#like I was sitting here at the edge of my seat

[yellowbrokenblue]

His favourite employee

CEO!Harry x secretary!Y/N

cw: smut, feral dom!Harry, degradation

It was 11pm. Hours past the time she was supposed to be home already. In a normal life she’d be tucked up in bed, ready to go to sleep. But instead she was here, her laptop open, cramming in as much as she could before she was back in the office at 8am tomorrow morning.

But she had to. She simply had to.

The look on Harry’s face tomorrow when he realises how much work she’d managed to complete would all be worth it, even if it meant doing overtime he wasn’t aware of.

“Y/N?”

Crap. She hadn’t even heard the door open. She’d dismissed the footsteps in the hallway as the buildings janitor, but her boss walking through the door had given her a fright.

“Oh! Uhm… Harry, hi…”

Harry chuckled, “Calm down, Y/N. Don’t look so frightened. It’s only me.”

Only him.

Only him was the understatement of the century. Harry Styles was the pinnacle of man. Gods best creation. You didn’t get any better than Harry Styles, it just wasn’t possible.

“What are you doing in here so late?” She asked him.

“I forgot my apartment key.” Harry said, “But I should be asking you why you’re in here so late, you were supposed to finish three hours ago.”

“I know…” She said, “But I just had so much I wanted to get done.”

“Is that right?” Harry asked, “Hm.”

He put his keys in his pocket, walking over to her desk and taking a seat on the edge of the table.

“You seem to do a lot for me around here, Y/N.” He said, “Isn’t that right?”

“I’m just trying to do my job.” She smiled in return.

“What you do for me, Y/N, is far beyond what I ask of any employee. We both know that.”

The room felt like it was one hundred degrees hotter with him sitting this close to her. Her breathing had gone too fast, and she was sweating buckets. Simply from his presence.

“I just have the companies best interests at heart. I have your best interests at heart.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think that is the only reason, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I don’t notice, but I pick up on everything. I know you’re the first one in every morning, patiently waiting with your eyes on the door waiting for me to walk through. You’ll make any excuse to come and see me in my office, and you’ve taken on some of my personal assistant roles just so you can pick out my lunch every afternoon.”

She swallowed.

His eyes were stuck on hers. And she was sure he could tell that her heart was beating out of her chest.

“Of course, I can’t forget the cute little outfits you wear every day, Y/N. Not to mention that you’re always in a skirt.” Harry said, quieter this time, “And correct me if I’m wrong, but I can’t help but assume that is wishful thinking for that to be if something were to happen between us… It would give me…” Harry’s hand reached for the hem of her skirt, his fingers sliding underneath, “Easy access.”

Her breath hitched. Four years working for Harry’s company and he had finally touched her. This was all she’d ever wanted ever since her interview when she was 20 years old.

“Don’t look so nervous, Y/N.” He said, “I know how it feels to lust for someone. To spend every waking moment thinking about their body, to imagine them whenever you’re with someone else, just wishing it was them instead. To picture them when you touch yourself.”

Harry’s hand was sliding further up her thigh underneath her skirt. Her legs were pressed together with as much force as she could muster. Harry couldn’t know how wet she was in this moment, it would be embarrassing.

His thumb grazed the elastic of her panties.

“Tell me, Y/N.” He whispered, sliding off of the desk so he could talk directly into her ear. Her whole body shivered when his lips brushed against the skin of her earlobe, “Who is it you think about when you touch yourself.”

“Harry…” She breathed, “What are you-”

“Answer the question, Y/N.” He said, “You’re always a good, obedient girl when I ask you work related questions during office hours. And I expect the same from you outside of working time, even if we are in the office. Now, I’ll ask you again. Who do you think of when your hands are buried in your wet little pussy.”

She inhaled a sharp breath, not expecting the sudden change of his language. Her heart was racing, and his thumb was itching closer and closer to her desperate cunt.

“You.” She gasped, “You, Harry, I think of you.”

He smirked.

“Have you ever thought of me when you fucked another man?” He asked, “Have you ever said my name when you fucked someone else.”

His thumb brushed over her throbbing clit over the fabric of her panties.

“Oh!” She moaned, as his thumb pressed against her.

“Tell me.” He said again. “Tell me you think of me when you’re with other men.”

“I think of you all the time, Harry. Any time I’m with someone.”

“Do you sit in the office all day, doing the little jobs I give you, just imagining you were in my office instead?” He asked, “Do you ever imagine yourself bent over my desk, Y/N?”

He knelt down in front of her, and began to peel her underwear down her legs.

“I find that so hot, Y/N. The fact you sit and type your emails, just wishing my dick was inside you.”

“Harry…” She breathed, feeling his skin on hers.

“Pull your skirt up.” He said.

She looked at him, not quite believing her eyes. Harry was kneeling in front of her, pulling her soaked panties off her legs, looking like he wants to devour her.

“Who were you emailing?” Harry asked, sliding the panties off her legs completely, before looking back up at her.

“What?”

“Your emails are open on your laptop. Who were you emailing?”

“Just the electrician to fix the lights in the bathroom…” She said. “And then I was going to email the postal compan-”

She was caught by surprise by Harry placing his lips on her thighs, letting out a loud gasp.

He kissed up her thigh, towards her aching core.

“You’re so wet.” He hummed. “Who knew my words could turn someone on so much.”

Her breathing sped up, her hands shaking while they gripped the sides of the chair.

“Show me where you want me, sweet girl.” He said, pulling his head away. “Where do you want me to touch you?”

She shakily took her hand off of the side of the chair, moving it towards her throbbing pussy.

“That’s it, Y/N. Touch yourself where you want me to touch you.”

Her hand traveled towards the heat between her legs. This was embarrassing, she knew that. But at this point she didn’t give a shit, she’d do anything if it meant she could have a small part of Harry as an end result.

Her finger touched her clit gently, resisting a moan.

“Now touch yourself.” He said, “Touch yourself the way you to when you’re lying in bed at night thinking of me.”

That sentence alone made her want to combust. The things this man were doing to her with his just words were insane.

“Do it, Y/N. Do it if you want me.”

She listened. Of course she fucking listened.

She placed two fingers on her throbbing bud and began to move them in slow circles. She’d always start slow, moving her fingers at a steady pace to create intensity, and when she grew hungrier, she’d speed up the pace.

Harry watched her fingers move against her clit, covered in the wetness of her arousal. His dick was rock hard in his pants as she watched her head throw back against the chair with a loud moan.

“That’s it, Y/N.” He said, “Oh, you have no idea how this makes me feel… Watching you jack yourself off like this…”

“Oh! Harry!” She moaned, her hands moving faster.

He was almost drooling watching her. Between her fingers in her pussy, the moans coming from her mouth and that look on her face, he was loosing it all together.

“Stop.” He said bluntly.

Her hands stopped moving, and she looked at him. Nervousness was present all over her features. She went to pull her skirt back down, but she stopped him.

“I think it’s time for you to finish some of these emails, huh?” He smirked.

He teased her while he spoke, running his hand from the bottom of her thigh all the way to half an inch below the ache between her legs.

“And while you get your work done like the good little employee that you are… I’ll sort out your payment.”

His eyes stared hungrily at her dripping pussy.

“And maybe if you finish the email, I’ll let you cum.”

“Harry, please.” She moaned. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“My sweet girl. If you don’t type out that email you won’t be cumming at all. And if you don’t cum then I’m going to get you to sit your cute little ass on that chair and watch me jack off on your desk wishing that my cock was inside you instead of my own hand.” He said, “Now, we don’t want that to happen, do we?”

“No.” She replied.

“No, sir.”

“No, sir.” She corrected herself, swallowing.

Harry’s attention turned back to her pussy, his lips kissing up her thigh.

“The emails, Y/N.” He reminded her.

He slowly heard the keys be pressed on the keyboard, her legs twitching as his mouth moved further and further upwards. However the cry that left this girls mouth as his tongue came in contact with her clit was a sound that would be engrained in his memory for the rest of his life. Fuck porn, all he needed to jack off from now on was the memory of the sound she made as she fell apart at his touch.

“Harry. Fuck.”

His tongue moved in circles on her clit, pressing down hard.

That was until he heard the keys stop moving. So he stopped moving too.

“If you stop, I stop. You know the rules, honey.”

“Harry, please.” She begged, “Need you so bad.”

“I said you know the rules.”

“Please, Sir.”

“Type, Y/N.”

The keys moved on the laptop again. But she wasn’t entirely sure that the words being typed were actually words at all. But as soon as the keys started to move again, Harry kept his word, returning to his own work.

He moved faster, his mouth attacking her sweet pussy at a rate he didn’t think he’d ever went at before. Licking and sucking at her perfect clit while one hand palmed the erection in his pants to try his best to ease some tension.

His tongue moved away from her clit and he replaced it with two fingers, rubbing circles on her swollen bud while his mouth attacked her entrance, fucking her with his tongue.

“Fuck.” She screamed, “Fuck, I’m so close. Please, I need to cum. I’ve finished typing the email. Sir, make me cum, please.”

He kept going. He didn’t give a fuck if she’d finished the email or not at this point. The only thing on this man’s feral mind was to make her cum all over his face. He wanted to taste her sweetness while the sounds of her crying his name filled the office they were in.

When she soon cried out that she was cumming, he made careful care to make sure he was lapping up every sweet juice from her pussy. He was so feral over this woman it was becoming a problem. His dick was so hard he felt like he was going insane.

“You taste so good, my sweet girl.” He said, “Do you know how it makes me feel to hear you scream my name over and over again? Makes me so fucking hard, Y/N.”

He stood up and took her hand and pressed it against the bulge in his pants.

“I think it’s time we deal with this, hm?”

She nodded in agreement.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me already, let’s keep this up, okay? You’re going to go into my office, and by the time I get in there I expect you to be stripped and waiting for me, understood?”

She nodded, eyes wide as she looked up at him. However wasted no time going into his private office.

Fucking Harry in his own office had always been a fantasy of hers, and now it was finally coming true.

Harry on the other hand couldn’t think straight. The amount of lust and desire he had in this moment was clouding any thoughts he had apart from how badly he wanted to fuck her right now. When he made his way into his office he was completely stopped in his tracks by her. Her clothes were sprawled over the floor of his workspace, and there she was, leaning against his desk like someone sent from his own personal dream girl wonderland.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” He said as he walked over to her, “I have wanted you naked in my office for so long, Y/N. Every time you come into work and let me see these gorgeous tits through one of your revealing little dresses or shirts it makes me so hard.”

He took one of her breasts in his hand, placing his lips against it, while he snaked his other arm around her waist to pull her closer to him.

He sucked several deep marks over both of her breasts, mumbling about how hot she was, and how perfect her tits were.

He began to mindlessly grinned his erection against her while he kissed her naked body, groaning into her skin.

“Harry.” She moaned. “Please. Please fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you, huh? You want my dick?”

She nodded, desperately.

“Turn around and bend over my desk.” Harry demanded, unbuckling his belt, and sliding his pants down his legs.

He watched as she bent over for him, her perfect little ass in the air just for him.

“Oh look at you, Y/N.” He said, “Bent over my desk for me like this. So obedient, hm? An obedient little whore.”

He took his rock hard dick in one hand, pumping it a few times to get himself ready.

She moaned at his words.

“Do you like that, Y/N? When I call you a whore? Are you my little slut, Y/N?”

She moaned, desperate for him.

“Yes, Sir.” She cried, “I’m your whore.”

Without any warning, Harry pushed his dick inside of her, moaning as his cock pushed into her cunt.

She cried his name louder than ever before as he tore her open. He was so fucking big that it was slightly painful, but she didn’t care. It was the best pain she’d ever felt in her life.

“I’ve never fucked anyone as tight as this, Y/N. But I’ll loosen you up in no time with you bent over my desk like this.”

“Harry you’re so big.”

“But you can take it,” He said, “Be a good little slut and take my cock like a good girl.”

He groaned as his cock pushed all the way into her, giving her a few moments to adjust to his size.

“Wanna stay like this forever,” He groaned, “My fat cock buried in your sweet cunt.”

She moaned loudly.

Harry took both of her hands, using one hand to hold her wrists behind her back, his other hand holding onto the desk for extra support.

“I’m gonna start moving now. But you can take it, can’t you? A good fuckin’ slut for me.”

She cried out when his hips started to move, her head falling backwards with her wrists still restrained behind her back.

“Oh you’re so tight, Y/N. Gonna fill your pussy up with cum in no time.” He groaned.

“Oh… God, Oh fuck, yes!” She moaned as the speed of Harry’s hips increased, crashing against her in a desperate, rough manner.

He dropped her wrists, and her hands grabbed onto the desk, and instead grabbed a bundle of her hair, wrapping it around his hand, pulling her head backwards. She cried out with pleasure as he fucked her harder, the whole office filled with nothing but the sound of their skin hitting one another, and their bordering pornographic moans.

“Fuck, Harry.” She cried, “I’m so close.”

His mind was foggy. The only real thing in his mind right now was the feeling of his dick inside her, how he wanted to feel her cum on his cock and how he wanted to fill her pussy up with his release. He was feral for her.

“You make me crazy, Y/N,” He groaned, “‘M gonna fill you up with my cum.”

“Keep going, just like that.” She moaned, “I’m so close.”

He knew as soon as she had reached her orgasm. Y/N cried out with these heavenly moans as her walls clenched around his cock, cumming all over him.

The tightness of her made Harry unable to hold on for much longer, reaching his own release, moaning into her shoulder as his cum dripped down Y/N’s legs, his cock still inside her.

“Harry…” She moaned.

“I know, gorgeous. I know.” He said, “So fuckin’ perfect, you know that?”

He pulled out of her, ignoring the state of mess that the office was now in.

“How am I supposed to go to work normally when I know I’d rather be fucking your pretty little cunt every day, hm?”

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

⋆⁺₊❅. “Give you...whatever you need!"⋆⁺₊❅.

synopsis: being the captains assistant ;)

tags: lots of possessiveness, manipulation (?), power dynamics, dom capitano, vulgar, explicit, fingering, facefucking, begging, degradation, penetration, creampie, you get the gist

wrd cnt: 2.5k

a/n: doja cat pls release generous ( lyrics from the song as title) and my life is YOURS… also partly inspired by the azeru audio….

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Droplets of a custom blend of his favorite drink, warm and slightly sweet hit the bottom of a porcelain cup.

It was just something you did, something you knew The Captain liked and as his assistant, routinely did.

This particular evening it was as if everyone in the nation needed you. A task, an errand, or just had to stop you in your tracks to his quarters for some idle chat.

It must have been several minutes longer than when he was expecting you, which was far too long to keep the Captain waiting; occupied against your will.

His tea was cold by now.

Finally, you ran over to his door. The runway-like carpet ending and small tiles lining the entryway to his office, guarded and sealed.

But you were a regular.

The guard knocked on the door, “Sir, your assistant has returned” he announced, waiting for an answer.

It took a few seconds, but you could hear a faint “Let her in”.

You sigh deeply and watch the giant doors open and shut behind you as you walk into the dimly lit room, only candles and small lamps lit across the table and crackling fireplace that remained behind The Captain’s seated body.

“Over and Over. I must have called you a thousand times? More or less.” He spoke, his voice clear even through the steel mask that adorned his face.

“I’m so sorry-“ You quickly respond, placing the cup on the edge of his desk and folding your hands together. “I got caught up with some others- a few harbingers as well needed my assistance.”

He straightened his legs, now standing in front of you, making you back up just slightly due to his large frame.

“It’s as if you’ve forgotten who you serve.” He said, the point of his gauntlet nail scratching the edge of your jaw and trailing down to your chin.

“Who kept you so long?” He asked, quickly adding “Never mind. Don’t tell me, I’d rather not know.”

You have trouble knowing where to look. Not wanting to cause any more trouble for yourself.

“Now that you’re here…maybe we should get started. You’ll probably need to stay overnight.” He mentioned.

You nod, agreeably to not seem like you’re eager to leave.

You sorted out all the intel Capitano had been collecting. There were piles of data, equipment, maps, and so much more. You were the only person he’d let touch them. It was common for you to stay late, as work never seems to dry out. It was also common for you to be whatever he wanted you to be. Errand runner, liaison…or his toy to let out his frustrations.

Everyone sees The Captain for what he puts on. Respectable and professional.

Most of the fatui honestly confess to enjoying working for him, as he has been much kinder than the others.

He can be, but he has his limits.

How can he be so kind to you when you’re late? You dared to keep him waiting.

“This is unlike you.” He says, noticing you yawn as you flip through the pages.

You blink your eyes a second too long, “Oh- I’m sorry I haven’t gotten much sleep, but I can keep working! Please don’t worry”. You assure.

“ I’m not worried, not for myself anyway.” He adds, kicking his feet up on the edge of the desk.

“Come here.” He urges you, forcing you to get off your small little table in the corner to his desk.

He flicks just one finger and you follow, taunting you to his lap.

“Yes- Captain?” You feel your throat get dry as you sit on his thigh, big enough to count as a seat.

“Is there anything…you need from me?” You ask, insinuating a more personal form of assistance.

He hikes his foot up higher on the table, creating a steep slope of his legs that drags you down and forces you into the crook of your lap, hands instinctively hitting his chest for balance.

“This isn’t for me. I think we need to wake you up.”

You felt a small shiver run up your spine when his hands landed on your hips, “How else will you finish all your work?” He adds.

You let out a small sigh as you felt his steel-clad fingers wrapping around your sides as if your ribs were now armored.

He slowly dragged them down your stomach, small points sliding down the sides of your thighs making you arch your back and grind onto his lap, earning a chuckle from him.

With swift motion, he grabs your throat; dropping his mask on the floor and letting it roll off somewhere.

Your body tenses, and you can see the most faint glimpses of his face; still hidden under the darkness of the room.

Deep and rich, he speaks to you, “Take off your clothes.”

Almost as if he’d conditioned your mind, you do so with no complaints.

He even helps, tugging up your shirt with the finger tip of his gauntlets as you pull it off. As your shirt falls to the floor, you stand before him in just your bra and skirt, your heart pounding in your chest. He doesn't waste any time, his hands moving to your back, deftly unhooking your bra with practiced ease. The straps slide down your arms, and your breasts spill free, bouncing lightly as they are finally released. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, exposed and vulnerable.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval. "Now the rest."

You slip your skirt down, letting it pool at your feet, and step out of it.

You stand there, naked and vulnerable, your breath hitching as Capitano's fingers trace the curve of your hips. His touch is firm yet deliberate, each movement sending shivers down your spine. Shadows play across his muscular frame, making him appear even more imposing as he pulls you back onto his lap, each leg now dangling off his sides.

"Spread your legs," he commands, his voice low and gravelly. The steel in his tone leaves no room for disobedience.

You hesitate for a brief moment, but the intensity in his dark blue eyes compels you to comply. You part your thighs, positioning yourself in his lap. The heat between your legs is almost unbearable, a stark contrast to the cool air brushing against your exposed skin. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your folds, another hand squeezing your breasts between his thumb and forefinger. You gasp, arching into his touch, your body betraying how much you crave his attention.

"Please..." you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you.

He leans forward, his mouth closing around your nipple, suckling hard enough to make you cry out.

His teeth graze the tender flesh, sending waves of pleasure and pain coursing through you.

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into the tough material of his armor, as he moves to your other breast, repeating the process. Each pull of his lips, each scrape of his teeth, makes you shudder, your body responding eagerly to his rough ministrations.

"Captain..." you moan, your voice breaking as he continues his assault on your senses and his gentle strokes around your inner thigh, purposefully ignoring your sensitive pearl.

He pulls back, leaving you panting and desperate for more. His eyes glint with satisfaction as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. "Turn around," he orders, his voice firm and commanding.

You obey, swinging your leg over and turning your back to him…well, it’s more of him picking up your entire weight and shifting you into position.

As you automatically reach for the edge of the desk to steady yourself, he lifts himself off his seat, stepping close to your body, his presence looming behind you, his heat radiating against your bare skin. You feel his hands on your ass, squeezing the globes roughly, spreading them apart to expose your most intimate parts. Your breath hitches as you anticipate what's coming next.

"Look at you," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "So ready for me." He adds, flicking his arm down to release his hand from the gauntlet, thudding on the floor just as his last piece of equipment.

“Is this what you were thinking about in that little corner of yours?” He teases.

His fingers trail down, skin grazing the crease where your thighs meet your ass, dipping lower until they brush against your wet folds. You gasp, your knees buckling slightly as he slips one finger inside you, probing deeply. You clench around him, your muscles instinctively tightening, drawing him deeper.

"You're so, so wet," he murmurs, his finger sliding in and out of you, slowly building up speed. "Such a good girl."

Your head falls forward, your forehead resting on the cool surface of the desk as you ride out the sensations he's unleashing on your body. His cold finger flicks against your clit, making you jerk and whimper, your hips swaying involuntarily as you try to get more friction. "Beg for it," he demands, removing his finger and resting it on your hips.

"Please... Captain, please," you beg, your voice shaking with need. "I want more... I need you..."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "Not yet," he says, "But soon."

You whine in protest, your body aching for release, but he grabs your hips.

"On your knees," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You drop to your knees, your hands trembling as you reach for his belt, unbuckling it quickly. You undo his pants, pushing them down to reveal his hardened length, already glistening with pre-cum.

You lick your lips, your mouth watering at the sight of him.

"Take me in your mouth," he orders, his hands gripping your hair tightly. "Show me how much you want it."

You obey, wrapping your lips around his throbbing cock, sucking gently as you take him deep into your throat. He groans, his hands tightening in your hair as you bob your head up and down, your tongue swirling around him with each pass. You can feel him twitching in your mouth, his hips thrusting gently to meet your movements.

"Fuck... yes," he mutters, his voice strained with effort. "Suck it like you mean it."

You redouble your efforts, taking him deeper, your throat convulsing around him as you gag slightly.

He tastes amazing, salt and iron, the essence of his power and dominance filling your senses. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you stroke the base of his shaft with your hand, listening to the sounds of his grunts and moans above you.

"That's it," he praises, his fingers digging into your scalp. "Just like that... almost there...you’re working so hard"

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breathing heavy and labored. You know he's close, can feel the tension building in him, and you work harder, your jaw aching from the effort.

Suddenly, he lets out a low growl, his fingers yanking your head back as he comes, his hot seed flooding your mouth.

You swallow dutifully, licking him clean as he pulls out of your mouth, his chest heaving with exertion.

He looks down at you, his eyes dark with lust, and smirks. "Up," he commands, his voice still hoarse from his orgasm.

You do as told, standing up and facing him, your legs shaky from being on your knees for so long. He grabs your wrist, yanking you towards the desk, and pushes you onto it, your chest pressing against the cool wood. You gasp, your nipples rubbing against the rough surface, sending jolts of sensation through your body.

He kneels behind you, his hands roaming over your ass, squeezing and caressing the flesh before diving between your legs once more. His fingers find your drenched entrance, slipping inside with ease, pumping in and out with increasing speed.

You moan, your head falling back as his other hand circles your clit, rubbing it furiously.

"That’s it…keep making those sounds," he whispers, "So fucking wet for me. You need more, don’t you?”

You nod, unable to form words, your body consumed by the pleasure he's giving you. His rough hands continue to pleasure you, painting your ass red with just a single slap.

“Answer me.” He says, waiting for your begging voice before pressing his hard length into your ass.

“Yes- please….please Capitano.” You whimper.

You can almost feel the smirk that’s plastered on his face behind you. He lines himself up, his tip teasing your entrance, dipping just enough to coat himself in your slick arousal. You shiver at the contact, your body tensing in anticipation. Then, without warning, he presses forward, his cock sliding partway into your tight channel before pausing.

"Relax," he commands, his voice firm. "Give yourself to me completely."

You try to relax, breathing deeply, but the stretch is overwhelming. His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you steady as he begins to push deeper, filling you inch by agonizing inch. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, your muscles clenching around him as he forces his way inside.

"That's it," he whispers, his voice strained. "Take it all, my little slut."

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he's buried deep inside you, his balls pressed against your ass. You gasp, overwhelmed by the sensation, by the fullness, by the sheer dominance of his presence within you. It's almost too much, but somehow, it's exactly what you need.

Capitano doesn't wait for you to adjust. With a low growl, he pulls back until only his tip remains, then thrusts forward again, his hips slamming into yours with bruising force. You cry out, your hands clutching at the desk for support as he claims you over and over again. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making your head spin and your vision blur.

"Fuck, you feel good," he grunts, his voice rough with exertion. "So tight, so perfect."

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. He fucks into your at a monstrous pace, your body going limp. He picks you up, holding your neck firm from behind.

“Arch your fucking back.” He growls, roughly handling you into position. You can feel the tension building in him, the same tension that's coiling inside you, tightening with every thrust, every caress. You're close, so close, but he's not done with you yet.

He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your ear. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rumble.

You obey, turning your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild, filled with lust and possession. He looks at you as if you're his world, his everything, and in this moment, you believe it.

"You're mine," he whispers, “Anytime another person- another damn harbinger calls for you- shit” He groans, “…tell them to fuck off. Captain’s order?” his voice thick with emotion. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, I will-!" you breathe, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

His hand slides down to your clit again, his fingers rubbing in fast, desperate circles. The added stimulation pushes you over the edge, and you scream his name as you come undone, your body convulsing around his cock. He follows right behind you, his release crashing over him like a tidal wave, filling you with his warmth.

You’ve never served Capitano with a cold cup of tea again.

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Cw: threats to reader with a knife.

You're out for a walk in the woods, when you come across Alastor of all people, walking along, your eyes widen as he spots you at the exact moment you spot the bloody knife in his hand.

Startled, you step back and look around nervously before focusing on Alastor once more in horror.

You: "A-Alastor? W-What are you doing here?"

You try to keep your voice steady, innocent, heart pounding in your chest.

Alastor: "Why I just wanted some peace and quiet, my Dear, a nice calming walk, just as I'm sure was your purpose for being out at such an hour, hmm?"

Internally he berates himself, he had been courting you gradually and now this?! How... Sloppy.

Your eyes dart to the knife in his hand, fear creeping into your eyes, to Alastor's dismay but also advantage.

You: "W-Why do you have that?"

His smile grew wider as he saw the fear in your eyes.

Alastor: "Oh, this? Just something I carry around for protection."

He chuckles lightly, taking half a step closer to you.

Alastor: "But I must say, I wasn't expecting to see you here. It's quite a surprise, a pleasant one."

Alastor lies, trying to stop you from running, trying to charm his way into relaxing you.

Alastor: "I hope you don't mind if I join you, after all it'll be more safe and fun that way don't you think?"

Alastor's tone is filled with amusement. You feel nothing but terror in his presence right now, a hard contrast to the affable charming man you always felt at ease around before... Maybe even loved.

You take another step back, feeling uneasy about his proximity and the knife.

You: "I-I don't know, Alastor. I-I think I prefer being alone right now."

You swallow hard, trying to hide your anxiety. Despite your efforts to sound confident, your voice trembles slightly, betraying your fear.

You: "P-Please, just leave me alone."

You plead, breaking the pretense and hoping he would listen. Alastor tilted his head to the side, studying you intently, how interesting, you were certainly different than the others... Perhaps he wouldn't kill you... Yet.

Alastor: "Ah, but where's the fun in that?"

He took another step toward you, closing the distance between you two further, to your utter panic.

Alastor: "Besides, I don't think I can let such a rare opportunity slip away. A chance encounter with such a lovely morsel, in the middle of the woods, it's almost too perfect."

Alastor's voice is dripping with sarcasm, knowing exactly how to panic cornered prey into making mistakes.

You feel a chill run down your spine as Alastor steps even closer, your heart beating faster with every passing moment.

You: "P-Please, Alastor. I-I don't want any trouble."

You beg, taking another step back. Your foot hits a tree root, causing you to lose your balance and fall backward onto the damp ground

You: "Ahh!"

Landing on your back with a loud thud. As you fell, Alastor couldn't help but laugh at the sight. You really were making this too easy.

Alastor: "Oh, how clumsy of you."

He walked over to you, laugh echoing in the isolated area, bouncing off trees, no-one would ever find your body here.

Soon Alastor is standing above you knife glinting in the moonlight, you're frozen in fear, heart pounding in your chest, you try to scream for help but not a sound escapes, you're trapped in your own body, paralysed by your own pathetic weakness.

Alastor: "Now, what? Right! I believe I was about to join you."

Alastor smirked, lowering himself to sit on top of you, pinning you to the ground, almost like taking a seat for tea, before leaning over you, knife edge finding its way against your throat as tears well in your eyes.

Alastor: "Don't worry, I won't hurt you too much."

Alastor whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, he even has the audacity to nip at the flesh there, reveling in the shiver that wracks your already shaking form.

Alastor's firm body presses to yours, so warm as you feel frozen, such a parody of how things used to be. You even whimper slightly at the sight of his dilated eyes and the bulge you were sure you felt twitch against your hip.

Alastor: "Now where was I? Ah yes... Threatening you."

[powderpinkandsweeet]

Trucker Ellie x Hitchhiker Reader

Sorta fluffy sort of nsfw and long. You shower together and you give Ellie head. TW S/A attempt

The open road was lonely. For days at a time Ellie would only interact with others through the windshield of her big rig. The CB radio was an option, but the truckers weren’t so kind to the only woman on the station. By no means was the job fun, but it paid well and kept her occupied. Three months in and Ellie had been able to send a good chunk of change back home, but she had a long road ahead before she would follow the money. At first, she had enjoyed the time and space to clear her mind, but after the first thousand or so miles it had gotten old.

Ellie was riding a country road past the exit to a dinky town when she laid eyes on your silhouette half a mile up at the onramp. You stood dangerously close to the road with your thumb raised in the air, the other shading your eyes to scope out oncoming cars. You piqued Ellie's interest for a multitude of reasons: you were probably overheating, and the closer she got the prettier you became, but most of all, you were hitchhiking so you must be either desperate or stupid.

Ellie down-shifted gears and pumped the brakes, managing to come to the safest stop she could without flying through the windshield or losing the trailer behind her. She could see the wide grin on your face as you jogged up to her passenger side. She rolled down the window as you hopped up the steps to lean against the door. Arms crossed beneath your breasts, you rested your forearms against the windowsill to make eye contact with her. She saw the blush of sunburn across your cheekbones and nose as you caught your breath and asked her in the sweetest voice "you got room for one more?"

Ellie sneered, "depends, you gonna tell me what the hell you think you're doing risking your ass flagging down truckers on the side of the road?"

You didn't let your smile falter, but this close Ellie could see the twinge of sadness in your eyes. You sighed, "I just wanna get outta here is all."

Ellie's composure wavered as she thought out what she was being confronted with. For months, Ellie hadn't spoken to women save for waitresses, gas station clerks, and the occasional hotel receptionist when her bed at the back of her truck cab felt too cramped or too cold. But these were brief, cold, transactional. She knew that if she didn't take advantage of you/of the situation, someone else would. Ellie's intentions were no better than any other touch-starved pervert sat at the wheel of a big rig, but she figured she was probably your best option. "Yeah, alright, get in. Where ya headed? I can take you close as I can get, but I won't go off my route. I ain't your taxi driver."

You brightened up and yanked open the passenger door, "fuck, anywhere but here, honestly. Thank you so much, you're saving my life here" you cheered as you swung your bag up into the cab and plopped down into the passenger seat.

Ellie smirked, thinking she might be able to keep you around for a while. She shifted gears and revved the engine, pulling back onto the road. "Anywhere but here it is, sweetheart," she affirmed.

Days in Ellie's truck were spent making awkward small talk and singing along to the radio. The open road wasn't so lonely anymore with you sitting next to her. Riding through a desolate plain, the sun was almost fully set when Ellie laid eyes on a rest stop sign. “I think it’s about time we turn in for the night.”

You hummed from where you were slumped in the passenger seat, eyelids heavy. Ellie held back a coo at how cute you looked all sleepy and comfortable next to her. She took the exit and parked the rig at the edge of the parking lot. One other semi was in the parking lot, but Ellie paid it no mind. She reached out to pat your shoulder, to which you awoke with a snort. "Come on, get up. You're gonna get a crick in your neck sleeping like that."

You rubbed your eyes sleepily and hummed in agreement. You accompanied Ellie to the restroom to sleepily brush your teeth and change into your pajamas. You finished before Ellie and made your way out of the putrid smelling restroom for some fresh air. You had nothing to do but wait since Ellie had the keys, so you wandered to the vending machines to pass time. 'Maybe I'll ask Ellie if we can get poptarts tomorrow morning...' you thought, before you heard footsteps approaching. You turned around ready to ask, "All done, Ell...ie?" but it wasn't Ellie. "Oh, sorry..."

He stood two steps from you, close enough that you were struck by the scent of menthol cigarettes and his stale, sour breath. "Ain't no thing, sweetheart," he cooed, "I dunno who this Ellie is, but I can surely keep you company til she gets back." He leaned in closer with a wide grin and you shrunk back against the vending machine, "I can show you a real good time, promise. Don't got much on me to pay ya for your services but I can show you a real good time."

You tried to look everywhere but in his eyes and crossed your arms over your breasts. "N-n-no thank you, sir" you managed to stutter, "I've really got to get going if you don't mind." You attempted to duck under his arm where you were caged, but you were only jostled as he firmly gripped your wrist. With a yank, you were pulled far too close for comfort.

His grin grew impossibly bigger as he huffed out a laugh, "So polite and so cute... but dumb as a rock if you think I was gonna letcha go that easy." You struggled to loosen his grip, pulling with all your might and leaning back with all your weight. Despite your best efforts, you were easily being towed toward a semi across the parking lot.

Still struggling, you cried out for Ellie, or anyone really, to help. Your cries were cut off as your head was whipped to the side by a slap. The man gripped your hair at the roots to force your eyes to meet his, "none of that, now. I coulda treated you real nice ya'know, but now ya did it. Any whore worth a dime woulda given in by now, but you like to play rough now, don't ya?" You sobbed as he leaned closer, the smell of cigarette ash and sour sweat nearly making you gag. From behind the foul-smelling man, you heard the woman you had been crying out for.

"I'm gonna ask you nice one time and one time only, let her go now." Ellie growled.

The man scoffed, "Oh yeah? I found her first, and I expect a whore wandering a truck stop parking lot to do her job."

"Or what, huh? You ain't gonna like what's coming to ya." Ellie adjusted her footing and held her fists up in a defensive pose.

He wheezed out a laugh and you flinched at the spray of spit over your shoulder, "oh I'm so scared of a scrawny little dyke, I oughta put you in your place the way you're talki-" but he was quickly cut off by a fist to the jaw. The man crumpled with a choking noise, and you nearly fell with him as he held his grip firm on your wrist. Tears in your eyes, you wrench at the man's forearm for him to release you. From Ellie's position above you, she reared her leg back and sent it flying in between the man's legs. He released your wrist to curl into a fetal position and cradle his injury, whimpering and choking all the way.

Finally freed, you scramble backward in fear to put some distance between you and the offender. You scratched furiously at your wrist where you could still feel the sweat from his palm and the bite of his fingernails.

With tears blurring your vision, you can see Ellie leering over the man. If it were directed your way, the look on her face would only make you cry harder. How she had reduced the man twice her size to a crying heap on the ground, you had no idea, but you were grateful nonetheless. Ellie sent one more kick into the man's gut before she bent down to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. She pulled out the cash in it and tossed it at the man where he lay whimpering on the ground. Ellie's gaze softened as it landed on you, and she sent one last look to the man on the ground before marching over and offering you her hand. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here before numb-nuts over here gets up." You gingerly accepted her hand and were surprised by the ease with which she pulled you to your feet.

You felt the burn of Ellie's pull in your shoulder as you stumbled behind her. She hastily unlocks the truck before boosting you into the cab with a grip on your hips. You sink into the passenger seat and she pulls herself up into the cab and pulls the door shut behind her. The second it closes, she clicks the lock. The truck revved to life and Ellie shifted it into gear. "We just gotta find some place else to turn in."

An almost inaudible "I'm sorry" was heard from the passenger side. Ellie sent you a confused glance before returning her focus to the road ahead.

"What have you got to be sorry about, honey?"

You looked down to your lap, "I couldn't protect myself so you had to save me, and you're exhausted but we have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight because I fucked up, Ellie. I just don't want to disappoint y-"

"You ain't disappointing me so don't be sorry. Isn't your fault that fucker couldn't keep it in his pants." Ellie interrupted.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, anxiously picking your nails. "Oh... well where are we gonna go now?"

"There's got to be a rest stop or motel in the next thirty or so miles. Just gotta find it."

And so the night went on, and you once again drifted to sleep in the passenger seat. Ellie occasionally glanced over to take in your peaceful expression. She recalled the tears in your eyes as you sat helpless in the dirt before her. When Ellie pulled up to a motel with a flickering neon "vacancy" sign. The brakes squeaked as she pulled to a stop, but you weren't stirred from your slumber. Whispering, Ellie promised you "no one else is gonna make you cry if I've got something to say about it."

She sat back in her seat to contemplate her next move. You wouldn't mind if she touched your face, would you? She wouldn't blame you for feeling averse to touch, but you looked so soft and you snored so cutely. 'Fuck it,' Ellie thought, before reaching out to cup your jaw and stroke her thumb along its length. The warmth of her palm pulled you from your slumber and you unconsciously snuggled into her touch. Your eyes blinked open and made contact with Ellie's intent stare.

You rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes and murmured "are we there yet?"

"Yep, wakey wakey, princess. I'm gonna get us some room and we can get some sleep. It'll be nice to have a proper bed and shower for once." You perked up at bed and struggled to stand from the passenger seat and climb down the steps of the too-high truck. 'How does Ellie get in and out of this thing, she's like 5'2'' you thought.

Ellie was kind enough to pay for a room with a queen bed and a pull out mattress. Ellie sighed and dropped her backpack onto the couch like a sack of bricks. "I'll take the couch."

Surprised, your wide eyes met hers, "you don't have to do that, Ellie. You paid for the room so you should take the bed."

Ellie ignored you, pulling out the sofa bed and plopping onto it with her arms crossed behind her head. "It's not up for discussion."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You were stubborn, but Ellie even more so. "Or we could share the bed?" Ellie suggested with wiggling eyebrows and a poor attempt at a wink.

You were not amused, "I'll take the bed, you take the couch." Ellie pulled out her phone to scroll online until she fell asleep.

It was approaching 11PM, and your skin was still crawling. You needed to scrub it away. "Ellie... I think I'm gonna take a shower. So I'll be right back, kay?" She nodded with eyes on her phone. You stripped from your clothes and turned the water as high as it could go. Turning to face the mirror, you assessed the damage. You had skinned knees from falling and bruises scattered across your arms and legs. In particular, your wrists had purple hand marks across them from where the man had tightly gripped your wrist. You continued to stare blankly until the mirror had fogged up from the steam and you were nothing but a blur in the mirror. You sighed and returned your attention to the shower running behind you. Stepping in, you hissed in pain at the heat but didn't turn it down. The burning pain was a distraction from the itching you felt where he touched you. You unwrapped a bar of hotel soap and scrubbed from head to toe, desperately trying to overcome the feeling.

As the hot water ran down your body, you thought of Ellie. For a moment, you hopes that she liked you, but how could she when all you did was get her into fights and eat away her earnings. Tears lined your eyelids and fell with the spray from the shower. You wallowed in sadness for a few more moments before you could hear a quiet knock at the door and a call of your name. You thought you could be quiet enough, but your crying was too loud and drew her in. You cleared your throat, "I'm alright, don't worry!"

"Well, I thought I heard crying so I wanted to check in on you."

"shit... it's okay, I just needed a second to let it out. I'll be out in just a few minutes."

"Nope, I'm coming in."

"No, wait!" but she had already pulled open that stupid barn door, it didn't hold in any noise.

"Ellie, I'm naked in here, what the fuck?!"

"I figured, usually that's how people shower."

"Ugh, you know that's not what I meant, now can you get out?"

"Not until you tell me why you were crying."

You peeked your head out of the shower curtain. She was serious, not just prying for the joke or the drama. Your eyebrows furrowed and mouth pinched in a frown, you hid back behind the shower curtain. "Thought it'd be obvious by now..."

"Was it the guy at the rest stop?"

You sighed, "yeah... no shit. You figured it out"

"He isn't gonna bother us anymore, you saw him eat shit when I hit him."

"I don't mean that he's going to chase us down, I mean that I can't stop thinking about it, the fucking smell and the way he grabbed me like I was just a piece of meat. I feel disgusting and I can't get the feeling to go away no matter how hard I scrub. We're miles away but I feel like I can't get away from him"

There was a pause for a moment and the ruffling of fabric, and you almost thought she had left the bathroom. What you didn't expect was for Ellie to step into the shower behind you. You squealed and attempted to pull the shower curtain to the side to cover yourself, but the cheap hotel fabric did little to cover your nakedness from her prying eyes.

"First of all," she starts, "you were taking way too long in the shower and I thought maybe you'd slipped and fell." She reached for the shampoo on the shelf behind you, your noses almost touching. "Second, you need to give yourself a little more credit." Ellie started to lather her hair, "you're so much sweeter than him, than me, and than this place. I'll betcha you've got better things at home waiting for you, but you stepped up into my cab instead."

You sighed as you attempted to shield your nakedness with your hands, "no one's waiting for me, Ellie.... and I think of all the creeps out there picking up hitchhikers you're the least creepy."

She snorted out a laugh, "creepy nonetheless, but you're not wrong. I've been creeping on you since I saw you stood on the side of the road."

Your face grew warmer. You couldn't help but like her attention and her closeness. Her eyes darted back and forth across your body as she spoke, but you had put all your effort into maintaining eye contact. "Matter of fact..." Ellie started as she stepped chest-to-chest with you, "don't think I haven't seen you staring at my fingers while I drive. I've seen you stiffen and press your legs together, and don't think I haven't seen the way you squirm in that seat when I'm real sweet on you."

Your cheeks were hot and your eyes were wide as you struggled to form words. Were you really that obvious?

"Don't get shy on me now," Ellie taunted.

Fed up with her teasing, you grabbed her face in your palms and smushed your lips into hers. Ellie stiffened with surprise, but let her lids fall shut and relaxed into the kiss. Your lips were so soft, but they moved against hers with fervor. Ellie surrendered her control, yearning for you to have your way with her.

You held her waist in your palms and stroked up her sides. Ellie shuddered; she hadn't felt the warmth and softness of a woman's touch in months. You cupped her breasts in your hands to give them a teasing squeeze that made Ellie gasp. "So sensitive..." you hum with a smile, circling her nipples with your thumbs. You leaned into her ear to huskily whisper "I wanna taste you, Ellie." You dotted soft kisses along the curve of her ear, "will you let me? Please? I want it so bad. I'm so hungry for your pussy, Ellie"

She nodded quickly and enthusiastically. Ellie could put up a tough facade, but to hell with it when she wants nothing more than to submit to you. You smiled warmly and knelt down onto the shower floor. Ellie backed up into the tiled wall and you situated yourself between her legs.

You took a moment just to admire her. Ellie shivered as you scratched your nails up her lean, prickly legs to grab her by the hips. You pulled them towards you to meet the patch of dark hair at the apex of her thighs. Your fingers slipped on the slick arousal trailing down her inner thighs as you spread her pussy lips. Her swollen clit peeked out from under its hood, and you leaned in to place a soft, sweet kiss to it that made Ellie flinch.

"Come on already, no teasing..." she grumbled.

You had to hold in a laugh at her whining, but you were just as eager as she was. You stuck out your tongue and licked a long, fat line up her pussy. You pulled back briefly to savor her taste with a gulp and a hum of satisfaction. "Tastes so good," you moaned out and licked your lips.

Ellie struggled to keep her eyes on you as you ate her out, rolling back in her head as you licked her sloppily. Her wetness smeared across your cheeks and ran down your chin. "So messy, baby, "you cooed to her as you pulled back for a breath. "Just for me, yeah?"

Ellie groaned and held her bottom lip between her teeth, gritting out a "yes, ffffuck, jus' for you."

"So cute..." you mumbled to yourself before rewarding Ellie with a harsh suck to her clit. Her back arched and a hand reached out to grab you by the hair. The tug at your scalp made you moan against Ellie's lips, only serving to heighten Ellie's pleasure with the vibration. She panted and held both sides of your head to rock her hips into your mouth. You moaned at her taking control, using you like a toy for her to fuck as she pleased. She pressed you closer and clenched her thighs around your head, squishing your cheeks together. You moaned at the pressure and being further engulfed in her smell.

Ellie groaned between heavy breaths, "so good, fuck... fuck me so good, honey." She was so sensitive, squirming despite your arms wrapped around her thighs. The heat between your thighs was becoming unbearably hot. You had somehow reduced this rough and tough truck driver to a whiny mess.

Ellie's thighs clenched tightly around your head, whimpering out a warning of "I'm, fuck I'm gonna-ah, I'm-"

"Gonna cum?" you taunted and gave her pussy a light slap.

"Yes, fuuuuck." A line of drool slipped from her mouth.

A grin stretched across your face, and you pulled one of her legs to sit atop one of your shoulders. You drew three fingers firmly up the length of Ellie's pussy. Rapidly, you stroked your fingers back and forth over Ellie's soaking pussy. Her head fell back with a near shout of "fuck!" Your arm strained where it was wrapped around Ellie's thigh on your shoulder as it tensed and squirmed with the bucking of her hips.

Expletives poured from Ellie's mouth as she endured the assault on her pussy, before words left her and she could only choke and squeal. Her wetness splashed against your hand and the inside of her thighs. Excitedly, you leaned in to taste her cum and feel her arousal splash across your face.

Ellie's hips and legs slowed their squirming, trembling instead. She let out a long breath and ran a hand through her hair. "Fuck."

You giggled as you clambered up onto your feet, "that's all you got to say?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Fucked the thoughts right out of my brain, sweet cheeks."

"Pfft! Sweet cheeks?"

Ellie gave you the biggest grin, "yes ma'am, I could see your ass wiggle and jiggle while you gave me head. A beautiful view."

You pushed her shoulder "oh fuck off, now let me finish my shower."

Reluctantly, Ellie pulled back the curtain and stepped out. "Yeah okay fine, but you got another thing comin when you get your sweet ass outta there."

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (17)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 16

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh @your-favorite-god

The wind howls through the darkness as you and Lucerys descend toward Storm’s End, the storm lashing at you with a fury that seems almost personal. Rain slashes against your face, the icy droplets biting into your skin, but you keep your gaze steady, guiding Silverwing through the turbulent air. Below, the formidable walls of Storm’s End loom like a fortress of shadow and stone, the courtyard barely visible through the sheets of rain.

Luke’s dragon, Arrax, circles closer to Silverwing, the smaller dragon clearly uneasy. You see Luke’s head turn sharply as a deep, resonant roar echoes from beyond the castle walls. The massive form of Vhagar, barely visible through the gloom, hovers like a specter, her silhouette outlined by flashes of lightning. Silverwing responds with a piercing shriek, her muscles tensing beneath you, and you feel her desire to charge, to face this ancient beast that looms so ominously in the storm.

“Easy,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the storm’s fury, your hand resting firmly on Silverwing’s neck. You turn to Luke, his face pale but determined, his eyes wide with the fear he’s trying so hard to suppress. “Stay close to me,” you shout, your voice carrying through the wind. “Let’s go inside.”

He nods, swallowing hard as Arrax huddles closer to Silverwing’s larger form, the younger dragon seeking comfort and protection. You guide your son down to the courtyard, Silverwing landing with a thundering crash, her wings beating furiously against the storm.

“Come on!” you call to Luke, your voice firm but gentle, trying to instill some of your own resolve in him. “We have a message to deliver.”

The guards, soaked and shivering, move forward hesitantly as you dismount, their eyes flicking nervously between you and the dragons. You stride forward, your hand on Luke’s shoulder, your gaze locked on the doors to the great hall. “Take us to Lord Borros,” you order, your voice brooking no argument. “We have urgent business.”

They nod, too awed or too frightened to protest, and lead you through the heavy wooden doors and into the hall. The warmth inside is a shock after the storm outside, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows over the stone walls. The scent of smoke and wet earth fills your nostrils as you step forward, Luke close beside you.

Lord Borros Baratheon sits at the head of the hall, his bulk towering even from his seat, his daughters arrayed around him. His gaze shifts from you to Luke, and then, with a visible effort, to Aemond, who stands off to the side, a mocking smile playing at his lips. Borros’s face is strained, the muscles in his jaw clenched as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

“Y/N Targaryen,” Borros begins, his voice deep and rough, but with an edge that betrays his unease. “What brings you here, in such weather? Do you come to set my house ablaze as you did Oldtown?”

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze with a cold, steady stare. “I come to remind you of your oath,” you reply, your voice ringing through the hall, filled with the authority that comes with your birthright. “You swore to my father, King Viserys, and to me, your loyalty. I have come to see if you will honor that vow, cousin.”

Borros shifts in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he tries to muster his courage. “And if I don’t?” he challenges, his tone laced with a defiance that is almost brave. “Will you burn Storm’s End as you did Oldtown? Is that your answer to those who won’t bow to you?”

Before you can respond, Aemond steps forward, his smile widening, his eye gleaming with a dark, malicious light. “Half-brother,” he drawls, his voice carrying a mockery that grates against your nerves. “Will you force your will upon this house, as you have others? Or are you afraid to face a real dragon?”

Your hand clenches around the hilt of your sword, a cold anger settling in your gut. “Mind your tongue, Aemond,” you warn, your voice low and dangerous. “I’m not here for you.”

Luke, beside you, shifts uneasily, his eyes flicking between you and Aemond. “We came to deliver a message,” he says, his voice trembling slightly but steady. “To ask for Lord Borros’s support, as he promised.”

Borros leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting between you, Luke, and Aemond. “And what do you offer me in return for this support, boy?” He muses, his tone thoughtful.

Luke hesitates, glancing at you, then back at Borros. “We offer peace, my lord. And the protection of House Targaryen.”

Aemond laughs, a sharp, bitter sound that echoes off the stone walls. “Peace?” he sneers. “You think peace will keep Storm’s End safe when the dragons come?”

You take a step forward, your gaze locking onto Aemond’s. “Silence,” you say, your voice hard. “This isn’t about you.”

Aemond’s smile fades, his eye narrowing, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think you can walk in here and demand loyalty,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained rage. “You, who tore apart a city, who killed innocent people—”

“Mind your words,” you growl, your hand tightening on your sword. “Or I’ll show you what real fire and blood looks like.”

Borros rises, his face flushed with anger. “Enough!” he roars, his voice booming through the hall. “This is my house, and I will not have it turned into a battleground for your family squabbles!”

He turns to you, his eyes blazing. “I swore an oath, yes. But I will not be bullied or threatened into a choice that could destroy my house. You offer peace, Y/N, but your actions speak of war. Why should I trust you?”

Before you can respond, Aemond steps forward again, his face twisted with a dark glee. “Because he has nothing else,” he taunts, his voice filled with malice. “He knows that without force, he cannot hold the realm. So he comes here, to make demands, to try and make you bend the knee.”

You glare at Aemond, the rage boiling over, your grip on your sword tightening. “This is not the place for this, Aemond. I came here to speak with Lord Borros, not to engage in your games.”

But Aemond’s eye glints with a dangerous light, and he takes another step forward. “Then draw your sword, brother,” he hisses. “Show me what you have.”

Luke’s face pales, his hand twitching toward his own weapon, but you place a firm hand on his shoulder, shaking your head. “No,” you say quietly, your gaze never leaving Aemond’s. “This is not the time.”

Borros watches, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, and something like respect for the restraint you’re showing. He clears his throat, drawing all eyes back to him.

“You want my support, Y/N?” he says slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of the decision. “You want me to choose sides in this war of yours? Then show me why I should.”

You take a deep breath, forcing the rage back, focusing on the man before you. “Because you swore an oath to my father, to me,” you say, your voice steady and calm. “Because my cause is just, and I will see it through. And because if you stand with me, I will protect you, your house, and everything you hold dear.”

Borros’s gaze flicks to Aemond, then back to you. “And if I refuse?”

You lift your chin, your eyes hard. “Then I will take your refusal as it stands and leave. I will not force you to fight for me.”

Aemond’s smile vanishes, his eye narrowing with fury, but Borros’s face softens slightly, a flicker of something like gratitude passing over his features. He nods slowly, his gaze shifting to Luke.

“I will consider your offer,” he says, his tone final. “You have my word.”

You bow slightly, your gaze never leaving Borros’s. “Thank you, my lord.”

But as you turn to leave, Aemond steps forward again, his voice a hiss of rage. “Coward,” he spits, his eye blazing. “You’ll run from here, just as you ran from everything else.”

You freeze, your hand on Luke’s shoulder tightening. But before you can respond, Borros raises his hand, his voice booming. “Enough!” he commands. “There will be no bloodshed in my hall!”

You turn back to Aemond, your gaze locked on his. “This isn’t over,” you say softly, the promise of dragonfire in your voice.

And with that, you guide Luke from the hall.

The storm rages around you, the wind howling like a banshee (a/n: for those who know 😉) as Silverwing cuts through the darkened sky. Lightning splits the heavens, illuminating the roiling clouds and the distant, furious sea below. Rain lashes against your face, soaking through your clothes, but you barely notice, your focus entirely on the young dragon flying just ahead of you.

“Stay close, Luke!” you shout, your voice barely audible over the storm’s roar. Arrax flaps frantically, his smaller wings struggling against the gale, the young dragon’s movements erratic and desperate. You can see the fear in Luke’s eyes as he glances back at you, his face pale and streaked with tears and rain.

A deafening roar splits the air, and your heart drops as you see the massive form of Vhagar descending through the clouds, her wings blotting out the sky, her jaws gaping wide. Aemond’s laughter echoes through the storm, a chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“GO!” you bellow to Luke, your voice raw with urgency. “Fly, now!”

Luke hesitates, his eyes wide and terrified, and you can see the tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks. “Father, I can’t—”

“Now, Lucerys!” you scream, your heart pounding with fear and desperation. “Get out of here! Go back to Dragonstone! Do as I say!”

Silverwing rears up, placing herself between Arrax and Vhagar, her powerful wings beating against the storm. She roars in defiance, a sound that vibrates through your very bones, her body coiled with alarm as she prepares to defend her young charge.

Luke sobs, his hands trembling on Arrax’s reins. “But—”

“GO!” you roar again, and finally, finally, Luke nods, his face twisted with grief and terror. Arrax lets out a frightened cry, his wings flapping furiously as he veers away, plunging into the storm, his form quickly swallowed by the darkness.

You feel a rush of relief, mingled with the fierce, protective anger that surges through you as you turn your attention back to Aemond. Vhagar hovers above you, her massive form a dark, menacing presence against the storm-lashed sky. Aemond’s face is a mask of rage, his single eye blazing with hatred as he glares down at you.

“You think you can protect him?” Aemond sneers, his voice carrying over the thunder and wind. “You’re just delaying the inevitable. He will die, and so will you.”

Your blood boils, fury tightening your grip on Silverwing’s reins. “Not today, Aemond!” you shout, your voice filled with defiance. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me first!”

Silverwing lunges forward, her wings propelling you toward Vhagar with terrifying speed. Her jaws snap open, a roar of fury and challenge tearing from her throat as she charges at the ancient, monstrous dragon. Vhagar responds in kind, her massive head swinging down, flames billowing from her gaping maw.

You pull Silverwing sharply to the side, just barely avoiding the torrent of fire that erupts from Vhagar’s jaws. The heat scorches your skin, the light blinding for a moment as you maneuver Silverwing around, circling wide, looking for an opening.

“Come on, you old beast!” you shout, your heart racing, adrenaline flooding your veins. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Aemond’s laughter rings out again, dark and cruel. “I’ll tear you apart, brother!” he roars, Vhagar diving after you, her claws outstretched, her jaws snapping. The sheer size and power of the ancient dragon are terrifying, her movements almost effortless despite her bulk, and you can feel Silverwing straining, her muscles taut and quivering as she dodges and weaves through the storm.

You push her harder, urging her to climb, to gain altitude, the wind whipping past you, the rain stinging your eyes. Vhagar follows, relentless, her wings beating the air with a force that seems to shake the very sky. You glance down, your heart lurching as you see Luke and Arrax, tiny and vulnerable below, still trying to escape the chaos above.

A flash of movement catches your eye, and you react instinctively, pulling Silverwing into a sharp dive as Vhagar’s claws swipe through the space where you were just moments before. The air vibrates with the force of the near miss, and you feel the terror and exhilaration mingling in your chest as you twist and turn, the storm swallowing you whole, blinding you, disorienting you.

You shout encouragement to Silverwing, her fierce roars mingling with the thunder, her powerful body a living extension of your rage and grief. You can feel her heart beating beneath you, can sense her fear and fury, her determination to protect, to fight, to survive.

Vhagar’s massive form looms behind you, her breath hot and foul, her roars deafening. Aemond’s voice is a taunting hiss, the malice in his tone cutting through the storm. “Run, run, little dragon!” he jeers, Vhagar’s claws slashing through the air as she tries to close the distance. “You can’t hide forever!”

You grit your teeth, Silverwing twisting and banking, trying to stay ahead of the monstrous dragon, trying to shield Luke, to buy him time, praying that it’s enough. “Come on, Silverwing!” you shout, your voice raw with desperation. “We can do this!”

But Vhagar is relentless, her shadow looming over you, her roars a deafening crescendo that drowns out everything else. She lunges, her jaws snapping just inches from Silverwing’s tail, her breath hot and searing, and you feel the terror clawing at your throat as you pull Silverwing into a tight spiral, trying to shake her off, to draw her away.

Aemond’s laughter is a jagged knife in the darkness, his voice dripping with cruel delight. “This ends here, brother!” he roars, Vhagar diving after you, her massive body cutting through the storm like a blade, her eyes locked on you with a murderous intent that chills you to the bone.

You twist Silverwing to the side, just barely dodging Vhagar’s outstretched claws, the force of her passing nearly knocking you from your saddle. The world tilts, the storm a chaotic whirl around you, the ground a distant blur below, and you can feel the exhaustion, the fear, the desperation clawing at your mind.

But you cannot falter, cannot hesitate, not now, not while Luke is still out there, still in danger. You push Silverwing harder, urging her to climb, to fight, to survive.

The storm still howls around you, wind and rain battering against you as Silverwing and Vhagar twist and turn through the chaos, their roars mingling with the thunder. The air crackles with energy, the sky split by jagged streaks of lightning that illuminate the fierce dance of the two dragons locked in deadly combat.

You grip the reins tightly, your heart pounding with adrenaline and fury. Silverwing dives and rolls, her movements fluid and swift despite the rain and wind that whip around you. Vhagar, massive and relentless, looms behind you, her jaws snapping, her claws tearing at the air as she tries to close the distance.

“Come on, Aemond!” you shout, your voice hoarse, barely carrying over the storm. “Face me, you coward! I’ll see you dead!”

Aemond’s laughter, harsh and mocking, cuts through the storm like a blade. “Not before you, brother!” he roars back, his eye blazing with hatred. “You’re the eldest, after all!”

You grit your teeth, rage and determination surging through you. Silverwing surges upward, her wings beating powerfully against the wind, and you feel her muscles bunch and flex beneath you as she gains height. Vhagar follows, her larger form struggling in the storm, her bulk making her movements slower, less agile.

“Now!” you shout, pulling Silverwing into a sharp turn, her body twisting around in a move that takes you beneath Vhagar’s massive frame. You urge her upward, your heart pounding as you push her hard, her wings flaring as she shoots up from below.

In a blinding flash of lightning, Silverwing’s talons latch onto Vhagar’s back, her jaws snapping just inches from Aemond’s face. You see the sudden flash of fear in his eye, his face paling as Silverwing’s teeth close around the air beside him, the sound of her jaws clamping shut like a thunderclap.

“Die!” you scream, your voice raw with fury. Silverwing roars, her head rearing back, and then she breathes, fire spewing forth in a torrent that engulfs the space around Aemond. He throws himself back, his arm raising in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the searing heat.

Vhagar bellows, the sound vibrating through the air, a deep, guttural cry of pain and rage. She twists violently, her massive body thrashing beneath Silverwing’s weight, and you feel the shudder that runs through your dragon as she struggles to hold her position.

Aemond’s voice, thick with pain and fury, cuts through the storm. “You think you’ve won, brother? You think you can take me down?”

“Let’s find out!” you roar, your heart a blazing inferno of rage and defiance. Silverwing’s claws dig into Vhagar’s scales, her wings beating furiously against the older dragon’s back as she lashes out with her teeth, her roars blending with the storm.

But Vhagar, old and powerful, does not yield easily. She twists and bucks, her massive form buckling beneath the assault, her roars shaking the very sky. Silverwing struggles to maintain her hold, the two dragons locked in a deadly struggle, their bodies crashing together in a fury of scales and fire.

You push Silverwing harder, urging her on, feeling the burn in her muscles, the strain in her wings. “Keep going!” you shout, your voice raw, your hand gripping the reins tightly. “We’re almost there!”

But Vhagar, with a mighty heave, manages to throw Silverwing off, her massive body twisting as she pulls away, Aemond’s voice a roar of triumph and rage. “I will see you burn, brother!”

Silverwing reels back, her wings beating furiously as she tries to regain her balance, and you feel the exhaustion in her movements, the weariness that seeps into your own bones. The storm is unrelenting, the wind howling around you, and you know you can’t keep this up much longer.

But you won’t back down, not now, not when you’re so close. You urge Silverwing forward again, her body surging through the storm, her roars fierce and defiant. “We’re not done yet!” you shout, your voice a challenge, your heart a blaze of unyielding fury.

Vhagar turns, her massive head swinging around, her eyes blazing with fury. But you see the hesitation there, the flicker of uncertainty in Aemond’s gaze as Silverwing barrels toward them, her jaws snapping, her body once more coiled with determination.

And then, with a final, desperate effort, you pull Silverwing up and over Vhagar’s back, her wings flaring wide as she dives down, forcing the older dragon to twist and turn, her movements sluggish and labored. Aemond curses, his voice lost in the storm as he struggles to control Vhagar, his grip on the reins white-knuckled, his face a mirror of frustration and fury.

Silverwing lands atop Vhagar again, her talons digging deep into the old dragon’s back, her jaws snapping just inches from Aemond’s face. He flinches, his eye wide with fear, and for a moment, you see the boy he once was, terrified and vulnerable beneath the mask of the man he’s become.

Silverwing’s roar fills the air, her jaws closing around the space where Aemond’s head had been a moment before. She breathes, a torrent of fire bursting forth, and Aemond jerks back, his face contorting with pain and rage as the flames lick at his armor.

Vhagar bucks wildly, her body thrashing beneath you, and you feel the force of it, the sheer power of the ancient dragon, as she throws Silverwing off again, slashing the younger dragon with her talons. Aemond shouts something, his voice filled with desperation, and then Vhagar turns, her wings beating furiously as she pulls away, retreating into the storm.

You watch them go, your heart pounding, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Silverwing hovers in the air, her body trembling, her wings beating weakly. You can feel the exhaustion in her, the weariness that weighs down on you both like a leaden cloak.

You glance down, the ground a distant blur below, the storm still raging around you, the rain and wind battering against you. You know you can’t keep this up, that you have to land, that you have to find shelter, find safety.

With a gentle pull on the reins, you guide Silverwing down, her wings straining as she descends, the wind pushing against you, the storm still howling in your ears. You land on a rocky outcropping, the ground slick and uneven beneath Silverwing’s claws, and you feel the relief that floods through you as she settles, her body trembling with exhaustion, her sides heaving with each labored breath.

You dismount, your legs unsteady beneath you, your body aching with fatigue and adrenaline. You look up at the sky, the storm still raging above, the clouds dark and forbidding, the wind a relentless force that whips around you.

You know this is only the beginning, that the battle you’ve fought here is just a taste of what’s to come. But for now, you’re alive, and so is Luke, and that’s enough.

For now, that’s enough.

The courtyard of Dragonstone is bathed in the eerie, flickering light of torches, the flames struggling against the relentless wind that sweeps in from the sea. Rhaenyra stands at the forefront, her eyes fixed on the horizon, every muscle in her body taut with worry. The storm rages in the distance, dark clouds churning over the choppy waters, and her heart aches with a dread she can barely contain.

She hears the distant roar of a dragon before she sees it—a small, battered form emerging from the storm clouds, wings beating furiously against the gale. Arrax. Relief and fear twist inside her as the dragon descends, landing awkwardly in the courtyard, his sides heaving, his scales slick with rain and blood.

Luke slides down from his saddle, stumbling as he hits the ground, his face pale and streaked with rain. He looks around wildly, his eyes wide with panic, and when he sees his mother, he lets out a choked sob, his legs giving way beneath him.

“Luke!” Rhaenyra cries, rushing forward, her heart pounding with terror. She reaches him just as he collapses, her arms wrapping around his trembling form. “Oh, gods, what happened? Where is your father?”

Luke clings to her, his body shaking violently, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Mother… I… I don’t know,” he stammers, his voice breaking. “Father… he told me to go… to fly away. Vhagar… Aemond… they were—” He cuts off, his voice choked with fear and grief. “I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know if he got away…”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenches painfully, her mind reeling as she holds her son close, her fingers digging into his soaked clothes. “It’s all right, Luke,” she whispers, though the words feel hollow, meaningless. “You’re safe now. Come inside.”

She guides him toward the keep, her arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, her mind spinning with fear and uncertainty. Behind her, the guards exchange uneasy glances, their faces shadowed with concern as they watch the scene unfold.

Inside, the great hall is filled with a tense silence, the air thick with anticipation and worry. The advisors gather, their expressions anxious as they turn to Rhaenyra, their questions hanging heavy in the air.

“Your Grace, where is the king?” Lord Alfred Broome asks, his voice strained, his eyes flicking to Luke, taking in the boy’s shivering form, his wet clothes, his pale face.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies, then to Daemon, who stands apart, his eyes narrowed as he studies her. She feels the sting of tears behind her eyes, the lump in her throat that threatens to choke her.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “They were attacked… by Aemond. I don’t know what happened to him.”

A murmur ripples through the room, fear and uncertainty spreading like wildfire. Daemon’s face hardens, his eyes flashing with a fierce, protective anger. He steps forward, his hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt, his gaze fixed on Rhaenyra.

“I’ll go,” he says, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll find him.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her grip tightening on Luke’s shoulder. “No,” she says, her voice firmer now, though it trembles with the weight of the decision. “I’ll go.”

A ripple of shock and protest rises around her, the advisors exchanging worried glances, but it’s Rhaenys who steps forward, her eyes sharp, her voice steady.

“Rhaenyra, think,” she says quietly. “You’ve just been crowned queen. The realm needs you here. Let Daemon go. He’ll find him.”

Rhaenyra’s heart twists, torn between her duty and her fear, the desperation clawing at her insides. She looks at Luke, his face drawn and pale, his eyes filled with the kind of fear no child should ever know.

“I can’t,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I can’t just stay here. Not while he’s out there.”

Daemon moves closer, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his eyes intense. “I’ll find him, Rhaenyra,” he promises, his voice low and fierce. “I’ll bring him back.”

Rhaenyra looks at him, searching his gaze, and she knows he means it. But the thought of staying behind, of waiting and wondering, is almost unbearable.

“Please,” Rhaenys says softly, her voice gentle but insistent. “Let him go. For the sake of your children, your realm. You cannot risk yourself.”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, the tears she’s been holding back finally spilling over. She looks at Daemon, her hand resting on his arm, her grip tight.

“Find him,” she says, her voice trembling. “Bring him back to me.”

Daemon nods, his eyes dark with determination. He glances at Luke, then back to Rhaenyra. “I swear it.”

With a final look, he turns and strides from the hall, his steps echoing through the silence. Rhaenyra watches him go, her heart aching, her mind a storm of fear and hope and despair.

She pulls Luke closer, her hand stroking his wet hair, trying to calm him, trying to calm herself. The room is filled with the murmur of worried voices, the storm outside a relentless reminder of the danger that still looms.

Rhaenys steps closer, her hand resting gently on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “He’ll find him,” she says softly, her voice a steadying presence. “And he’ll bring him back. You have to believe that.”

Rhaenyra nods, though her heart is still heavy, her mind filled with images of you out there in the storm, fighting against the fury of the elements, against Aemond’s rage and hatred.

She knows you are strong, that you are a fighter. But the fear gnaws at her, the uncertainty a bitter taste in her mouth. She can only hope, only pray, that Daemon will be able to keep his promise, that he will bring you back.

For now, she holds her son close, her heart breaking for him, for the fear and pain in his eyes. For the battle they are all fighting, for the family they are struggling to hold together.

And as the storm rages outside, Rhaenyra waits, her heart heavy, her mind filled with thoughts of you.

The storm has finally broken, the sky above the small island clearing to reveal a pale, washed-out blue, the last vestiges of dark clouds clinging to the horizon. The air is cool and still, the fury of the tempest replaced by an eerie silence that seems to hang over the island like a shroud. Daemon, atop Caraxes, soars over the landscape, his eyes scanning the ground below, his heart heavy with fear and determination.

He’s been searching since dawn, Ceraxes weaving through the air in wide, looping circles, their shadows casting long, dark streaks across the rocky terrain. The aftermath of the storm is visible everywhere—trees uprooted, rocks scattered, the ground soaked and treacherous.

“Come on,” Daemon mutters under his breath, his grip tight on Caraxes’ reins. “Where are you?”

He pushes Ceraxes lower, the dragon’s powerful wings beating steadily as they glide over the cliffs and crags, the sea below crashing against the rocks in a steady, rhythmic roar. And then, finally, he sees them—a flash of silver amidst the dark stones, a shape that sends his heart pounding with a fierce, desperate hope.

“There!” he shouts, guiding Caraxes down, the dragon’s wings folding as they descend, landing heavily on a wide, rocky outcrop. Daemon dismounts in a fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud, his eyes fixed on the figures before him.

Silverwing lies sprawled on her side, her silver scales dull and stained with blood, her wings folded awkwardly, her breaths coming in deep, shuddering gasps. Beside her, you’re slumped against a rock, your body bruised and battered, your face pale, your eyes closed.

“Gods…” Daemon breathes, his heart clenching as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside you. He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he touches your shoulder, shaking you gently.

“Wake up, Y/N,” he says, his voice rough with worry, with fear he tries to keep at bay. “Come on, wake up.”

There’s a long, agonizing moment of silence, and then, with a low groan, your eyes flutter open, your gaze unfocused, pain clouding your expression. “Daemon…?”

Relief floods through him, so intense it nearly knocks him off balance. “It’s me,” he says, his voice softer now, his hand tightening on your shoulder. “You’re alive, thank the gods. Are you—”

You grimace, trying to sit up, your body protesting with every movement. “I’m fine,” you mutter, though the words are a lie, your voice strained and weak. “Silverwing…?”

“She’s here,” Daemon assures you, his gaze flicking to the wounded dragon. “She’s alive.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your eyes closing briefly as if to steady yourself. “We fought… Aemond… the storm…” The words come out in broken fragments, your mind still trying to piece together the chaotic blur of events.

“I know,” Daemon says gently, his hand resting on your arm, his voice calm, soothing. “You’re safe now. Both of you.”

You nod, though the movement sends a fresh wave of pain coursing through you. “Luke…?”

“He’s safe,” Daemon assures you, his voice firm. “He made it back to Dragonstone. Rhaenyra’s with him.”

Relief washes over your face, mingled with exhaustion, with pain. “Good… that’s good.”

Daemon glances at Silverwing again, his brow furrowing with concern. The dragon’s wounds are deep, her sides marred by long, ragged gashes, her breathing labored. But she’s alive.

“We need to get you back,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “You need a healer, and so does she.”

You nod, your face tightening as you try to stand, your legs trembling beneath you. Daemon catches you, his arm wrapping around your waist, steadying you. “Easy,” he murmurs, his gaze sharp with worry. “Take it slow.”

With his help, you manage to get to your feet, your body swaying, your vision swimming. “I’m fine,” you insist again, though the words lack conviction, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Daemon doesn’t argue, his grip firm and supportive as he guides you toward Caraxes. “We’re going back,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Rhaenyra needs to see you, needs to know you’re alive.”

You glance back at Silverwing, the dragon’s eyes half-open, watching you with a weary, pained gaze. “She won’t leave without me,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, with the bond that ties you to her.

Daemon nods, his hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. “She doesn’t have to. Caraxes will fly alongside her. We’ll go together.”

You nod, too exhausted to argue, too relieved to care. With Daemon’s help, you manage to climb onto Silverwing’s back, the dragon shifting beneath you with a low, rumbling groan. Daemon mounts Caraxes, the two dragons standing side by side, their wounds stark and painful against the dawn-lit sky.

“We’re going home,” Daemon says, his voice carrying over the wind, his gaze meeting yours with a fierce, unwavering determination. “And we’re going to make them pay for this.”

You nod, your heart heavy with exhaustion, with pain, but beneath it all, there’s a fierce, unyielding resolve. This is far from over. You’ve survived, you’ve fought, and you’ll continue to fight, for your family, for your children, for everything you hold dear.

With a powerful beat of wings, the two dragons lift off, the wind whipping around you as you rise into the sky. Below, the small island stretches out, the sea crashing against its shores, the storm clouds breaking apart as the sun begins to rise.

You lean forward, your hand resting lightly on Silverwing’s neck, your heart steady, your mind clear. You’re alive. You’re going home.

The eerie glow of Dragonmont's depths envelops you as Silverwing and Caraxes descend, the heavy air filled with the scent of sulfur and smoke. The chamber, carved deep into the mountain, reverberates with the sound of the dragons’ wings beating against the still air, the low rumble of their landing echoing through the stone.

Dragonkeepers move forward swiftly, their red cloaks and careful movements a blur of efficiency and practiced calm. They approach with reverence and caution, their eyes darting between the two great beasts, assessing the extent of the wounds marring Silverwing’s silver scales and Caraxes’ long, sinuous body.

You dismount, your legs trembling beneath you, the pain and exhaustion still a heavy weight in your bones. Daemon is at your side in an instant, his arm steadying you as he helps you down, his face set with a fierce, unyielding determination.

“They’re here!” a voice calls out, echoing through the chamber, and you see movement at the far end of the cavern. A group emerges from the shadows—Rhaenyra, her face pale and drawn, Luke at her side, his eyes wide and anxious. Behind them, a handful of retainers and guards, their expressions a mixture of relief and wariness.

As you take a step forward, Rhaenyra lets out a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as if an unbearable weight has been lifted. Her eyes are fixed on you, shining with unshed tears, and she moves forward, almost stumbling in her haste to reach you.

“Thank the gods,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her hand reaching out to touch your arm, her fingers gripping tightly, as if to reassure herself that you’re real, that you’re here. “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” you murmur, your voice rough, your heart aching as you see the fear and worry etched into her face. You pull her close, your arms wrapping around her, holding her tight, feeling the warmth of her body against yours, the steady beat of her heart.

Luke stands just behind her, his face pale, his eyes locked on yours. “Father, I—” His voice breaks, and he looks down, guilt and relief mingling in his expression.

“You did well, Luke,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the exhaustion that pulls at you. “You did what you had to. I’m proud of you.”

He nods, a tear slipping down his cheek, and Rhaenyra reaches out, pulling him into the embrace, her arms wrapping around you both. For a moment, there’s nothing but the three of you, the storm and the battle and the fear fading into the background, replaced by the simple, overwhelming relief of being together, of being alive.

Daemon stands a few steps away, his gaze sweeping over the scene, a hint of a smile curving his lips. “We made it,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction, of triumph.

Rhaenyra pulls back slightly, her eyes flicking to Daemon, gratitude and something like understanding passing between them. “Thank you,” she says softly, her voice filled with a sincerity that needs no further words.

Daemon inclines his head, his gaze steady on hers. “We’re family,” he says simply, and there’s a weight to his words, a promise that goes beyond blood and loyalty.

The Dragonkeepers move forward, their hands gentle but firm as they begin to tend to Silverwing’s wounds, their voices low and calm as they murmur reassurances to the injured dragon. Caraxes shifts restlessly beside her, his long neck snaking around as he watches them, his eyes sharp and alert.

“Let them work,” Daemon murmurs, his hand resting lightly on Caraxes’ side, his voice soothing. “You’ve done your part, old friend. Now let them do theirs.”

Silverwing lets out a low, rumbling sigh, her body relaxing slightly under the careful hands of the keepers. You watch her, your heart heavy with a mixture of relief and sorrow, the weight of everything you’ve been through pressing down on you, threatening to overwhelm.

But Rhaenyra’s hand is still on your arm, her touch a grounding presence, her gaze steady and warm. “You’re home,” she whispers, her voice a promise, a vow. “We’re all home.”

You nod, your throat tight, your eyes closing briefly as you let the words wash over you, let them anchor you. You’re home. You’re together.

There will be time to mourn, to plan, to fight again. But for this moment, this precious, fragile moment, you let yourself breathe, let yourself feel the warmth of your family around you, the steady pulse of life that beats on, even in the shadow of war.

The heavy doors to the council chamber swing open with a resounding thud, and Aemond strides in, his face pale and twisted with anger, his clothes still damp from the storm and dragon flight. The room falls silent, every head turning toward him, eyes widening in shock and curiosity. He moves with a rigid, furious grace, his jaw clenched, his single eye blazing with barely contained rage.

Aegon, lounging in his seat at the head of the table, straightens, his brows lifting in surprise. He exchanges a glance with Alicent, who sits stiffly beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a look of unease flickering in her eyes.

“What happened?” Aegon demands, his voice sharp, his gaze raking over his brother. “Where have you been?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, the muscles working beneath his skin as he takes a deep breath, his eye locking onto Aegon’s. “I found him,” he says bitterly, his voice low and hard. “Our dear brother. He and his dragon.”

A murmur ripples through the chamber, the council members exchanging uneasy glances. Alicent’s face tightens, her hands twisting in her lap as she looks between her sons, her eyes wide with worry.

“And?” Aegon presses, his voice mocking, a cruel smile playing at his lips. “Did you kill him?”

Aemond’s face flushes, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. “No,” he snaps, the word spat out like a curse. “He fought back. Forced me to retreat.”

There’s a shocked silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Alicent’s gaze darts to Otto, her eyes filled with fear and anger. Otto’s expression is grim, his mouth a tight line as he looks at Aemond, then back at Aegon.

Aegon lets out a low, mocking laugh, his eyes gleaming with a vicious amusement. “So the mighty Vhagar wasn’t enough, then?” he taunts, leaning forward, his smile widening as he takes in Aemond’s flushed, furious face. “I thought you were supposed to be unbeatable.”

“Aegon,” Alicent warns, her voice trembling with tension, but Aegon ignores her, his laughter growing louder, harsher.

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor, his hands reaching up to yank the crown from his head. The weighty steel of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown glints in the flickering torchlight as he holds it aloft, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and disdain.

“You see this?” he shouts, his voice echoing through the chamber. “This bloody thing? I never wanted it!” With a furious snarl, he hurls the crown to the ground, the metal clanging against the stone with a sharp, ringing sound.

The council members flinch, their eyes darting between the two brothers alarmed. Alicent rises to her feet, her face pale, her hands trembling as she reaches out, as if to calm her son, to pull him back from the edge.

“Aegon, please—”

“No!” Aegon shouts, his voice cracking with fury, his hands clenched at his sides. “You and Grandsire put this on my head, made me king! But what does it matter if my own brother can’t even win a single battle? If we’re all just waiting for Y/N to come and burn us alive?”

Aemond’s eye narrows, his body rigid with barely suppressed rage. “Watch your tongue, Aegon,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve no idea what it’s like out there, facing him. Facing Silverwing.”

Aegon’s lip curls, his gaze filled with disdain. “Oh, poor Aemond,” he sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The great warrior, the dragonrider, beaten back by our elder brother. How pathetic.”

“Aegon!” Alicent’s voice is sharp, desperate, but Aegon barrels on, his anger pouring out in a torrent of bitter words.

“I didn’t ask for this!” he yells, his voice raw, his eyes wild. “I didn’t ask to be king! You made me wear this crown, made me sit on that damn throne! And for what? So we can all die for your stupid dreams?”

Otto stands, his face dark with anger, his voice cold. “Enough, Aegon,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. “This is not the time for this—”

Aegon whirls on him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Not the time? When is the time, Grandsire? When he comes here, breathing fire and death? When we’re all burnt to ashes?”

The council is silent, the tension so thick it seems to hang in the air like smoke. Aemond’s face is a mask of fury, his hands trembling with the effort of holding himself back. Alicent steps forward, her eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking.

“Aegon, please,” she begs, her hands reaching out to him, her face stricken. “You are the king. You must be strong, for the realm, for all of us.”

Aegon stares at her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and desperate. And then, with a low, bitter laugh, he shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the crown lying on the ground, the heavy dark steel glinting dully in the dim light.

“I never wanted it,” he whispers, his voice raw, broken. “I never wanted any of this.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing through the chamber, leaving the crown lying abandoned on the cold stone floor.

[winxanity-ii]

IN THE SILENCE

ship: inumaki x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 2.6k a/n: not me beefing with my sis and making comfort fics as a destressor

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You couldn't breathe in that dorm room. Not with the way Jiro's words echoed in your mind like a twisted symphony of your worst fears. "You're overreacting, Y/N. It's not that big of a deal." Her voice had been sharp, cutting through your defenses like a blade.

It left you feeling raw, like your skin had been stripped away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

So, you did the only thing you could think of—you stormed out, slamming the door behind you with a force that made the walls tremble. You didn't care who heard. Let them.

You needed air, space, something that didn't have her name written all over it.

The night air was cool against your heated skin as you wandered the campus grounds, aimlessly walking with no destination in mind. You just needed to move, to put as much distance between yourself and Jiro as possible.

Each step was a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating fog of doubt she’d wrapped around you.

Was she right? Were you just overreacting?

A part of you—a small, insistent voice at the back of your mind—whispered that maybe she was. Maybe you were just being sensitive, blowing things out of proportion. But another part of you, the part that had walked out of that room, screamed that she was wrong. That you were justified in your feelings.

But which one was real?

You stopped walking, realizing you'd reached the fountain in the center of campus. Its gentle splashing was almost hypnotic, the water sparkling under the soft glow of the nearby lampposts.

You took a seat on the edge, your legs feeling like they couldn't support you anymore.

For a moment, you just sat there, staring into the rippling water, trying to find some sort of clarity in the chaos of your thoughts.

A deep sigh escaped your lips, followed by a soft sniffle. You quickly wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, frustrated that you were even crying in the first place. "Why am I like this?" you muttered to yourself, your voice barely more than a whisper. It was a question you'd asked yourself a thousand times before, and you still didn’t have an answer.

You tilted your head back, looking up at the sky. The night was clear, stars scattered across the inky blackness like diamonds. It was beautiful, but it didn’t bring you the peace you were hoping for.

Instead, it made you feel small, insignificant. Like your problems were nothing compared to the vastness of the universe. But that didn't make them hurt any less.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice when someone sat down next to you. It was only when you felt the slight shift in the bench that you glanced over, startled.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice when someone sat down next to you. It was only when you felt the slight shift in the bench that you glanced over, startled.

A young man was sitting beside you, his presence somehow calm, almost comforting. He wore black sweats and a matching hoodie, the hood pushed down to reveal tousled, silver hair that caught the faint light from the lamppost nearby.

His face was partially obscured by a black mask that covered his mouth, but his eyes were clear, a soft lavender shade that seemed to shimmer under the night sky. They were soft, kind, with a hint of curiosity as he looked at you.

You stared at him for a moment, surprised by his sudden appearance. He didn't say anything, just gave you a small nod, as if acknowledging your presence but not wanting to intrude.

You looked away, back at the sky, feeling oddly self-conscious now that someone else was here.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there in silence, the only sound the gentle splashing of the fountain.

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to get rid of any evidence of your tears. The last thing you needed was a stranger seeing you like this. But you could still feel his eyes on you, not judging, just...observing.

It was like he was waiting, but you didn't know for what.

You took a deep breath, the cool night air filling your lungs, and let it out slowly.

The silence between you felt heavy, almost tangible, but not uncomfortable. It was like he was giving you the space you needed, but also letting you know that you weren't alone.

And somehow, that made you feel a little better.

The silence stretched on for several minutes, neither of you saying a word. It was almost surreal, sitting next to a stranger and finding comfort in the quiet presence of someone you didn't know.

But there was something grounding about it, like his calm was seeping into your chaos, soothing the turmoil you'd been drowning in all evening.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He hadn't moved, just sat there, looking up at the sky as if he were admiring the stars.

There was something about his stillness that made you feel like it was okay to just be. To not have to put on a brave face or force yourself to keep it together.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he turned towards you. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sticky note pad and a pen. You watched as he quickly scribbled something down, his handwriting neat and precise, before peeling the note off and holding it out to you.

You hesitated for a moment before taking it, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest second. Your eyes skimmed over the words, and you felt something inside you twist painfully.

You okay?

It was such a simple question, but it shattered the fragile control you’d been holding onto. You stared at the note, the tears you’d fought so hard to keep at bay filling your eyes once more. You shook your head, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you all over again.

"No," you whispered, your voice barely audible. Then, before you knew it, the words started pouring out of you in a rush, as if his silent support had unlocked something inside you. "I don't know. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just… crazy or something."

You glanced at him, but he just looked back, his eyes soft, urging you to continue. So you did.

"In the past, I've always been told I was blunt or cold, you know? Like I didn't care about anyone's feelings. And yeah, I was like that, but I didn't know any better. I thought being honest meant being straightforward, even if it hurt people." You took a shaky breath, the words spilling out faster now, almost tripping over themselves. "But then I realized, I realized that my actions, my words—they affect people. So I worked on it. I tried to change, to be more empathetic, more understanding. And it was hard, but I did it. I really thought I did."

You felt the tears slipping down your cheeks, and you wiped them away angrily, frustrated with yourself for being so emotional. "But now... it's like... like it doesn't even matter. It's like karma or something, having to deal with someone like her. One moment, she's my best friend, and the next, it's like she hates me. She says I'm overreacting, that I'm being too sensitive, and maybe I am. But it just… it hurts, you know?"

You looked away, staring at the fountain again, the words still tumbling out. "It's like I can't win. No matter what I do, it's not enough. I try to be better, to do better, but it's like she's always there to remind me that I'm not. And I know she's my friend, but it feels like I'm dorming with a stranger. Someone who knows exactly how to push my buttons and make me feel like I'm the one who's messed up. Maybe I am messed up."

Your shoulders shook as you let out a bitter laugh, more tears streaming down your face. You didn't even try to stop them this time. "Maybe she's right, and I'm just crazy, just some messed-up person who doesn't deserve to be happy. I don't know."

You ran a hand through your hair, your fingers trembling as you tried to catch your breath. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling," you muttered, wiping at your eyes again. "You don't need to hear all this. You probably think I'm a mess."

But the figure didn't move, didn't look away. He just sat there, his eyes never leaving you, listening to every word like it was the most important thing in the world.

He didn't judge or try to tell you that you were wrong or right. He just let you talk, let you spill out all the things you'd been holding in for so long.

By the time you finished, you felt like you'd run a marathon. But there was also a strange sense of relief, like a million bricks had been lifted off your shoulders.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling lighter than you had in weeks, maybe even months.

He reached into his pocket again, pulling out a small packet of tissues. He took one out and handed it to you silently, his eyes still on you, filled with understanding. You took it, your fingers brushing against his again, and mumbled a quiet, "Thanks," as you dabbed at your eyes, trying to clean up the mess you’d made of your face.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was back, but it was different now. It wasn't heavy or suffocating. This time it felt warm, almost like a soft blanket wrapping around your shoulders, comforting and safe.

You weren't sure what to say, or if you even needed to say anything at all. The tears had stopped, and with them, some of the ache in your chest had faded too.

You glanced at him again, wanting to express your gratitude, even though words felt inadequate for what he'd just given you—space to be yourself, without judgment.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky but sincere. "For… listening. I really needed that."

He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, then reached for his sticky note pad again. It took him only a moment to jot something down before he peeled the note off and handed it to you.

No big deal.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the corners of your lips lifting as you read his message. It was so simple, yet it made your heart swell in your chest.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes were kind, crinkling slightly at the edges as if he were smiling behind his mask. There was a warmth in them that made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You stood up, feeling a little steadier on your feet now. The cool night air brushed against your skin, the fountain's gentle splashing filling the silence.

He stood up as well, and you found yourself looking up at him—way up.

You hadn't realized it before, but he was tall, much taller than you. You barely reached under his chin, your nose almost brushing against the soft fabric of his hoodie as you straightened.

Your eyes widened slightly as you took in the small detail, feeling oddly self-conscious about the height difference. You took a step back, clearing your throat, trying to find the right words to say goodbye. But before you could speak, he raised a hand slowly, hesitantly.

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched his movements with wide eyes.

His hand hovered above your head for a moment, as if he was debating whether or not to go through with it.

Then, ever so gently, he placed his hand on top of your head, his touch light and careful, like he was afraid you might break if he applied too much pressure. He gave your head a soft pat, his fingers brushing against your hair before pulling away.

A harsh blush filled your face, spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. You stared up at him, stunned, your heart skipping a beat.

Here you were, standing in the middle of the campus at night, unable to see his face, yet feeling like he'd just done something incredibly intimate.

It was such a small gesture, but it felt like it meant everything.

You didn't know what to say, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He just watched you, his eyes crinkling again with that invisible smile. There was a softness to his gaze, a gentleness that made your heart flutter in a way that was both confusing and strangely comforting.

"I—um, thank you," you stammered, your voice barely more than a whisper. You couldn't bring yourself to look away, not when his eyes were so warm, so steady. "For everything."

He just nodded, his shoulders rising and falling in a silent laugh, as if he found your flustered state amusing. He scribbled something quickly on his notepad and held it out to you.

You're welcome.

You took the note, your fingers trembling slightly as you read the words. They were simple, straightforward, but there was something about them that made your chest feel tight, like your heart was too big for your ribs to contain. You swallowed hard, looking up at him again.

"I—well, I should go," you said, your voice awkward and unsure. You took a step back, then another, your eyes still locked on his. He didn't move, just watched you with that same quiet expression, his eyes soft and unreadable. "I—um, goodnight."

You turned, your heart racing as you started to walk away, the cool night air feeling like a welcome balm against your flushed skin. You could still feel the warmth of his hand on your head, the gentle pressure lingering like a ghost of a touch.

You glanced back over your shoulder, unable to help yourself.

He was still standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, watching you with those steady, kind eyes. He lifted a hand in a small wave, his fingers curling in a silent goodbye.

You waved back, a shy smile tugging at your lips, before turning away again and heading towards your dorm.

Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, your heart still fluttering like a trapped bird in your chest. You didn't even know his name, didn't know anything about him, but there was something about him that felt… different.

Like maybe, just maybe, things could be okay. Like maybe you weren't alone after all.

As you reached your dorm, you glanced down at the sticky notes in your hand, the words blurring slightly as tears filled your eyes again. But this time, they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of something else, something warmer, softer.

Hope, maybe.

You smiled, a real smile, as you tucked the notes carefully into your pocket. Maybe tonight had been terrible, but it had ended with something good. Something unexpected.

And as you climbed the stairs to your room, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’d see him again.

And that thought, more than anything, made you feel like things might just turn out okay after all.

A/N: ignore me y'all, im on my period and in my feelings at the moment, just a little senstive. 😭 (p.s tell me why my sister and i made up by the time i finished writing this 💀)

[ruinofchimera]

Please tell us more about Voldemort's relationship with Severus, and why you think it differs so much from Voldemort's other relationships

Whatever it is that lingers between Tom and Severus—power, manipulation, some dark bond none of us can fully grasp—it naturally ignites chaos in the mind of the beholders. And if you’re eager to feel that burn, I’ll gladly embrace you in it. To you brave, reckless souls, I say this: your wish is my command.

So, here we are, picking apart how Severus Snape—mudblood, poor, and bruised from the heavy hand of a Muggle father—managed to land himself a spot at the table with the most rabid pack of blood purists you’ve ever seen. A table, mind you, he had no business sitting at. The Death Eaters, that tight little clique of privileged purebloods, had no real reason to let in this scruffy little outsider. Sure, Snape was useful. Very useful. His skills were sharp as knives, and he could do their dirty work, get his hands filthy so they didn’t have to. But useful doesn’t mean welcome. Useful doesn’t mean accepted. You know who else was useful? Fenrir Greyback and his mangy lot. They brought terror to the doorsteps of half the wizarding world, and did Voldemort’s cause no small service. But did they get a place at the inner circle? Did they get respect? Hell no. They were the dirt beneath the boots of the real Death Eaters. Useful filth. And then there’s Snape, embodying everything these purists claim to despise—a half-blood with a tainted surname, living in squalor, dragged through the muck by a Muggle brute of a father. By all accounts, Death Eaters should have spat in his face and tossed him out like yesterday’s rubbish. But no. Not only does he get a seat at the table, he rises. He’s placed on a pedestal, standing closer to Voldemort than some of the most loyal, purest-blooded lackeys in the room. Voldemort, in all his cold-blooded glory, didn’t just tolerate Severus. He raised him up, right in front of their sneering, offended faces. Now, here’s where it gets really interesting. If you think Voldemort did this out of some sense of gratitude, you’ve missed the point entirely. Tom Riddle doesn’t do gratitude. That kind of sentiment is beneath him, an alien concept. Voldemort doesn’t reward; he uses. Deeds done in his name are expected, not appreciated. You’re not going to get a pat on the back from a man who thinks the world owes him its loyalty. Snape’s service should’ve earned him nothing more than a brief reprieve from pain. A loosening of the noose around his neck, if he was lucky. That’s Voldemort’s way—keep them all desperate, keep them all afraid. So why did Snape, of all people, get raised up? Why did he, the least likely among them, become a favorite?

Mind, it’s not just me declaring Snape as Voldemort’s favorite. That dark, twisted bond is laced into nearly every interaction between the two, as if something unspoken and festering passes between them. But it’s Narcissa Malfoy who lays it bare. A woman born into the highest echelons of pure-blood privilege, the very foundation on which Voldemort’s so-called supremacy stands, doesn’t hesitate when she calls him “the Dark Lord’s favorite, his most trusted advisor.” Let that sink in.

Here is the wife of Lucius Malfoy, a man whose lineage is steeped in the darkest of traditions. But when her family’s future is on the edge of a wand, when her son’s life dangles by a thread, she doesn’t rely on Lucius, doesn’t turn to Bellatrix. No, she comes to Severus, because deep down, she knows. They all do.

It’s something more insidious, something that slips through the cracks in the floorboards of Voldemort’s ideology. He is the one Voldemort trusts, the one Voldemort leans on, the one whose counsel can shift the dark winds of fate. That is real power, raw and untouchable. Narcissa sees it—how could she not? Even with all her aristocratic pride, even with the weight of her name and her family’s legacy pressing down on her, she understands that none of it means a damn thing next to what Snape has. Narcissa, with her family’s long, proud heritage, has to grovel before someone who, by the very logic of Voldemort’s cause, should be inferior. But Snape is different, and everyone knows it. They may not say it, they may not even want to admit it, but they know. He operates outside the lines, above the fray, immune to the very rules that were meant to keep people like him down. Snape, the half-blood, the one with the muddied past, holds a kind of sway that no one else in Voldemort’s ranks can claim.

Oh, there comes the bitter irony of Peter Pettigrew. After years of scraping and groveling, thinking he’d earned his place in the Dark Lord’s favor, Peter is handed over like a rag for Severus to wring out. Peter, one of the smug Marauders who’d gleefully hounded Snape through school, reduced now to something just shy of a house-elf, bowing and cringing under Snape’s very roof. A cruel twist of fate, no doubt arranged with Voldemort’s signature malevolence. Was this some attempt to plant a spy in Snape's house? Maybe, if you take it at face value. But think for a moment—Voldemort, who couldn’t pry Snape's treachery from his skull with all the power of Legilimency, putting his trust in Wormtail to do the job? The rat that couldn't outsmart a dormitory prank, never mind a master of deception like Severus?

No, this isn’t espionage; this is karma. Cruel, twisted karma orchestrated by the Dark Lord himself. You can almost picture Severus watching Peter scuttle about his house, casting him those withering, superior glances—knowing full well that Tom has given him this indulgence, this little taste of vengeance. Snape treats Wormtail with open contempt, because he knows he can. He knows it’s allowed, expected even. It’s as if the tables have turned in the most bitter of ways, a humiliating reversal of fortune. Pettigrew, who once revelled in Snape’s humiliation, now reduced to the lowest of roles, while Snape—Voldemort’s golden boy—sits at the top. Isn’t it delicious? You’d have to be blind to chalk it up to coincidence. Moreover, Pettigrew’s fate is all the proof you’ll ever need that Voldemort’s rule isn’t founded on something as simple or sentimental as loyalty. Loyalty? Sacrifice? Please. Pettigrew’s life was one long, groveling act of desperation to stay in the Dark Lord’s good graces. You bring your master back from the brink of death itself, and still, all you get is contempt. Voldemort demands service, sure. But service? Guarantees nothing. And when you set Severus and Peter side by side, the question gnaws at you. Why? Why is Snape the favored one, the exception, the enigma in Voldemort’s otherwise brutal, predictable hierarchy? What makes him different? There’s something between them—something that doesn’t follow the usual logic of power and punishment. Voldemort doesn’t just tolerate Snape’s defiance; he rewards it, bends the system to accommodate it. Something unspoken, something hidden behind the masks they both wear, grants Snape a level of favor that Pettigrew could only dream of.

What’s crucial to grasp here is that Voldemort doesn’t spare anyone. His entire ideology is rooted in cruelty, in domination, in the ruthless obliteration of all who oppose him. He doesn’t just eliminate enemies; he obliterates them, wipes them from existence without a second thought. And yet, here’s the anomaly: Lily Evans, mother of Harry Potter, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a Muggle-born witch, is offered a chance to live. Live. This decision, however, is directly tied to Snape. Snape had begged Voldemort to spare her, and it is this plea—Snape’s plea—that softens the Dark Lord’s otherwise unyielding cruelty.

To truly grasp the enormity of this act, we need to take a step back and consider Snape’s position in all of this. Remember, Severus was just 21 years old when he found himself pleading with Voldemort, one of the most dangerous dark wizard in history, to spare Lily Evans.

Snape wasn’t the imposing, confident figure we often associate with him thanks to Alan Rickman’s performance—he wasn’t a man exuding quiet menace, seemingly capable of standing toe-to-toe with Voldemort. No, at this point in canon, he was barely more than a boy, a young man fresh out of Hogwarts, with no powerful lineage or wealth to protect him.

And yet, despite this—despite the sheer imbalance of power between them—Snape dared to approach Voldemort. Voldemort. With a plea. Not for himself, but for a Muggle-born witch. At best, Snape’s request might have been laughed off, dismissed as the desperate wish of a foolish young Death Eater. But it wasn’t. For some reason, Voldemort didn’t just tolerate Snape’s plea—he actually acted on it.

Consider how critical this moment was to Voldemort’s larger agenda. At the heart of his entire scheme is a singular, consuming fixation: the annihilation of the child prophesied to be his undoing. Harry Potter is Voldemort’s obsession, the one threat he must eliminate to secure his dominion. The Potters were no longer just enemies—they were the key to his future, and Harry was the focus of his most crucial mission. In this context, sparing anyone even remotely connected to Harry was an extraordinary risk. Leniency wasn’t just unnecessary—it was dangerous. By showing mercy to Lily, Voldemort risked undermining his own carefully constructed agenda. And this wasn’t a moment where Voldemort could afford to make mistakes.

This unprecedented act of “mercy,” this concession Voldemort granted Snape, became the very thing that led to his downfall. Had Voldemort simply killed Lily Evans on the spot, as he did James, she would never have had the chance to sacrifice herself for Harry. The protection her sacrifice invoked—the ancient magic that saved Harry’s life and turned Voldemort’s killing curse back on him—would never have existed. Voldemort, the cold strategist, fell because he didn’t bend for anyone—except, inexplicably, for Snape. And that single, dangerous deviation cost him everything. That’s how it’s all started.

And there it is— how it’s all ends. Voldemort’s final words to Severus Snape before he executes him. But pay attention to how he begins. “Clever man,” he calls him. He suggests that Snape might’ve already known the truth of the Elder Wand’s treachery. Tom would never acknowledge someone’s cleverness if it undermined his own intellectual abilities. If he implies that Snape may have already unraveled the mystery of the Elder Wand, it undoubtedly indicates that Voldemort had recognized Snape’s crucial role in the wand’s problems long before. It’s not just idle chatter or casual flattery. No, it’s a bloody confirmation that Voldemort himself had long ago pieced together the mystery of Snape’s involvement with the wand. This wasn’t some last-minute realization that forced his hand. It wasn’t ignorance that delayed Snape’s death, not at all. It was deliberation. Voldemort, for all his cruelty, wasn’t stupid. He suspected, long before that moment, that Snape was at the center of the problem with the wand’s loyalty. He just chose not to act on it until the very last moment.

He held back from executing him, searching for any other way around the wand’s limitations, trying to find a solution that didn’t involve killing Snape. But when it came down to it, when all other options were exhausted, Voldemort finally made his move.

And what does he do? He delivers a speech. A bloody speech, full of regret and excuses—“I regret what must happen.” Does that sound like the Voldemort we know? The Dark Lord who kills without a second thought, who carves his empire from the bones of the disobedient? Hell no. This is the man who thrives on fear, on swift, brutal punishment. And yet, here he is, delivering justifications like some guilty executioner. This isn’t Voldemort’s usual method. This isn’t the whip coming down fast and hard. This is something altogether more… hesitant.

That speech, soaked in rationalizations, tells us everything we need to know. Snape’s death wasn’t just business—it was personal. It’s a messy, ugly end to the unexplainable dynamic between them. Even at the very end, Voldemort is bending, twisting, trying to justify his actions to the one man who had managed to worm his way under his skin. And in that second, we see something rare—a glimpse of the complexity in their relationship. Voldemort’s usual ruthless efficiency is absent.

His “I regret it,” spoken once more, stands out like a blade in the gut, sharp and unexpected, slicing straight through Voldemort’s usual cold indifference. The Dark Lord, who has never spared a thought for the wreckage in his wake, lets these words hang in the air, unnatural as they are. A man who’s never known the weight of remorse now offers something that almost feels like regret. Not true regret, of course—Voldemort doesn’t have the luxury of feeling something so weak, so human. But still, It’s not a sentiment he offers to anyone else. It’s almost as if Voldemort doesn’t know how to process this lingering attachment, as though Snape’s mere existence demands something from him that Voldemort is incapable of giving. Snape occupies some strange corner of Voldemort’s mind, twisted and dark it may be, that not even the Dark Lord himself seems to understand. Despite the fact that I’ve painted a whole canvas of tangled thoughts on the strange relationship between Severus and Tom, I’ve barely begun to tug at the thread of their inexplicable dynamic. There’s so much more I could unearth, layers of intrigue and tension that ripple through every scene between them, and I could easily go on for hours about the small, delicious details woven into their story. But, as it happens, my full-time job is already sharpening its knife and aiming for my back, so I'll have to bring this whole saga to a close with the following quote:

For me, the intensity of this scene speaks volumes about their relationship, capturing the very essence of what makes these two so bloody fascinating. The way their gaze alone can make Death Eaters flinch under the weight of their unspoken understanding. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s something colder, something deeper. As though they’re witnessing a bond forged in the dark, a grim understanding that none of them can ever be a part of.

That’s what keeps dragging me back to these two. The tension, the labyrinth of contradictions, the complex tangle of manipulation. I want to look away—hell, I should look away, just like the Death Eaters did. But there’s something about it, something that coils around me, tightening like a serpent’s embrace. Can you blame me?

[brokenheartsrecords]

track four: to break an engagement words: 0.8K tw: none taglist: @lxvebelle , @that-daughter-of-hephaestus find track three here note: not really my favourite piece of work, but it does set the scene

HAWTHORNE MANSION IS COLD AND uninviting. You’re going to marry into this house, this family, but it doesn’t look like it might be yours.

In your mind, you know that you can make the house look like yours, but you’re looking for reasons to not marry Grayson. It’s not that you don’t want to.

It’s just that you don’t know him.

He’s perfect in the limited societal events he chooses to attend; doesn’t drink more than one glass of any drink provided, his name never appearing in gossip sheets. There is nothing about him that could possibly be a valid enough reason to break off the engagement.

Unless he has a secret double life that might endanger your own life. 

You haven’t forgotten the voices you heard in the walls of your home, talking about your wedding to Lord Hawthorne, malicious sounding and rather creepy. 

You want to tell your mother about this, you really do. You would’ve done it, too, if she weren’t so excited that her daughter was getting married.

In the drawing room of Hawthorne House, Grayson sits beside you, careful not to let any part of his frame touch yours.

There was one problem about him.

He was too damn gentlemanly.

Skye and your mother are talking about the marriage banns and the engagement festivities on the other end of the room, pretending as though they really don’t care about anything that you and Grayson might talk about.

You should tell him that you hadn’t orchestrated this entire engagement, but he looks cold.

Just like the house.

You take a deep breath. You open our mouth.

And right at that moment, he leaps up, walking away from the seat like it burned him.

You’re confused, and you notice that Skye and your mother have stopped talking, instead choosing to look at Grayson.

He smiles, and it looks rather forced, and when he looks at you, his hand extended, you’re sure that he’d do anything to get out of this engagement.

“I was hoping if you’d like to take a go at the hedge mazes.” He begins. “You weren’t able to see much the last time you were here.”

Oh God, he absolutely hates you.

Still, you plaster a smile on your face and take his hand. “Of course, my Lord. Is it alright if we do so, Mama?”

“Oh, yes. I doubt Ms. Skye and I have any qualms about this. Do take a maid with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure, Mama.”

With a maid trailing five steps behind you, Grayson Hawthorne leads you into the maze, and your head supplies you with a mental image of him killing you when the maid is lost in the hedges,

You snort.

“Something funny, Madam?” He seems less on edge here in the maze. 

“Just… imagining,” you say.

“Imagining.”

“Hmm.”

Uncomfortable silence takes over the space the two of you stand in. 

“This is ridiculous.” You start. “You obviously do not want to marry me,” you untangle your elbow from his, “and I don’t want to marry you—and please do not take offense to that, Lord Hawthorne, I’m sure the two of us would rather wed people we know instead of people we do not.”

He looks surprised, and opens his mouth. You keep going on, not stopping at all.

“And the worst part is we can’t break the engagement or my honout will be lost, damn it all.”

“...you do not wish to marry me?” He asks, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a bit offended.

“I don’t.” You confirm. 

He nods. “And you wish to break the engagement?”

“Yes.” 

He nods again. “As do I. Of course, it is not because of you—you do seem like a rather lovely person. I’ve just never felt the wish to marry.”

You grin. “Glad that this was sorted. Now, how are we going to break the engagement?”

Grayson smiles at you, one of those half smiles that you’ve always found attractive. “We drag society into this love affair.” He states, as though it was obvious. 

“Pardon?”

“Once they notice that you and I have no feelings towards each other, word will spread. It will reach my mother, and then yours. They, in turn, will be pressured by our delightful society to invalidate this marriage out of sympathy for you.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“We stage an extremely heated argument where you can scream falsehoods about me to my face and announce that you do not wish to marry me. Truthfully, this method is far more effective; but it would have me lose my dignity.”

The maid catches up behind you, and your elbow is intertwined with his again. “What do you say, my Lady? Are you ready to fool the proper English society?”

He looks straight in your eyes, and there’s a challenging glint in his. “When am I never?”

[sgt-tombstone]

Candy Red

So... my angst brain took over and I decided to finally type out an idea I've been sitting on for a while. Please heed the content warnings because this is a pretty gruesome one. Take care of yourselves and feel free to yell at me in the notes!

CW: brief mention of sexual assault, brief mention of child slavery, canon-typical violence, angst, hurt/no comfort, rough sex, breaking up

Read it on AO3 here!

----

The world was cruel.

Soap knew that better than most. In his time in the 141, he had seen some of the worst atrocities the world had to offer; brothers turned against brothers for the sake of profit or hatred, women trafficked and subjected to horrific violence, children bought and sold like sheep at the market. He'd seen enough blood to half convince him of Old Testament justice, of the biblical plagues of Egypt, of the End of Days.

The cruelest thing he'd ever been forced to witness, however, was the body of Simon Riley twist and warp as a barrage of bullets tore through his skin and muscle, bursting veins and shattering bones, before falling to the ground in a heap. Soap himself had been close to bleeding out, propped against a concrete wall that was more rubble than structure, and had been afforded a front row seat to the devastation; like a train wreck in slow motion, he hadn't been able to look away. He had watched in abject horror, his heart lodged somewhere in his esophagus instead of safely behind his ribs where it was supposed to be, as Simon's blood flowed freely, pooling in the dirt where boots and bullets alike had gouged the earth. He'd watched as Simon had collapsed, and he'd watched as Simon didn't get back up. And he didn't get up. And he didn't. Get. Up.

He woke up in the hospital two days later, brain and muscles sluggish with pain meds and a constant slew of fluids injected directly into his veins. His left thigh was a mess of stitches and bandages, blessedly blood-free but liable to start leaking again at the first hint of movement. There was a drain tube stitched in place, because apparently his body was pumping puss like nobody's business, and the sound of it dripping into the metal basin beneath him sent waves of nausea through his chest.

Gaz was sitting next to him, his chair pulled close, his head in his hands, looking as gaunt as Soap had ever seen him. He wondered if his fellow sergeant had slept at all since his hospitalization or if he'd spent the entire two days staring at the heart rate monitor, like it'd stop the second he glanced away.

There was a second beeping noise, slightly offset from Soap's own pulse, and he tilted his head as quickly as he dared, holding his breath to keep the bile at bay. He needed to know if it was Price or Ghost; if their stupid, self-sacrificing stunt had put anyone else in the line of fire or if they had miraculously gotten away with it. He needed to know if Simon had given his life to save Soap's. He needed to know if he'd need to dig his dress blues out of his-

His gaze landed on the sharp slant of Simon's nose, the jagged edge of the scar bisecting Simon's lip, the blond eyelashes fanning over Simon's sharp cheekbone, and his chest collapsed on a silent sob. Tears stung at his eyelids, clinging to his own lashes, and he tossed his head back to the middle of his pillow to keep them from falling because he couldn't lift a hand to wipe them away. He gritted his teeth against the wail that built in his chest, the keening cry that fought its way up his throat, muscles tightening until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't stop the tears from overflowing, running in rivulets past his temples and into the shaved sides of his head.

"Soap?"

He squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of Gaz's voice, rough from disuse, or maybe just misuse, because Soap could still hear the echoes of his panicked screams in his ears, reverberating between the steady beats of the heart monitor. He and Gaz had seen each other at their absolute worst, coated in blood, collapsing from exhaustion, screaming in hot-blooded rage, but he didn't want Gaz to see him like this. He didn't want Gaz to see how utterly broken he was.

"Get Price," he whispered, and breathed a sigh of relief when Gaz skimmed his fingers over the back of Soap's hand as he stood to leave.

----

It took three weeks for Simon to be released from the hospital and eight more for him to be green-lit for strenuous exercise again.

Soap stayed as far away from him as possible the entire time.

First, because he was healing from his own aches and pains, the bullet hole in his thigh stubbornly refusing to close on its own, blood and puss leaking from it like a faucet, and he'd been forced to ride a desk until the stitches held long enough for the gaping wound to suture itself back together. After that, he avoided Simon because of the guilt.

It was a tender, aching, thorny thing, stuck somewhere behind his clavicle, stabbing skin and bone every time he took a breath. The doctors had been concerned about pneumonia, and he hadn't had the heart to tell them that he couldn't take a deep breath without his lungs trying to force their way out through his rib cage, without his heart squeezing impossibly tight, stuttering over each beat like it wasn't convinced it wanted to keep expending the effort that living required.

He became as much of a ghost as Simon. He spent a grand total of three hours in his room over the course of those eleven weeks, opting instead to catch catnaps in whichever corner seemed the darkest. He'd lodge himself behind stacks of crates, protected by the shadows of automatic rifles and hand grenades and armored trucks. He slipped in and out of the mess hall in silence, unnoticed and ignored, because John MacTavish was a loud soldier, and the man who lurked in the halls of Credenhill was not. Gaz looked at him askance every time he saw him, concern etched into every plane and wrinkle of his face, eyes heavy with worry that encroached on fear, but Soap brushed him off, citing pain and worry of his own for his lack of sleep. Neither of them mentioned the fact that he was making himself purposefully hard to find. Neither of them mentioned how adept he was at it.

----

They fell into bed together twelve weeks and three days after their bodies had been riddled with brass and lead.

They were in Simon's room, Simon pressed against his own locked door, Soap's hands and mouth wandering frantically over every square inch of skin he could find, like he was relearning every dip and divot of Simon's body. Like he was memorizing it all over again, etching it into his memory. Simon's body was hot against his, their skin burning where they were pressed together, aching to get closer. Soap broke their panting kiss to tug Simon's shirt over his head and Simon reciprocated in kind, letting their palms wander over healed skin and new scars, reverent.

"I'm okay, Johnny," Simon whispered into the still air between them and Soap wanted to sob, wanted to climb inside of Simon's chest and live there like a hermit crab in a Ghost-shaped shell, wanted to tear Simon apart, rib by rib, until he could hold the warm, bloody, beating muscle in his hands, could feel it constrict with every pulse, could feel it throb in time with his own. He ached with want.

Instead, he pulled Simon bodily away from the door and shoved him towards the bed, barely giving him any time to adjust before settling his weight on top of him, framing Simon's hips with his thighs. The stretch pulled at his newly-healed scar, but he didn't relent. His jaw ached with the need to feel Simon's skin between his teeth and he let himself indulge, warmth flushing through him at the sound of Simon's groan, low and breathy. Simon's hands burned like brands where they arced across Soap's bare back, leaving trails of embers smoldering under his skin.

He blinked and blood coated his mouth, thick and heavy on his tongue, where his teeth were lodged in Simon's flesh, biting down harder with every stroke of Simon's finger across his hole, thick and probing, slick and teasing. They were completely naked, their hard cocks pressed side by side, velvet heat emanating off of their bodies in waves, and Soap didn't know when that happened, but he wasn't going to complain, not when he had Simon's fingertip dipping past the tight ring of muscle. His eyes rolled back with the stretch, like an itch he couldn't scratch finally sated, except that it wasn't enough. He needed more, needed to be pulled apart like taffy, needed to carve himself hollow until he was a husk, ready and willing to house the very essence of Simon Riley.

He rocked back against Simon's fingers, pushing them deeper, stretching himself wider, until he was panting with it, his breath hot against Simon's blood-coated chest, viscera dripping with every exhale, bright against pale skin. Simon's other hand cupped the back of Soap's head, fingers carded through overgrown hair, keeping him in place.

Finally, Soap felt Simon's lube-slicked cock press against his hole, hot and cold and soft and hard all at once, and he keened at the pressure, overwhelming as Simon split him open. He could hear Simon whispering above him, soft words spoken directly against the crown of his head, but he couldn't parse them out over the static in his blood, whiting out his hearing until his ears were ringing, the high-pitched tinnitus of one too many explosions at close range, but he craved just one more.

When Simon started thrusting, it wasn't soft or gentle. It was the frantic, frenzied movements of a man who had nearly died to save the love of his life, who had nearly been forced to watch his partner bleed out into the dirt right in front of him, who had been helpless to do anything but sacrifice himself in the vain hope of at least dying together. It was the first brush of warm skin, the steady pulse under seeking fingertips, the barest exhale against a bare palm. It was relief, pure and simple, except relief was never simple. It was life, and Simon was grasping it with both hands.

Soap went fuzzy after that. He tried to stay present, tried to soak up every moment, but his mind drained out through his ears as Simon used him, nailing his prostate with every thrust. There was blood, not just in his mouth, but under his nails; he was scratching Simon's chest and arms, presumably, hard enough to draw blood, but Simon was doing nothing to discourage him. If anything, he arched up into it, begging for the sensation as fervently as Soap wanted to inflict it. Corpses didn't feel pain, and the dead didn't bleed.

Cum mixed with blood as Soap tripped over the edge; Simon's hand wrapped around his cock, Simon's blood painting his teeth, Simon's cock massaging his prostate. Pale skin adorned in red and white, and then Simon's body clenched, every muscle tightening as he spilled inside of Soap. Warmth, endless warmth, in and around him, and it took no effort at all to tip over into unconsciousness, the steady rhythm of Simon's heart loud in his ear.

----

"What the fuck is this?"

Soap blinked awake, immediately aware of the chill that had become his bedfellow at some point in the night. Something heavy hit the bed by his feet and he belatedly registered the deep growl of Simon--no, Ghost--standing over him. He tilted his head, confusion swimming to the forefront as he squinted up at Ghost.

"Wha-"

"Did you request a transfer?"

Oh, fuck.

Soap sat up, his gaze landing on the stack of papers that Ghost had thrown onto the bed, neatly stapled with the damning heading clearly visible at the top. Transfer Request. Signed and dated by one John "Soap" MacTavish the day he'd woken up three months ago. The second date, penned in by the owner of the second signature, one John Price, was far more incriminating; today's date. The day of his transfer.

He stood up and pulled on a pair of sweats, refusing to take this conversation laying down, or naked. And then they were both standing in the middle of Ghost's room, several feet between them, and it felt like an immeasurable, insurmountable gulf.

"Aye," Soap said defiantly, because he had. He remembered, through the haze of tears and drugs and pain, signing his signature on the dotted line. Price had questioned him over and over, but Soap had refused to give in. His hand had been shaking, his vision blurry, but he'd signed with conviction, the same conviction he felt now, hot in his veins.

"Why?"

It was all Soap could do to hold onto that conviction in the face of Simon's soft question. It escaped on a sigh, a small, broken thing that was more breath than sound, and Soap wanted nothing more than to rip the paper to shreds, to cross the divide between them and wrap Simon in his arms. The single syllable cut into Soap's skin like a knife, leaving a trail of blood behind, and only Simon's touch would mend it. But he couldn't. For both of them.

"You're compromised," he said, forcing his voice to take on a hard edge, an uncharacteristic flatness, and he barely held himself back when Simon visibly flinched.

"I'm compromised?" Simon hissed, pain and betrayal dripping from every syllable. "Were you- Did Price-"

"I requested it," Soap interrupted. "Price didn't make me do anything."

"Why?" Simon repeated, and he sounded desperate now. Soap ground his teeth together, tasting the remnants of Simon's blood along his gums, and stayed silent. "Since when have you been the responsible one here?"

It was a joke, or at least an attempt at one, a tear-soaked effort, but it landed flat and heavy like a grenade, and Soap could feel the air thicken as they stared at it, wondering if it was a dud or if they would both get caught in the blast.

"One of us has to be," he said flatly, and the grenade exploded. Heat and pain flared across his chest, throbbing in time with his heart, and he couldn't meet Simon's gaze. He stared resolutely at his chest, at the pink scars that pocked his skin, and drew tenacity from the sight. "I'm reckless, Ghost," he said, shaking his head helplessly. "I always will be; nothing you can do about that. I'll not have ye killin' yerself to save a lost cause."

"A lost-" Simon breathed, then cut himself off, his face crumpled in devastation. "Johnny."

"It's already been approved, Ghost," Soap said, a little unkindly, just harsh enough to cut them both, a little pain to force Simon back a step.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't tell you."

"Will you ever come back?"

Soap let the silence stretch between them, speaking for itself. The truth was that he couldn't. He wouldn't let himself. He had seen the way Simon had let himself crack, had reveled in the glimpses he saw behind the mask, had delighted in being one of the only people who got Simon instead of Ghost. But he hadn't expected the ruin it would cause.

Neither of them could guarantee each other's safety; it was the job. They regularly put themselves directly in several convergent lines of sight, laser scopes pointed directly at their hearts and minds. That fact had never bothered Soap before. And then he'd met Simon, and he'd seen how viscerally Simon reacted to the sight of a laser sight aimed at Soap's head. He'd seen the lengths that Simon would go to to protect him, and he couldn't let that happen.

"Will I ever see you again?" Simon whispered, and Soap hated himself for the way his breath hitched.

"I hope not," he said. Every bone in his body buzzed at the lie, but he refused to let it show. "I hope you forget about me, Ghost. By the time I'm KIA, I hope that you'll have forgotten my name."

"Never," Ghost snarled, hot and sudden, but Soap didn't let himself roll over.

"One day I'll die," he continued, keeping his voice as apathetic as possible, like the words weren't scorching his throat as he said them. "There's nothing you can do about that. It'll be easier for you to lose me now."

"Easier?" Simon asked incredulously. "Is any of this easy for you?"

No, God no. The words sat at the tip of Soap's tongue, trapped behind his teeth, and it took everything he had not to let them loose. Nothing about this was easy. But neither was laying in that hospital bed with nothing to stare at except Simon's unconscious body, swathes of shredded skin on full display as the nurses changed the dressings. Neither was clinging to the sound of a heart monitor throughout the night, every silent beat a held breath, hoping that it wasn't the last. Neither was laying next to the love of his life, waiting for him to die, and knowing he was the reason he was there at all.

"The man I love wouldn't do this," Simon pleaded. "The man who loves me wouldn't do this. Don't do this, Johnny, please."

"It's already done, Ghost."

"Simon," Simon breathed. "Why won't you call me Simon? What changed?"

Nothing. But Soap couldn't say that. It was the truth; he loved Simon with every fiber of his being, and that would never change, but he couldn't say that. Instead, he scooped his shirt off the floor, pulled it over his head, and stepped around Simon to the door.

"Do you still love me?" Simon asked, rushed, like it took every effort to force the words out before Soap opened the door and broke the bubble around them once and for all. "Did you ever love me?"

Soap paused, his hand on the doorknob, and squeezed his eyes shut to stop his tears from falling. He did. He did, and he always would. God, he loved Simon like the sun loved the moon. Even now, he craved Simon's touch, craved Simon's smile, his laugh, his fond eyes. He craved and he ached. But he had to stay strong. For both of them.

"No," he said at last, pulling the door open. He heard Simon's sob echo in the room behind him, broken and desolate, and every muscle in his body strained with the need to run to him. He could feel his heart breaking in his chest with an audible crack, splintering until every shard was lodged deep in the surrounding tissue, lacerations that would never heal for as long as he lived. He could only hope that Simon's would, that Simon would be able to pick the pieces back up and tape them back into some semblance of a functioning organ. He could only hope that Price and Gaz would be there to soothe the sting until the cuts scarred over, until Soap's name was said with anger or indifference rather than grief, until Soap was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon. A bitter memory, a long-lost almost, a name on a mission report.

He forced himself to step outside and close the door on the sound of Simon's grief. It was better this way. It had to be. It was the only way Simon would survive.

----

When he stopped by Price's office later that day, he saw the same stack of papers waiting for him, stapled neatly, heading damning. Transfer Request. Signed and dated and absolute. Price fixed him with a scrutinizing look, a little too soft for Soap's liking, and their handshake lasted just a moment too long.

"Good luck, sergeant," he scowled, his displeasure evident in every line of his face, but he hadn't stopped him from signing the papers on the first place.

"Thank you, sir," Soap said. "It was an honor serving with you."

"I hope you know what you're doing, son," Price grunted. "He won't give up that easily."

All he could do was nod as Price handed him the stack of papers. They felt like dead weight in his grip and he tightened his fingers, the sheets crinkling slightly against his palm. Price walked him out to the tarmac where the plane was waiting, cargo and soldiers alike loading into its belly. Gaz was waiting for them, enveloping Soap into a bone-crushing hug as soon as he was within sight.

"I'll miss you, Soap," he said, his lips pressed close to Soap's ear to be heard over the airfield din. "Stay in touch, yeah?"

He knew that he wouldn't, but he nodded anyway, tears prickling at his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," Soap responded. "I-"

"I know," Gaz interrupted, pulling back to look Soap in the eyes. "We'll take care of him for you."

"Thank you."

----

As the plane took off, engines roaring and frame trembling, Soap settled back in his seat, his head resting on the metal hull, and waited for reality to sink in. His body felt charged, a live wire disguised as blood and muscle and bones, and his fingers played with the edge of the paperwork in his hands. He idly flipped through it, making sure every dotted line had its appropriate signature, and when the stray piece of paper fluttered out, he grabbed it reflexively, instinct more than intent.

When his brain registered what it was, he couldn't stop the flow of tears. He read the address over and over again until he couldn't read it anymore, until the words were smudged with drops of water, until he was sobbing into his glove, pressed tight against his lips.

If you change your mind, you know where to find me.

[melodiesinmotion-if]

Extra Content: The interview in which St. Skeleton tells their origin story and lets the world know they're not as picture perfect as their fans may think.

(Side note: because Star/Dallas' name changes based on their gender, they have been labeled as "SD" for the sake of leaving them neutral.)

“We’ve done, like, 100 fucking interviews this month,” Violet whines; her big, brown eyes searching the room for Valen, St. Skeleton’s manager. She’s a no-nonsense woman normally, but for reasons unknown, she has a soft spot for Violet. The lead singer knows this and loves using it to her advantage.

Across the room, Jagger loudly sighs and flips the page of his novel - some beat-up, pulp fiction paperback. He’s perched on an amp stack, curly black hair falling into his scowling face. Annoyance builds inside her as she glares at him.

“If you’re gonna talk shit, actually say something-,” she starts. A soft hand falls to her arm as Mikki shakes their head. They look desperate to stop the emerging fight quickly.

“V, please don’t,” they whisper. “Not today. We don’t need the bad press right now.”

They’re right, as usual. She nods and gives their hand a squeeze, a silent promise to try and be on her best behavior.

“Not after that shit you pulled last night,” Jett snickers. Her head snaps towards the guitar player. He’s leaning against the door frame casually, nursing a bottle of whisky.

Ryder laughs as he and Aspen continue editing last night’s concert photos. They’re off in the opposite corner, trying desperately to work with the makeshift table they’ve made from equipment cases. “I have some pictures here if you need me to jog your memory. Pretty good shit.”

“Oh, fuck you guys!” Violet attempts to pout, but can’t stop the smile from forming. She was pretty fucked up last night. Apparently, you’re not supposed to give tourists a strip tease while standing in a hotel fountain. Or in public, for that matter. But you know what? She gave those tourists the show of their lives for free. They should be thanking her.

“’Sides, Valen’s in a meeting. Looks like you’re gonna have to do the interview today, princess.” Jett drawls, taking another sip of whisky.

SD, who’s hanging halfway off the recliner by Violet, flicking a pink lighter on and off, perks up. “Oh! Since Valen’s gone, does that make me honorary band manager?”

“No,” the room says in unison.

Before anyone can do anything else, the room’s side door swings open. A petite, woman in a black dress and high heels struts in; her press pass swinging slightly as she moves.

Trinity James, a reporter for Sonic Pulse.

No one misses the way Jett straightens - signature smirk crawling up his lip. “Well, hi, darlin’.”

“Hm,” she deadpans, pulling a chair to the middle of the room. “Come on, I have a flight to catch after this.”

Those at the edge of the room scurry towards the couch where Mikki and Violet sit. Jett takes a seat on the armchair of the recliner, moving SD’s legs into his lap. Aspen hovers beside the couch, Jagger takes the empty spot beside Violet, and Ryder drops to the floor. He doesn’t need to be here, but why pass up the opportunity to listen?

She pulls a recorder and notepad from her bag and sets them up quickly, obviously ready to be finished with this interview.

“What’s her problem?” Violet hisses towards Jett. He laughs as his hands form devil horns behind his head. Mikki glares and swats towards him. Either unaware of or unbothered by the interaction Trinity hits record and the interview begins.

“Who the hell are you?” she asks, eyes flicking between Ryder and S; the two shift uncomfortably where they’re seated, unsure if they should answer any questions.

“They’re my assistant,” Violet points to SD before pointing to Ryder, “and he’s our photographer. They’re just here to observe.” Beside her Mikki smiles, visibly proud of her for taking charge, and being respectful.

Trinity nods but seems to brush Violet off. “You two can talk, you know? People are so nosy. They love feeling like they’re getting an inside look from someone other than the band members. Feel free to jump in whenever.”

The two turn towards Violet, who shrugs her shoulders.

“Great, it’s settled.” Trinity scans everyone before explaining how things will work. “I’ll start with basics questions then we’ll jump into the nitty gritty of it all. Feel free to answer any question unless it’s addressed to one person. Got it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she continues. One month later the interview is published in what becomes the highest selling issue of the decade.

+++

Sonic Pulse, Issue 244, October 20xx. Getting to Know St. Skeleton.

Trinity: “Let’s go down the line. Introduce yourselves to readers who may not know you. That includes you two extra special guests.” Violet: “I’m Violet Graves, but everyone calls me V. I’m the lead singer of St. Skeleton.” Jagger: “I’m Jagger Golding. I play bass in St. Skeleton.” Mikki: “Hi, I’m Mikki Riot. I’m the drummer for St. Skeleton.” Jett: “Jett Stryker. I play guitar for St. Skeleton.” Aspen: “I’m Aspen Blitz. I play rhythm guitar for St. Skeleton.” Star/Dallas: “Uh, I’m SD. I’m Violet’s assistant.” Ryder: “I’m Ryder Reyes, private photographer for St. Skeleton.”

TJ: “And how’d you get into that, Ryder? Being the photographer, I mean.” RR: “Oh, um, well I’ve known the band since they formed and I’m shit at anything musical, but my pictures don’t suck so…here I am.”

TJ: “Tell me about how the band formed. It was in a bar, right? Very rock and roll.” JS: “OH! Let me tell you! So here’s how it went down. Jagger, Mikki, and me were at this bar in our hometown-” JG: “The Velvet Alehouse. Cool place.” RR: “Love that place. Aspen and I used to go a lot.” AB: “I want to go back!” VG: “That place fucking raised me. I had my first bathroom hook up there.” MR: “Oh, god. With that one blue-haired fucker. They were so douchy.” SD: “Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking! V and I have known each other forever. She could never get me anyway.” VG: “Right…” JS: “ANY WAY. As I was saying. Jagger, Mikki, and me were at The Velvet Alehouse and this girl gets on stage and starts singing for open mic night. Holy fuck, she totally bombed it. I’m talking ‘cats fighting in an alley’ bombed it.” VG: “Okay, first of all, fuck you. Second of all, it wasn’t that bad.” AB: “Oh, V.” JG: “It was pretty bad, dude.” JS: “The worst!” VG: “I was fucking nervous, you assholes!” JS: “Doesn’t change the fact that it sucked. So after V gets up there and bombs it-“ AB: “And gets booed off the stage.” SD: “Holy shit that was brutal.” JS: “Holy shit, she did get booed off the stage. I totally forgot about that. So she runs off the stage and all her friends are just fucking standing there speechless. They’ve got their cameras out and this sash that says it’s her birthday. So we’re all instantly feeling so fucking bad for this girl who just embarrassed herself on her birthday. So I march outside, where she’s puking her fucking guts out might I add, and I-” VG: “You know what he fucking does? He laughs! He just fucking laughs. I’m having the worst day of my life and this asshole just stands there and laughs.” JG: “You should have seen her face. I thought she was going to kill him.” VG: “I should have, our lives would be easier now.” JS: “Love you too, V.” JG: “While my dick-head of a brother just stands there, drunk as shit, laughing at her, I try to let her know it wasn’t that bad-” MR: “You’re a fucking angel, Jagger.” JS: “I bet I can name a few people who think otherwise.” JG: “Oh, fuck you.” JS: “Careful, man.” VG: “Relax.”

TJ: “Please, continue, Jett.” JS: “So. I let V know that we want to buy her a drink for her birthday.” SD: “You think the performance was bad? Wait until you hear the next part.” JS: “We all head back inside to meet up with her friends and you know, fuck around some, and we can’t find them. We just see SD sitting at the table alone.” SD: “All her other friends left. They just up and left, didn’t say shit to me. Took all her birthday presents too.” VG: “And that’s not even the worst birthday I’ve ever had.” MR: “To make a very long story short, we ended up meeting Aspen and Ryder that night while we were all drinking, and everyone just hit it off. Later we took off to another bar, got fucked up, and the rest was history.” JS: “We realized V actually could sing when her nerves weren’t interfering and knew we needed to jam together. St. Skeleton was born not long after.”

TJ: “And how long ago was that?” VG: “Ah, it’s gotta be 5 years ago at this point.”

TJ: “Let’s talk about St. Skeleton currently. You released your second album ‘Born To Be’ nine months ago. Your lead single ‘To the Grave’ skyrocketed your group into stardom.” MR: “This was something we didn’t think would happen so early in our career, but it’s been amazing. We’re doing so many things that we’ve all always dreamed of.”

TJ: “I can’t help but notice you seem to disagree, Jagger. Not into the fame thing?” JG: “What? Uh, I mean, it’s fine. Overwhelming I guess.” TJ: “You’re one of the biggest groups on the planet and…it’s fine?” JG: “That’s what I said, yeah.” JS: “Forgive my brother, he’s an asshole.” JG: “What is your fucking problem today, dude?” VG: “Can you two relax? What the fuck?”

TJ: “It’s a bit weird for bands this young to be fighting so much.” JG & JS: “We’re not fighting!” VG: “They’re fine. It’s a twin thing, you know? They fight I guess.” TJ: “Sure. You know what? I think I have what I need.”

[writercole]

Do It Again

Summary: Watching horror movies with Boone brings you closer...in more ways than one. Words: 1200ish Warnings: Fluff. Also discussion of horror movies but nothing explicit. Credits: @ryebecca on the title help :) A/N: Fall into Fall day 2 and my first Boone fic! He's definitely the weirdest, most awkward dude ever and I love him so much.

Knocking on the door, I felt a little self-conscious. I was either the first to arrive or the last, and neither was a preferred option. The crush I had on Boone rendered me incapable of being in a confined space as him without being incredibly awkward. 

The grin he had when he opened the door dropped, his shoulders drooping when he looked around me and found that it was only me standing there. A shy smile lifted his lips as he returned his gaze to me.

“Tyler said he and Kate aren’t really scary movie people,” I explained. “I think that means they want to be left alone to do ‘couple things’ instead of coming.”

“Sounds right,” he sighed, “Dani and Lily are taking Javi out. And Dexter is working a cross stitch that he’s almost done with.”

“So it’s just you and I tonight?”

He nodded in confirmation and wiped his free hand on his jeans, swallowing hard as he looked at me. I felt just as nervous as he looked. I doubt I looked as adorable, though.

“Or, we could cancel and each do our own thing? If you’re not comfortable with it.”

“No!” he blurted out. “Let’s watch some scary movies!” He stepped to the side and gestured for me to come into the room.

“If you’re sure. I wouldn’t want to -”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” I stepped into the room with a smile and marveled at how tidy it was.

“I’ve never been more sure. Of a movie date. I mean, a partner. I mean someone to watch movies with,” he fumbled. I managed to catch a hint of redness on his cheeks before he turned to shut the door.

Butterflies swooped in my stomach before my brain chastised them for getting excited. It’s not like he’s awkward because he likes me. He’s just awkward in general. And that’s one of my favorite traits about him.

Seating proved to be an overthinking hellscape. I could sit in the corner, making sure that I wouldn’t get scared and clutch Boone. Or I could sit on the edge of the bed, even though my back would be aching by the end of the movie. I could sit on the floor but…yuck.

The debate in my head raged on for what seemed like hours before I decided to head over to the foot of the bed and take off my shoes. After that, I’d follow Boone’s lead. See where he sat and what he said. 

He followed pretty quickly after, flopping onto the bed into the spot next to the remote. “Your back is going to ache if you sit there for the whole movie,” he said.

I swore internally. Of course he’d remember me saying that my back started to hurt if I sat without support for too long. “I’m just taking off my shoes. Outside germs and all.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah of course.” 

I really hoped this was a good idea. As much as he said he wanted me here, he seemed more awkward than usual. I scooted up to the headboard and leaned against it. The space between us felt like centimeters. I could feel warmth radiating off of him but also, there was something comforting as well as stiff about his posture. 

“So, what are we watching first?” I asked.

“Slasher or monster?”

“Um…Slasher, I guess?”

“Okay, Freddy, Jason, or Michael?”

“Who?”

“Please tell me you’re kidding. Those are the three most iconic slashers of all time.”

“Which one is the one in Scream?”

“That’s Ghostface.”

“Can we watch that one?”

“Original franchise or reboot?”

“There’s a reboot?”

“Oh you need a horror education,” he sighed as he scooted closer to me, turning to face me slightly.

I tried to ignore the way my heart thundered against my rib cage.

“Original Scream franchise starred Neve Campbell  as the heroine. The reboot has Jenna Ortega. Pretty decent, in all honesty, compared to like, Nightmare on Elm Street reboot. And don’t get me started on how they tried to bring Michael Meyers back. H2O really sealed up the franchise and he just keeps coming back and I don’t understand it.”

He continued on about movies I’d heard of in passing and characters I had no clue about. I have no idea how long he talked but I got lost in the sound of his voice and the way his hands moved as he explained things. He stopped talking and I cocked my head, looking up to find him shying away.

“Sorry, I got a little overexcited there,” he apologized.

“I kind of enjoyed it.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up as he looked back at me.

“Yeah. It’s obviously something you really like and I love listening to my friends talk about their passions.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, I’d listen to my friends talk about anything, too.” 

“So, Scream reboot?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

He pressed play on the movie and shut off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness until the movie started up.

Boone’s posture had fallen after I said I’d listen to my friends. I wasn’t sure what that was about, because he was my friend. I’d love it if we could be more but I wouldn’t want to break up the team that Tyler created. And I couldn’t help but be afraid that I’d end up crushing Boone at some point and he’d leave. They always left.

The villain popped out of a closet and I jumped, clutching onto Boone’s arm, just like I feared. Both of our eyes dropped to the spot where my fingers wrapped around his bicep before meeting again. I wasn’t sure what was in his eyes so I loosened my grip and started to pull my hand away.

Surprisingly, his free hand reached over and grasped it before the arm I was clutching draped around my shoulders. He pulled me close and I breathed a sigh of relief at the way he took it all in stride. I shifted against him and heard his heart speed up in his chest.

“You okay?” I questioned. “I mean, you don’t have to -”

“I’m fine,” he whispered as he tightened his arm around me, “great, actually.”

“Are you sure?”

He tucked his finger under my chin and lifted my gaze to his. His eyes searched my face for a moment before he leaned in, his lips touching my hesitantly. 

Shock and delight filled my chest before he pulled back to look me in the eye once more. 

“You kissed me,” I muttered.

“I did.”

“Do it again?”

He smiled and his brow relaxed. "You want me to kiss you again?"

“Please.”

"Okay." Boone slid his hand up my cheek and pulled me towards him, kissing me deeper than before.

Maybe movie night wasn't so bad, after all.

[gottagobackintime]

Having a queer “will they, won’t they” with a slice of “they have a past”. One of them is clearly ashamed of himself for being in love with another man. The other one isn’t ashamed and is desperate for the man he loves to admit his feelings and commit to a life together. They almost kiss several times. Finally gets to kiss while the “not ashamed one” is dying after he saved the man he loves.

[mycrowleycalromance]

just watched the second to last episode of the first season do dirk gently and like. omg?

[navree]

idk if i can keep up with the newsroom guys because the only thing i’ve cared about so far in season 3 is don and sloane and in an infinitely greater capacity, the personal drama between leona and reese and the twins but mostly blair. if i could get a prestige drama about that family specifically i’d love it infinitely more than aaron sorkin trying to rehash the snowden debacle for people who still didn’t understand the concept of whistleblower laws (especially not while living in a world where we now know that both snowden and greenwald are the spawns of satan)

[screampied]

❝ HELL ON HEELS . . ! ❞

ᡴꪫ sum. it's your third day on the job as a flight attendant. you work around a lot of snobby rich elites, but a particular one catches your eye. a particular one who tips you $300 dollars in cash and wants way more than just your uninvited attention.

wc. 6.5k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy!gojo au, this is how gojo and reader meet, mile high club trope, flight attendant reader, age gap (early twenties/early thirties), semi public sēx, praise kink, degradation, dry humping, squırting, spanking, edging.

an. thank u to everyone who voted for this on the poll <3

➤ sd!gojo masterlist

the low-pitched whirring of the plane’s engine was quite loud. white noise could be heard through first class as you walked alongside the aisle. with a heavy sigh, you’d just wish the day would be over. the overall duration of the flight was about a good two hours, not too bad but you were already over it. dealing with haughty a-list celebrities or elites as a whole wasn’t for the weak. a majority of them were rude, snobby, and just stuck up individuals. except for one . .

as thick pieces of rubber stick against your heels and clank against the carbon fibre floor, you sashay through and from the rows before a cheeky voice calls over to you. “excuseee me, miss ‘ttendant,” and you crane your neck to where it was coming from. sat right by the window near the left— draped in nothing but a sable-black tuxedo with a pricey g-shock wrapping around his wrist, he simpers. “do you ahh, mind if you . . ?”

“huh,” you quirk your eyebrows into a brow before he nods his head up toward the cabin compartment above all of the seats. “oh,” you give him a soft smile. he takes a quick glance at your name tag that’s glued on the left side of your blazer. you lean over against him, reaching towards the latch to pull it down. the more you get close to him, the more you smell his cologne. it’s so strong, you were sure it was some kind of expensive designer brand. a small grunt leaves your lips as you stretch before just when you’re about to pry open the cabinet, the plane grumbles with a rude shake. a rude shake in which you fall—right onto the older man’s lap who’s got the smuggest grin.

“we’re experiencing a bit of turbulence up here, sincerest apologizes passengers..”

the pilot mutters through the intercom— it’s blaring through the speakers. he talks for about seven seconds, as well as reminding for everyone to have their seatbelts on at all times before he stops.

as if things couldn’t have been anymore embarrassing, your face lands right into his crotch. “oh my god—i’m so sorry sir,” you try to atone, sitting up and as you’re up so close to him, you take a moment to actually get a good glimpse at the man.

he was pretty, simply no denying it. you knew him from anywhere. gojo satoru, the gojo satoru. the snowy white hair was a dead giveaway.

he was more of a well known business man—a ceo of some hot shot company. he had his own clothing brand, does lots of men photoshoots, and even modeled a bit in his early twenties. although, the more you gawk at him, the more it seems like he barely even aged. gojo looks like he was still in his twenties, he had a bit of a stubble but was quite really well shaved. azul-blue eyes return the stare right back at you as you take in his prepossessing features for just a bit longer.

god, he was handsome.

gojo’s hair was neatly neat, a simple slick back of a sort with a few strands of white hair running down his face. he brings a wrist up to his face to rub his mouth before covertly humming. “. . oh, am i that good lookin’, princess?”

you gulp once he catches you staring, and then it hits you again,

you were still dumbly laid on his lap as he’s gazing into your eyes with the most complacent grin. “i-i’m sorry,” you mumble, cringing at your own stutter. thankfully, it was probably about four am, it was a private jet and only a few other passengers scattered around the sectioned row. sitting up, you rub your neck sheepishly before sighing. “i . . don’t usually fall on passengers during on my shifts.”

“heh well i’d hope not,” he teases. “oh, and don’t worry about getting my luggage by the way,” and his eyes trail you down before he glances at your name tag again. “hm, i think i’d like to request something else though,” and the more you stare into his pretty cerulean eyes, the more you get lost in them.

his eyes were equivalent to a maze, you’re always getting lost in his pretty irises—never finding your way out. “you’re probably all sore from walkin’ around in those heels, how ‘bout you take a little break?”

and he was right. the entire lower parts of your calves were a bit sore, so you do. you take a break . . although,

your 'break' mainly consists of you being hunched over, propped up in front of gojo’s seat with him eating you out from behind like a starved man. your bottom lip feels all numb and puffed from chewing on it for so long. your lips part into an exaggerated ‘o’ as your head’s repeatedly being pressed against the back of the airplane seat in front of you. the softly made material rubs against your face and you moan. some older woman was snoring in the front of it, headphones plugged in both sides of her ears.

thank god, you prayed whatever heavy metal track she was listening to would distract her slumber from hearing your loud, whiny moans.

alas again, by ‘break’, you didn’t expect this but you weren’t exactly complaining either. with gojo’s tongue rummaging against your clit, it had you gasping for desperate various breaths. “s-sirrrr,” you whimper, a lewd smile pursing against your lips. two broad hands of his had your jade-colored business skirt pulled up all the way to the very hem of your torso— just about reaching near your now wrinkled blazer. as you sling an arm over the seat in front of you, you whine once his nose prods against your soddened entrance. “ngh, ‘m gettin’ close again i think. f-fuck, right there.”

“please, call me satoru, baby,” he whispers against your pussy. you shudder from the coldness of his breath aerating against your bare skin—you whine once his palm swats by your right ass cheek, giving it a mean spank. “ooh,” he coos from the recoil of your rear. so pretty, it was quite funny how things even escalated so quickly.

right before he was buried into the depths of your plush thighs, you were just chatting with him. gojo had a charm to him. he was a lot different from the other stuck up elites you occasionally dealt with. he was quite easy to talk to. you make it a habit to talk to each passenger, despite how snobby they might come across anyway.

with him though, he was a pure smooth talker.

gojo showered you with a plethora of compliments. it came natural, it didn’t seem forced—he’d point out your pretty eye color, your hair, just anything. with your job, you were used to getting a few compliments here and there—but he’d go all out, all out in a way where it makes your heart flutter and fly. you’re rutting your ass against his face, loving the way his wet tongue curls into a few alphabetic letters. he’s just filthy. each breath that escapes from your lips as if it was being held captive felt like it was gonna be its last.

“so . . fuckin’ sweet,” he purrs, dragging a thumb down your slit for a moment. gojo takes a second to admire the way you easily soak in his digit, such a breathtaking sight inside. lewd, but breathtaking. “mhm, look at her givin’ me a little show. move your ass against my face a little more, sweetheart. yeah, fuck.”

your heart does jumping jacks at his dialogue. his voice was deep, rich—and seductive.

the silvery band of his watch continues to skim all across your skin as your hips judder. you shiver, feeling yourself about to reach your inevitable orgasmic peak before you moan out loud. you tried to suppress your noises, you did—but it was no use. you’re already biting at your hardened knuckles but oh, his tongue.

every few seconds, he’d break away to spit and slobber on your pussy. his nose consistently smears all against your folds, getting you ten times more wetter than you already were. he’s nasty, making sure you keep that arch for him. your skirt was pulled up and all wrinkled. the teeth-shattering stimulation makes you feel nerves surge all throughout your body like galvanic electricity.

“s- satoruuu.” you’d huff out in tiny pants, feeling your tummy cave in a few times. your sweet moan, its like a tune—a harmony, hell, it was melodic. he’d listen to you whine his name like that all day if he could. a gentle hand of his runs down your twitching leg, giving every part of your body from behind attention.

he was starting to get addicted, you were too sweet . . candied even, it was dangerous. he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth anyways and perhaps you were his new favorite treat.

the raving pace of his tongue was simply relentless. you’re gripping onto the back of the seat for dear life, barely able to keep up with him.

ethereal ivory lashes of his open and close every millisecond that passes. it’s as if time was going slow for you— of course it was though, considering how you were thousands of feet in the air. you don’t know why, but the thought of someone just walking by and stumbling upon you all bent over for a passenger,

not just a passenger but the gojo satoru . .

you’d be lying a bit if you said it didn’t turn you on a bit. you knew it was against policy to screw on the job, in the air at that, but it was the middle of the night and partly everyone onboard was asleep anyway. having some affluent attractive guy right between your thighs, you were living the dream. you thought this only happened in the movies.

“aw, don’t give up on me just yet, pretty,” he soothes a tune against your cunt. after a while, gojo’s speedy flicking of his tongue transitioning to pure sucks. you’re shaking within the suction of his mouth. it’s almost too much to bare yet you didn’t want him to stop. he knows just the right tempo to make you roll your eyes back too. with prying hands, gojo’s spreading open your ass a bit more to lick a deeper area with his tongue. you zealously whine once he playfully uses a thumb to poke against your puckering hole. “mhm, yeah. thaaaat’s it, but don’t be so loud though, princess. i know we’re in the back row but still, heh.”

and with that— he gifts your ass another smack. he proudly relishes in your lewd, pornographic reactions. you’re an entire mess and he’s slurping your fervor shamelessly.

“s- satoruuuu, fuck f-fuck,” your breathing starts to significantly pick up. with your chest continuing to sink in and out, he briefly sneaks his dampened lips away from your entrance to bite near your thighs. the way you were shaking to him was just so cute. the white noise that continues to sing and reverb throughout the plane’s structure grew louder. or . . that was just the ringing through your ears—regardless, it was between that noise and the sounds of your own obscene pleasure that had a competition. a competition on who could be the most louder. your name-tag that’s still pressed against your blazer remains to rub off against the fabric of the seat in front of you.

your perked nipples snag in the process as you’re arching a bit more before a wail dies out your throat. “i- i’m gonna cu— oh!”

“another few hits of turbulence, folks. please stay in your seatbelts. time of arrival should be around six thirty am..”

you bring a hand over your mouth in a cute attempt to silence yourself as you’re meeting your high—listening to the pilot, you sob out a squeal from the inside of your palm. gojo’s slurping you up again with his tongue, your grinding against his face makes him chuckle. with his jaw tightening a bit, he doesn’t care—you were so sweet, he could eat you out all day. not to mention, he was quite thirsty. instead of having you retrieve one of his bags, he was gonna originally ask for a glass of water. but this quenched his thirst a lot better in his humblest opinion. his warm breath fans against your cunt all the while you feel his stubble tickle near the undersides of your thighs. “mmph.” you moan, peeking in front of you to still see the old lady knocked out cold. with the way you were rocking into the back of her seat— you were surprised she didn’t wake up. you were glad she didn’t though. otherwise, you’d embarrass yourself yet again.

with your orgasm still having its moment, you start to calm down a bit. he’s still slithering his tongue down your folds, savoring your taste as if it’s the last thing on the planet. his chin was coated with all of your slick, and he snickers before dragging a thumb to get another taste. “good girl. give it to me, ride my—ride my tongue, uh huhhh.”

a swarm of butterflies wanders around inside of your tummy from his words—his tone, it was so soft yet the dialogue that spoke out was just downright dirty. you pulse between your thighs and it only makes you crave him more.

as you’re still arched over in front of him, you take a few hard gulps to swallow as you’re finishing your perfect nirvana state. ecstasy, just ecstasy overtakes your entire body as he gives your pussy it’s final sucks and nibbles. once he finishes, he’s still sat in his chair. spinning you around, he gives you a warm smile.

“c’mere, sweetheart..”

out of breath and pants snatching out of your full lungs with ease—you move into him with your eyes half-lidded. “. . . atta girl, taste how sweet you are. gimme a kiss,” and you get on top of him. sliding off your heels, you get onto gojo’s lap. now straddling him, you lean into a steamy, hot kiss. two hefty built arms of his wrap around your waist, pulling you in close. once your lips meet, it’s just utterly sloppy.

throwing your arms around him and tugging on his tucked out collar, you deepen the kiss. he groans at your enthusiasm, allowing his hands to glide against every inch of your body. gojo’s fingertips dance against the pieces of clothing you wore, despite it being so few. your blazer was still on and yet couldn’t help but rock against his lap as your tongue parts inside of his mouth. gojo’s head leans back as you’re enjoying yourself. but all of a sudden, you moan once you feel it. 

his boner, right in the middle part of his pants. gojo satoru was hard—hard for you.

he grunts lowly, a hand of his snaking up your leg as you taste the sweet remnants of your own flavor on his tongue. the closer you are to him, the closer you get a nice everlasting sniff of his cologne. so manly, it’s a rich scent that you could never get enough of. it was so strong—roaming through the air so much that it almost gave you a headache. 

“fuck,” he sibilates. a single hissing word that comes from his mouth makes you throb oh so easily. you’re swaying your hips against him and his adam’s apple bobs back in rapture. every few seconds, he pulls away to leave a wet slope of kisses down your neck. a hand of yours tugs against his tie that was neatly worn on him. “damn girl you’re kinda kinky,” and he finally pulls away, teasingly biting on your bottom lip before finally departing. “i’m startin’ to like you.”

“more,” you murmur, leaning in to nip a wet kiss of your own near the crooked crevices of his mouth. naturally parted lips of his twitch, causing him to wryly smile back at you. “i need more, sir. we have a few more hours left. please.”

“baby, you can call me satoru. cut the formal shit yeah?” and his voice was a pitchy low, an almost rasp hidden underneath. a hand of his gently grabs your chin and you’re met with the most prettiest eyes. if it wasn’t his long lashes, it was his celestially blue eyes. so blue that it was as if you were star gazing at a summer sky. gojo satoru a pretty man, no doubt. he hums to himself in amusement at your cute doe-eyed expression, hungry for more. sitting on his boner was already torture enough, you just wanted him inside. 

sure, you were technically working but you didn’t care about that. “satoruuuu,” he’s being playful, a thumb still pulling down your bottom lip. as you’re both maintaining such intimate eye contact, his voice softens once more. gojo’s hand slides its way between your thighs before he raises a brow in a taunting manner. “what do you want satoru to do to you? tell me, girl.”

“t- touch me.” you almost whine out, it yanks out from your throat so pathetically. the throbbing you were feeling behind your panties only turned into straight convulses. 

playfully, he tilts his head with a smile. “yeah? touch ya where.”

“i gotta spell it out for you?” you pout, and he chuckles at your frustrated attitude. you start to jerk your hips against his lap and he holds your waist in place to bring those movements to a stop. “f-fuck, ‘s hard.”

stroking a thumb against your quivering lips, his minty breath hits against your nose—you smell it and it’s minty fresh. a scent of what seemed to be some kind of tangy beverage and a gum like substance. with a mocking tone, he presses a kiss against your nose before jibing. “i just wanna know where ‘m gonna put my hands on this pretty body. that’s all,” and his voice was so smooth, an almost purr. with a chortle, he moves a few strands of hair out of your view of sight before continuing his words. “now now, i’ll ask again, pretty. where do ya want me to touch you? let’s be descriptive this time.”

“between my t-thighs,” you confess, already soaked from him devouring your pussy just merely seconds ago. the shocking friction between both bodies had you feral, had you dizzy, had you stupid.

gojo gradually brings a hand down before you press a hand against his chest, pouting again. “actually, i want you to fuck me. please, satoru.”

“there we go, good girl. ‘n heh, aw i figured,” he cheeses, licking a single stripe up your neck. “mhm, you’ll have to ride me though. ‘s only so many positions you can do on a plane, heh.”

you barely let him finish your sentence before you start to unbuckle his pants. you’re so quick with it. gojo stares at the way you’re so desperate, taking it off the tiny hooks before yanking his belt all the way off. seconds later, you’re pulling down his pants toward his ankles. “ooh,” his eyes flicker towards your chest as you start to align yourself against his lap. you take a moment to stare at his now exposed cock and it was so pretty. lengthy if anything, a leaky mushroom like tip that was a bit reddened. he was so hard too, just gawking at his heavyset bulge that had you almost drooling. gojo leans back, rubbing against his thigh before flashing you a cheesy smile. “wellllll,” he sings. “don’t be shy girl. get on up here. ride all that stress away from work, pretty thing.”

he was so cocky, yet you were so needy. 

as you’re still aligning him, your damp entrance rubs off against the head of his tip. it’s peeling open a bit, the skin that attaches to the frenulum was just so mesmerizing to look at. it’s got a pinkish color, almost red. shortly following, a mere tannish color flushes on his cock near the base down. you moan once he grabs ahold of his length, helping you adjust. 

“easy . . easy baby, i gotcha,” he sighs, feeling your warmth slowly swallow him whole. those short seconds you spend taking in gojo’s dick feels like long, consecutive hours.

you’re dripping wet. as you straddle his lap, preparing to ride him, he slouches back in such a sexy way. manspread—gojo grunts out a single breath as his chest deflates. shifting his gaze towards your cunt, he spreads open your folds to get a better view. “ughhh, look at how she opens up for me. ‘s fuckin’ nasty,” he groans, staring dead at your cunt. you were indeed coating him with your slick from the base down. “give it to me, upside daisey, yeah.”

you’re taking his inches as the seconds go by before after a while—you plop down, feeling him bottom out already. gojo moans, gifting your ass with another spank. “f-fuck ‘toru,” you hiss, knowing that was a non-verbal sign for you to start up your hips. a cooling air that passes through the plane sets against your skin as you move. you whine, feeling his hands trickle alongside the secretive edges of your thighs. “touch me more, l- like that.”

“i don’t remember saying you could tell me what to do,” he meets your eyes as you start to thrust forward. he’s got the most impish grin stretching against his lips. gojo grips your chin for what was probably the nth time within this hour before he grins. “nuh uh, don’t look away. i wanna see those gorgeous eyes,” and he sneaks another wet kiss against your mouth. “ride it like you own it baby.”

you start off realllll slow, 

sashaying your hips up and down against his lap in the most alluring way. all six eyes were on you and only you..

your arms still wrap around him and he’s keeping eye contact with you the entire time. with your blazer practically ruffled and wrinkled, you continue to move yourself against him. gojo’s cock stretches you out in such a way you didn’t even know was possible. your walls craved him, you craved him.

as he leans further back, a hand’s still glued to your ass before he smacks it . . again.

he pats it afterwards, watching a cute sour expression slowly marinate against your facial features. 

gojo giggles at your cute noises, it doesn’t take long before you bury your face into the crook of his neck, gnawing your teeth against his collared shirt. “f-fuck, satoru,” you’d whine out, feeling his grip tighten against your ass. his cologne’s got your head spinning like a merri-go-round, giving you whiplash in all the right ways. “s-so big, stretchin’ me.”

“takin’ it so good, baby,” he licks against the lobe of your ear.  his breath against your neck was warm—not so cold anymore. two rough hands grasp onto your active hips, encouraging you to go more forward, more faster. “good girl, mhm, fuck me like that. use those hips for me, yeahh.”

his dick curves through every part of your walls as if it’s exploring. you feel him reach deep within every part and it’s driving you toward the first street of crazy.

breathy pants skate out from your lips as you’re swinging yourself back and forth against him. “s-satoru,” you whimper, feeling his hands continue to feel against the bare bottom parts of your ass. you could feel the bands of rings he wore rub off against your skin also, so fridgly cold. “f-fuck, ‘s good. mhm, fuck.”

“you’re so pretty,” he groans, the brief sounds of skin slapping resounding through your ears. it’s loud, almost sonorous.

his hair was getting a bit ruffled and unkempt, adding to his suave, mature features.

as he looks off into the nearly empty dim lit aisle, a silhouette appears—someone’s coming. it’s a familiar sound of heels hitting against the floor and you were too occupied of being horny to turn your head. at first, you barely even notice as you’re still grinding against his lap. “oh shit,” gojo gasps, grabbing the sides of your hips, suddenly bringing you to a stop. with a sly smile, he hums against your ear. “baby, don’t freak but i think your co-worker’s coming.”

“w- what?” you murmur, and he makes you spin around, still having his heavy cock hidden into the swollen depths of your cunt. glancing up, it was one of your co-workers coming. in a weak attempt to fix your nearly messed up blazer that was about to pop, you lean against his chest. “who— where?”

as he’s pressed right up against you, you’re met with a playful deep voice against your ear. “relax. act like you’re totally not cockwarming me, obviously,” and he runs a few fingers down your uniform, feeling you shift your hips a bit at his touch. gojo tries to make it look like you were just sitting on his lap, moving a cover over you and him from the waist down. you feel so full, you were growing more and more needy, a pout comes onto your lips because you didn’t want to stop so abruptly. you just wanted to keep riding him, but of course—you were working. “play it cool, baby.”

“um, is everything okay?” one of your fellow co-worker flight attendants, serena murmurs.

with a furrowing brow, she takes in the sight in front of her. you, happily straddling a passenger's lap whilst you’re heaving as if you’d just finish a 5k race. “we’ve been some getting complaints about noises. also, you need to restock the snacks near back. we’re runnin’ low on peanuts.”

“y-yeah, ‘m fine,” you sheepishly nod, knowing how fishy this entire scene might have looked. gojo’s dick was just idly enshrouded into your cunt, just one move and you’d be fucked. technically, you already were fucked. he’s tracing a finger against your thighs before you exhale. “but uh— can’t you restock?”

“i would but that’s not my job,” she snaps with an eye roll. gojo chortles at your co-worker’s attitude, he presses a single kiss against your neck and you almost moan. her facial expressions twist in disgust before she backs away. “anyways, just go restock,” and as she twists her heels to walk away, she utters under her breath. “weirdos. i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

gojo lets out a breathy laugh as you finally moan again—it’s taking everything out of you and you start up the jolting of your hips again. “f-fuck, ‘m close, ‘toru,” you whimper, the friction feeling like hot static dragging against your legs. “mhm, ‘s good.”

“you’re even more dirtier than i thought, princess,” he whispers, a hand playfully wrapping around your throat as you’re moving your hips back. “i bet your co-worker put two ‘n two together. you could have been a little more believable.”

you’re moaning, his touch sending you more deadly shivers before you feel a coil within you squeeze shut tight. the beat of your heat grows rapid and your pupils dilate from pure pleasurable lust. you’re getting close again, it’s coming so quick that you barely have any time to breathe.

his aromatic cologne nearly blinds your sinuses before you feel against his neck with your palm. “i . . i don’t care if she knows,” you mumble with a scowl, feeling his base continuously rub against your entrance. you’re coating him with nothing but a pretty viscous sheet of your slick. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum again.”

“yeah? what if i want you to wait?” he purrs, his sloping trail of kisses turning into sucks. you whine, leaning into his touch as he’s stuffing your insides full of thick cock. jello—your legs felt like jello, barely even able to move. the warmth against him had you hungry for more. it was addictive, you didn’t know what it was. you didn’t get like this for any other passenger, yet here you were. your mouth croons open, whining out a single harmony at his pace. he’s still making you grind back against him, the tempo having your head going for a spin every time. “what if i want you to be a good attendant ‘n wait just a bit longer f’me?”

“but—”

“nuh uh,” he snickers, bringing a smack to your ass. “wait for me, pretty. this pussy’s gonna make a mess when i want her to.”

and he creeps a hand down between your jittery legs, rubbing a few circles against your already sopping wet cunt. a gasp wretches from your throat as you’re laid back against his chest. the rugged fabric of his tuxedo top whisks against your skin and you’re babbling out sweet nothings.

“f-fuck, ‘m not gonna last,” you whine, feeling yourself throb at the way his thumb brushes against your throat. he’s feeling the vibrations of your gruttural moans and it’s so cute. by this point, you’d already forgotten you were thirty thousand feet in the air. thirty thousand feet in the air and you were getting your pussy destroyed by one of your passengers. 

not just any passenger though, 

gojo satoru. 

he’s panting right with you as you’re just bouncing on his lap, two soft padded hands gripping against his thighs. as you bite your lip, your ass thrashes back gainst him and he hisses. “just like that, pretty girl. shiiiiit, ‘m gonna cum too.”

with his deep penetrative thrusts, it’s got you going ditzy. as he starts to spank against your puffy cunt, he nibbles against your collarbone. “you wanna cum with me, yeah? ‘s that why you keep dragging y’r nails into my leg?”

“s—sir,” you desperately spat, but he spanks your cunt again so you could switch your words around. “ngh, i mean satoru. wanna cum with you, pleaseplease. ‘s good, want it, finish in me.”

“my, well when ya ask like that,” he hums, and you feel the sharpness of his hips pivot. gojo groans, standing up before he lies you back against the now reclined seat. “lie back, baby. actually, changed my mind. i wanna push those pretty knees up to your chest.” 

panting, you lie back against the now lounged seat. gojo flashes you that same sly grin before he lifts up your leg—bringing a sweet kiss toward your ankle. “you can lose your license over this, you know? dirty girl, lettin’ your pussy think for ya instead of that brain, huh?”

“don’t care,” you moan, watching him quickly align his cock against your slit. gojo grunts, feeling you easily swallow his tip up again. your cunt was clingy, he was very much addicted to your slippery sloppy core. with his pants halfway on and hanging down to his ankles, he starts up a rapid pace again. “uh, uh,” you whimper again and again, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist. you’re keeping him warm from the inside, raw moans pulling out of your esophagus like it was nothing. “right there, ‘m gonna cum, please. s-sir, fuck me.”

“satoru,” he corrects you, a hand gripping your chin. pretty blue eyes leer down at you and he’s so close to you. as he’s jackhammering his cock into your sobbing swollen walls—eyes of your own goggle into gojo’s as he’s fucking you silly. you probably look a mess from this view, the heel of your foot grazing down his strong back muscles. gojo hears the sloshing squelches your own pussy makes and you feel the sudden throb arise from his dick. he twitches inside you and it makes his head throw back. after he gains composure again, he exhales deeply, tapping a thumb against your sealed lips.“you don’t gotta be formal when ‘m inside, princess,” and he squeezes your lips together, licking near the bottom. “open.”

you’re whining, his tempo growing quicker and you’re so close. crimson-carmine lips of his twitch into a feral smile once he sees you being so easy to comply. with your lips parting open, you tilt your head back before he spits into your mouth.

“theeeere’s your tip,” he teases, pursing your lips together with two fingers as you swallow. your cunt still gripping against him as he then pulls you into a deep kiss. with your legs clutching around his waist. “uh, manners baby. where’s my thank you?”

“t- thank you, ‘toru.” you breathe, feeling your cunt throb even quicker.

“oh, you’re welcome,” he smiles and he can’t help but giving you another kiss on the mouth shortly afterwards. the lustful stare he’s giving you could almost be described as lecherous has you more sopping wet by the second. with your legs tightly and securely keeping him from breaking away, he groans. right into your mouth, his tongue collides against yours before he sucks on it. as he brings you into a loving kiss again, gojo’s girth has you feeling a sudden arch in your back arise the moment you sit up. you’re being fucking into the reclined seat, his weight almost crushing against but it feels so good. “mhmmm, ‘m gonna cum. gonna spill so much inside of you, pretty.”

“don’t waste any,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him. you didn’t even care how unprofessional this was. in the back of your mind, you’re thinking to yourself— if someone walked in again, who cares? not you. “please.”

“well aren’t you a doll,” gojo murmurs in a cooing tone, shoving your knees all the way up near your chest. you’re preparing yourself as you’re about to reach your final pleasurable demise. it feels almost tickling, the fat tip of his cock repeatedly kisses against that same spot within you. you’re whines sound almost melodic, not even caring if your pilot a few seats back heard. “look at me.” he taps your bottom shaking lip, leaning in to plant another kiss on your lips. one turns into two, then three, then four . .

and then— his phone rings.

you’re still a moaning mess, feeling your legs just about give out as he’s pressing such amounts of weight on top of you. gojo’s hands fondle with your neglected breasts that laid underneath your blazer. he groans, reaching for his phone near the counter of the seat. with a grunt, he answers. “tch. satoru gojo.”

still snugly shoved deep inside, he’s multitasking. one hand holds onto the left side of your waist, another holding his phone up against his cheek. he’s drilling into you so mercilessly as if his occupation was a construction worker. you whine, the scratching itch never leaving you. once it comes, it comes. “suguru, ‘m kinda busy. can this wai— oh f…fuck.”

in an abrupt gasp, he ends up finishing first. it’s so much. thick gooey spurts pour into your cunt, filling up the insides of your goopy womb. gojo’s peering down at you and his lip quivers. he finished a bit early. too quick, his hand shakes as he holds up his phone before you squeeze your legs against his torso even tighter. for a moment, he almost whines himself. the strong gripping grip your pussy has against makes him swear underneath his breath.

“huh? yeah, ‘m good,” he sexily whews, slowing his rhythm down a bit.

a hand of his snaps, making you look down between your legs.

he gives you a teasing grin and you spread your folds open. it was so much, so much velvety ropes of hot cum that ooze in and out of your sloppy folds. you’ve never felt more warm from the inside. it was a feeling that had your mouth watering, salivating with your sweet, syrupy saliva. your legs were practically mush, and once you finish, you end up gushing all out at once. it takes you by surprise more than anything. the feeling comes like a crashing, unpredictable wave, a fading fade then departures from your body. minutes eventually pass and gojo’s still yapping away on the phone—yet after a while, he decides to wrap it up and groan. “yeah yeah okay, man. i gotta go now. unless you wanna listen to how i sound post-orgasm, heh.”

“what—?”

with a quick bleep, gojo hangs up. tossing his phone aside, he looks down at you—cutely sprawled out whilst chills run down your body. he can almost see you palpitating from said chills. leaning up close to you, still balls deep, he pants heavily. gojo pressed a kiss against your right temple before teasing. “heyyy, did you just squirt on me?” he asks, and he speaks in a sly soft tone.

you don’t reply and he gives you a priggish smile. “you didddd. so nasty, i should make ya lick it off me.”

you did end up squirting. it was so much. so so much.

you’re still having your legs wrap around his waist before you grab onto his wide, stiff shoulders. “s-satoru,” you moan into his neck, getting yet another balmy whiff of his manly musk. “f-fuuuck, more.”

right before he could reply though— the intercom of the plane comes on and it’s the pilot.

“ladies and gentleman, we’ve made it to our destination. local time and time of arrival is six thirty-three am. for your own safety and others around you, please remain seated and keep the aisles cleared until i announce we’re at the airport gates. thank you.”

“aw, boo,” gojo laments, slowly pulling out of your pussy. a pout unfurls against your glossed lips as you feel suddenly empty. no more thick inches inside. the only thing you felt were the leftover masses of his cum spewing out of you. the seats were a mess, he brings a hand down to strum a few fingers against your entrance and you whine. so soaked, he gifts you with a kiss on your forehead before exhaling. “well, think it’s ‘bout time we part ways, gorgeous.”

gojo helps put back on your skirt and panties and you‘re just laid back with a cute scowl as he assists you off your feet. “i . . can’t walk like this,” and he chuckles at how stiff you were— a few droplets of his cum race down your thighs and you almost moan again. you’re still sensitive, throbbing near every inch of your body before he stands up. he’s so lean and tall. as gojo towers over you, you glance up at him and you’re met with that annoying flirtatious smirk he gave you when his eyes first laid on you. “my panties are practically ripped.”

he turns around to grab his suitcases above him from the cabinet and sighs.

zipping up his exposed fly, gojo leans in to kiss your forehead. “ah, well i can always buy you some more,” and then he pauses. “actually,” he grabs his wallet and your eyes widen once he gives you three hundred dollar bills. “i can buy you more than just panties if ya want, sweet thing,” he slides the bills in between your bra before pressing a kiss against your neck. “you’ve been such a good girl,” and he then hands you his business card. it displays his name and a cheesy saying near the front, all his information in bold blue letters too. before walking away with your bawled up underwear, he leans up to your ear for a final time and whispers, “remember though, it’s satoru gojo, baby. ah, and these panties—i’ll be keeping these as a souvenir.”

[chososrightnipple]

❝𝐣𝐣𝐤 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨)❞

a/n: almost four hundred followers omg.. i love all you freaks mwah!! here is part two as promised. included some requests for characters. aged up! megumi and yuji of course. might do a part three maybeeee? afab body w/no gendered language as usual.

part one.

── დ ──

. *. ⋆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

▸ panty stealing. he thinks of it as memorabilia. snatching your panties from the floor before you have the chance to put them back on- just something he keeps to remember you bye.

▸ daddy kink. we all saw this coming, right? you call him daddy once and it's all he needs to fuck you into the bed for the rest of the night.

▸ thigh riding. seeing you frotting against his large thigh, desperate to cum, pussy practically drooling for it... his favorite foreplay 100%.

▸ cum play. this man will cum anywhere and everywhere and he'll love it. let him cum on your face, your ass, your chest, your back, down your throat, etc etc.

▸ hatefucking. angry sex after an argument where he takes out all of the stress you caused him on your poor holes :(

▸ breeding. you can give him another baby, can't you? you can make him a daddy all over again, right? just let him cum inside of you as much as he wants, he'll make it happen, he swears.

▸ exhibitionism. you grind against him once on the bar floor and next thing you know he's dragging out to the empty alleyway and pressing you against the nearest wall.

▸ size difference. he's so large, so big, every single part of him practically overtaking you. and he gets off on that fact so fucking hard!!

. *. ⋆ NANAMI KENTO

▸ cockwarming. seating himself inside your warm pussy while he's stuck doing all kinds of boring paperwork. he'll fuck you, he swears, you just gotta sit pretty on his lap for a little bit, okay?

▸face fucking. he loves taking out all of his stress on you. gripping your hair as he uses your mouth mercilessly, bullying his cock down the back of your tight throat.

▸blindfolding. silk ribbons in a variety of colors that he matches to the underwear you're modeling for him. only the best for his lover <3

▸ thigh riding. there's no better way to put him in the mood than pathetically grinding yourself against his thigh, using his body selfishly for your own pleasure.

▸ hair pulling. y'all know that one scene... he pulls at your hair exactly like that. fingers going white with how tight he's tugging at you, manipulating your position until you're face to face with his scowl.

▸ spanking. makes you count for every slap and if you miscount, he's starting all over again. pay better attention to him next time, yeah?

▸ semi-public. yes, he will bend you right over his desk, no he doesn't care there's a meeting going on next door. or better yet, against the window of the fourth floor, overlooking the busy street below it.

▸ phone sex. it really isn't any problem that he's across the country on a mission. even just the sound of your whines over the phone is enough to get him off.

. *. ⋆ MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

▸ panty stealing. he would say he feels bad about it, but he doesn't. you looked so good in the lacey little things, he can't help but want to keep them for later. even has his own little drawer for them.

▸ masochism. the stinging pain of your nails running down his back is utterly euphoric. and don't get him started on how harshly you tug at his hair when he's eating you out- he can cum in his boxers just from that alone.

▸ breast play. massaging at the skin, feeling the plumpness under his fingertips. sucking at your nipples and leaving a trail of kisses down the valley of your breasts. he's obsessed.

▸ edging. leaving you just on the brink of release over and over again, until tears are streaming down your face. he'll let you cum eventually, you just look so pretty this worked up for him.

▸ marking. oh my goddd do not get megumi started on this. he doesn't know why it gets him so worked up- seeing you covered in the hickeys and bite marks that he's left on you- but it does.

▸ cunnilingus. eats you out like a man starved, like he'll never eat you out again. pulling him away from your poor pussy is next to impossible if he's not yet done with his meal.

▸ mutual masturbation. sometimes you both just need to relaxation of release and nothing more. sitting across from each other on the bed, or maybe side by side, listening to the moans of the other as you both touch yourselves.

▸ dacryphilia. like adoptive father like adopted son. seeing your eyes brim with tears from how good he's fucking you drives him crazy.

. *. ⋆ YUJI ITADORI

▸ ass play. we all know he's an ass man i mean come on?! doggy style is his favorite position just because of it. seeing how the fat of your ass moves with every slap of his hips is fucking addicting.

▸ praise kink. tell him how good he's fucking you and how much of a good boy he is pleaseeee!!!!

▸ toys. he didn't realize how much he would love bringing toys into the bedroom until he sees how hard you can cum around him while he holds a vibrator to your clit.

▸ raw sex. he knows it's stupid, fucking you with no protection. you're pussy just feels so good, so warm, he needs to fuck you raw.

▸ face riding. please sit on his face, suffocate him, he doesn't care. it's his favorite position to eat you out.

▸ overstimulation. poor baby doesn't even mean to overstimulate you half of the time- he just has so much stamina, you understand that, right? and seeing you so flushed and fucked out under him has him so horny. just one more round, yeah? you can do that for him, right?

▸ dirty talk. yuji is a yapper and that doesn't stop when he's fucking you. the filth that comes out of his mouth has you wet just thinking about it.

▸ dry humping. the tension, the intimacy, the panting, the friction?? all of it, it's like a drug to him.