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comfortless · 3 months

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Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

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romanoffsbish · 2 months

Text

The Understudy

Wanda Maximoff x F!R

“Natasha x F!R”

Natasha Romanoff x Maria Hill

Warnings: Jealousy | Yandere—Attempted Murder (if you squint) | Mutual Pinning (Simping)

Natasha was a charismatic woman—sure, yet you found yourself enraptured by her gorgeous understudy—Wanda. | WC: 6,945

Request: “anything about jealous top!wanda and just having her way with fem reader sounds good to me” | College AU

I am so sorry it took so long @wandagcre 😩

18+ | Minors DNI

Wanda let a harsh breath leave her as she glared up to see as Natasha circled you like a hawk and if not for the sake of her credibility around campus with the faculty she wouldn't have let the other woman grip you by the hips and pull you in. The both of you wore wide grins as Natasha's nose nudged yours, pushing your face to the side as she gently cupped your cheeks, Wanda was rather close to combusting at the intended next move.

——

“Cut!"

The moment your professor called out the command you separated from your cast mate with a softer smile. Yet Wanda's jealousy didn't simmer, relief far away when the redhead still kept your attention on her.

Natasha pulled you back in, but only for a friendly hug.

"I just wanted to say, thanks for trusting me Y/N/N."

"It's easy to do," you giggled and squeezed her tight, then you parted ways and went to collect your bags.

There was a tension in the air as you prepared to leave that you didn't quite understand, so you sought it out. After glancing around the room for a moment you saw the source—Wanda Maximoff, Natasha's understudy with her eyes angrily cast upon the Russian's face.

She's also the unobtainable woman of your dreams, or so you deemed as you'd yet to approach her with more than a bit of shop talk. Normally the brunette would carry the interaction and nine times out of ten it was perfectly pleasant. However, Wanda always seemed standoffish when you weren't alone, which made you think that maybe she didn't want people to see you two as anything more than potential on stage partners.

Oh what a fool you were, because as you hurriedly waltzed out of the auditorium you avoided her stare that had shifted over to you—a longing glance that lingered long after the large oak doors shut behind you.

——

A week had come and gone, the show was not far off and it was coming together nicely. You and Natasha practiced your lines religiously and kept the bond between you both strong for the sake of chemistry and your overall grade as this show would be your final. In return, a beautiful friendship had been forged and you were more than grateful for the expanded circle.

All that stood in your way was the darn kiss, your heart not only yearned for another, but Natasha's had one which only seemed to make you more nervous.

You'd recently met her girlfriend, Maria Hill, when you went to their dorm to go over the script two weeks ago.

It was a bit intimidating, but when she offered you a chocolate chip cookie and help on your homework you knew she was the perfect partner for your new friend.

Natasha dreamed of making it big, and to do that she'd need a partner who understood that intimate scenes were just a part of the job, not a slight against her.

The woman even gave you her blessing last night with a warm smile, "I trust you." That alone had eased most tension you had left for the show; you were ready.

—

Today was the play's opening day, the set pieces were complete and the scenes ran to perfection. Besides the kiss, the both of you only ever got close to sharing a passionate lip-lock for the sake of show business. It was however not too necessary until today to share it.

When you walked onto stage you skipped over to the redhead who was casually reading out of a textbook.

"Hey Tasha," you greeted, the redhead peered up as she mindlessly closed the book to see your smile. It was adorable how nervous you were honestly, the kiss was only a blip in the play—lasting less than ten seconds.

This is a PG-13 university production after all.

"Hey honey," she greeted, tone sweet as can be in an attempt to ease your tense shoulders and it worked.

For the most part anyways. "A-are you ready?"

Natasha smiled, "I am," then sighed, "but, are you?"

You nodded unconvincingly and she stood to her feet so that she could approach you, her hand cupped your cheek as she stared into your eyes. "Follow my lead."

A nervous smile was all you offered the woman who moved in even closer, her warm breath on your cheek felt rather comforting. "We don't even have to kiss, all we have to do is make the audience believe it happens."

"I don't want to disappoint people," you muttered with a nervous conviction and the redhead chuckled softly. "No one will leave knowing, I'm an amazing actress."

You giggled and Natasha beamed knowing that she'd at least calmed a bit of your nerves. To the both of you it was obvious that her touch was meant to make you ease into the concept of the intimacy, but to onlookers it would almost present as an act of personal affection.

The redhead waited for you to make a move, but it was not something you had time for as you quickly realized that the prop above your heads was teetering in the air.

Wanda had been stood behind the red draped curtain fuming, her hand reflexively wrapped around the string that suspended the hefty prop above Nat's head. There was no conscious intent when she yanked down, it was purely reflexive as she watched you two practice.

It was all you could do to yank the woman out of the line of impact before the piece shattered on the stage.

"Holy shit Nat," you squealed, "that was a close call!"

"Yeah," the redhead hardly acknowledged you, eyes too focused in on the blur of familiar black and red hues weaving between the curtains. "Are you okay Nat?"

No, she most definitely was not, but she'd pretend.

The redhead internally rolled her eyes, but pressed on as if the freak accident wasn't premeditated. To your face at least, because not even ten minutes later—after she convinced you all was well did she go find the perp.

"Maximoff," she growled as she found the woman in her usual spot, "I am not an oblivious idiot like Y/N."

Natasha cringed at her own words, it wasn't right to diss you but to be fair, she just nearly lost her head.

"I haven't a clue what you are going on about," she chirped bitterly, not even remotely covering her big feelings. "How unkind you are to poor Y/N though."

"Y/N and I have a fine working relationship," she immediately set the woman straight, "She's a sweet person and if you stopped being so broody maybe you could be the one she hangs out with after practices."

"I'm just the understudy," she reminded Natasha, who rolled her eyes in frustration at her petty behavior.

"You need to let it go Wanda," she groaned, "I am the theater major, you are only taking this for an elective."

Wanda stood and whisper shouted, "I want it more!"

"No," Natasha corrected as she stepped to her, a clear sign she wasn't afraid of the brunette with the raging anger problems. "You want Y/N more, which is 100% by the way because all she is to me is a friend!"

"I see the way you look at her," Wanda sneered.

"That's because it is my job, Wanda," Natasha scoffed in genuine offense before adding, "I have Maria."

Wanda glared inquisitively, "Who the hell is Maria?"

"My girlfriend since freshman year of high school."

"Oh."

Natasha chuckled agitatedly, "Yeah, so if you could refrain from trying to kill me again I'd appreciate it very much. I've planned to live a long life with her."

"I," Wanda was honestly stunned into silence. "It was an accident—but originally, I wasn't really sorry."

"At least you're honest," Natasha chuckled amusedly. "Don't confuse this moment Maximoff," the redhead continued, "I might not be a threat but you know as well as I do that Y/N is a catch—don't drag your feet."

"I know, but I can't talk to her about anything other than this stupid class," Wanda admitted in lieu of her masked pride faltering. "She's just so pretty, and soft, it's like I lose the ability to form thoughts around her."

"Pretty things are meant to be taken and cherished," the Russian teased, smile fond as she remembered what it's like to fall in love for the first time; Natasha wanted that for you too. "Trust me Wanda, Y/N is easy to talk to and I hypothesize she would be thrilled if you did, maybe try your luck tonight at the after party."

Natasha playfully acted out taking a shot as she winked at the up until now, sapphic disaster, then she swiftly left the room to let her ponder. When she returned to the stage she found you yelling at the stagehands. She shook her head in amusement then made her way over to save the poor students from your misguided wrath...

—

When you calmed down you found yourself hidden away in your dressing room staring at your reflection. There was this unspoken tension in the air once again and it made you feel queasy. It was hard for you to tell if it was first night jitters or something else entirely.

Deep down you knew it was an unwarranted sadness, one that you associated with the fact that the course would be over after this weekends line up of shows and you'd yet to find the courage to truly speak to Wanda.

"Hey, did you understand the acting prompt," and "That was a weird film to show a class full of women," were not effective ways to speak with your crush.

You knew that, but every time you built up the courage to ask her if she wanted to hang out you remembered the way she looked at you whenever you were around others. A loud sigh left you at the painful reminder that nearly made you miss the faint knock at your door.

"Come in," you meekly called out as you stood up to face whomever it was. Wanda quietly closed your door and walked into the room with a forced confidence.

"Oh, hey Wanda," you chuckled nervously, "Is Nat ok?"

You weren't sure why you asked that in greeting, but it's also not rocket science since she's her understudy. The question wasn't meant to offend either but it did as Wanda considered the possibility that she didn't have a chance with you, but then you gave her a soft smile and she remembered why she was here in the first place.

"She's fine," she politely replied, then she took a step closer and wordlessly returned your smile. You tilted your head slightly and she understood. "I just wanted to come by and wish you luck, though we both know you aren't going to need it. You're a rockstar onstage."

Wanda found amusement in the way your eyes avoided looking into her own momentarily. Once you finally found the courage to look into hers your smile had softened, which had the same effect on her heart.

"Th-thanks Wanda," you stuttered and so she got the confirmation that Natasha basically gave her earlier without exactly saying it. You liked her just the same, something she caught as your eyes fell to her lips, it was brief but obvious enough to fill her with glee.

The woman giggled and leaned forward to place a seemingly friendly kiss, to you, on your cheek. "Break a leg out there sweetheart, I'll see you later at the party."

As soon as she left the room you fell back into your chair with a wide grin and giggled, a hand on the cheek where you could still feel a damp warmth from her lips.

The nerves in your body had all but vanished, so when you were called to the stage an hour later you strutted onto the platform with confidence and it showed in the way you acted every scene to perfection. Even the kiss.

Natasha and you shared a sweet kiss, one that you let her lead as she had the natural acting chops. It was honestly terrible since all you could imagine as her lips moved against yours was what Wanda's would be like.

Your friend's lips tasted like cherry chapstick with faint hints of nicotine that you planned to admonish her for later on after the show. There was perceivable heat to it but the truth was it was void of any genuine passion.

When the two of you parted there was a sweet smile on your lips to mirror the sentiment of your characters, and it only grew wider when you saw Wanda watching. There was something special about the way she looked at you, with a tight smile but a warmth still remained.

For the first time this whole semester you felt hopeful.

—

At the party you were the focus of everyone's attention, loud cheers and genuine accolades met you at every corner in partner with Natasha's. The redhead took it all with a wide smile and thanks, but you however did not have the courage to be so proud. Your friend did her best to take the attention, seeing you look so shy.

When the chance to break away presented itself you took it, heading to the kitchen where you found an array of substances. Just as you reached out for a packed joint you felt a large, soft hand on yours.

"Oh," you chuckled awkwardly, "you can have it."

"We could share," a raspy voice proposed, her hand fell to your hip without request and you slightly stiffened. "You were amazing tonight Y/N, so let's celebrate."

The woman's words made you feel unhappily queasy. "I-I, um," you began to stutter, unsure how to tell this stranger that you wanted to celebrate with another.

"My room is upstairs," she cluelessly teased, as if your stance alone wasn't uncomfortable. "Move on Santos."

Wanda internally beamed when she saw you turn to her with a beyond grateful gaze, the shift breaking you free from the strangers hold and subconsciously closer to her. The horny blonde however wasn't open to being cockblocked so she turned as well and moved closer until their chests brushed. "Last I checked I don't take orders from you, Maxipad, so how about you move on."

Wanda's head tilted dangerously and you felt a flutter of joy in your chest, as well as desire between your legs. The woman caught sight of your thighs clamping and smirked triumphantly, "How about we ask Y/N?"

Your eyes widened, but your lips obediently opened as Wanda seemed to not shy away from you in public.

"What's your name?" The blonde deflated, "Raya."

"It's nice to meet you Raya," you lied with a friendly smile, "But I promised to meet Wanda at the party."

"Well, you heard her," Wanda boasted, her hand reached out and took the blunt from your fingers and smugly handed it over to the blonde in obvious pity.

The moment Raya departed you felt a ringed hand in yours, and you latched on eagerly, letting her guide you through the crowd and up the stairs to an empty room.

As if the universe deemed your dreams worth reality you felt her hands grip your hips and lips catch yours. Wanda decided since talking wasn't her strong suit that she'd start by giving into her urges first. The moment was nothing but carnal, her bare knee slid between your thighs and pressed against your core.

With elegance in her every movement she guided you over to the bed and pressed into you deeper, your thinly veiled pussy rubbed against her skin and you mewled so harshly your swollen lips had to separate.

"Wan-," the redhead shushed you with a gentle peck of her lips that reassured your nervous heart. Alongside her eyes that were full of a warmth that told you this wasn't going to be a once off itch to scratch. "Mommy needs you to stop thinking detka, let me help you."

Amusement tickled in Wanda's throat at the pliant nod you gave, adoration in her heart as your eyes glazed over and body melted further into the mattress. The glare in her eyes reminded you to speak, "please."

The permission left your lips in a breathless whine and so the redheads hands slid beneath your dress that she apparently already bunched at your hips, the cold of her fingers as they tauntingly trailed over your skin made you gasp. "I've been waiting for you to say it," she interrupted your moment of shock with words that brought an adorable pout to your lips. Wanda chuckled as she watched the curiosity fade beneath the surface of your lust as her thumbs brushed over your nipples.

It was embarrassing the way she reduced you into a wordless mess, her knee a contributing factor until she abruptly pulled it away. Viridescent eyes that were reminiscent of obsidian stones, in their active state of lust, stared down at you with a warning not to whine. Wanda beamed at your understanding and rewarded you with her lips back on yours for a fleeting moment.

A sloppy kiss to your jaw, hands roaming over your body, a goddess straddling your waist in a skirt that was much too short for her intentions for tonight to have been anything but what it already was; sinful.

You were somehow expected to remain cognizant, it was a ludicrous notion, so you didn't, all you could do was move just as she asked of you until you were moaning beneath her as her core brushed over yours.

The motion was repeated, a shiver ran down your spine at the sound of her pleasure that loudly followed up yours, it was a sound you never wanted to lose. Her movements picked up, a bare pussy against a covered one and you wanted to scream at the unfair advantage she had over you as her moans overshadowed yours.

Wanda admired your innate understanding to not touch without permission, the way you kept your fidgeting hands at the top of the mattress made her decide to reward you with even more stimulation. Especially since it was mostly her feeling pleasure as she'd yet to remove an article of clothing from you. So in a blur of erratic movements you found yourself in a more exposed state, cold air brushed over your sweaty body as your dress was haphazardly tossed aside. "Oh," Wanda hummed, "so much prettier than I dreamed."

Dreamed. The erratic beating of your heart against your ribcage actually lessened as you heard her admit to having thought about you like this before, her words from before began to make sense now too. Suddenly you were closer to the edge, a bright smile adorned your face fleetingly as you felt the delicious coiling of pleasure in your abdomen. Only to be made better as Wanda's plump lips wrapped around your nipple.

A loud cry left you when the fabric of your panties delicately stimulated your clit, "mommy please." The honorific left your lips easily, it clearly wasn't a trained response to her prior claim to it, but a natural reaction. Wanda bit into the plush flesh of your breast, arousal clear as you felt it seeping into your drenched panties.

Wanda rasped, "Wanna cum with mommy?" The smirk she wore went unnoticed by you, with the crossed eyes and agape mouth that muttered out a strangled, 'yes' as she peered up from your heaving chest. If she was possessive before it wasn't noticeable to you, but all the little moments—like the glares she sent Nat's way, now made sense as she spoke. "Tell me who you belong to," she requested this with a bite to her tone that matched the darkness in her eyes. Her teeth scraped up from the sensitive skin between your breasts to your throat.

There was no hesitation in you to reply, "mommy."

Wanda sped up her hips and started to suck harshly on nearly every inch of skin she could, intent obvious as she set out to prove your words correct. "Let go detka," she purred before her teeth sunk into your shoulder, her determined hips stuttered, the both of you writhed in tandem and the brunette pressed into you harder.

While you gasped for air the Sokovian smiled, her own breathing labored but not nearly as bad as yours. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, remaining for a sweet moment before she craved more of you. You blearily whimpered at the insinuation of her lips as they moved down your tense body, harsh love bites and soft kisses left behind—usually one after the other.

Her ministrations more than enough to have you squirming in anticipation for what you hoped was coming next. Wanda's lips pressed to your hips, then upturned cockily as they impatiently bucked of their own volition, her teeth once again scraped over your soft skin, this time over your pelvis before they had a hold of your panties so she could slowly pull them off.

Wanda was about half way down your legs before she just couldn't hold herself back anymore, the smell of you was far too enticing, so she stopped abruptly and rushed upwards with her tongue out. A lewd moan left your lips as she hummed in satisfaction, tongue vicious as it continued to lick at your sensitive, swollen pussy.

For a brief second you could only feel the warmth of her breath as she pulled away just to really breathe you in, her nose affectionately nuzzled against your clit as she inhaled and kissed your sloppy folds that tingled with need. "Oh my," she chuckled, "you're too divine."

Wanda was impossibly lost in you, initially she was going to tease you further, but then she couldn't stop. Her tongue was a beast as it lavished your intimacy just to prolong the taste of your essence on her buds. The way your slick settled against her plumped upper lip was a comforting promise that you'd linger on her face in the morning. Wanda felt like a fucking pervert with the way her mind ran wild with depraved things that would surely require a deeper conversation first.

If you'd let her, she would devour you whole, much like she was doing now. You felt like she'd split you open, her thumbs dug into the soft flesh of your ass cheeks to spread your pussy just a little bit wider and a hum of appreciation followed as you dripped down her chin.

There was no stop to her madness until you broke the silent rule, allowing your hand to drop down and slip between the messy strands of her hair. It was instinct, and so it wasn't admonished right away, the woman actually loved the way that you both pushed her away and pulled her even closer when she pulled your clit between her lips as two fingers entered you and curled.

The sound of you spilling out and onto some random persons sheets caught your attention just as it did hers. Wanda marveled at the sight of your aromatic arousal that coated her fingers, palm, and dripped from her wrist, meanwhile you were shyly covering your face.

Wanda chuckled, "look at mommy detka, it's okay," her fingers gently tugged at your wrists and you peered up to find her slick, grinning face hovering above yours. "These are my sheets," the brunette added, then she chuckled as your eyes widened comically, you didn't know how she knew but you didn't care much as you had other things on your mind, like the sex you desperately wanted more of and, "you're in a sorority?"

The woman took no offense to the question, the bias of pink wearing, former cheerleading stars being the only ones to join the rush life was common. Most of the girls in the sisterhood she claimed didn't exactly look like Wanda, with her dark makeup, edgy clothes and lower arm sleeve tats, she couldn't really question the shock.

The conversation however was boring, the reason why being that her mom wanted her daughter to follow in her Delta footsteps and so the brunette did, because her parents sacrificed a lot to come here as teens. It was the least she could do, and even less interesting for her to reminisce over so she simply brushed by it as her fingers distracted you by collecting your slick.

"Such a loud, pretty thing you are," she teased as you gasped, her lithe fingers having swirled over your clit before they lifted to her already glistening lips, "I bet I'll have you moaning even louder, like a bitch in heat, with my cock pounding into your tight, needy hole."

Wanda admired the lust fueled darkness that swirled in your otherwise soft eyes. "Would you want that?"

"Of course," you blurted without shame, a smile of reassurance offered that led her right off of the bed.

When the brunette returned from her closet she was surprised to see you sat up, patiently waiting and keeping an eye out for her return. No words were spoken as you saw her skirt fall, eyes completely focused in on her glistening pussy that dripped slick down her gorgeous, muscular thighs. A chuckle pulled you from your thoughts, you slowly lifted your gaze and eyed your almost screen partner with a pout.

"If you're good," she began as she made her way to the foot of the bed, making a show as her voice dropped and her body slowly crawled toward you, "I'll let you get a taste." Wanda adored the way your eyes lit up, but she couldn't help but to tease you as her body pressed into yours. "Well, unless I fuck you too dumb."

"I w-want to," you admitted shyly, "to t-taste you."

"I know," she didn't spare you the embarrassment whatsoever as her thumb brushed over your chin, spreading the drool that was drying. "It's on your face."

The wink that followed made you tremble beneath her in a perfect display of desperation, just as she wanted. A devious smirk followed the pop of her thumb as she released it from her mouth; ironically your mouth ran dry. Wanda was about to ruin you in the best ways.

However, everything had happened so quickly up to now that she felt the urge to slowdown, in need of clarity, "Is this what you want? If I fill you with my cock that means you're mine now Y/N. Mine to fuck, cherish and if you'll let me, to fully fall in love with."

Unbridled lust still coursed through both of your veins, it was clear you wanted her to get moving by the way your hips twitched, but the soft tremble of your lip softened her into kissing you gently to ease the stress. Wanda saw the questions in your mind, and she'd answer them all, but for now she'd fuck them quiet.

Wanda had bought this strap just for you, actually. It was crimson red like her signature lipstick, thick like you'd never seen, and had a cum reservoir that she knew you'd love even if she'd never had the chance to ask you beforehand. The brunette could tell just by looking at you that you'd be a slut for a good filling.

"So," she prompted once she decided to spare your lungs from the fire burning inside. You nodded your head aggressively, words hard but doable when she pursed her lips; waiting. "Please, fuck me mommy."

"Gladly," she purred, rubbing the length of her strap against your slit to collect arousal as she peered into your eyes with a determined, possessive expression. Your hands reflexively curled and you felt emboldened the longer you held her gaze with an attempt to match the intensity of her, but you were once again nervous.

"C-can I touch?" Wanda nodded, offering you an encouraging smile as you timidly reached out to feel her up over her shirt, the tips of your fingers brushed over exposed skin and you appreciated how soft it was. Then you grew confident, fingers fisted at the collar of her shirt and tugged. "mommy, please take it off."

"I see even when impatient that my girl has manners," she chuckled softly at the sight of your beaming eyes, then she tossed her shirt across the room and leaned down to passionately press her lips to yours. Her body firmly pressed into yours, the brunette swallowed your mewl as her strap slipped into your hole just to parrot you as your once timid hands firmly groped her chest.

Once she got a grip of her thoughts she chuckled softly, sending a shiver through you as her lips had begun to trail down your jaw. "You like mommy's tits, hm?"

"I love them," you admitted with pure, genuine intent, hands continuing to knead at the flesh to distract yourself from the burning pain as she harshly worked to mark your skin in a slow, determined fashion. Then you continued softly, "I love everything about you," and she melted into the moment more, the teasing she had planned for you came to a stop as she filled you.

Wanda's hands slid beneath your arched back and pulled your front flush to hers, keeping your body as close to hers as she could while shallowly thrusting into your slippery cunt between your ragged breaths. Her lips gently brushed over the skin beneath your ear and she felt the way your body trembled, and reveled in the way you moaned so breathily when she sucked.

"You took me in so well," she purred, aware as your spine began to curve downward that the pleasure had simmered some, so she settled you back down and let her strap naturally slide from your cunt, leaving only the tip as she gazed into your needy eyes. Then her hips snapped and she grunted, "just like I thought."

No reply fell from your lips, at least not in the form of words as she'd set a ruthless pace that only left space for you to moan mindlessly as she harshly rutted her hips into yours. Waves of pleasure rolled through your body, ending with your eyes as a harsh thumb swirled against your clit, her other hand gripped your hip even harder as your bodies sinfully moved in tandem. The chemistry was palpable in the air that reeked of sex and stale smoke that seeped beneath the dorm door.

Which only made it that much harder to breathe as you gasped so pitifully for air, the sensation overwhelmed you into a place of pleasurable uncertainty. The strap was a completely new experience for you, every toy you'd ever used was sleek but this one was outlined in thick, hyperrealistic veins that dug into your walls.

"Oh," a particularly harsh thrust and you were back to arching your back, and crying out, "feels so good." Your sweaty front briefly brushed against hers before your back returned to the mattress where its sole role was to move against the sheets as Wanda rutted harshly.

"You close honey?" Wanda knew already, she could feel the resistance as your walls squeezed around the toy, and even attempted to push it back out. What she truly wanted was to see where you were at mentally. You nodded weakly, mind too foggy to reply and she felt elated by your state. "Mommy is too, cum with me."

The rapid addition of her calloused thumb against your unhooded clit threw you over the edge alongside the brunette who had the gruff hilt to thank for hers. To watch your eyes grow hazier as they crossed once you got lost in pleasure stimulated her own climax too. Just hearing you moan had her teetering on the edge; Wanda was certain she didn't even need the friction...

Wanda began to lay gentle kisses to your warm skin as her thrusts continued, this time so slow you could feel every ridge dragging and subsequently shivered. You whimpered, "no more," hands weak, albeit firm as they pressed into the brunette who chuckled softly, "come on detka, you can do it, just one more for mommy."

"One," you warily agreed, and the brunette beamed, she paused her hips just to sprinkle some kisses onto your face in thanks. Her heart warmed as you giggled and her lips shifted closer to yours, eyes locked now that she was hovering directly. You both felt as your walls trembled around her strap, she smirked as your eyes closed in an attempt to calm your mind down.

"Open," she commanded and you reluctantly did, lips naturally pouting as you were forced to look into her intense eyes full of a love you saw already existed well before you two gave into this steadily building tension. It was a bit disconcerting but in a self-deprecating way, not in a grab your belongings and flee the state kind.

It was surely curious, but truthfully it was too hard to process much of anything with how her hips shallowly moved, they picked up the pace ever so slightly but Wanda wanted this orgasm to be more intimate, she wanted to foster in you the connection she's found.

Her intense gaze never wavered, and you never closed your eyes—maintaining the connection even if it felt like you were going to combust under it. Wanda's lips were parted in a half smirk as she took note of every little change in your reaction to the slowed down pace.

Before, you were moaning unabashedly and now you were panting and whimpering. The fingers that just left crescent marks in her shoulders and drew angry lines down her back now gripped onto the sheets for dear life because this pleasure was simply unlike before. Something about the connection blooming right before your very eyes was exhilarating; it was comforting.

"Mommy," you whined and stared up intently, eyes brimming with tears as you felt overwhelmed by it all.

"Yes, love?"

"C-can I?" Wanda nodded, accompanied by a sweet smile that crinkled the skin of her nose and eyes, it was genuine, intimate, and the reason why you squirted.

Well, that and the surprise of being filled as Wanda had squeezed the cum pump without any warning.

Wanda felt the same need you just satisfied burning deep within her as your body contorted and a shriek of unnerving pleasure left your lips. Rutting into you didn’t provide the same pleasure it did beforehand now that your walls were slick but too tight to fight against.

In a craze she pulled out and tossed the strap away, her thighs corralled yours and tensed as two of her fingers worked her over fast. You gazed up just in time to see her face wash over with pleasure, there was a look of betrayal on your face that amused the brunette. Her fingers left her core and slipped passed your lips before you could protest that your job was stolen from you.

“I said you could taste, just not how,” she reminded you, and you didn’t even feel a need to protest. Far too busy sucking her fingers clean and feeling the spark of a forming addiction—you needed to taste the source.

However, you were too tired tonight and Wanda saw that as she gazed down into your glistening eyes. It was better that way too as Wanda’s cunt continued to drip.

"Twice," Wanda teased as your slick too dripped down her legs, “you are filthy; squirting on mommy’s bed.”

“‘M sorry,” you mumbled but she wasn’t sure you even knew what you were saying as your eyelids fluttered.

While you slipped in and out of sleep Wanda began to get a bath set up for you both, in one of the only en-suite’s this house has—perks of the house mom being your real mom’s best friend. Your soft snores amused her as they traveled through the crack in the door, into a steamy room decorated with rose petals and flames.

Truthfully, beneath the deceiving layers of grunge she wore with a resting scowl was a woman who genuinely believed in the sappy love stories that Hollywood sells. Wanda wasn’t a one trick pony, she heavily negated the societal need to keep interests separate. In public she kept her image intimidating, unintentionally she did it with you too, but now she’s ready for you to see all of her and with that you deserved her sappy humanity.

Wanda returned to the room once she deemed the tub was ready for you both, but she paused—allowing more steam to fill the space you’d soon occupy, just so she could admire your nude form beneath the moonlight. A smile bloomed as she caught sight of the marks she left behind, some too deep and noticeable for you to hide.

The woman felt prideful as she approached, but her resolve softened the closer she got as you looked so peaceful surrounded by her stained, mussed bedsheets. Currently, all she truly wanted was to hold you close.

You woke up with the gentle jolt of your body, made as Wanda lifted you up and into her chest, not forgoing a kiss to your temple that made you melt into her. A whine of protest followed seconds later as she placed you right onto the cooled toilet. In contrast, your body naturally reacted as it too sought relief, filling the toilet with the remnants of your passionate night together.

Wanda had slipped away again, but you were too tired to note her initial absence. When she returned, fresh pajamas in hand, you whined angrily. It was adorable, the way you reached for her and glared, as if she’d abandoned you, your intimidation tactic failed.

Wanda softly spoke, “Are you ready to bathe love?”

You shook your head and frowned, a bit embarrassed to ask for help but fortunately Wanda was in tune with you as she reached for the toilet paper and wiped. It was quick and she got you into the warm tub before you could overthink the moment. Successfully too as you melted into her front as the warmth soothed your aching muscles and fogged your mind up with peace.

There was no rush to her movements as she cleaned the both of you—if either of you had plans tomorrow it was fair to assume them canceled now. Wanda wasn’t ready to part ways and she knew you would likely be in the same state—if not more so after tonight’s drop.

Once the water began to chill, effectively making you shiver, she got you awake and out of the tub quickly. Wanda adored the way you clung to her, only parting when she persisted so she could get you two dressed.

“Brush your teeth,” she gently commanded, then with you distracted she returned to her room to place the freshly laundered sheets onto her mattress. Then she slid into a harness that made your eyes widen as you rushed out of the bathroom to find her. The muddled space you were in faded as you were unsure of her intentions, you even took a conscious step back once she began to approach but you quickly met the wall.

“Don’t be afraid,” she teased you—with the wide eyes and hesitant smile. “I was gonna ask, do you think it would be okay if mommy slept with her cock in you?”

Wanda’s arm was quick to wrap around your waist, holding you up as your knees proved useless, you felt her nose nudge into your jaw as her lips left warm kisses over the marks you’d yet to see on your neck. Even with as sensitive as you knew your pussy to be you gave in without any fight at all as you pleaded.

With a gentle hand Wanda slid the strap against your pussy until enough lubrication had manifested. Then she settled onto her mattress before guiding you over and slowly inserting herself back into you until there was no space left to fill. You pressed your lips to hers desperately, looking for a bit of comfort as you adjusted. A slow, passionate lip lock ensued until you felt the pain subside and the exhaustion return.

The Sokovian eased onto her back, gentle as she pulled your body down with hers to keep you comfortable. A blanket soon covered you both and you smiled as you tiredly remembered the night’s events—her intense eye contact that should’ve terrified you but it truly didn’t.

"I can't wait to fall in love with you," you admitted against her chest in your state of post-sex delirium and it brought a smile to the perceivably tough woman. It was too early, Wanda knew that, but the brunette had loved you for ages and now she is patiently waiting for you to return the sentiment. "ya uzhe lyublyu tebya."

(I already love you)

————

Bonus:

"Oh no," Natasha mumbled to her girlfriend, eyes catching sight of the random blonde that corralled you against the table. "Poor girl, she's not going to survive."

Maria humored her girlfriend by gazing up just in time to see a fuming Wanda storming over to you both.

"Which one?" Natasha chuckled and pecked her lovers lips, "both—but one will for sure be more pleasurable."

"You're a menace." Natasha smirked, "Oh, I know..."

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vague-humanoid · 1 year

Text

https://www.washingtonpost.com/history/2023/05/10/mlk-malcolm-x-playboy-alex-haley/

Jonathan Eig was deep in the Duke University archives researching his new biography of Martin Luther King Jr. when he made an alarming discovery: King’s harshest and most famous criticism of Malcolm X, in which he accused his fellow civil rights leader of “fiery, demagogic oratory,” appears to have been fabricated.

“I think its historic reverberations are huge,” Eig told The Washington Post. “We’ve been teaching people for decades, for generations, that King had this harsh criticism of Malcolm X, and it’s just not true.”

The quote came from a January 1965 Playboy interview with author Alex Haley, a then-43-year-old Black journalist, and was the longest published interview King ever did. Because of the severity of King’s criticism, it has been repeated countless times, cast as a dividing line between King and Malcolm X. The new revelation “shows that King was much more open-minded about Malcolm than we’ve tended to portray him,” Eig said.

Haley’s legacy has been tarnished by accusations of plagiarism and historical inaccuracy in his most famous book, “Roots,” but this latest finding could open up more of his work to criticism, especially “The Autobiography of Malcolm X: As Told to Alex Haley” — released nine months after Malcolm X’s assassination in 1965.

Malcolm X, a member of the Nation of Islam, had frequently attacked King and his commitment to nonviolence, going so far as to call King a “modern Uncle Tom.” But his criticism often had “strategic purposes,” Eig said.

In acting as “a foil” to King, his message had more value to the media. “King saw value in being a foil to Malcolm sometimes, too. But I think at their core they had a lot in common. They certainly shared a lot of the same goals,” Eig said.

Eig, who previously wrote acclaimed biographies of Muhammad Ali and Lou Gehrig, said he found the fabrication in the course of his standard book research for “King: A Life,” due out May 16. When a subject has given a long interview, he’ll look through the archives of the journalist who conducted it, hoping to find notes or tapes with previously unpublished anecdotes.

He did not find a recording of Haley’s interview with King in the Haley archives at Duke, but he did find what appears to be an unedited transcript of the full interview, likely typed by a secretary straight from a recording, Eig said. Eig provided The Post with a copy of the transcript.

On page 60 of the 84-pagedocument, Haley asks, “Dr. King, would you care to comment upon the articulate former Black Muslim, Malcolm X?”

King responds: “I have met Malcolm X, but circumstances didn’t enable me to talk with him for more than a minute. I totally disagree with many of his political and philosophical views, as I understand them. He is very articulate, as you say. I don’t want to seem to sound as if I feel so self-righteous, or absolutist, that I think I have the only truth, the only way. Maybe he does have some of the answer. But I know that I have so often felt that I wished that he would talk less of violence, because I don’t think that violence can solve our problem. And in his litany of expressing the despair of the Negro, without offering a positive, creative approach, I think that he falls into a rut sometimes.”

That is not how King’s response appeared in the published interview. While the top part is nearly identical with the transcript, it ended in Playboy like this: “And in his litany of articulating the despair of the Negro without offering any positive, creative alternative,I feel that Malcolm has done himself and our people a great disservice. Fiery, demagogic oratory in the black ghettos, urging Negroes to arm themselves and prepare to engage in violence, as he has done, can reap nothing but grief.”

Some of the phrases added to King’s answer appear to be taken significantly out of context, while others appear to be fabricated:

@meanmisscharles @russianspacegeckosexparty @ubernegro @that-biracial-geek-girl @redstarovermoundcity

Eig has shared this discovery with a number of King scholars, and the changes “jumped out” to them as “a real fraud,” Eig said. “They’re like, ‘Oh my God, I’ve been teaching that to my students for years,’ and now they have to rethink it,” Eig said.

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reasonsforhope · 5 months

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"In a 4-3 decision released on Friday afternoon December 22, the Wisconsin Supreme Court held that Wisconsin’s voting maps as currently drawn violate the state constitution and must be redrawn in time for the 2024 election.

Under the Wisconsin Constitution, state legislative districts must consist of “contiguous territory.” [Meaning: continuous] Yet, the majority opinion states, “the number of state legislative districts containing territory completely disconnected from the rest of the district is striking.”

“At least fifty of ninety-nine assembly districts and at least twenty of thirty-three senate districts include separate, detached territory,” states the majority opinion, written by Justice Jill Karofsky.

Contiguous districts are a safeguard against gerrymandering and help keep together groups of voters who live in the same areas and have the same interests, explains the decision, which includes maps highlighting the islands of noncontiguous voting areas in the state’s current districts.

The voters who brought the lawsuit, Clarke v. Wisconsin Elections Commission, argued that the current districts violate the constitution and asked the court to order the adoption of remedial maps. They also asked the court to declare the November 2022 state senate elections unlawful, and to order special elections for state senate seats that would otherwise not be on the ballot until November 2026.

The court’s ruling agrees with the petitioners that “Wisconsin’s state legislative districts must be composed of physically adjoining territory,” and enjoins the Wisconsin Elections Commission from using the current legislative maps in future elections. But it declined to invalidate the results of the 2022 state senate elections.

Acknowledging that it is the legislature’s role to draw voting maps, the majority opinion urges the legislature to draw new maps that comport with the constitution. However, it also states, since the legislature might not draw such maps or the governor might veto them, the court will plan to adopt remedial maps that can be used in time for the 2024 elections and unless and until new, constitutional maps are enacted through the legislative process...

Wisconsin’s voting maps are widely considered among the most politically gerrymandered in the country. This was reflected in 2018 when Democrats swept every statewide election and earned 53 percent of assembly votes cast statewide but only 36 percent of Assembly seats went to Democrats. Voters in Wisconsin are evenly split along partisan lines, and statewide races are often decided by slim margins. Currently, however, Republicans hold a 22-11 supermajority in the state senate and a 64-35 near-supermajority in the state assembly."

-via The Progressive Magazine

Note: Article is a bit wordy but this is a Big Deal. We're going to get fair election maps in an important swing state. The maps thrown out by this decision were deliberately designed to give Republicans a massive advantage in the election.

This WILL make a huge difference in who's elected in 2024.

#wisconsin #united states #us politics #gerrymandering #elections #election 2024 #fair elections #voting rights #voting #voter suppression #good news #hope

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theoihalioistuff · 23 days

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ARES IS NOT THE PROTECTOR OF WOMEN IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY.

He is never presented as such in any source, there is no evidence such a role was ever assigned to him in any account, and as far as I'm aware this popular yet unattested assertion is born from the echo-chambers of tumblr. In fact quite the opposite could be argued. TW for sexual assault.

This baffling claim seems to originate from a sort of shallow examination of the way Ares "behaves in myth", and the following arguments are the most frequently presented:

1. Ares protects his daughter Alkippe from assault, and is therefore morally opposed to rape. (Apollodorus 3.180, Pausanias 1.21.4, Suidas "Areios pagos", attributed to Hellanikos)

Curiously this argument is never applied to, for example: Apollo for defending his mother Leto from Tytios, Herakles for defending Hera from Porphyrion (or his wife Deianeira from Nessos), or Zeus for defending his sister Demeter from Iasion (in the versions where he attacks her), among other examples. The multiple accounts of rape of the previously mentioned figures did not conflict with these stories in greek thought: they're defending family members or women otherwise close to them. This sort of behaviour is not uncommon, even in contemporary times, e.g. a warrior has no ethical problem killing men, but would not want his own family or loved ones to be killed. The same goes here for sexual assault.

2. There are no surviving accounts of Ares sexually assaulting anybody.

The idea that the ancient greeks pictured that, among all the gods, Ares was the only one who shied away from committing rape borders on ridiculous. In this case absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

The majority of surviving records of Ares' unions are presented in a genealogical manner, and do not go into details about the nature of said unions. This is by no means uncommon for most mythographers, where most sexual encounters are presented as such, and details of specifics are to be found elsewhere. However, common motifs that are found in other accounts of rape also appear in stories concerning Ares' relationships, e.g. tropes like shape-shifting/the use of disguises, the victim being a huntress, secrecy, and the disposal of the concieved child, are to be found in the stories of Phylonome and Astyoche respectively:

Φυλονόμη Νυκτίμου καὶ Ἀρκαδίας θυγάτηρ ἐκυνήγει σὺν τῇ Ἀρτέμιδι: Ἄρης δ᾽ ἐν σχήματι ποιμένος ἔγκυον ἐποίησεν. ἡ δὲ τεκοῦσα διδύμους παῖδας καὶ φοβουμένη τὸν πατέρα ἔρριψεν εἰς τὸν Ἐρύμανθο

"Phylonome, the daughter of Nyktimos and Arkadia, was wont to hunt with Artemis; but Ares, in the guise of a shepherd, got her with child. She gave birth to twin children and, fearing her father, cast them into the [River] Erymanthos." (Pseudo-Plutarch, Greek and Roman Parallel Stories, 36)

οἳ δ᾽ Ἀσπληδόνα ναῖον ἰδ᾽ Ὀρχομενὸν Μινύειον, τῶν ἦρχ᾽ Ἀσκάλαφος καὶ Ἰάλμενος υἷες Ἄρηος οὓς τέκεν Ἀστυόχη δόμῳ Ἄκτορος Ἀζεΐδαο, παρθένος αἰδοίη ὑπερώϊον εἰσαναβᾶσα Ἄρηϊ κρατερῷ: ὃ δέ οἱ παρελέξατο λάθρῃ: τοῖς δὲ τριήκοντα γλαφυραὶ νέες ἐστιχόωντο.

"And they that dwelt in Aspledon and Orchomenus of the Minyae were led by Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Ares, whom, in the palace of Actor, son of Azeus, Astyoche, the honoured maiden, conceived of mighty Ares, when she had entered into her upper chamber; for he lay with her in secret" (Homer, Iliad 2. 512 ff)

In neither of these cases is a verb explicitly denoting rape used, though it is heavily implied by the context. The focus of the action is on the conception of sons, the nature of the interaction is secondary.

Other examples are found among the daughters of the river Asopos, who where (and here there's no confusion) ravished and kidnapped by different gods to different parts of the greek world, where they found local lines through children borne to their abductors and serve as local eponyms. Surviving fragments from Corinna of Tanagra tell:

"Asopos went to his haunts . . from you halls . . into woe . . Of these [nine] daughters Zeus, giver of good things, took his [Asopos'] child Aigina . . from her father's [house] . . while Korkyra and Salamis and lovely Euboia were stolen by father Poseidon, and Leto's son is in possession of Sinope and Thespia . . [and Tanagra was seized by Hermes] . . But to Asopos no one was able to make the matter clear, until . . [the seer Akraiphen reveals to him] 'And of your daughters father Zeus, king of all, has three; and Poseidon, ruler of the sea, married three; and Phoibos [Apollon] is master of the beds of two of them, and of one Hermes, good son of Maia. For so did the pair Eros and the Kypris persuade them, that they should go in secret to your house and take your nine daughters." (heavily fragmented papyrus. Corinna, Fragment 654 )

"For your [Tanagra's] sake Hermes boxed against Ares." (Corinna, Fragment 666)

It seems that, similarly to the myths of Beroe or Marpessa, the abducted maiden is fought over by two competing "suitors", and though we can infer that the outcome of the story is that Hermes gets to keep Tanagra, apparently by beating Ares at boxing, we don't actually know what happened or how it happened. In any case, Ares does mate with another daughter of Asopos, Harpina, who bears him Oinomaos according to some versions (Paus. 5.22.6) (Stephanus of Byzantium, Ethnica, A125.3) (Diodorus Siculus, Library 4. 73. 1). There is little reason to suppose this encounter wasn't pictured as an abduction like the rest of her sisters.

The blatant statement that each of his affairs was envisioned as consensual is simply not true.

3. He was worshipped under the epithet Gynaicothoinas "feasted by women"

This was a local cult that existed in Tegea, the following reason is given:

"There is also an image of Ares in the marketplace of Tegea. Carved in relief on a slab it is called Gynaecothoenas. At the time of the Laconian war, when Charillus king of Lacedaemon made the first invasion, the women armed themselves and lay in ambush under the hill they call today Phylactris. When the armies met and the men on either side were performing many remarkable exploits, the women, they say, came on the scene and put the Lacedaemonians to flight. Marpessa, surnamed Choera, surpassed, they say, the other women in daring, while Charillus himself was one of the Spartan prisoners. The story goes on to say that he was set free without ransom, swore to the Tegeans that the Lacedaemonians would never again attack Tegea, and then broke his oath; that the women offered to Ares a sacrifice of victory on their own account without the men, and gave to the men no share in the meat of the victim. For this reason Ares got his surname." (Paus. 8.48.4-5)

As emphasised by Georgoudi in To Act, Not Submit: Women’s Attitudes in Situations of War in Ancient Greece (part of the highly recommendable collection of essays Women and War in Antiquity), "it is not necessary to see the operation of an invitation in the bestowal of the epithet Γυναικοθοίνας on Ares". The epithet is ambiguous, and can be translated both as "Host of the banquet of women" or "[He who is] invited to the banquet of women". In any case no act of divine intervention occurs, and the main reason for the women's act of devotion lies principally in recognising their decisive role in the routing of the Lakedaimonians. They invite Ares to the banquet, the men are excluded.

Also this a local epithet that isn't found anywhere else in Greece. As such it would be worth reminding that not every Ares is Gynaicothoinas, in the same way not every Zeus is Aithiopian, not every Demeter Erinys, or not every Artemis of Ephesos.

4. He is the patron god of the Amazons

He was considered progenitor of the Amazons because of their proverbial warlike nature and love of battle, the same reason he was associated with other "barbaric" tribes, like the Thracians or the Scythians. In this capacity he was also appointed as a suitable father/ancestor for other violent and savage characters who generally function as antagonists (e.g. Kyknos, Diomedes of Thrace, Tereos of Thrace, Oinomaos, Agrios and Oreios, Phlegyas, Lykos etc.). Also he was by no means the only god connected with the Amazons (they were especially linked to Artemis, see Religious Cults Associated With the Amazons by Florence Mary Bennett, if only for the bibliography).

Similarly Poseidon was considered patron and ancestor of the Phaiakians mainly because of their mastery over the art of seafaring, and was curiously also credited in genealogies as father to monsters and other disreputable figures.

On another note I have found no sources that claim he taught his amazon daughters how to fight, as I've seen often mentioned (though I admit I'd love to be proven wrong on that point).

Finally, the last reason Ares is never portrayed as a protector of women is because of his divine assignation itself:

The uncountable references to his love of bloodshed and man-slaying don't just stop short of the battlefield, but continue on to the conclusion and intended purpose of most waged wars in antiquity: the sacking of the city. The title Sacker of Cities as an epithet of Ares (though it is by no means exclusive to him) is encountered numerous times and in different variations (eg. τειχεσιπλήτης or πτολίπορθος), and the meaning behind the epithet is plain. Though it is hard to summarise without being reductionist, the sacking of a city entails the plundering of all its goods, the slaughtering of its men, and the sistematic raping and enslavement of the surviving women (for the most famous depictions see The Iliad, The Trojan Women or The Women of Trachis, to name only a small few of the literary references). There is little need to emphasise that war as concieved of in ancient greece, especifically the brutal aspects of war Ares is most often associated with, directly entail sexual violence against women as one of its main concerns. The multiple references to Ares being an unloved or disliked deity are because of this, because war is horrifying (not because his daddy is a big old meany who hates him for no reason, Zeus makes very clear the motive for his contempt in the Iliad (5. 889-891): "Do not sit beside me and whine, you double-faced liar. To me you are most hateful of all gods who hold Olympos. Forever quarreling is dear to your heart, wars and battles.")

Ares was only the protector of women inasmuch as he could be averted or repelled (e.g. in this apotropaic chant):

"There is no clash of brazen shields but our fight is with the war god, a war god ringed with the cries of men, a savage god who burns us; grant that he turn in racing course backward out of our country’s bounds, to the great palace of Amphitrite or where the waves of the thracian sea deny the stranger safe anchorage. Whatsoever escapes the night at last the light of day revisits; so smite him, Father Zeus, beneath your thunderbolt, for you are the lord of the lightning, the lightning that carries fire." (Shophocles, Oedipus Tyrannos, 190-202)

~~~~~

All that being said, this is a post about Ares as attested and percieved in ancient sources, made especifically in response to condecending and self-victimising statements about how "uhmmm, actually, in greek mythology Ares was a super-feminist himbo who was worshipped as the protector of women and was hated by his family for no reason, you idiot". It is factually incorrect. HOWEVER, far be it from me to tell anyone how they have to interact with this deity. Be it your retellings, your headcannons or your own personal religious attachments and beliefs towards Ares, those are your own provinces and prerogatives, and not what was being discussed here at all (I personally love retellings where Ares and Aphrodite goof around, or art where he plays with his daughters, or headcannons that showcase his more noble sides, etc.)

~~~~~

I've seen that other people on tumblr have made similar posts, the ones I've seen were by @deathlessathanasia and @en-theos . I have no idea how to link their posts, but they're really good so go check them out on their pages!

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pandoraslxna · 9 days

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hi luna, i found ur fics on ao3 and ran my ass to tumblr bc i just needed more of ur writing. you're so talented!!

i was wondering if you could write a lo'ak x reader story similar to the step bro!teyam fic where he makes contact with the sex pollen. it could be step bro!lo'ak or just reader's bsf idm bc i've been thinking abt that fic for agessss and i'd die for a lo'ak version even where reader is the one that touches the pollen instead 😭🫶 pretty pls and thanks in advance （╹◡╹）♡

Forbidden desires

adult Stepbro!Lo‘ak x female omatikaya reader

Words: 3.8k

Summary: Nine times out of ten, when you were sent to one of those old, abandoned RDA outpost facilities, it went just fine. But there's always that tenth time.

Warnings: explicit smut, stepcest (they’re not blood related), sex pollen, cowgirl position, creampie, teasing, praise

Nine times out of ten, when you were sent to one of those old, abandoned RDA outpost facilities, it went just fine. But there's always that tenth time. And of course it’s when your accompanied by your older stepbrother, who somehow seemed to magically attract any kind of danger ever since he was a kid.

Scavenging abandoned laboratories for essential supplies that the clan could use was usually safer than it sounded, but this place, it was far off your usual research zone and Jake- dad, he said you could call him dad. Well dad said, it would be better to not go alone this time, just in case.

The once bustling scientific havens now stands as a relict of the past, slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of nature. The laboratory emerges from the foliage, structure weathered and worn by time. Moss and ivy clings to the cracked walls, intertwining with rusted metal equipment. Vines creep through broken windows and shattered glass, casting intricate patterns of sunlight onto the decaying floors.

This place smells sharp, metallic, so much like tawtutes [humans] and the rotting smell of death and burnt earth they leave behind. Not exactly a pleasant scent.

Inside, a sense of eerie tranquility fills the air. Dust particles dance in the faint beams of light that manage to pierce through the overgrown canopy. Dilapidated shelves line the walls, remnants of long-forgotten experiments, holding faded vials and forgotten notes.

Lab benches, once polished and pristine, now bear the scars of abandonment papers lay strewn across the floor, their text faded and illegible. The hum of electricity has long been silenced, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the fluttering wings of Riti [Stingbats] that were abruptly woken by the two na‘vi entering the long forgotten building.

Amongst the ruins, you search meticulously, your eyes scanning for useful remnants. You carefully examine cabinets, hoping to uncover unused medicine, bandages, exo packs that are still intact or any other useful tools.

Your stepbrother however, seemed to have other plans in mind.

"You shouldn’t touch that", you said, snatching his wrist mid way of him prodding at what you hoped was a fake skeleton. Lo‘ak let out a chuckle as he gazed down at you, both of his brows raised in amusement as he wriggled his hand free of your hold.

"Relax, tsmuke [sister]. Are you always this uptight when going on your little adventures?"

"I‘m not uptight, Lo‘ak. I‘m being careful", you said, shaking your head. "Jak– Dad taught me to be. You never know what the vrrteps [demons] could possibly be hiding here. And this isn’t an adventure, we‘re here to get supplies!"

"Right, of course. We‘re on a very important mission here", Lo’ak scoffs sarcastically, then proceeds to yank at the skeletons arm and point it in your direction, poking your hip with the boney finger when you roll your eyes at him. "You think they have traps set here to capture cute na‘vi girls? Ohh, isn’t that scary?"

"You’re an idiot", you giggle, swatting the hand away and playfully slapping your stepbrothers arm.

You both then take the steps up to the second floor of the building, and when you round a corner, you stop dead in your tracks. There was a "DO NOT ENTER" sign taped to the door that was slowly starting to peel off.

Experiments on animals or even na‘vi weren’t really uncommon, and you knew the horrors that the RDA was capable of, had heard and seen it yourself, especially in those research laboratories. Which is why you weren’t sure if whatever awaited behind this door was worth the few extra exo packs and bandages.

"We shouldn’t–"

"Oh, yes we should", Lo‘ak is quick to cut you off, all too eager to push the heavy metal door open. A rush of stale air fills your nostrils and you grimace at the smell.

"I should’ve just asked Neteyam to come with me", you mumble under your breath, closely following Lo‘ak into the room, who had a wide, excited grin on his face.

"And miss out on all the real fun?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "Yeah, you two would clearly make the better duo."

Rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help the feeling of unease that grew inside you, your eyes darting around the room, while your stepbrother's curiosity only intensified. Ignoring your trepidation, Lo‘ak stepped forward, drawn to a large, dusty table at the center of the room.

Among the scattered papers and broken equipment laid a few conical flasks, some of them still filled with droplets of a strange liquid.

Turning on your heals you took a quick 360°-spin. The room was small enough to get an overall view in less than a few seconds. There was nothing but this table and broken laboratory equipment. Nothing that seemed to be of worth for the clan, so you glanced back over your shoulder, already heading back to the door as you pleaded, "Lo‘ak, come on. There’s nothing in here, let’s just go back."

Lo’ak however, couldn't resist the temptation to tease you, playfully waving one of the glasses around. "Killjoy", he mutters under his breath, before shouting, "Here, catch", and throwing the conical flask in your direction. You shriek as you jump around to try and catch the glass in time, but it slips right past your fingers.

You both watch it fall like it’s happening in slow motion, until it bursts on the floor and the glass shatters in thousand little pieces.

As soon as the liquid inside makes contact with the tiled floor, it morphs into a small cloud of steam that smells awfully sweet and you end up coughing a few times before sending a glare in Lo‘aks direction. Sucking in a sharp breath, he makes an apologetic face and rushes to your side, careful not to step in any of the glass shards. "Shit, sorry! I‘m so sorry, are you hurt?"

"No, skxawng [moron]. I‘m fine", you clear your throat, "Great mother, you’re acting like such a child sometimes…"

"Yeah, I hear that a lot", he grins and you can’t help but smile at the coy flick of his tail. "C‘mere, can’t let you get hurt or dad will skin me", he murmurs, pointing at the glass, before scooping you into his arms and carrying you out of the room.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips and tickles Lo‘aks neck as you rest your chin on his shoulder. Your heart was still pounding from the scare, harder than you would like to admit. Nuzzling closer to his neck, you allowed your eyes to rest for a moment, just breathing in the natural, soothing scent of his skin, while he carried you downstairs. He smells so much like cedarwood, leather and freshly cut grass, you notice. And something else that you can’t quite put a name on, but it tingles your nostrils and makes goosebumps raise on the nape of your neck.

"You smell good", you mumble the words before you can throughly think them through, while pressing your nose against his throat. Your lips graze his skin and you can feel his upper body stiffen at that. "Was that a weird thing to say?" You ask calmly, almost a little too calm.

There’s a moment of silence before Lo‘ak shakes his head and murmurs a quick, "no."

Back at the main entrance, he gives a light squeeze to your hips, signaling you that he would let you down to your feet now, but your arms wrap around his neck tightly. He just smells so good, you want to stay here for a while longer. Lo‘ak is strong, you know he could effortlessly carry you all day.

"Can you hold me for a while longer?" Your own voice seems so far gone, so far away, you don’t even hear yourself properly, don’t even realize you’re speaking at all. Your skin tingles where Lo‘ak has his arms wrapped around you, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm, pressing yourself closer against him.

"Tanhì [little star], are you… are you okay?"

"Hmh", you hum, crossing your ankles behind his back like a Syaksyuk [prolemuris] clinging to it‘s mother.

"Are you sure?" There’s genuine concern in his voice, one of his hands running up your back, feeling your temperature at the nape of your neck. "You’re kind of burning up a little."

Your response almost sounds like a drunken mumble, "hmm strange. My heart‘s beating pretty fast too." It’s followed by a little giggle, and Lo‘ak frowns.

He‘s not panicking, not yet, but he knows something is wrong. This was really, really not normal behavior for you. He feels your face entirely too close to his pulse point, can feel your nose nuzzling against him, your lips brushing his throat. It’s not a kiss, he tries to make himself believe.

You’re not kissing up and down his throat. You’re not, because that would be wrong. Why would you— and then he feels it. Your tongue. His whole body shivers at the wet glide of your tongue on his throat, and Lo‘ak swallows thickly, before coming back to his senses.

"O-Okay, listen, uhm, I’m gonna put you down now", he scrambles, untangling you from his body to set you down to your feet. Your knees seem a little weak and Lo‘ak can’t help but reach out to hold you steady, ignoring the way it makes you blush and lean in on him again.

It doesn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion that whatever was in that glass container must’ve been some sort of drug or whatever. As soon as the coin drops, Lo‘aks heart fills with guilt. His expression shifts to that of worry and uncertainty as he ponders if calling his father would be a good idea. He knows he has to make sure you’ll be okay, has to get you to the tsahìk, but he knows just as well that dad will most definitely skin him alive if he finds his precious adoptive daughter in this condition.

"I feel weird, Lo'", you snap him out of his train of thoughts. Lo’aks hands are on your upper arms, holding you steady while simultaneously keeping some distance between you and him. His eyes scan you up down, and he almost chokes on his spit as he catches the way you clench your thighs together, squirming, and fiddling with the fabric of your loincloth. "Feels really weird… here", you tell him in a hushed whisper, one of your hands bullying it’s way between your clenched thighs. Your eyes are half lidded and glassy as you stare up at him through your lashes, your cheeks flushed in a dark red.

Now he’s panicking.

"S-Shit", he sputters. His eyes are wide as he adverts his gaze to somewhere, anywhere else but you, trying not to look at his stepsister touching and rubbing herself over her clothes. That’s bad, that’s really, really bad. "Let’s just get you home, yeah? I‘m– I‘m sure there’s a cure to whatever it is that you have."

One quick glance down to see if you had even heard what he just said, and he finds you still clumsily rubbing your hands between your thighs, seeking some sort of relief. "But you", he swallows thickly, "you really need to stop doing that, okay?" Lo’ak knows he doesn’t even sound half convincing, and it takes him more than just a bit of effort to not stare at you right now.

You look back at him under your lashes, bite your bottom lip and shake your head and he knows you’re doing that on purpose— working him up with those helpless little noises, sweet sounds of need and pleasure, thighs clenching and unclenching around your own hand.

"C-Can’t you just help me? Please, I- I need you."

One of your hands then closes around his wrist and before he realizes to where you’re guiding him, his palm cups your still covered cunt. He feels your slick drench the woven coverings under his fingertips and his eyes widen. "Need you here", you plead. "It hurts so bad, Lo‘ak. I‘m so empty."

"I– I can’t, we shouldn’t—" Lo’ak shakes his head, seemingly torn, but suddenly your lips press against his and he just can’t find it in himself to pull away.

Your lips are so soft, softer than he imagined (not that he imagined what kissing you would be like, ever) and the moment Lo‘ak finds himself kissing back you surge forward, the grip around his wrist tightens, urging him to stay right there, teeth nipping at his bottom lip until his lips part and he can taste you, your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your salvia mixing with his.

Your kiss is forceful and he’s so much more into it than he thought he’d ever be. And when you pull back your lips are red and wet, and he knows his mouth is probably a perfect mirror to yours.

"Fuck, tanhì, baby", he whispers, "Gonna get me in trouble…" And in an instant he’s on you again. His tongue tingles as it curls around yours, with drool running down his chin as he backs you up against a tree. You cling to him, desperate and wanting, not letting go of his wrist until he makes you understand that he’s only pulling away to get that damn loincloth out of the way. It nearly rips with the effort of getting it off, but when he finally succeeds you both clumsily pull each other to the ground.

This is wrong, he thinks as he spreads your legs opens. This is so wrong, he thinks as he runs his hands up and down your body, your chest, pushing your top out of the way.

You look so beautiful like this, chest heaving and covered in a thin layer of sweat. Hair messy and eyes dark with lust, pupils so blown it should make him worry, but he can’t bring himself to care when his gaze falls to the space between your thighs where slick oozes out of you in a concerning amount.

"Please- Please put it in, I need you", you slur, spreading your thighs further apart. "Need you inside."

Your pussy looks red and puffy, so sensitive as he runs two digits through your folds and then gently pushes them in. You gasp, but open up perfectly for him. It’s not enough, Lo‘ak can feel it. He curls his fingers, pumps them in and out a few times to hear those sweet moans tumble from your parted lips.

"You have to promise you won’t hate me after this", he says under his breath. His thumb glides over your clit, gently pushing its little hood up to bring the little nub into view and he can almost feel it throb under his touch. "I‘m just helping you out because you asked for it, alright?" Lo‘ak says it as if he’s talking to himself, reassuring that you want this, it’s okay, and maybe it actually is. Peeling his eyes away from the mouthwatering sight between your thighs he finally looks back up at you, swallowing the salvia that has been pooling in his mouth. "Promise you won’t hate me. Please." The restrain is clear in his voice, but he’s nowhere near as needy as you are. "C’mon, baby, say it. Tell me with your words."

"I won’t hate you, Lo‘ak just please–" Suddenly you shove him by the shoulders, rolling over until you’re the one straddling him, pinning him down to the ground. Your hand impatiently reaches between your thighs and feels for his cock, before repositioning it to prod his tip at your entrance. He bucks up into your hand as you give his cock a few pumps, pre-cum dribbling through your fingers.

The sight of him beneath you sends a throb straight to your cunt.

Lo‘ak sucks in a breath just as he’s about to tell you to wait, slow down, but then you‘re already slamming yourself down onto him without remorse. Fuck, it's so easy. Fits right in like a glove; overwhelmingly wet and warm, a terrible combination that scares him.

A punched out moan breaks from his throat as he feels the tightness of your velvety-like walls envelope his length. He’s so deep inside you, he can feel your cervix kissing his tip and it sends a shudder up his spine.

It's almost an out-of-body experience as you get on your haunches and lift yourself up, the head of his cock still nudged against your entrance, and he watches your gleaming lips part before you sink all the way back down again, taking him into the softest, most delicate parts of yourself.

Lo‘ak feels it and knows that he can’t change anything about the way he’s completely surrendering to your control- and he absolutely fucking loves it.

It’s so wrong, but that’s what brings a tingle to his fingertips. So dirty, but that’s what makes heat raise under his skin like a fire burning down a forest.

Lo’ak watches the way your belly contracts visibly, in time with the hitch in your breath at the first few thrusts. Your thighs tense and your fingers finds his braids to anchor yourself, and his hands find your hips and push you down harder on his length and he’s startled to realise how soft you are now, yielding to him in ways he’d never have imagined once. You’re putty in his hands, ridden by nothing but pleasure. A carnal need.

It’s luck that the adventures in Lo’aks life gave or showed him at least a bit of reservoirs of self-control that his karyus [teachers] never thought he had, because after those first few thrusts, you ride him vigorously.

Lo’ak doesn’t know how you’re this in sync, but he knows you want him to fuck you hard and fast. With his hands still gripping your hips tightly, he drives deep and eagerly into your weeping cunt, welcomed by that glorious softness again and again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and meet his thrusts as best as you can.

"Lo‘ak", you draw out his name in a long, pathetic moan, "more, need more!"

"Great mother, you’re greedy, baby," he huffs out in a laugh, grips your hips and holds you down on his cock for a second longer than necessary, just to feel your little cunt pulsate around him. You struggle briefly, before picking up the pace again, bouncing harder than before, but also more uncoordinated.

"S‘just so good," you slur, sounding almost drunk. "You feel so good inside me. Fuck me harder!"

Your tongue lolls out and he catches you mid way, tongues meeting in a hungry, filthy kiss. You taste awfully sweet as you moan into it, and Lo‘ak can’t help but think you would want spurs right now, to urge him on all the more. As if he needs that when you kiss him like this, when you hold him so close he feels your tits, soft and warm and perfect, press against his chest.

His cock throbs and you’re starting to quiver now, distinct from the more deliberate movements you both make. It shows in your breasts, makes your thighs tremble against his sides and makes tremors in your stomach muscles.

For a moment it switches from bouncing to grinding, and Lo‘ak knows what you’re trying to do. You grind and rub your needy little clit against his pubic bone, let out desperate noises of pleasure while you hump him.

Lo‘ak makes a hungry humming noise in return which he feels through his lips, once you break away from the kiss, then a breathy groan when he captures a nipple between his teeth. His tongue swirls around the little nub before he tugs and he enjoys the way you clench around him at this.

One of his hands comes up to palm the other, kneading your soft flesh and twirling a nipple between his digits.

"Come for me", he then says, flat tongue gliding over your breast before goosebumps raise underneath. "Come for me, tsmuke. Do it."

The scream you let out is borderline pornographic. It brings tears to your eyes and nearly tips you off balance if it weren’t for Lo‘ak holding you, fucking you through it with short but deep thrusts that send you gasping for air. "Hmh, there it is. Good girl," he groans, "keep coming for me, baby, just like that. Let it all out for your big bro, yeah? Let me feel how bad you wanted this. Look at me."

You force your eyes to stay on him, watch him as you fall apart, rocking your hips for that little bit of extra friction, and Lo’ak feels all of it. The wetness where you are slipping together, the tightness, the little tremors of your body, the pulse of your clit as it rubs against him.

Lo‘ak doesn’t even realize he’s coming himself because he’s entirely too focused on you. He’s bluntly staring at you, eyes half open, mouth agape. It’s like he is trying to burn the image of your pleasure ridden face and your picture perfect body on top of him into his brain forever. He wants to keep it stored away just for himself, to come back to after this is over because he knows he can’t have you again. Because this can’t happen again.

The wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts continues until your thighs begin to shake and he’s sure he has emptied even the last drop of his cum into your core. It’s back to just grinding then, wet bodies pressing together, closer and closer until neither of you can’t move anymore.

You’re panting, exhausted and spent, your chest heaving to inhale big gulps of air into your burning lungs. Blinking a few times, Lo‘ak notes that your eyes are halfway back to normal, pupils not as big as they were, your skin feeling less feverish but all the more sticky than before.

Good, that’s good, right?

"You," a pause, he swallows, "you okay?"

Nodding and a little out of breath you confirm it with a quick, breathy, "yeah."

There’s a long, long moment of silence, with just the two of you looking at each other, sweat still pearling at your forehead and messy hair framing your beautiful face. Lo‘ak looks at you like he’s afraid breaking the eye contact would break the spell and you would shove him away and call him disgusting, but you don’t.

"I'm not sorry, you know" he says finally, when he can’t stand it anymore. "I would do it again. For you. I will do it again, in a heartbeat, if I...."

"If you have to," you finish for him.

Lo’ak considers pushing it, considers holding your face and speak more firmly so he could be sure he had your full attention while he tried to make you get it. "Yeah," he says gently instead, risking a half hearted grin that would surely give him away. "If I have to."

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syn0vial · 7 months

Text

Gale Voicelines: Healing/Helping/Buffing

A compilation of Gale’s voicelines when he’s healing a character with a spell, using the “help” action to free them from an immobilized position, or casting a buffing spell.

Healing (Negative Approval)

I suppose some help is in order.

There's always one...

Not this again.

Aren't we precious...

Pearls before swine.

If you insist.

[[There were apparently several other voice lines for this scenario, but the dialogue text files were glitched and couldn't be read.]]

Healing (Neutral Approval)

I have your back.

To the rescue.

Mystra soothes all pain.

The light of life.

Never fear.

My bedside manner is beyond reproach.

Let them do their worst.

Keep up! There's still a battle to be won.

Healing (Positive Approval)

I have your back.

To the rescue.

Mystra soothes all pain.

A little help from a friend.

You can count on me.

Allow me.

Let them do their worst.

Keep up! There's still a battle to be won.

Healing (Romantic Interest)

My life for yours.

I will keep you safe.

Let me take away the pain.

I've got you.

Take me by the hand.

Helping (Negative Approval)

In trouble? Small wonder.

A waste of my talents.

If I must.

How tedious.

How bothersome.

Don't fret, I'm on my way.

Yes, yes.

Fine.

No other choice, I suppose.

Two left hands, I see.

Helping (Neutral/Positive Approval)

A rather sticky situation.

No obstacle too great.

I'll take care of that.

At once.

No time to lose.

Let's remedy that, shall we?

Willing and able.

Quickly now.

Without delay.

A spot of bother.

To the rescue.

Help's on the way.

Helping (Romantic Interest)

I won't fail you.

Your knight in magic armour.

Hang in there, dearest.

Take heart, I'm here for you.

No time to lose.

To the rescue.

At once.

No time to lose.

Quickly now.

Let's remedy that, shall we?

Buffing (Negative Approval)

I have power enough to share - if I must.

One touch of magic coming up.

I'm indispensible, aren't I?

[[There were apparently several other voice lines for this scenario, but the dialogue text files were glitched and couldn't be read.]]

Buffing (Neutral Approval)

I have power enough to share.

An essential incantation.Use it wisely.

A little pick-me-up.

Easy - and effective.

Let me make myself indispensable.

Give them nine hells.

Let's put on a show.

They won't see this coming.

Buffing (Positive Approval)

I have power enough to share.

An essential incantation.Use it wisely.

It will be my pleasure.

This should do you some good.

Let me make myself indispensable.

Give them nine hells.

Let's put on a show.

They won't see this coming.

Buffing (Romantic Interest)

My best is yours.

Hand in hand.

Make me proud.

Together as one.

A token of my appreciation.

Go on - excel.

Give them nine hells.

Let's put on a show.

They won't see this coming.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale voicelines #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 voicelines

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upsidedownwithsteve · 10 months

Text

Simmer #1

CH1. Home Style | The Menu [3.7K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Jim’s Midnight Grill wasn’t the magical place the name made it sound like.

In fact, it was worse at night. Hawkins' only diner sat on the outskirts of town, just before the road that took you out alongside the cornfields. In the height of a sunny day, the water tower cast a shadow over the old building and the gas station next door only had one working pump.

The leather booths were constantly sticky, the table tops grainy with spilled salt, but if you made your visit on a Thursday night after nine, milkshakes were two for one. The back alley was littered with cigarette butts, graffiti on the walls telling you who to call for a good time— and someone called King Steve used Farah Fawcett hairspray? The regulars were permanent fixtures on the bar stools, coffee stains on the counter in front of them, stolen sugar packets in their pockets, frowns on their faces.

The staff didn’t want to be there, the owner refused to replace the flickering lights and the cook had a bad attitude and liked to communicate with heavy sighs and eye rolls. But he made a mean grilled cheese. The walk in freezer was reserved for the pitiful weekly deliveries and breakdowns, a stolen kiss or two. Or three, or four. But no one liked to tackle the clogged sink and god forbid anyone change the TV channel— Mr Creel always had something to say about it.

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.” He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

The noise and heat of the diner and the summer outside didn’t do anything to diminish the embarrassment you felt at Jim’s next words. His gaze followed to where you were pointing and snorted. “Kid, that is Eddie.”

#Eddie munson #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #Eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson oneshot #Eddie munson imagine #linecook!eddie

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lowkeycasanova · 3 months

Text

have a baby by me

trafalgar law x f!reader

Plot: Law wants to have another baby

warnings: smut, breeding kink (18+)

*pic isn't mine. all creds to the original owner, whoever you are*

You blink open your eyes, realizing you’re in Law’s arms and his lips softly pressed to the skin on your shoulder. His leg is in between yours and you can feel his morning wood against your backside but that’ll be dealt with later.

Gently escaping his grasp, you slide off the bed and into the bathroom. Law should be waking up soon now. He usually wakes up minutes after you leave his arms.

You close the bathroom door, enveloping the quiet solitude of the morning. The soft glow of dawn peeks its way through the window casting a warm hue on the tiles as you make your way to the sink.

Before turning on the water, you pause. You senses heightened. You listen out for Damien in the fact that he might be awake. Usually you hear the pattering of his feet against the floor, or maybe he's playing with his toys and talking to himself. At least he sleeps through the night.

It's around his second birthday now and your mind drifts back to when you found out you were pregnant with him.

When your breasts started becoming tender, Law spectulated that you might be pregnant. You brushed him off because he came off as unserious. Also because you two weren't trying. Sure, you talked about it and you were both for having children, but it wasn't planned.

With him being a doctor, he started getting nervous when you started getting heartburn and when you finally began vomiting all the time, he went out and bought too many pregnacy tests and made you drink water until your stomach hurt.

Fast forward nine months after that, nothing woke him up faster when you went into labor that night. You were irritable and in pain for twelve hours. Thirty minutes into the second stage of labor, your son was born. He was born with a full head of dark hair and bright yellow eyes, just like father.

You named him Damien, he was the kind of baby that was constantly on the move. If he wasn't sleeping, he was exploring his surroundings.

He's a good kid. Sure, there are times where he throws his tantrums. He is a toddler after all and it's just his way of asserting his independence. However, there are times when he will patiently wait for his food and play quietly whenever Law took him to his office and worked.

And the rest of the crew were always down to help. Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi loved him. They were the only ones that could make Damien laugh as hard as he did. His face becomes red and he lets out this loud, yet infectiousbelly laugh.

Damien plays with them a lot.

As you finish up your morning routine, you hear that telltale morning groan. A smile comes across your face as you peek back into the bedroom, watching as Law slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes.

"Mhmm, good morning." he says in that deep, raspy voice that makes you want to jump on him. "Is Damien up yet?"

"Don't think so. But thank God he's not wailing in the middle of the night anymore."

"I kinda miss that."

You raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

Law shrugs. "It's just a reminder that he's getting older."

He reaches out his hand to you and you immediately walk over and grab it, letting him pull you back in bed. You sit against the pillows and he lays down on his side, his arms wrapping around your waist.

He lets out a sigh, trailing a fingertip along your arm as if he wanted your attention but didn't wanna ask for it.

"Do you need something?" you joke.

He rests his chin on your shoulder and looks up at you with a mischevous gaze in his eye.

"Do you want another baby?"

You tensed up and his inquiry hung in the air. Finally meeting his gaze, he continues to trace your arm and maintains eye contact. He's cautious though, hoping he didn't overstep a line by asking.

The weight of the question settling in you. Of course you wanted another kid. The joys that came with parenthood were undeniable, but it was also a lot of responsibility.

"It's something to think about, isn't it." you say with a soft smile, breaking the silence.

He grins and moves his hand from your arm to under your shirt, kneading the soft skin. "Let's have sex."

You chuckle in amusement. "Kids are a lot of work." you tell him and hug your arms around your waist, inadvertently pushing his out the way.

Law knows you too well. Your subtle action manifested because you still weren't in love with your body yet. He uses his palm to lift himself up and give you a kiss on the cheek. A sign to remind you that he still found you beautiful.

"Law," you begin in a soft voice. "I don't know." You don't tell him why- because he has the responsibility of being a captain to his crew and you would need all the help you can get raising the kids- but he knows.

"No, no, listen," he says and turns all of his attention to you. "I want to take a break from being out on the water. I've already talked it over with the crew. Traveling around like this, it's not safe for him." He pauses, squinting slightly. "I want our son to have a stable environment, go to school, make friends. I want him to have siblings to grow up with. We'll go back out to sea eventually, but for now, I want to live a different kind of life."

You studied his face, seeing the sincerity in his eyes and the love he held for his family. Also, deep down, you think it's because he envisions his kids to have the life that he experienced, before it was taken from him.

You gently caress his lip with your fingertips and he puckers them, giving them a quick kiss.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

He nods.

You look up at the ceiling and slowly exhale. You have been wanting to discuss another baby but that would be coupled with the asking him to take a break from his work. But he's willing to do ut for you already. A smirk flashes across your face and you lean in to give him a kiss. "Let's have a baby then."

You don't need to tell him twice.

He maneuvers his body to face you, the lower half of your bodies still concealed by the sheets, and pulling you in for a searing kiss, tongues moving slowly with each other. You reach up and grab his hair to tug on it, just enough how he likes it. Feeling his hands on your waist, it's easy to lose track of time. But Damien's room is down the hall and he will be up any minute now.

While he's kissing you, he reaches down and pushes the fabric covering up your pussy to the side so he can use his hand to rub on the slick that's gathering in between your folds. His hand then sldies to the top of your underwear, fumbling with the fabric.

"Law don't-"

Too late. He's ripped them off before you can finish your thought, balled it in his fist and tossed them to the side.

"Sorry." he mumbles so casually before leaning back down to kiss you again. But you know he's not. He does this often.

His two middle fingers push themselves inside you, hitting that spot that you need. You lean in to press yourself into his neck to kiss him there. Mainly to keep your voice down.

"I'll buy you some more." he hums.

"You know," you say in a voice that's barely above a breath. "They're pretty good quality, and the fact that you can rip them off like that is pretty impressive."

His eyes darken with lust as your comment pratically fuels his ego.

"God." he mutters.

He moves to lay on his back, impatiently shuffling off the sheets as an invitation for you to straddle him. You accept it as you move one leg over his, reaching down to grab his cock to align it with your dripping pussy. You're wet enough so it doesn't take much effort to sink down on him. You love how he fills you up whole. You lean in to kiss him and he meets you halfway in an attempt to silence your moans, pulling away once your fully down on him.

He laughs halfheartedly when you give him a smile and you move your hips to try to adjust to him. His hands knead your ass and eyes squeeze shut as you pull up off him then slide back down. Since having a kid, you two haven't been having sex as often, but that doesn't matter. You'll always have to adjust to him.

"Mmph fuck me."

You bury your face into his neck again as you ride him, his hands helpng you out at a steady pace. The sounds of skin slapping fills the room along with your occasional whines and his occasional grunts as he thrusts into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, surely to leave crescent marks behind. But you don't care and neither does he.

"You know what?" he says in a low voice. Your ear is right next to his mouth, so you have no choice but to listen. "I'm gonna fucking fill you up. Fill you up to the brim with my cum and force you to take all of it."

His words cause you to clench around him.

"Fuck, and then- mmph fuck- then I'm gonna do it again. I'm gonna fuck you again. I'm gonna fucking get you pregnant and watch you swell with my baby."

He palms your clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm, a hand still on your leg to encourage you to keep rocking your hips against him. You're overstimulated now. You clench and unclench and you finally reach your high.

"That's a good girl." he coaxes. "Now tell me how much you want my baby."

Your legs are exhausted from riding him for so long. At this point, all you want it for his to release inside you. "Please," your voice is desperate. "Want you to cum inside me. F-fill me up and get me pregnant."

In that second, he flips you over so you're on your back. Interlocking his fingers with yours and holding them above your head. He's thrusting into you so hard that the headboard is striking the wall. He grabs it to try to keep it stable. But all other ways to try to be quiet? Forget about it. Your hands aimlessly roam his back and he's groaning and his movements quivering.

"Oh my-fuck." He groans, slamming his hips into yours and you can feel him erupt. His head dips down into your neck as he releases, keeping his whole shaft inside, as deep as he can, and his tip as close to your cervix as possible. "Take it all, babygirl."

He pulls out and flops right down in front of you to where he's putting his weight on his bent knees. You're so tired, you can't even muster the energy to get up. So you lay there, still on your back with your legs open right where he can see.

You're a little embarrased that he's looking at you with that amazed expression. However, you begin to feel his cum seep out, so you take a hold of his cock and use the tip to sweep it back and deposit the white fluid back in.

Looking back up at him, he's left with his mouth agape.

"That...you...I..."

He's so astonished at your action, he can't even speak.

"You're so sexy."

He leans in with the intent of kissing you, but is interrupted by pattering against the floor on the other side of the door.

"Mama!"

You cover your face with the palm of your hand. Law quickly gets off of you and scrambles to put his pants on. "I got him. You stay right there."

#one piece fanfiction #one piece law #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece trafalgar law #one piece smut #trafalgar law smut #law x reader #trafalgar law x y/n #trafalgar law

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munson-blurbs · 5 months

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 12 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, allusion to smut, contractions, water breaking, labor and delivery, and Eddie wasn't there, epidural, medical emergency, lots of fluff

WC: 4.3k

A/N: I could not have written this piece without @the-unforgivenn 💚 everything accurate in this fic is because of her, and everything inaccurate is because of me. I love you, Annie. Thank you for asking my random birth-related questions at all hours.

Divider credit to @saradika

November 4, 1999

At nine months pregnant, everything hurts.

Perhaps that’s why when you wake up for work with an extra pinch in your back, you cast off any worries. Or maybe it’s because you still have over a week until you’re due, and first babies tend to take their time arriving, so there’s no possible way that today is the day.

You shrug on a sweater and your most comfortable pair of maternity jeans, your body heavy with pregnancy and fatigue. Your movements are sluggish, even more so than usual, and Eddie notices as he stands out the counter, shoveling a spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” he asks, tongue darting out to swipe a drip of milk from his lower lip.

Nodding, you massage just above your tailbone in a meager attempt to ease the pain. “Mhm,” you lie, grabbing two granola bars from the pantry. You unwrap one and take a big bite, letting the chocolate chips melt in your mouth. “Just ready to have this baby.” Another lie, or possibly a half truth; while you’re eager to have your body to yourself again, the prospect of labor and delivery terrifies you.

Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead, his palms gently rubbing your bump. “Eleven more days and then we’ll be a family of four.”

“Baby Brother is taking forever to get here,” Harris laments from his seat at the table, spearing a banana slice with his fork. He glances at your stomach with impatient eyes. “Can’t you do something to hurry him up?”

You cough as your husband’s cheeks flush pink; he rakes a ringed hand through his curls. No doubt he’s remembering last night when he’d innocently lifted your belly to relieve some of the pressure, only to find himself hard as a rock as his fingers lightly dug into your skin. I’ll go slow so I don’t send you into early labor, he’d remarked with a teasing wink.

“Gotta be patient,” Eddie says now, seemingly having recovered from the brief flashback. He slurps the remaining milk from the bowl and stifles a belch, reaching for his jacket and keys. “Have a great day at work,” he kisses you, smiling against your lips, “and school.” He ruffles Harris’s hair, and just like that, he’s out the door.

Harris finishes his breakfast, placing his empty plate in the sink and scampering to the door to put on his sneakers. You watch enviously as he ties them with ease; you’ve been relegated to slip-on shoes until your feet are no longer swollen.

“Come on, Mommy,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulders. “I don’t wanna miss the bus.”

You silently pray that the short walk to the bus stop will ease your muscle tension, taking careful steps as you trail behind the far-too-energetic-for-8 AM little boy.

Eleven more days. Only eleven more days, you tell yourself. The reminder has tears prickling along your lash line in a double-edged sword. You don’t think you can handle eleven more days of this discomfort, but will you truly be ready to have a newborn baby in less than two weeks? Once you give birth, you can no longer shield your baby from the world’s dangers and cruelties. Will your love be enough? Will you be enough? And how can you possibly figure it all out in just eleven days?

Your mantra of eleven more days turns out to be just six hours. Since Will became a teacher two years ago, the two of you have made it a habit to spend time together after the students’ dismissal. You’re preparing art materials for tomorrow’s class when you feel it—a trickle of liquid sliding down your leg.

Your eyes widen, heat crawling up your neck and into your face. I peed myself at work. It had happened once last month, but it was preceded by a sneeze, and you were already in the parking lot about to go home. When you’d told Eddie that evening, the two of you laughed so hard that you’d wet yourself again.

But this feels…different.

“Oh, no.” There’s another small stream, but it isn’t accompanied by any relief on your bladder. Your worried murmur gets Will’s attention, and he looks at you with concern. “I think my water broke, but I don’t know…it might just be pee…” Your voice trails off before you can speak in circles.

Will leaps to his feet. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” The pair of scissors he’s been using to cut out paper stars clatter to the table as he rushes to your side.

“Call Eddie,” you mumble, gripping your bump as a cramp—most likely a contraction, you realize—squeezes at your pelvis. “Tell him to—shit—to get my bag from the apartment and bring it to the hospital.” You bite your lip to stifle a groan. “I’ll call Wayne and ask him to get Harris from the bus.”

He nods, dialing from the classroom phone as you rattle off the record store’s number. You pull your own Nokia cell phone—a purchase Eddie had insisted upon after you got pregnant, wanting to make sure you and Baby Munson stayed safe.

“So, um,” Will hesitates after you’ve hung up with Wayne, ending the conversation with a promise to let him know as soon as the baby is born, “Eddie was in the middle of a guitar lesson, so I left a message with one of his employees—”

Please don’t say Ev, you wordlessly plead. Anyone but the stoner who can barely remember to show up to work on time.

“Ev, I think?”

Shit.

Will hooks his arm with yours, providing you with the stability to stand up. “Let’s get you to the hospital, all right? Maybe it’s a false alarm or something.”

You nod, but deep down, you know that this baby is on his way. Call it mother’s intuition, you muse wryly.

After a quick stop in Principal Sinclair’s office to explain the situation, Will helps you into his Chevy Impala, grimacing along with you when another contraction hits. “Should we be timing those?”

You grit your teeth. “Shit, y-yeah. I completely forgot.” All those birthing books you’d read cover to cover to prepare for this moment, and you hadn’t even remembered to time your own damn contractions. “We need to track how long they last and the amount of time between them.”

Will remains unfazed. “We’ll just start now,” he says simply, flicking his wrist to check his watch. “It’s 2:32. Let me know when you get another one.” He turns the key in the ignition, taking your hand before putting the gear shift into drive. “It’ll be okay. Eddie’s gonna get the message, and he’ll be here soon.”

It’s as though he can read your mind, and you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He’s right; if you are in labor, it’s still early enough that Eddie won’t miss the birth.

You hope.

Your contractions are one minute long and twelve minutes apart by the time you reach Hawkins General Hospital, growing slightly stronger with each wave. Will relays the information to the receptionist, his voice wavering with nerves and excitement despite his best efforts to remain calm.

Before you know it, you’re being wheeled into a room, a laminated bracelet with your personal details dangling from your wrist. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s just past 3 PM, which means that Eddie should be here in a few minutes.

As if on cue, the cell phone in your purse chirps its familiar ringtone. Harris had insisted that you change it from the standard option, choosing one that sounds like birds chirping. It normally reminds you of springtime mornings; right now, you’re ready to throw it through the window.

Will passes it to you, and you punch the answer button with an impatient, “hello?”

“Hey, Sweetheart,” Eddie’s carefree demeanor wafts through the speaker, “just wanted to check in and see if you’re feeling any better. Did you want me to pick up something from the store on my way—?”

Dammit, Ev. “Eddie, my water broke at work. Will called earlier and left a message,” you manage, maneuvering around the heart rate monitor to brace for another contraction. “I’m—ughhh, shit—I’m at the hospital.”

“What?!” You can hear his sudden shift to panic; the phone drops from his grasp and clatters on the counter before he retrieves it, uttering a slew of swear words. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Your bag’s at home, right? Oh, and Harris! Shit, let me—”

“Wayne’s on it,” you tell him, hopefully putting an end to his mile-a-minute thoughts. “I just need my bag and my husband.”

There’s a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. “I can provide both.” His humor peeks through his fear in subtle reassurance. “Be there ay-sap. I love you so fucking much.”

“Love you, too.” A soft click tells you that he’s on his way, probably simultaneously scrambling for his keys and shouting at his employee.

Nearly an hour later, there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will blots the perspiration on your forehead with a cloth; out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s watching the clock as well. “He’ll be here,” he says as though reading your mind. Or maybe he’s scared that he’ll have to stand in for Eddie throughout the entire process. “In the meantime, I’ll flag down a nurse so we can get you that epidural.” His words are even, but his smile is uneasy, both of you well-aware that he is out of his element. Though he’ll deny it vehemently, you know you owe him. Big-time.

“Why don’t you grab yourself some food from the cafeteria?” You’d heard his stomach growling just before, and he can certainly use a break.

Will nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do you want anything?” he asks out of habit, cheeks tinged pink as you shake your dismal cup of ice chips. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He ducks out of the room as a nurse walks in.

“Are we considering an epidural, Mrs. Munson?” she asks. Her bright smile is one you’ll be unable to return until after the pain medication takes effect.

“Y-Yeah, please.” You shift uncomfortably while she examines you and announces that your cervix is four centimeters dilated. Part of you is relieved that labor is progressing at a pace where Eddie should arrive in time for the delivery; another part just wants this baby out of you, now.

The nurse makes a note on your chart. “I’ll let the anesthesiologist know.” Another unreciprocated grin and she’s gone, off to poke and prod the next patient.

Alone for a moment, you relish the quiet, save for the soft beeps of the machines you’re connected to. With great care, you caress the swell of your stomach where your son has developed from a microscopic speck to a full-term baby.

“Your daddy will get here soon,” you murmur to your sensor-covered belly, “hopefully before you do.” You laugh for a second until another contraction squeezes you from the inside, shifting your expression from amused to pained.

The anesthesiologist and Will arrive at the same time, the former pausing to let your impromptu birth partner enter first. He walks with more enthusiasm now that he’s eaten, though his meal threatens to reappear when he sees the doctor pull out the comically oversized needle.

“Just lean forward,” she says to you, “you’ll feel some pressure, but once the medication kicks in, it’ll be worth it.” She offers you a kind smile before turning to Will and explaining, “you may need to help her.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Will mumbles, avoiding looking at the needle. You clasp your hand in his so you can sit up. The cool air raises goosebumps on the sliver of flesh no longer covered by the gown, but the chill is quickly replaced by a stinging sensation that has you gripping Will’s palm. You don’t realize the strength of your grasp until you hear him mutter, “ow,” but you don’t let go until the burning ceases.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, watching him shake out his hand. “About all of this. I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.”

He shakes his head and guides you back against the pillow. “Maybe not, but I’m glad I can be here for you.” Now that the threat of broken fingers has passed, he truly means it.

5:46 PM.

You’ve been in the hospital for nearly three hours, and there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will’s casually flipping through a copy of People magazine that’s so outdated, Nick Nolte was just crowned the Sexiest Man Alive. He’s visibly more relaxed now that the medication has eased your pain, chattering teeth a welcome replacement for your anguished moans.

Your concern that Eddie will miss the baby’s birth has hardened into pure fear that something has happened to him. What if he lost focus while driving and got into an accident? The weather was overcast when you’d arrived at Hawkins General; it could have started raining since then and created slippery roads, perfect for hydroplaning. The thought of him hurt while you’re unable to help him has your insides churning, and for the first time, you’re grateful for an empty stomach.

Maybe you should call Wayne and find out if he had heard from his nephew. But if he hadn’t, then both of you would be stuck worrying and answerless; even worse, if he had and didn’t want to relay bad news while you’re in such a vulnerable state–

“I’m here!”

Relief surges through your veins, Eddie’s panting voice music to your ears. You roll from your side onto your back to see your husband standing by your bedside. Sweat drips down his temples and pools under his arms with the pungency of someone who’d just completed a marathon. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, a jacket haphazardly tossed over his shoulder and your bag clutched in his hand.

He swoops down and places his lips on yours in a series of frantic kisses, his free palm cupping your cheek as though ensuring that the moment is real. He only pulls back when you do, getting a glimpse of your face.

“Where were you?” Not an accusation, but a question threaded with genuine care.

His nose nudges yours as he sneaks in another peck. “Did you know that Chief Hopper retired?” Your brows furrow in confusion at his non-answer to your question. “Well, he did, and the sheriff’s department decided to throw him a parade. Today. Closed off a bunch of the side streets and backed up traffic on the main ones.” He coughs out a terse laugh. “Glad I quit smoking, or my lungs would’ve given up before I hit a half-mile.”

You mull over his response for a moment before it finally clicks. “Wait…did you run here?”

He tugs at his shirt fabric in an attempt to create a breeze that will cool him down. “It was more like a walk-run combo, but…yeah.” He shrugs, no big deal. “Parked my car in a random lot and just…booked it.” His shoulder gently sag as the adrenaline from his adventure wears away. “I gotta sit.”

It’s then that he notices Will, rising from the chair and placing the gossip rag on the table beside him. “Byers, holy shit,” Eddie looks at him incredulously, “have you been here with her the whole time?”

“He has,” you answer for him, managing a grateful smile in your friend’s direction. “And I can’t thank him enough.” Will returns the gesture and pulls Eddie in for a hug, wishing you both luck before slipping out the door.

Eddie brings his full attention back to you, lacing his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes the side of your hand, bringing small but strong comfort with each gentle touch. “Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry–”

“Eds,” you interrupt before he can continue his apology, “you’re here now.”

“Yeah.” Soft, distracted, overthinking. You can practically see the gears in head spinning, His second child and the second time he’d nearly missed the birth. He clears his throat and shakes away the thought with a toss of his hair, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. “How are you feeling?” He takes in the sight of you, his wife, the most beautiful being his cynical eyes have ever seen. “You look pretty damn good for someone about to have a baby.”

You laugh. “That epidural is a miracle from above.” You’ll gladly take the chattering teeth and the itchiness over the sensation of your pelvis imploding. Eddie doesn’t share in your amusement, still focused on his own shortcomings. “Hey,” you say quietly, pulling him out of his mind with just one word. “Don’t think about the missed message or the traffic. We’re having our baby today.” You bring his hand to the apex of your stomach in the final few hours that it houses the life you two created together.

“I love you.”

His eyes shine with emotion. He’s here, not only in this moment, but throughout the entire pregnancy. He didn’t bury himself in music or booze or other arbitrary distractions. He’d read What to Expect When You’re Expecting cover to cover, had gone to all of the doctor’s appointments, made sure to keep the kitchen stocked with your cravings and free of your aversions. He’d picked up the household chores (and delegated some to Harris) to ease your workload and wiped your tears when you’d cried while watching two squirrels play in a tree.

You never asked him to do any of it; you never needed to.

“I love you, too.”

It all happened so quickly.

One minute, Eddie’s watching the monitor spike with a contraction, utterly bewildered by the power of pain medication.

“You really can’t feel that?”

“Just some pressure, but nothing like earlier. I told you; it’s a godsend.”

After hours of strategic breathing, a plethora of ice chips, and a steady outpouring of love between you two, you’re about to tell him that you feel the urge to push.

And then a nurse rushes in.

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson,” he begins, urgency evident even through his calm exterior, “your baby is experiencing late heart rate deceleration. We need to begin delivery immediately.” He glances at Eddie, then at you. “I’m going to check your dilation to see if we’ll try a vaginal delivery or prepare for a cesarean birth.”

The blood drains from Eddie’s face as he processes the information, the lighthearted energy completely zapped from the room. “Is…is she…are they…”

The nurse finishes the examination, removing his rubber glove. “Ten centimeters,” he announces. “I’ll page the doctor.”

It’s a whirlwind, with almost no time for panic to set in. The doctor and the other nurses arrive immediately, and when Eddie takes your hand, you can feel him trembling.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be strong for you. Your face says it all: you’re terrified, and you need him to be your rock.

“You’ve got this, Sweetheart,” he whispers fiercely, pushing past the lump in his throat. “You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and I’m so lucky that you’re having my baby.” He kisses your forehead; out of the corner of his eye, he sees the medical staff preparing for delivery. His heart skips a beat, and the realization hits that he’s about to be a father of two.

You’re exhausted, a salty mixture of sweat and tears decorating your face. Gritting your teeth, you push while Eddie coaches you, reminding you to breathe and allowing you to swear at him without even batting an eyelash. It’s mostly a blur, with all of your energy concentrated on getting this baby out, but you vaguely recall telling him that he’s not allowed to even think about touching you again.

“Almost there,” he cheers, flashing an awestruck smile so wide that his cheeks ache. “C’mon, you can do it! Oh, my god, you’re a goddamn superhero.”

Three giant pushes later, you hear the telltale newborn wail as a nurse coos, “Happy birthday, little man! Here’s your mama!” She gently places your tiny baby on your chest, quickly wiping off the vernix covering his body.

“He’s here!” you manage through simultaneous laughter and cries. You carefully hold him against you, kissing the wisps of curls on his scalp. “Hi, baby boy!” Turning to Eddie, you blink away the mist coating your eyes. “We have another son,” you choke out.

He just nods, relishing in the wonder of becoming a father again. His pointer finger grazes the baby’s little half-closed fist, only looking away when the nurse asks him if he’d like to cut the umbilical cord. “Y-Yeah. Please,” he awkwardly adds, doing exactly as he’s instructed.

As the baby is lifted from your torso to be assessed and measured, Eddie kisses you with a passion you’ve never felt before, even from him. You can see that he’s crying, too, and he wipes his cheeks haphazardly.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, punctuating the statement with another kiss. “I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for my kids.” His nose rubs yours tenderly.

You smile at him. “Do you want to call Wayne? I won’t be up for visitors until the morning,” you add, “but I just want to let him know that the baby’s here, happy and healthy.”

“In a bit,” he murmurs, watching the nurse carefully swaddle his newborn son in a hospital blanket. “I just wanna hold him first.”

Eddie takes your baby from the nurse, shifting to support his head. “Hey, buddy. I’m your dad.” His body slowly sways as he rocks back and forth. “You gave us quite the scare just now. I see you’re following in your big brother’s mischievous footsteps.” He swears his heart melts when the infant opens his mouth to yawn. “Yeah, you’ve had a busy day. Same here. But it was worth it, huh?”

He wears fatherhood so naturally, so perfectly. You wish you could capture this feeling in a jar and save it forever. For now, you settle for watching him fawn over his newest son, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Eddie murmuring, “and let me tell you: you have the best mommy a kid could ever ask for.”

Morning arrives after a restless sleep. You know the nurses are just following protocol when they examine you every hour, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

But the next knock on the door is one that you welcome willingly. Harris and Wayne stand there, waiting for permission to enter. You smile when you notice Harris shuffling his feet and shaking his hands in an attempt to expel some excess energy.

“Come on in,” Eddie whispers, beaming, “there’s someone very special we’d like to introduce you to.”

Harris rushes to your bedside, peering at the bundle in your arms. “My baby brother!” he squeals, jumping up and down.

Eddie puts a finger to his lips. “He’s sleeping, so we have to be quiet, okay?” He ruffles Harris’s hair as the boy nods. “Do you wanna hold him?”

“Yeah! I mean, yeah,” Harris lowers his voice, sitting down on the bed. You scoot over, careful not to move too quickly, and he melds into your side. He’s always been small to you, but compared to his baby brother, he seems so grown up.

“Okay, hold out your arms like this,” Eddie instructs, demonstrating the correct position, “and you’re gonna make sure to keep his head nice and safe, because he can’t hold it up on his own yet.”

Harris sports a look of concentration as you and Eddie work in tandem to place the baby in his arms. “He’s got the teeniest nose I’ve ever seen.”

Wayne laughs at this, watching his older grandson snuggle his youngest. “Does this little fella have a name yet?”

“Oh, right.” Eddie chuckles. “Gentlemen, this is Hendrix William Munson. ‘Hendrix’ after one of the most talented guitarists to grace this planet, and ‘William’ after an amazing friend and substitute birth partner.”

“Hendrix,” Harris repeats incredulously, never taking his eyes off of his brother. “I’m Harris. I talked to you when you were in Mommy’s tummy, remember?” Hendrix lets out a long exhale, like he’s acknowledging the question. “I know you’re still too little right now, but when you get big, we’re gonna play together all the time. Except when I’m at school.” He looks over at you expectantly. “Can I bring him to school with me? Like for show and tell?”

“Maybe when he’s older,” you say, lacking the bandwidth to point out the logistics of his request.

Harris wrinkles his nose, but his expression quickly softens. “Yeah, you’re right. He can’t even do any tricks yet.”

It’s quiet for a moment, everyone focused on the two Munson boys. Surprisingly, Wayne is the one who breaks the silence.

“You two have one beautiful family,” he muses, an arthritic finger grazing Hendrix’s blanket. “Y’should be proud of yourselves.”

Eddie gives his uncle’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Couldn’t have done it without ya, Old Man.”

Wayne knows this, accepting the compliment with a bashful grin but saying nothing further.

Peacefulness surrounds the five of you, soft conversation seamlessly weaving its way into the calm. You can’t kid yourself; most days will be pure chaos, balancing spit-up and school plays, field trips and feeding schedules. And once Hendrix starts walking—and running—you’ll need all cylinders firing.

But today, right now, you soak in the serenity. Just you and your boys. Your family.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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maxwellatoms · 8 months

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The #1 inspiration for General Skarr was Starscream. I mean... what kind of commander keeps a lieutenant who keeps trying to kill them under permanent employ? Keep your enemies close, I guess...

I get a lot of questions about Herr Star from Preacher. I still haven't read the comics, and the show came out long after I was done on B&M. There IS some DNA from Bullwinkle's Fearless Leader.

Other than that, he was just designed to be a sort of generic fascist who was always so embroiled in his own machinations that he couldn't possibly succeed.

My casting director Kris Zimmerman Salter was the one who came to me with Armin Shimerman. And since I loved him as Quark on Deep Space Nine and could see an analog between Quark and Skarr, he seemed like a natural fit.

Armin is an actor's actor, and even though I think he sometimes felt out of his element in the booth, it was so fun to watch him step in and just absolutely chew scenery. The Evil Con Carne ensemble records were generally a blast.

Skarr did get a blip of a redemption arc in Underfist, but if it had continued he would have continued to ride the line as the most anti of the team's antiheroes.

#general skarr #evil con carne #Cartoon Network #bad guys #armin shimerman

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mrsackermannx · 1 year

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— TEASE | GOJO SATORU

MDNI | it feels like all your boyfriend does is work these days. | kinda mean gojo, degradation, praise kink, choking, pussy-slapping, rougher sex, thigh-fucking, mirror sex, established relationship. | 2k |

Gojo Satoru was nothing short of a manhandler. A passionate manhandler at that—but one nonetheless. It was like he didn’t know his own strength at times with you. Especially when he hadn’t seen you all day and had been craving you since breakfast.

He’d slammed you onto the kitchen counter just this morning, working his way between your legs with hungry kisses. Your hands slipped into his hair on instinct, bracing yourself for his sweet tongue when he’d gotten a call from Nanami.

He’d been stewing all day. What happened to only calling before nine if someone’s life was on the line.

You yelped as Gojo appeared behind you, choking on your toothpaste and glaring at him as you coughed into the sink. With a big grin on his lips he tugged his blindfold half down at the sight.

It was always different when he removed it, when you could follow exactly where his eyes were. In one smooth movement he crossed the space between you, his body heat practically engulfing you. He rubbed at your back, slowly dipping his hand lower as his lips brushed your ear, “I’m home,” he whispered, that teasing lilt to his voice.

You shoved him and hissed, “I wish you’d stop doing that!” before you spat out your mouthwash.

He frowned at you in your reflections, “Well, if you don’t want to see me that badly I’ll just leave.”

You groaned. “Sator—“ though you were completely cut off by the way his chest was now pressed against your back and how his hands were caging you in so that the marble counter dug into your abdomen.

“But I know you don’t want that,” he whispered lowly. And then he tugged his blindfold completely off, stuffing it into his pocket. His eyes glowed as they feasted on you without shame. The bathroom was dark, lit only by a few aromatherapy candles from Nanami last Christmas. Casting a golden hue over you both in the mirror before you. Perfect, he thought.

He smoothed his hands down the bare planes of your shoulder blades, plucking the thin straps of your nightdress. He chuckled, meanly, “No comeback? Cat got your tongue?”

You shook your head and he grinned, pressing a kiss to your nape as he started pawing at your hips. Your eyes fell shut, leaning back against him and into his touch. A little hum of approval tickled your ear as he kissed along your jaw, hitching up your nightdress to grab at your ass. “Where’s that mouth now? Or do I have to put it to use, baby? Go on, you were mad right? Keep talking, tell me why.”

“I wasn’t it’s just, I could have been doing anything—“ Your voice shook as he ripped your nightdress open, watching it balloon pathetically into the sink. Glee brought those perfect features of his to life as he eyed you in the mirror. As if he’d just helped you out of your nightdress in a completely normal manner.

“Anything, like…?” Then he squeezed your ass so hard you had to smother your moan into your palm. “Like what?” he muttered into your hair, “Why don’t you show me what I missed?”

His hand wandered between your thighs, cupping your dripping sex. He groaned at the wet heat of it.“Please, Satoru. Was just gonna go to bed,” you whined, grinding down onto his large fingers.

He withdrew his hand, nibbling on your ear. “No, I think you were gonna have a little fun without me, baby. So now, no fun for you.”

You swallowed at his short tone and huffed at the denial, but you couldn’t deny that it turned you on when he was a little mean like this. But he didn’t leave you for long, though the mere seconds felt like minutes.

His hands caressed your curves until they rested on your breasts, thumbs working your nipples until a breathy groan from you both sang through the acoustics of the bathroom. “Did ya hear me, baby?”

You nodded, moaning when he forcibly shifted your thighs apart. He clicked his tongue, cerulean eyes catching every needy knit of your brow, “That’s not an answer.”

He slapped your clit, again and again—feeling your slick ooze onto his palm with each one. “All these sounds. So you can still use your voice, interesting—I mean,” he chuckled mirthlessly, showing you the slick shining against his palm.

“Look at this, angel, you really need me this much?”

You turned your face away but he brought it right back to his own, pressing a kiss to your temple before speaking against it. Your eyes locked in the mirror. “Why are you hiding? Why are you embarrassed when you have such an erotic body,” he whispered, voice sultry. “Go on. Look at it.”

“Satoru!” He turned your face to the mirror, drawing his hands up and down your centre, stopping between the valley of your breasts. Then he cupped them whilst he dragged his lips across the curve of your neck and shoulder, flicking your nipples ever so often. “Please.”

He rutted his clothed erection against you at your breathy plea, aching with need. “No matter how many times I see it…I still want to lick every part so I never forget how sweet you taste. That’s how fucking erotic it is.”

“Please, just, don’t tease me,” you rasped, gasping when he turned your jaw to finally kiss you. He smirked against your lips before sliding his tongue against yours in response to your whimper.

Swept away he found himself arching you roughly over the sink top, grinding his arousal against your ass. “It’s okay, angel. You’re okay. Gonna fuck you so good, gonna give you what you want,” he cooed as you whined.

“Y’know I wanna cum all over what’s mine too. You know how much you drive me fucking crazy, don’t you, baby?”

“Satoru, please. Put it in. Need you so bad.”

“Yeah?” He panted, tugging away the clothing on his upper body, and leaving his godly physique for your viewing pleasure. The candlelight illuminated every sweet, carved crevice of his muscle.

Then his pants were being shoved down, barely under his hip bones before he was sliding his cock between your thighs. “Beg for it,” he urged breathily, before he broke into nothing but moans into your ear. Grunting and fucking your thighs like a madman just to relish the sensations. Your slick coated his frustrated shaft and then the tip of his cock with every slide against your pussy—it was addictive, even.

“Toru’, baby, please!” He gripped your nape and then held your entire jaw in the other, bringing you both closer to the mirror.

“Want you to look at yourself and tell me you didn’t ask to be fucked the second I got home?” he gestured to the ripped silk of your nightdress. “Want you to be honest,” he moaned.

“No, I, I was just…” His cock was hard and relentless between your thighs, pushing them together just to fuck them harder.

“Got hard the second I saw your ass peeking out under that dress, admit it—you’re a fucking tease, aren’t you baby?”

“Please-“

“It’s Sa-to-ru, or nothing, or you’re getting even less than this,” he slapped your clit over and over until you moaned his name.

“Say it, tell me you wanted to tease me.”

“But I didn’t-“

Before you could even process it your front was being slammed onto the counter, you turned your face to eye the beautiful but impatient man behind you. He was flushed up to his ears.

He spread your legs wide and filled you impossibly, bottoming out all at once. The grip on your waist was bruising and inescapable. His pace was so ruthless all at once you could hardly keep up.

“Satoru, Satoru, feels so good,” you moaned, drool pooling down the corners of your lips. “Too good!”

“Of course it does, you were made to get fucked just like this— that’s why, don’t know why you think you’re worth anything else, huh? When you’re so perfect for me just—like—this,” he growled.

“Satoru. M’ all yours!” You were so breathless it was a miracle you were still capable of words. But you loved it, you loved when he degraded you like this. So much so you suddenly thrusted back onto his cock, impatient and chasing your release.

“Fucking desperate little thing, am I not fast enough for ya? Little praise get you that excited?”

He lifted you so you could face how undone you’d become in the mirror. “To think you were gonna fuck yourself without me, like you can do what I can to your body.”

“I can't!”

“I know, this pussy was begging me to fill it as soon as I gave it a shred of attention,” he purred, stopping to kiss at your face until you grinned against him, pliant and struggling for breath.

“But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

He pulled out and threw you over his shoulder. And then before you’d even blinked he was throwing you down onto your shared bed and sliding back in. He tossed both your hands above your head and cuffed them together with one of his own, lips brushing yours. “You and that slutty little nightdress, huh?”

“I was teasing you, wanted you to come home to me in the nightdress cause…” You wrapped your body tighter around his and his heart throbbed in his chest.

“Go on, tell me baby, tell me so I can be nice to you,” he cooed, voice sweeter than honey as his cock bullied that spot inside of you again. “You can come all over my face as soon as you tell me, baby, all night—promise.”

His eyes widened as tears ran down your face, “'Cause’ you’ve been on so many missions, I’ve hardly seen you, miss you.”

“Why you crying baby?” he wiped away your tears, kissing your wet cheeks as he slowed down his pace. “Hm? Cause you miss me or cause my dick feels too good?”

“Both,” you moaned, laughing shakily into his neck.

“Yeah? Well, I miss you too, guess I'll have to remind you of just how much I love you, huh? In the way we do best, yeah?”

His lips were sweet on yours as he brought your legs up with careful hands, until your ankles were kissing either side of his neck, hand on your throat as he started to pound in and out.

”I go crazy when I don’t see you baby, when I can’t taste my angel, and have your pussy fucking squeezing me like this.“ He groaned against the the corner of your mouth. “Feeling like heaven. Heaven made just for me.”

“Satoru, I love you so much.”

“Fucking love you so much more.”

He had your hair in handfuls, his mouth seeking full monopoly of your own, his thrusts slowed down to softness, but they were still passionate, still dizzyingly deep but laced with love.

His kissing grew sloppier, moaning into your lips as you felt him growing closer and closer, his voice strained and shaky. “M’ gonna fill you to your limit, won’t forget anything then—won’t forget that you’re all mine.”

“Satoru!” You felt his cum fill you up and then some, the lewd wet sounds making your cheeks burn. Yet you moaned in tandem, kissing all over his jaw as he continued fucking you just as hard, his broken whimpers sweet melodies to your ears. “More, more, need more,” You chanted, completely lost in him. “Need it.”

He cupped your cheek, lips pressed to your forehead as he started rubbing on your clit, “You wouldn’t be mine if you didn’t.”

Your eyes lulled shut and you finally rejoiced in the sounds of your voices filling the room together. The past few weeks it had been much too silent, but now the walls could hardly contain your whimpers or Satoru’s low moans. “Don’t forget, that I love you, baby—ever,” he panted into your lips, hand squeezing yours as you came apart around him. “So, so much.”

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk smut #its been so long since ive written my fave <3 #mean/snarky gojo that ultimately is obsessed with his s/o <3 #*swoons*#the brainrot gave way to a fic yaaay #divider creds: dvluc <3

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asumofwords · 8 months

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The Sublet - Roommate!AU

Warnings: She/her pronouns, slow burn, angst. Tags will be added as the fic goes along. Drug use, drinking.

Pairings: Modern!Aemond x Reader

Summary: Living with Helaena Targaryen was one of the best decisions you had ever made. Meeting at university, the two of you became thick as thieves and quickly best friends, moving into a flat together. But what will happen when Helaena has to leave, and her quiet, brooding, brother moves in?

Notes: Jesus christ, this is a monster chapter, but I also don't want to cut it down and split it up. Hehe, thank you all for your love for the last chapter! Poor Aemond and poor reader! Anyway, Enjoy! <3

Chapter 13: Proposition

The evening came quickly, and Helaena had dressed you in a deep green, silk dress. It came to your mid thigh and had a swooping cow neck at the front. Thin straps went over your shoulders and crossed at the low back of the dress, the material light and flowing, soft against your skin.

Helaena told you that she would never wear it when you had argued with her about putting it on, and had even insisted upon you keeping it afterwards. You paired it with some black heels and gold jewellery, with your hair up and away from your face, keeping the nape of your neck cool in the warm air.

Helaena wore a long lavender dress that almost matched her eyes, a sheer netting over the top of it with embroidered and beaded stars and constellations. She looked ethereal, and you felt over dressed for a dinner with her family. But she had told you to live a little, and that they would all be dressed to the nines, ensuring that you wouldn’t be joined by her sister and her husband.

When you made your way downstairs, heels clicking against the stone floors, Helaena had steered you away from a smaller, more intimate dining hall, and back outside to the long table you had passed that morning.

The table was covered with glimmering candle light, smaller fairy lights nestled amongst the table whilst large candelabras stood tall in the middle and further to the edges, casting it aglow in a warm light. Fairy lights were strung in the trees in your periphery, and the whole scene reminded you of what an intimate wedding celebration would feel like.

However this was just a normal night for the Targaryen and Velaryon family.

The latter, already sitting at the table.

Lucerys’ head had lifted at your arrival, wide smile spreading across his cheeks as he looked up at you. Jacaerys following his line of sight mirrored his smile and stood, younger brother standing, before both came around the table to engulf you in a tight embrace.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Jace smiled, flicking his eyes to his aunt and then back to you again.

“Last minute plans.” You chuckled, hoping they wouldn’t sense any tension from you, or the fact that your chest still felt sudden aches when the thought of a tall, silver haired man popped into your mind.

“Glad you came,” Luc added, “You’ll be able to meet mum.”

Mum.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, a woman of conviction and power. You would be lying if you said she wasn’t an inspiration to you. Defying all odds and sexism within the industry and profession of law, and surpassing her male counterparts with an ease that could only be graced upon someone from birth or with hard work.

“I would like that.” You smiled back.

Helaena led you to sit with her in the middle of the table, opposite the two brothers, and the four of you dissolved into comfortable chatter as you waited for the others, the sound of cooking and smell of food wafting from the kitchen just inside.

When Daeron had arrived, he had chosen to sit beside his sister, nodding at his nephews before asking Jacaerys, with a cheeky glint in his eye, how the Tully boys were. Jacaerys, clearly now aware of his friend and uncles little tryst, asked him back how Kermit was.

“Very good.” The youngest Targaryen sibling smirked.

Lucerys blushed.

You were mid conversation with Jacaerys before his eyes lit up, looking behind you. You turned to see a vision of blue and silver. Your breath stilled in your chest.

Baela and Rhaena stood behind you, the twins looking as though they had been plucked from the stars themselves. Rhaena wore a deep blue dress which glimmered as she moved, small flecks of sliver glinting like the night sky. Her locks were long down her back, held together by silver clasps that had small stars and jewels that dripped off of them.

Baela stood beside her twin sister, thigh length silver dress with a high neck and low back, covered in a mesh that dripped off of her like cobwebs. Her silver coils were half up, half down on the top of her head, held by a simple claw clip.

You had to blink to get yourself to stop staring at them.

No wonder people thought these families were descended from Gods.

You, in that moment, felt awfully plain.

You stood and went to embrace the two girls, little squeals pealing from all of your mouths as you hugged each other with joy. It had been a while since you had seen the pair last, and now that they were here, you felt suddenly excited to be at the Keep.

Baela’s eyes roamed over your body, “Damn girl, look at you. If only Cregan could see you now.”

You instantly blushed, slapping her shoulder lightly, “Flattery won’t get me into your bed, Bae.”

The twin smirked, “Worth a try.”

“You think I haven’t?” Helaena joked, mock rejection on her features.

You all sat down, Baela beside Jacaerys, and Rhaena beside Luc, chatting excitedly with each other as Daeron popped the cork of some wine, and Helaena, a bottle of champagne, filling up the respecting glasses of everyone who sat at the table. Reaching forth, you took your champagne glass, bubbles fluttering up the glass flute as you clinked yours amongst everyone else’s and sipped.

It was sweet, and smooth, almost creamy to the taste, and you realised that this was probably the best champagne you had ever had. You took another sip, much larger than the last, deciding to let loose for the evening with your friends, enjoying the warm burn of the alcohol as it passed down your throat.

You were laughing with Jacaerys, reminiscing how he had gotten too drunk one night and passed out on Cregan’s couch, cuddling a pillow to his chest, when Baela’s perfectly manicured brow lifted, eyes looking behind you.

Aegon appeared from within, two bottles of alcohol in either hand and a clear ziplock bag hanging from clenched teeth.

Inside, four meticulously rolled joints.

He sat down beside you with a huff, plopping the drinks onto the table noisily with a clunk, one tequila, the other, some sort of amber drink, whiskey or brandy perhaps.

He pulled the zip lock bag from his mouth and threw it unceremoniously into the middle of the table. Baela smirked, and Rhaena snatched the bag up to inspect its contents.

“Fuck yes.” The younger twin, Baela always made a point that she was born first of the two of them, exclaimed.

“The King shall always provide to his loyal subjects.” Aegon joked in mock regality as he looked down at everyone from his nose.

“Come off it.” Daeron groused, “Is it the good stuff, or the shit stuff you give to people you hate?”

Hand on chest, Aegon gasped, “How dare you insinuate that I would give you bum blunts. An outrage, I say.”

“It’s the good shit.” Helaena confirmed, grimace on her lips, “Egg forgot to tell me that when he offered me one last week. I smoked the whole fucking thing in one hit thinking it was the shit stuff from last time. I had never been so close to greening in my life.”

Jacaerys' eyes widened, “You? Greening? Jesus, must be the good stuff then.”

“Only the best for Daddy.” Aegon smirked, eyes flicking to you.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

Be a good girl for daddy.

You crossed your legs tightly at the memory of Aemond driving his length into your folds.

Aegon noticed your reaction but said nothing, the faintest push of his tongue caught in his cheek.

“Right,” He clapped his hands, grabbing the bottle of tequila, cracking open its corked cap, “We are all going to get royally messy this evening because I am tired of seeing my nephews sappy, sullen faces.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys frowned.

Aegon grabbed your champagne glass from your fingers, a small grunt of disapproval from your lips as you watched him throw the remaining drink down the back of his throat. He then tipped the tequila bottle against your champagne flute and began to pour.

“Woah!” Your hand lifted the lip of the tequila away from your flute, a drip rolling down your finger.

He had almost filled it half way full.

Aegon raised his brow at the others as the chefs began to bring out the food and place it on the table, the bag of joints not being moved from plain sight.

You supposed the chefs did not care, and were only paid to cook.

The smell from the dinner made your mouth water, each dish perfectly made to different tastes and requirements. Baela and Rhaena had fish, Jace and Luc, lamb. Daeron had a vegetarian pasta of sorts, and Hel the same. Aegon was given a large steak with mashed potato and a red sauce that swirled delicately over the plate, baby carrots steamed atop.

And for you, your favourite dish.

You eyed Helaena in shock and she had shrugged, essentially telling you that she had requested it for you. You smiled at her warmly in thanks, nudging her with your shoulder.

All around the table, everyone began to drain their wines and champagnes, where Aegon then filled their flutes and glasses with either tequila or the amber alcohol, which you came to learn was a honey smoked whiskey. But in Aegon's case, he took two glasses for himself, and filled them both.

Laughter and smiles were plentiful around the table as you all ate and drank, the warmth from the tequila seeping into your pores. Each sip was smooth, though still hard to swallow. Your face would scrunch each time, and Aegon would almost always snicker at you. You had not been given a chaser nor a mixer.

When dinner had finished, and dessert had been served after, a soft meringue with strawberry puree and passionfruit pulp, Jacaerys had suggested that you all go for a midnight dip.

You and the girls had raced to Helaena’s room to get changed into your swimmers, drunkenly stumbling and giggling through the Keep, careful to not make too much noise to disturb Rhaenyra and Daemon, and their three younger children, though it would be hard with the enormity of the estate.

Criston Cole had met you on the stairs when he came to investigate a stream of squeals that Helaena had let loose as she had slipped on a bottom step and landed heavily onto her bum in laughter.

His deep eyes had narrowed, and Helaena had given him a dismissive wave as she lifted herself, grabbing your arm and Baela’s, who in turn grabbed Rhaena’s, before you all made a mad dash out the kitchen, past the table, alcohol and joints missing from them.

The boys were already inside of the spa, large enough to hold at least twenty people, but intimate enough for you all to be spread apart and for it not to feel weird. Bubbles foamed at the surface as Jacaerys passed his joint to Aegon blowing the smoke from his lips, head tilted back to the sky.

“Took your time.” Aegon teased, joint at his mouth as he inhaled.

The night sky was clear, bright stars twinkling above you as a quiet settled over the estate. The sound of crickets and cicadas were loud in your ears, and you could have sworn that once or twice, over the sounds of the others and the jets of the spa, that you had heard an owl. It was a warm night, but not too warm to make the steaming, bubbling water uncomfortable.

You climbed in beside Aegon, Helaena beside you, with the twins beside the two brown haired brothers. It was clear that they had a stronger bond to each other rather than their aunt and uncles, having grown up together after their mother had passed, and Daemon had married Rhaenyra.

“Hel fell down the stairs.” You giggled, taking the champagne flute Daeron held out to you, actual champagne inside this time, not tequila. You thanked him silently and took a steady sip of the drink.

Luc snorted, making grabby hands at Aegon who still held the joint. The eldest uncle narrowed his eyes at the younger boy before reaching across the water to hand it to him, snatching it back teasingly just before the Velaryon's fingers could have grabbed it, before finally letting the youngest of the group have it.

“Don’t you green out." Aegon teased, "Your mother will kill me.”

Your mother.

Not sister.

Not Rhaenyra.

Your mother.

The dynamics of this family was certainly strained, but amongst the sons and daughters, what little tension there had bled away with the steady hum of the bubbling spa, the flowing of drinks, and the high that all got from the joints Aegon had provided.

Jacaerys had offered it to you, and you had taken it with slightly pruny fingers, inhaling a small drag, as per Helaena’s warning, feeling the dry smoke, not at all like cigarettes, move into your lungs. You held in a small cough, and then breathed it out, tingles rippling up your skin.

Oh shit.

It was the good stuff.

A small littering of giggles exploded from you as you handed it to Aegon, whose smirk only got wider.

“You should have seen his face!” Jacaerys laughed, watching as Lucerys grumbled beside him, smile working its way on his lips as Jace retold the story of Cerwyn and Dalton Greyjoys propositions to both you and Cregan.

“Did baby Luc get scandalised?” Aegon teased, lips pouting at his nephew.

Luc’s cheeks flushed as he grumbled, “I wasn’t scandalised. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“How did you not expect it from Dalton? The man is a walking sex toy.” Baela teased, hand pushing back a stray curl from her face.

The water of the spa was warming you up. That and the alcohol, and maybe also the joint combined. And also maybe because the topic of discussion had suddenly come to your sex life.

Uh oh.

“So,” Daeron turned to you, “Did you take them up on their offer?”

All eyes were on you.

You blushed, bringing the champagne to your lips to sip, hoping the cold drink would cool you down.

“No. But I did consider it.” You smirked, feeling a little bolder, “Cerwyn I hadn’t expected, but Dalton had tried his luck before.”

A wet arm wrapped over your shoulders, Aegon pulling you towards him lazily, “And what did the ‘King of The North’ think about this all? Are you two still bumping uglies?”

You turned to look at Aegon, whose face was startlingly close to yours, his lids half shut with ease, violet eyes slightly glassy from the joint. It was clear he was high, and drunk, but there was something else about the way he looked at you.

You scoffed a laugh, “It’s complicated.” You omitted the part where Aemond was the complicated part, “Cregan actually encouraged me to think about it. And to be honest, I did.”

“No way.” Rhaena smiled widely, “Dude, where do you find these men?”

You laughed, head thrown back, “Rhae, if I knew, I would tell you. They just find me somehow. Annoying sometimes, really.”

“Speaking of annoying,” Baela butted in, “Heard you’ve been sharing close quarters with Aemond.”

Your heart raced in your chest.

You looked to Helaena as you swallowed thickly.

Had she told Baela?

“Can't believe Aemond isn’t here. Mummy’s favourite.” Aegon grumped, “Twat.”

“Hey.” Helaena piped in, chastising her brother, “Don’t be a dick. You know he hates it here.”

Aegon clicked his tongue at his sister and lit another joint beside you, fingers lightly tracing over your shoulder, goosebumps erupting on your skin. You felt your nipples stiffen, pressing against the material of your bikini in response, and you sunk lower into the bubbles to hide it.

Everything was heightened, the alcohol, the high, the warmth of his body and the water around you, his touch. And it was hard to not feel some sort of involuntary reaction.

Baela looked at you expectantly, as did all else.

“It’s fine. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself mostly.” You explained, suddenly feeling like you were on the witness stand.

No-one responded, all waiting for you to continue, as though you hadn’t given them the answer they wanted to hear, and so you did, “He can be a dick at times, and we have gone head to head on numerous occasions.”

Jacaerys laughed, and Luc smiled widely. Both knowingly enjoying your answer.

Daeron and Aegon looked at their nephews.

“What?” Aegon asked, curiosity laced in his voice.

“Y/n brought Cregan over after a fight with Aemond, and let’s just say, they weren’t quiet about it.”

Aegon’s laugh exploded across the pool area and everyone else followed, head thrown backwards against the damp tile of the spa as he laughed. His eyes were scrunched closed, and you noticed the faint blush that rose on his cheeks.

Aegon was handsome, in a soft way. There was nothing sharp about his features, bar perhaps the top of his jaw, and his lips were far less severe than Aemond’s. It was no surprise to you that Aegon got around. A whore Helaena called him. He had this naturally flirty charm around him, and this cocksure personality, but you knew, beneath it all, that there was the same insecurities that Aemond had. Only Aegon was better at hiding it. Or, not really. He was just better at drowning it out between the legs of someone new, alcohol or drugs, or some blissful combination of the three.

But there was no denying that he was just as beautiful as the others.

Aegon stopped his laughter and looked at you, your head swimming in the clouds. A smirk pulled at his rosy lips, and his eyes lowered to your mouth momentarily. You snapped your head away, feeling guilty and all too exposed, heat rising within you again.

The twins raised a brow at you in unison.

Goddamn twin connection.

“I bet Aemy would have hated that. Or maybe even loved it.” Aegon teased, and Helaena scrunched her face in disgust.

“I’ve heard Y/n and Cregan before. They’re not quiet, let me tell you that much. My noise cancelling headphones are probably my best investment.” She teased, and you felt your face and chest bloom with heat.

You stood suddenly, water sloughing off your body as everyone looked up at you.

“It’s hot. Is anyone else hot? I’m hot. I’m going to go in the pool. Okay. Yep.” You babbled, flustered.

One leg after the other you walked speedily to the cool water of the pool, feeling everyones eyes on your back, but most of all, the heated gaze that lingered on the globes of your ass.

Aegon was not at all being shy with the way he was checking you out.

You jumped straight into the icy pool feeling the cold water shock you into a more sobered state. You rose to the surface with a squeak, and watched as Baela and Rhaena stood, running towards you directly as they cannon balled, in sync, in front of you. You laughed at the large splash, and soon, in no time at all, everyone joined you in the pool, giggling and joking and splashing around loudly.

The rest of the night was spent in good spirits, but Aegon’s gaze never seemed to leave you. And even in your drunken/high state, you knew that that was a line that you would not cross.

Could not cross, even if you wanted to.

As the night grew long and you lay looking up at the stars beside Helaena, sharing the last joint, you all decided to pack it in for the night and head to bed, cheeks rosy and eyes glazed. You all but fell into bed with Helaena, not bothering to change into pyjamas, the both of you stripping nude in a tangle of giggles as you slid to each respected sides of the bed facing each other.

You had the girlish giddiness sneak up on the both of you, and soon enough, your stomachs were cramping with how much you had laughed. Helaena was the first to fall asleep, and you shortly after, pulled down into the warmth of rest alongside her.

When you rose the next morning, your head felt a thousand pounds heavier, and you struggled to sit up right. Helaena was no better, groaning as she rubbed her eyes, hangover sweeping the life out of the the both of you with no mercy.

Although you were both as dusty as dirt, you felt slightly better about the whole reasoning of you being here. You felt less guilty of being with your best friend and her family, and even felt good knowing that you had gotten some space from Aemond in the mean time.

You didn’t even really mean to think of him, your chest aching at the thought, but you attempted to brush it aside anyway.

Needing a distraction, and possibly a good morning doom scroll, you pulled your phone from the nightstand which you had left and forgotten the whole day before.

Clicking open the screen, you were met with a barrage of texts.

From Aemond.

You looked at the texts for a moment, heart immediately beginning to race in your chest, which caused the headache that had been steadily blooming to thump in the back of your head.

You gnawed at your lip roughly looking at the texts over and over.

What do you say?

Clearly he was feeling bad, and wanted to talk to you, but what if he wanted to tell you that he was moving back with Alys? What if he wanted to talk about her? You didn’t know if you could face that just yet.

You both needed time.

Space.

And he needed to think about what he had said.

About what he wanted.

You fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Do you text him to tell him you were okay? Even though you were not?

If you opened up the conversation by responding, he would no doubt suck you back in, and you were not ready for that yet.

“I’m never drinking again.” Helaena groaned from beside you, turning over. Her eyes were red rimmed with shadows underneath, and her hair was an absolute mess of waves and tangles, the chlorine having made the silver strands wispy and dry.

You locked your phone, not responding to Aemond as you placed it back on the bedside table. That was something you would face later, with a full stomach and a clear mind. Y

es, that’s what you would do, let yourself think of a way to respond.

And so you left him on read.

You cracked a smile at Helaena and giggled, “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.” She clutched her head and whined, rolling onto her back, “The day I got you in my bed naked, I never would have imagined it would be like this.”

“You’re such a perv, Hel.”

“You love it.” She snickered, and you laughed.

The next few days in the Keep were spent by the pool with Helaena and her family, your presence acting as some sort of buffer between the Velaryon's and Targaryen’s, who warmed up to each other considerably with each day past. You were thankful for Rhaena and Baela’s presence, who seemed to humble Aegon greatly in a way that Helaena couldn’t.

Though you had still felt his eyes lingering on you here and there, but it all stopped one day, rather abruptly, no more flirty comments, no more flirty half lidded gazes, no eyes flickering to your lips and back. Not even a mention or liken to being a Gazelle, and instead, Aegon had become the perfect gentleman. You wondered if Helaena had said something, and actually suspected as such when the two would share glances at each other whenever Aemond was mentioned.

However, you didn’t ask because you didn’t want to flog a dead horse. There was no new development to that story. No new change.

Nothing.

Except the texts from him.

You had not checked your phone since you saw those messages, and in fact, were too scared to even look at it in case there were now more. You had left Aemond on read, and felt a great deal of guilt about it. But you were hurting too. And really, you didn’t want to burden Helaena with another stupid breakdown when her family was readying themselves for a death.

The death of the patriarch at that.

That morning, Baela and Rhaena had crawled into bed with you and Helaena in the early hours, telling you that Rhaenyra and Alicent had organised for the whole family to have dinner that evening, and that their step mother was looking forward to talking to you.

“They’ve heard great things about your work at the firm from Alicent.” Rhaena explained.

Alicent had spoken about your work at the firm to them?

That meant Larys had spoken to Alicent about you, or Helaena did. You wondered how often your name came up in conversation between the Hightower’s and Strong’s. You shivered at the image of the latter.

Disgusting little man.

Where the night of your dinner a few days before had made you a little nervous, the prospect of the dinner tonight set you on edge. You had sat in front of Helaena’s vanity and worried over your makeup, taking it off only to reapply it again almost three times, feeling that not once it had been right. Helaena had told you to take steady breaths, and you had, letting her fix your eye makeup before she gave you a deep, red dress to wear.

You frowned.

Helaena never wore red.

“Where did you get this?” You asked her, feeling the soft material glide through your fingers.

“Saw it and thought of you. It would be perfect for tonight.”

Your mouth hung open, “Hel, no. Return this. I can’t wear this, it’s too much.” You held out the dress to her.

The material alone would have cost a fortune, and you didn’t even want to think about how much it truly would have cost.

“Oh, come off it. It was going to be your birthday present, but I hate waiting, and tonight seems a good night to wear it.” She insisted, bright eyes shining at you excitedly.

“Hel…” You said uncertain.

When would she stop with her generosity? It was spinning you in circles.

“At least put it on for me.” She sighed, “Please.”

You rubbed the soft material through your fingers, looking at the way it moved like water across your skin, thinking of other options that you had brought with you.

But what else would you wear?

You had some other dresses you could, but they were more going out for drinks kind of dresses, or day drinking ones in the sun. Not at all something you would wear to dine with Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen.

You swallowed dryly.

Why was this making you so nervous?

Looking back up at Helaena, you saw that she was watching you expectantly, with a hopeful eye that she barely contained.

There was no saying no to her.

“Okay,” You acquiesed, and watched as a bright smile cracked across her lips, “But I’m only going to try it on, and then you need to take this back to the store. It's too much, Hel. I'm serious.”

The Targaryen shooed you with her hands to change, “Yeah, yeah. Scold me after you put it on.”

You stripped quickly as Helaena fixed her hair in the mirror, the material gliding over your skin, clinging to your curves in a way that made you feel like perhaps it had even been made for you. The material was soft and cool, but warmed quickly against your body, thin straps and a low back, the dress coming down to your ankles.

It was unlike anything you had ever owned.

You spun around, looking at yourself in the mirror, hearing Helaena gasp behind you, tucking a wavy curl behind her ear as her bright eyes roamed your body.

“You look so fucking beautiful.”

Your hands smoothed down your sides as you looked at yourself.

You felt beautiful. But it was still too much.

You moved to the bed, looking at the other dresses that you had laid on the sheets.

“Okay, now that I’ve tried it on, you gotta take it back.”

“I can’t.” Helaena said, matter of fact.

Your head lifted, and you narrowed your eyes, "Sure you can. Take it back to the store.” You picked up a soft amber coloured dress. It had sweet ruffles to the skirt and lace trimming, but only came to mid thigh, “Do you think this would be okay?” You held up the dress to Helaena.

“You’re wearing that dress.”

You sighed annoyed, “No.”

“Yes. I didn’t get a receipt. So I can’t take it back.”

“Surely you can-“

“-Nooope.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.” She grinned, standing, “Anyway, time to go. Can’t change now.”

“Hel.”

The Targaryen woman just smirked at you cheekily, and you saw hints of Aegon’s mischief in her eyes.

“You’ve been plotting.” You narrowed your eyes at her.

“When am I not? Besides, like I said, it's a present.”

You grunted, annoyed that she was so stubborn, but also so grateful for something so beautiful. You really could not have asked for a more kind and caring best friend.

“Fine, but it’s birthday and Christmas.”

Helaena shrugged, watching as you put on some simple black shoes.

When you got downstairs, the table outside was made and ready, candles lining them again in a similar way that they had a few nights before, only this time, the table setting was more particular. There were three plates stacked atop each other for every person, a large one, medium, and then small, and beside the plates were three different sized forks, knives and spoons.

Your breath nearly stilled in your chest as you saw her.

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

A living legend.

One of the best of the best in the realm, and beside her, her husband, known for his abrasive, but successful, skills in court. And they were just as beautiful as the rest.

Rhaenyra had long flowing silver hair, pulled back by braids at the back of her skull. Her nose was sharp and aquiline, and as you looked at her, you saw more Aemond in her than any of the other children of Viserys. They both had plump, yet sharp lips, high cheekbones, and jaws to match.

Perhaps Aemond wasn’t so much of an outlier as you thought, and perhaps, as Rhaenyra was the first and eldest child of Viserys, the other Hightower/Targaryen children were more Hightower than Targaryen, bar their Valyrian features.

She was speaking politely to Alicent, and although you could see strain and tension between the two of them, it was clear that it was amicable, and perhaps there was now a standing of mutual respect between the two.

You remembered what Cregan had told you about Alicent trying to sue Rhaenyra for Lucerys’ and Aemond’s accident, but there was something more to the tension than just that.

Alicent’s gaze lingered far too long at Rhaenyra for it to be a step-mother and daughter interaction. You suspected there was another added layer to the family dynamics that you weren’t aware of.

Hearing your approach, Alicent broke her eye contact with the woman beside her and looked towards the two of you, a polite, loving smile thrown your way.

Daemon didn’t smile at you, but his gaze was more than polite. You suspected he didn’t do pleasantries as the two women did.

“You look beautiful girls.” Alicent beamed, standing to welcome you to the table with a show of hands.

It felt more like a business meeting rather than a family dinner.

Was this why Helaena shied away from these things?

You sat opposite Rhaenyra, and Helaena opposite her mum. Jacaerys and Lucerys were already at the table, as was Baela and Rhaena, Daeron and Aegon yet to arrive.

You smiled at your friends before settling your gaze on Rhaenyra, who was watching you with kind eyes.

“You must be Y/n.” Her voice as smooth as honey, “The boys have told me much about you.”

Heat rose in your cheeks, shyly peaking a glance as Luc and Jace raised their brows at you.

“All good things I hope.” You smiled back.

It was hard to contain your excitement. Hard to act normal and not like you were freaking out about sitting, and eating, and talking with someone you looked up to in the world of law.

“The good, the bad, and the ugly I’m afraid.” Daemon purred, lip twitching into a teasing smirk.

Oh gods.

You hoped you didn’t look as flustered as you felt.

Rhaenyra shook her head playfully, reaching to pick up her glass of red wine delicately with just two fingers at the bottom fo the stem.

How the hell did she do that?

Shuffling came from behind you and you turned to watch Daeron and Aegon arrive, Aegon fiddling with the buttons at his wrist.

“Sons.” Alicent greeted them.

“Mother.” Aegon responded, tone flat.

The tension was back.

Aegon sat beside you, giving you a small smile before he turned his line of sight to his half-sister who sat opposite him.

“Sister.”

“Aegon. It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

Aegon grabbed his wine glass and filled it almost to the brim, “Peachy with Viserys on the fritz.”

Your eyes bulged.

Oh shit.

“Aegon.” Alicent hissed, cheeks red with anger.

“What?” He replied back cooly, sipping the wine, “It’s why we are all together again. One big happy family.”

Aegon, it was clear to you now, had been drinking before he arrived to the table.

Daemon let out an amused giggle, and you had to bite the insides of your cheeks to not laugh awkwardly as a reaction.

“I suppose you’re right.” Rhaenrya spoke with resignation, her eyes flicking from Aegon, to Daeron, to Helaena, then back to Aegon, “You’ve grown.”

And as quick as a whip, Aegon replied back, “You haven’t.”

A smirk pulled at Rhaenyra’s lips, and you felt the tension begin to fizzle away, reaching for your own wine to sip at, because Gods know that you would need it.

“I suppose not. Are you well?”

“Well as I can be, all things considered.” The eldest son of Viserys replied.

The eldest child of Viserys nodded solemnly, sipping daintily at her wine, eyes over the rim of the glass as the servers began to place your entree's on the table.

You all ate quietly, Alicent filling the void with mindless chatter and questions or topics that she used to attempt to ease some of whatever tension was lingering. She asked the twins about their travels, and Daeron about his time in Old Town, despite already knowing about it. And it was then that you realised, that despite her ‘chattiness’ to everyone else at the table, she almost refused to acknowledge the two brown haired men who sat with the twins.

Alicent did not once, lay her eyes on Jacaerys and Lucerys, nor did she include them in conversation, and it was clear to all that she had done it, but what was clearer, was that everyone was aware and did nothing.

As though it was a regular occurrence.

The main course came, with salads and side dishes that filled the table, and new wines brought to match each dish, glasses being filled by the servers intermittently as they came in and out.

“So, Y/n.” Rhaenyra addressed you, “I heard that you are studying and working full-time? Surely that must be a difficult thing to manage?” She cut at the meat on her plate, a small slice, before bringing it to her lips to chew thrice and then swallowing.

You placed your cutlery down in a way you had watched Alicent do every time she spoke or was addressed.

“I am. I work at Alicent’s firm and go to KLU with Helaena.” You confirmed, feeling nervous to be speaking to her. You hoped you didn’t make a fool of yourself, “It can be a bit crazy when exams and due dates come around, but I like a challenge.” You let yourself huff a little laugh at the end, not wanting to admit that working and studying full-time was tearing at your sanity, and your wallet.

Daemon picked up a wine glass, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he watched you.

You fought to not squirm in your seat, suddenly feeling like you were being cross examined. This must be what it was like when people took the stand and had Daemon Targaryen drill them with questions.

He took a sip, then gave you a sweet smile. Daemon was a handsome man, low brow bone, strong jaw, and piercing eyes that didn’t once leave your face.

“What are you studying?” He asked, taking another sip.

You saw Alicent in your periphery look at you in interest.

Not once in all your years knowing her had she asked you that.

Nor did you even know if she knew.

“I’m a History Major,” You explained, shifting in your seat as you felt everyone looking at you, “But I chose Poetry as a minor for fun.”

“Poetry?” Rhaenyra’s brows lifted in intrigue, “My brother is a fan." How did she know that about Aemond? "And how did a History Major come to work in a law firm?”

“Oh, well.” You suddenly felt as though perhaps you shouldn’t have said anything, “I needed a job, bills to pay and all that, and I saw a secretary position at Red Keep Law. I applied, and to be honest, didn’t think I would get it. But, here I am.”

Alicent smiled at you before she turned to face Daemon and Rhaenyra, “She’s an excellent worker. Learns quickly, and from all accounts from Larys,” Daemon groaned, rolling his eyes at your boss’ name, “She makes a fine edition to the firm.”

Daemon sipped his wine once again, placing it on the table as he leant forward, hands resting atop the wooden surface, “And how is our dear Larys Strong? Following Alicent’s footsteps?”

Your lips pulled downwards as you tried to not laugh, feeling heat in your cheeks as you swiped up your wine to swallow, hoping it would sink the laugh along with it.

So it was not a secret then.

All knew about Larys’ foot inclinations, and his other inclination towards Alicent Hightower.

The auburn haired woman clearly didn’t like where this conversation was going, and jumped in, “Larys is a hardworking and loyal man. It hasn’t been easy since the death of Harwin and his father.” Her eyes narrowed cooly towards Rhaenyra, and you felt the whole table hold their breath, “Losing someone you love is never easy.”

Lucerys and Jacaerys exchanged glances, and you felt that there was more than one thing that was being left unsaid.

Rhaenyra however, did not show that she was affected by Alicent’s comment, and returned her attention back towards you with a warm and practised smile, “Do you have plans to study law after you finish your degree?”

You followed Rhaenyra’s lead to avoid the tension, “I definitely am thinking about it, but its a long degree, and it’s a little more time consuming than what I’m already doing. I worry it’ll affect my ability to work. But, perhaps in the future when I’m more settled.” You ended with a smile, and Daemon and Rhaenyra shared a look, both turning to grin at you.

The rest of the evening went quietly, conversation a little bit stunted after Daemon and Alicent’s silent war, their eyes constantly narrowing on each other. Clearly they did not get along, especially with the Hightower throwing some sort of shade towards Rhaenyra.

Was it shade about Larys? Or his brother, Harwin? Or some other lover or connection between the two women?

It was clear that Jacaerys and Lucerys looked nothing like a ‘traditional' Targaryen, what with their brown hair and even browner eyes, but you knew that Rhaenyra’s grandmother had brown hair. Jace and Luc had told you this once when you asked, much to Cregan’s dismay, why they looked nothing like their aunt. But genetics were tricky like that, unpredictable. You could remember learning about it once, punnet squares you think you recall from your high school biology class, and you were certainly not a biologist to argue or question it. Nor would you, in case there was another reason for it.

Perhaps Rhaenyra’s previous husband had strong brunette genes somewhere along the line.

Regardless, Daemon clearly loved the boys as his own, and Rhaenyra beamed at Baela and Rhaena whenever she could. Their relationships to their partners children from previous marriages was healthy, sweet, and to you, something that you wished Alicent somehow had with her own children.

Alicent loved her kids, there was no denying this, but her ability to show it to them was, at best, subpar. But everyone was different, and perhaps her father Otto, Helaena’s grandfather, was not the most warmest or affectionate of men.

Alicent and Rhaenyra were the same age, and the both were so very different. Alicent was stern and stiff, where Rhaenyra more warm and flexible. But both were staunchly protective of their own, and loved them in their own special way.

You saw a lot of Aemond in both Rhaenyra and Alicent. Alicent’s cool disposition, and Rhaenyra’s fiery passion. Not to mention, Aemond and Rhaenyra looked more similar than any of her other siblings.

Towards the end of the evening, the warm buzz of alcohol spreading through all, most of the table quietly chatting amongst themselves, Criston Cole came out to the garden, walking directly to Alicent where he whispered into her ear.

Alicent stiffened, and Rhaenyra, seeing the woman beside hers reaction became concerned, brows cinching together.

“Thank you, Cole.” Alicent spoke, voice even. She looked amongst the table, at her children, and then finally to Rhaenyra, “Viserys has asked for me.” She told his eldest child, and you watched as the silver haired woman visibly relaxed, nodding her head, though there was still a furrow in her brows.

It must be hard, watching your father become sicker and sicker, anticipating that each day would be his last. You had been told that Viserys’ bond to Rhaenyra was strong, and he clearly loved her dearly, especially with what you had been told about him calling her his only child in a moment of drug addled confusion.

But what happened next was something that you could not have imagined nor foreseen. For The Hightower woman was scarce to show affection to her own children, and when she did, most, to what you had witnessed, would shy away from it.

Alicent, in a rare moment of comfort, reached out and held Rhaenyra’s hand atop the table.

It seemed to shock almost everyone there, including Rhaenyra herself, who after a moment of confusion, grasped the woman’s hand back, placing another on top as she soothed the Hightower’s knuckles with a thumb.

“Thank you, Alicent.” Rhaenyra swallowed, her chest rose and fell, and then, “Shall I see to you after?”

Alicent’s large eyes blinked at the woman beside her as she searched Rhaenyra’s face for an answer, the whole table having stilled to watch the interaction, as though something unlikely was happening, like a miracle from the Gods was unfolding right before your very eyes.

Daemon was the only one who didn’t look hopeful at the interaction, instead, he looked rather bored.

All waited, and although it would have only been a few seconds of pause, it felt like an eternity.

Until finally, her response came.

Alicent breathed, “I would like that. Very much.”

Rhaenyra’s smile would be contagious, if only you didn’t feel like you shouldn’t be witnessing something that felt far more intimate than what it was.

There was history there, that much was sure to you now, between the two women, and something that you felt made more sense when Alicent’s eyes dropped, if only for half a second, to Rhaenyra’s lips.

Clearing her throat she stood, excusing herself with polite and poised words before she left in a hurry, flanked by Criston Cole who put a gentle hand at the small of her back, something else you had blinked at, leading her through the kitchen. Alicent’s hand lifted to her mouth as she chewed at the skin of her fingers.

Conversation took a while to come back amongst the table, all seeming to have sensed some sort of stale mate between the two women of the house. Some sort of unlikely treaty forming between them, and a breath, a long lasting one at that, sighed into the night air.

Jacaerys and Lucerys excused themselves for the night, pressing a sweet kiss to their mothers cheek, and the twins did the same, but to Daemon’s, who smiled lovingly up at his daughters, watching them all disappear into the house together.

Aegon leant towards you, wine on his tongue as he whispered, “You want to get blind?”

Helaena, hearing her brothers proposition, and certainly wanting a release after what had just happened, peeked around on the other side of your shoulder, “Please.”

You laughed, watching as Daemon lifted a gentle hand and placed it on the small bump of Rhaenyra’s pregnant stomach, something you hadn’t noticed until that moment as she had leant backwards, chair pushed away from the table. She smiled lovingly at him and put her hand over his.

Daeron stood, excusing himself, having said not much at all that evening, and left for his room, Aegon following after before casting a look back at you and Helaena, who stood and smiled at her half-sister sweetly.

Rhaenyra you noted, looked almost sad as she gazed at her younger and only sister, but bid her a goodnight, and asked if she would like to spend some time together, to catch up, or perhaps even join her and the boys back on Dragonstone; Rhaenyra and Daemon’s estate, older than the Red Keep.

Helaena had stood quietly for a moment, shifting on her feet, but then the signature warm smile spread on her rosy lips as she nodded, turning to you to flick her head back, indicating that you were leaving.

As you moved to leave, the deep and smooth voice of Daemon turned you around.

“Are you happy at Red Keep Law?”

“Happy?” You asked in confusion, furrowing your brows at the two silver haired people who watched you with curiosity.

Daemon’s brows lifted, waiting for you to answer.

“I like my job at RKL, yes. The hours are good, and it pays the bills.”

“Pays the bills.” Daemon parroted, and you wished you could kick yourself at your choice of words.

“I only mean that-“

“-No need to worry.” Daemon interrupted you, “My brothers firm is not what it used to be now that it’s ran by the Hightower’s.” His lips curled at the mention of Alicent, into what could have been said was a restrained sneer.

And although you felt the need to defend them, you had to agree. It was not what it used to be, but it wasn’t a bad change either. Sure business was slower, and their clientele had certainly changed to people who were more modest, but it was still regarded as one of the best firms.

It was just… different.

“Daemon.” Rhaenyra came to Alicent’s defence, low warning in her voice.

And there it was, the strong, ‘Cruel Queen’ of Law.

You had not once seen this side of Rhaenyra through the night, and had only ever heard of her ability to cut down others in court without even truly trying.

Rhaenyra Targaryen set defence teams on fire without even breaking a sweat, and had crumbled firms to ashes under her Louboutin heel.

The couple looked at each other, soft silver hair glimmering in the candle light, and you looked at Helaena, uncertain as to what was happening.

But Helaena looked at you in the way that she usually did, as if she already knew what was coming. You had joked with her many times that she was a witch, and she had always just said she had a strong intuition and followed her gut.

And then, three pairs of violet eyes were suddenly on you.

Had Helaena told them about Aemond?

You suddenly felt very guilty and unsure.

“From what we have been told, you’re a hard worker.” Daemon began, “Something we value at ‘Perzys Ānogār Legal’.”

You stood straighter, and watched as Rhaenyra smiled at you reassuringly, “Your talents are being wasted at RKL.” Her eyes flicked to her husbands, then back to yours, “We want to offer you a job at our firm.”

A job.

At their firm.

At Perzys Ānogār Legal.

Blood and Fire.

The best of the best firms in the realm.

Rival of Red Keep Law.

Your mouth opened and then shut, unsure of what to do. You looked at Helaena, who looked at you with excitement, smile growing wider and wider each second, her pearly white teeth shining at you.

You swallowed dryly, “I- I’m honoured.” Rhaenyra beamed, “But I’m not a lawyer, I don’t even have a law degree. I’m not even studying law.”

Daemon nodded, “You work at RKL and there seems to be no issue. But you’re thinking about it. Are you not?”

You had, in fact, thought about it.

But your time at RKL and studying made it impossible to think of a future where you could juggle law, a far more intensive degree than history, as well as a 9-5.

“I don’t think I could. I have bills to pay, and the study load would be too much-“

“-Not if you work for us.” Daemon interrupted you again, “You would be in the same position, secretary work, keeping our staff organised and tidy. And in the mean time, we would teach you. You would of course, have to begin a law degree to eventually practice and all that,” His large hand waved around as if it wasn’t a big deal, “But as it turns out, we have a position open, and from what our boys have told us, you would be an incredible edition to our team.”

Your mouth gaped as you looked at them both.

Holy shit.

This was-

It was-

You couldn’t even think, and Rhaenyra noticed.

“You don’t have to give us an answer straight away, but I will have Jacaerys give you our number. When you accept,” It wasn’t if, it was when you chose them, “You can let us know and we can begin onboarding you.”

“I-“ You stumbled over your words, tongue feeling like led in your mouth, “I don’t know what to say. I- Thank you. Truly. I have a lot to think about.”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra gave you a motherly smile, and Daemon simply observed you with patient, kind eyes, “I’ll let you girls get back to the others. Think about our offer. We will pay you better, train you up, and if you want to study, we can even discuss potential payment for your learnings.”

Payment-

Your head began to spin.

Daemon laughed, not meanly, but in amusement, “You’ve short circuited her brain, my love.”

Rhaenyra swatted her husband, “Sorry. You can see how competitive we are, I suppose. I shall leave that with you to deliberate. We look forward to hearing your answer soon.”

You felt Helaena’s arm wrap around yours as she pulled you back and away, “Night 'Nyra.” She called to her sister, who said goodnight back.

Your mind raced a million miles an hour.

“Holy fuck.” You whispered, Helaena steering you through the kitchen and up the stairs to her room, “Hel, what the fuck? What the fuck!”

Helaena simply giggled at you.

“What do I do? I- Thats- Rhaenyra Targaryen just offered me a job. I- I couldn’t possibly-“

“-Why not?”

Helaena pushed open her door and watched you race inside, pacing in front of the bed, “I couldn’t do that to your mother. I mean- Hel- Clearly there’s something that they- I mean- Oh my gods, I’m not even making sense. I just- What the hell?”

The silver haired woman flopped backwards onto her bed, staring up at the curtained canopy, “It's a good offer. I would take it if I were you. People would kill for that position.”

You flopped down beside her, “But Hel, it would be like betraying your mum.”

She turned on her side to face you, “No it wouldn’t. Besides, you wouldn’t have to work under Larys anymore.”

Sighing, you closed your eyes, “You’re right. But Gods, Hel. Me? A lawyer? I never would have thought that I would even have that kind of opportunity.”

“See?” Helaena nudged your shoulder, “You have to take it. Better pay, more options, plus, though me and Rhaenyra aren’t close, she’s a good person. When she takes someone under her wing, you best believe she will have your back forever. Even when you don’t deserve it.”

You frowned at the last part, but tilted your head back to stare at the canopy.

Rhaenyra was right.

You had a lot to think about.

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