#i sense another fic that might be rather . . . dark

[stayconnecteed]

🪐˓⠀˚⠀i guess i'm in love⠀@⠀kim seungmin.

this is just a cute birthday fic based on the love of my life @skzms and her seungmin's drabble 'seungmin in love', which i totally recommend before you read this. i hope you like it, may, and that i made justice to your words!! i listened to i guess i'm in love by clinton kane while writing this. the beginning of the plot is based on a personal experience! i wish it had ended that way tho askjdhkasjd

SEE MORE.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀4k words. ⠀⠀general mlist.⠀⠀join taglist.

You had never mustered the courage to talk to a boy until university made you come out of your shell. The morning you had stepped into the lecture hall for the first time, ready to listen to the dean of your faculty give the introductory talk, you had sat alone in one of the front rows, hanging on every word, your heart racing. You didn't know anyone, and you preferred to focus on the speech, waiting for some extrovert to adopt you, rather than take the first step.

You had always been shy, and you felt a sense of panic at the thought that you might end up alone for the whole degree, but you were incapable of approaching a stranger and starting a conversation. Your fear was a prison and the guardian of an anxiety that swirled in your chest, the number one reason why you had hidden in the same table in the library during all your free hours, and also the consequence of too many bad experiences in the past. 

But then you had met Seungmin.

You hadn't spoken, at least not at first. You hadn't even realised he existed. He was just another classmate in the core subjects shared by all those who studied the same course as you. He smiled softly at the jokes of the teachers he liked, became more serious in the most difficult lectures, and tried not to show his anger when the typical annoying repeat student made their trademark rancid comment. You hadn’t even known his name.

Eventually, you found yourself waiting for those little reactions. Like you, he also showed up ten minutes before the first class started, he also sat alone, and he also came to school with his headphones on, drowning out all the noise in the corridors with the playlist he had made for himself at the beginning of the course. He would arrive with his dark blue backpack slung over one of his broad shoulders, and a book in his hand ーthe same one he would read for a while before the professor arrived. You found yourself smiling as you watched him, writing down the titles of his readings, looking forward to the classes you shared with him.

And then you saw him appear for the first time in the library. You were at one of the more secluded tables, your back to the wall, your laptop a shield protecting you from the other people in the room. And he had slipped quietly in, his ears covered by the black headphones, leaving his backpack on the table in front of yours. For a moment you had stood still, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, the word on your document half-typed, your breath caught in your throat. And then you looked away, and went on with your work. It was stupid to react like that for someone you didn't know.

But the next day your little dance was repeated, sitting opposite each other, in complete silence, a calm and concentrated reflection. As if there was a mirror between the two tables. And the next day, and the next... Until it became a habit. You would leave class a little late because you knew it would take him longer to collect his belongings, and you'd follow each other's shadows with your gazes through the corridors until you reached the library. He would hold the door, and you would smile at him. And when you left him the book you'd used to find out information about a homework topic, he'd return the soft curve in his lips, showing his braces without an ounce of insecurity.

Despite all your little interactions, you hadn't really made any move. The day you realised that there was another girl waiting for him at the end of your class, a more outgoing and prettier one, the kind who always gave the right answers to the teacher. She was asking him if he could explain to her the latest topic discussed in class over a latte in the building's cafeteria. You felt like you intruded, so you left. But that had been the same day you went to the library alone, and you had to open the door for yourself. You missed his smile. And you realised that he was worth every tremor in your hands, only if it meant taking the first step with him.

The next day, you mustered the courage to talk to a boy. To that boy. You approached him before class, sitting one line forward of him, taking a deep breath of air and exhaled it as you tried to keep your nerves under control, your eyes closed. With your pulse racing you had turned, resting your fingertips on his desk, and caught his attention by waving softly. He had looked up from the intertwined sentences of his book, closing it as soon as he saw it was you addressing him, and you enjoyed a few more seconds of your bubble, his brownish gaze all over you, before bursting it.

Your words were quick and breathy, stammering over coffees and shared hours, your gaze anywhere in the class but on his face. Yet he responded calmly, a mask of stillness in contrast to the chaos of emotions spiralling inside him, and you only interrupted the conversation when the teacher began the lesson, Seungmin's gaze returning to your figure every few seconds. That was the first free hour you disrupted your way to the library and accompanied, shoulder to shoulder, your quiet classmate to the cafeteria.

You heard him order an iced americano with syrup, greeting the lady behind the counter with rehearsed confidence, and waiting, tracing his gaze across the profile of your face, for you to say what you wanted. Then he guided you to one of the tables at the back, and let you sit on the bench with its back against the wall. Almost as if, somehow, he knew that it was what you preferred. For a moment  you wanted to get your hopes up, to think that he thought of you as much as you thought of him, but it didn't actually make any sense. So you sighed, and set your bag down beside you, intertwining your fingers in a nervous gesture.

You had been the one to propose the plan, and suddenly you realised that you had been so sure he would say no that you hadn't planned any further.

You wandered your gaze in silence, steadily, slowly, trying not to meet his at any point, your shyness forcing stitches of thread on your lips, unable to utter a word, until the waitress appeared with her tray and your drinks, and Seungmin's raspy ‘thank you’ broke through your bubble. You uttered your own, no sound coming out of your throat, and flashed the start of a smile when he managed to continue a conversation that hadn't existed until then, asking how you had adjusted to the lectures, to college.

And then you let loose like a torrent. The stuttering edges of your lips tightened, answering in short words how your university experience was going, daring even to lock your eyes with his when you returned the question, wanting to hear him speak. And as he told a story similar to yours, albeit with many more friends than you had, you reached your trembling hands towards your cup, taking it and sipping a small amount of coffee.

You tried not to let it show, but the bitterness was enveloping your taste buds in a flavour you were not used to. Your eyebrows furrowed as you winced, swallowing the thick liquid in one gulp, avoiding triggering your gag reflex, and you looked back at Seungmin, who was watching you with a hard stare. He tilted his head, almost like a dog would, and picked up the cup you had just set down on its plate, wetting his lips to taste it. He opened his eyes slightly, muttering a soft, “This is not what you ordered,” and got up to go reclaim it.

You felt the heat rise up your neck and settle on your cheeks, unable to believe what had just happened, and watched from your warm seat as the boy spoke to the woman he had greeted earlier, how she was surprised and certainly apologetic due to the confusion, and the whole process of making from scratch what you had ordered in the first place. It was Seungmin's gentle smile when she returned, treating the porcelain with extreme care so as not to spill the contents, that made you suppress the apology you had thought of saying. Perhaps he had decided that it was his responsibility, that the barista had mistaken the order, but he had done it because he had wanted to. You could read it on his face.

“Thank you so much,” you said, brushing his skin with your fingers as you took the new mug, closing your eyes to smell the sweet, thick hot chocolate you loved so much. “You didn't have to.”

Winter was beginning, and with it the need to drown yourself in cosy blankets, at-home plans and movie classics that had become your favourites over time. So you told Seungmin when you opened your eyes and realised that he was watching you, trying not to retreat into the shyness that had been with you for so long. You were ready to get out of your comfort bubble once and for all, and having a conversation with someone who in your thoughts was no longer a stranger seemed like the natural option.

After that, it was relatively easy. The words flowed between you, asking each other about your lives and replying with more questions, exchanging anecdotes, dropping little jokes that elicited laughter, lost in each other's gaze. As easy as breathing, the minutes passing by on the clock without even being aware of it, learning to read a new language, through what you told each other. Opinions and experiences, comments and compliments, engaged in a dance that only you knew, until the alarm on your phone started ringing, and you realised you were late.

You apologised with hurried syllables, quickly packing up, waving goodbye, heading hastily towards the counter to pay for your drink. You were surprised when the woman indicated that Seungmin had already taken care of it, and you looked back for a few seconds to give him a beaming smile. He mirrored it, leaning against the table you had been sitting at, and waved his fingers in response. It was when you got into the bus, on the way to the restaurant where you had agreed to meet your sister, that you realised you hadn't asked him for his phone number.

Apparently, you weren't the only one to think so.

The morning after your disaster of a first conversation, you arrived early. You sat in the third row, the fourth seat, just like you always did. And you doodled in your notebook, deep in thought, until you heard someone clearing their throat next to you. You looked up, smiling when Seungmin made an exaggerated gesture of wanting to sit next to you, and managed not to burst out laughing at his antics when the teacher came through the door to start the class.

And it was when you were barely able to keep your eyes open, the teacher's voice lulling you into a light sleep, that you noticed the tip of Seungmin's finger brushing your arm. You turned, ignoring the shiver that ran down your spine, and instead of questioning what he wanted, you found a sheet of paper folded over the pen that had slipped from your hand. You opened it discreetly, glancing at Seungmin out of the corner of your eye, curious, and didn't bother to suppress the smile that curved your lips as you read a tight “What's your phone number?”.

You wrote it down quickly, going over each digit twice to make sure there could be no confusion, and slid it across the table for Seungmin to tuck it away. You nodded goodbye to him as the bell rang, and you had to part ways, him going to the opposite side of the corridor, to another class. You grabbed your bag, and sighed, not so keen to attend your remaining lecture. At least until at least twenty minutes into it your phone screen lit up, receiving a new notification.

Unknown number: Hey, is it true that Mr Choi’s classes are soo boring?

Unknown number: Or my contact in his classes has shamelessly lied to me?

The contact in Professor Choi's class was you, because you had complained the day before about him, and the unknown number had to be Seungmin. You put the phone under the table, hoping the teacher wouldn't notice and begin to dislike you, and typed in the answer:

You: Mmm, you shouldn’t trust your contact.

You: They wouldn’t be boring if you were here.

Seungmin 🫶🏼: Naah, I bet my classes wouldn’t be boring if my contact could attend them.

You: You can't use my sentence with me.

You: That's like cheating.

Seungmin 🫶🏼: Would it be cheating if I bribe you with a cup of hot chocolate?

You: Whatever you say, lover boy.

You tried to imagine Seungmin's reaction, your subconscious tricking you with images of him blushing in the middle of class, and left the phone in your bag. That interaction had made your day.

From then on, you could only continue to develop your friendship, intertwing yourselves like a tangled vine, unable to separate from each other. The Christmas holidays had distanced you a bit, each enjoying a few weeks of relaxation with your family, but the study period leading up to the exam season brought you back together at that table in the library, exchanging complicit glances and helping each other take breaks when the stress got too much. He was the perfect study partner, and it was reflected in your grades, none of which dropped below a C.

At the end of finals, in those days before the second semester started, Seungmin had invited you to one of the pubs his friends had shown him. He had told you that they hadn't gone because he didn't want them to say anything stupid in front of you, but you hadn't missed them. With a glass in his hand, he had followed you to the dance floor every time you had asked, neck flushed and shy eyes when he saw the alcohol had disinhibited you enough to move your hips freely. It had been a memorable night. And when it struck three in the morning, he was the one who escorted you to your flat, just to make sure you got there safely, and you were the one who begged him to stay with you.

The second semester began with many hours of late arrivals to class 一something you hated, but which was certainly more bearable in his company.

You would gather as soon as you arrived to the faculty on one of the benches by the entrance, he sitting comfortably with his ankle on his thigh, you with your knees against your chest, jumping from conversation to conversation until the bell started ringing, startling you, and you would run up the stairs together, to get to class before the teacher. You learned to cope with it because somehow the stress of being late was compensated by the way Seungmin would touch you so he wouldn't lose you in the corridors. Always behind you, like a guard dog, guiding you to your class with his hand resting on the small of your back, making sure you got in before he wandered off into the crowd in search of his own, in case you didn't share it.

And in the free hours you got to know his friends, or at least some of them. The first time was in a class that was cancelled at the last minute, on your way to the library, when you saw Seungmin's silhouette in the cafeteria, his broad shoulders framing the back of the chair. You greeted the short boy and the one with the narrow eyes with a shy smile, before asking them if they would let you sit next to Seungmin.

You had seen the knowingly smirks, and also their suspicious gazes, but they had made you feel like a long time friend of theirs, so you shaked the creepy feeling out of your body. You stayed silent most of the conversation, listening to their jokes and anecdotes, smiling upon the fact that they treated Seungmin like a brother 一teasing him to death. And from then on you always found a free seat by his side in your gatherings.

Your confidence with them, with Changbin and Jeongin, solidified at about the same time as you accepted that Seungmin just saw you as one of the group, and you tried to stop getting your hopes up. Throughout the semester, you began to participate in conversations with his friends, gaining confidence, and even participating more in class, socialising with classmates and getting to know some girls with whom you thought a friendship could develop. You noticed Seungmin was becoming a bit distant, but with your Friday movie nights and your weekly coffee (hot chocolate for you, he made sure they didn't mess it up again), you assumed he had simply decided that he had other priorities.

At least until the beginning of sophomore year, the night of Minho's birthday celebration. That october night, you had arrived late to the restaurant where the group had decided to hang out in, and the place where you normally sat, to Seungmin's right, was occupied by a freckle-faced blond you had seen around the dorm on some occasion. You greeted Seungmin with a quick kiss on the cheek, a high five with Jeongin, and went straight to the birthday boy, to congratulate him with a hug.

You had spent the whole week crocheting cute fruit-shaped hats for his cats, just because a joke you two had, and Minho's genuine reaction had been to take you in his arms and turn you around, both of you giggling. You remembered that he had told you he couldn't wait to get home to try them on his babies, and you had commented that it was a crime for him to be all lonely on the table on such a special day. With the excuse, you had sat next to each other, leaning like two old oaks so that you could hear each other over the music, your knees touching and his arm over your chair.

At one point, after all the group had gathered, when you had followed Minho's unfocused gaze at Seungmin, his eyes gave off such a hard acrimony that you thought you had done something awfully wrong.

You tried to talk to him about it the next day, when you woke up in your bed, but he wasn't by your side. Seungmin, who normally would be curled up against one of your pillows, had actually slept on the sofa instead, and when you asked him why over breakfast, you got no answer. You could see him building up anger and complex emotions inside, unable to utter a word, trying to decide what to do, before desist and wish you a good morning, leaving you on the kitchen. The absence of that trust you thought you shared broke your heart.

And yet, that very same night he showed up at the university party night that Jeongin had proposed 一Thursdays were his favourite days to go out. He appeared at the pub without even looking at you, as if it pained him to see you, deliberately sitting at the other end of the table. The second time since the two of you had met that you weren't next to each other.

At that moment you ordered the first drink. And they just kept on coming.

You tried not to care. For a few hours, you managed to make it happen. But when that boy approached you, with the soft look Seungmin always gave you, with the same wide smile he reserved for you, you decided that willing to lie to yourself, at least you should get something out of it. So when he pressed his hips to yours, you let him, and when he put his arms around your waist, you allowed it. You rested your head on his shoulder, knowing that his body didn't feel next to yours the way Seungmin's did, and as you felt him slide his hand down the back of your neck, you smiled, kissing him back just as eagerly.

But the spell melted on your fingers as you parted, and you found all the details in his face that made him so different from Seungmin. So you apologised to him, again and again as you escaped his embrace, wandering around the dance floor until you collided with Changbin. He gave you a bright smile, asking you how you were doing with Wonwoo, but the pout that formed on your lips made him react, taking you by your shoulders and interrogating you about the guy, Wonwoo, if he had crossed a line with you. All you managed to do was deny, before asking him to take you home.

It was a terrible night. For you, and for him, who nursed you back to sleep.

And it was also terrible to wake up, when you realised you were alone in your flat. Alone, tangled in your sheets, and the alarm clock ringing, reminding you that you had a schedule to follow, and you had to go to class.

Seungmin was not on your self proclaimed bench when you arrived, though you sat down to wait for him anyway. And when the bell rang you walked up the stairs, slowly, like a soul wandering the corridors of the faculty, ignoring the professor's disapproving face when you interrupted his speech by opening the door. You paid no attention to his words, sittimg down and doodling on your notebook, enduring as best you could the hour that lasted, leaving as soon as you could.

But then you saw him. With his blue backpack slung over his shoulder, and the brown sweatshirt you had stolen from him some chilly afternoons. And you made eye contact with him, but continued on your way. You couldn't face him. All you could think about was the way he had ignored you, as you heard his footsteps, and how you had kissed another boy just because it looked like him. You went down the stairs, the necessity to get out of there bubbling in your chest, wlaking through the doors of the building. You knew he was behind you, but you wanted to be able to ignore him too.

Until you heard him.

“I love you,” he whispered, and you stopped in your tracks, paralysed. He then repeated it, this time louder. “I love you, I’m so sorry but I love you.”

Your breath got caught in your throat as you turned around slowly, utterly convinced that it was your imagination. But his kicked out expression was a reflection of how you felt, brows furrowed upwards, the waterline of his pretty eyes covered by a bubble of unreleased tears, tortured by his absence. And his cheeks were coloured red, flushed with the shame that let you know it was true. Still, he was looking at you with a devotion you were able to clearly see now, like you hung the stars in the sky. All you had once imagined was true, and he was there, waiting for your response.

So you approached him, a shy smile curving your lips, and rested your hands on his shoulders, nodding.

“I love you too,” you murmured, lips moving against his, his breathe hitching. And kissed him. Eyes closed, feeling a sigh slipping in between your mouths, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs while he took you by your waist. And you kept smiling, your chest exploding in relief, savouring him like it would be the last time you would see him.

“I love you too, you jerk,” your repeated, resting your forehead on his.

© stayconnecteed 2024 ★ do not copy, translate, repost or share this work as yours on other platforms ! consider leaving a comment or reblogging.

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine if you were a gay or bi man who tried a certain firefighter show because of all the attention it was getting for one of its mains having a later in life bi awakening.....and between seasons you ventured into its fandom in search of material to tide you over til the next one. And you're greeted by a deluge of posts and fics that are just cheerfully homophobic towards one half of the newly out bi character's canon relationship on the basis of 'well he's not the RIGHT gay guy' and pushing the idea that actually its fine to cheat on him because Reasons and he's sexually predacious based on......behind the scenes implications people have divined like they're reading fucking tea leaves.

But don't get it twisted....this fandom, like all fandoms, really cares about representation!

Sorry not sorry, but we really need to kill this idea that fandoms are welcoming and inviting and inherently progressive when they're frequently insular and reductive as fuck. Every single fandom I've been in has had major trends of people doubling down on their own headcanons and fanon interpretations of the characters and willfully enacting trends aimed at running off people who like the 'wrong' characters (usually characters marginalized along one or multiple axes), like the characters in the 'wrong ways' or other bullshit.

Scott is a Bad Friend fics overtaking Teen Wolf fandom was not incidental, it was a FEATURE of the fandom, because the vast majority of that fandom did not want to share its space with anyone who had the nerve to like its main character. Survivors complaining about or criticizing the prevalance of rape fics in a certain fandom has in my experience always led to a reactionary UPTICK in those fics, with gems like 'this character can, will, must be raped' in the tags making it crystal clear that some of these fics exist because how fucking DARE anyone try and push forth a narrative not agreed upon by Fandom Main.

I could cite examples for so many other fandoms, with the commonalities always being that vast majorities in these fandoms are explicitly reacting defensively to being asked to be more mindful of fandom trends revolving around or exacerbating racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape or abuse apologia, ableism, etc....

With the most prolific fucking rallying cry across countless fandoms being "No the fuck we will NOT be doing that," because lolololol.....

Fandom is an inherently progressive space, didn't you hear?

[insufferablelust]

The Prince Regent (Aemond Targaryen x F!Sister!Reader)

{Can be read as the sequel of Gevī}

There are rumors floating around after the march of the greens in Rook’s rest, you were shocked when you learned of what has happened, rushed to confront your brother— you were made to once again quell the madness within with rekindling the fire with him.

This work contains mature acts, Minors DNI. 18+ Only.

Words counted: 10.4k+

Content include: 18+ MDNI! Targcest (canon incest practice of the Targaryen house), Smut, Sex, Oral sex (F receiving), Heavy breeding kink, Slight exhibitionism (Sex at the council chamber), Choking, Rough sex, Dumbification, Manhandling, Slight degradation, Reader has the attributes of the Targaryens (silver hair, purple eyes etc), Mention of violence, Canon injuries and death, Mention of usurping the throne (half-canon), LOTS of pet names, Slightly Dark!Aemond (He is so obsessive and possessive and feral of you.)

Note: Hello! I am back with new fic yay! this is another Aemond fic, which can be read as the follow up of my last fic, Gevī which can be found here, or you can also read it as a standalone, up to you! This work is NOT beta’d (there will be revision) since once more I am still slammed with work so I have yet the time to refer to my beta reader, but hopefully there is nothing much amiss, if there is, I apologize and I hope it will not disturb your reading experience. ALSO AEMOND IS UNHINGED IN THIS ONE YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Remember that english is not my native language so bear with me. My request is always open for HOTD characters. Enjoy and let me know what you think! thank you my loves.

Masterlist

The day has been moving rather slowly today, you mused, the sun looks as though it is shining but overshadowed by gloomy clouds at the same time— horizon darkens as the end of the day is fast approaching. It has been a strange day, oddly quiet even in the hustle and bustle of a dreaded war-coming, you had heard of your brothers whereabouts, both the King and the Prince as your mother was panicking earlier when they both were absent from the small council meeting.

You ignored the ever so loud chattering of the lords and ladies around the hall, as you sat below the Weirwood tree to read your book, the only place where you ought to sought comfort and refuge from the looming darkness that follows ahead, you had always been more receptive— taking in your surroundings and only use your sharp wit when necessary, you are like your brother, Aemond, in that sense, where you do not find pleasure in talking much if it does not have any meaning to it.

Though, you had not been silent since the days following Aegon’s crowning, your expertise in knowing Westerosi territories and politics are often seen be used by the small council as Aemond would come to you in any instance he needed help. You also always tried to interpret Helaena’s cryptic messages— having realized of your older sister’s ancient-like gift since you were little, it was you that had warned them to move the crowning ceremony anywhere but the Dragonpit when she had said “Beware of the beast beneath the boards.” Yet when they do not paid attention to you nor your sister, tis’ true that your family was one second away from being engulfed in Meleys’s fire if not for the Princess Rhaenys’s last minute compassion.

But alas, you had not been of useful as of late, ever since the passing of your nephew, Jaehaerys, you scolded yourself often on why you were not with Helaena that night, or why you did not have the time to interpret what she had said about the rats, though, Aemond had repeatedly assured you that there was no way that one can know such cruel thing would happen, and that there was nothing you could have done— moreover if you had stayed with Helaena that night, all your lives might be even more in danger due to the fact that you’re a young maiden.

You still feel guilty though, for you had been spending your night in the arms of your husband that night— comforting each other in warm embraces inside your chambers.

You and Aemond had always been inseparable since the day you were born, his little sister— someone he had always come to whenever he was faced with a hard time finding solace due to the constant torment and taunts your eldest brother and nephews has caused upon him. You can scarcely remember the times where Aemond is happy in his childhood, but the memories that stood the tallest in your memory are ones akin to when he would read to you about the Aegon’s conquest or Rhaenys’s journey to Sunspear, or Visenya’s tales with Vhagar.

Another one is when he had ventured through Maegor tunnels to get to your room and would ask timidly to sleep in your room because he was plagued by nightmares, or that time when he had come to your defense as Aegon broke one of your crystal jar, one that housed the famed rose from the North, or that time after he claimed Vhagar, eye sewn shut in Driftmark, you had visited him in his chambers despite your mother’s warning to let him rest when you know better that he would feel better accompanied by you. Tis’ unbreakable this bond of yours, strongly linked, and undoubtedly passionate.

Aemond finds all the thing he is not, in you, you are gentle, soft spoken, soothing in nature— even as your hair is as silver pale as he, your jaws are as sharp he, your wit are as bright as he— Aemond adored the part that truly empowers you, your compassionate self, your jaw-dropping smile, your unmasked confidence, your unapologetic self is what makes him honored to have you by his side.

Your presence calms his raging stormy minds and hot tempered self, your sweet saccharine voice, your angel like touches, your supple smooth skin— always seems to be flustered in heat when near him, your soft lilac eyes that gives him assurances, your slightly curlier locks— something you get from your mother, always half braided with half fanned to your side— the necklace you wore, given by him, a Valyrian ruby that always adorned your enthralling being, you are the epitome of a Valyrian goddess, graced with the beauty that people would go to war for, solicited by your intelligence that makes you powerful altogether. The word ‘infatuated’ does not even cover his love for you.

Speaking of your brother, the days following his return from Storms end had caused many distraught upon learning of what befell your nephew, in the flurry of it all, Aemond had taken your maidenhead, which he swore to wed you then— and that he did, asked his mother to betroth him to you once and for all as you had always meant to be— insisting after the death of Jaehaerys that it is crucial to have more heirs so that if the time comes, your bloodline will not perish so easily— Alicent, of course, had been furious at his son for, “How dare you corrupt your little sister!” but when you came to Aemond’s defense, she let her guard down and at last grant you both what you wished.

The deal with the Baratheons has been annulled… for now.

You both were wed in the sept just a few days after the tragedy, and were happily consummating your marriage if not for the news of Ser Cole and Gwayne Hightower’s success of house Darklyn in Duskendale, and is set to march to Rook’s rest once more, where Aemond is to to join him, he had told you once after an intense rounds of fucking.

You were finally pulled out of your reverie when the chatter around you gets louder, feeling irked by it you look up from you book only to have your frown wiped out by the sight in front of you. You saw few of Aegon’s knighted guards bringing a huge wooden box covered with your house’s sigil— Gods be good. You have thought of the worst then, what if it is Aemond? what if they are carrying his de—

“Princess, Her Grace the Queen Dowager has requested your presence in King Aegon’s chamber.”

Aegon?

“Thank you, Ser Harrold.” You replied, clutching the book tightly as you stand up, and walk towards where the other knights and seemingly hurdles of Maesters rushing to, your throat dried at the possibilities of what might await you once you reach Aegon’s chamber.

Is he alright?

Is Aemond alright?

Did they defeat the Blacks? What happened in Rook’s rest?

“Mother.” You muttered as you halt your steps upon reaching the now packed room, your eyes does not yet know where to land it’s sight on, the frantically moving figure of Maester Orwyle tending to a charred body on the bed, or the hisses that came from the servants who brought fresh linens, cloths, and water, or at your mother who stood with panic written all over her face, eyes glassy with tears.

“What has happened?” You asked, still unable to figure out exactly who is it that laid there, due to the hurdling of bodies taking pieces of armors off. The smell of burning and dragon fire is so evident, that the ladies around you scrunched their nose— you thought none of it considering you are no stranger to the smell of dragons— but what caught your line of sight next shocked and silenced you quickly.

There laid the King, your eldest brother, Aegon, with half of his face badly charred, his body littered in wounds from fire— the sight of him like that makes you choke and sob as you lean against Alicent who also watches with terrified eyes, “Is my son going to die, Maester?” Her shaky voice only enhanced the amount of tears you let out, lips trembling in confused emotions.

How did— who did— why did—

“I will do whatever I can to help him, your grace, but now I must get back because this is the most important step.” Came Orwyle’s response. You may despise Aegon for his lack of respect towards anyone— women in particular, but he is still your brother, your king.

“Why isn’t Heleana here?” You asked, turning your head to look at your mother, “and… Aemond?” came the question that have plagued your mind since you were fetched by Ser Harrold earlier in the Godswood, is he alright? did he suffer the same fate? did the blacks charred him too? I can not live without him, he— I cannot—

“Come.” Your mother beckoned you out of the chamber to sit by the bench near the Weirwood tree you sat earlier, your eyes are frantic, trying desperately to understand what is going on, what happened, and most importantly if your brother— Aemond is alright, “I can not call for Helaena… she—“ Alicent’s voice came with a choked sob, it breaks your heart seeing her like this, after seeing what befell Aegon, you understood that this is hard for her regardless the way how anyone feels about him, your brother, her son.

“I can not put more burden on your grieving sister, you must understand that only you can do this.” Her irises stabs right through yours as you ponder her words, digesting on what she could mean by ‘do this’— you understood why Helaena wasn’t called first thing to Aegon’s chamber despite her being his Queen, his wife, the reigning monarch in his absence, due to her still sullen with grief, but then it all clicks for you.

Ah.

This is about Aemond, if Helaena is your mother’s pawn to strengthen Aegon’s claim, then anything linked to you have always been, will, and must be about Aemond.

Only you,

You’re the only one that can soothe Aemond, calm him, hear him, understand him, discipline him when needed, tame him when necessary.

Only you that can release the ever glooming glorious tension that has risen and finally reached its peak between the heirs— one who was born first as a male heir, and the other one who is actually deserving of it by power and knowledge.

It’s you, his soulmate, his other half— it has only been you and everyone knows it, even your sister whom have said you are meant to fill the socket of the eye that Aemond has lost, you’re the missing piece in his tormented soul, the very needle that threads his wound, heal his anger, and cool down his temper.

But before you can open your mouth to respond, the sound of clanking armor once again reached the both of you and a voice boomed through the otherwise serene peace of the Godswood, “Pardon me, Your Grace, Your Highness, but the small council has gathered, and has asked for the presence of the Dowager Queen.” the Knight spoke, causing you to sigh and drown the words you had meant to speak of.

“Very well, I must return but please,” She looked at you feverishly, “My love, you need to talk to him, reason with him, because he will not do so with me.” Your heart once again breaks at that, yes you may have not had the fondest of love for your mother solely because she was too busy preparing Aegon, being queen in your father’s sickness, and feuding with your half-sister to care for you but alas, just like Aegon, she is of your blood, she is your mother— knowing she feels powerless to aid her own children, so much so, she asked for her youngest daughter’s help is a sorrowful thing to witness.

“I will, mother, now go.” You said, pulling your best smile to soothe her, the tresses of your silver locks blowing in the wind as she cup your face to kiss your forehead before fleeing to the small council chamber— leaving you with your thoughts once more, deserting you to quell over your confusion, with no comfort of assurance or security— you need Aemond, and he needs you, but how can you both reason with him when he is not within your reach, you just seek to know his safety and shield him, Helaena, and your niece of all this— but alas,

Did he do it?

Did he burn Aegon?

Is his desire for power so great that it quenches whatever left of affection you all had as siblings?

What will you do?

You love Aemond, you love him more than anything in the realm, your bond with him as strong as the bond you share with your dragon, Valyx, you do not and will never betray him— you had remembered his promise of making you his Queen, that the realm will bow to both of you, that his love for you is so great that it will be more than enough for him to fight and relinquish in victory— but at what cost? You had half the mind to seek Helaena, to ask for her guidance but that thought is quickly diminished by knowing the fragile state of your sister after Jaehaerys’s passing.

No, you will have to speak to Aemond, whatever result it may produce, whatever madness awaits you, whatever turn of story that may arise— you have to be ready for it, willing to face it, conquer it— for you do not wish for harm to ever come to those you love, to Helaena, your niece, your mother— and most importantly Aemond.

You just hope the Gods will grant you their blessings and forgiveness to what you will do or don’t do.

—

You had waited hours outside the small council chamber, pacing in front of the huge grant door, thinking and pondering on what you must say to Aemond, what you will do to reason with him. Your thoughts are plagued with the memories of your last encounter with Aemond, not that you can help it, it practical branded itself to you— He had always branded himself to your memory with everything he said and does.

It was the night after his small council meeting had gone awry, well according to his recollection— Aegon had once again undermined his knowledge and acted foolishly, not trusting his brother’s judgement, Aemond laid down on your lap, as you caresses his hair, his patch is off now that he is alone with you, in your chambers, with you only wearing your lilac shift and he, a tunic pants.

“Zȳhon mition yne amīvindis.” He had said that night as the flame dances through his iris and shappire— there is that unquenchable anger in him, you felt it miles away even before he laid on your bed, you knew that he was furious by the way he stormed to your room at the hour of the wolf, you had been sleeping when he entered, but quickly made way for him beside you. His stupidity infuriates me.

“Aegon?” You asked as your fingers cards through his hair in a soothing manner, you wish you can take away his pain, his worries, his fear— but Aemond is a hot tempered man, who will not be denied of his desires, who will not back down from a fight, who will never cower in silence, “Hm.” He hummed to you, “He is your king.” You humored him, passing a chuckle to the wind.

“Not for long.” Your fingers halted as he looked at you, trying to process what he just said, you knew your brother is hungry for power— for his throne, but it has always been a blur to you just how he was going to win— especially with Rhaenyra’s looming threat of war now, “Aemond…” You whispered, a distraught look is evident on your face, your rosy lips pout like it is begging for him to kiss you feverishly— to claim you once again.

“Do nor fret, sister,” He said, eyes sharp through yours while he bring his thumb up to your lip to press down on your ever so cute and tempting pout, what a tempting little tart, he thinks, “I do not wish to bring upon the ruin of the realm,” He pushes his thumb slightly in, you gladly open your lips to take the tip of his thumb inside and suckle on it as it is your lifeline. Your eyes closed for a second from a comforting gesture it brings you, he knows this calms you, content you— “Unlike Aegon.” He whispered the last part before completed parting your lips with his thumb so you can suck on it with little mewls of contentment.

He cooed at your subdued state, gods, he does not care of anything but to serve you— give you the realm as you fully deserve, his queen. Beautiful, untainted, pure, and the very image of both the Mother and Maiden bestowed upon a figure— you, you and your flustered self, you and your cherry lips, fluttering eyes, smooth silver locks, body of a goddess, a personality of Eve, charm of Rhaenys, dream of Daenys, fierce of Visenya, and soul that is unique to just you. He worships you more than you know, but he will show you— he will always show you.

“There you go, sweet girl.” His voice both soothe and heat up your core, and it catches you by no surprise when the night ended with you both tangling atop of the bed, with you on your hands and knees, his hand against the back of your neck— as he fucked your cunt with a varying pace of both a feral madman, and a devout husband— yours. You had been naught but a whimpering mess, a shaky shivering little girl overwhelmed with pleasure.

He had worshipped you then, kisses you softly on your skin as he brings you to your peak over and over and over again with his fingers, mouth, cock— every inch of him is solely to make you feel heavenly, so much so, that you are sure that your vision had gone blurry and you slumped onto the bed as he took care of you.

Your mind was quickly pulled once more from your thoughts when you heard the door of the small council chamber had finally been opened, you stood diligently to the side, waiting for your husband so that you may speak to him. You watched the lords move outside one by one, bowing to you when they catch you, which you had curtly but politely nod, until Lord Larys Strong came to your line of sight.

“Princess, how nice it is to see you.” Now you have never hold much disdain towards those who does not deserve it, and though Larys had never done anything to you personally, you are but know how much a rat he truly is. Indeed, he is an intelligent cunning man, known for his whisperings and cruel deeds that, even you, do not wish to know—but for the sake of the crown, you begrudgingly smiled, “Likewise, Lord Larys.” The fingers behind your back is picking at your cuticle in stress, Gods where is Aemond.

“The Prince Regent will certainly be delighted with your presence, regency is not an ea—“

“Regent?” Your brow furrowed at the mention, head spinning and running by a thousand miles— “Aemond… regency?” You asked, desperately trying to figure out what in the Seven hells happened and what has been done by it, “Yes, your highness, he—“

“Larys, may I speak with my wife in private now?” His voice came from inside the room, and you can scarcely see his figure emerging from inside, he is wearing his usual black attire, adorned with a green coat as a sign that he had been riding Vhagar prior, your eyes slipped to see the now two dagger on his side, one each, and your lips twitch with shock as you spot Blackfyre on the scabbard, you can not mistaken it, for it is one of the only two mighty Valyrian sword left that belongs to your family. Aemond had watched you gawking at him with an aura of eerie calmness to him, the sight making your spine curled and skin shivering.

This is all for you, sister, all I do is for you, he wants to say.

Your stare fled from his dagger up to his calm form, the way he holds so much power even when he is just standing there, with his arms behind his back, legs parted, head tilted, and lips pressed into a thin line—your violet eyes went up up up until his own gleams into yours, heating what feels like a suffocating heat around you. You continued staring into his eyes as your heart thundered inside your chest, you do not even notice that Larys had said his farewell and had left you both alone, at the entry of the council chamber— or at least you thought you were alone, before your mother’s voice spoke from behind the door— caught your peripheral vision.

“What are you doing here so late, sweet girl? have you had supper yet?” She asked, hands coming up to cupped your cheek in her otherwise cold hand, she’d been furious, you mused, eyes fleeting to the red marks on your mother’s finger, it seems that old habits die hard, “I wish to speak to Aemond, mother.” You bit the inside of your cheek at the way you almost whimpered his name— yes you are confused and possibly angry at him right at this very moment but he is your husband, the love of your life, your other half— you are also drowned by worries and fears of his safety, especially after seeing the state Aegon is in.

“I need to know he is well.” and safe and I just want to run away with him where no one can find us, I wish this madness can stop and be in peace with him— but you do not say that, no, you just smiled softly at your mother upon hearing Aemond hummed at you intriguingly, almost like he is both amused and mocking your sense of worry.

He knows that you know he did what he did.

Good, he thinks, let you see that he would burn the realm down for you, he would sooner die than to give you any less than what his wife, his precious sweet sister deserves.

“Very well then, I shall check on how Helaena is doing.” You do not miss the way Aemond’s lips twitches at the mention of either your sister or your eldest brother, his stoic self is evermore transparent yet foggy all the same for you to read, “Tell her we send our well wishes…” It’s his turn to speak now, eyes never leaving your figure with his voice ever so so alluringly gentle, “and to Aegon’s recovery, of course.”

Your spine curled at that, the invisible hair on your skin risen at the chill and smugness of his voice— Gods, Aemond… what have you done.. that’s all you can think but moreover, what will I do with you.

Your mother left you both at that, yet you can’t find it in you to move or speak to him, the slit on your dress passes the breeze seeping through your skin, the neckline that came above your breasts seems so tight now as you take desperate breaths to calm yourself down— you both just stared at each other, his, with longing, love, affection, you you you.

Yours are filled with the same longing, same love, same subject of desire yet there is a glint of confusion, uncertainty, and doubt swimming in your eyes— not to spite him or put distrust in him, he knows that, he knows you best— He knows you are just confused, a darling little pet you are, even when thrusted with so many responsibilities at the time of war, you still have that innocent childlike self in you that cowers in his gaze, that is desperate to seek good in the midst of destruction, that is curious, always seeking his approval, his assurances. It warmed him, for he knows that, only he, can assuage that building turmoil inside of you, only he can ease your pain, assure your worry.

“Come.” He said, Aemond beckoned you inside the council chamber with two flicks of his fingers, you followed suit, hands cold in front of you— blood of the dragon yet cold hands, he always muses to you often time he warmed you up, ah you do always love his warmth, engulfing you with security and love, comforting you the only way Aemond can, you longed for that, and you know he longs for it too.

“Aemond..” Your lips trailed as the door closes behind you, there Aemond stopped in his tracks, leaning against the table with his hand perched back against it, lips turned in an amused smirk with his head tilted.

Fuck fuck fuck, you need to focus.

“Aemond…” You said once more, walking closer to him but stopping just few feet away, keeping a respectful distance— not that it mattered much, if he wanted to— and he does— he could have you so easily, manhandles you right here right now, bending you over the very table he now commands and pound you to oblivion, releasing his pent up rage and frustration in that sweet sweet cunt of yours, “Hm?” Aemond merely hummed at you even when his mind conjured up the most obscene things, he has to have you, he needs— “Speak, little one, I am listening.” He grinned with mockery, which made you huff and stomp your feet like you used to do when you were a little girl, yet he finds you so sweet as you do it, only making his heart soar with love and desire for you.

What are you doing to him, little girl?

“What has happened?” What he would do to wipe that pout from your face, why are you testing him so far today, his little nymph, “It was a successful operation at Rook’s rest.” He replied calmly, making your blood boil as you scoffed and shake your head disdainfully at his remark, “It was foolish, reckless even—“

“Did we not took out the largest looming threat?” He pressed on, edging you to be angry with him, “It was a worthy effort, a worthy price.” His eyes twinkle when he see your heating face— such an angry little dove, you are, what a temperament that has long been subdued by your years of princesses duties, causing you to retract back to a shell— though he knows better, that you and him share the blood of dragon and fire in you.

Let it burn, sweet sister, let it burn and we shall emerge from the ashes.

“A worthy effort? your king is at the teetering edge of death.” You bit your lip to suppress your anger, let it simmer but do not let it boil to overheat, “What of Helaena, Aemond? she has just lost her son, and now you’ll take away her husband too?” You tried to reason with him, eyes fleeting from his yes to his puffing red lips back to his eyes.

Focus, fuck, why can’t you focus.

“What do you take me for, sister?” His tone is accusatory, eyes sharply glared at you, if he was annoyed before, he is furious now, “You accused me of treason, is that it? deem me a kinslayer?” You tap your feet below you, a sign that you’re either nervous or irritated— maybe both at this point.

“You said it, not me, Aemond.” It was a pitiful attempt at trying to not think of him that way— even in your anger, you still want to find the good in him, but dearest sister, alas your soulmate is one paradox only you can understand, one cursed being you can love, a match to your own fixation, “Tell me you did not do it.” Your eyes held so much hope in them, pleading and begging for his assurances. He truly would do anything to destroy anyone that make you this worrisome, but if it is him, then he shall do what he always did, to declare his love for you, so immense that he can do naught, but serve the realm on a golden plateau for you.

He closes the gap between the two of you, standing tall over you, leaning his head forward to press his forehead against yours— breathing with rage with his warm palm coming up to cup your jaw, a possessive gesture, served only for you, there is so much passion between the two of you that your mind gets hazy and fuzzy with it, “Sweetling,” He breathes, once, twice, three times, “What have I told you over and over, hm? what did I promise to you?” His words thrum against your skin, with your bones stilling itself in the desire to melt into him— become one with him.

I will never leave you, dōnus ñuhys, you are destined to be my queen, for all the Seven, nor the Old Gods can never deny us.

“There will be nothing left for us if this madness do not cease, Aemond…” You whispered his name, eyes prickling with sharp heat beneath your eyelids— forcing you to close them shut even when you do not want to, “I am terrified.” You muttered it out of desperation and pure fear and that troubles Aemond, oh no no, his little girl, how has he been so blind to your cries.

He can feel his heart tugs with pain, his stubborn self is telling him to soothe you, calm you down, relieve you of your misery that is looming fear, oh little dragon— he hadn’t mean to scare you, only to show you his dedication, for who will he show it else to if not for the most important person of his life? he would not have find it in him to even claimed Vhagar, if it were not for you, you’re his source of life.

“Look at me.” That was not a request from him, but a demand, one you so eagerly followed, “You have me, what are you so terrified of when you have me?” He punctuates each of his words with pressing against you harder, your body jolted lightly as your rear hit the edge of the table after being spun by him.

“The war—“

“If we march together, our power will not easily be subdued— tis’ what needs to be done, and I will be ready to do it, risk my life so we will prevail. Would you not have done the same?”

“I would, you know I would.” Your eyes remained close throughout his declaration, eyes trying to frantically stop your tears but alas, it is a useless pursuit, tears flows down your cheeks at a faster rate than you’d like, at this Aemond cooed, wiping your tears, “You and I, we can have what is ours, sweetling, what has been ours since they took our eye.”

Our eye, he says, not mine— “You’re the missing eye that fills his socket.” Helaena once told you.

“What of Aegon?” You opened your eyes at him, holding his stare as best as you could even when he took a sharp breath and press his thumb on your pouty parted lips, “Aegon rushed to Rook’s Rest to proof his worth despite the better judgement offered by the council,” He paused, nose nudging into yours where you can feel every single allure that drips off your husband like its second skin, “He challenged Meleys, got overpowered, and I had to come in to save the armies… as I have intended to do before he so recklessly join in with Sunfyre.” His lips are touching his thumb now, the only thing shielding your petal bloomed parted lips with his.

You should be concerned by his statement, for you know Aegon would not ended the way he is now if Aemond had actually meant to ‘save him’, there is something else, you know he would not kill out of spite even with the years of insults and torments that Aegon himself, had bestowed upon your brother, he would not deliberately kill him, yet the intention to hurt is not lost on you.

Meleys is a strong dragon of your house, a battle trained one at that, but still not enough against the mighty Vhagar, that fought alongside Visenya on Dornish war and conquer it, let alone two dragons— but perhaps, you have naught but pressing longing now, your impulses seems to control you— your innate desires taking over and you can only do what your heart and body wants, never mind what your mind says, it matters not, you’re his, he’s yours.

You leaned impossibly closer to him, urging him to take away his thumb against your lips by tugging on his wrist as your glistening eyes look up at him with desperation in them, his humming is slightly cold, but you know better that its full of mirth— he is teasing you.

“I suppose now that I am in charge…” He tilted his head menacingly, pressing his lips upon the gap of your brow, hold you tight to him as he took in your rose oil scented skin, how heavenly, he thinks, “You ought to call me, your grace, isn’t that true, princess?” His thumb slipped inside your rosy lips then, the force is too heavy to bear as you sigh and suckle on the tip of his lips— eyes fluttered shut, “Uh huh.” Your lips parted from his thumb with a lewd pop!

“Your grace.”

Your eyes flit open, droopy with want, heat on the apex of your thigh is ever so persistent against the now soaked fabric of your silk smallclothes, Aemond eyes are sharp— ravenous as he stared at you, “Syz riña.” He purred. Good girl.

Having no more self control over him, Aemond use his free hand to hold the side of your neck— lightly pressing on the pulse point, enough to make your head dizzy, and presses his lips on yours with so much want, need, pressure of claim-claim-claim and mine-mine-mine.

If there is one thing about Aemond is that he’d never be denied, not when he was destined to claim the greatest dragon in the realm, not when he is supposed to sit on the Iron throne, and certainly not when he’s going to have you— no, you’re his, since you were bare as a babe, to now, his beautiful sweet girl of a wife.

Fuck, he’s achingly hard just at the feeling of your lips, body heat, and thought of your sweet flushed face. Gods be damned.

You gasped at the feeling of his teeth grazing your bottom lip, asking— no, demanding you to part your lips by biting at it— not too hard, yet enough to make you squirm on the ledge of the table, as your pretty pink raw lips parted in obedience, he wasted no time to push his tongue inside passionately— exploring your oh so delectable wet cavern like a madman, whilst you mewl with the lightheaded feeling of his grasp on your throat and his tongue battling, or more like conquering yours.

Your body is now dangerous low to the tabletop behind you as your nails fisting weakly at his leather tunic, a silent plea for him to give you time to breathe, its pure instinct he knows, but how can he deprive himself of you. Your melodic whines, the way your pink lips parted and indulge him so so sinfully, the way your chest heave with each gulping breath you try to take, and the way you clench your thigh, oh yes he knows all about it, little girl.

After you slap at his chest for a few times, Aemond finally relent, parting his lips from your now cherry bitten lips— you take big gulps of breath, gasping for what seems to be minutes after he released you, your head spins and you’re sure your knee would not been able to hold your figure even against the table if not for his strong grip on both your neck and waist.

“Come back to me.” He whispered, temple pressed against yours as you let out soft whimpers at the heightened pleasure of fuzziness in your head— just him him him, just Aemond Aemond Aemond, “I— please.” You can do naught but to plead with him, eyes watery as you stared at him—lips trembling, wanting to say so much more, please claim me, fuck me senseless, please make me forget that this realm exist, make me only yours, make me your queen just as you promised— but he knows, Gods he knows you, he knows what you want, he always does.

“Please what, sweetling?” But does it thrill him to no end seeing you so desperate, so needy for his touch that you’d beg and beg—Seven hells, not only is his heart thundered against his ribcage, but his cock is painfully aching at your dewey flushed face, “Use your words, zaldrītsos.” His words might be encouraging, yet his tone is anything but— its mockery, he is taunting you and it makes you drip down your legs. Little dragon.

“Touch me… please.”

You gathered all the voice you have left, even if it is just a mere whisper that sounded more like a meek mewl, “I am touching you.” He said, his fingers trails up and down the sleeve of your gown, making you shudder with want— tiny wantons of needy whines escaped you as his fingers trail upon the material of your silk covered breasts— nipples pert with peaking desires.

“Not— you know where I want your touch…” The frustration embedded within you forced this snappy remark of yours, one he clicked his tongue at, just like he always did when you were little— when you had eaten all your lemon cakes in a single sitting, when you would hide beneath the grassy slope atop of Rhaenys’s hill, when you would constantly fuss to keep his wound clean, so much so that you had stayed whenever the maester came in to change his dressings albeit the warning from your mother. It’s the click of the tongue that signifies not only to remind you of disobedience, but it holds a stronger purpose to know that he so affectionately loves and ardor whatever it is you do, even when you are being a fussy bratty little thing that you are.

“Being an impudent girl for me will not serve you well, I had thought you know this by now.” He shakes his head at you, fingers trailing backwards to slowly unlace the neat tying of your ladies’s work on the bodice of your gown— all the while brushing your half braided silver locks to the side and lean forward to nip at your neck causing you to gasp.

Oh he wishes to bend you to him, but moreover to protect you, all the same, as he did when he would wipe the lemon frosting from your lips, or give you his last candied sweets, or grip your wrist to lead you back to Maegor’s tunnels to not incurs the wrath of your mother, or clasp a hand to your lips to keep you from squeaking as to not alert Aegon of where your whereabouts— it is all meant as a testament of his often unspoken devotion to you, and you know it.

“Aemond—“ You are unable to mutter anything let alone an apology as you feel your gown slides off from your body down as it pooled on the ledge of the table— only held by how your body is pressed against the stone table, now only clad in your thin silk shift and smallclothes, you felt so exposed, your neck snapped sideways as you looked at the door behind you, it dawns in on you that you are in fact in a room where someone could just walk in, and found you both in the state of lewdness, “Aemond, not here.”

“I am the Prince regent, I shall do what I please, where I wish.” Came his reply, you can do naught but shudder at the deep rumble that is his voice, at your small gasp, Aemond continued to press soft almost gentle feather kisses on the exposed skin of your pulse point, down your jugular, to the base of your neck, behind your ear—“Ah!” You can feel him chuckling at your voiced pleasure, he knows you like the back of his hand, which spot makes you tick and jolt— you arch your back when he suck and nip at the sensitive skin, ever so reactive to his touch, you are.

You always are, little dove, like you are made to respond to him— his voice, touch, kisses, pleasure, demands— each and every single one of his decrees.

Aemond palm comes up to cusp your flowery breasts next, fondling the soft skin with your buds firmly against the calloused skin of his palm. He then rolled the blossoming darkening buds of pleasure between his index and thumb, causing you to grip onto his biceps, “Mm Seven—.” You tried your best to remain sane but alas, you never were to begin with, nothing is ever normal nor sane but you could not care less, not when it is him.

He chuckled at your oversensitivity, mouth slide down from the crook of your neck to your stern collarbone, before reaching the valley of your breasts. He looked up at you menacingly as he takes one of your pert bud into his mouth to suckle on it as you yelp— hand clutching his doublet in desperation, you are sure by now that your smallclothes is not only drenched but soaked from the way your cunt pulse with each second going by.

“Doñus riñus.” He murmured as he littered marks all over your now flushed skin, moving to the other neglected nipple, applying the same treatment of pull-tug-suckle on the poor overstimulated bundle of nerves. Sweet girl.

Aemond released your now reddened bitten tender buds with a loud pop! causing blush to once more darken on your flushed skin, he smirks up at you then,“Lay down, ābrazȳrys.” wife. He lightly push you downward against the stone table, you shuddered lightly when your heated skin met the cold surface, your eyes are glistened— wide yet droopy with needy innocence as you stared up at him, eyeing him as he removes his breeches slowly.

“Aemond…” You whined and pressed your thighs together when he keeps on teasing you by undoing his laces way too fucking slow, he knows it will drive you mad especially since your drenched tight cunt is inviting him oh so warmly— fuck, he thinks, you looked like the Maiden and Mother has painted, created the perfect goddess of the realm, silver locks wildly splayed on the table, with your braids almost undone, and your body glistened with thin layer of sweat and some of his spit, skin flushed with his markings on you, “Fucking temptress little slut.” He groaned as he stared at you panting.

Your puffy cheeks are heated with lust and neediness, your eyes stared at him like you always did when you sought comfort or wisdom from him— the same way little you had looked up at him whenever you beg for his remaining sweet treats, or when that first time in your reading chambers, oh how you had asked him so so sweetly to touch you— open and take your maidenhead like a good obedient little girl you are, how your bitten raw lips is murmuring pleads to him as if he wouldn’t give you what you want— oh his poor little darling, always wanting more more more.

Then his gaze fall down the swell of your breasts, the way it rises up and down with each breath you take, inviting him to suck and nip at the tender buds once more, and when he dropped his sight to your fluttering folds— he bit his lip, hard, for the view is both the most sinful obscene yet heavenly thing he could ever have witnessed in his lifetime, there you lay, ready for him, ripe for the taking, and the center of your pleasure is weeping for him to take care of you— to take you.

“Gevie.” He whispered as he drank his fill of you— you, the embodiment of a Princess, a Queen— all in name, nature, body, spirit, and soul, everyone should worship you, for he can swear to the Seven that you are holier than any deity common folk would pray to, you are not just the core of his being, but the essence of his vitality— his his his. Beautiful.

Aemond wastes no time to drop to fold your legs so he can enjoy his treat, he grunted before leaning down to kiss the inside of your mound— hand holding to your hips and one on your thighs to keep them there, his hold is stern enough to let you know that if you were to move them, oh little one, there will be consequences. You tried your best to keep them there as he press sweet lingering kisses all over the very surface of your folds, all wet and begging for him.

You gasped at the sudden sensation of his fingers parting your warm heat gently, making way for his tongue to spread the wetness from your opening up up up through the soft muscle then to your pearl, focusing on the now reddened and hardened nub with teasing licks and not yet a suckle on the oversensitive gem for he knows you would crumble and reach your peak oh so suddenly— no he wants to keep you on edge for a little longer, having you on that teetering insanity, controlling your pleasure as he pleases.

But when he does let up and suckle on the raw pulsing nub— you let out a sound akin to that of a scream, somewhere between a loud needy whine and strained moan— causing him to grunt, sending vibrations through your core, you jolted at the feeling, arching your back to pull away from him but causing a grinding effect instead— you clasped a hand on your lips to stifle the wanton sounds you let out.

“Ah-ah, do not hide from me now, little one.” He rasps against your cunt, you had half the mind to be bratty and yank his hair for causing you to be so so messy, but you only bit your tongue to halt yourself from getting yet another bruises from the last time you were bent over his knee— which was not that long ago, having been ridiculed on yet another Aegon’s quest, combined with your snappy attitude had him seeing red.

“Enough.”

“No.” You raised your eyebrow at the fuming man standing tall over you, having you crane your neck just to look up at his sharp eye and the mean clench of his jaw, “Thread carefully, sister.” He warned you, tilting his head that should’ve been an indication for you to stop— but alas you wanted to push him, to see the limit that is Aemond Targaryen, if only there is one— you rolled your eyes then, biting the inside of your cheek in an act of defiance. Oh now you have done it, little girl.

You barely seen him coming for the next you knew, you yelped as he manhandled you over his knee on the bed, both of your wrists are behind you, tightly gripped by his much larger ones— “Let me go.” You whined, trying to tug free of his grip only for him to chuckle darkly, “You wanted to test me, push me, and now you shall see the consequence of your misbehavior.”

“Aemond—“

“Ah-ah, if you wanted me to treat you like a whore, all you gotta do is ask, darling.” You clenched at that, letting out a squeaky gasp at the way his voice resonates through the room, “Hm, lets see if we can put that mouth to a better use than running your tongue like a tart.” With that he pushed two of his free digit to the inside of your bitten lips— down down down until it rests against your throat.

You looked up at him with teary eyes, heated cheeks, and lips wide open with his fingers stuffed inside of you— both preventing you to speak and constrict your air intake, causing your head to get fuzzy— not dangerous just flying on that mind space of him him him, Aemond notices your now cloudy lilac orbs and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead— all the gentleness short lived, however, when he freed your wrist from his grip to press a loud impactful swat to your cheeks causing you to yelp against his fingers.

“Now lets see if your dumb little head can count for me.”

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you feel the stinging white noise of his slap against your folds— yelping as you feel your peak closing in, “I’m close— please please.” You writhed underneath him before he gently shushes you, taking one of his hand and intertwining it with yours, whilst he enters your wet warm opening with the other— a finger slides in, before a second joining the pleasurable stretch.

“Tight little thing, you are.” He shakes his head between your thighs but your ears are ringing too loudly to register anything right now, mind so so hazy with cunt so so overstimulated, meanwhile, Aemond continues his ministration on your pearl, suckling on the poor nub with vigorous attention, “Mmnh, I—“ You can feel the height of your pleasure come crashing down on you, stomach tightening with heat, too hard, too much, so quickly.

“Let go for me, sweetling.”

You obeyed at his command, as you always do, a good girl you are always do as he wishes— your peak was a long one with you letting out a silent scream followed by plethoras of his name and chanting ‘ah’s’ and ‘oh Gods!’ as he savor your release.

The man above you grinned as your body shake beneath him, having one of the hardest peak of your life, he pulled his fingers out of you with a satisfied smile— a proud one at that, having to see your essence coating not only the tabletop where all the lords that serve him now would sit to discuss the runs about the realm, about his reign but also covering his fingers. You’re a delectable delight, perfect molded whore, carefully shaped nymph for him. His.

Aemond stands up, intertwining both your fingers together to guide you to sit up— having been near insensate from your heightened senses, he had to support your spine as you shakily face him again— and his sight of you is one he can only describe of all Seven heavens in itself. You, a mess you are, silver hair mused and wild as if you had been on Valyx back, it cascades down the plane of your shoulder and back, your face is flustered, eyes droopy, unfocused, and lips, your lips pulled into a drunken kind of smile.

Oh, he has gotten you in a place where all you can do is take what he gives you. Fuck.

You, sweet pliant you, in the daze of your peak welcomes him gleefully when he presses a passionate kiss on your lips, feverishly moving your lips with his, you gasp as he bit your bottom lip, tongue entering to enter your wet cavern once more, before parting with a lewd pop! sound, “Syz riña.” good girl.

The gentleness of his actions are short lived though, Aemond smirks before you feel him manhandled you around, and bend you over the cold stone table, causing you to gasp in both surprise as well as feeling the chilling sensation on your tummy and up your overstimulated chest area, “Shh, no fussing.” He scolded you as if you’re a child, but his stern tone alone made your knee goes weaker.

You can hear the sound of his breeches being untied behind you, the sound alone has your neck craning to the side, your head pressed against the table and drags one of your leg upwards to graze against his legs, smiling to yourself in a post peak-haze state, “Hurry.”— that soft giggly voice of your demand surprises Aemond as he chuckled behind you, shaking his head at the gentle brattiness you let out.

“Aemond!” You yelped when you feel his hand coming down on your bottom, not once but three times in loud harsh succession— you lift your legs once more not out of teasing nature but to quell the pain and the oh so good feeling that comes from it, your cunt clenching around nothing as you arch, “Little girls who ran their mouth will not get anything but this, you hear me?” He said, palming your now reddened tender skin roughly, though the sensation makes you whimper.

“Of course you’d love that too, filthy girl.” He gives you no time to process his words before he tap the now hard leaking length against your opening, which makes you whine lewdly, he is pushing just slightly in, but not enough to even get half of his tip in, making you cry out in frustration, “Kostilus, lēkia.” Please, brother.

“Hm, I do love seeing you beg for it.” He hummed, pressing a kiss on the skin of your back, before breaching the tight opening of your cunt inch by inch, “Fuck, missed this tight cunt.” He grunts, feeling the way your walls sucking him in inside your warm heat.

The stretch caused you to wail and mewl “Tis too much—“ and, “too big!” if anything, the sound of your protests and the contradicting clench of your cunt around his cock is making him more feral— almost animalistic in how he thrusts harder inside you, before burying himself deep deep deep, head nudging the opening of your cervix with just the right amount of pain from the pleasure of being opened by his length, and pleasure from the way the curved tip hit your spongey spot with ease.

Aemond does not let you breathe much it seems, as he begin his fulfilling assault on your battered cunny, thrusting his length oh so deep before pulling, then slam it back in with vigorous pace, hitting all the right places even when his width alone made you shudder near your peak, “So good— oh!” You moaned, closing your eyes and arching your back, to which he responded with a hand yanking your silver locks tightly, the impossibly deep arch of your back has you both drunk on the feeling.

“Take it, take me.” He moaned in your ear, not once does he relent in his pace, always fucking into you harder, pounding you into oblivion, so much so that your cannot care anymore of who might heard what the of you are doing in the very same table he now commanded, he now holds the highest marble rank, the thought would exhilarate you further if you had not been so consumed by the way his cock reach your sweetest spot over and over again.

“Let them hear you, sweetling— fuck, let them know who you belong to, who is in fucking charge.” His words have double the meaning, that you can interpret perfectly, for he relinquish in the knowledge of claiming you, owning you, which you happily obliged, but he also needs to hear it from you that he has deserved this place, as the Prince Regent, that he has fully earned it, and shall lead the realm as his own.

“I belong to- Ah! you, My Prince…” Your voice is shaky in the wake of your nearing release, your velvety walls involuntarily clenched around him when his hips stuttered at the revelation that is you words, it seeped into his skin, thrumming along his veins— his grip on your hair and waist is tightening, for you are sure that your skin would be covered by his love marks by the morrow, but you did not care, let them see, let them know who rules the Seven Kingdoms, and who is steadfastly stood by his side, his Queen.

“Ao nykē perzōñi iksi, ābrazȳrys. Hen prānot hae mērȳ zālagon indīliks.” You and I are made of fire, wife. We have always been meant to burn together.

“Issa! zaldrīzo ānogar, Īlvon qumblī iāris.” Yes! blood of the dragon, ours runs thick. You replied in the midst of your clouded mind, his declaration has made you seen the stars that for a moment you thought you had been flying through the sky with Valyx, yet make no mistake, for his hips driving into you, and the way he snaked one of his arms down around you to rub at your pearl, instantly ground you back to earth, “Va sȳndroti vāedroma.” Joined as one. He whispered deeply, “Avy jorrālean, zaldrītsos.” I love you, little dragon.

“Come for me.” He rasped deep in your ear, that was the last restraint you have on you, as the combination of the never ending pounding of his cock inside your now oversensitive cunt has you curling your toes, the feeling of his fingers rubbing quick circle over your now engorged reddened nub has tears running down your face so prettily, so messily, painting the perfect picture of a ruined slut just for him.

You came with sobs escaping your lips, the plethora of whimpers of his name heightened the pressure inside the now sex smelling room, the sound of steps are loud from the grounds outside the keep, so does the sound of the occasional knight’s armors clanking, but all of that escaped your mind— too dumb speared on his length to give a fuck, your eyes closed as his hips faltered, feeling him shake above you at the telltale sign of his own impending release, you smiled drunkenly at the knowledge of your effect on him, “Give it to me, please, fill me up,” You mewled softly, finding every bit of your strength left to urge him, “Give me a babe, Aemond— mmh! let me give you an heir.”

Aemond groaned loudly at your words, “Fuck— fucking shit.” You have no idea what you have said to him, sweet girl, you have no idea how the thought of him marking you, both bound by blood, vow, and his seed inside you, does to him. You have no idea how much he wishes to always keep you full of his come, so you may be swelled with babes, because then nobody would ever question his claim over you, nor claim over the true line of Targaryen blood that is deserving of the Iron Throne.

He thrusted inside you one more time before stilling himself deep— so fucking deep inside you with his tip nudging your womb, and releases his seed inside of you with words of lewd affirmations spilling out of his lips, “Good girl, gonna watch you swell with my babe.” and, “Take it, little one, I’m yours— fuck!”

Your neck craned to the side as warmth filled your insides, smiling and biting your lips at the overwhelming sensation of both searing pain as well as being completely full of him, claimed and mark by him, undoubtedly his, “Avy jorrāelan, valzȳrys.” I love you, husband. You muttered, his eye still closed and his lips peppering small kisses along the plane of your back and your spine.

After some moment of calming down basked in silence, with only each other’s deep breathing, and him humming high Valyrian to your ears, he then slipped out of you, before turning you around and carry you to the where the chair for the King, or in this instance, the Prince Regent is located.

He sat down on it, with you laying on top of his lap in a fetal position, the crown of your head is tucked safely under his chin whilst his palm caresses the skin across your back and arms softly, “I hope I was not too rough.” He murmured against your hair, kissing at the messy silver strands lovingly.

“You were…” You mumbled, looking at him mischievously, he raised an eyebrow at you- biting the inside of his cheek awaiting your response, “But I like it.” Came your reply, cheeks flushed once more at the way he muttered something akin to “Fucking hell” under his breath.

“Aemond—“

“I will never put you in danger.” He said, eyes boring into yours, full of hope, full of promises, “Do you trust me?” His voice came out with a hint of vulnerability to you, almost like he bares his neck for you to bite if you so please.

You frown at this, “Of course,” You put your palm on his jaw, “Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo, rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.” Vow spoken through time, of darkness and light. He smiled at your words, have long he had dreamed of binding your blood in the tradition of Old Valyria, he is perhaps the perfect devout son that worships the Seven, yet he is also very much connected to the blood of the dragon as you are with yours. Tis’ something he have vowed to do with you once the realm’s stability comes back.

“Do not be afraid.”

“With you? never again.”

It is true that you longed for nothing more than to be with him in a world of your own, in a world where there is no more bloodshed, in a realm where peace is known, no green— no black, just you and him— but you also know that it is wishful thinking, for you all have a part to play, you included, as Helaena has said before, if your part is to be the eye he had lost, if your part is to be his anchor, his devoted wife, his sweet sister, his lover, his destiny, then by his side is where you shall be.

For it is better to go to Seven hells and back with him, then to live in agony without him.

You’re bound by vow, by blood, by wounds, by heart, and most importantly by that invisible string of everlasting fire. You are meant to burn together.

[freelancearsonist]

so scarlet, it was...

➔ post-outbreak Joel Miller x afab!Reader - series masterlist

➔ 1.3k words

➔ “Go ahead, yell your fucking head off. That’ll make everything okay, won’t it?”

➔ Rated MA for dark fic kinda, a/b/o themes (alpha joel, omega reader), established... situationship? i guess, pregnancy/contemplation of termination, contemplation of self harm, reader is not in a good headspace. one instance of vomiting, joel is not very nice, this fic in general is not very nice. takes place three years post outbreak. [please let me know if i missed any warnings so i can add them in :)]

➔ thank you so much to my darling @bitchwitch1981 for the prompt, i'm so sorry this is probably very much not what you wanted 🤣 extra special thank you to @perotovar for making this wonderful joel gif for me, if ur reading this ily <3

You’ve never actually used one of these things before. You’ve only read about them in books or seen them in movies from years ago, and they’ve only ever been an object of abject horror.

You understand why now, looking down at those two little lines on the stick cradled in your hand. You’ve never been quite so terrified in your life.

You never should’ve pocketed this test when you found it in that miraculously untouched drug store. You could’ve stayed blissfully unaware. Better yet, you should’ve been more careful. Three years of living like this has been more than enough to make you firm in your decision to never bring life into this broken world. This isn’t a place for a child, this is barely even a place for you. Every day is a fight, every waking moment is a nightmare. But you’ve been so careless with him and now it’s all crashing down, this blissful bubble where you can pretend that everything might be okay because you have the pack and, more importantly, him. 

You won’t have him for much longer when he finds out about this.

You wonder what it’ll take to right this wrong before he finds out about it. It must be pretty early, so maybe it won’t take much to reverse it. Maybe all you’ll have to do is bump into something just right, or trip over the right log.

The thought makes you sick–more stomach bile than anything else coming up because you’ve hardly had more to eat than stale beef jerky and some precarious berries in the past few days. Resources have been so slim; another reason this can’t be happening. You hardly have enough to tide you over, much less a child. And it’ll be even worse once the pack abandons you.

You bury yourself into the haphazard nest of blankets and his worn clothes, letting the heavy, musky scent of him soothe your wracking sobs. 

Maybe you should just accept your fate now, sacrifice yourself for the good of the pack. Everyone is going to die eventually, after all��sooner rather than later in this world. You’ve only been postponing the inevitable. They never have to know why you do it, and it’ll be one less mouth to feed. Two, technically, but they’ll never have to know that. He won’t even really miss you, it’ll be one less burden on his hands. On all of their hands.

You don’t hear them return early from scavenging–maybe because the volume of your own sobs drowns out any other noise. Or maybe because he can sense something is wrong as he enters the run-down little shack you’ve been holed up in for the past few weeks, and he softens his approach because of it.

Joel has never been quite as tender as he is when he takes you into his arms, pulling your face out of the pile of fabric to wipe at your tear-streaked cheeks.

“My omega, shhhh, I’m here. It’s okay,” he murmurs, wrapping you into his big, strong, safe arms. He doesn’t know. Maybe he thinks you had a nightmare, or you just missed him, or a million other things except the truth. But he doesn’t know, and you know he doesn’t know because you feel the moment he connects the dots. His eyes drop to the little white stick clutched tightly in your fist and his entire body stiffens like a board. Suddenly there’s no more warmth or comfort to his touch, nothing soothing about the pheromones drifting from him. He pulls away like you’re infected, and maybe you are. Maybe the thing that’s taken root in you is worse than cordyceps could ever hope to be.

You’ve never been terrified of him before. Joel is dark and brooding and imposing, but he’s only ever fought to protect you. His omega, who wormed their way under his skin despite him fighting it every step of the way. His omega, who’s been the only source of anything remotely close to comfort he’s had since outbreak day. His omega, who’s given him purpose in this dark world.

His omega, who’s betrayed him in such an unforgivable way.

“What the fuck.” There’s nothing but venom in his tone–he looks at you with pure disgust and your resolve crumbles.

Maybe there was a little, tiny, miniscule part of you that hoped it would be different. That he would be excited to be a father, or at least be understanding. But that hope dies so suddenly when you look up into his scowling face. He towers over you, dark eyes flashing with anger, and for the first time since you met him two long years ago you’re scared.

“You were supposed to be careful.” His voice rises further and further with each syllable, as if this isn’t partially his fault too. As if he wasn’t the one in such an uncontrollable rut last month that he kept you in bed all week, losing the willpower required to pull out with each powerful thrust of his hips. As if it isn’t his seed blooming in your womb as you speak.

“What do we do now, huh?” He growls, eyes darkening, fists clenching at his sides. “I’ve fucking marked you, I can’t turn you loose! And we barely make it by as we are! How the fuck are we supposed to handle this?”

He rants for what seems like hours and you flinch with every booming word, curling tighter around yourself in a desperate attempt to simply disappear; to not have to deal with this any more because your heart shatters with each irreversible word he throws at you. You shrink and shrink and shrink in hopes of vanishing because this is undoable. No matter what happens, nothing will ever go back to the way it was and that’s the knowledge that crushes you completely.

Your voice is so small when he finally quiets enough for you to speak. “Go ahead, yell your fucking head off. That’ll make everything okay, won’t it?”

Joel stops in his tracks, white knuckles unclenching for the first time in minutes. He sees the fear and regret in your eyes, and he almost lets it soften him. He loathes himself for this look on your face–for making you scared of him.

His omega. So small and fragile, curled in a pile of his clothes because his scent brings you comfort. He’s dedicated two years of his time and effort to keeping you safe and comfortable, if not happy. He’s supposed to protect you, not hurt you. He’s supposed to give you children and raise them with you, be a family with you. That’s what being your alpha means, and he has so sorely failed you. 

But he knows he can never do that again. That’s never what this was supposed to be. He didn’t mark you out of anything but necessity–if he had let your uncontrolled scent waft every time you went into heat, every alpha in the country would be targeting your little pack of four. You’re his omega out of biological necessity–a warm hole to fill when his rut threatens to tear already strenuous ties with his brother and Tess. That’s what he tells himself because the alternative is so startlingly incomprehensible that he won’t allow himself to even consider the fact that he might care about you; that the urge to care for you and protect you is more than primal, biological instinct; that you mean more to him than anyone ever has.

Not just his omega now, but his mate. His unborn child is growing and growing and growing with each passing second inside your womb and he’s powerless to stop it.

“We’re thirty-seven miles from the Boston QZ,” he growls from somewhere deep in his chest. “We leave at first light.”

You don’t get a chance to argue or plead your case before the door slams shut behind him. 

➔ beta: @beskarandblasters and @fhatbhabie

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[dottiro]

Hide & Seek

Unreliable summary:  If you’re a visual learner, Dottore is more than happy to give some help. // Dottore brought you to Snezhnaya so he can perform conscious brain surgery as an act of love. Warnings: Yandere, Medical malpractice, awake brain surgery, kidnapping without an actual kidnapping scene, Dottore cuts through the skull of a person (not you), being drugged, Dottore dissects a brain (affectionately), GN reader, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! Note: This is a rewrite of THIS fic from my old blog. This could've been longer, but I cut out the gore parts to make it less dark. // This fic is NOT set in the canon Teyvat; it is a mix of my modern AU + personal projection. My perception of him might not align with the OG. I wanted to write this scenario in my way/this is supposed to be a SERIES—if I post more of this AU the setup makes sense (trust).

You used to study in the illustrious Akademiya, hoping to pursue a life filled with studies regarding the human psyche. 

You used to—until you got acquainted with Zandik and your life turned around for the worse. 

Perhaps if you weren’t so busy pursuing knowledge, you would’ve seen that his help was never given without a debt to repay. The charming facade with which he lured you in is only one of the many masks he wears. Zandik, or as you now know—Il Dottore: the second of the eleven Fatui Harbingers, never intended for you to escape his grasp.

Not then,

Not now.

You try to remember where it went wrong.

Your head buzzes with a weird feeling when you open your eyes. You’re dazed, and your environment is unfamiliar to you. For some reason, your mind can’t think straight. 

Outside the window, you watch snowflakes twirl down until they meet upon a pool of white that stretches beyond the horizon. Only a few pine trees interrupt the otherwise dull landscape.

You try to remember how you got here, only to find a gap in your memories.

The bed in which you woke up is unfamiliar too. At the foot end, you see your jacket. It has been folded neatly and is accompanied by your shoes which are tucked underneath the bed. 

It had been visible enough to notice but placed purposefully to avoid anyone tripping. 

Someone put it there on purpose.

After inspecting the pockets of your jacket, you find that your belongings have been taken.

Your eyes move further across the room until you catch a familiar sight. The notebook that had catalysed your current situation. Similar to your jacket and shoes, it has been placed in sight for a reason. 

When you open the notebook on a random page, you can see new additions; or rather—changes.

Zandik’s handwriting covers your own, dominating your thoughts in writing as he does in voice.

You close your eyes as another wave of nausea hits.

At the start of a new school year in the Akademiya, you met Zandik in one of the off-campus libraries. He came crashing into your life like a bullet flying out of its barrel and straight into someone’s chest; aiming for his target and striking the bullseye without effort. 

In this metaphor, you were his target and the arrow Zandik himself. 

His actions have been destructive to many, but with you still alive at his side, you’re inclined to believe his intentions are physically harmless to you—which feels like a juxtaposition. Zandik’s weird infatuation with wanting to be accepted might be the sole reason for your current survival. 

In your admiration for his ingenuity and endless knowledge, you became captivated and blind to everything that opposed the perfect ‘Zandik’ you had created in your mind. In this blind fever, you had made him feel as if he was. To be free from the title of ‘outcast’ had sparked something in him, and he would do everything to hold onto this new feeling of approval and pure endorsement.

For a while, life with him was profitable for both parties involved. 

To have a friend like him is to feel like you are unstoppable. But, once he felt he was giving more than he could seize, he forcefully started claiming what he believed was rightfully his.

Ultimately, Zandik did not take your life—he reformed it.

All you had, is no more. 

And he is to blame.

One day you are in a lecture at the Akademiya, and the next you wake up in an unfamiliar place. In any other situation, you would have recognised the surroundings earlier. However, with the fog in your mind, it takes a while to uncover your location; Snezhnaya.

Your hand rests against the window to steady yourself. Even with the thick glass separating you from the outside world, you feel the cold touching your palm. Snow continues to rain from above. A few solitary snowflakes land on the window. They melt and pool at the bottom, freezing the window shut and locking you in.

An agitated sigh escapes your lips as your mind continues to drift between awareness and stupor. 

Through the hallway, a voice carries a conversation with only its echo in response. Mysteriously, the mutters come in and out of earshot—as if they were moving from room to room. The sound of footsteps follows. At first, they approach. Then, they leave. 

Your fingers press into your scalp when you drag your fingers through your hair. When you place your hands into sight, you open and close them. For some reason, they seem distant, as if not your own. 

Before you follow the sounds, you ensure that you’re grounded by steadying your breaths.

ㅤ

You leave your jacket and shoes at the end of the bed, leaving the room barefoot.

· · ────── Ω ────── · ·

The building that cages you resembles an old villa. Evident from the layers of dust, it has been unused for at least a decade. The majority—if not all of the furniture you see has been hidden by white fabrics. 

To you, it’s easy to see. This home has been neglected. Whether the owner of the house wanted to forget its existence or not is up for speculation. 

As you walk further into the hallway, you see a frame with an old Kamera picture of Zandik hung on the wall. Another white cloth hangs over it, but it must have gone loose since the left side reveals part of the picture.

You catch a glimpse of his younger, more humane, face. 

For a moment, you wonder when and how he became a Harbinger. You wonder how this young man turned into this creature that brings destruction everywhere he goes.

Ultimately, you decide to ignore it, choosing to press forward instead of lingering in the past.

Then, over the noise of your thoughts, you hear an odd sound. Somewhere near you, an object is being rolled across the floor. It’s an unusual sound—something that throws you off. Yet, the noise isn’t rough. 

The more you listen to it, the more you recognise it as wheels on a cart being pulled along. You decide to stand still for a moment, hoping the fog in your mind clears so you can pinpoint where the sounds come from.

Your hand brushes against the interior wall as you take another step forward. 

A warm orange light invites you in at the end of the hallway. As you approach closer, so do the noises become louder. 

You discern a deep voice, talking to what seems to be himself. The man sounds educated, arrogant—but also sophisticated, and carries himself with more pride than grace.  

For a moment, you’re certain it’s not Zandik; who is more animated, dynamic—and compared to this voice, softer with tone, but then you walk into the room to be face-to-face with him.

“Good evening.” Dottore greets you. His voice is steady, never revealing any emotions to you.

If he hadn’t heard you walking up the room, he does a good job hiding it. His response to your arrival is instant; as if your entrance had been expected. 

His attention on the previous task is disrupted, and now his sole focus lies on you. The silver glint of his mask shines in the evening glow as he tilts his head towards you.

Curiously, you take a set into the room. 

A large wine-red carpet covers most of the wooden flooring of the space. In the centre of which, stands a large dinner table. Most of the lighting comes from the candles that have been lit, or the open windows that bring in the last of the golden hour. 

On one end of the table sits a man in a wheelchair. When you see him you realise the sounds from earlier must’ve been him being pushed forward. 

With a controlled smile, Dottore holds out one of his arms—gesturing to the room. “Do take a seat, guest.” 

Your eyes follow his outstretched arm towards the only other chair in the room. Conveniently, it’s placed at the other end of the table, though, you doubt Dottore was occupying the seat before you. 

Cautiously you approach. As you enter the room, your confused state worsens. In the atmosphere hangs a sweet scent that makes your mind dizzy and unable to focus. 

A cold breeze comes through one of the open windows. The goosebumps on your arms only occur once you notice it. Have your senses been dulled?

Dottore smiles calmly. 

“What did you do with me?” You try to ascertain the hazy feeling that suppresses your logical thoughts. 

You’ve been drugged.

Dottore circles the man in the chair. You notice the return of the strange mask covering the upper part of his face. The sharp beak shape cuts through the air as he moves his head. 

“For someone so passionate about other people’s physiological responses, you fail to acknowledge your own. You’re anticipating something that’s not going to happen. Anticipatory fear rarely benefits anyone.” 

He moves his head away from you. You’re able to release the breath you’ve been holding.  

In front of the man in the wheelchair is a medical tray. It’s empty, although various surgical equipment surrounds it. When you squint your eyes, you can recognise a scalpel among them. 

You wonder if you could take it.

Dottore muses to himself, continuing to weave endless sentences that do not yet make sense. “Did you ever get to see the human brain? I find that preserved ones lack the sense of joy the living ones bring me. Unfortunately, something must be dead to be preserved… I find hardly any preserved being is worth more than a living one.”

Your eyes sneak up as you pass the tools and find Dottore inspecting you. A diplomatic smile is forced underneath his mask. You fail to obtain a weapon to defend yourself with.

As you approach the empty chair, Dottore walks up to the man in the wheelchair. By the time you sit down, he is playing with the scalpel you tried to take.

“It truly dulls the process. It lacks a sense of… efficiency. Why study a corpse when you can pick apart a living one?” A different light is cast upon him when he tilts his face down. In the shadow, his smile becomes sinister.

“What are you doing?”

Dottore holds the scalpel with his middle finger and thumb, letting his pointer finger rest upon the handle. He lifts it, admiring the glint that falls upon it. “You shouldn’t ask. I find that it spoils the surprise.” 

Finally, your fight or flight instinct kicks in and you try to stand up. 

Your legs bobble and your hand slams against the table trying to keep your balance. You fall back into the chair. The sweet scent has made you lightheaded with a tingling feeling in your limbs. It’s accompanied by a fast, irregular heartbeat—as well as the pounding in your ears. 

A chuckle escapes Dottore’s lips. “Already standing up? A doctor would have recommended you to rest. If you’re tired, you may return to bed, although, you’d miss the grand performance.”

He mocks you with his sweetest voice. Your poor coordination and confusion must make you look like a newborn deer trying to stand up on its feet. Pitiful.

For the first time since entering the room, you take a closer look at the man in the wheelchair. The male appears average in height and weight. He has no noticeable features and seems only a few years older than you. He has been silent the entire time, only ever muttering to himself. otherwise looking around helplessly. His body is covered in sweat, drenching his pale blue shirt with wet stains. 

A horizontal line paints his forehead. 

“Segment 495, say hello to Y/n.”

Segment 495's smile is droopy as he parrots Dottore’s words.

Dottore places a hand on the shoulder of the man. “Did you know that the Akademiya has a grand collection of preservations in the name of science?”

He retreats his hands and puts them folded onto his back. After taking a sharp inhale, he circles the man; stopping when he stands behind him.

Dottore continues,  “The Akademiya collects preservations received from donors. In most occurrences, the specimens are from average people, dulling the broad collection with nothing unique to study. Truthfully, it is unfortunate how such collection can collect nothing but dust.”

Your thoughts are uncontrolled. When you look over the set of tools, the scalpel is gone. Your stress increases due to the operation setting and the sweet scent in the air. 

What will Dottore gain from this? 

What’s today's lesson?

He inhales sharply through his nose, “A human can undergo a conscious brain surgery. You know how it works, I assume?”

You part your lips. Weakly, you shake your head.

“Excellent.”

Dottore reveals the knife from the hand on his back and he takes hold of the man in the wheelchair. With one arm, he snakes to the front and grabs his jaw. The other pushes the sharp edge of the scalpel along the line already there, easily sliding through and breaking the previously dried blood; reaching through the skull without complication.

Your sight blurs, and you helplessly watch the knife circle his head.

He’s going to exercise a conscious brain surgery.

With his precise and steady hand, Dottore can make a full circle before long. Then, he lays the scalpel down and grabs the hair on the man’s scalp, pulling until it parts, leaving the brain visible for you to witness.

You breathe out.

“Zandik—” 

“You see, the brain itself feels no pain, Y/n, if that concerns you” 

Dottore picks up his knife from the medical tray, pointing it towards the front of the brain. 

“For example, Segment 495 won't miss this little piece here, which is part of the prefrontal lobe.” 

“Wait.” You try to intervene, but you realise you have no leverage. “You don’t have to do this.”

Dottore makes a small cut, cutting through the meninges. Then, he grabs another tool, holding down the frontal lobe as the scalpel cuts through. “Sometimes, a subject can live without a part of their frontal lobe. However, there is a risk of losing one's expression of speech as well as a few means of movement and cognition.”

You watch the man’s expression fall when Dottore removes the part he had cut out. The mouth of the man falls open, and although he stays alive, something has undoubtedly died. 

Dottore lays the removed part of the frontal lobe on the empty medical tray. Then, he goes back. 

“Please, stop this.” You try to plead with him. 

Using whatever strengths you have left, you try to stand up. Unfortunately, you hardly move out of your chair. Whatever drug lingers in the air, it is stronger than your adrenaline and will.

Again, Dottore’s precise hands cut into the brain. The man makes a strained sound and drool begins to fall out of his mouth. 

Another piece is added to the medical tray, slowly forming a collection as Dottore empties the man’s head.

Under the influence of sedatives, you struggle to maintain your composure and senses—witnessing the horrifying spectacle that unfolds helplessly. 

You black out before the man breathes his final breath.

ㅤ

ㅤ

ㅤ

Segment 495 started to lose organ functions a few days ago. It’d eventually lead him to die without ever completing the experiences Dottore put him under.

It is unfortunate but Dottore still grants the dying man one last reward.

On the medical tray, Segment 495’s brain lies fully exposed. Each cognitive function is separated for you to behold and admire. In death, the stranger became preserved in your memory. 

· · ────── Ω ────── · ·

A gift. 

From Dottore to you.

©dottiro. Do not copy, repost, translate, feed to AI, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thank you for reading ♡

[chlix]

hello christ? i'm 'bout to sin again

vampire! chan x fem! reader: you're a blood donor for wealthy vampires in need of willing victims. it's possible you like your job a little too much

genre: fluff, smut (MDNI)

word count: 6.4k

warnings/tags: oral sex (fem receiving), blood drinking, unsafe sex, seriously like don't do this it's so unsanitary

a/n: i've literally never written smut so i was hesitant to post this, but i liked the idea and i had fun writing it so here it is anyway. i used the name "hyunji" bc this fic only made sense in my brain in third person, but feel free to substitute that name for your own!

Hyunji steels herself as the car she’s in pulls up to the restaurant. It’s an upscale place, with tall glass windows and expertly pruned landscaping on the circle drive. Small light fixtures are placed along edges and curves that make the already tall building exterior look even taller in the evening light. Hyunji has been to some upscale places, but nothing like this. Then again, she’s never had a client exactly like this either. She needs to be on her best behavior.

"He's a bit particular," the woman at the agency told her earlier on the phone. "He's been through a handful of our donors this month alone. I’ve received no complaints from any of them, any everyone was paid well above our rates, but none were asked for a second appointment. I can't give you any pointers for what they did wrong."

If the only consequence of the night going wrong is that Hyunji goes home with a fat paycheck and continues her job search, she’ll consider the evening a success. Sometimes donors are stiffed of their pay entirely or treated like walking bags of meat rather than people offering a service. Sometimes girls don’t come back at all.

That’s the way it goes when you’re dealing with vampires.

But Hyunji loves a challenge, and she'd already signed a liability waiver when she was put on the registry, so she'd accepted the details of the meeting and started getting ready. She’s wearing a black long-sleeved dress with a slit high enough to reveal a good amount of thigh even when she stands. The neckline is low, and the collar frames her collarbone enticingly. No necklaces, no earrings, but a single silver bracelet. She wants to look inviting; not so much done up as...put together. Polished. She doesn’t want to look like an easy meal. Hyunji knows from experience that vampires also like challenge more often than not.

She exits the car and tips the driver in cash and walks up to the restuarant with her coat wrapped around herself and her purse in hand. She approaches the maître d’ with a practiced smile on her face, and he greets her with a polite bow.

"Hello," she greets. "Reservation for Bang?"

The maître d’ calls over another attendant, who leads her to a small room off from the main dining room. A private area. Inside are a few tables spaced far enough apart that they fade away in the low lighting. In the far corner, a man sits staring at the wall, tapping idly at his plate. He has dark hair that’s gelled away from his face, and pink, plush lips. He’s wearing a suit, but Hyunji can tell that there’s muscles under it just from the way he holds his body. His eyes are a bright, unnatural blue. Even at first glance, in this dim room, Hyunji can see that he’s breathtakingly handsome. Of course, that's nothing new. Most vampires are. It’s kind of the whole point.

"Mr. Bang," the attendant says quietly. "Your guest has arrived."

The man turns to look at them, sitting up properly as he does. He gave the attendant a staged smile of his own. "Thank you very much, Sohyeon. We'll call when we're ready."

The attendant- Seohyeon- bows and leaves.

"Please, take a seat” he says, and Hyunji removes her coat and sets it on the chair, then sits down herself.

"I hope you aren't too nervous," he says. "But I thought it might be better for us to discuss these things in relative privacy."

"I'm not nervous. I appreciate the consideration."

He nods. "I'm Bang Chan. Though I suppose you already know that."

Hyunji had suspected, but it's not as if vampires are keen on photography. He could be Chan's assistant, or his errand boy. It isn’t uncommon for initial meetings like this, especially with vampires of such high stature.

"I'm Son Hyunji," she says. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise."

"Can I say, I'm a bit surprised you came in person?"

Chan's smile turns a bit wry. "Well, I prefer to make my own decisions about these sorts of things. It's not that I don't trust the other members of my coven. It's just that matters like this are a bit...personal. You understand."

"I do."

"I'm sure they gave you the rundown of my history with your agency. I hope being a frequent user isn’t a mark against me."

Chan doesn’t seem to be overly invested in the theatrics of all this, so Hyunji decides to be frank.

"They didn't give me many details. I was only told that all the girls were sent home unharmed. In this business, that's a victory."

"That's a generous outlook."

"Of course I'm generous. I'm offering my blood."

Chan cracks a smile, and some of the severity in the places of his face eked away. "That you are. I assume you came prepared today ready to be bitten?"

"If the negotiations go well, then yes, I'm prepared."

"Well, then I'll be on my best behavior," Chan said. "And I should probably get you something to eat."

He must press some button under his table, because Seohyeon reappears, ready to assist.

"Do you mind if I order for you?" he asks.

"Not at all." It isn’t uncommon. Diet has an impact on the taste of the blood, and every client has a preference. For her last position, Hyunji had found herself eating much more meat than she normally did and had to pick up running as a hobby to help with indigestion. At another job, she'd been overfed sugar, as if being fattened by a witch. Both of those had been a pain; it had been difficult to maintain her figure when she was practically being force-fed.

Chan, however, orders her a simple vegetable dish and a glass of water, along with a platter of cut exotic fruits.

"You'll need carbohydrates," he says simply. Hyunji simply nods. She can handle being grass-fed. It might even help her cholesterol levels.

Seohyeon leaves to submit their orders and returns later with a single crystalline glass. She doesn’t even attempt to set a glass or plate in front of Chan.

"You have meetings like this here often, then?" she asks.

"I do. I have high regard for their discretion."

"And here I thought I was special," Hyunji jokes, hoping to see that small smile again and being gratified when she receives it.

"Somehow I can tell that you are, regardless of my behavior."

Hyunji sips her drink for a moment, and they sit in amicable silence. Her weakness when it comes to meetings like this is her urge to fill space. She tends to talk when she's nervous, trying too hard to sell herself. She knows better than most that vampires are not a monolith, but generally speaking, they have a much higher tolerance for discomfort that most humans. They value solitude and caution. Hyunji tries to mirror this as best she can, to appear thoughtful, controlled. This too is also a test of her resolve. She can't seem like she would be easy to take advantage of. It’s a matter of life and death.

"Do you have any questions for me?" she finally asks. "You must have some harsh requirements, if no other girls have lasted more than a day."

Chan shrugs. "Sometimes people are incompatible."

"So cryptic. Is decoding your words part of the test?"

"I don't try to be cryptic. It might be hard to believe, but I'm not naturally inclined towards this sort of thing. I find these meetings awkward and artificial."

That's interesting. Hyunji sets her glass of water down. "Artificial, huh? I don't seem genuine to you?"

"It's not you, it's... all of this. The agency, the meeting, the negotiations. It just...gives me a bit of a headache."

"Would you rather chase me as I run screaming down the street?" she asks. "It wouldn't be the strangest thing asked of me."

Chan's eyes widen, caught off guard. "Someone's asked you for that?"

"Yes. I said no, of course."

Chan shakes himself out of his disbelief. "Good. I mean, not good that someone asked you that, but good that you refused. That's horrible."

Hyunji hums. "Part of the job."

"I've heard a bit about it..." he murmurs, then looks directly at Hyunji, voice resolved, focused. "I should have said this when you came in, but you're under no obligation to stay here. At any point in the night you can leave. You won't be harmed, and you'll be compensated for your time. I never want you to feel like you're trapped here with me, whether that be literally, socially, or financially." He seems to want to stop speaking, but continues, "This is what I mean by artificial. If you're in my employ, I feel as if I rob you of safety. It's not a position I enjoy being in."

This is such an unexpected turn of events. Hyunji had always assumed having power over their donors, even if it was just for show, was part of the fun. Yes, her official job is "blood donor," but in practice, she supposes most of her jobs boil down to "consensual victim." She shows up at a designated location after eating and drinking what she’s told, wearing what she’s told to wear, and is bitten. She tells nobody what she’s doing, and her clients often leave as soon as they are finished with her. But Chan says that all those things make him uncomfortable. He only wants her blood.

It’s fascinating. And too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"Is that why you switch donors so frequently?" she asks. "You feel as if you're taking advantage of them?"

Chan's lips twitch. "A futile attempt at damage control, I'll admit."

"It's noble," she says, and she truly means it. "It means a lot to me to hear you say that." She’s silent for another moment, debating. "I doubt this will ease your worries, but I don't do this job as a primary source of income. I'm actually quite well-off. And I didn't get roped into this young and have some traumatic past tied to it. I'd never even met one of your kind until I took my first client, after I graduated college. If you think I'm bluffing, I can show you my bank statements. So being your regular donor wouldn't be you taking advantage of me. I could quit any time I wanted without a second thought."

"I did think you'd done this a few times. Back in your home country?”

"And a few here and there before you. Nothing permanent. I didn't like how they talked to me, so I quit. I would give their names, but y'know. Donor-client privilege."

"Then why do you do this job, if not for the money?"

She smiles. "Because I love it. Didn't I say I was generous?"

"Venom junkie," Chan says in a resigned tone.

"I'm semi-immune, actually," Hyunji corrects. "And I'm not sugarcoating it. I love helping people. I make new blood all the time, so it's not really a loss for me. And even when my clients aren't as wealthy as you seem to be, I still get to have new experiences and try new things. I'm a foreigner, y'know. It's hard to make friends in South Korea." She grins as she leans forward on the table, looking Chan very pointedly up and down. "Also, not to be crass, but getting my blood sucked is so fucking hot. It gets me going every single time."

Chan looks at her, face drawn in surprise but in a different way than before. He’s so hard to read, too practiced and trained at impassivity, but he isn’t leaning away from her, so it's possible she hasn’t made any errors so large she couldn't correct them later in the night. He'd wanted her to be genuine? Well, this is as genuine as she can get.

Seohyeon returns then, carrying Hyunji's meal and a pitcher of water to refill her glass.

"Leave the pitcher, Seohyeon," Chan says, eyes still fixed on Hyunji. "I don't want to bother you too much. We'll be a while."

Hyunji allows a cheshire grin to overtake her features. She picks up her fork and pops a kumquat into her mouth with obvious glee, relishing the way Chan watches the slide of it all the way down her dark, exposed throat.

They continue their conversation as Hyunji finishes eating. He's not as closed off as he was initially, and Hyunji finds that he's a fairly good conversationalist. His voice is calm and rich, and when he's not trying to fit into the role of "mysterious vampire" he's fairly straightforward about his account of events and memories. As a plus, he seems genuinely interested in her life, or at least the limited parts she tells him. He keeps eye contact with her and asks clarifying questions. When she politely declines to elaborate, he doesn't pry. It's a pleasant change of pace from her usual first meetings, and she has a feeling it is for him too, if his body language is anything to judge by.

The topics stray away from the topic of their meeting, talking more about the facts of their lives and relations, but the charged environment from Hyunji's declaration doesn't dissipate. If anything, it only gets stronger as the night wears on, and Hyunji notices Chan become a bit twitchier, glancing more often at the door behind Hyunji, or at the watch on his wrist. As soon as she’s finished the last bite of her food, Seohyeon reappears, summoned by that elusive button once again. She's already holding the check in hand, and Chan signs it without even looking at it and hands it back to her.

"Shall we go?" he asks. Hyunji nods.

"Thank you very much, Seohyeon. You were great tonight as always."

Seohyun bows politely, but when her eyes meet Hyunji's, she winks. It catches Hyunji off-guard, but quickly enough she's able to return with a genuine smile and a bow of her own. Seohyeon must be the attendant who always serves Chan at meetings like this. It's nice to know that she doesn't think less of Hyunji for being here, or perhaps that she's even rooting for Hyunji to catch him for good. From her high spirits, Chan must also be a good tipper, which is a point in his favor. She finds that she really is starting to like the guy. She already suspected he was decent enough for paying his donors well, but she's pleasantly surprised to find he seems to be an all-around stand-up guy, which is good. Hyunji doesn't like to overstate her importance to her clients, but she does sometimes have qualms about aiding in the continued existence of assholes.

Hyunji gets up, puts her coat back on, and grabs her purse. Chan extends his elbow to her, and she wraps her hand around his arm, jolting a bit when she feels the breadth of muscle hidden under his suit jacket. He leads her out of the room and out to the front, where he calls the valet to bring his car around.

"No driver?" she asks, half-joking, but all Chan says is, "He has the night off."

Money money. It's even more impressive than the private seating.

The drive is short but quiet. Hyunji lets the water settle in her stomach and lets Chan focus on driving. She isn't trying too hard to memorize the route. She doubts he's going to take her to some wizened alley and drink her dry. And if he does, well, at least she’s had a good night before she goes.

They arrive at an upscale hotel after only a few minutes. The car is valeted again, and she once again holds on to his elbow as they walk to the front desk and Chan asks for a room. The fact that he didn't set this room up beforehand is even more gratifying to her. It feels like winning. She's going to get dinner and a show. It's her ideal evening.

Chan hands her one the key cards and they go to the elevator. His hand resting on hers is heavy, and not particularly cold. Up close, she can see the pink of his lips and cheeks is not makeup, which means he's nowhere close to starving. He just wanted to have her that bad.

This is what she loves about it, truly. The power over the vamps who dine on her. The juxaposition almost has her feeling heady.

When they get to the room, Hyunji excuses herself immediately to the bathroom, as the water she drank has finally caught up with her. When she's finished, she looks at herself in the mirror as she washes and dries her hands, making sure everything about her is still in place. It's not that she thinks Chan would care, persay. But she's sure he'll get more satisfaction from ruining her himself.

She exits the bathroom and closes the door behind herself, so she's standing before Chan, shoes and coat gone. He's sitting on the bed, and his suit jacket is discarded, giving her a clear view of his broad shoulders and large chest. He eyes her hungrily, looking her up and down with no apology, and Hyunji doesn't even care if he's thirsty for her blood or for her flesh. She'd be happy with either.

Vampires being hot is a part of the gag, true, but that doesn't mean she can't enjoy it while she's here.

"So," she asks, still standing a respectful distance away from him. "Feeling thirsty?"

Chan lets out a little laugh. "Honestly? You have no idea."

A little thrill goes through her at the rasp in his voice.

Still, honorable as he is, he offers her one last out. "If you don't want to do this, I can leave right now. I'll give you your pay and you can stay in the room. I don't expect anything out of you."

"I know," Hyunji says. "And again, I appreciate the out. But I want this. I consent to donating to you tonight."

Chan lets out a long breath and beckons her closer. She follows, walking slowly, and when she meets the bed, she crawls onto it so that she's on her knees in front of him.

"Where would you like me to take from?" he asks.

"Wherever you want," she says. "If you're uncomfortable, you can take from my wrist. But I wore this dress for easy access. Both to my neck and my thigh."

"You really weren't kidding about thinking this is sexy," he says, breathless, like he can't believe it.

"Do you live on planet earth? Everyone thinks vampires are sexy. A lot of people are just also cowards. But I'm not. And I don't think you're going to bleed my dry and leave my husk in this hotel room, are you?"

Chan shakes his head no.

"Then what's to be scared of? Is it a crime to enjoy my job?"

Chan lets out a low breath, almost like a laugh. "You're something else, aren't you?"

"I guess I am." She leans back a little, pulling herself back into her composure. "But as I said, this is meant to be enjoyable for us both. If you'd like to just drink from my wrist and leave, that's completely fine. It's not like I go around fucking all my clients. I'm capable of being professional."

"I feel like we crossed the line from professional a while ago," Chan says. "Which is my fault as much as it's yours."

Good. She was worried she'd been coming on far too strong.

"So what's the plan?" she asks again. "How do you want me?"

Chan's fingers twitched again as he scanned her up and down. "Can I touch you?" he asks.

"Yes."

In an instant, Hyunji is flat on her back, and Chan is above her, boring down on her. Her heart rate goes crazy, seeing those eyes in the shadows, the eyes of a predator. They look electric blue, hypnotic.

"I'm going to hold you right here, and you're not going to look at anyone except me," he says, his voice lower than before. "I'm going to suck your blood. And then I'm going to eat you out." His hands tighten around her wrists, and she sees the veins in his neck pop and oh god, oh god-

He's waiting for an answer, ever the gentleman. She swallows harshly and says. "Be my guest, Mr. Bang."

Chan leans down and connects their lips.

Just like she'd gathered from his hands, he's warm. Over the years, she'd gotten used to the colder body temperature of vampires, about the uncanniness of how they feel against her. She associates it now with being part of the experience, and can look past it, especially when her client is this good-looking. But here it's barely an issue. Their lips press together, and it's almost like kissing a human. As long as she doesn't think about the fact that she can't feel a heartbeat even though he's less than an inch away from her.

He licks into her mouth, and she lets him, opening her mouth wide and swallowing her gasps. Heat is spreading through her, arousal swelling all her blood vessels, and she knows the moment he smells it from how his grip tightens even further, from the growl deep in his throat. His lips trail down from her mouth to her neck, and she leans her head back to expose it more fully. She's sure he can see her heartbeat in her carotid from the way her blood rushes in her ears.

"You smell...so fucking good," he says in between heavy breaths. "Even in the restuarant...you were driving me crazy."

He sucks at Hyunji's neck, and she moans, hands straining as she tries to arch up. One of his hands releases hers and comes to grip her jaw, pushing her head to the side as he zeroes in on her neck. She can hear a deep rumbling in his chest, like a cat gearing up to pounce. She can't see his eyes, but she knows they must be dilated to black pools.

"Last chance to back out," he murmurs, lips millimeters from Hyunji's skin.

"Bite me," she says.

She sucks in a breath as his lips graze her skin. Then he bites down.

Hyunji knows that she's semi-immune to venom. She has the doctor's notes to prove it, and the experience with vampires to believe them. But there might be some truth to Chan saying she's a venom junkie anyway, because the initial bite alone is orgasmic. Her mouth drops open, her body stiffening and arching under him as she sucks in a quick breath. The smell of her own blood fills her senses, the familiar ochre and iron wafting around them hypnotically, and her thoughts zero in on the feeling of Chan pressed to her neck, of his large mouthfuls, the iron grip he has on her, as if she would even dare struggle.

She knows she tastes better when she's aroused, but it also feels better when she's willing. And oh, god is she willing. For a moment it feels like she's never wanted anything more.

Chan drinks greedily, completely at odds with the composure he's been maintaining the whole evening. It's so satisfying she thinks she might just cum again from the way he's pulling at her, the way he obviously wants her so badly it's taking all his self-control not to rip her apart. And what a way to go, really. The epitome of dying happy.

The lightheadedness is only barely setting in when he pulls off her, releasing both her hands and her head. His lips are stained red, and his cheeks are flushed. She can see, even with his blown pupils, how hazy his eyes eyes are. His grip on her wrists hasn't faltered for a second.

"Fuck," he says, but even that is far away. "Are you okay?"

"Never better," she says. "Come here."

She grips his jaw and pulls him down, and he goes easily, connecting their lips in a messy swirl of blood and drool and venom. She can feel the tang of it still as his fangs are still prominent in his mouth. They're large, and she feels the tip of one cut her own lip, blood pooling between her teeth. Chan pulls away with a moan.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, licking his lips, absolutely blood-drunk. "Fuck. Want you so bad."

"And you're fucking gorgeous," she says. "So in-control. You gonna take care of me, Chan? You gonna make me feel good?"

That rumbling starts in his chest again, and Chan is on her again, his full weight pressing down on her, stealing the breath from her lungs. Vampires always weigh more than you think they would, and Chan is heavy with her blood. His skin is burning, almost feverish. It's so monstrous. It's so fucking sexy.

"Gonna eat you out so good," he murmurs against her lips. "Gonna make you scream."

"God, please," she whines. "Please. Want your mouth. Wanna cum so bad."

Chan abandons her lips and shuffles down the bed to the curve of her hips. He doesn't have to push her dress up that far to have access, and he doesn't even bother to actually remove her panties, instead pushing them aside and diving in. His fangs are still extended, and the slick feeling of bone against her labia sends a thrill of fear down her spine. What if he cuts her down there? Will he start drinking from that too? Her juices and blood mixing together for him? The fear only makes it more attractive, and she pushes down into his mouth, wanting more, wanting him deeper. His tongue is so wet, so rough, his fingers on her thighs are gouging holes into her skin, they must be, but she doesn't make him stop, she just heaves in haggard breaths, begs him to keep going.

His tongue swirls around the head of her clit and then takes it into his mouth and sucks. The twine in Hyunji's stomach snaps, eyes rolling back, and her breath pushed harshly out of her lungs in what is, admittedly, closer to a scream than she thought she'd get. Her vision is hazy for a moment, head full of roaring and fog as she recovers from both the blood loss and the intensity of the orgasm. Chan pulls away from her as her body goes lax, and she can hear him breathing in deep lungfuls of air. It doesn't occur to her for another few seconds that he doesn't even need to breathe. It's cute. She loves it when they still have vestigial impulses.

Time is murky for a while. Hyunji doesn't feel Chan get off the bed and step away and is only dimly aware of hands on her neck, something cooling brushed under her skin. Her head is a mess, she doesn't know which way is up. She's no stranger to this feeling, though, even though it's rarely so strong. She just breathes through it, and lets her body do what it must, and slowly, everything begins to settle back into focus.

When she opens her eyes, she's still lying on the bed. There's no one with her, but she can feel eyes on her. After another minute, she feels alright to sit up, and is proud that the dizziness doesn't seem too bad. Apparently, he hadn't taken as much blood as she'd thought.

Chan is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. He'd been looking out the window before, but his eyes snap over to her when she moves, and in a second he's by her side, arm around her back so he can help her into a sitting position against the headboard.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. His hair has gone astray from it's perfect placement, and his cheeks are still flushed, but his eyes are back to normal now, present and assessing and nearly human in its clear concern.

"I'm fine," she says. It feels like a gross understatement considering what’s just transpired.

"I didn't mean to take so much," he says apologetically. "I didn't think I'd lose control so quickly."

If this is what Chan calls losing control, then Hyunji pales at the thought of what he'd say if she explained some of the encounters she's endured.

"You stopped yourself even before I would've," she assures him. "I'm barely dizzy at all. And my shakiness is just as much from the orgasm as the donation."

"You're sure?" he asks. The 180-degree shift from his earlier persona is as surprising as it is pleasant. His concern is adorable, and it seems so genuine. She finds herself smiling genuinely herself.

"I'm sure. I'm completely alright. I should, ah, probably eat something though."

"Yes. Of course."

Chan jumps up to grab the hotel phone and call for someone, and Hyunji takes stock of her body. There's a bandage over her neck and some form of antiseptic has been put on her lip. She can taste the medicinal tang. The area between her legs also feels wiped down where it's now covered with the drapings of her skirt.

Probably to clean up the blood, she thinks, remembering the frenzied state Chan had been in when he went down on her. God, she really was crazy. She hated being treated like fresh meat, but she loved it when they pretended like she was.

As her strength returns, she sits up properly, with her legs curled beside her. Chan goes to the door to get the food when it's delivered, and Hyunji accepts the small platter gratefully.

"I'm surprised the kitchen is still open," she comments.

"This is Josun Palace. The kitchen is always open."

Hyunji shrugs and eats her offered food. Chan still seems anxious about her state, but as she converses with him nonchalantly, he seems to believe in her good health, and the nervous energy fades.

Finally, after Hyunji has again finished her food and water, Chan says, "I should be off."

The disappointment hits Hyunji like a freight train. Maybe she'd been imagining it, but she thought that this had been going well. She had good blood and a good body, and he'd seemed to think her pleasant enough. She's old enough now that she shouldn't still be surprised when she reads vampires incorrectly, but this one stings, not just for the loss of a job, but for the loss of Chan, who she'd started to genuinely like at some point during the evening.

"If you must," she said, trying not to sound too put out. "I know you must be busy."

Chan looks a little torn. "Would you prefer I stayed?"

"I don't expect you to do things you're not comfortable with," Hyunji parroted. "If you've finished with me, you have every right to go."

"Hyunji, I didn't mean..." Chan sighs, takes a breath. "I just don't want you to feel as though you're trapped here with me. You've done your job as well. You can ask me to leave at any time."

"I'm not trapped with you. Like I said, I do this because I like it. And I know you're not going to hurt me, unless you're playing a really long game." Hyunji looks him right in the eyes when she says. "You're really nice, Chan. Don't tell my regulars back home, but this has been my best night, maybe ever. I won't hold you here, because you don't owe me anything, but I'm not uncomfortable with you at all."

Chan examines her closely, perhaps to divine if she's lying or not, but Hyunji means what she said. It might be one of the easiest jobs of her entire life, and one of her best hook-ups. No part of her feels like a cornered animal.

"I'll stay until you sleep," Chan offers. "So I can make sure you're okay."

"And then I'll never see you again?"

On this topic, Chan doesn't budge. "We'll see."

Well, if it's the best she's going to get, she'll take it. She sets the tray aside and gets up to use the bathroom, pleased to find her feet aren't the least bit wobbly. She doesn't wash her makeup off, but she does take her contacts out and change out of her dress into one of the hanging gowns by the shower. She'd actually wash herself clean if it wasn't so much effort.

Chan is sitting on the bed when she comes back out, and she's pleased to see he doesn't move as she approaches, just scoots away so she can climb back in under the covers and curl up. Gentle hands come to pull at her chin, exposing the bite in her flesh.

"It doesn't hurt," she murmurs. "And I don't scar easy."

"Junkie," he says, but this time it's affectionate instead of accusatory.

"I’m a professional," she rebuffs, eyes drifting closed. She falls asleep with his thumb still caressing her cheek.

Hyunji wakes up the next morning to find sunlight coming from the bottom of the blinds and Chan nowhere to be found. She groans as she wakes up and identifies the throb in her neck as the minimal venom effect finally wears off, leaving only the pain of the puncture.

She stumbles to the bathroom to remove her makeup and shower and drags back on the same dress and shoes she had the day before. There's a good chance the workers downstairs won't recognize her, and anyway, she's long past feeling shame for reappearing in the same clothes she'd left in. Everyone's done it, and she's not embarrassed of her slutty tendencies when they're so much of a part of her by now.

On the table next to her purse is a wad of cash. She can't begin to estimate how much. It was one of the things they hadn't discussed beforehand, was exactly how much she'd be paid. She assumed something approaching the going rate for her agency, but this appears to be much more. Tucked under the rubber band at the top of the stack is a note from Chan that says, Drink water when you wake up. You were shivering in your sleep.

Cute. Cullen-level creepy, but still cute. Hyunji puts the cash in her purse, checks the room over again, and leaves.

It isn't until the uber drops her off at her home and she's changed into comfortable clothes that she gets a call from Kimiya at the agency again. She runs through a similar debrief as the other girls before had given, that Chan was cordial and polite, that he took her blood and paid her well, and she has nothing more to say on the matter. Kimiya seems frustrated again, but promises to e-mail over the paperwork for their records and tells her to look after her heath. When Hyunji hangs up the phone, she sets it down and folds herself into her living room couch.

Chan hadn't given her his phone number, or any other means of contacting him. She supposes she could easily look him up, but that's against the rules of her contract, and at any rate, it's best not to go looking for vampires when they don't want to be found. Hyunji knows that at least well enough.

"Another notch on his belt," she says to herself. "It's what I expected going in."

She tells herself the lingering disappointment she's feeling is just the venom still in her system and goes to the kitchen to make herself breakfast.

Hyunji gets caught up in her life in the following days. She has "kind of" a job that she "kind of" has to go to, and "kind of" meetings that she "kind of" has to attend. It's nothing serious, and mostly for appearances, but she has nothing better to do with her time, so she goes anyway. By the middle of the week, her night with Chan is at the back of her mind, filed away with all her other patrons.

It doesn't exactly leave her, though. She wishes it would, because it's getting kind of embarrassing, but for some reason the feelings are hard to shake. Maybe it was because she liked Chan, not just as a respectful client, but as a person. Under different circumstances, she thought they would have gotten along well. That's where the loss might be coming from, in truth, not of him as a client, but him as a potential friend.

But vampires don't keep humans around like that. At least, not outside cheesy romance novels and dramas. They stick to their own, and humans stick to their own. Hyunji knows that. Which means she's got to get a grip.

'Getting a grip' lasts two weeks, when Kimiya gives her another call late Thursday morning. This is in line with the usual timeframe. Hyunji doesn't take any medications she needs to detox from, so she's a prime candidate for people who need last-minute donations. The minimum time between two donations is two weeks, so this is the earliest that Hyunji could potentially take any requests.

"Hello, Kimiya," she says, answering the phone cheerfully. "What do you need?"

"I have news," Kimiya says, deviating from the script. Hyunji stops short.

"Oh?"

"Bang Chan wants to request you again."

Hyunji's heart leaps into her throat. "He does?"

"Yes. He wouldn't give much more information than that, but he did specify that this would be in a more casual setting, and that he did not anticipate feeding from you at this time. Of course, this means you also wouldn't be paid for attending the meeting."

Hyunji has a feeling that whether she gave blood had nothing to do with her potential financial gain.

"I'll do it," Hyunji says. "When's the meeting?"

"Tomorrow, Friday, at eight pm. I'll send you the address."

"Perfect." She’s sure she can’t keep the excitement out of her voice. "Thank you, Kimiya."

"Of course," Kimiya says. Then, "What did you do with him? He and his coven have been running through our girls like water."

Hyunji presses a finger against her neck, relishing the feel of the blood rushing under her skin. "Oh, you know. The best strategy is just to have fun and be yourself.”

[vixstarria]

Another gift

This is a continuation of my headcanon of Astarion’s romance with bard Tav. I can’t remember the actual chronology of cutscenes, but let’s assume this takes place after you’ve started a sexual relationship with Astarion and are beginning to grow closer. I was going to take it in a different direction initially, but these things have a mind of their own once they get going. 

If you like it, check out my first fic. I do plan on writing more! 

P.S. I may have taken some liberties with the game background story and DnD lore and magic system here – if it doesn’t really match up or make sense – sorry! Also I’m still only on Act 2. 

Tav tries to comfort or distract a brooding Astarion. 

Astarion x Reader, Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Bard Tav  

Comfort, fluff, budding love, humour, angst, banter, no spoilers, non-explicit 

Approximately 2,000 words. 

AO3

 

Astarion was standing outside his tent with his back to the camp, staring into a silver mirror. The man had either lost his vampiric condition, lost his mind, or was simply brooding.  

“Looking at something?” he asked absent-mindedly, as you approached. 

Brooding. Definitely brooding.  

“Looking for something.” 

“Oh?” He turned towards you. “Just my company, or is there something else I can offer you?” 

“I'm the one making an offering, actually. I thought I’d bring you a little snack” 

Astarion grinned and beckoned you inside his tent.  

Inside, aside from his bedroll, was a trunk with a large mirror opposite, a lit lantern and a scattering of weapons, equipment and books. You assumed your usual position, cross-legged on the bedroll, and offered him your wrist. This didn’t take long. Just a little pick me up.  

He finished, planting a light kiss on your wrist, reached for his amulet and whispered an incantation to heal the wound. He kept hold of your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.  

“Do you have any idea how much I appreciate that you don’t sexualise this?”  

“I haven’t thought about it... Really?” 

“Well imagine that any time you went to, say, take a bite of a turkey leg, there was someone staring, groping themselves and wagging their tongue at you. When you’re just trying to perform basic functions to stay alive.” 

“Sweetheart, that’s an average evening at the pub for me, when I perform. With or without me biting on anything. ...But I see what you mean”. You contemplated what he just said in a brief silence. “I can't believe you just compared me to a turkey leg.” 

“You’re more of a ripe, juicy peach” he said. You found yourself oddly pleased to be compared to fruit rather than poultry. 

You glanced at the large mirror standing on the floor of the tent.  

“You own an awful lot of mirrors for a vampire. Why do you even keep this here?” 

“That? Oh, it reflects light... makes the tent appear more spacious... prevents anyone from sneaking up on me. ...Unless they’re another vampire.” Astarion said contemplatively. “And I figured, I woke up once with a tadpole in my brain that let me walk in the sun again – who's to say I won’t catch another parasite tomorrow that might cure my vampirism entirely?” 

“Do you miss it? Seeing your own face?” 

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it. I’ve never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red. My face is just some dark shape in my past. Another thing I’ve lost. I wouldn’t even recognise myself anymore. It’s been two hundred years.” 

“But...” you fumbled, trying to wrap your mind around that. “You could have found a street artist to sketch you since then.” 

“In the middle of the night?” 

“Or commissioned a portraitist, those artistic types would accommodate you any time of day or night” 

“Commissioned a - …I’m sorry, at what point did I give you the impression that Cazador paid us an allowance..?” Astarion was growing agitated. “And before you say I could have stolen – remember, everything I had, anything I acquired by any means, the clothes on my back, my body, my will – it all belonged to the master.” He paused, regaining control of his demeanour. “There was no point in having any possessions, it would all be the bastard’s in the end. I didn’t want to give him any more than I absolutely had to.” 

You kicked yourself in the ass mentally.  

“Well how’s this... We get to Baldur’s Gale. We exterminate Cazador and take over his palace. Then we rip out whatever he’s got as décor, commission all the best artists, and hang paintings of you on every wall. There will be nothing but portraits of Astarion everywhere.” Astarion’s eyes softened as he watched you gesticulating and getting carried away by your own imagination. “Astarion in shining armour. Astarion on a horse. Astarion on silk bedsheets, half-covered in rose petals. Pirate Astarion. Astarion stroking a cat. Historic events, but every single person depicted is Astarion. Oh! And in the main banquet hall, there will be an enormous mural of you, fully naked, lounging on a divan and being fed grapes by a cadre of nymphs.” 

“With a fig leaf covering my unmentionables?” 

“A comically large fig leaf. Or better yet, no fig leaf, just your full unmentionable glory looming over the dining table” You paused, as if sobering up after being lost in your grand vision, and added in a more serious tone: “We can commission busts and statues, too. Get a mold of your face for a hyper-realistic one.” 

“We” he whispered, as if to himself, with a scornful chuckle.  

“Oh? Do you have someone else in Baldur’s Gate you’d rather spend time with?” You realised how callous that might have come across as soon as the words were out, and cringed inwardly. 

“...No, I don’t” he said absently. 

“Elves live long lives... Do you still have real family there? Friends from... before? ...A spouse? Children?” You'd wondered about this before, and figured you may as well lie in the hole you’d dug for yourself.  

“Gods, no!” Astarion blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t even considered a full adult by elven society then. No, mercifully I didn’t leave any little Astarions behind. All my friends from my youth are either dead or have blissfully forgotten me. And I don’t even know where my family is.” 

You gave him a sympathetic and questioning look, waiting for him to go on. He sighed and continued. 

“As you might expect, Cazador placed a restriction on me, preventing me from telling anyone about my affliction. I couldn’t approach my old acquaintances and go ‘Surprise! I’m actually alive! ...Sort of. I’m just someone’s vampire spawn slave now!’. No. I was to turn around and walk the other way if I ever came upon anyone who might recognise me. I was supposed to be devoted only to my new ‘family’.” he scowled. “I feared that Cazador would use anyone he thought might be important to me against me - for fun, or to teach me a ‘lesson’. And he would have, too: the mental torture he unleashed on his spawn was far worse than physical.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t go and see my family, but as soon as I had my wits about me, I managed to arrange for one of the mercenary guilds to quickly escort my relatives out of the city. They were to be told that I made some powerful enemies who had me murdered, and that these enemies would come for them next. That they had to leave, change their names, and never return. I don’t know where they went. I can’t know, if I want them to be safe.” He looked away. “I can’t imagine how much they hated and cursed me. I ruined their lives.” he whispered. 

“You saved them!” you objected, taking his hand. He shrugged but squeezed your hand back. 

“I suppose I might have. Cazador would’ve left their heads on spikes in my crypt by now, otherwise.” He met your eyes again. “So yes, if anyone is going to be helping me decorate a palace, it’s you.” he added with a false cheer, clearly finished with the topic of Cazador.  

You thought he might want to be alone then and were about to leave, but he gently pulled you towards himself. He was sitting on the ground with his back against a trunk. You settled between his legs, your back against his chest, his lips right at your ear, one arm across your shoulders and chest, the other playing with your hair. The large mirror was on the ground right in front of you. He studied your reflection over your shoulder. You appeared to be lounging suspended at an odd angle.  

“How does it even work, anyway... It’s not just your body that disappears, it’s your clothing, too”. You grabbed a hat from the top of the trunk, holding it by its crown, and held it over Astarion’s head, moving it in circles against his hair. “Now you see it...” You let go and watched it disappear in the reflection. “Now you don’t.” 

“I’m actually not sure, darling. Maybe it needs to be supported solely by me. Or it’s got to do with movement” He threw the hat back onto the trunk, where it reappeared in the reflection. 

“Say...” threw your head back to look up into his eyes “Do you think my reflection would disappear... if a part of you was inside?” you bit your lip and grinned mischievously.  

“I don’t think so, but I love how that dirty mind of yours works” he purred in your ear. “Let’s check and find out” His hand slid towards the clasp of your pants, but you swatted it away. 

“Later.” Suddenly you were on a mission. “I have an idea.” 

The rest of your group were gathered around the fire as you made a dash for your tent and grabbed your kit of stage paints and powders.

“Chk, are you doing each other’s makeup in there?” came a scoff from Lae’zel, as you rushed past. 

“Don’t be jealous, Lae. We’ll have a girls night and braid each other’s hair tomorrow” you retorted, making Shadowheart choke on her drink.  

Back in Astarion’s tent, you reached for one of your loose facial powders. 

“You really don’t need to do anything, I’m used to it and nothing will work anyway” protested a confused and weary Astarion. 

“Astarion!” you said gravely, “This isn’t for you. This is for science”, and you blew the powder hard into his face. Sure enough, an outline of his features appeared briefly in the mirror, as the powder flew all around him. “It worked!” 

“Fan-tastic! Too bad you had to blind me to achieve that split second of a silhouette!” he coughed and rubbed at his eyes. 

“It should work with water, too, if you want me to pour some over your head. You need to wash all that powder off anyway, you look ridiculous.”  

He glared at you through the still flying powder particles and pointed a finger at your face.  

“No.” 

“Actually, hang on, I have a better idea.” You heard him groan into his hands behind you, as you ran back to your tent, to return with an amulet.  

“So, the good news is, I am really, really bad at this.” 

“If this involves setting me on fire again...” 

“That was an accident. Anyway... No, this lets me create a fog cloud. Or so it should. I can just barely manage some fog tendrils. Now if I just aim them at your face...” You concentrated on the spell. Whisps of fog appeared around Astarion. “Look...” As the fog tendrils twisted in the air, you could just make out a form that they floated around, in the reflection, one unmistakably of a face.  

“Well...” breathed Astarion, transfixed by the reflection, trying to make motions with his head to make the fog recoil. “It’s not much, but it’s more than I’ve seen in centuries” 

“Come on” you grasped his hand. “Let’s go outside, it needs a different light and a slight breeze” 

Astarion snatched his handheld mirror and followed you. He was actually eager.  

Outside, Astarion spun in the whispy fog, gazing at the mirror in disbelief, as you continued to concentrate on the spell. It was actually working. Your conjuration magic was just bad enough to make the thinnest layer of fog, framing his face like a delicate mask and reflecting in the mirror. What would have been considered incredibly precise work by a wizard, was made possible entirely thanks to you borderline failing.  

“That’s better... I’ll channel the fog right, you turn left against it. No, your other left! No, don’t go into the fire, you idiot, it won’t be my fault this time” 

You grabbed Astarion by the hand and tried to guide him away from fire and anything he could trip over – he was paying exactly zero mind to anything around him, as he semi-stumbled in circles, looking in the mirror. Scratch ran around you, barking, excited for a new game, and eventually tripped you both. 

“Another gift...” Astarion smiled at you, as Scratch did his utmost to lick his face.  

Meanwhile, the group watched the two of you from a distance, dumbfounded. Lae'zel broke the silence: 

“Your people have the strangest mating rituals.”  

“Should I... should I tell them I can probably just cast mirror image on him? I’ve only done it on myself, but it should follow the same principle” added Gale. 

“Maybe tomorrow” said Shadowheart. “Just let them enjoy this tonight.” 

~~~~~

Next in series

AO3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 8

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You gag into your hand, shaking. You gurgle and shake out your fingers, the motion of the car adding to your sickness. The man beside you growls. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" 

"Eeek, it's so gross," you drag your tongue against the roof your mouth, like a llama about to spit, "it tastes so bad!" 

You give another repulsed noise and shudder. The salty, sticky, sweaty flavour stains your mouth. You feel like you can even smell it. 

"You don't think it tastes gross?" 

"Do you think I taste my own cum?" He snorts. 

"Like I said, the internet--" 

"Maybe you should cut that out and grow up. You might not be knee deep in shit if you did." 

"I-- me. Sir, you're the one--" 

He reaches over and flicks your throat, right in your esophagus, and cough in pain as you fold over. 

"You think your funny? We'll see who's laughing soon enough," he grits as he slaps his hand back on the steering wheel. "Come into my town and.... bullshit... laughing..." 

He rants under his breath as he drives on. You feel the daggers he sends in your direction as he drives. You'd rather he focused on the road because he just blew a red. 

"So... if you're not the mayor..." you begin as you sit up. You see your reflection in the side mirror; yikes.  

"Don't fucking start," he warns and points a finger, hitting the wheel, "I swear you want to die. Don't you?" 

"Mayors don't talk like that so... no," you frown. "Look, Fl-- Lloyd," you enunciate slowly, "you keep saying I should know who you are but I don't, okay?" 

"Are you going to keep talking?" He grumbles. 

"Sorry, sorry," you rub your neck, your throat still throbbing, "I'm... trying." 

"Not hard enough," he sneers, "all you need to know is to shut your mouth and listen. Got it, sweet lips?" 

You nod and cross your arms, "got it." 

He sighs and eases off the gas. You sit forward and crane around. Where the heck are you? You've never been to this end of town. 

"Sit back," he shoves your shoulder so you hit the seat, "can't see through you despite the empty space in your skull." 

You curl your shoulders in and lower your head. Your adrenaline slowly recedes. Oof, that hits hard. Not worse than anything you've been told before but having a moment to think about it, about everything that's happened on the last few hours, it doesn't feel good. 

You languish in the silence and watch the blend of brick and pavement through the car window. This is just another I told you so. Your parents will be all too happy to laugh on your face. And those old friends who kept you around to make themselves feel better. 

He huffs as he slows and rolls up to a large gate, "come on, cheeks, don't get all pouty now. The fun part's not even begun." 

You lean forward to see beyond the gate as it opens at the touch of his phone screen. You can't help but feel awe at the sprawling yard and towering modern mansion. These places only exist on screens. 

"Aw, baby face, you're seeing all sorts of big things today, huh," he scoffs. 

You don't react. He sways dangerous between menacing and mocking. He might not have told you outright who or what he is, but you can guess by his flagrant threats and even more exorbitant wealth. No on is that cocky or that rich through innocent means. 

He rolls through and the gate shuts without prompt. Like a motion sensor or something just as fancy as the rest of this place. You wonder how long it takes the army he no doubt employs for the task to trim and style the lawn. You almost understand why he was so finicky about his coffee. Almost. 

Yet that glimmer of defiance needles in the back of your head. If he's so rich and better than you, why wasn't he hitting some high end place where they infuse their coffee with diamonds or whatever? You suppose he might enjoy feeling like a giant as he walks among the anthills. 

Figuring out this man won't do you any good. Even if you could. None of that matters. You've stepped on his toes and he's not going to let yours go unstomped. 

He pulls in along a row of egregiously expensive luxury cars; one for seemingly every day of the week. It wouldn't surprise you. Well, you’re in such a stupefied state, nothing can. 

His seat belt repeals sharply and he swings open the driver's door. You jolt back and look around. Do you get out too? He slams the door and your doubt is quashed as he taps on the window with his knuckles.  

You undo your belt and feel around the door. Where the heck is the handle? These things have to be so sleek and sophisticated that you can never figure anything out. The door opens before you can find the release and you look up sheepishly at Lloyd.  

You get out and step aside as he shut the door with a flick of his wrist. You peer around and twiddle your thumbs. What exactly happens now? 

You stop short as he heads toward the stone steps along the house's facade. You're struck by a startling epiphany. He might be right about you in some ways. How did it take this long to realise?  

You've been abducted. 

He stops at the door and looks back at you, "look, honey bun, I'm getting fucking tired. Stop pussyfooting around and come on." 

"Um, sir, F--Lloyd," you put your hands up, "Mr. Hansen, so, when do I get to go home because this feels kinda... entrapment-y." 

"If I have to drag you," he snaps. 

"Alright, alright," you keep your palms put and scurry forward, "I'm just asking questions. It's been a strange day." 

"Fucking tell me about it," he mutters. "Ah, ah, sweet lips," he puts hisbarm out to block you from the front door, "rule one: beyond these doors, you're naked. That's it. Full access all the time." 

You double take. Full on Three Stooges pantomime. You nearly fall on your ass. 

"Wh-at?" Your voice catches. 

"If I have to keep repeating myself--" he warns. 

"But what if I get cold?" 

"Oh my fucking god," he grabs you by the shoulders and turns you to face him, "I should fucking break that jaw." 

He claws at your shirt and rips it up your body. You flinch with the force of his rude undressing. You squeak as he untangles your tee then shoves down your sweats, nearly taking your undies with them. He snaps the elastic with his index. 

"Everything, baby girl," he demands and glares at you, crossing his arms. His cheek twitches and his jaw squares. Without the lip fur he might be decent. 

You wiggle free of your pants and step out of them, then your panties. Your bra gives you some trouble as one of the hooks is bent. As you stand naked out in the summer breeze you feel strangle calm. It's kind of freeing. 

You look at him and find him eyeing you up and down; that's a little more oppressive. You make a face. "Shoes off or..." 

"Everything. Fuck, you gotta ruin it with that mouth," he barks and turns to strut through the door, "...drive me fucking insane...for what...pussy?" 

You stare after him and exhale, stepping over the threshold. A lot has happened and you still haven't got your head around it all. Maybe it's better that way.

[misguidedasgardian]

I would like you to write a fic with Dark! Cregan Stark x reader

😏

Dark you mean... like this...?

Price of War 

part 2!

Dark!Cregan x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: You are send to the North to rally Cregan Stark to your side, 

Warnings: cursing, misogyny, medieval setting, war, usurpation, smut, loss of virginity, a bit of blood, dub-con (reader feels pressured), coercion, hints of a threesome (mfm), breeding kink, breeding, might miss some warnings 

“your sister will go North!”, said Otto, talking to Aegon and Aemond, Alicent just shook her head

“No, she is the girl, she will not travel the longest distance, it makes no sense!”, Otto just looked at his daughter

“Exactly, she is the girl, Cregan Stark will only answer to soft and innocent words”, he continued. Alicent then looked more scared than before

“You want her to whore herself to that pagan?”, she whined, her mouth twisted downwards 

“If she must”, he said dismissively, Aegon only smiled wickedly, Aemond looked to the floor in front of him, grabbing his hands behind him tightly, controlling himself 

“No…”

“I must go”, the four of them turned to the girl that just entered the chamber, silent like a little mouse, “Grandfather is right, if a marriage alliance will grant us the North, I must try”

“No”, whined Alicent

“Sush mother”, said Aegon, and that surprised even Aemond, “if our little sister wants some northerner cock who are we to stand in her way?”

“You will respect your sister!”, grunted Otto, Alicent just whined, covering her mouth in a horrified glance

“i will offer my hand in marriage, for after the war”, she muttered, with a hopeful smile, trying to ignore her brother, and she looked at her twin, Aemond, she wanted him to be proud of her, “and then I will come back, sooner rather than later, to protect the capital from the blacks”

“Oh my sweet”, Alicent grabbed her daughter and hugged her tightly, caressing her silver hair 

“I’ll be back soon mother”, she offered, and with no time to waste, she grabbed the letter her grandfather had written, and went to get dressed.

She wore the thickest riding gear he had, if it gets cold up there in the skies, the skies of the North would be even colder

She braided her own hair in a single braid

She wanted to do this, she wanted to make her family proud of her, she had to show determination, she had to protect her family, so with a hopeful smile, the kingsguard escorted her to the pit

Aemond wanted to speak to her, but she wouldn’t let her, she would lose her determination if she heard the soft words of her brother, besides, he was supposed to be betrothed also, she couldn’t take the same liberties, not that something ever happened…

Her dragon was waiting for her, happily, it was the only dragon that hatched for her or her siblings, so it was small, like Vermax, Jacaerys’ dragon.

She took to the skies quickly, she wanted to go and come back as soon as she could

She had heard stories about Cregan Stark, that he was young, and honorable, and as a Stark, he was joust and kept his word

He was going to support the King, your brother, or at least that is what you wanted to believe

You smiled hopefully

It took you two days to reach the capital of the North, and you knew when you got there because it was magnificent

It was a huge castle that looked like it had been there for a thousand years, and was going to be there far after you are gone as well.

The snowy mountains, the frozen lakes

It was beautiful 

Your dragon landed heavily on the snow, and when you touched the snowy ground, you heard another growl, you looked up to thee your nephew’s green beast, growling and snapping. Your dragoness growled back. You let them smell and growl at each other, without a rider to command them, they wouldn’t attack

 You were received by a soldier who after hearing your introductions, guided you inside the huge fortress, unimpressed and weary. The castle was huge, but you had no time to look at it, as you followed the men with fast feet. They led you to the great hall, it was filled with people, lords and ladies, but there, in the center of it all, you couldn’t miss him, stood a twenty five years old Cregan Stark.

“Princess (Y/N) of House Targaryen, daughter to the dowager Queen Alicent HIghtower”, and sister to the new King, you thought.

Everything went quiet, and all of them them walked away from you, to give you a huge space, for now there was nothing between you and the guardian of the North 

“Lord Stark”, he was an impressive man, dressed in wolf furs, his face serious to be so young, his eyes a piercing blue, his hair a dark brown, a strong beard on his chin and jaw

“Princes”, immediately you saw Jace, standing a few feet away from the Lord

“Jacaerys”, you greeted, and you wanted to smile, you liked Jace, but unfortunately, now you were enemies, he looked at you with a mean frown, you tried to clear your throat, your eyes to the ones of the big Wolf, sitting on the Northerner throne

“My Lord”, you said, “I bring word from my brother, the King”

“The King?”, he asked, Jace smirked, “forgive me, princess, because I believed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen was supposed to sit the Iron Throne after her father, King Viserys”, he said, you paled, you got here too late, but still, he stood up from his throne and walked towards you, taking the scroll from your hand, he read it hastily, not before giving you a last heavy look, to then turn to the paper 

“I see” he whispered, looking back at you, he then looked at Jace, “my allegiance and my swords, for you”, he said smirking

You don’t know how long Jace had been in here, you guessed it couldn’t be that long, but the way that they looked at each other, it seemed like they had formed some sort of friendship, that they were in an alliance together, leaving you out in the cold

It was too late 

“Why would I support your brother’s claim?”, he asked then, sitting himself again, “My father sworn allegiance to the Queen, and you must know, Stark’s words mean something”, he said, “unlike the words of Hightowers and Lannisters”, you swallow thickly, but you couldn’t rid of the knot in your throat 

“The Queen was there, in the last moments with the king…”, you said, unconvinced, “she heard him muster his last words, that he desired Aegon to seat the Iron Throne after him”

“Lies”, said Jace

“So the only one there, to testify, is your mother”, he said, unimpressed, it sounded bad, it did, very convenient, but you knew your mother, and she wouldn’t lie with something like that… she wouldn’t, she was to good, too pius, you heard the lords and ladies snickering

You felt his deep gaze on you

It was true what they said, you believed, the Starks were more wolf than men, he looked like he wanted to eat you, you felt a lightning bolt traveling down your back, you started playing with your fingers, you were so cold and nervous 

You missed the way Jacaerys and Cregan smirked at each other 

“Clear the room, leave us”, commanded Cregan, and in seconds, the rooms as empty, even Jacaerys had left, only then you dared to look up at him

“Say it again”, he demanded, “why would I accept your brother’s claim?”, he asked

“He is the King’s first born son”, it was a justification, but it sounded like a question. He stood up front he throne, making you jump, he walked slowly, circling you, like a hunter

“They offered you up to the wolf uh?”, he asked

“Yes”, you said shakily, feeling his hot breath in the back of your neck 

“Show me how much you are willing to give for me to support your brother”, he whispered huskily

“What?”, you asked, looking at him, “I don’t understand”, he grabbed you by the hips and draw you back to him, now your back was to his chest, his mouth lingered over the side of your face 

“I am in need of a wife”, he purred, you felt like your heart beating so strong you believed he could hear it 

“But… would you support my brother?”, you asked, so nervous, you knew this was wrong, but you had to do something, or else, you would lost the North

“You’ll have to earn it…”

“How?”, you asked, when his big hand traveled from your hip, to your belly to one of your breasts, making you whimper

You whimpered, hiding your moans on the sheets underneath, but Cregan grabbed your by the hair roughly and made you crane your neck back

“I want to hear you”, he growled, pounding into you, over and over, “as I breed you”

“You already did”, you whined grabbing onto the sheet

This was wrong

You were not married 

And yet Cregan was cumming inside of you yet again, the dirty, squelching noises resounded over the room, your cunt, creamy and weeping, dripping the Stark’s seed, and yet he didn’t tired, you had been at it for hours

It hurt

Not much as it did when it started, when he took you for the first time, making you bleed, stealing your maidenhead, but now you were sore and tired, he hadn't stop 

“Cregan please”, you whined, you reached back, managed to grab his side, “I’m so full, I’m tired and sore”, you cried

But it felt so so good

“I have to teach you a lesson”, he growled, grabbing you greedily, he had you face down on the bed, your thighs bend, giving him complete access to you, “coming here, thinking a Stark’s word is feeble and weak, that we forget”, you cried out, his big cock reached a spot inside of you that made your eyes roll to the back of your head, “The North remembers little one, you are traitors and usurpers”

“I-I’m sorry”, you babbled, your thoughts, because of the pleasure, melted in a cloud, “I didn't mean it”

“You only wanted this, didn’t you? whoring yourself, searching for a real man for a husband”

“Mmm”

“Answer me little dragon”, he whispered teasingly, his hot open mouth in your cheek, you felt his teeth teasing your skin, threatening to bite you

“Yes”, you said barely

“I will marry you, you will stay here with your dragon like the good lady wife you are”, he growled, “they won’t take you back, with my seed dripping down your thighs, you will marry me won’t you? you will give me many children?”

“Yes”, you accepted your fate, closing your eyes and feeling his thick, fat cock pumping you full of his cum again, it felt so good

He was finally over, after hours and hours, he dropped himself to the bed right next to you, he grabbed you a bit rough, but accommodate you by his side

His fingers caressed your shoulder, then your back, then your bump, and then

You whined pitifully when you felt his thick fingers entering your creamy pussy, his seed mixed with your cum…

“So full of me, so good”, he purred, “You will stay here and bear children won’t you?”, he continued, “you have to eliminate from your pretty little head thoughts about war and alliances, the only thing in your mind from now on will be to take care of my child, and bare me more, is that understood?”, you nodded, “you are usurpers and traitors, so you will have to work hard for us to forgive you, won’t you?”, you looked at him even is it was a question he wasn’t really asking, you barely nodded, as his finger continued to play with you, “answer me little dragon”

“Yes Cregan”

“My lord, I’m your lord now”

“Yes My Lord” 

Then the door of his chambers opened, you jumped trying to cover your nakedness, but Cregan prevented you

Jace entered the room, with a wide smile on his face

“Our dragons are mating, isn’t that appropriate?”, he teased

“Jace?” you looked back at Cregan who was smirking, “what are you doing here?”

“Your family usurped my mother’s throne, I think you have to make us up for it”, he teased. YOu whimpered, looking at him wide eyed 

You watched the Northerner army march south, from the Lord of Winterfell’s rooms, against your family, you were so worried tears welled in your eyes, as you touched your five moons old baby bump

More notes: Well, technically he didn’t promise her anything hehe, I don’t know if it was THAT dark, but even though we haven’t met Cregan yet, I can’t picture him being cruel and very dark with a lady… anyways… hope you liked it noonie! ❤️

[goddessofmischief]

can i request anything mihawk related and him pining after y/n

       —   I CAN SEE YOU (YOUNG MIHAWK X READER)

A/N: this is part of this series, which requests are open for! These fics are all one-shots, so they can be read separately.

He'd been thinking about you a lot lately.

You, the pretty girl who sailed with the Roger Pirates and made port in the same towns he did from time to time. You, who seemed to always be flanked by the boy with the red nose and the other boy with the red hair.

You. You. You.

You were clever - he noticed that at once - you had to be, to hold your own with so many men stronger and older than you, and he watched as you navigated through one dangerous situation after another, always escaping unscathed. The other boys tried to help, of course, but you didn't need them at all. Mihawk noticed that, too.

He liked the sort of clothes you wore - usually a bit oversized, which made sense, so you didn't have to buy new ones every time you grew, an unfortunate practicality for anyone growing up at sea - and often velvet, or satin, or with embroidered patterns, and usually in dark shades of olive, maroon or black. Sometimes cotton dresses of the palest ivory, which he also liked.

Mihawk had made a habit of always noticing the appearance of others, and judged them quite harshly on it - not their looks or dimensions or things they could not change, but how well they presented themselves. Living the way he did, the way you did, did not lend itself to luxury or composure or cleanliness, so he noticed whenever anyone paid special attention to how they looked.

You did. He never caught you without loosely wound curls, brushed out, or loose buns, or intricate braids that he sometimes heard the red-haired pirate protesting at doing for you. Mihawk noticed all of these things because they were things he liked about himself, and he liked them about you, too.

But even after all this liking and appreciating, which had gone on for many months now, he could never have the strength to talk to you. It wasn't for his own insecurity, although Mihawk was a good deal less boastful and more shy than most of the pirates his age, but more for fear of what he might say when he actually spoke to you for the first time. He had never struck out with girls before, but that was mostly for lack of trying. They found him, most of the time, and either liked his Hawk-Eyes or they didn't.

It was on one of those days, where Mihawk had made port at a small island and was sipping on a flute of wine at a small bar, that he found himself gazing at you again. You'd just stumbled off Roger's ship, and seemed in awe of your surroundings. Your friends already held drinks far too big for them and had wandered off, staring at the skyline, but you were clearly unsure of what to get. Mihawk watched as your fingernail dragged against a small menu, tracing every option, hesitating around the ones with dried flowers in them. You liked dried flowers, evidently, and he would remember that.

The thought crossed his mind that he might go get a drink for you, and perhaps begin some sort of conversation-

No. No. Stupid.

You could get your own drink.

And you were about to, it seemed, when a rather terrifying-looking mercenary pressed a blade to your back. Mihawk immediately reached for his own, which he had fondly nicknamed 'Yoru,' and had not yet seen much action.

"How'd you find me?" you said, voice trembling.

"Followed you," said the mercenary. "You owe us. We know you only gave us half of what you found when you raided that vault."

"That's not true," you said, and Mihawk felt you were telling the truth, although he may have been biased. "It just wasn't as much as you thought it would be-"

The mercenary forced his blade closer, and Mihawk decided he couldn't allow this to go on for one more second. Moving quietly, he removed Yoru from his scabbard, and drew the blade against the mercenary's neck.

"Move aside," said Mihawk, trying to make his voice more steady than it felt.

The mercenary stared him down.

"Who are you?"

"Dracule Mihawk," he said. "And I'd like you to step away."

"I refuse."

What happened next was completely uncalled for and also fated. Mihawk simply moved the sword very quickly to the side, and the mercenary fell, and that was the end of it.

It was not the first blood Dracule Mihawk had ever spilled. It was, however, the first blood he had spilled with this particular sword.

This sword, which would live on in infamy long after he was gone, this sword, which would become synonymous with not only his name, but swordsmanship itself.

First blood, this sword, and it had all been over you.

History would forget.

...But you would remember.

[bimobuddy]

Storms

Hazbin TK fic

Writing this because there's currently a storm going on that's not supposed to end until 7 pm, and I'm not doing well :)

Lee!Alastor, Ler!Lucifer

Alastor might be ooc

CW: Fear of storms?? Anxiety

Summary: Hell gets a really bad storm, and Alastor isn't as composed as he normally is. When Lucifer finds out the reason why, he decides to put their rivalry aside and help him out.

BOOM

Alastor gripped his cane tightly in his hands, his permanent grin slightly more strained than usual. Wordlessly, he stood up from his seat and made an excuse to Charlie about needing to finish up some scripting for his next broadcast.

He turned and left the lobby, his shoes clicking as he walked down the hall.

CRAAACK!!

His breath caught in his throat as he picked up the pace a little, his ears starting to fold back.

"Heeey, Bambi!" Lucifer called, appearing in front of him. Oblivious to the Radio Demon's distress, he grinned, ready to harass him. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Alastor gripped his cane so hard he thought he was about to snap it. "Not that it's any of your business, your highness, but I'm heading back to my room." He replied, trying to mask his fear behind his usual smile and sass.

As thunder sounded again, softer this time, more of a rolling sound, Lucifer picked up on Alastor's anxious demeanor. His tail flicked, and his ears were pinned back a little.

The king chuckled, "Oh come on, don't tell me you of all demons are scared of a little-"

BOOOM!!

Lucifer blinked and looked around. Had Alastor disappeared? The light sound of microphone feedback caught his attention, and he turned to see that Alastor hadn't disappeared into shadow, but instead dropped to the floor and hidden under a table in the hall.

Alastor's ears were fully pinned back as he shook and pressed himself back against the wall.

Sensing this was something deeper, Lucifer kneeled down to be eye level with him. "Hey," he started, speaking softly, the same way he had to Charlie when she was a child and scared of the dark, "You're okay, Al. This hotel was built with angelic power, the storm isn't going to break in."

Alastor, eyes wide still, looked up at the king. When Lucifer took a chance and reached a hand out, he was surprised when Alastor took it.

"When I was a child," the demon started, his voice losing its radio filter, "a really bad tornado hit Louisiana. It devastated our town and nearly destroyed my home. I was in the cellar with my mother for hours until we were found."

Lucifer's eyes widened a little bit, as he felt his heart break for the demon. He gave Alastor's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You know, Charlie used to be afraid of storms too-"

Alastor forced a short laugh. "Wonderful, I'm behaving like a child." He pulled his hand away, and climbed out from under the table, feeling embarrassed for having acted like that in front of his rival. As another boom of thunder sounded, Alastor froze and gripped the table so hard, the wood started to crack and splinter.

Lucifer summoned his wings and wrapped one side around Alastor. "Let me walk you to your room-" Alastor shook his head. "My room is modeled to look like the swamps of Louisiana, I can't-... I can't stay in there during a storm."

"Alright then... My room, come on." He turned and started to guide Alastor in the opposite direction. He folded his wings in and de-summoned them, as to let Alastor retain his dignity when they passed by the lobby again.

As he was being guided, Alastor didn't once argue or complain, much to the surprise of Lucifer. He actually stayed rather close to the king, ears down, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

When they reached Lucifer's room, there was a flash of lightning, causing Alastor to rush in quickly. Seeing Alastor break character so much was very odd and concerning to the king. For as long as he had known the demon, Alastor had the attitude of someone who was untouchable. And now here he was, shaking, and bleating like a scared fawn.

He sighed, feeling bad for him. He remembered when Charlie would come running into his room scared, during a storm. Back then, he would have scooped her up into his lap, and they would have counted the seconds between the flashes of lightning and the cracking of thunder. And when that didn't work, he'd- Oh there's an idea.

"Alastor?" He started, taking his hat off and setting aside. "You wanna know what I used to do with Charlie when she was scared of storms?" He asked with a smile.

The Radio Demon turned to face him. He was still holding onto that smile, but his eyes showed just how distressed he was. He tilted his head.

Lucifer waved him over, sitting down. "I'll show you, sit down." Alastor approached and sat next to him, willing to try anything at this point to calm his nerves. He set his cane aside and let out a surprised fawn squeak when the king just opened his coat. He was obviously wearing a shirt underneath, but he hadn't expected for Lucifer to touch him.

"It was a little game we'd play. You ready?" Before Alastor could question it, he saw another flash of lighting that made him jump. That was Lucifer's cue to start.

He reached forward and started to scritch his claws against Alastor's sides, up and down. The demon let out a startled yelp, and at first Lucifer thought maybe this was a bad idea. But when the host started to chuckle and lean into it, he smiled and continued.

As thunder rolled and boomed overhead, Lucifer slid his hands upward and spidered over his ribs. Alastor doubled over, laughing harder, yet he barely even noticed the loud noise, only able to focus on the tickling.

Playful claws zipped down and vibrated into his hips, and the radio host couldn't help but curl up and fall onto his side, tail wagging. He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed louder, his own hands shooting down to grab Lucifer's, yet he didn't push him away, seeming to be more than okay with this distraction.

The king gave his hips a break and reached up to gently scritch behind his ears. He couldn't stop the fond smile that painted itself across his face once Alastor's loud laughter melted away into staticky giggles.

Lucifer summoned his wings back and again, and wrapped them around Alastor, pressing them against his back. Alastor normally hated touch, but he welcomed this. It was warm, and the gentle, constant pressure against his back was helping with his anxiety, a lot actually.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Lucifer plucking one of his own feathers. His cheeks warmed and his ears folded back, but he didn't attempt to escape. He just squeezed his eyes shut again, and allowed the angel to flutter it under his chin.

Alastor burst into surprised giggles, shocked at just how ticklish it was. It definitely didn't feel like a normal feather, it was worse.

Lucifer chuckled, "Yeah, angels feathers, they're much more intense than birds." He saw the window flash, and brought the feather down to Alastor's tummy, pushing his shirt up. Right when the thunder started, he started to flick and flutter the feather against his skin, grinning to himself when Alastor jumped and curled up, laughing, gently batting at the king.

Yet he didn't even notice the storm outside.

[samsalami66]

Red Card Plays

Another day, another dreamling soccer au fic! Have fun reading!

Read on ao3 here!

(TW: Homophobia, Abuse, Panic Attacks)

“You’re here early.” 

Morpheus didn’t look up at the sound of Hob’s voice, too used to it by now to be startled out of his warm-up. He took a deep breath so he might answer the unspoken question which Hob asked almost every time when he found him on the pitch way before training started.

“Yes I… I wanted to get some extra training in.” It was an easy lie, almost coming naturally with how many times he had already said it. “You are early as well.”

Hob nodded as he sat down next to him, mirroring his position. 

“Oh yeah, it makes Gilbert happy when I show up early from time to time, to straighten my bad track record.” 

This, too, was familiar. Finding pretty words in order not to outright name the punishment at hand, make light of the situation one found themselves in. It was only a matter of time until Morpheus would find himself subjected to the darker side the Fiddlers surely possessed, or be faced with it through one of the other players. 

Though he hoped it would not have to be Hob, when it came to it. Morpheus had rather started to enjoy the other man’s calming presence. 

“I understand. Say, what would Gilbert do if he was unhappy with a player’s performance?” Morpheus would want to know what to expect sooner rather than later, to get an understanding of what Gilbert’s chosen ways of training were. That way he might prepare accordingly. 

“What would he do?” Hob was frowning at him, his arms crossing over his chest. “You mean outside of talking to you?”

Now, Morpheus was frowning too. Surely Hob understood that he could talk about this freely. They were teammates now after all, and perhaps even on the way of becoming something like friends. “I mean… extra training, punishments, or whatever you call it here.”

The stare Hob gave him was bordering on worry. “Dream” he started, slowly. “What did Roderick do, when he was unhappy with your performance?”

Weird question, but alright.

“The usual?” When Hob just kept staring at him, Morpheus continued with a roll of his eyes. “Running until collapsing, no water for the day, sometimes he got out the cane.”

Hob’s stare turned dark at his words, his jaw tensed and he took a deep breath. 

“Burgess abused you?”

“What? No!” It was Morpheus’ turn to frown again. “No, those were just training methods, to keep us on track. How else would you ensure people keep up with it?”

“Enthusiasm? Loyalty? Adjusting the training to the players? Motivate them?”

“What motivates a player better than the fear of punishment?”

Morpheus was growing frustrated. There was no reason for Hob to be so stubborn about admitting to this. 

“Anything, Dream, literally anything else would be more motivating for a player. You left the Riggers the moment Burgess bit the dust, didn’t you?”

That. Well, that was true. But Morpheus hadn’t left the team because of that, it was just that he couldn’t stand to play there when Roderick was gone. His ghost had been everywhere, his voice constantly at the back of his mind, telling him he was doing it all wrong, that he was a burden for the team, that only he could make him worth something as a player. That was why he had left.

“Dream, love, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Of course he could, there was nothing wrong with him, after all. Any player Morpheus had ever talked to (which, admittedly, were just his old teammates. They hadn’t been allowed friendship or anything similar outside of their team) experienced the same treatment and knew about these training methods, accepted them as effective, even. So of course he could look at Hob. He could even hold his gaze, even if the worry in his teammate’s eyes made his stomach clench with a feeling he could not place. 

“Nobody is going to hurt you here. Nobody, Dream,” Hob’s eyes held a seriousness Morpheus simply couldn’t understand, that did not make sense. 

“But Roderick didn’t hurt me. He disciplined me, he, he motivated me and pushed me to be better, to be the best version of myself.”

His voice was loud. Morpheus did not remember raising it, nor did he know why tears were gathering in his eyes or why he felt the need to hug his knees to his chest like a toddler. He was not some child after all, and there was no reason for this. 

“Oh, love,” It was so soft, so filled with care, and Morpheus felt the tears spill over. Arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, so that all he could feel was Hob’s warmth surrounding him as he cried. Though what for, he still wasn’t sure. 

- - - 

“How are we feeling?” 

We. It implied a shared feeling, as if emotions could be experienced conjointly. Perhaps Hob Gadling really did share worry, fear and joy with those around him. Empathetic, in a way Morpheus failed to fully understand. 

He was grateful for it now. 

Now, they were sitting, together, in Hob’s car, waiting for him to be ready to step outside and begin therapy. He was not alone. Hob was here, with him. Holding his hand. Patient, caring. Morpheus was not sure that he deserved this care, this love. Which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he was sitting here. Or at least Hob had informed him that such thoughts were deemed ‘unhealthy’. 

Morpheus could not remember a time where he had felt worthy of love. Or a time where he had been loved, the way Hob explained love was supposed to be. Unconditional. 

There had always been conditions. His mother had loved him when he did her bidding, his father when he kept quiet. Epithumia had loved him when he left their home. 

Hob said he loved Morpheus for himself, for his friendship and his character. Morpheus did not quite believe him, but perhaps he would, in time. 

So, how was he feeling?

“I am. Afraid. Of talking to this person. But I also wish to. To learn. I wish to become a better friend.” 

It was what they were, now. Friends. A baffling concept to Morpheus, that a person so caring could expand their care to him of all people. But he did. And Morpheus was thankful for it. 

Hob grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly, the action grounding him.

“Being afraid of this is the most natural thing, love. I was so nauseous the first time I came here I almost turned around and went back home.” It didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, and Morpheus said so. Hob squeezed his hand again with a soft smile. “If you really don’t want to go, we can turn around and reschedule. We will do this in your time, however long it takes.”

“You would leave, now? When we are already here? When all I have to do is step out of your car and into the building?” It would be an inconvenience. It would mean doing it all over again, driving into the city and spending hours in his presence. Things nobody would want to do, not voluntarily. 

“Of course I would, Dream. These things can’t be rushed. If you aren’t ready, it doesn’t need to happen today.”

Morpheus nodded, once, before taking a deep breath. Hob was not like the people he had known so far. He knew this. 

“You will be here?”

“Awaiting your return, my friend.”

Another deep breath, another nod, and Morpheus pushed the door of the car open and made his way inside, knowing that Hob would be there. Just like he promised. 

- - - 

An hour later, almost on the dot, Morpheus stepped back out of the building, feeling like a single touch might break him apart. Hob had tried to warn him that there would be a lot of feelings he wouldn’t understand, and wouldn't be able to place. Never had Morpheus felt so out of his depth, like his skin didn’t fit quite right anymore and his mind was not his own. 

But that was alright. Because Hob was there. Waiting, just as he had promised. Even if Morpheus didn’t feel like he knew himself anymore, Hob was waiting, patient, just like he always was.

Morpheus wanted to hug him, to be held, so he wouldn’t feel like he might shatter apart anymore. But at the same time touch felt impossible, the very idea made his skin crawl like a hundred ants were trapped in his veins. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he did not do anything, except open the passenger side to Hob’s car. 

And there, on his seat, was a… a toy. A plushie. A fox-plushie, to be exact, large red ears with black tips, a very fluffy tail and black button eyes. It was… cute. It looked like something his younger self would have loved to own, something he would have paraded around as his favourite possession.  

“A little surprise, for being brave enough to walk in there,” said Hob, his voice soft as he leaned towards the other seat so Morpheus could see him. He was smiling, pride clear in his eyes, and Morpheus could feel himself blush. It had been a long time since someone had last told him they were proud of him, longer still since he had been given a gift for doing something right. He must have been silent for a moment too long, missing the time it was socially acceptable to answer, because Hob was looking at him apologetically and reached for the plushie. “Sorry, I thought it was a good idea, but it’s childish, really, you don’t have to-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Morpheus snatched the fox away from him and held it close to his chest, suddenly protective over the toy. 

“A gift from my only friend could never be childish, Robert.” Morpheus huffed, his eyes narrowed playfully at the other man. Teasing was still unfamiliar to him, but he believed himself to be finally getting the hang of it. “Also, don’t disrespect Gerhard the Great like that. He detests being called a children’s toy.”

His teasing must have worked, as Hob barked out a laugh at the name he had given the fox, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare! Gerhard the Great deserves all the respect I can offer. As do you, my friend.”

When Hob said ‘friend’, it sounded like a lot of things. ‘My king’, ‘My Lord’, ‘My Love’. It was never just one thing. Friend, for this man, meant everything. Morpheus doubted that Hob would stop calling his partner his friend, or that he could ever have a partner who was not also his friend. It was a weird thing to know so early on in their acquaintance, but Hob was an open book about these things. 

Hob’s openness calmed Morpheus, made it easy to trust him. And so far, his trust had only been well-placed. The fox in his arms was just another reminder of the great man Hob Gadling was. He wouldn’t judge or harm him. The only thing Hob knew to do was to care and protect. 

He had cared enough to know Morpheus would feel difficult about touch. And he had cared enough to think further, to find a solution Morpheus would have never thought of himself. 

And so, Morpheus slid easily into the passenger seat, with Gerhard the Great resting safely on his lap and one hand playing with his ears. 

“Could I tell you what I talked about with Lydia, in the past hour?”

“Of course! Whatever you want to talk about, my friend, I’m happy to listen.”

- - - 

Autism and ADHD had not been the diagnoses Morpheus had expected to get first, considering all the problems he had come to realise he had. But, as it was, Lydia had handed him books on both topics only about a month after he started therapy, and the more he read about the disorders, the more he began to see why they hadn’t been particularly hard diagnoses to make. Perhaps the fact that he was never able to stop playing around with the tissue boxes that were strategically placed around the room had been a sign. Or that he had to cover his ears from the sound of the fan and had been seconds away from what Lydia had called a ‘meltdown’, because the sound had felt like someone was scraping his brain with sandpaper. 

Perhaps, if Morpheus had had access to these books earlier, he would have noticed that he was different a lot sooner. He understood now that arguments with his old teammates had often sprouted from misunderstandings and an inability on his side to communicate his problems. Though they hadn’t been the best human beings either, so they probably wouldn’t have listened to him about his problems anyway. 

But Lydia said that he would have to try it with the Fiddlers in order to know if they were the same. Morpheus didn’t know why anyone would want to accommodate his problems, especially when he could simply push through them and pretend nothing was wrong, like he had done his whole life. Unhealthy, Lydia would chide him. He began to understand where Hob got that word from. 

He, too, said a similar thing after all, when Morpheus told him about that week’s session. It’s unhealthy to go about your whole life masking, he had said. Morpheus hadn’t known what ‘masking’ was supposed to be at that point, but he had nodded along like he understood. Whenever something is making you feel uncomfortable, just tell us, yeah? Promise we will try to help. And that had been it. 

Honestly, Hob hadn’t seemed particularly surprised about the diagnoses either. Perhaps Morpheus hadn’t been doing as well at hiding his problems as he had previously thought. 

But even with Hob’s reassurance and the fact that nothing between them or the team seemed to change after the diagnoses, it still took Morpheus another month to voice a matter of discomfort to them. Old habits die hard, after all. 

It was a Saturday and the team was getting ready for Drink Night, as was customary for them. Morpheus had been staying at Hob’s place, as he often did these days. They would watch movies or prepare dinner together on Friday nights. It was a comfortable routine, especially when Drink Night was always held at the New Inn and they simply had to walk down a flight of stairs to get there. They had their corner booth reserved every week, the bartender and waiters knew them all by name and were close friends of Hob’s, who was also the owner of the pub. If it ever became too crowded or loud for him, Morpheus would simply excuse himself to Hob’s flat. 

It was a comfortable routine. One Morpheus was not very inclined to break. 

But this Saturday, the team wanted to celebrate the opening of a new place around town. It was so new, there were no reviews or pictures online. No menu. It would be on the other side of London, far away from any of their homes, and they might have to stand in a queue in order to get in, if they would even get in all together. 

Morpheus was… slightly uncomfortable at the idea. 

“You look like your spine might snap with how tense you are.” Well, perhaps it was more than slight discomfort. Or Hob was simply getting too perceptive. Either way, he has been called out and was not feeling particularly great about it. 

“I’m fine.” He tried to deflect, but Hob was having none of it. His hands came up to massage Morpheus’ shoulders, turning him into jelly with his strong fingers digging into Morpheus’ tense muscles. 

“I can see that you’re not. Tell me what’s up so we can find a way to fix it.” 

Hob made it sound so easy. As if Morpheus just had to say the word and he would make it happen, no matter what the request was. Perhaps he would. 

Morpheus realised he wanted to find out. 

“I do not wish to go to another pub today.” He answered quietly, eyes closed and focusing on Hob’s touch, grounding him. “I fear getting… overstimulated by the surroundings and unknown parameters and not having a place to withdraw to. And I… I enjoy spending time at The New Inn.” It was a slow explanation, halting and awkward, for Morpheus was still unused to voicing his feelings in this manner. But it was easier with Hob at his back, and the knowledge that he would never be judged by this man. When he finished his explanation, the hands on his shoulders disappeared so that arms could circle around his waist and pull him into a hug. Hob was warm and solid behind him, and Morpheus felt safe like this, safe to voice any and all of his concerns. 

“Thank you for telling me, Dream. I’m so proud of you.” Warmth he wasn’t quite certain he deserved to feel swelled in Morpheus’ chest at the words, at the knowledge of having made his friend proud. “Let’s text the others to meet us here instead, yeah?”

Telling the other team members felt scarier than telling Hob, but Morpheus thought he could do anything with Hob holding him close like this. 

“Very well.” He murmured, and Hob’s arms left his body in search of his phone. Morpheus knew it was in the bathroom, where Hob had been shaving a few minutes prior and upon telling him so, he received a kiss to the cheek from his friend. 

“What would I do without you?”

It was a good question, though Morpheus felt he should be the one asking it. He answered nonetheless, but really it was more for himself than Hob. 

“I don’t know, Hob. I don’t know what I would do.”

- - - 

As the beginning of the season approached, Morpheus began to talk more with Lydia about how this time was different from how it had been at Fawney Rig. 

The overall mood of the Fiddlers did not change much as the first match drew nearer. They were growing excited, more active at training, but not really stressed or anxious. The daily talks with Gilbert seemed to help them a lot, hearing that he believed in them to play a fantastic season and could see they were coming together well as a team. 

In contrast to that, Morpheus remembered nothing but fear around the same time last year. The Riggers had been agitated, frightened of the threats Roderick would throw their way the moment he laid eyes on them. They had known that a lost match would mean punishment, that they would have to double their efforts in training and halve their hours of sleep for the weeks to come in order to placate their coach. And even then, they would get the cane. 

Apparently, a safer environment did not immediately erase years of abuse (and wasn’t it a weird thing to finally accept Roderick’s behaviour for what it had been). 

But it helped, to be able to talk about his fears with Lydia, and, later, with Hob. They had even convinced him to talk to Gilbert about it, who had pulled him into a tight hug after his explanation. On all accounts, the team and Lydia were doing their absolute best to reassure Morpheus that failure was alright and that it would not end in punishment or disappointment. Nobody would think less of him if they lost. 

And yet, when the first match approached, Morpheus found himself pacing the locker rooms, his hands shaking and mind racing. He couldn’t lose this match. It was not only the first of the season, but his first as a player for the Fiddlers, his first chance to prove himself as valuable to the team. 

What would happen if he fucked this up? What would the others think of him if he couldn’t manage to win their first game? Would Gilbert think his trust had been misplaced? That he hadn’t been worth the money of the transfer? 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice called, and unlike usual, it brought forth fear instead of warmth (which only made Morpheus feel worse, for Hob did not deserve to be feared). “Are you coming? We’re about to go on the pitch.”

He wanted to say no, that he was about to throw up or scream or pull out his own hair with how afraid he was. But there was no time left, the point of saying something long past, and so Morpheus simply nodded and followed his friend. 

Hob was perceptive as always, throwing him worried glances as they stood in line in front of the stairs to the pitch. The others were talking animatedly to the opposing team, cracking jokes and wishing them luck, but Morpheus couldn’t help but keep to himself and hide slightly behind Hob from the cameras. The public didn’t need to see just how nervous he was. Thankfully, Hob picked up on it quickly and moved to fully shield him from their view, taking one of his hands into his own and squeezing it tightly. 

“You will do just fine, Dream. I know you will.” It was a whisper, only meant for Morpheus’ ears. 

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you have given your best and will try again next time.”

Morpheus huffed, disbelieving. “I do not believe that that would be the end of it.” 

It looked like Hob was about to respond, but he was interrupted by the announcement that the players would now enter the pitch. The time for talking was over. 

For the most part, the match went alright. Hob shot an early goal, grinning wide as the crowd erupted into cheers. He bowed and threw them kisses, as was his custom, and Morpheus now understood that there was no arrogance behind that celebration, but genuine love and adoration for his fans. He had never understood it, because the Riggers’ fans had been similarly horrible to the players. They had always hated him, but it got worse after Roderick told the world about his sexuality. After that he would have food and sometimes flares thrown at him from the stands, booing from the crowd whenever he shot a goal. Morpheus couldn’t remember a single time fans cheered for him. 

Perhaps if he proved himself with the Fiddlers, the fans would start tolerating him, cheering for him. 

But for that, Morpheus had to score. 

He tried everything, every single trick up his sleeve, but the ball never found its goal. The goalkeeper was good, too good, and with every goal Morpheus failed to score his desperation grew. This was not how it usually went. He was better than this, he was so much better. But it seemed like he wasn’t good enough to win them this match. 

Ten minutes before the end, the opposing team scored the equaliser. 

Five minutes later and they were leading. 

There was nothing Morpheus could do anymore. His last shot went sailing over the goal, a pathetic attempt overall. And then it was over. The referee announced the end of the match, and everything came crashing down. 

He was breathing too quickly, too shallow. They lost. The first game of the season, his first game for the team, and they lost. 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice was close, and so soft, but Morpheus couldn’t help flinching at the sound of it. Surely not even Hob was a good enough man to look past his miserable performance today, he would be angry or disappointed, would blame him and- and punish him- “Dream, love, please look at me. Everything will be alright, just look at me, yeah?”

He couldn’t ignore Hob. Not even when he was afraid the other man would hurt him could he deny him a request, and so he lifted his eyes to look at his friend (and in this moment, friend meant so many things. It meant ‘knight’ and ‘protector’ and ‘sun’ and ‘hope’. It meant everything). 

Hob looked sad. Worried. Morpheus wanted to take him into his arms, hold him close, but before he could say so, Hob had already pulled him in. He was too warm and smelled of sweat, but it was still Hob’s smell, Hob’s warmth, and so it was nothing but comfort to Morpheus. 

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay that we lost.” There was no stopping the tears once they started, the fear and stress crashing down on him with Hob’s words, spoken even in the face of their loss. “You did so well. I’m proud of you, okay?” 

Morpheus didn’t understand how Hob could say these things when he had every reason to be mad at him, but he was grateful for it. Even if the rest of the team didn’t react as well as him, Morpheus felt like he would be able to stand their judgement with Hob at his side. Though it was only a matter of minutes before he felt more arms around him, hands clapping on his back and shoulders. A mix of Well done, Dreamy! and Good shit, boss! reached his ears, each member of the team coming over to congratulate him. They were all in good spirits, grinning wide, and Morpheus slowly began to relax under their steady praise, the reassurance that nobody blamed him for their loss. 

But only when a soft hand reached for his shoulder with the words You did well, son, did Morpheus relax completely, hiding his face in Hob’s neck and finally breathing normally again for the first time in weeks. 

- - - 

After that first match, Morpheus was slowly growing into his role as the second offence player. Without the fear of failure weighing on his shoulders, he was able to play in a way he had never been capable of before. He had fun. 

Of course, he had always been good at football, and he had always gained a certain form of joy from seeing his skills develop and having them acknowledged. But he had never had fun playing with others. The Riggers had tolerated him for his skill, but they hadn’t played with him. None of them had been anywhere near good enough to keep up with him, even if they had tried.

Playing with the Fiddlers was different. 

Hob was incredible, he saw the game in ways Morpheus had never before considered, offered advice and tricks and actually managed to teach him things. His technical skills were great as well, though they were not nearly as precise as Morpheus’ own, which were built from hours upon hours of non-stop training and repetition, in contrast to Hob’s quick improvisational talent. He was quick at coming up with a new move, whereas Morpheus was quick at finding the right move for the right situation. By all accounts, it should come as a surprise that the two of them managed to work so well together. But after an initial period of familiarisation, they functioned like they were made to play with each other. 

Game after game they became better, weaving through the opposing team without difficulty, communicating by a single glance. It was the most fun Morpheus had ever had playing this sport. 

The fact that they won almost every game after that first one became a certainty, inevitable with the force of nature Morpheus and Hob had become. 

And the fans of Fiddler’s Green had picked up on it immediately. By the fourth game they were screaming when Morpheus scored, and by the eighth game a song erupted in the fanblock. 

Mister Sandman, bring me a Dream! Bum Bum Bum Bum, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen!

It came as a total surprise, his nickname having apparently reached the fans, and Morpheus tried his best to hide the tears in his eyes as the people cheered at him when he waved in response. Fans were cheering at him for the first time in his career, and had even come up with a chant, all while he was having the time of his life playing for a team that supported and cared for him. 

It was as close to heaven as Morpheus thought he might get.

At least until, one game, he had to be reminded that his life was simply not like that. 

During their fourteenth match of the season, after he and Hob had scored a goal each before the break, Morpheus found himself in a one on one with one of the defenders. The man was big, bulky, and by default, slower than him. But his instincts were good, and so they were head to head for several seconds, fighting for the ball, until Morpheus gained the upper hand and was about to move past the other man. That was when he suddenly grabbed Morpheus by the shoulders and shoved him into the advertising boards, hard enough to rob him of the air in his lungs. 

Moments later, in which Morpheus was still regaining his orientation, he felt something wet hitting his face. It was… familiar, which only added to the panic he felt rising in his chest. Spitting in his face was one of Roderick’s favourite methods of degradation, whenever he had wanted to remind Morpheus of how dirty and sinful his existence was. 

“Do you think I will be outplayed by a little cocksucker?” The man was yelling, his face close enough to Morpheus’ that he could feel his breath hitting his cheek with every word. Another shove, and Morpheus was falling to the ground, his back hitting the board hard. “You won’t get away with it, little fag, because nobody here gives a shit about you. Nobody will come and help you. You’re nothing.”

Morpheus wasn’t sure when exactly the voice of the defender turned into that of Roderick, but he knew that it was his old trainer that he heard screaming at him by the end of it. Flashes of a cane were appearing at the edge of his vision, and Morpheus cowered in fear from it, trying to shield his body as much as possible and closing his eyes against it. The yelling continued, insult after insult thrown at him, all of it in the voice of a dead man. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Morpheus heard Lydia’s voice, the words PTSD and triggers and panic attack making their way through the screams and the growing sound of his own breathing, which was getting more hectic by the second. The words were closely followed by breathe and comfort and safety and a mantra of Hob Hob Hob Hob. Morpheus tried to force them past his lips, through the gasping breaths he was taking and the sobs shaking his body. Everything would be alright if Hob was there. Hob would protect him, against Roderick and Alex and everyone else, he was safety and comfort. 

Around Morpheus, the lights were suddenly dimmed. Hands gently grasped his head, covering his ears, and another sob left his lips at the relief he suddenly felt. He hadn’t noticed how overstimulated he had become, how loud the voices around him had been and how bright the lights. The hands had to be Hob’s, because no one else had ever touched him so gently, and no one else would know that light and noise might bother him. Morpheus simply had to make sure. Concentrate on the voices he could hear, the actual voices, not that of Roderick’s ghost still pestering his mind. Between the shouts of players and fans, he could finally hear it, a soft repeating of Dream Dream Dream. When his ears registered Hob’s voice, his nose was quick to follow, noticing Hob’s smell was everywhere around him. Opening his eyes was easier then, knowing that his friend was close, and so he managed to squint into the dimmed light after blinking a few times. 

What he saw then was Hob, shirtless, holding his jersey over their heads to block out light and cameras and onlookers alike, softly repeating his name over and over again. It was just them in this little bubble, and Morpheus finally felt like he could breathe again, like the air was reaching his lungs, and so he gasped desperately for air, trying to get his breathing back under control. But finding a rhythm seemed impossible, and with every second he continued to struggle he felt himself drifting back into a panic. But then arms pulled him against a strong chest, his ear pressed to bare skin, and he could feel it rise and fall beneath him. Follow the rhythm, in and out, in and out, until he was finally breathing normally again. 

“You’re doing so well, Dream. That’s it, take your time.” Morpheus knew the sound he made upon registering Hob’s words again was embarrassing and weak and pathetic, but right that moment, he did not care about it. Hearing Hob, not only his voice but his words, had become one of his greatest comforts over the months. Everything would be alright with Hob there. 

“Hob,” he managed to whisper, and when his friend only pulled him in closer he said it again and again, until hands were running up and down his back, through his hair, and Hob was pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m here, my friend. I’m here.” 

Only then did Morpheus finally feel secure enough in his breathing to move away, to look at Hob, and notice that his hand was bloody, his knuckles a deep shade of purple. 

“You’re hurt.” He frowned, cradling the hand carefully in his and turning it around for inspection. 

Hob shrugged, jostling it, and winced. 

“You should see the other guy.” A terrible response, and Morpheus made sure his facial expression told Hob so. 

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

“He deserved it for being a little bitch.” Morpheus looked at his friend disapprovingly, and only received a kiss to his cheek in response, which must be wet and salty from tears. Not that Hob seemed to care about it. “I had to show him that someone does care about you, alright? That we won’t stand for homophobic bullshit, on or off the pitch.”

It shouldn’t have made warmth grow in Morpheus’ chest to hear Hob would fight to protect him, to prove his care and acceptance of him. But it was the first time someone stood up for him, and he couldn’t help but feel touched by such a display of love. He didn’t feel worth that effort and sacrifice, but couldn’t help craving it anyway. 

Of course, he said none of it. But Morpheus hoped Hob could feel it in the hug he pulled him into. “Idiot.”

His friend hummed and hugged back, not denying it, and Morpheus couldn’t help but giggle into his chest, the adrenaline of the situation coming down on him all at once. 

“Let’s get out of here?” Hob whispered after a while, and Morpheus frowned. 

“But the match isn’t over?”

“Well, I received a red for punching that douchebag, so it is for me.” Morpheus scoffed, and Hob only laughed at him for it. “And while you could totally continue here, we could also go home and finish watching Lord of the Rings.”

“You’re a tempting man, Hob Gadling.” 

A wink, eyebrow waggle and eye-roll later, Hob put his jersey back on and helped Morpheus up to his feet, from where he could make out the rest of the team standing around them. They stood in a half circle, shielding them from the other players, the cameras. Standing to protect them. Well, everyone but Cori, who was wearing Hob’s captain’s armband and standing above the guy that had attacked Morpheus, talking to the referee. The defender really did look worse than Hob, right eye swollen and nose at an awkward angle, most definitely broken. 

There was some satisfaction in seeing him writhe in pain as a medic pressed antiseptics to his face. 

But there was no time to relish it, as their movement was noticed by the team and suddenly Morpheus was enveloped in a group hug, the now familiar feeling of hands clapping his back and grabbing his shoulders grounding him like few other things could. None of the men judged him for who he was, none of them cared, and they proved it by hugging and touching him without fear, in front of everyone. The Riggers had never stood up for him, had never touched him, and had laughed at the idea of offering protection. 

The Fiddlers were nothing like them. They were a family. 

Perhaps he would heal one day, with their help. 

[i4bellingham]

So I read “misleading” tic abt Jude and I LOVE IT!!! I have kind of a similar request with Jude. Soo I was thinking, Jude, y/n, and some of the guys are out clubbing or out in a bit or somewhere crowded and then a guy approaches y/n and tries to get her to come with him, like pulling on her and grabbing her. And then Jude and some of the guys come and stoops him and it’s almost like a fight and Jude gets really protective. Then someone films it and it’s ALL over the internet ( you can ignore this I might have just gotten carried away)

PROTECTIVE : jude bellingham x reader

cw: a guy being a fucking creep 🤢, protective!jude, literally jude in this fic will not take a piss from anybody, cussing, shoving resulting to a near fight, will take place after world cup where the guys are out in a club to party and celebrate before returning to their own clubs, also protective!england nt bcs jude is their baby, the creep being socked. switches in povs !! + not proofread !!

　

The nightclub was mellow but overflowing with a bunch of attendees.

It definitely wasn’t your every evening scene but it was a place you’d visit on occasion and by on occasion, it means being dragged and pestered by your friends to go with them some time every once or thrice a month.

But even then, you'd never once experienced something that threatened your occasional visits to the clubs. Normally finding friends amidst the rowdy crowd and entertaining drunk yet very amusing discourse with said people.

Your nightclub trips weren't a scary experience, until now.

“A pretty girl alone in a place like this?” The overbearing scent of bergamot filled your senses, nearly enough to make you feel suffocated by the scent alone that overpowered the entire smell of the nightclub itself.

It was due to the proximity of the unknown guy beside you and you confirmed that when you turned your head to the right and seeing an unfamiliar face; a guy in his late 20’s you presume, a dark haired male with a pale complexion and with a salacious grin staring you down.

Taking notice of a palm's worth of space between the both of you, you automatically scooted away from him with a nervous chuckle, sounding awfully lot like you're having a coughing fit before your drinks are being slid across the marble counter by the bartender who, also got an eye out for look-out.

“Oh. I’m actually here with my boyfriend and his friends.” You emphasized, hugging yours and Jude’s drinks near to your chest before tipping your head a bit as you slowly walked away. “Uh... yeah, bye-”

“Let me take your drinks to your boyfriend and his friends...” The unknown guy tried to take the glasses from you, not even minding one bit but it was near your clothed chest before you're stepping away from the guy, an uncomfortable frown on your face.

You glanced at the bartender, seeing him occupied with another customer's rather large batch of orders before sighing out loud, plastering your fake, friendly smile at him. “No thanks, I got it.”

Now without bidding him any farewell, you successfully walked away and only then did you began to chastise yourself for taking the drinks alone, especially when Jude made it perfectly clear that he could've gone with you.

But you didn't let him, not when he’s got a few fans to entertain himself alongside his mates. The other guys were there with you upon arrival as well but they gradually left your table not even an hour after you got there. You were also hesitant to ask one of the guys' girlfriends to go with you even though you knew that they wouldn’t mind coming with to get the drinks with you. You were simply hesitant to do those and hence you went alone.

And look at where you've landed now.

With a deep sigh, you continued walking the path to your table. You can already see Sasha's blonde hair up ahead and Marcus’ tall frame when an arm suddenly was wrapped around your shoulders, nearly making you drop the drinks on the ground.

“Hi again!” The unknown guy cheers beside you, almost shoving his face against yours before he's gripping at your shoulders. “Thought you might rather prefer some other company. A friend of mine just bought more drinks and I think you could come and join us for some fun-”

You push the guy off of you, scrambling to get away from his grip that the drinks you tried so hard to keep drenched the front of your dress.

“Please just leave me alone.” You place the glasses on a nearby vacant table, wiping away the liquid that soaked the material of your dress with your palm. “You’re really really making me uncomfortable so I would appreciate it if you just leave me alone, please.”

“But I'm already being the kind lad here! Offered to carry your drinks, asked if you wanted to join me and my friends at our table and yet you keep on being a brat and refusing my offers-”

“You also touched me without my permission, overstepped in my personal boundary and made me feel disturbed.” Tears pricked at your eyes, as you stepped away, a palm out to keep the guy from coming closer. “Please just leave me alone-”

“What’s happenin’ here?”

A familiar weight settled on your waist, wrapped nice and snug before you're being hauled against Jude's chest with a protective arm around you.

Jude tilts his head to look at you, worry crossing in his eyes noticing your lack of verbal response and your refusal to meet his gaze.

“Love? What's wrong? What happened?” He gently asks you.

You shook your head against his chest, muttering a few simple words that was enough for Jude to hear.

“Let’s just go back to the table, Jude please...”

Jude’s jaw visibly tightens before he's glaring at the unknown guy, guiding you back to the table with his arms still around you.

The two of you nearly made it to the table when a grip on your wrist pulled you back and making you let out a surprised shriek as the unfamiliar guy wrenched you harshly against his hold, the tight grip sending a throbbing pain through the entirety of your hand.

And not even a second later after that, you were free from the unknown guy’s clasp before Jude’s shoving him to a nearby table, alerting the other guys from your booth because of the fallen glasswares.

“Keep your hands off her you bloke.” Teeth grinding and jaw clenched, Jude balls the guy’s collar in his fists with a harsh glare. “If I see you lay a single, dirty finger on her again, you just mighta go home with a broken hand before this night ends.”

Pickford rushes over and wraps an arm across Jude’s chest, pulling him away from the stunned guy before Wilson and Saka steps in to help their mate haul your trashing boyfriend away.

Jack and Mason stood before the guy, glaring and tensed as they stare the man down before Sterling is guiding two bouncers on the scene with Jesse on tow.

On the other hand, Declan and Henderson are ushering you back to the seats, noticing Trent and Marcus on the booth with the other girls present for the evening, worry creasing their faces.

You glance to where Jude and the three other guys were just a while ago, seeing them nowhere near the spot. You roam your eyes around the area before Declan speaks up beside you with a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about Jude, they took him outside to get some air. They’ll probably be back in a few minutes or so just until Jude cool downs.” He tells you and you silently nod your head, still looking over the last spot where you saw Pickford, Saka and Wilson calm your boyfriend from bashing the creep’s head on the table.

Trent leaves his spot in the booth, making you sit down beside his girlfriend Hannah who immediately asks if you're okay. It then probe the others into asking you the same question, with the exemption of Tolami and Lucia who simply offered you a glass of water and with an encouraging pat on the hand, refraining themselves from overwhelming you as they kept the questions to themselves.

Your answers to their questions were short and concise and it didn't take them long to realize that you would probably want your space after what happened. They simply shared looks of both worry and sympathy and with a few shorts hugs being offered to you, they simply sat in silence and waited for the others to return.

The waiting time didn't take long because after sitting down for 10 minutes, Jack, Mason, Raheem and Jesse are walking back to the booth. The four of them asked if you were alright, Jack going as far as joking about socking the guy in the parking lot after your group leaves to which not only did Sasha reprimanded him for, he was also smacked by the other guys for finding his suggestion too much despite feeling absolutely enraged by what happened.

Jordan, Saka, Wilson and Jude came back after 20 minutes, your boyfriend immediately crouching down in front of you and taking your hands in his before he’s got his forehead planted on your thighs, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

“You guys were out for long. What happened?” Jesse asked with a questioning brow raised.

Wilson who was seated on the opposite side of the seating arrangement grumbled something in response.

“The guy went to the parking lot after he was escorted out of the club, we were there, Jude saw him and tackled him on the ground after hearing the maggot say some things.” Wilson sighs but there is an amused smile on his lips. “Landed a rather lousy punch on the guy’s face when Jordan had his punching hand pinned back.”

“Should have brought him in when the wanker went out, no?” Sterling comments. “Let’s just hope this doesn't reach the internet.”

Marcus nods his head. “The PR team's most definitely gonna be pissed if that were to happen...”

“Well the nutter's the one who started it.” Trent piques with an eye-roll. “Would’ve socked him on the face the moment I saw him.”

Henderson shakes his head, ignoring the scoff from Trent as he shares his comment. “That’s why we didn’t let you leave the booth.”

“You’d jump on the poor nutter.” Mason chimes in, earning a fit of laughter from almost everyone.

As you tune down the conversation happening, your eyes landed on Jude's knuckles beside your thighs. They weren't busted open but they were bruised, discoloration already forming around the skin of the knuckles he used to punch the guy with.

You ran your fingers through his hair, leaning down to whisper against his ear as he continued being crouched down, head on your lap.

“Jude? Are you alright, love?”

Jude nods his head with a hum.

“Can you sit down beside me please?” You pat the empty space beside you. “You’re gonna get leg cramps if you remain crouching down there.”

Jude doesn't say anything else but he does comply, silently sitting down beside you with his head hanging down low.

You place a hand on his thigh, pursing your lips as you observe his slouched figure nearly draping over you.

“What’s wrong, hmm?”

He doesn't speak for a while, eyes following the circles being traces on his lap before he’s clasping your palm against his, grip not too tight but enough for you to feel the strength of his hold on you.

“Are you alright?” Jude asks, turning his head to look at you better. “I’m sorry I couldn't be there to help you earlier. I feel so angry and upset that you had to go through that. No one, not especially a woman should ever go through something as traumatizing as that and it happened to you.”

He heaves a deep breath, leaning his head against the tall cushioned back rest of the booth. “I felt so angry at myself when I saw you were almost crying when I got to you. Realized it must've been a little while when the scrub has been buggin’ you ’n I wasn’t there to keep most of it from happening.”

Jude purses his lips, muttering two words underneath his breath as if he was afraid for everyone, for you to hear the fragility and hurt in his voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Gently, you take Jude’s hand and raising his bruised knuckles to your lips, softly kissing the discolored spot.

“That wasn’t your fault Jude. It was something that we all didn’t expect to happen so please don’t take the blame for what happened.” You told him, watching as he knits his brows, closing his eyes. “Just like what you said, nobody should ever experience something like that and we only have those kind of people to blame. But thank you, for protecting me and for standing up for me the way you did. I would have never known what I’d do if you didn’t came by and helped me-”

“Of course I’d protect you. Girlfriend or not I will always protect you...”

Jude leans in and plants a kiss on your temple, pulling a hand away from your touch to wrap at your waist.

“I’d go mad if something happened to you.”

“Mhm and that’s why you socked the guy on the face right?”

Jude chuckles, kissing your cheeks and playfully biting at the skin. “Could've done a better job at punching him but my arm was restrained.”

You were about to open your mouth to respond with something when Jude’s phone rang, interrupting whatever comment you had to yourself before he’s fishing the device from his pockets, eyes rolling seeing the name in the caller id.

　

　　　　　　　　　　ㅡ

　　　　　　　Incoming call...

　　　　　　 　 PR manager

　　　　　　　　　　ㅡ

　

a/n: i am not entirely satisfied with the ending but will revise it whenever i can! also posting this because jude posted a selca on his ig story 😍

[nanamikentoseyebags]

Addicted to your light

He hopes you know his whole world is now reflected in his heavenly blue eyes. Look closer, it's you. Always has been.

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

content: fluff, suggestive themes, use of blindfold, basically satoru and reader's first time together, nothing explicit though

a/n: i got affected by @rossithepixie fic where satoru puts his blindfold on you. here he finds another use for it 🥴 a special thank you to @vagabond-umlaut who read it first 💛

The day gives way to night, as the thick veil of the darkness blankets the walls of the room. The only sources of light in the guise of the young pale moon curiously peering in through the not completely closed curtains, and the small, quaint lamps on the oak bedside tables reveal the mysteries of two stained hearts that try to find their way home. In the subdued, soft lighting two silhouettes sit opposite each other on the king-sized bed. And in the complete silence that reigns here, one can hear their ragged breathing, the hot waves of air leaving their parted lips.

The whole space’s palpably electrified with eager anticipation mingled with infinite tenderness and an overwhelming desire. The threatening mixture that swallows them both not leaving a single chance to escape this sweet torture. And it seems that every atom of their being is transformed into a vibrating movement, fused with an unknown craving that fills their heated bodies.

Your clothes are long forgotten somewhere, discarded on the floor on the way to the bedroom, ready to become a tomorrow’s reminder of this very night. Sitting there on the soft walnut colored silk bedsheets wearing nothing but your underwear, you don't feel any cold; rather, your whole skin seems to be set ablaze, with the heat running through your entire body and waking up all the butterflies that have been sleeping peacefully in your stomach. And he doesn’t even touch you yet.

Satoru looks pretty calm, too calm for your liking. Behind this habitual grin you can’t even discern whether he feels at least a bit as anxious or giddy as you. So your gaze shifts to his torso, causing you to swallow hard, as your eyes flick from his broad chest adorned with crescent scars to his defined abs. The lack of clothes gives you a perfect opportunity to admire his sturdy figure without any shame. Illuminated by the soft yellow light, his snow-white skin takes on a golden hue, like a bronze-carved Apollo, who only smiles softly, as if knowing how breathtaking the sight of him can be. You cannot see his eyes, like treasure sought by pirates hidden behind a black satin blindfold, but you can sense his intense gaze moving slowly along all of your curves, tracing all of your skin, not stopping for a second.

And so you give in, jump in with both feet, unable to languish in anticipation and delay the moment any longer, you move closer, your slightly trembling hands gently reaching for him.

"May I?" a quiet plea comes out of your lips in a whisper, your fingers gently touching the velvet skin of his cheek, slowly moving to his blindfold. Satoru nods weakly, swallowing, feeling your hands gently, as if it might hurt him, untie the knot, and slowly pull the skin-cooling material off his heavenly blue eyes.

You see the stars. He still hasn't touched you yet, but you could swear you see them when your gazes meet. It feels like finding yourself in outer space with no protection and no way to take that much needed breath, hanging weightless, surrounded by celestial bodies and running out of air. Yet you can’t help but marvel the beauty before you, knowing goddamn well that this starry blanket might be your last memory. And you would agree to do it again, just to feel the sense of lightness once more, just to get lost in his light, just to see the world centered in him and hidden behind these two orbits.

He sees the sun. He still hasn’t touched you yet, but he could swear he feels its burning touch when your gazes meet. It feels like floating above the ground not the way he used to do but lifting to the unpreceded heights, striving to reach the biggest star, sense its warm embrace and get lost in its heat, knowing goddamn well that its gentle hold might be the last thing he’ll ever feel. And he would do it again, like Icarus flying up too fast and too close, letting you scorch his wings, letting you take away his strength, only to bask in your presence, only to have a chance to marvel your blinding beauty a little longer, only to make sure you know that his whole world is centered around you and can now be seen in the reflection of his two orbits.

“You’re so beautiful…” he exhales quietly either not fully trusting his voice or in fear of scaring the moment off. His hand flies up to gently tuck your hair behind your ear, a light touch leaving a barely perceptible trace on the curve of your neck. With his fingertips he feels the myriad of goosebumps covering your flawless skin in an instant, and he cannot believe it’s him who does this to you. He lets out a shaky breath, realizing how every inch of his body is shivering at the sensation of the satin fabric you're slowly sliding down his neck. Satoru thanks all the gods above that it's you who's doing this to him. Though no one else ever could.

“Close your eyes,” he commands in a low voice, leaning closer, his hot breath dancing across your skin. You obey pliantly, your heart flutters at his words as he suddenly takes advantage of the situation. Satoru’s delicate hand finds its place on the back of your neck, making you lift your head just a little bit.  With your eyes shut you feel him leaving a small peck on your temple, then softly kissing your closed eyelids and traveling down to your desperately waiting to be kissed and already slightly parted mouth. Gojo makes sure he left the proclamation of his love with the softest brush of his lips on every millimeter of your face while his thumb gently caresses your jawline. He pulls back for a moment, trying to capture in his mind how divinely beautiful you are in the moonlight before drawing you into a deep yet full of fondness and promises kiss. And your worlds collide the moment your lips meet. And if the big bang that started it all for someone seems like a controversial theory, it has now become an absolute and irrefutable truth for the both of you, as it’s just claimed the new beginning. With him being so painfully soft and his lips molding just right against yours and his feather-light touches, treating you like you’re made of the daintiest porcelain, you feel like falling apart right here and right now. With you being so painfully gentle and your fingers tangling in his snow-white hair, treating him like he’s worth of this universal tenderness, he feels like falling apart right here and right now.

Satoru pulls away slightly, a string of saliva still connecting your swollen lips. You don't dare to open your eyes, feeling the thin fabric slowly slip from your fingers. He gently kisses the corner of your lips, unable to resist, before you feel the pleasant coolness of satin on your eyelids. His fingers gently, with apparent skill, fasten his blindfold around your head.

“Relax for me,” he whispers noticing the way your breath hitches and your chest heaves frantically, “I’ll take care of you, I promise,” his thumb stroking the pinkish apple of your cheek.

“I wanna see you…” you say under your breath, covering his hand with yours.

“You will,” he murmurs and takes your hand in his, kissing your fingers, “but for now, I want you to feel it, okay?” is more of a statement said in a saccharine tone, yet you utter a quiet “okay” surrendering completely to his captivity. His arms encircle your waist before gently lowering you onto the cushioned bed.

“I want you to feel all the love I have for you,” he repeats breathlessly, his fingertips grazing your hips, still unable to believe that you let him touch you, let him kiss your perfect skin, let him get lost in you.

And he’ll spend the whole night showing you how pure and overpowering his love for is, how addicted to your light is, and he is not afraid to burn in doing so.

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💛

tags: @rossithepixie @pastelle-rabbit @solanaearth @a-nuisance-called-sam @nanamiiss @4sat0ruu @pupkashi @gennysuga

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Oooh! Absolutely love the older!reader story! It got me thinking, what about sugarmommy!reader?

On My Dime

(28) Cillian Murphy x (47) SugarMommy! Reader

Summary: Just a cute little fic!

Wordcount: 5.6k

Warnings: You’re 6’1 btw

tall! reader!, sugar mommy! reader, dom! reader?!, lovey dovey things from Cillian, passenger princess! Cillian, kissing, teasing, spoiling.

Cillian leaned back in the plush leather chair of the study, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the armrest. The walls, lined with an extensive collection of books, seemed to close in slightly, their spines whispering stories of past intellects. 

The dim lighting cast a warm glow over the room, creating an almost ethereal ambiance. His piercing blue eyes, framed by a hint of crow's feet, flicked towards the door every few seconds, listening for any sound that might indicate the end of her phone call. He could hear her laughter echoing through the grand hallway, her voice a melodic contrast to the serious tone he was trying to maintain for the interview. He shifted in his seat, the crisp fabric of his tailored dress shirt; that she had gotten made for him, began rustling softly. His mind, though focused on the questions posed by the interviewer on the computer but he couldn't help but wander back to her. She was an enigma to him – a powerful woman who exuded confidence and grace, her success evident in every facet of her life. The way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she handled her phone calls with a mix of charm and assertiveness, it all fascinated him.

"Cillian, can you tell us more about the women your dating?" the interviewer’s voice brought him back to the present.

Cillian cleared his throat, his Irish accent thickening as he began to speak. "Ah, well; she's very reserved and I rather not talk about her and I's relationship."

He glanced towards the door again, imagining her standing there, listening in, a playful smile on her lips. He could picture her perfectly – tall, statuesque, with a commanding presence that made even the grandest of rooms seem small. Her dark hair, always impeccably styled, and those striking eyes that held a wealth of secrets. He loved watching her work, the way she twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she spoke, a gesture that was both casual and intimate. Outside, she paced the length of the living room, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The vast space of her home, with its modern decor and expansive views, served as the perfect backdrop for her high-powered conversations. She held her phone close to her ear, her tone a mix of frustration and amusement.

"And he can't be mad at me – I told him to pull his money out of the market and he didn't, so it's not my fault. But he's saying it is because I didn't personally do it myself," she said, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation.

Her friend on the other end of the line must have said something funny because she let out a soft, genuine laugh. "Don't make me laugh, Cillian's in an interview in the study," she added, her tone affectionate when she mentioned him. Back in the study, Cillian's lips curved into a small smile. He loved hearing her laugh, a sound that always managed to brighten his day. The interviewer, oblivious to the source of his distraction, continued with another question, but Cillian's mind was still half-focused on her. This one, though, was particularly grating. The interviewer, a persistent man with a grating voice, had a penchant for prying into his personal life. Cillian’s patience was wearing thin, the desire to end the conversation gnawing at him.

"But the people want to know about her, come on just-"

Cillian's sigh was heavy, laden with irritation. "I've said no," he interrupted, his tone firm and unyielding. "She doesn't like being in the public eye. Let her be." His voice carried a subtle threat, a warning that this line of questioning was unwelcome and would not be entertained further. The interviewer, sensing the unspoken menace in Cillian's voice, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Any other questions about my projects? About me, anything at all?" Cillian's gaze was intense, his piercing blue eyes locked onto the interviewer's through the computer screen, as if daring him to cross the line again.

The interviewer, cowed by the actor's palpable displeasure, quickly wrapped up the session. "No, that will be all. I appreciate you talking with me today." The screen went dark, and Cillian let out a long, relieved sigh, leaning back in his chair. The silence of the room was a welcome reprieve from the barrage of intrusive questions. He glanced toward the living room, where she was pacing in her heels, the sound of her steps a rhythmic click against the marble floor. She was on the phone, her voice carrying a note of exasperation as she spoke to a friend. "He's just a large cunt, a large one..." She felt Cillian staring at her, her body whipped around and her eyes met Cillian's, and she raised her hand in a questioning gesture, her eyebrows arched in curiosity.

Cillian waved her over, signaling that he was finally free from the interview's clutches. She smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "Well, I've got to let you go. Cillian needs to talk with me... Call you back--okay--bye bye." She ended the call, her voice trailing off as she made her way to the study. The sound of her heels against the marble floor was almost hypnotic, each step deliberate and measured, the click-clack echoing through the quiet house. Her presence was magnetic, drawing his eyes to her every movement. She stopped in front of him, her smile widening as she took in the sight of him slouched in the chair, the tension of the interview still lingering in his posture. She was a striking figure, her tall frame accentuated by the fitted black suit she wore, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. Her hair was perfectly styled, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, and her makeup was impeccable, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and full lips. There was an air of confidence about her, a commanding presence that filled the room.

As she stood before him, her hand extended, and he took it without hesitation, feeling the warmth and strength in her grip. As she pulled him to his feet and into her embrace, he sank into her, letting the comfort of her body envelop him. She was a full head taller than him, her frame imposing yet gentle as she held him close. Her hand moved to his face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, her touch light and affectionate. She smiled down at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that spoke of genuine care.

"Mind fried?" she asked, her voice soft but knowing. He merely nodded, the weariness of the day weighing heavily on him. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her chest. The scent of her – a mix of expensive perfume and something uniquely her own – was intoxicating, a balm to his frayed nerves.

"Yeah..." he murmured, his voice muffled against her. He could feel her fingers threading through his hair, the gentle motion soothing. She rested her chin on the top of his head, her humming creating a vibration that resonated through his body. It was a simple gesture, but it made the silence between them comfortable, even comforting.

After a few moments, she lifted her chin and gently took his face in her hands, tilting it up so their eyes met. Her gaze was steady and warm, filled with an understanding that required no words. Her thumb brushed his cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the tenderness of the moment.

"I've got to pick a couple of things up from the store. Do you want to stay or come with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, the touch brief but sweet. He opened his eyes, meeting hers with a small, grateful smile. "I'll come with you," he said, his voice low and earnest. There was something about her presence that made even the most mundane tasks feel like an adventure, a respite from the chaos of his own thoughts.

Cillian watched her move through the space with an air of effortless grace and confidence, each step she took purposeful and deliberate. The way she gathered her essentials – wallet, sunshades, and the keys to her Aston Martin DB11 – spoke volumes about her meticulous nature. His eyes followed her every motion, appreciating the poise she exuded in even the simplest of tasks. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, and Cillian found that incredibly attractive. As she moved towards the door, he hurried over, ready to open it for her. The gesture was small, but it was a testament to the respect and admiration he held for her. He stood at the door that led to the garage, waiting as she turned off the lights in the house. The silence of the moment was comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding between them. When she approached, he opened the door, allowing her to step through first.

"Thank you, Cill," she said, her voice a soft, appreciative murmur. She pressed the button for the garage door opener, and as it slowly rose, Cillian stepped inside with her.

"Anything for you," he replied, his voice carrying the familiar lilt of his Irish accent, a warm smile playing on his lips. The afternoon sun began to filter into the garage, casting a golden glow over the array of cars parked within.

She unlocked the Aston Martin and started the engine, the soft purr of the machine a soothing sound. Cillian moved quickly to her side, getting ahead to open the door for her, a gentlemanly act that made her chuckle softly. As he shut the door behind her, he couldn't suppress a small sigh, the sound of leather against leather as he slid into the passenger seat, buckling up. She caught his eye, her hands already gripping the steering wheel with a practiced ease that made his mind wander briefly to less innocent thoughts. He quickly pushed those aside, focusing instead on the moment at hand.

"Hopefully your crazy fans aren't looking for you today," she remarked with a playful grin, as she carefully navigated the car out of the garage. The way she maneuvered the vehicle, creeping slowly to avoid any potential damage to her other prized possessions, was a testament to her attention to detail.

The remote in her hand closed the garage door behind them, and they started their journey out of the fenced perimeter of her massive manor. The slow drive through her property was another ritual, a careful inspection to ensure everything was in place, nothing amiss. She took her time, ensuring no stone was unturned. Reaching the gate house, she rolled down the window and punched in the gate code, the mechanism whirring as the gates parted to allow them passage. She always waited, watching the gates close behind them before moving on. It was a small but significant habit, one that spoke of her need for control and security. Turning to him with a smile, she noticed he was lost in thought, his gaze fixed out the window. She reached out, tapping his thigh gently before gripping it slightly. The touch brought him back to the present, and he sighed softly, placing his hand over hers, relishing the simple contact. As they drove through the streets and the bustling city, Cillian allowed himself to relax, enjoying the role of passenger princess. The city life buzzed around them, a stark contrast to the quiet opulence of her manor. Her hand remained on his thigh, a grounding presence as they navigated through the urban landscape.

The drive was filled with an easy silence, punctuated by the occasional comment or shared glance. Cillian found himself stealing glances at her, admiring the way she handled the car with confidence. The city seemed to bend to her will, just like everything else in her life. He appreciated these moments of simplicity, where it was just the two of them against the backdrop of a bustling world. Her wealth and status were impressive, but it was her grounded nature and genuine affection that truly captivated him. As they merged onto the highway, the Aston Martin's engine roared to life, its deep, throaty growl reverberating through the luxurious cabin. It was a reminder of the power she wielded, not just in the car but in life. She handled the car with the ease of someone used to commanding attention and respect. The sleek, leather interior cocooned them, a stark contrast to the chaotic world outside. Cillian sat in the passenger seat, his lean frame relaxed but alert, his sharp blue eyes glancing at her with a mixture of admiration and amusement.

He glanced over as she signaled and merged left; smoothly overtaking slower vehicles, her movements precise and confident. Cillian watched as she turned her head; Cillian turned his head and his and her gaze narrowed at the drivers they were passing. "How the fuck can you be on your phone and on the highway?!" she exclaimed, her tone a blend of exasperation and disbelief. Cillian smirked, shaking his head slightly. "People are mad," he muttered, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. He felt the rush of acceleration then he sighed, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes for a moment as she accelerated, the speedometer creeping past ninety. The world outside became a blur of colors and shapes, the cars they overtook transforming into indistinct streaks.

She expertly maneuvered through traffic, the Aston Martin responding to her every command with an agility that matched her own. He trusted her implicitly, her skill behind the wheel a testament to her competence in all areas of her life. Eventually, the high-speed pursuit eased as they approached their destination: Erewhon. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where they could indulge in the finer things without the constant harassment of paparazzi or fans; it was a fancy ass supermarket. He recalled when he heard about a particularly chaotic incident with another celebrity that had cemented Erewhon's reputation as a safe haven for the famous. Cillian recalled past incidents during their outings to Erewhon had saved them from being disrupted by unwanted attention, he was grateful for a place to uphold such a high set of rules.

She navigated the parking lot, opting for a secluded spot far from the other vehicles. "No one can fucking drive where we live," she muttered, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. Cillian smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in silent agreement. "There's a pair of sunglasses in the glovebox if you want them," she remarked, her fingers deftly unbuckling her seatbelt and beginning the meticulous process of shutting down the car. Cillian reached into the glovebox, retrieving the sunglasses and slipping them on. The world darkened through the tinted lenses, but it provided a shield against prying eyes. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stepped out of the car with a fluid motion, the door closing behind him with a satisfying click. He rounded the front of the Aston Martin, each step purposeful yet unhurried. Reaching her side, he opened the door with a gallant gesture, extending a hand to assist her out of the low-slung vehicle. She accepted, her smile warm and appreciative, a silent exchange of gratitude in the brief wink she sent his way.

He closed the door behind her, the action as natural as breathing, and they stood momentarily in the parking lot, a picture of poised elegance. She locked the car, the soft beep of the alarm engaging as they made their way towards the entrance of Erewhon. Cillian's hand found its place at the small of her back, a subtle yet protective gesture as they navigated the sparse crowd. Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of exclusivity and tranquility, the kind of place where wealth and discretion mingled seamlessly. Cillian walked beside her, his presence understated yet unmistakable. He observed the surroundings with a practiced eye, noting the occasional glance of recognition from fellow patrons, yet they were largely left undisturbed.

Their shopping was a well-orchestrated routine, each selection a testament to her refined taste and his willingness to indulge her preferences. He offered quiet commentary on various items, his voice a low murmur tinged with his Irish accent, a comforting sound in the hushed environment of the upscale market. As they moved through the aisles, their dynamic was evident in the small, unspoken gestures: the way he reached for an item just as she looked at it, the subtle nod of approval she gave when he made a particularly insightful observation. They operated in a rhythm that spoke of deep understanding and mutual respect, a partnership that extended beyond the superficial.

She moved with the grace of someone accustomed to commanding attention, her height and poise setting her apart. Cillian followed closely, his presence quietly supportive, his eyes attentively tracking her movements. "Honestly, prices have gone up a lot," she remarked, her voice tinged with mild frustration as she gazed at a display of fine wines in the next aisle over. Cillian watched her, noting the furrow in her brow and the way her eyes flickered with a mixture of exasperation and contemplation. She sighed softly, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand responsibilities, before her gaze returned to him. A sudden realization sparked in her eyes, and she turned on her heel, striding purposefully towards him. Her presence was magnetic, drawing him in as she closed the distance. When she cupped his face, her touch was both commanding and tender, a juxtaposition that sent a thrill through him. She gently pushed him against the shelf, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that left him breathless.

"Cill- I've got to pick up some files at my office..." Her voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it resonated with authority. He nodded slightly, his mind already racing with the implications of her words. She moved closer, her breath warm against his skin, and the world around them seemed to blur into insignificance. "Do you want me to drop you off at home or do you want to come with me?" she asked, her gaze unwavering, searching his eyes for his answer. In that moment, the choice was simple. He could never resist the allure of being by her side, no matter the destination. "I'll go with you," he replied, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to the words. The decision was not just about accompanying her; it was about sharing every aspect of their lives, standing beside her through mundane tasks and extraordinary moments alike.

"......Good boy......," Her smile was a radiant confirmation of his choice, and she leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, exploring with a possessiveness that made his heart race. He responded in kind, their tongues dancing together in a rhythm that was both familiar and electrifying. Her body pressed more firmly against his, pinning him against the shelf with a dominance that left no room for ambiguity.

When she finally pulled away, a long, thick line of saliva connected their lips, a tangible testament to their passion. She wiped it away with her thumb, her eyes never leaving his. He blushed deeply, the warmth spreading across his cheeks as he tried to steady his breathing. Her hand remained cupping his face, a lingering touch that grounded him even as his mind spun with desire. As she stepped back, her attention shifted back to their shopping cart, the moment of intensity giving way to the practicalities of their outing. Cillian took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. The taste of her still lingered on his lips, a reminder of the connection that burned brightly between them. He moved to stand beside her, his hand lightly brushing against hers as they resumed their shopping. The mundane act of selecting groceries felt charged with the undercurrent of their earlier exchange. Each item placed in the cart was a silent testament to their shared life, a series of choices that bound them together in a dance of mutual understanding.

Cillian's mind wandered as they continued through the aisles, reflecting on the complexity of their relationship. She was a force of nature, a woman of immense wealth and influence, yet with him, she revealed a vulnerability that few ever saw. He cherished those glimpses, the moments when she let her guard down and allowed him to see the softer side beneath her commanding exterior. Their bond was a delicate balance of power and intimacy, a dance they navigated with care and respect. Cillian admired her for her strength and intelligence, qualities that had propelled her to the pinnacle of her career. At the same time, he valued the quiet moments they shared, the simple joys of being together without the trappings of their public lives.

As they approached the checkout, Cillian could feel the weight of the day easing. The prospect of accompanying her to her office added a layer of excitement to their routine. It was another facet of her world he was eager to explore, another opportunity to stand beside her and witness the brilliance that defined her professional life. He packed their purchases with a meticulous attention to detail, each item placed with care. She watched him, her eyes reflecting a blend of amusement and affection. There was an unspoken language between them, a series of gestures and glances that conveyed more than words ever could. When they finally left the store, the sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the parking lot. Cillian opened the car door for her, a small act of chivalry that felt natural and right. She settled into the driver's seat with a satisfied sigh, the engine purring to life as she prepared to drive them to her office.

When they arrived at her office, the building loomed tall and imposing, a symbol of her success and determination. Cillian followed her inside, his eyes taking in the sleek, modern design that spoke of efficiency and power. She led him to her office, a space that was both elegant and functional, a reflection of her personality. As she gathered the files she needed, Cillian wandered around, admiring the artwork on the walls and the carefully curated decor. Everything in this space was a testament to her meticulous nature, her drive for perfection. He felt a surge of pride, knowing that he was part of her world, a trusted confidant and partner. When she was ready, they left the office together, the files securely in her bag. The drive home was quiet, a comfortable silence that spoke of their deep understanding. 

As they pulled into the driveway, the Aston Martin DB11's engine purred to a halt. She deftly shifted the car into park, pressing the button to open the trunk with an elegance that spoke to her familiarity with such a high-end machine. Cillian unbuckled his seatbelt, the click of the mechanism punctuating the tranquil silence that had settled over them. He stepped out, the sun casting long shadows across the pristine pavement, and moved to her side, opening the door with a smooth, practiced motion. She emerged from the car, her movements fluid and confident. "Thank you," she murmured, her smile warm and appreciative. Cillian returned the gesture with a nod, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, a subtle acknowledgment of their unspoken routine. She gathered her keys, wallet, sunglasses, and a stack of legal files, her arms laden with the tools of her trade.

He watched as she made her way inside, setting everything down with a purposeful efficiency before returning to assist with the groceries. They moved in tandem, a well-rehearsed dance of domesticity, each trip to and from the car marked by a silent rhythm. Cillian carried the bags with ease, his lean frame belying a quiet strength, while she matched his pace, her height and grace lending an air of effortless command. Inside the kitchen, they began unloading the bags, the clink of glass jars and rustle of paper bags filling the space. Cillian meticulously arranged the items, his movements deliberate and precise, reflecting his penchant for order. He glanced at her occasionally, appreciating the focused determination etched on her face as she worked.

"Feels like we’ve bought half the store," he remarked with a faint smile, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. She laughed softly, a sound that resonated warmly in the sunlit kitchen. "Well, we do like our luxuries," she replied, her tone light yet tinged with genuine contentment.

After several trips, they finally emptied the trunk, the last of the bags deposited on the kitchen counter. She thanked him again, her eyes meeting his with a sincerity that transcended words. Taking her keys, she headed back out to pull the car into the garage. Cillian watched her go, a sense of admiration settling over him as she maneuvered the sleek vehicle with ease, the garage door closing behind her with a quiet hum. He began unpacking the bags, methodically placing items in their designated spots. She soon joined him, their movements synchronized in a silent symphony of familiarity and mutual respect. Together, they transformed the chaos of groceries into a well-organized array, each item finding its place in the pantry and refrigerator.

The task took time, but they worked efficiently, their partnership evident in the seamless flow of their actions. Cillian enjoyed these moments of mundane intimacy, where the outside world receded, leaving only the comforting presence of each other. He appreciated the simplicity of the task, a stark contrast to the often chaotic nature of his public life. As they finished, Cillian turned to her, a soft smile playing on his lips. "All set," he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. She moved closer, her silhouette framed by the setting sun that filtered through the expansive windows. Her presence was commanding, a reminder of the power she wielded, not just in her career but in every aspect of her life. Her arms encircled his waist, drawing him into a gentle embrace. Cillian's own arms responded instinctively, wrapping around her, pulling her closer. He felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest, a comforting reminder of the life they shared. They lingered in this embrace, the silence between them filled with unspoken words and shared memories. Cillian's mind drifted, reflecting on the unlikely circumstances that had brought them together. He, an actor still finding his footing in the world of cinema, and she, a seasoned lawyer and investor, her name a fixture in the corridors of power and influence. Yet, in moments like these, their worlds melded seamlessly.

She pulled away slightly, her hands coming up to cup his face. Her eyes searched his, filled with a tenderness that made his heart ache. "You're everything I could ask for and more, Cillian, y'know that?" she murmured, her voice a soft caress. He lost himself in her gaze, the depth of her affection evident in every line of her face. Her hands were warm against his skin, grounding him in the reality of their connection. She let go of his face only to lift him effortlessly by the waist, placing him on the cool marble countertop. He watched her, a small smile playing on his lips, his feet dangling as she stood before him, her height accentuated by the difference in their positions. "Pretty boy, you know that?" she teased, her voice light yet laced with sincerity. Cillian chuckled softly, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Aye, I reckon I've heard that a few times," he replied, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. His eyes twinkled with amusement, but beneath it was a deep-seated gratitude for the way she saw him, not just as an actor or a public figure, but as the man he was in these quiet, intimate moments.

As she stepped closer to him, the cool air of the spacious room contrasted with the heat building between them. Her hand cupped his face with a tenderness that belied her powerful exterior, her fingers tracing the contours of his jaw as if memorizing every detail. Cillian's eyes met hers, the intensity of her gaze filled with love and desire. Her proximity was intoxicating, her presence a heady mix of authority and warmth. As their lips met, the world around them seemed to fade away. The kiss was fervent, a collision of passion and longing. His hands found their way to shoulders, fingers pressing into the fabric of her suit, feeling the strength and softness beneath. Their tongues danced, exploring and tasting with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Cillian moved forward, his legs wrapping around her waist, drawing her closer. The movement was instinctual, a physical manifestation of his need to be as close to her as possible. She responded seamlessly, her other arm encircling his waist, lifting him effortlessly off the countertop.

He felt weightless, suspended between the cool marble and the warmth of her body. Her strength was astonishing, a stark reminder of the disparity in their physical power. Yet, it was also comforting, a symbol of the security and stability she provided. As she carried him, their lips remained locked, their kiss deepening with each passing second. The pantry doors provided a new backdrop to their fervent embrace. Cillian felt the wood against his back, a solid counterpoint to the softness of her lips and the firmness of her grip. Her movements were deliberate, each step a testament to her control and determination. She pressed against him, her body a seamless extension of her will, holding him in place as their kiss intensified. He broke the kiss momentarily, his breath mingling with hers in the small space between them. "You’ve got a way of makin' me feel like I'm flyin'," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper tinged with his Irish accent, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and affection. "That's because you are," she replied softly, her voice filled with a blend of love and confidence that only made his heart race faster. She leaned in again, capturing his lips with renewed fervor, the heat of their kiss contrasting with the cool air of the kitchen.

Cillian’s hands roamed her back, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric, a tactile reminder of her strength and resilience. He marveled at how effortlessly she held him, her power tempered with a gentleness that made him feel cherished and protected. Her kiss was a blend of passion and possession, a declaration of her feelings that left him breathless and yearning for more. As she pressed him against the pantry doors, the kiss deepened, their tongues exploring with an insatiable hunger. Cillian’s fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, their bodies moving in a rhythm that spoke of deep-seated desire and mutual understanding. Her hand on his face guided the kiss, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, grounding him in the intensity of the moment.

Their breaths came in ragged gasps between kisses, the heat of their bodies mingling in the cool air of the kitchen. Every touch, every kiss was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise of the depth of their feelings for each other. Cillian’s world narrowed to the sensation of her lips, her hands, and the solid presence of her body against his. The intensity of their embrace was almost overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the love and desire that bound them together. She held him effortlessly, her strength a constant reminder of the power dynamics that played out between them. Yet, in this moment, it was not about power but about connection, about the raw, unfiltered emotions that flowed between them.

As she finally pulled back, her breathing heavy, Cillian looked into her eyes, seeing the same depth of emotion reflected back at him. "You make me feel invincible," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. Her smile was radiant, her hand still cradling his face. "That’s because you are to me," she replied, her voice soft and sincere. She leaned in for one last kiss, a gentle brush of lips that was both a promise and a reassurance, sealing the bond between them.

In the quiet aftermath, they remained entwined, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling as they shared a moment of profound intimacy. The world outside might demand their attention, but here, in the sanctuary of her kitchen, it was just the two of them, lost in the depths of their love and desire.

Author's Notes:

I meant to post this yesterday but I got sidetracked; and had things come up. So here it is but idk about it. Do I like it? yesn't

Don't know really, lately I've just been burned out; but I feel like I owe everyone something every time I write..also does this count as a size kink? I don't think it does?....

however I've been working on the last ask but I'm just having I hard time with it because I can't see Cillian as a Dom; like he's a bottom in my eyes unless he's being a dick and not asking before doing it; you get what I'm putting down? I have one of those ones on the backlogs ready to go but it's fucking dark and I don't know about it.

[sparks-olivarpente]

the Stranger Fics

(byler fics with unexpected powers or twists)

Turns out a lot of my favorite fics enter this category. Feel free to reblog and add fics you love :)

In the Eye of a Hurricane (It's You and Me) by Julia_Skysong "Jonathan, why…why am I with dad on the security tape????" Lonnie Byers is a royal piece of shit. Will finds out he has powers and understandably has a meltdown about it, and Mike helps him through it.

over a bridge of time by @sevensided Hawkins isn't the same without Will. So Mike goes to visit him in Chicago. Then strange things happen… Second part of the awesome serie THE DARK MIRROR and of course you should read the whole thing :)

I know the end by @cosmobrain00 The worst-case scenario has happened. … and that's all the summary you'll get from me! an ongoing serie that keeps getting better and better (or worse and worse, depending on the point of view). Tags: #Mind Manipulation #Will has powers

them’s the breaks by emelinelou Three years after moving to California, one Will Byers shows up - read: dimension-teleports or something - back in Hawkins. In the corner of Mike's bedroom. In the middle of the night. Turns out this is a bad thing, namely for Mike and Mike's sanity.

captured ghosts by etchedstars ghosts from will's past come back to haunt this. literally or metaphorically is up to audience interpretation. Some favorite tags: #plot relevant cuddles #will gets to be sarcastic #he also commits crime

Come Hell, High Water by naiesu “It’s been months, Mike,” Lucas says, staring at Mike, hard. Mike can’t remember a time he didn’t look at him that way. “Will is a cold case. You need to accept that.” The dream-like parts are amazingly written &lt;3

yesterFriday by nbfutureboy (@futureboy-ao3) Will Byers wakes up as usual one Friday morning - he worries about his family, his History test, and telling the people he loves that he doesn’t Like Girls in that way. Then he does it again. [Groundhog Day AU where Will gets stuck in a time loop.]

a strange education (reach out and touch me) by Total_Serene (@total-serene560) 16 year old Mike Wheeler wakes up in the middle of a highway in Indiana. He can't remember what happened, but he knows three things: He was going somewhere, it was supposed to be night, and he had taken Nancy's car. The mystery in this one…!!!

The Basement by olliecoddle (@souverian-are-we) Will and Mike spend their days in a little run-down house in the Upper Peninsula with dated furniture and peeling wallpaper, two sinking recliners next to each other. But there is a beast in the basement.

A Stranger Things Ghost Story by Junigatsu84 It is the Summer of 1983, before all the horrors that befall Hawkins. The boys are looking for their own mystery to solve and find a haunted house. It’s a shame Will is the only one to see it.

Back to the Future (with Mike Wheeler) by Nymphadoragreenleaf On a list of the top five most unexpected things to happen to Mike Wheeler, traveling 10 years into the future has got to take the top spot. The half-naked man claiming to be his best friend might be number two. Alternatively known as, Mike Wheeler tries to survive a week in the 90's and figures a couple of things out along the way.

You are the Heart by TouchTheSky A fever-dream, mucho-feels, super long, semi-fix-it, version of Season 5. i feel like i know you (but we never met) by @andiwriteordie “Who?” Mike’s voice breaks again, and Joyce chokes back a sob. “Joyce, who… who was he?” Or: The one in which Will Byers doesn't exist… At least not anymore.

with all my heart by mogiah (@morganee) what happens when Birthdaygate and Lettergate meet. or another one in which Will doesn't exist anymore

i've come home, i'm so cold by astrobi (@astrobei) Will's trying his hardest to make it through fall semester in one piece. Unfortunately for his degree, he's being haunted by maybe-feelings for his best friend (metaphorically), and also a maybe-ghost with rather abysmal fashion sense (literally). The fic that made me decide to spend the rest of my life that year reading fics

Blackout by Tea_For_One_Please as if their senior year of high school wasn't complicated enough, the Party find themselves investigating an accidental death, believing it to be connected to a similar event nearly two decades earlier. Just normal teenager stuff, right? This one hasn't been updated for a while but I remember enjoying the plot and mystery a lot

baby, we’re perfect by bookinit (@bookinit02) Senior year in Hawkins. Will and Mike figure some things out. I'm not allowed to say anything else about this fic. To quote the author: "brace yourselves. sorry in advance."

you were bigger than the whole sky by delusionaltogether (@parkitaco) Mike breathes out sharply, sinking to his knees in front of Will without conscious thought. Every bone in his body is turning to jelly, because Will is here, but he's also- not. on march 29th, 1986, will byers vanishes for a second time. 366 days later, he reappears.

This is where it starts by cottonscent While the rest of the party moved on and forgot once the gate closed Will kept exploring, and the connection he formed to the other dimension it actually a lot more complex than what they originally thought.