what's wrong, I can make it right!”

“You were making your way back up in life before we started dating.” You begin. Your voice became soft and sorrowful, holding in layers of guilt for this poor, poor man before you. “You were making money for yourself, and you were finally helping yourself become financially stable.”

“So it's the money?” He lets out an exasperated laugh, as if he were relieved at the circumstance. He smiles with slight relief in his eyes, and he reassures you, “Don't worry! I'll find more jobs, then I'll earn enough to buy you more things. Hell, the money you gave me when... when you told me you were leaving, I– I can use it!”

His smile stays for a bit, but it fades when he watches your expression sadden.

“It wasn't about getting me gifts. You need the money for yourself, not me. I'm fine with everything I have. I gave you the money because you need it to take care of yourself again.”

You can't bear to look at his confused face. He's such a sweetheart, and it hurts like hell to leave him, but it's for the best if it means he only has to support himself, and not two people.

“But... If you just need me to be financially stable, that's fine. I can do that, then afterward, I can buy—”

“Honey, that's not it. You need the money for yourself and yourself only, don't count material things for me.”

“But— I just... I don't want you to leave. We can work this out. We can work it out together.”

You pause, hesitating. The door stands tall behind you. You don't want to leave him; he's your darling, but guilt overrides your heart, and you take your stance.

“I wanted to work it out with you, so I've tried. We've discussed this so many times, remember? But when you did become financially stable again, you wasted it all away for me on Valentine's Day. I loved that gift— I love you, I love you so much, but I can't keep watching you destroy yourself.”

He finally feels the tear rolling, and yours begin to pour.

“And since you only begin to listen when I'm on the verge of leaving, I feel like it would help you more than it would hurt if I left.”

“But I can't do this without you!”

He runs up to you, trying to hug you, but you're out the door, and he falls to the ground, sobbing on his knees and watching you leave. It's terrible, it's horrible, but he can't bring himself to stand up and chase you. To his surprise, you kneel by him and hold his cheek.

“I don't want you to do this alone. But you have to, if it means you'll be able to live again.”

And there's a pause between you two. It's raining, drizzling raindrops coat your hair and lather across your clothes, as it does with his. The air is thick; bridges are burning. This was not something he could ever recover from, but you have a whole future ahead of you, away from him. Was he holding you back the whole time? Did any of this interfere with your work? With your mental stability?

Please, take him back. Keep him with you.

“I left a great sum of money with you.” You pull yourself together and stand. Your sudden stability towers over his— considering as he lacks it. “If you section it correctly, you'll have enough to pay the bills for almost two years, and you'll have money left over for about three months to buy yourself luxurious food and some nice clothes. If you don't look for luxury, that will last you a while, more than enough to look for a whole new job.”

“I don't care.” He finally manages to cry out, and he holds your waist in a final, desperate attempt to keep you with him. “I don't care. I– I don't want money,

I just want you.”

But he can't keep you. You glance at your driver and signal for her to wait. You lift your ex-boyfriend back up and take him back into the house, seating him on the couch. You take one final look around the shabby living room, and you sigh.

“I'd tell you to come back when you can handle everything better, but by then, I'm sure you'll have met someone new.”

“But what if I don't?”

“Then feel free to come back when you're comfortable. I'm glad you're so kind and loving, but I simply just couldn't stand watching you waste your future away for me.”

You stand up and kiss him one last time. He, like usual, doesn't process it in time to kiss you back, and before he could reciprocate, you bow and wave a goodbye, and you're out the door.

You grab the doorknob and— before you close the door, you turn around and mutter the quietest, soon meaningless ‘I love you,’ and you gently close the door,

and that was the end of it all.

You said that he should build a new future for himself, but with his tearful eyes glaring hot, burning laser beams at the door, it's very safe to say that this future is starting off terribly far from a good one.

He needs a restart; he's realized it before, but he never wanted to start over like this—

He never wanted to see a future without you in it. But you're gone. All that's left are the remaining photos you haven't taken, as well as the money you've left for him.

He hears the car drive off into the distant future.

He hears the car skid into your new future.

He knows why you left him now, but he doesn't know why you needed to.

If only he could get you to repeat it one last time. But there are no repeats.

All you've really left him with is a restart.

– LYNEY, FREMINET, HEIZOU, GAMING, xiao, EARLY KUNI(KUZISHI)

[sashi-ya]

𝑪𝑼𝑻𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬𝑫𝑶𝑴 「 part 1 」 soshiro hoshina x f! officer! reader

a/n: yes! first Kaiju no. 8 fic ever! idk how many of you would like to read from Kaiju but I've been obsessed with it lately, and especially with Soshiro. it's pretty short and wrote it cause I needed to think of other things after studying. So yeah, enjoy! tw: there aren't "sex" scenes, however mdni as it has suggestive language, nudity and mature content. (thank god for this manga having almost every character above 25!). Pretty much inspired on Soshi's backstory from Kaiju no 8 side B, so expect fluff too. what happened on the following days? more Soshiro smut, here. masterlist

“I can’t take the suit off” you murmur, trying to lower the front zipper. The mission took much more than what you expected, and the kaiju stench is making you nauseous.

For the time being, most of your squad members have already jumped into the showers. But you, still trying to get out of the suit, haven’t.

“I… this shit… why is it not working?” you protest, forcing the zipper more and more, but it hasn’t been able to go down past the beginning of your chest.

You try to look for the intercom; pressing it to call the Operations leader Konomi, will surely help you out with the captive suit. But, you can’t find it. Did you lose the little intercom before coming back to the base? Or did it fell around there?

Everything seems to be flaunting tonight. It’s late, you are tired. You’ve been hit several times by different Kaiju, but none of them -luckily- was able to injure you.

However, you begin to feel an incredible -and uncontrollable- heat coming from the suit itself and reaching the inner layers of your skin and organs.

You don’t panic. At first.

You definitely panic two minutes later, when the heat is unbearable and the pain in such restrictive jail is almost deadly.

“Help…” you whine, not loud enough to be heard by anyone else. Or at least, definitely not enough to be listened over the lively chattering coming from the showers.

But it hurts, as much as the acid of those despicable monsters when their core explode. And it really begins to interfere with your breathing, and thus, with your consciousness.

“Help me… I’m burning…” you scream louder this time. But no one comes, and your knees hit the ground in pain.

Tears flood up your eyes, your nails aren’t enough to tear the thick skin of Izumo Techs’ innovative suit. No guns are enough, probably, even if you had the chance to go grab yours… it wouldn’t be useful.

You pray, you wish for someone to cut that trap into pieces.

“H- help… me…” “WHAT IS IT?!”

In between blurred eyes and painful frown, you device an angel of slanted eyes and deep purple hair.

“I… the suit… it’s boiling… it’s overheating… I can’t take it off” you grasp a little bit of air and try to communicate -effectively- the reason of your suffering.

“Stay quiet” he commands, and you comply. There is nothing you wouldn’t do to go against his orders.

An immediate relief comes with enough cuts that you couldn’t even see. Completely naked, completely soaked in sweat. There you lay, panting, with still stings of pain reverberating all over your skin.

“Come here” he says, ripping the remaining pieces off the suit still ferally attached to your burning skin. And as feral as the suit is, the feral his hands are when ripping its pieces away.

“Vice-captain Hoshina… th-thank you…” you cry, completely unaware of your impure show off.

His eyes open widely, and for the first time you see the beautiful bloody irises he usually keeps hidden away. But his expression is not jovial, nor even neutral. He is by far worried.

Probably for the first time in ages, the blades have fallen to the ground and with those same hands he saved your life he hurries to carry you to the men’s showers.

At the speed of light, cold water begins to gush from the showerheads. Your body feels instant relief; so much there is even some vapor coming from your skin.

As it bathes you, it also bathes him.  Completely dressed, Soshiro gets drenched in the same water as you. And, as his hair becomes wet, one of his hands moves it out of his face, revealing his façade completely.

Your arms hang from his shoulders into his back. Your knees, fight to keep you standing up even if the one actually holding you up is no other than him.

Soshiro is completely mute, and so do you. There is, maybe, no need to speak.

He lets his jacket slide through his shoulders to finally fall into the shower’s floor. The compressive shirt underneath gets also wet, becoming something like a second skin of him. Showing off the hours of training, and why he is the vice-captain of your division.

Immorally, you that were on the brink of death a couple of minutes ago, now feel in heaven because of your saviour. Because of your blades wielding hero.

Once again, he was able to save a life with those thinly cut masses of iron.

His hand, with soft but still steady pace, clean something off your back. And for that your breasts are pressed against his chest. You can see his neck from the side, as he tries to take a deeper look at your shoulder blades. You inhale the scent of his skin, a mix of sweat from the last battle and manly hints of fresh perfume.

“You got them almost engraved on your skin. What the fuck? The suits aren’t supposed to hurt you this way” he whispers, close to your ear. “We should go to the medical pavilion, now” he adds.

You nod, feeling how everything has started to spin around you and your stamina decreases more and more.

“Thank you, Soshi- Hoshina fuku Taichou…” you babble, realizing your faces are closer that what they should ever be and your arms and his are interlocked pretty strongly to the other’s body.

He takes a deep breath through his tiny nose, looking at you with lazy eyes. Just a tiny line of red is visible, as tiny as the opening of his lips that let prominent fangs barely flash.

Soshiro’s chest goes up and down, harder every time. His muscles tense more and more, especially the ones on his neck. His hug gets even tighter, pulling you so closer that ever before.

“It’s… ok…” he barely words; something is affecting that man… and it’s probably all your body, all your still warm skin being his for at least a couple of minutes, the way your lips have become red and pouty, your sloppy eyes and the warmth of your breath closer to his mouth.

“What happened!!??” “Vice-captain?!” “are you two allr-“ the girls scream in terror. Probably, once they were out of the showers they faced the dantesque scenery of blades lying on the ground and a anti kaiju suit completely destroyed and fuming scattered all over the floor.

Within seconds, not only the officers of squad 3 have reached the place but also the men. Some of them, thinking not the worst… but probably that Hoshina fuku Taichou and you have finally caved in for lust.

With a fast reaction, Soshiro grabs the coat of his own uniform to cover you up. And with a much more severe tone ever heard, he orders Kikoru to call Mina and Okomi and let them know he is taking a badly injured officer to the medical pavilion. As for the rest, a scary deadly look over his shoulder was enough to make them run away from the place allowing him to pass.

You, however, couldn’t quite experience such happenings, as your consciousness had fade away right before your comrades arrived.

A soft white light shines in between your shut eyes; the sound of unknown solitude reaches your ears as well as the synchronic beep of your heart reflected on a machine.

“What-“ you mumble, regaining consciousness. Your body feels cold, and you are thankful for that. Your limbs are heavy, but you can move them. Your lips and mouth are dry, but you smile as you remember vague flashes of Soshiro and you under the shower.

You finally open your eyes to discover you are indeed at some kind of medical facility, soon remembering this is the place you all come when you are severely injured after battle.

Everything on your body seems to be on its place, and for that you breathe alleviated. Thankful to your hero, you wonder how to thank him when you are out of here… or maybe, you just plan to leave the squad as he has seen you completely naked.

“I didn’t know you were awake already” a well-known voice scares you away. You try to stand up, but his hand stops you from doing so.  “I couldn’t sleep, I was worried for you” he says, with that sweet funny tone he often uses to communicate.

There is, as far as you could see, anyone around but you and him. Soshiro, who apparently couldn’t sleep, has come to see you.

Your cheeks burn, and it’s not because of a defective suit now. It is because, you are deeply embarrassed, and still, something inside you is jumping with genuine happiness to see him here.

“I’m ok, Sir. But.. you didn’t have to come! I’m deeply thankful for you saving my life, and I promise you I will replace the uniform you got all wet” you say, trying to look away from him who has came closer to your bed.

Soshiro bursts out laughing, the way he only knows how to. He grabs his stomach, and soon flashes of the way those abs looked with wet fabric sticked to them, makes you shiver.

“You- you should worry for your own suit! Not mine!” he continues laughing while, little by little, he ends up sitting right on the bed. “By the way, you know why your suit almost killed you?” he asks.

You swallow. What- why is he sitting next to you?

 You shake your head in denial, out of words, because you couldn’t think of a reason for such big flaw on that impressive technological miracle.

Soshiro, who is well known for being at least a little bit irreverent -and that’s exactly what you love the most about him-, gets himself comfortable next to you. He lies back, as you move to the side to make him some space.

Now, the scent of his skin is clean and delicious -even more than earlier-. And you can smell it, because there isn’t much room to be separated on a single bed.

“Well… you had a piece of Kaiju tooth stuck on your lower back. Therefore, the suit either processed it as a threat or… it reacted with the pieces of kaiju within it. In any case, you will be given a new one in a couple of days” he tells you, with his right arm stuck underneath the back of his head.

His bicep, perfectly moulded to be strong, but still lightweight to be as agile as possible, protrudes with the hem of the compression shirt around it. Does he really know how sexy he looks? Or he is absolutely unaware of the effects he has?

“Oh…” you sigh. You take it as a personal failure; how were you not able to see it? “Don’t worry, this incident helped them to investigate further security measures… however, isn’t your back hurting?” he asks, this time turning to you.

You deny, again, without any words coming from your mouth. But there isn’t much you could do, when Soshiro turns you around so that your back faces him.

“You do, in fact, have a big bruise. I should report this, too” he comments, as his soft index travels down your spine, to the small of your back.

Your eyes, opened big enough to look like moons, have stopped seeing all around and all you can think of is the proximity of that man to you.

“You good?” he murmurs, ignorant of everything happening to your body. “Ye-yes, vice-captain. I wanna thank you for taking care of us the way you do; hadn’t been for you, I’d be dead by now…” you pull those words from who knows where, even if your muscles seem paralyzed from his touch. Your speech sounds like those you give when you follow commands during battle.

He laughs; this time softer and sweeter. You can feel his body coming closer, enough to feel the tip of his nose grazing your neck.

“We should have each other’s backs in here, or else… but most importantly, being told my blades will not be useful to fight and protect, you remind me once again that they indeed can” he whispers, making your skin shiver.

It’s clear that he wants you. And you want him, too.  And you always knew, and he always knew. And all of them, too.  Why, just now, on a place where you should be monitored, there were nobody around if not?

“Can I rest here for a minute?” he asks, as his forehead lands on your nape. “All the time you want, Vice-captain” you answer back, smiling softly.

You slowly relax, as his hand slides in the most delicate way towards your belly to hug you. Your hand, also delicate, fall on top of his, confirming how much you would love for him to touch you like this forever.

“Call me Soshiro when we are like this, ok?” he murmurs, planting the first kiss right on your shoulder.

You turn around, slowly. Even if you would love to stay the way you were, you can’t stop yourself from wanting to see his face.

“Soshiro…” you whisper, coming closer to his lips. “That’s better…” he smiles, kindly.

And one kiss, and then another came by… and thankfully, that night, there were no more Kaiju around.

[koenigami]

➵ WRIOTHESLEY synopsis : how does one express such a strong feeling like love when someone like him is involved? wc : 1k tags : fem!reader, fluff, smut, emotional reader who is very bad with words of affirmation

you don’t get how he does it so easily. how he manages to make your heart beat faster, your face heat up, body react and get aroused. his words hold such a great power over you, especially so because he has proved to you many times that they’re not empty promises. 

wriothesley has shown you his love in all kinds of forms and ways. whether that be in your bedroom, or in more appropriate situations. 

and you’re so jealous. 

because as he keeps one hand on your ankle, with your leg perched on his shoulder, while the other is putting the slightest pressure on your abdomen - you wonder why you can’t convey your feelings to him the way that he does. directly. honestly. in the heat of the moment and without any filter. but you simply can’t. 

expressing your feelings verbally has never been your forte. and in moments like these, where your lover keeps praising you, showering you with “i love you’s” and petnames until all you can do is try not to combust, you hope that he knows that you feel the same. 

the invisible veil of embarrassment and shyness always wraps around your mouth multiple times, nearly gagging you, and preventing you from revealing all of you. inside and out. because while you’re both as naked as on the day that you were born, you still feel as if there was a thick layer coated over you that is keeping wriothesley too far away from you. 

every time his cock hits your inner most part, making your throat tighten up and your eyes roll back into your head, you’re not able to tell him how good he’s making you feel. when his hand slips lower, his thumb pressing against your wet swollen clit, jerking the little nub back and forth, you can’t tell him that you like it just like that. that only him can make your body shake like this. that you’re only at his mercy. 

you feel wriothesley’s lips on your skin. sweet and light kisses are spread along your lower calf, and the intimacy, the gentleness is making you tear up. 

having him inside you is not enough. his hands on your body are not enough. his skin against yours is not enough, because it still feels like you’re miles apart. 

“fuck, sweetheart. quit squeezing me so tight or else-” 

a quiet sob rips through the room and wriothesley’s sex dazed mind sobers up in an instant. your leg hits the mattress when he carefully drops it down, and leans over to have a look at you.

“love?” 

wriothesley’s about to stop everything at the sight of the tears trailing down your cheeks. are you in pain? did he hurt you? was it too much? 

all those questions evaporate when he sees you stretch your arms out towards him, grabby hands hovering in front of his face as you keep crying like a toddler begging to be picked up. 

“c’mere.” is all you can get out, yet it is enough for wriothesley to know what is truly going on. the empty space between you is quickly filled with warmth. with him. 

chest against chest, he lies down beside you, his still hard cock slipping out of you, as he wraps you up in the comfort of his arms. 

“i’m here. i’m here, my love.”

whether it’s your tears or snot that are wetting his neck as you nuzzle into him, he could not care less. everything about the past hour is forgotten. the heated kisses and frantic touches, as well as the moans and groans that filled your bedroom-

everything is irrelevant because no orgasm could ever satiate the need that you’re feeling right here and now. 

“wrio-”

“i know, baby. i know. i‘m not going anywhere, ‘m right here.” his hand strokes the back of your head, his fingers delicately combing through strands of your soft hair. a lopsided smile curves his lips when the arms around his middle tighten the slightest bit, and a wet kiss is pressed against the middle of his throat, right below his adam’s apple. 

what you see as a weakness, is for wriothesley one of many reasons to love you even more. you don’t need words to show him that your heart has only space for him. you don’t have to tell him how much he means to you, and how good he’s being to you when he can all discern it in the way your body’s speaking to him. you gravitate towards him as if he was your own little sun. 

his thumb swipes over your cheek when you eventually pull back to look at him. teary, doe eyes stare right into his soul. into his heart. and it’s the prettiest sight that a human being like him could have ever dreamed of. so many things have gone wrong in his life, yet so many went right, with you being his biggest blessing. 

and you prove it over and over again. because he swears that his heart has stopped beating at a normal pace ever since you stepped into his life. you have rekindled his brain. his entire being. 

“wriothesley.” your hoarse voice cuts through his thoughts, and he coos sweetly at you when you sniff and rub the corner of your eye with your palm. a kiss on your forehead, and another on the tip of your nose, and you feel like you’re holding the entire world in your arms. 

“i love you. so, so much.” you croak, cupping his cheek and feeling the light stubble along his jaw as if to distract yourself from the light shake in your hands and the overwhelming fluttering of your heart. 

“hm. i love you too.” wriothesley breathes, his hand wrapped so gently around your wrist as he guides it towards his lips, sealing his words with a final kiss on your palm. “so, so much.”

[ponderingmoonlight]

After your answer I feel more confident🥰Request about Nanami. He survived Shibuya, but suffered burns to his left side and eye. Nanami began to develop a complex and hide behind a layer of clothing. He thinks his girlfriend deserves better. But she thinks differently and is still ready to give him love🥺I saw such a fic once, but your hands will make this idea much better, I know

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reaching out and that absolutely adorable request! Please let me know what you think, I hope you'll like it. Don't hesitate to reach out again🤍

Nanami hiding his scars from his girlfriend after surviving Shibuya

Pairing: Nanami x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: basically the request above lol

Warnings: if you need some comfort this one's for you, so much fluff I'm gonna faint

Tags: @hellkaiserinphoenix @polarbvnny @obeythebutler

It was a ride on razor’s edge. Yes, the Shibuya incident turned your life upside down. The countless injuries, Gojo being sealed, so many deaths.

And the love of your life almost losing his very own life through the hands of curses.

“Where is he, Megumi?”

“(y/n)…”

Your eyes filled with tears, that unwell feeling in your guts proved itself right all over again. You knew things weren’t going right when your boyfriend stopped replying. But that…Seeing Maki and that old man like that…

That was so much worse that you thought.

“Where. Is. He.”, you hissed through gritted teeth, the boy in front of you almost drowning in his own sweat.

“He’s back at Jujutsu High. When I last saw him…Things weren’t going well for Nanami…I…I don’t know if he’s still alive…”

You felt like fainting, throwing up, beating everything and everyone, crying in the corner. How? How did this happen? Your husband, a grade 1 sorcerer, so skilled that his sheer presence sends shivers down the spine of his opponents…Your fucking boyfriend.

On the brick of death?

Yes, it was a true blessing that he barely made it. Since that fateful day, you were on his side night in night out, talking him through the silence, holding his hand while Shoko changed his bandages. Until eventually, he was able to return back home. Back to your shared apartment, back into your normal everyday life.

But it was far away from being like it was before Shibuya. No, something inside Kento changed so drastically that you sometimes feel like you don’t know him anymore.

“Hey sweetheart”, he greets you softly, arms embracing you in a tight hug.

“Good morning”, you mumble, stretching out your longing arms to feel him a little closer.

Just before your hands are able to hold onto his biceps, he turns away again and leaves you alone in the bed. You stare at his covered back, sadness washing over you like a wave. Silently he stands up, busying himself with his wardrobe while all you can do is watch him closely in an desperate attempt to stop yourself from crying.

You have no idea when was the last time since you saw your boyfriend in a t-shirt, let alone shirtless. Since his burns aren’t covered in bandages anymore and his skin seems to be entirely healed into a scar, he hides his body from your hungry gaze very well. But why? This has to come to an end, right here and now.

You lift yourself off the bed, hugging his much larger frame from behind. God, it feels so good to press your head against his tight muscles, his delicious taste making you feel whole again.

It was hard to bear, the thought of losing him. Even days after he got burned to severely, Shoko wasn’t entirely sure if he’ll be able to make it. It became obvious that if he’ll survive, he will have to live with his left side covered in scare tissue for the rest of his life. And while your love for him and his body grew only stronger, you feel like this doesn’t apply to him. Yes, something inside you tells you that his change in behaviour might have something to do with that.

Why does he wear long-sleeved shirts all the time, while does he not allow you to see and feel his naked skin anymore, why does he seem to always turn away the left side of his face from you? It truly breaks your heart, knowing that he seems to have lost his self-confidence after surviving such a traumatic incident.

“Don’t turn away from me, love.”

Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt, silently begging him to stay this one time, to allow your touch after months of turning you down.

“(y/n)”, he protests, body already on its way to shield itself from your longing hands.

“Why hiding from me when all I see is you?”, you question, hands intertwining with his.

“I’m not good enough for you.”

Softly, he pushes you away, walking into the living room while you try to process his words. Him, not good enough for you?

“Why would you even suggest something like that? Kento, please stop.”

Out of instinct you go after him, mind racing in thoughts. What is all of this about?

“You are such a stunning woman, your whole life is still ahead of you. Why waste your time with a scarred man like me? I have nothing to give you, (y/n). Not even beauty.”

You can’t believe your ears, mouth snapping open in pure shock.

“You have to be joking”, you breathe out, head shaking vehemently.

This is wrong in so many ways, almost an insult against humanity. Why would he say something so ridiculous?

“Look at me, (y/n)”, he blurts out.

With a swift motion he takes off his blue shirt, revealing the huge scar that covers the left side of his upper body entirely. His face darts towards you, completely twisted in agony.

“Why would a woman like you want a man like me? I don’t deserve your beauty, (y/n).”

“Stop it. Right now”, you reply so harshly that his mouth shuts in an instant.

With fast steps you cross the room, coming to a stand in front of his gorgeous body.

“This is the body of the man I love, of a man that fought hard in order to save countless people’s life. This is the body of the man I thought I’ve lost forever, the body of a man who always puts the well-being of others above his own. You, Kento Nanami, are the man I love. Even if you lost all your limbs, if you could no longer speak or see. Damn, even if you didn’t remember me, I would always choose you. Because you are the man who stole my heart entirely. These scars tell the story of what a brave man you are, what you survived despite everything spoke against it. I love every inch of your skin, no matter how scarred or wrecked.”

Your fingertips wander over his uninjured skin.

“From the part that I’ve touched so often…”

Slowly, you caress the scarred tissue on his right side, brushing over his shoulder, collarbone and buff chest while never taking your eyes off him.

“…to the part I have yet to discover.”

“Look at me, I am a crippled man. I look like someone out of a horror movie-“

“You look like a hero to me”, you interrupt him immediately.

It’s hard to keep your composure when the man you love more than anything else in this world stands in front of you with his face twisted in agony. God, if he only knew how beautiful he is, how you feel even closer to him since the Shibuya incident. Why isn’t he able to see himself through your eyes, why does he have to suffer even after surviving his burns?

“Why can’t you understand that you’re all that I want?”

Your voice cracks, tears now streaming down your face. The sheer thought of losing him alone makes you die from the inside. No other man will ever be able to replace him. Why would you leave Kento anyway? He still looks absolutely irresistible to your hungry gaze, the way his tight muscles flex underneath his shirts making your knees go weak just like always. And that scars just add to your affection towards him.

“Please, don’t hide from me. Let me love you with your scars and everything else. In my eyes, you will always be the man I fell in love with.”

And for the first time since knowing him, you the grown man in front of you break down in tears. His arms wrap around you hungrily, pressing you against his own body as if you’re air and he can’t breathe. Yes, you are the light to his darkness, the sun after rain. What would he do without you? Where would he be without you by his side? Through all these hellish weeks you stood with him, making sure he’s feeling well. Will he ever be able to thank you enough for that? Never.

“I love you more than words can say”, he breathes against your outer ear.

“God, how much I love you, (y/n)…”

“Please believe me when I say that I love you just the way you are, Kento. You will always be enough for me. A few scars won’t change that.”

His eyes lock with yours and there is no doubt that you are telling the truth. Yes, you really do love him the way he is. Even if his skin is scarred through the hands of fire, even if he’ll never look like the man you’ve met first. In the glimmer of your eyes he will always be Kento Nanami.

“So you’ll stay with me even though I look like this?”

You wrap your arms around him again, your head laying against his scarred chest. Oh, how much you missed the feeling of being skin to skin with him, how much your hungry gaze longed for him all bare.

“I’d say I even love you a little more since Shibuya”, you reply.

Gently, you cup his face with your hands. Yes, a few scars here and there won’t change the beauty you see within the man in front of you.

“You are my everything, (y/n).”

His lips brush against yours, arms caging you against his body.

God, how much you love that man. More than the entire earth.

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Chapter 2

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 2 | And So, We Begin Again

SUMMARY | She leans on the doorway and watches as Aemond Targaryen takes a lengthy drag out of his cigarette - tiny embers of the burning tip being the only light in all the space around him. He is withdrawn and lost in his own thoughts, always - just as she knows him to be.

It is at this moment that it strikes her.

It's him that she's in love with. It's always been him.

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst with a Happy Ending; Grooming; Attempted Rape/Non-Con; Blood and Injury; Violence

WORD COUNT | 10.2k

Check out the lovely artwork my friend @azperja has made for this fic, HERE!

IT'S A LONGSTANDING BIRTHDAY TRADITION OF THEIRS. 

For each of Daeron’s birthdays, she comes in with two drinks in hand. Her choice is a Sunspearino, while his is an Iron Throne Iced Tea. There’s also a box of lemon cakes from the King’s Landing Roastery, a huge chain of cafes co-owned by two of her eight older half-siblings. It's a place they often visit when she craves coffee.

Sometimes, they would sneak whiskey from Viserys’ liquor cabinet, mixing it into their drinks while lounging on his bed. They'd watch the rom-com she selects, spending the afternoon together before Alicent’s planned dinner, a big party she always throws for each of her children's birthdays every year. Initially, their mothers arranged snacks and playdates, but as they grew, it evolved into what it is now. However, this year, on his seventeenth, it would seem that the tradition is at its end.

She has been waiting for him for three hours.

The house staff let her in and inform her that Daeron isn’t home. Despite their recent strain, she was confident he wouldn't forget her and their time on his birthday.

He’ll come, she thinks.

The clock's tick-tock seems never-ending as she hopes for his arrival to drown it out.

He'll walk in right now, and apologize for being late, she thinks.

The posters on his wall appear to mock her, reminding her of the disrupted tradition caused by a girl he's been seeing for less than a month. She wants to cry, to tear the papers to shreds and glue.

Any moment now, she thinks.

Her fingers dig into his mattress, catching her charm bracelet on a loose stray thread. It pricks her wrist as she waits, tears blurring her vision and wetting her skirt. He’s going to come right now, she thinks.

The ice in her Sunspearino, a strong black coffee with three sugars, has completely melted, forming a layer of water on top. The melted ice creates drops on the to-go cup, making her wait evident.

He's on his way, she thinks.

Perhaps she is wrong. With every passing second, her faith in him dwindles.

How did they come to this?

Her heart weighs heavy as she finally gathers the courage to stand up and leave. She takes her drink but leaves his, hoping he'll realize what he forgot when he returns to find her gone. Would he even think of her?

He’s not coming.

She leans out of his window, watching Alicent oversee the garden's decor for the outdoor birthday party. She knows what it’ll look like, having attended many of these before. Fairy lights, candles, good wine, and delicious food - she has fond memories of Daeron’s birthday parties. Last year, he convinced the string quartet to play a song they could dance to, and he spun her around - making her feel like she could fly high, higher and higher still.

The longer she stares, the blurrier her vision becomes. Rubbing her red, puffy eyes, she walks out, each step feeling heavier than the last. Helaena and Aegon will likely arrive later in the night, and her own city-residing siblings may make an appearance. Aemond will be coaxed out of hiding, and they'll all have a good time. She won't join tonight, and as she resolves to stay away, she wonders.

Is he bringing Floris Baratheon tonight?

She closes the doorknob with a flick as she steps out.

Will Floris sit with him as she has for all these years? Held by him, as she has desired for so long?

She clenches the drink tightly, some of the coffee spilling onto her hand as she allows the tears to fall.

Will he kiss Floris and dance with her this year, just as he did with her?

She walks swiftly, hoping to remain unnoticed as she desperately hides her face within her hair, which falls on either side of her shoulders like a dark curtain, allowing in just the right amount of light.

Will he even consider her presence? Will he--

First, she hears the moans, then she notices the slightly open door.

She is not quite in the headspace to make out what’s happening, but she knows this for a fact - she is not meant to see. 

The drink slips down her hand and spills in a puddle, wetting her shoes and the carpet that she has no doubt will be cleaned up by angry staff in the next few hours. She gasps just enough for the woman, in between whose thighs Aemond Targaryen’s unmistakable head is nestled - the longer silver hair, an easy contrast to the haircut of the younger brother that she is very familiar with is a dead giveaway - to hear, and she looks straight at her.

She’s got striking green eyes, jet black hair and a piercing gaze that makes her want to squirm. Alys Rivers is definitely enjoying herself as Aemond continues his ministrations with his tongue between her legs. Her moans, each of which are loud and encouraging to him, come as she maintains steady eye contact with her as her own tear-struck, heavy eyes struggle to make sense of the scene before her.

She is older than his mother, and he’s just eighteen.

She runs. 

Her foot kicks away the discarded coffee cup in her rush, drawing Aemond's attention to the unexpected audience. She hears him swearing faintly as she runs. First, the sound of the door closing, then opening again, but she doesn't stick around to find out what happens next.

What had she walked into?

Alys Rivers - she's seen her at numerous gatherings with her father. Co-owner of Harrenhal Communications with her brothers Larys and Harwin Strong, all children of her school's principal, Lionel. Alys isn't close to Aemond's age, and that worries her. But she can't figure out what to do - her legs are moving faster than her mind can process. She heads to the garden, intending to leave, but Alicent spots her and beckons her over, diverting her escape.

"Your movie time ended early! Come try the cak -” 

"He didn't show," she blurts, noticing Alicent's softening and then hardening expression.

"I'm so sorry, my sweet." Alicent begins.

"It's fine. He was probably busy," she replies, struggling to think clearly. She just wants to leave, but Alicent insists she stay for the party. Overwhelmed, she pleads to go home, and Alicent eventually lets her go.

She's almost out when Aemond catches up and pulls her outside the gate to avoid any messy explanations. He's about to tell her something she's not ready for, she knows. As he grabs her shoulders and gazes into her eyes, she realizes she wasn't prepared for this when she arrived.

“You can’t tell anyone, Wylde.”

His words serve as a vivid reminder of the scene she has just witnessed. Aemond, buried between Alys Rivers' thighs, while Alys locked eyes with her, as if daring her to acknowledge the ecstasy. Startled, she spilled her drink and ran, ran, ran-

"How long?" she manages to ask through the fog in her mind, her grip tightening on her skirt, unable to face him, thoughts swirling in her head.

"A little over six months," he admits.

He turned eighteen six months ago. Apparently, they had been involved since he became legal to make his own decisions. The implications dawn on her - had she pursued him when he was younger? Her breath catches.

"Is she... is this..." she looks up, and Aemond, sweating, grapples with the sudden exposure of his clandestine affair. "Is she... she's old enough to be your mother!"

Silence engulfs them, the kind that’s not comfortable. Aemond's tight grip startles her, and his furious violet eye, contrasting with his brother's, glares at her. "Don't be stupid. Don't tell anyone, and you'll listen to me -" he asserts, the anger palpable.

She suggests, "Is she grooming you? Gods, is it blackmail? Should I tell your mother? Are you afraid? I-"

“Fucking hell,” he seethes. “She’s not fucking grooming me, you’d think that I’m smart enough to not let that happen to me -”

“Aemond, you can tell me.” She struggles with her words.

"You're fucking dumb, Wylde," he retorts sharply, his words spilling faster than he can process. His prosthetic eye appears to take on a life of its own in his rage.

“People usually deny it first. You don’t have to, it’s just me and I want to hel-”

“You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.” The words tumble out of his lips faster than his mind can catch up. She sees the way his jaw tightens and she knows Aemond has always been angry and too quick to react, but she is not prepared for the way his throat bobs as he swallows and prepares to strike at her heart.

“Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.”

The words are painful, harsh and probably true, and they hit her like whiplash. 

With what she’d seen of Aemond and Alys Rivers, she had momentarily forgotten what she was actually at the house for. But it all comes back to her as she curls into herself as much as she can in his hold, the tears free falling in her embarrassment and sadness. Her head faces down and she refuses to let him see, and it is all becoming a bit much.

She feels her legs become wobbly and she wants to breathe and be let go of so she can run to the comforts of her room like the coward that she is - but she cannot get her body to listen. It refuses to comply and move and she stands there, still held in Aemond’s vice grip as he mutters Valyrian curses under his breath - she’s heard Daeron mutter some of the words before. He smells strongly of coffee and cigarettes and it is too much, too much -

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so fucking sorr-”

“Let go of me, Aemond.” Her voice is eerily calm and she can see that it momentarily stuns him. He doesn’t let go, however. “I’m sorry, Wylde. Just… you can’t fucking tell. I-”

“Let. Go.” She tries to wrangle out of his hold and he refuses to let her leave until she agrees to keep his secret. Her mind is running a mile a minute as she imagines Aemond being a young lad, being preyed on by an older woman and not knowing a thing. She does not want to keep his dirty secret, she wants to go-

“LET GO OF ME, AEMOND!”

Her louder tone seems to have attracted Criston Cole’s attention, and he’s quick to rush to them and pull Aemond away from her. His black shirt-clad figure moves away from her and she is stunned - so bloody stunned - and not at all prepared for Criston’s low voice. 

"Your mother is looking for you," he tells Aemond, who leaves, imploring her silence with his stoic gaze - one that he does not drop till he’s out of her sight.

"Are you alright?" Criston asks, checking her for injuries. She mumbles apologies and retreats.

“No.” Her voice is cracked and the bodyguard is at a loss for words - he’s not quite used to comforting teenage girls, she can tell. She uses this as her cue to hastily mumble her apologies, and the trusty guardian does nothing as she walks away.

Later that night, she’s locked up in her room, nestled under the covers as she thinks over all that has happened. She’s sure that the party at Maegor’s is in full swing, and that they’re all probably having loads of fun.

Without her. 

Her brother, one that she does not see often, texts her and asks why she isn’t there. He says he'll be staying at Rain House tonight, and she does not respond. Alicent texts her to check if she’s eaten. Helaena texts her and asks if she’s home so she can come over, and Aegon sends her a plain, “Where the fuck are you, Wylde?”

It makes her want to cry.

Aemond does not bother with her at all - and if she's being honest, she’d say she’s glad for the distance he’s put between them in the last few hours. Almost an hour later, when it’s close to midnight, Daeron texts her. 

I’m sorry, can we talk? 

She lets her phone fall away, leaving him to make his own assumptions. She is reminded once again of the hours she spent in his room today, waiting for him to come. She feels pathetic, wondering if he thought so less of her that he’d chosen to forego something that they’d done for years, without so much as a warning. She feels the tears prick at her eyes once more, but she is resolute - she will not spend any more time crying or missing a boy that did not want to give her time of day anymore.

When she looks back, she is thoroughly convinced that this is the day that she finally fell out of love with her best friend, even if she isn’t quite ready to admit to it yet.

OVER THE COMING WEEKS, HER LIFE BLURS into a haze of avoidance, deliberately steering clear of anything related to the Targaryens. At school, she strategically distances herself from Daeron, swiftly darting away when the bell rings, determined not to give him a chance to approach her.

"I don't want to speak to him," she asserts to Elinor Beesbury, her gaze fixed on her untouched food. Daeron’s persistent attempts to reconcile only fuel her resolve to keep her distance. It's a delicate balance between her lingering attachment and the painful recognition that their bond has irreversibly shifted.

Elinor studies her with concern, "You'll have to let go at some point, love."

She nods silently, acknowledging the futility of holding onto resentment. Months of grappling with her feelings have taught her the necessity of moving on. Yet, the wounds still sting fresh, the memories of his repeated indifference are etched into her heart.

"Soon. But not now," she affirms.

"Alright, just so you know, I hear Floris Baratheon's asked him to come with her to her senior prom," Elinor adds, trying to infuse levity into the conversation. But the prospect of Daeron moving on so swiftly brings forth an unsettling wave of emotions, mingling with her lingering frustration.

“Come on, don’t be like that! You're sexy and awesome, and he's a piece of shit! Like, sexy is… in your blood! Wasn’t a great grandmother of yours like, the OG sex guru or something?”

“Great great great great great great grandmother. And she wasn’t a sex guru, she was the first recorded published author of erotic fiction  in Westeros!”

Many in the world know of Coryanne Wylde, with the wild woman being known for having written A Caution For Young Girls - an erotic cult classic that opened the doors for erotic literature in Westeros. History candidates in college end up reading it sometimes for their lessons, and it never fails to surprise her.

“Exactly! You get it from your grandma! And next year, our prom is gonna be so sexy, babe. You mark my words!” She grimaces at the suggestion of involving herself with another boy, her focus fixated on Daeron and what little that remains. Despite her friend's efforts to lighten the mood, the weight of her unresolved emotions lingers - she supposes it will take a bit of time.

Heading to her locker after lunch, her path unexpectedly intersects with Aemond, whose intense presence startles her. The curious gazes of their peers heighten the tension, drawing attention to their rare encounter. Aemond's enigmatic aura, accentuated by his leather jacket and disheveled man bun, exudes an unsettling magnetism, contrasting sharply with Daeron's more approachable charm.

Her mind involuntarily delves into the memories of Alys Rivers, a stark reminder of Aemond's heavily inappropriate relationship that she is now privy to. The betrayal, the hurt, the raw emotions from what he’d said to her later surge within her, and she blurts out, "What do you want?" with an edge of apprehension, unwilling to be drawn into another tumultuous dynamic.

Aemond stands so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath, and she is stunned by how, within days of stepping away from Daeron, she's standing so close to Aemond, especially after having not even properly spoken to him in many years. They both stand in the corner of the corridor with their backs leaned back against the lockers. Aemond surprisingly murmurs to her, asking if she and Daeron are fighting because she wasn't at his birthday party or the Sunday lunch. She grunts at him, her non-response making her emotions clear.

You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.

Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.

He seems to wrestle with something within himself, his jaw clenching before he finally speaks. "I didn't mean what I said that day, you know. I was angry and it came out all wrong."

She scoffs, her hand shaking as she points a finger at him. "It doesn't matter! You had no right to say those things to me."

Aemond's grip on her wrist startles her, his commanding gaze penetrating her defenses. Despite her efforts to distance herself, she finds herself drawn into a tense exchange, confronting the pain he had caused her at Daeron's birthday.

The conflict within Aemond surfaces, his facade of aloofness crumbling as he attempts to reconcile with her. Her anger flares, yet the sting of his remorse momentarily softens her resolve, only to be replaced by the bitterness of his persistent complications.

Aemond's expression falls, and he reaches out as if to touch her, but hesitates and drops his hand to his side. "I know, I'm sorry, Wylde. But you have to understand, it's not easy for me either."

As hurt as she is by his words, she knows she wants to help him and see him through the mess he’s gotten himself into with Alys Rivers - even if he doesn’t see it that way right now. So she chooses to reach out. Just one more time.

“Then tell me. What's going on? Aemond, I know we haven't been close in a long while, but I want to help.”

Aemond's gaze softens, and he opens his mouth and shuts it close, almost as though he wants to say something but opts not to - but she's had enough. She does not want to be put in a difficult position where she’s navigating relationship dynamics that are probably a lot more problematic than anything she’s ever known - especially not if he doesn’t even want to tell her.

Pushing away from the lockers, she turns to walk away, her steps quickening with each stride. But before she can get far, she feels a surge of frustration and pain erupt within her, and she turns around, her voice raised to a shout. "I don't want to hear from you or him, ever again! You’ve both done enough."

She looks around for just a moment, very conscious of the students that were now noting them by the corner of their eyes. She knows she shouldn’t go on, and that if she did, they’d become gossip fodder - but she cannot help herself.

“You Targaryens have got everyone wrapped around your finger, don't you? Think you can say whatever you want and get away with it," she lashes out, her voice trembling with the weight of her wounded trust.

Aemond winces, the impact of her words evident in his pained expression. "I never wanted to hurt you, Wylde. Things are complicated and I…" he murmurs, gulping as his gaze pleads with hers for understanding. But her resolve remains unyielding, fueled by a well of hurt and resentment.

"I don't care about your complications. You had no right saying those things to me, and now I want you to leave me the fuck alone."

HE'S ALWAYS HAD STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT THE YOUNGEST WYLDE BEING A PART OF THEIR LIVES.

Aemond can't quite discern the exact nature of his emotions. She has been a constant presence in the family ever since her family returned to the Red Keep town all those years ago, after her father secured his place as one of the executive directors on the board of Targaryen Consolidated. Over time, Jasper Wylde had grown to be a reliable work companion to his father, leaving his wife and youngest daughter behind to reside near his boss' family.

When her second pregnancy failed and Jeyne Wylde passed, their young daughter seamlessly fell in with the Hightower-Targaryen fold under the care of his mother. Rain House had become desolate with Jasper's older children from previous marriages moving away, and the young girl was sadly left behind.

Aemond isn't certain what his mother had in mind when she practically ushered the Wylde girl into his and his siblings' lives thereafter. She had never been keen on outsiders stepping into their lives as much as Wylde had. Yet, he couldn't find it within himself to complain.

Through life's ebbs and flows - be it his eye or her mother's passing - she had always been there, gradually weaving herself into their existence. Before he knew it, she had become a daily fixture in their lives - laughing as Aegon spun her around, attempting to flirt with her; accompanying Helaena on her bug expeditions across the estate; reading quietly with him in his father's library during their childhood and transforming into Daeron's shadow in every way. She was always there when he embarked on mischief, a quintessential trait for any youngest child.

Daeron was the prankster, and she, the lookout. Always.

He witnessed their first day of school together, navigating the challenges of being around children other than each other. He observed their struggles with tying uniform ties for weeks until Alicent stepped in to teach them. He's seen her occasional presence at breakfast, sometimes ending up in the car with them on the way to campus.

He listened to their endless chatter, her incessant and somewhat annoying foot tapping during weekend lunch conversations when she felt uneasy or self-conscious, and the way Daeron's friendship with his best friend had grown stronger over the years. He noticed how her gaze upon Daeron had evolved, her friendship gradually transforming into something more, something his younger brother clearly did not appreciate or reciprocate.

He has watched and listened. For years, it's been his means of engagement during times when he preferred not to be directly involved. Perhaps, if others did the same, they might uncover why Wylde hadn't returned to Maegor's since Daeron's birthday.

"I don't know, Mum. I texted her, but she didn't respond," Daeron says.

The chair next to his younger brother remains empty, and curiously enough, the atmosphere during lunch seems quieter than usual. Aemond attributes this to Wylde's absence. Her mindless chatter effortlessly filled the gaps of awkwardness, and now, the Targaryens were left to grapple with a Sunday afternoon meal without the lively girl.

"You should apologize to her in person," his mother advises Daeron, yet her gaze remains fixed on him. His eyes inadvertently shift to Cole, who undoubtedly divulged details about the incident he had with Wylde outside the gates after she had seen him and Alys.

How much do they know?

"She's been avoiding me like the plague, Mum. I'll give her some time to cool off, I suppose."

He's watched, listened, and picked up cues over the years. It comes in handy with his mother, who never lets her emotions overpower her. Any instinctual response she has is always gone in a flash - quicker than you know - and right now is no exception. She wants to get Daeron to see sense - but if there’s one thing that Alicent Hightower has given her children, it’s autonomy.

Given how little he believes she had of it when his grandfather essentially pushed her into his father's arms, Aemond has always appreciated that it's the one thing she'd never take away from her children. He knows she has made peace with watching her children make peculiar choices she wouldn't make, but it's not her burden until they make it clear they need her. Her palpable anger at Daeron's indifference towards his best friend dissipates as swiftly as it emerged.

He knows she's concerned. They all are. Jasper Wylde is rarely present, and Rain House is a hollow residence compelled to seem lively with the presence of staff. It had been a much warmer place long ago, back when Jeyne Wylde was alive. His mother has always considered the youngest Wylde one of her own, and she's cared for her over the years as well.

"She doesn't pick up when I call either," his mother muses, her furrowed brow betraying her stoic nature and making her momentary worry obvious. However, Aemond knows. He watches and listens, always.

Just a few days ago, while atop his motorbike, he heard that Jason Lannister had asked her out on a date.

Lannister had started on the school football team when Wylde's half-brother was captain. While he made his interest in his former captain's little sister known, he knew better than to make it obvious to her brother.

He had never favored the golden-haired fool. Now in the same final year of school as Aemond, the current football team captain is shallow, self-absorbed, and, in a way that puzzles him, still popular among the students. He fails to see the appeal of someone like him - he prefers Tyland, who is much easier to converse with and not easily provoked. He always assumed that Wylde was wise enough not to slip up.

He had assumed wrong.

She was likely out with Jason, learning to replace her Sunday lunch times at his house with something else. Adjusting won't happen swiftly, he knows. It takes a great deal to disrupt an established routine - but he won't hold it against her. It was obvious to him that Daeron started it first.

"You can't be upset with me for having a girlfriend, Mum. Neither can she... It's not fair. Things change," Daeron huffs. “You’re both ruining it for me. Floris has asked me to go to her senior prom with her, and I’m going. I'm sorry that you both will probably hate me for it, but she should get over herself, and so should you!”

His mother does nothing apart from poking at the insides of her cheek with her tongue. Wylde's absence looms over the house whenever awkwardness settles, and this time is no exception. Daeron sighs at his mother's subtle disappointment and storms out, muttering about having dinner with Floris.

It doesn’t escape Aemond's notice that in a better time, he'd actually be grabbing breakfast pancakes for dinner with Wylde instead. Aemond recalled the last time she'd come for lunch. Her foot tapping had bothered him so much that he nearly contemplated plunging his fork into her thigh to make it stop. She seemed highly anxious that day, evident in the relentless tap, tap, tap, tap of her feet.

Not seeing her for a while, the absence of the irritating sound, usually accompanied by the loud jingle of her bracelet on the hand she keeps near her thigh, should bring him a sense of calm. It shouldn't bother him at all.

But it does. It does, it does, it does.

[A MONTH LATER, PROM NIGHT]

STANDING THERE IN HER EXQUISITE PROM DRESS - the fabric shimmers in a delicate blend of blue and gold - she can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at her insides. It's a dress she painstakingly picked out, hoping it will add a touch of glamour to this otherwise mundane high school memory. But now, amid the flashy lights and pulsating music, it feels like a facade, a flimsy disguise.

Her mind drifts back to those countless mindless hours she's spent with Jason in the past month, now seeming like distant echoes of a hazy past. Going to football games with his jersey on, pretending to blend seamlessly into his world, she often finds herself feeling like an impostor, a misfit amidst his circle of friends. On her way back home from one of the games, she’d caught Aemond's gaze as she passed by their house. He was seated on his motorbike, getting ready to go out somewhere as he lifted his helmet in his hands, his loose messy bun probably about to get messier from the helmet. In that brief moment, she was sure she’d seen an expression of silent disapproval as he raised his eyebrow at the oversized jersey hanging loosely on her frame. It felt like an unspoken judgment, and she couldn't help but feel out of place - an outsider masquerading as a loyal fan in a world that was never truly hers.

She had curled into herself right then and there. She owes him nothing - just as he owes her no explanation about his messy entanglement with Alys Rivers - but it was not enough to make her feel confident in her choice.

As the days go by, she finds herself entangled in a half-hearted routine of a seemingly typical high school relationship with Jason. They often spend their afternoons at the local diner, sipping on milkshakes and sharing fries, engaging in shallow conversation that never quite delved into the depths of her thoughts. On Friday nights, they would go to the movies, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, the scent of buttered popcorn lingering in the air. And then, they’d usually end up in her bed.

She enjoyed the sex. She wouldn’t deny it. Jason Lannister knew what he was doing. 

But it wasn’t enough.

Despite the outward appearance of bliss, there lingered a persistent emptiness, a hollow void that echoed within her. She had become a fragment of someone else's world, a mere accessory in the narrative of Jason's life, her own desires fading into the background of their mindless high school romance. And as she retraced these moments, each memory served as a silent reminder of the gaping chasm between her facade of contentment and the relentless ache for something more, something she had yet to discover.

Lost. She is lost.

Standing at the prom, she feels suffocated, trapped in a reality where she has pushed away those who cared for her. 

Floris Baratheon's entrance shifts the atmosphere, drawing everyone's attention with her elegance. Beside her is Daeron, exuding a charming confidence that had always captivated her. Her heart sinks as she realizes that he'll never truly belong to her.

Her gaze meets Daeron's, and she senses a detachment that cuts through her. She stands there, feeling the weight of her insignificance in his life, a mere footnote in his story.

As she turns away, her gaze skimming over the flashy arrival of the popular couple, her attention is drawn to Aemond. He stands aloof in the corner, his immaculately pressed shirt forming a stark contrast to the nonchalance with which his jacket lay carelessly slung over the edge of the nearby bench. A small group of girls from his year encircle him, all seemingly tied to his on-and-off fling, Arianne Martell, whom he has an arm draped around.

A familiar pang on condescension accompanies the sight of his disinterested expression, almost as if it were a trademark of his persona. She isn't taken aback; it seemed to be ingrained in Aemond's very being to treat those around him as if they were inconsequential. How many times has she attempted to initiate a conversation with him, only to be met with cold indifference or a curt dismissal? It is a pattern she has grown accustomed to, yet it still stings with a twinge of rejection each time.

Does Arianne know about the woman that he fucks when he’s not with her? Does she know she’s competing with someone like Alys Rivers?

As she climbs back out of her thoughts and becomes cognizant of her surroundings, she finds that his one violet eye is trained on her. And his gaze is nowhere close to normal as he eyed her date, and observed him being an utter fool in his drunkenness.

For some reason, the thought of Aemond being disappointed in her makes her want to scream.

As she glances around the crowded room, the euphoric energy of the dance floor slowly dissipated, replaced by discomfort. She finds herself feeling suffocated, trapped in a reality she couldn't quite escape - she’s pushed away those that wanted her, so what choice did she have anyhow? 

Jason, in an inebriated state, becomes oblivious to her unease, accentuating her sense of alienation. Overwhelmed by her emotions, she excuses herself, seeking solace in the corridors.

What a waste.

She hasn’t been alone for long when Jason catches up to her, his demeanor laced with a restless energy that seems to mirror her own nervousness. He leans in, his voice laced with a casual nonchalance that grated on her raw nerves. "It’s starting to get boring, I think. I'm ready to bolt. You wanna get out of here?"

She musters a weak smile, attempting to downplay the unease that swirls within her. She’s not quite sure when he’d gotten to standing so close to her, but her discomfort is overpowering and apparent as she inhales the scent of his cologne. "I don't know, Jason. I think I might just stick around for a bit longer." Her voice quivers slightly, betraying the weakness that she struggles to hide.

But Jason seems undeterred by her apprehension. His hand slowly slides around her hip through the fabric of her dress, a touch that sends shivers down her spine, though not in the way she usually longs for. He moves closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispers. "Come on, it'll be fun. Let's get out of here together."

She tries to step back, to free herself from his grasp, but his hold only tightens, encircling her with an intensity that borders on limitless possessiveness. The glint in his eyes, clouded by the effects of the spiked punch, flickers with a hint of something darker, something she refused to acknowledge until now. She looks to the side, trying to see if she could escape, trying to see anything but him. "Don't be like that, babe. You know you want to be with me."

A surge of fear courses through her, freezing her in place as she feels the cold, hard wall against her back. She leans her head back, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she struggles to find her voice. "Jason, please... let me go."

But his grip remains unyielding, his touch branding her skin with an invisible imprint that fills her with a sense of helplessness. His hand grips onto her wrist, pressing the charms of her gold bracelet into her skin - it will bruise later, she knows. His voice takes on a harsh edge, a sharp contrast to the charming facade she has come to know. 

"Come on, you know you want this.”

In that moment, as the weight of his possession bears down on her, she feels a surge of anger rise within her, mingling with the fear that threatens to consume her. She pushes against him, her voice rising in desperation. "Let me go, Jason."

But his fingers only tighten further, his breath hot against her cheek as he leans in, his eyes clouded with a sense of entitlement she had never noticed before. "You don't get to say no, not now." She could feel her heart racing, her mind sprinting for a way out of this suffocating grip. Panic seizes her, and as she struggles against his hold, her eyes brim with tears that threaten to spill over. She could feel a slight wetness where her charm bracelet had dug into her skin - blood, pricking through her skin in small spots of dark red. 

She’s not quite sure how the scene changes, but it does. All she sees is a flash of silver hair zooming past her, taking Jason down with him.

Aemond.

In the dimly lit corridor, the scene transforms - a blur of chaos and violence as Aemond's fists rain down on Jason, each blow punctuated by a guttural grunt. Jason's face is a mess of blood and fury, his attempts to fend off Aemond's relentless assault futile as he claws and thrashes in a desperate bid for escape.

Aemond's voice cuts through the chaos, edged with a raw fury that she has never heard before. “Fucking stay away from her… stay the fuck away.” Each word is punctuated by a wild hit to the football team captain’s face.

Jason's cries of pain mingle with his own enraged shouts - a mix of aggression and retaliation. "You crazy bastard! Get the fuck off me!" Jason's words are punctuated by the sickening thud of Aemond's fists connecting with his flesh. “Targaryen, for Gods’ sake…”

As the violent altercation unfolds before her, she finds herself unable to process the reality of the situation. The air seems to thicken around her, suffocating her with its weight, and she slumps down to the floor, her hands pressing firmly against her ears in a futile attempt to block out the cacophony of pain and anger as she rocks herself back and forth.

Tears stream down her cheeks, her sobs blending seamlessly with the chaos that engulfs her. She feels the slick warmth of her blood from when the charms on her bracelet had dug into her wrist, now dripping down her arm and onto her elbow - a visceral reminder of the brutal consequences that had been averted by Aemond's timely intervention. Her vision blurs with the weight of her own helplessness, the fear of what might have been gripping her with an intensity she had never known before.

Aemond's voice slices through the chaos with a relentless intensity. "Touch her once again and I’ll make you regret your miserable life!" 

Each word carries a seething rage, matching the force of each brutal strike that fell. Jason's desperate cries are swallowed by the unyielding onslaught, his pleas for respite being drowned out by the unrelenting ferocity of Aemond's fury. "Please, just stop! I didn't mean it!" 

But Aemond's resolve remained unyielding, his voice laced with an unwavering determination. "You're not going to touch her again, you hear me? Not ever! You so much as look at her again…"

As the struggle continues, she feels a surge of gratitude mixed with an unshakable terror. Her mind races with the realization of what might have transpired if Aemond hadn't appeared when he did, the thought of her own vulnerability in the face of Jason's aggression sending chills down her spine. She huddles against the cold wall, her entire being trembling with a wave of fear washing over her.

As Principal Lyonel Strong steps in to diffuse the escalating confrontation, he finds himself confronted by Aemond's seething anger, his one working eye ablaze with an intensity that seems to ignite the very air around them.

"Enough, Aemond!" Principal Strong's voice thunders through the corridor, commanding attention even amidst the chaos. "This is not the way to handle things. We will sort this out, but you need to calm down." Aemond's chest heaves with unrestrained emotion, his bloodied fists clenching at his sides as he glares at the teachers who now surround him. "You don't understand! He had his hands on her! He had no right -"

One of the teachers - she can’t quite place who it is in her disturbed haze - steps forward, her expression as careful blend of concern and authority. "We understand, Aemond, but violence is never the answer. You're all students, and I need to ensure everyone's safety here."

Another teacher, his features etched with concern, attempts to reason with Aemond, his voice a measured attempt at diffusing the tension. "This is not the way to go about things, Aemond!” His jaw tightens as she looks, his gaze flitting between the teachers as he struggles to rein in his emotions. "You're not understanding me! He's not going to get away with this. He was touching her, she didn’t want it! Fucking look at her!"

Jason Lannister has gone limp, possibly unconscious from the beating he’d taken. She cannot bring herself to feel sorry for him.

Principal Strong's voice softens slightly, his stern facade giving way to a hint of understanding. "We will handle it, Aemond. But you need to go home for now. We will inform your mother, and we will discuss this further tomorrow."

Aemond's shoulders sag, the weight of the situation finally settling in as he nods, his expression a turbulent mix of frustration and concern. "Fine. But you better make sure he's dealt with. I won't let this slide. Swear to the Gods I…"

“We take allegations like these very seriously, son. But it does not change the fact that you were caught assaulting a fellow student. Remove yourself from the premises, Aemond. We will ensure that appropriate action is taken after a thorough investigation of the matter.”

The teachers come closer to her, trying to see if she is alright or if she needs to be spoken to. Their presence becomes suffocating to her really quickly as she slinks into herself, and Aemond is near her in an instant.

His voice cuts through the tense air like a sharpened blade, his words a fervent demand that brooks no argument. "Give her some fucking space, all of you! Can't you see she's had enough?”

The teachers, caught between maintaining order and understanding the gravity of the situation, exchange uneasy glances as Aemond kneels before her, his intense gaze a stark contrast to the gentleness that now flickers in his eyes. "Hey, it's okay. It’s me. Look at me, it’s me.”

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

“We're getting out of here," he murmurs, his voice a calming presence amidst the chaos that threatens to overwhelm her. She feels the warmth of his rough palm against her cheek, a gentle anchor that tethers her to the present, grounding her and making her feel safe. The echoes of chaos from the school corridor gradually fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic cadence of her own ragged breaths, each one a testament to the fragile balance she now works hard to maintain.

As they walk, Aemond's voice, low and steady, resonates within her mind, a lifeline that guides her through the tumultuous waves of shock. "Breathe. In and out. You're here, with me. You're safe," he whispers, his words a soothing melody that offers solace in the aftermath of the storm.

She nestles closer to him, her body drawn to the reassuring strength that radiates from his very being. The weight of his presence envelops her, shielding her from the lingering tendrils of fear and uncertainty that threaten to consume her. With each step they take, the distance between them and the chaos of the school grows, replaced by the tranquility of the night and the sense of quietude that blankets their surroundings.

Aemond's unwavering gaze is on her as he guides her along, his touch a constant reminder that she is not alone in her struggle. "You're doing great," he murmurs, the tenderness in his voice a stark contrast to the raw intensity that underscores her earlier encounter with Jason.

Aemond's voice, usually reserved and clipped, softens as he speaks, his words a gentle murmur that cuts through the tense silence between them. "You're going to be alright," he reassures, his tone laced with a rare warmth that belies his usual stoicism. "Just take deep breaths. We'll get you out of here. Okay?”

His touch lingers on her jaw, a silent reassurance that transcends the chaos that still echoes within the confines of her mind. "Let's get you cleaned up," he suggests, a quiet and comforting invitation.

With careful precision, he removes the blood-stained bracelet, each movement deliberate and considerate. As the bracelet disappears into his pocket, a fleeting sick sense of nostalgia washes over her, a bittersweet reminder of the memories she seeks to leave behind. Aemond's intense gaze softens, his eyes reflecting a silent empathy that speaks volumes.

"You're safe now," he assures her, the weight of his words offering a sanctuary that she had thought was beyond her reach only a few moments ago.

Aemond's touch, gentle yet resolute, traces a path of solace along her jawline, each stroke a tender caress that seeks to alleviate the lingering remnants of the chaos that still pulse beneath her skin. He leans his head back as he scans her for any other injuries. "You're safe now," he murmurs again and again, his voice a steadfast anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that threaten to engulf her.

With a haphazardly crushed pocket square that he brings out from his other pocket (his mother has forced it upon him when he leaves for the dance), he wipes away the traces of drying blood on her arm - his movements deliberate and precise. The night's breeze carries with it the whispers of uncertainty, but in the steady rhythm of Aemond's movements, she finds a sense of fleeting calm that she had thought had eluded her grasp.

Amidst the whirlwind of emotions that still swirl within her, his repeated words of comfort seem to fade into the backdrop of her consciousness. She grasps onto the steady solidity of his presence, finding a fleeting anchor in the warmth of his protective embrace. As he settles the weight of his helmet onto her head, she feels the sturdy reassurance of his world enveloping her, the scent of leather and motor oil intermingling with the rhythm of her own turbulent thoughts. She sits and makes herself as comfortable as she can on the planes of his hard leather bike seat - she has never sat on his bike before, so it is ridiculous how familiar and made-for-her the comfort feels.

His bloodied knuckles hold the handlebars of the motorbike tight, fists turning to get the accelerator going. The silver ring that he wears and the steel bracelet he has on his wrist are coated in Jason's blood.

When had he begun wearing those?

While his hands become redder in his tight grip, and the cold air hits her calves, now exposed from her hiked-up skirts on either side of the seat, she is reminded that she is with him, and nowhere else.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

She leans into his back, her cheek finding solace in the reassuring cushion of the interiors of his helmet. She calms down to the feeling of the contours of his spine rising and falling as her vision clears up from the dried tears under the hard glass of the pulled-down visor. Her arms wind around his chest, holding onto him for dear life as the rumble of the motorbike becomes louder and louder, the pace of the noise matching her own ragged heartbeat. The chill air of the night hits her as the school becomes but a distant figure in the distance, smoke from the motorcycle exhaust billowing behind them.

This is the closest she has been to Aemond Targaryen in years. Despite them drifting apart, it is as though all the chaos of the world could be kept at bay, at least for a fleeting moment. She doesn't know where they are going, but she finds that she doesn't care - she is at ease with him.

In the faint chill of the night, he smells of coffee, cigarettes, and smoke - a blend of comfort and safety that lingers in a moment suspended in time.

THERE ARE MANY THINGS THAT SHE KNOWS AEMOND TO DO.

He has his room cleaned each week, like clockwork. He washes that motorbike of his with his own hands every weekend, even though he has staff at the house that would do it for him each day of the week if he so wishes. He rearranges his books often when he thinks nobody is looking. Always makes sure that his clothes are pressed and ready, because Gods forbid he be found looking less than perfect. He can be found spending time with the horses at the stable on the grounds of Maegor’s Holdfast - he took to horse riding after he lost his eye, and has become quite good with intense training. He jogs in the night, always right before dinner. He reads in the house library, long after the other inhabitants of the home have gone to sleep.

Beating the living shit out of someone is not one of those things.

That show of violence is not something that she attributes to him. There’s always a resigned calmness to Aemond that she only ever sees in two other members of his family - his mother and Helaena; you never know they’re thinking.

The rest of the family seems to have something that the old, absent patriarch has funnily dubbed ‘the Targaryen fire.’ But it seems like she is wrong in her assessment, for the boy that stands before her is the complete antithesis of all that she has believed him to be.

The wrinkled white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and bright red splotches of blood that now adorn it, is not something she associates with him. The heavy silver signet ring and Valyrian steel bracelet - an heirloom that she now remembers was given for his eighteenth birthday - are both accessories that he takes great care of. And yet, tonight, they are both doused in blood. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, nail marks visible from where Jason tries to claw at him to make him stop - the lack of cleanliness on a sharp man like Aemond jars her.

This is a completely different side to him.

She watches as he wipes off his own hand with the pocket square that is now just as dirty as she feels. She watches him remove the hair tie that he keeps his hair looped in to keep the strays away from his face. She watches him as he hangs the helmet that he takes off of her head, and lets it dangle over the rearview mirror.

She watches, keeps her eyes on him like her life depends on it. She has to. If she doesn’t, she won’t have much else to do. If she is left to herself now, she is convinced she’ll fall apart. For her own sanity, she holds onto Aemond.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

They stand in front of Chataya’s , the all too familiar neon lights buzzing just slightly as she leans on her back against the motorbike. His black leather riding jacket is probably three sizes bigger on her, but she feels warm in it as she pulls it tighter onto her body. The parking lot is almost empty, and the air plays with her hair as it falls haphazardly in multiple directions. The beautiful dress that she wears now feels cheap to her, and she's decided that the jewelry that she wears is now tacky. Everything that she enjoyed about herself tonight is now tainted by what has happened - she can’t bring herself to think too much about it without physically recoiling.

Shame she'll have to burn the dress.

She watches Aemond through the glass, waiting for their coffees as he stands at the cash counter - ramrod straight. His blood-stained shirt is gaining him many dirty looks from the staff, but no one dares to say a word - he is a Targaryen, after all. The Aemond that she knew back when they were younger - long before they drifted apart - wouldn’t have hit someone. He was too gentle and sweet for that.

Now, however, it’s been made clear to her that he’s willing to fight if he has to.

Aemond asks one of the waitresses for something, his hands not moving much but still enough to convey the message. The woman blushes and points him to the washroom, which he emerges out of a while later, looking comparatively cleaner, blood wiped out. He then pays for the hot drinks and walks out, placing his cup on the bike seat and nudging hers into her grip as he presses the back of her hands into either side of the cup. He is so close to her that he is exuding heat, much like a furnace.

She’d almost forgotten how beautiful she thought his mismatched pair of eyes were. She remembers now.

Her eyes remain fixed on where his hands rest over hers, attempting to warm them up with the hot cup he's holding. She can't muster much beyond a sense of comfort at this moment, acknowledging how much safer his touch feels compared to Jason's.

Jason. Jason asked her out and tried to -

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Her coffee spills out of the to-go cup, scalding her, leaving her gasping at the brown drops on the edges of his jacket sleeves. She recovers swiftly, wiping her fists on her dress and gathering herself as best she can in her hazy state. They drink in silence, gazing ahead, observing the vehicles zooming past.

The silence is soothing, but she needs a distraction. So she speaks.

And so, after years, they begin again.

"You could have killed him," she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid in her cup. From the corner of her eye, she glances at him. He doesn't turn to look at her, but responds in the same tone she used.

"He would have deserved it."

She can't argue with that. "I didn't know you could punch like that."

"Neither did I." A new side to Aemond Targaryen, yet his responses remain true to his character. Direct, yet everything she needs.

They stand in silence once more as she sips her coffee. He's already finished - always a quick eater, a trait she's noticed from the many times he's hurriedly left the table in recent years - and he crushes the cup, walking to the bin to discard it. On his return, he retrieves a cigarette from his pocket and bites the tip, scanning the surroundings with a searching gaze.

Then, he removes it from his mouth, using his index and middle fingers, and looks at her as if they're just casually hanging out for coffee, not as if he just rescued her from an assault and beat up a fellow classmate to almost death in the process.

"Light?" he asks, before realizing a girl with nothing but the prom dress on her back, the jacket he gave her, and the coffee he bought for her probably doesn't have a lighter with her. He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head before heading back into Chataya's - most likely to charm the cash counter staff into lighting his cigarette despite the no-smoking policy. She watches as he does exactly that, striding out with the lit cigarette between his teeth, as if he owns the damn place.

It is a Sunday night. In an ideal world, she’d be grabbing breakfast pancakes with Daeron for dinner. Tonight however, she is outside at the parking lot, looking out of place in her dress and his jacket, with Aemond fucking Targaryen.

The way the tables have turned is not lost on her. Does Daeron even know what had happened? How Jason had -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

"Daeron was there, wasn't he?" Her voice trembles as she chokes out the word, remembering the reason why she stepped away from the dance floor in the first place. "Yes."

Daeron and Floris Baratheon stepping in together -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

If his disheveled appearance and blood-stained clothes rattle her, she is not prepared for the way he seethes as he hears her answer. "Always behind you like a lost pup, how did he let that happen to you?" His anger at his brother's supposed lack of care for her is only set aside by the long puff that he takes out of his cigarette.

She gulps, the overwhelming emotions taking over her entire being as she holds back the tears that threaten to spill. This is perhaps the first time anyone has asked why Daeron isn't with her ever since they begin to drift apart.

She’s heard many things. At least Targaryen isn't keeping you all to himself now, is one. Found himself another girl to fuck, is another.

She is not prepared for someone to see past Daeron and ask about her.

She does not answer. She cannot. The weight of the night’s events have taken away any and all strength she may have to entertain those around her, and she stands in silence as tears pool in her eyes. The sinking feeling takes over her, and she wipes off her eyes before the tears spin out of control.

Aemond seems to understand, and gives her all the time she needs to compose herself. When she’s done, he seems content to simply stand by her with his cigarette as she takes comfort in the silence around them. The only sounds are the distant clanking of plates, the faint buzzing of the neon sign and horns from vehicles zooming past them.

Somehow, it is enough to help her climb back to the surface. She’d drowned in herself for a moment there, but the fog in her mind is clearing slowly as she tells herself over and over.

She’s safe. Safe. Safe.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

His presence, though quiet, provides a much-needed anchor amidst the storm of emotions threatening to consume her. In the dimly lit parking lot, the city's pulsating rhythm seems to offer a peculiar solace, a reminder that time passes regardless of what happens and that the world does not stop to allow her a moment to catch her breath.

Aemond's eyes flicker with concern, the smoke from his cigarette dissipating into the night air. He doesn't offer empty words of consolation, recognizing that sometimes silence is the most potent balm for a wounded soul. The night sky above, mottled with the city's glow, bears witness to their shared solitude, a fleeting moment of understanding that needs no verbal exchange.

As the minutes pass, the weight on her chest lightens imperceptibly. A sense of resolve, tempered by the raw vulnerability of the evening, settles within her. She knows the road ahead is fraught with uncertainty, yet a newfound resilience kindles within her. Aemond's silent companionship, unobtrusive yet steadfast, keeps her standing.

Eventually, she draws in a deep breath, steadying herself against the unforgiving reality that awaits beyond the sanctity of this secluded safety that he’s brought her into. With a nod of gratitude to Aemond, she straightens her posture, the remnants of tears drying on her cheeks. Determination flickers in her eyes, an unwavering resolve to confront whatever challenges lie ahead, even if the path seems shrouded in shadows.

The message is clear. She’s ready to be taken back home.

In the soft glow of the streetlights, Aemond navigates the bustling city streets with a practiced ease, the hum of the engine merging seamlessly with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She leans into him, seeking solace in the sturdy presence of his frame, a silent reassurance that she isn't alone in this dizzying world. The wind rushes past them, tousling her hair as she holds onto him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his body beneath her grip.

The cityscape unfolds before her in a blur of neon lights and towering skyscrapers. A fleeting sense of serenity washes over her, cocooned in the safety of Aemond's embrace, as if the world beyond their world of warmth and motion is a distant, inconsequential dream.

Yet, as her house looms into view, a sudden pang of reluctance tugs at her, a gnawing apprehension that threatens to unravel the fragile peace she has painstakingly cultivated in the past hour. Stepping off the bike, she reluctantly peels off Aemond's jacket, feeling the sudden chill of the night air seeping into her bones, mirroring the chill that seeps into her heart.

She turns to him, her eyes meeting his in the muted glow of the streetlamp, searching for a semblance of the solace she had found in his silent companionship. Her fingers linger for a moment on the fabric of his jacket, a poignant reminder of the warmth she craves, both physical and emotional. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air.

Thank you , she wants to say. She can only manage a weak nod, one that she struggles through while looking down at the road, rather than his mismatched pair of eyes.

Aemond's gaze lingers on her, a flicker of concern mingling with a quiet determination. He reaches out, his hand brushing against her cheek. As though he is convinced there's not much else he can do but give her space, he nods.

As Aemond revs the engine, ready to fade into the night, she stands on the threshold of her home, enveloped in the bitter chill of the evening. She watches the tail lights disappear, and with a steadying breath, she steps inside, the echo of the bike's engine fading into the distance, leaving behind a lingering sense of quiet resolve in its wake.

When she finally manages to sleep, her mind is painted with the image of a captivating pair of mismatched eyes, etched into her brain like a welcome dream.

The bracelet that he’d removed from her wrist - still in his pocket - does not cross her mind at all. 

Not once.

SERIES MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. Please follow and turn on notifs for @randomdragonfics for my fic updates!

[st4rrth0ughts]

instead of sending flowers, come back to me.

aventurine x gn! reader ♣️🎲

tw, cw, timelines: death mentions, Aventurine suffering, 2.1 spoilers, Aven's backstory spoilers, reader's fate is somewhat murky, reader is implied to have been a close personnel of Aven, reader and Aven have known each other for around 5 years, takes place after 2.1

Summary: he's never lost a gamble, but you've changed that.

a/n: divider by @cafekitsune

a/n 2: song inspiration taken from Send me no flowers by Doris Day

Flowers neatly placed on a shelf, impressively enough, all thriving. Peonies, lilies, tulips, and many more. All accumulated from months of your trip to Herta's Space Station that you've sent to Aventurine as an apology for leaving for a while.

He'd been reluctant to let you go, but he didn't want to hold you back from doing what you wanted to do. Afterall, you did tell him that you'd be back in around 3 months. Longer than he wanted, but he'll wait.

He should have stopped you. Should have begged you to stay.

When the news reached his ears, he was in his office, sorting through paperwork. The moment the words of the space station being attacked even fell from the IPC worker's mouth, he'd shot up from his seat, and stormed into Diamond's office.

The fact that the man had simply pushed a transparent plastic pocket containing that matching earring he had insisted to get for you years back enraged him further. Those people at the space station couldn't even have the courtesy to put it in a damn box.

The second the door to his office shuts, he slumps against it, his hand clasping the plastic pocket so tightly the pin was digging through the layer and into his hand. The pain does little to ease or distract him from the emptiness in his heart. Crimson blood trickles down his palm, small droplets staining the pristine carpet.

He wants to cry. He wants to throw something into the wall and hear it smash into bits, and watch its broken pieces fall onto the floor, matching how his heart felt like it was crumbling into ash. But he cant find it in himself to. Not because he doesn't want to mourn you, but because he cant find the tears in his whole being to even shed. It just makes him hurt more.

Dull eyes stare at the most recent bouquet of roses, from 2 days ago. Still fresh, sweet smelling. 2 days. You'd been alive and well 2 days ago, and to think that the last gift he'd ever receive from you was a bouquet of roses made his heart sink further.

It's been years since he'd felt like this. Since the Katicans killed his parents, his sister and his homeland's people, since he'd been shackled, branded and had all human rights stripped from him. This feeling of helplessness, emptiness, and the heavy yet lingering sorrow that made his chest clench and burn, like someone was twisting a searing hot blade, lodging it deep into his body.

5 years ago, he'd made a gamble with himself. He'd let himself get close to you, just this once. You'd be the first person he would trust after his youth. He was confident in this bet. Afterall, he always was the final victor, no?

But every gambler has their losses.

You were his.

(note): guys i love aventurine i swear on my life

[driaswrld]

🪷 — THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT. . . UNRELEASED PUBLICATION 01 !

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, this author has stumbled upon a shockingly salacious tale in the dark corridors of the gojo palace... 2.3k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader smut!! pure smut not tied into main plot, only an alternate of current storyline. fem reader, cunnilingus, creampie, yk the gist guys (also my first full smut piece 😵‍💫) for all the prince toru girlies who got their hearts SHATTERED </3

🪷 taglist : @yunymphs @prttyangelz @jaerang @rayahayumi @kurosaaki @ayanominitrash @lordbugs @xxemmarldxx @ltadoriyuujl @gods-landing @sabrinexx @aphroditisxc @sweeteaas @nikitopia @konekobby @loafgeto @/hanatoru

series mlist. prev. chapter

CHAPTER TWO (B) . . .˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED : LACE EDITION.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner of your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

A guttural groan leaves his throat when you reach a hand out to tug at the front of his pants to pull him closer. The crowned prince’s knees buckle, digging deeper into the floor beneath him.

Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?

“There's so much I could teach you,” his arms hook under your knees the moment your tongue tangles with his, free hand shifting the skirts of your dress and searching like a man on a treasure hunt. “So much you could learn, pretty.”

“Teach me,” you plead, lips wet and chest already heaving.

Satoru murmurs a sound of disapproval against your neck, his tongue sucking the skin at the collar of your throat. “Not yet, have’ta give you a gift of my own first.”

( so he is jealous then ? )

Your thighs shiver when his cold hands snake under your dress, your arms looping around his neck to tug him closer to your body.

“Why do they put you in so many layers— s-shit.” His complaints falter when his palm cups the lace adorning your heat.

Satoru Gojo isn't a pious man, but this must be a gift from God.

“You're too fucking good.” Satoru groans, scooting back on his knees to hike up the layers of your dress.

He has to see the color of your panties. Has to see the lace design he knows is strewn across your pretty pussy— because you're a lace girl, never silk, Suguru doesn't know you, hasn't known you the way Satoru has.

It's vulgar.

“Satoru, waitwait—!” Falls on deaf ears, because he’s already hooking his thumbs under the waistband of your lacy panties, pulling the fabric to stretch, playing with it as your folds slick up, a wet patch forming.

He toys with the edges of the lace, pulls and pulls until he lets it snap back against your front, his breathing going ragged with each sharp inhale you take.

He likes playing with you like this.

“Look at that.” Satoru pulls your panties to the side, your cunt clenching around nothing. “Pretty girl ‘s crying for me. . .” He spreads your folds with his index and middle, his cock straining against his pants, begging for relief.

“Don't just look at it like that— you're odd!”

“Yeah?” he chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your pulsing clit, flicking the bud teasingly. “Don't break my heart, princess.”

There's an undertone to his words as he sinks two fingers into your weeping whole, pumping against spots you couldn't reach with your own.

Satoru bullies his fingers into you, searching endlessly for something he thinks he’ll never find.

tell me no one’s touched you like this, tell me it's only me, tell me it’s not him—

Your hips rise to rock against his fingers and he stifles a laugh, almost bitterly. He knows better, but you're as better as the best gets.

“Hold this f’me, yeah?” Before you can question it, the skirts of your dress are bunched into your lap as Satoru’s head dips between your thighs.

“Fuck—” your mouth goes agape as his tongue licks a fat stripe up your folds, his fingers scissoring and stretching you open in time with his licks, tongue flattening and curling and flattening and curling. “How do you even—”

how many girls have you kissed like this?

Satoru mumbles something against your clit that you don't hear, but it vibrates through your core as his tongue slips into your hole, eagerly fucking you and sucking up your juices.

Now this is a royal scandal.

“Tastes just as sweet as I knew it would,” he moans, grinding his hips against the foot of the sofa, using his other arm to push against your knee, spreading you wider for better access. “Would go to war for this pussy, baby.”

Your head spins.

You knew of Satoru's. . . appetites as a Prince.

But experiencing it firsthand? Every lap of his tongue at your entrance, every stretch of his fingers has you seeing stars.

“‘Toru—! mmph, too much,” Your hips buck against his mouth, your head falling back against the window.

The night air doesn't help cool your skin with how hot your entire body feels.

“Too much?” Satoru repeats, mockingly. His cheeks hollow as he curls his fingers, pressing against that spongy spot that has your hips quivering, lips suckling your bundle of nerves. “C’mon, you cryin?”

“M’ not— not crying. . .” You sob, thighs squeezing around his head. He slides his fingers out of you, using both hands to hike your legs over his shoulders. “So good, it's so good.”

You feel him grin against your cunt as he dives back in, his tongue and fingers tag teaming between abusing your clit in harsh circles and thrusting into your drooling hole.

He’s getting off to the praise, his hips pressed firm against the sofa as he whines against you, your ankles crossed between his shoulder blades, heels digging into his back. “Can't get enough of you.”

“Please, wan’ta cum—” Tears escape the corner of your eyes, your thighs trembling and walls convulsing around his fingers. “Gonna cum— mhm, stopstop—!”

Satoru groans against your cunt when your back arches and your hips drive against his face like a woman possessed, his nose brushing your clit just right as your high hits you hard.

“I’ll replace these.” Satoru rasps, pulling away from you with a soft squelch.

“Replace? What do you—” You can't see the expression on his face with how his head’s hidden under your dress, but your heart pounds in your chest when his fingers wrap around one of your ankles in a soft caress.

The realization hits you then, as the liquid cools and fabric sticks to the inside of your thigh.

He’s talking about your panties.

“Lace is so pretty on you,” he murmurs, fiddling with the buttons of his pants, careless to his haphazard movements as his cock springs free, curved at an angle and beading with precum at the tip. “You don't know what you do to me, I swear.”

Lace.

Like the glove you gifted him your favor with.

Your face floods with heat when he flips the rest of your dress up, your gaze never leaving his hardened cock, the way it looks so angry at you.

It comes to you then as he looks up at you, snowy hair matted, nose to chin glistening with your slick and eyes hung low.

Prince Satoru, your childhood bestfriend, just ate you out.

And he's about to fuck you.

Satoru grasps both your ankles, letting his grip trail down to your thighs as he rises to his feet.

“You're a lady. A Princess— fuck,” Your hand reaches down to wrap your fist around his hot length, and it jolts to your touch.

You deserve better, he wants to say. Better than having your legs spread open for him in a dark corridor.

“Forgive me.” Satoru pushes your thighs down to meet your chest, effectively folding your body in half for him.

i'm sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry — i love you, i’m jealous.

And you whine, your arousal dripping down your thighs, still not fully recovered from your first high. “I'm gonna fuck you like anything but a lady.” His hot length bucks forward through your fist to bump against your folds and you bite your lip at the sensation.

He’s painfully hard and spilling precum, slipping back and forth across your pussy lips.

“Let me in, princess, please, I need you.” You pump his length in a few languid strokes and he shudders as you guide his cock to prod at your entrance. “I’ll fucking die if I don't—”

With bated breath and barely any restraint, Satoru rocks his hips forward, his tip sinking between your puffy folds and popping in.

“Pretty girl.” He moans, pushing forward until he's buried to the hilt, his cock curving to prod against your insides, deep.

“Satoru—” You gasp, your walls clenching at the penetration and his brows dip as he leans over your body, kissing the side of your neck. “I know, baby. . . fuck, squeezing me so tight—”

“C-can't help it,” you whimper as he rolls his hips forward, slow at first, so you feel every inch of him filling you up, like you were hollow before this.

Satoru lets out a sharp whine, almost girlish when he picks up the pace, fucking himself into you with deep slams, one hand leaving your thigh to tug at the front of your dress, using it as grip to fuck you rougher.

It's desperate.

“Hear that?” He whispers against your skin, each pump of his hips has his balls slapping against your ass in loud wet smacks, your cunt squelching around his cock, all sensitive and gushing for him, just like he imagined.

“We're kissing down there, pretty.” He chuckles breathily.

You’d scold him but you chuckle between a moan, his hips jerking forward harshly at how your pussy squeezes him in just from that. “I-it’s so hot—”

“Sucking me in— so needy,” he grunts, slipping his other hand between you to roll your sensitive bud under his thumb. “So loud and filthy, knew you wanted this as much as I did, baby. Wanted me to fuck you like this for so long, hm?”

“Satoru!” Your back arches off the sofa as you bite back a sob, your hips rocking to meet each of his thrusts. “Wanted it— wanted you so bad.”

“Who’s making you feel so good, huh?” Satoru pants, pressing his weight down onto your body, caging you under him as his thrusts become borderline feral, the top of your dress beginning to rip from the strength of his grip. “Say it, shit, say it—”

tell me it's me and not him. tell me only i can make you feel this good.

“Y-you,” you choke out, your lungs burning as you try to catch your breath.

Satoru slows his thrusts to a grind, unsatisfied with your answer, fucking you shallow and drawing it out, his tip pressing against your sweet spots making you see white.

“Princess,” he grunts in warning, applying more pressure to your clit, your body writhing beneath him. “Don't tell me that pretty little head ‘s all fuzzy now.”

“‘Toru, please—” Your palms push at Satoru’s chest, nails digging into his shirt, the coil in your core wound tight and teetering at the edge, but he won't push it past the edge. Not yet. “It's you, my Prince— ‘s you, Satoru!”

Your Prince.

You barely get the last syllable out before he’s bullying his cock into you in harsh strokes, the sweet plap plap plap of his body against yours is drowned out by all the things he whispers in your ear, only me, nobody else, you’re mine, gonna fuck you full so you won't forget.

“Wanna cum, ‘toru,” you cry and he bites down on your shoulder, as he exchanges his grip on your thighs for your your hips, pulling you onto him as he fucks into you with reckless abandon, sweat collecting at his brow.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?” Satoru presses his mouth against yours in a disoriented kiss, moaning into your mouth as your walls convulse around him, his cock twitching and swelling inside you. “Cum all over my cock baby, make your Prince a mess.”

Your hips move on their own, your body flushing with pleasure and the coil inside your belly snapping, giving way to your second high.

Your legs wrap around Satoru’s waist, pulling him impossibly deeper into you while you climax, his own breathing going short.

“T-tight, fuck, gonna make me cum—” Satoru lets go of your hips and reaches for your hands, interlacing them with his above your head, his thrusts growing sloppy as he gets closer.

“Look at me, yeah, look at me when you make me cum. Look at what you do to me, pretty.”

Satoru pushes his body flush against yours as his cock twitches, his hips stuttering and nose pressed against yours, mouth open with a loud moan when he unloads, spilling himself inside you in thick spurts.

He hugs you close to his body with a few soft thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you with broken whines, his body slumped atop yours as he rides out the rest of your highs, the air cooling and settling.

“Think I got carried away,” Satoru whispers, pressing gentle kisses across your face, and a chaste one to your lips as he catches his breath, cheeks flushed pink.

“You think?” You pant, biting back a laugh, to which he buries his face in your neck. “We need to go—”

“Don't feel like it,” he mumbles, nuzzling close to you, and your eyes flit to the window, taking in the stars.

You bring a hand up to card through his hair, and he sighs at the feeling.

“But, the ball—” You try to protest, but he cuts you off by squeezing you close to him, impossibly close. “And the grape juice—”

“I’ll replace the dress too.” Satoru whispers. “Nothing else matters— just a little longer.”

You feel him smile into your neck and you roll your eyes, laying your head back with an exasperated sigh of your own.

“Just a little longer, then.”

[lustfulslxt]

MORE STEPBRO CHRIS IM BEGGING YOU PLEASE. 🙏🙏

i have so so so many requests for stepbro chris, so until i can write out a fic, here’s this 💋

—

it’s been an excruciatingly long day. a long day of teasing, subliminal touches, risky advances, lustful stares, and naughty words spoken. to say the least, you’ve been absolutely feral.

your stepbrother, chris, has been attempting to keep you at bay all day. you’ve been trying your hardest to get him to cave and give you what you know you both want.

from wearing a skimpy little outfit and bending over in front of him, showcasing your pretty panties, to full on palming him through his jeans at the dinner table.

the second your hand makes contact with the slight bulge in his pants, he stiffens and the fork he’s holding slips from his hand, clashing into the plate with a loud clink.

the two of your parents turn their heads toward him, brows furrowed. “you okay?”

“mhm.” chris nods, “just tryna take my time.”

his response being good enough for them, they resume their conversation with one another. chris turns to look at you with a glare on his face. you only innocently smile at him.

your hand tightens around his growing member, applying the perfect amount of pressure. he deeply inhales through his nose and clenches his jaw, keeping his eyes on you with a harsh stare.

you’ve made it abundantly clear that you need him. his cock has been throbbing since your first advance, and he can only hold out for so long.

which leads you to where you’re at now.

bent over the sofa, your face pressed into the back cushion, mascara bleeding onto the leather as chris digs you out.

the material of the couch is cool against your taut nipples, increasingly warming up with the heat you’re exerting. your skin is soon sticking to the black textile from the thin layer of sweat you’re producing.

your top has been long discarded and your skirt is bunched up at your waist with your panties looped around one of your ankles. the cool breeze coming in through the open window dances softly on your skin, providing a pleasant balance to the warmth emitting from chris along your backside.

your parents had left to get a few more things they needed to finish dessert, and as soon as they were out the door, chris had you against the sofa.

“such a fucking whore. so desperate for some cock, you’re willing to touch me in front of our parents.” he grunts from behind you, his thrusts fast and hard.

you can’t even form a single word, your mouth dropped open as pleasured moans fall from it. one of his hands is pressed against the side of your head, holding you against the cushion. his opposite hand holding his shirt up to prevent it from being saturated by your arousal.

“dirty little slut.” he grits, “can’t even keep her mouth shut. practically begging to be caught.”

his pace grows with each sentence, his cock now repeatedly digging into your sweet spot, making your eyes roll back into your head. he huffs and bends down, ripping the panties from your ankle. he balls them up and stuffs them in your mouth to keep you quiet.

clocking his words, you turn your head to face the opposite way from the window.

he smirks, “what, you scared to look out the window? scared they’ll pull in the driveway and see me plowing your brains out?”

your brows furrow in pleasure, your body and mind being overcome with bliss. he always knows exactly what to say, exactly what to do to have you coming undone on his cock. you can’t help but clench around him.

your panties become soaked with the remnants of your arousal and the continuous drool that pools from your mouth — ultimately doing nothing to contain the noise escaping from your lips.

chris falls against your back, pressing messy kisses to your neck. his breath is erratic, small moans slipping from his mouth. his cock throbs inside your pussy, soon to reach the edge.

“chrisssss.” you cry out as his strokes hit deeper.

“take it. you wanted it so bad, fucking take it.” he groans, pulling you back by your waist to meet his thrusts.

euphoria floods through your body, and you squeeze your eyes shut as your legs tremble. as soon as his tongue grazes the sweet spot on your neck, you’re left practically convulsing beneath him as you cum.

squelching noises fill the air as you drench his dick, and it’s music to his ears. knowing how good he makes you feel, on top of how good you feel clenching around him has his hips sputtering. lewd groans emit from his lips as hot spurts of cum spray over your inner walls.

just as he begins to slow, the sound of brakes squealing has you both scurrying to get dressed and pretend nothing has happened.

“you guys ready for dessert?”

chris licked his lips and smirked, “thanks, but i already had it.”

—

taglist : @luv4kozume @worldlxvlys @flowerxbunnie @sturniolowhore @creamoncreamoncream2 @lvrsparadise @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @tillies33ssss @chrissfavwh3re @its-jennarose @sophssturn @defnotayonna @ksskianshd @d0wnbad4chris @braindead4l @avasturn @knowingnothingnoel @luverboychris @remussbitch @stunza @rootbeerworshiper @dracoflaco @leah-loves-lilies @strnlsblog @keira324 @domaniquessidehoe @mattslolita @junnniiieee07 @pepsienthusiasts @gamermattsgf @cupidsword @iloveneilperry @leprechaunbirthdaygirl @luul223 @matt444nixi @sturniololol @evieolo @dlyansworld

[x-uno]

Hey! Do you think you could make a OPLA!Zoro x reader but like fluff to angst something like that?? You can do whatever you want be creative :) thank you! XOXO

Silent Longing.

Pairing: OPLA!zoro x reader

| 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

In the quiet corners of our hearts, there often exists a hidden treasure, a secret admiration that we dare not speak aloud. It's a tale told in hushed tones, a whisper to the universe, a confession to no one but ourselves.

"You have to stop being stupid and risking your life, Y/N," Zoro grumbled, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness of the night. "You're lucky I saved your ass in time."

His words, though laced with irritation, were a stark reminder of the genuine worry he held for your well-being. 

You couldn't help but smile, a mix of gratitude and longing in your eyes as you met his gaze. "I guess I owe you one, Zoro."

He shifted uncomfortably, the weight of your words sinking in. "Just don't make a habit out of it. We need every hand on deck."

A wry smile tugged at your lips as you leaned against the railing of the Going Merry, gazing at the starry sky that stretched endlessly before you. "Heh, worried about me?"

Zoro, who had been standing nearby, turned his head away, his face hidden in the shadows. "Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not worried about you."

"Whatever you say, mosshead," you retorted, using the nickname you knew he secretly tolerated.

As the stars continued their silent dance overhead, you couldn't help but steal a glance at Zoro. His profile was bathed in moonlight, revealing the scars that adorned his rugged face. There was a magnetic allure to him, an irresistible enigma that had drawn you in from the moment you joined the crew.

In these moments of secret admiration, we become silent observers, watching from afar, admiring the beauty or brilliance that has captured our attention. We find ourselves drawn to qualities that resonate with our own desires and aspirations.

"You know, Zoro," you began, your voice soft, "sometimes I wonder if the Grand Line has as many mysteries as you do."

Zoro's eyes, ever watchful, shifted in your direction. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You shrugged, your gaze returning to the stars. "Just that you're a man of many layers, and I feel like there's so much about you I don't know."

A hint of a smirk played at the corner of Zoro's lips, though he still avoided making direct eye contact. "You think you can figure me out, Y/N?"

You chuckled, your heart feeling oddly light in this moment of vulnerability. "I don't know, Zoro. But I'd sure like to try."

In the days that followed, your interactions with Zoro remained a delicate dance of unspoken sentiments. The crew sailed through uncharted waters, facing perilous challenges and ferocious adversaries, yet the magnetic pull between you and the swordsman remained a constant presence.

There were moments when Zoro would surprise you, whether it was offering a hand to steady you on a rocky path or sharing a rare smile when no one else was looking. Those moments became the source of both your greatest hope and deepest despair.

"Y/N, watch your step," Zoro's voice broke through the tension in the air as you navigate the treacherous, narrow ledge on a seemingly endless mountain path. His strong hand reached out, fingers grazing your arm gently to ensure your balance.

You couldn't help but glance at him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Thank you, Zoro."

His gaze met yours for a fraction of a second before he turned away, his expression unreadable. "Don't mention it."

The ambiguity of his actions gnawed at your soul like a relentless storm. Did he see you as nothing more than a comrade? Or was there a chance, however slim, that he felt something deeper?

In the quiet of your own thoughts, you replayed those instances, dissecting each one for hidden meaning. But in the end, you couldn't escape the truth that hung over your heart like a storm cloud: Zoro's actions, no matter how seemingly significant, remained shrouded. 

-

"Zoro, do you ever wonder what keeps us going? What's the point of it all?"

"We have our goals. We chase them. That's all."

"But what about... other dreams? What if there's something or someone you care about more?"

He didn't answer right away, and you could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. When he finally spoke, his voice was like a blade, cutting through the silence.

"Dreams like that are for fools, Y/N. They lead to nothing but pain."

''Oh.''

But, of course, it was an inevitable truth that in the depths of our souls, unrequited love resided, an agonizing ache we concealed beneath stoic masks.. It's a silent longing that beats like a quiet drum, an unspoken declaration that remains locked within.

A  bittersweet melody that plays in the chambers of our hearts. We yearn for the love we give to be mirrored back, but fate has different plans. It's an unspoken story, a love unfulfilled, a heart that beats out of sync with the world.

 "But isn't pain a part of life, Zoro? It's what makes us feel alive, isn't it?"

Zoro clenched his jaw, frustration evident in his tense posture. "Feeling alive, huh? That's overrated. Life's about survival, not getting caught up in pointless emotions."

"But what if it's not pointless? What if it's what gives life meaning?"

Zoro's gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was about to reveal something hidden deep within himself. "Y/N, I've seen what happens when people get too attached to their dreams, to others. They lose focus. They get distracted. And then, they fall."

You felt a pang in your chest, a mixture of frustration and a growing sense of desperation. "But Zoro, isn't there something you care about? Someone you'd do anything for?"

Zoro's expression hardened, and he turned his gaze away from you. "I have my crew. They're my dream, my goal. Nothing else matters."

The silence hung heavy between you, a palpable tension that refused to dissipate. Your heart ached with the desire to break through Zoro's stoic exterior, to understand what lay beneath his tough facade.

"Zoro," You whispered, their voice barely audible, "sometimes, dreams change. Sometimes, they evolve into something more beautiful than we could have ever imagined. And sometimes, letting someone in doesn't make you weak; it makes you stronger."

Zoro's eyes flickered, a hint of vulnerability briefly surfacing before he buried it deep within. "I don't have time for distractions, Y/N. I won't let anything or anyone get in the way of my goal."

A tragedy it was, a love so profound it felt like both a blessing and a curse. To love someone with a depth that threatened to consume every fiber of your being, yet knowing that you could never truly be his was a torment that tore at the soul.

It was a love that coursed through your veins like a bittersweet poison, intoxicating your senses and clouding your judgment. Every stolen glance, every stolen moment, was a reminder of the forbidden nature of your desires. And yet, you could not help but yearn for more, to risk everything for the chance to be near them, to feel their presence like a lifeline in a world that seemed determined to keep you apart.

The very thought of  him was a constant ache, a haunting melody that played in the recesses of your mind. 

And yet, you knew that to pursue this love would be to court disaster, to dance on the precipice of ruin. The world had conspired to place insurmountable barriers between you, and the consequences of crossing those lines were too dire to contemplate.

So, you loved him in silence.

taglist: reply to be added !

© 2023 x-uno ── all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, edit, alter, or redistribute my work. 

[watermelonlovershigh]

You're a Little Too Loud in Bed (SMUT)

AN: this was loosely inspired by this tiktok. i instantly thought of writing a fan fiction when i watched it. and before anyone comes at me with negative comments, i would NEVER write a story where a child sees their parents having sex. that's very traumatizing for so many. this is as far as i'd go in writing something like this. let me know if you enjoyed!!

This story contains: sex, use of vibrators, crying child, comfort, reassurance, fluffy ending

{ dadrry - dilf!harry - husbandrry - soft!harry - 3 kids (2 unnamed, 1 named Masie [May-zee] ) - harry age 35 }

word count- 1,709

Due to the pleasurable sex you had with Harry, you accidently moan too loud and your daughter down the hall wakes up and gets scared that something is wrong with her mummy.

Harry was currently fucking you from behind. You're on all fours in the center of your king size bed, Harry standing on his knees as he thrusted into you. He had one hand on your hip and the other was reaching down, holding your vibrating wand to your clit to give you added pleasure as well as pleasure for him because the vibrations were hitting his balls with each thrust.

You were trying really hard to stay quiet because your kids were asleep in their rooms down the hall. But with Harry's long, thick cock pounding into your pussy and the steady vibrations attacking your clit, you were struggling with that. Even Harry was struggling to keep his moans at bay.

See, the two of you typically have two different types of sex in your sex lives. The sex that's more slow and anguished where you're all lovey dovey with each other. It can be done in the bathtub or under the covers. Basically love making. Which you'd say you do most often just because you both genuinely love feeling close to one another on levels other than physically, like emotionally.

Then there's fucking sex. Sex that isn't really love making but isn't too kinky either. You normally do positions other than missionary and add a couple toys into the mix. What you're doing now is what you'd consider more so fucking. When you make love you can normally keep quiet and allow your moans to travel into one another's mouths from sloppily making out. But with sex in doggy position with a vibrator in use, it's so much hader.

When you feel yourself getting close, you shove your head into your pillow to try and conceal the moans that you know you won't be able to hold in any longer when you climax. Harry doesn't even need to ask if you're close because he can feel you becoming wetter and your walls are starting to seize up around his shaft.

Harry leans over your back and heaves in a seductive voice, "Come on, let go for me. Let go, baby." He was struggling to hold off on his own orgasm because you just felt so good. And he wasn't twenty-five any more. He's thirty-five. Fucking you in doggy really wears him out.

"I'm, Oh God," you start to speak but are cut off when Harry begins moving the wand from side to side over your clitoris to speed up the process, "I'm coming. Holy shit!" Your back arches upwards and your hands grip the bed sheets beneath you so hard you feel as if you might just rip a hole in the fabric. Your vaginal walls squeeze Harry so tightly that he begins to come as well.

Once you start to come down from your orgasms, Harry turns the vibrating wand off and tosses it across the bed. His hips stop their thrusting and slowly he becomes soft within you. You're both breathing heavy and have a thin layer of sweat coating your naked skin. Your knees give out which leads to you laying flush to the mattress. And well, with Harry still inside of your cunt, he comes crumbling down with you.

He carefully falls on your back so he doesn't hurt you and for a minute you lay together in silence, soaking up each others comfort and love. That is until you hear a wailing cry coming from down the hallway. "Fuck," Harry grumbles, not wanting to separate from your body but knowing he has to check on his child, "I'll go see what's the matter, alright. You stay put." He really hoped whoever was crying hadn't been sick because he really doesn't want to deal with puke right now. But he would if he had to.

With a kiss to the back of your sweaty neck, Harry slips out of you and begins to shuffle off the bed and towards his dresser to find himself some briefs and shorts to put on. You turn around and get under the duvet to cover yourself up at least a little bit. After Harry is dressed enough, he flings your bedroom door open and quickly travels down the hall to where the cries are coming from.

He comes to realize they are coming from your daughter Masie's room, who's five years old. Harry opens her door and coos gently while walking towards her little bed, "Hey loves, what's the matter? Why'r you crying, baby?"

Masie looks at her father and makes grbby hands, wanting him to pick her up. She's a bit too heavy to lift like this but Harry will do anything for his children. Once she's in her daddy's arms, she cries with her little arms around his neck and her head on his shoulder, "I..... I heard mummy screaming. Is she, is she okay?"

Harry has never felt more embarrassed yet proud in his entire life as he does right now. Embarrassed that his daughter heard you screaming during sex. Well it was more so loud moaning that you tried to conceal best as possible, but to a five year old, screaming is the best word she can describe it as. And proud he can still make you scream during sex.

Rubbing a palm up and down her small back, Harry coos, "Shhh, she's perfectly fine, lovie. Mummy wasn't screaming in a bad way. It was happy screams."

As Masie's cries slowly stop, she demands softly, "Wanna see mummy, please."

"Okay, okay, but she'll come in here, alright. Here, sit on your bed and I'll bring her in here so she can tell you she's fine." Harry tells his daughter while carefully setting her back down in her bed. He would have brought her to you but he knows you're not decent at the moment, still chilling naked under the covers.

Masie mutters out a quiet, "M'kay." and waits for her mummy to come see her. Harry quickly goes back into your shared bedroom with embarrassment on his face. You look at your husband as he enters and question worriedly, "Is my baby, okay? What was wrong?"

He goes over to your dresser to pick you out some clothes and answers, "Maise heard you screaming. She thought something was wrong with you and was just worried. Now she wants you to come see her. Here, let me help you get dressed." Harry helps you slip over your t-shirt, not bothering with a bra around the house, and pair of panties and shorts.

Right before you make your way to your daughters room, Harry whispers, "Guess m'gonna have to hold your mouth shut next time."

You turn around with a cheeky glare and retort, "Hey, it's not my fault you fucked me so well. Can barely walk and my clit is still throbbing uncomfortably."

Hand in hand you enter Masie's bedroom and she's just where Harry had left her. When she sees you her bottom lip quivers and she begins to cry again, probably from relief her mummy was okay. No matter how good of a fuck you just had, your daughter's well being is your number one priority and it kills you that she was this worried about you. Thank god you have a rule in this house to always knock on your door so she didn't walk in on the act. That would have traumatized everyone.

"Hey, my darling, mummy's alright. See, I'm okay." you say in a comforting voice as you lean down to wrap her in a hug.

With her face buried in your neck, she asks, "You screamed happy screams?" You snatch you head around to give Harry who's standing in the doorway a death stare. How dare he, but also how else are you supposed to explain to a five year old that what she heard was moans from her parents being intimate. I mean it's totally normal and healthy for couples to have sex but she's way too young to know that right now.

"Yes Masie, mummy was screaming because she was really happy. You know your daddy makes mummy real happy sometimes. Just like when something is really funny and you laugh loudly, well that's kinda like what mummy done, okay."

She nods and questions, "Can I sleep with you tonight, please?" She doesn't really get to sleep in bed with you and Harry unless she's sick, but on special occasions you'll let her, or any of your kids for that matter.

Hugging her to you tightly and lifting her off the bed, you answer, "Yeah, I guess for tonight it won't hurt. Harry, go um, fresh," you try and tell him without saying it out loud, pointing at Masie's covers, "change them." you mouth the last part. Realization comes across Harry's face and he gives you a thumbs up before scurrying off to change your bed sheets.

Though you did lay a towel down during the sex, just something about your daughter sleeping in the same sheets and duvet you fucked on feels wrong. To give him a minute to change the bedding on your bed, you carry Masie into the hall bathroom and help her use the toilet before she sleeps again. Of course she's potty trained but still needs help wiping sometimes.

Five minutes later you walk back into your bedroom to see Harry just now finishing changing the bedding. He turns around and speaks, "There's my girls. Come on, get under the covers and lets give each other cuddles." Your family is very physically affectionate people. You all love hugs and cuddling one another.

You set your daughter Masie in the center of the bed and both you and Harry slip in the duvet beside her. Once Harry turns the lamp off, you both sink down under the fresh covers more and slide over until she's right in between the two of you. You each lean down and place a kiss to her tiny cheeks before settling in the warmth of each other for sleep.

Right as you and Harry start to drift off from exhaustion, you hear a small, "Love you." coming from your daughters mouth. Harry and you both reply back with, "We love you, too." and then sleep finally takes over.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @hsfanficsrecss // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @itfeelslikemytherapisthatesme // @damnasstyles  // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet  // @meetmyblondemuffins  // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles  // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles  // @skyangel57   // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptress // @clairestylessss  // @kissmyaxe140  // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore1 // @florencepughily  // @alienorknight //@dancearoundthelivingroom  // @swiftmendeshoran

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______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

See How It Shines

Summary: Spencer gets home from work to find Reader in tears over the new Hozier album.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff and comfort

Content warnings: The masterpiece of Hozier’s Unreal Unearth, me stopping halfway to listen to the entire album, me crying to every song I reference

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: shoutout to anyone who picks up on every song reference I make. I am instantly in love with you.

Spencer had been etched with the weight of unsolved cases and the relentless march of time, and he was forced to call it a night around six. The team had already pulled an all-nighter earlier in the week, so Hotch decided they all deserved rest. Spencer, however, wasn’t tired (he was; it was the late cups of coffee). Nevertheless, he makes it to his apartment door, skipping every other step. As Spencer turned the key in the lock, a soft melody flowed from the other side, haunting him yet drawing him in.

When the door opens with a slight creak, the music only grows. The living room was a sanctuary, bathed in the golden hues of twilight and table lamps, together casting long, ethereal shadows across the aged wooden floor. Plants adorned the walls and shelves. Since you moved in, he has never shared a space with so many simple living things.  His record player, a testament to decades of shared music between him and his mother, spun its vinyl tale. This time it was for you, as it breathed life into the album as you sat on the couch in a nest of blankets.

Ah yes, it was Hozier day. The anticipated album release of Unreal Unearth. His girlfriend highly anticipated it. She had been vibrating as the week drew to a close with five days left, then three, then one. And it was well worth the wait, considering the tears continuing to streak her face as the Irish man begged for someone to not fall away from him.

Spencer set his bag down by the door and proceeded toward the couch with caution as if he were ready to pounce like a predator on prey. Except the end resulted in a tender hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him with a puffy face and snotty nose. It was Spencer’s next instinct to grab a tissue from the end table and offer it to you. Of course, you took it. And even though the answer was obvious, he still felt the need to ask, “Are you okay?”

It was a struggle for you to inhale, so you blew your nose again. "I didn’t expect this to be a breakup album.” The album sleeve was wrapped in your arms, proving to already be a prized possession. The tracklist was organized by the layers of Dante’s hell they fell under.

Spencer gave you a small smirk before placing a kiss on your head. “Well, I’ll go ahead and get started on dinner.” It was his turn to take the culinary reins for tonight. “Do you need anything?”

“I need to know who this woman is, Spencer.” You throw your head back as Hozier hits a high note that neither of you has heard from him before. You stay there as you ask, “Who made this man feel so much pain?”

“You want to fight Hozier’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Ew, no.” Your nose scrunched. “I just want to know how. The power to make a man feel this way.”

Spencer chuckled. He had answers. And he’s happy to not reply with any of them. “I’m making chicken parmesan. That okay?”

You nodded, soon returning to singing about holding a heart like a steering wheel. But you then grabbed his hand. Your eyes are red, and Spencer is sure you’ll need drops before the end of the night. “Did a part of you die the first time I called you ‘baby,’ Spencer?”

Spencer couldn’t help but smirk as he quirked a brow. “Do what?”

“They’re song lyrics.” You let go of him.

Spencer has never fully understood the uproar that comes with Hozier. Then again, no one really flocks to Beethoven and Chopin like they used to. Plus, Vivaldi wasn’t known for belting out in the middle of his pieces and Spencer can at least admit Hozier’s belts ( well, the ones he’s heard so far) tug at him by the chest. He came back to his senses quickly when his mismatched socks landed on the cold tile. He washed his hands and opened the fridge door with his good knee.

Songs of water and knives reminded him he had chicken to wash and cut. And the familiar feeling in his own kitchen gets the tasks in Spencer’s head in order. He could feel the weight of his week slowly lift, replaced by Spencer attempting to chop to the song. It was inefficient. Some songs play shockingly fast for a breakup album. He settled for a more percussion style of noise, making each slice more deliberate as a testament to his meticulousness.

The flour and breadcrumbs sizzled in the oil that mingled with the sight of you matching the pitch of the song and humming where Hozier shouted, caressing the album sleeve like it was alive and needed your warmth. The weight of the lyrics settling in your bones caused your head to fall in shock as a long, high note carried through the whole apartment.

The album played on, weaving tales of love and loss, each one successfully targeting your core and striking effectively. And when Spencer got into the groove of his own routine in the kitchen, he listened to the lyrics as they almost guided him to autopilot, reminding him of the joys that come with his leg around you in bed, ensuring you don’t move anywhere except closer to him. And how the idea of losing that is something he does not care to dwell on for long.

He could keep it together, he thought.

Until his voice soars about the glistening of an animal’s eyes. About the force of love for someone recklessly in the middle of the street. Spencer couldn’t help but feel a lump forming in his throat. It was a visceral reaction—Spencer's sniffle. But it wasn’t unheard.

You turned your gaze toward Spencer, your eyes soft with understanding. You could hear the emotion in his breath and the slight catch in his throat. “Spencer?” You asked.

“I’m fine.”

Your lower lip quivers with a puffy smile. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m chopping. Chopping while completely fine.” His sniffles continued to give him away (sanitary stations over pride every time).

You couldn’t help but find the situation adorable. You lazily got up from the couch, letting one of the blankets slide off with you, dragging along behind you across the wood floor and then the tile. You carefully put your hands around his waist because safety comes first. You squeeze him, and he laughs a little. For a moment, he puts his left hand on your arm, keeping it there. You noticed how his fingertips were colder than expected as you looked at the cutting board from under his arm. “So basil makes you cry? Is that it?”

Spencer laughs again, diverting his gaze from the record player and clearing his eyes from unshed tears. “Today, it apparently does. There must be some emotional properties I didn’t consider.”

“Nothing to do with an Irish man singing his heart out?”

Spencer rubs his nose on his sleeve. Fuck sanitation right now; he’s about to go through it. The snot is evident. See how it shines, indeed. “Is he really singing about roadkill?”

“Yep.” You sniffle in return as you lay your head on his back.

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“How does he do it?”

“That I don’t know.” You held Spencer as he let the music hit him. Taking moments to turn from the food to wipe his tears.