#not quite happy with either of their faces

[ivypos-writes]

i have often dreamed of those fires

— aemond targaryen

summary: He’s a firestorm. Her skin burns in his hands.

Or, marriage is her first duty. The second comes in the insurmountable task of seducing her own husband.

warnings: 18+, aemond x wife, arranged marriage, soft and insecure aemond, and a horny wife, he’s touch-starved, sexual tension, first times, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms, smut with a sprinkle of plot, and the plot is just seduction before the smut

word count: 7.5k

notes: giving in to the brainrot while waiting for s2. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

MASTERLIST

She spends the first night of her marriage in solitude.

The bedchamber bears no resemblance to the one she owned all her life. The lights are subdued, and a darkness her eyes have yet to get used to rules over every corner. It’s spacious; kept immaculately polished, as befitting a member of the royal family. That’s who she is now, regardless if she feels the part or not.

Prince Aemond—her husband, her husband—left the walls of the room in a hurry, as though scorched by fire. It is a silly thought. He is a dragon prince, and surely doesn’t fear flames.

He seems to fear her, though.

They entered the bedchamber as instructed by tradition, not quite hand in hand, but not too far apart, either. Her ladies rushed after to assist her in undressing; to unpin her hair, letting the waves cascade down her back; to cover her skin with a slip of a dress, more translucent than anything she’d ever worn. She was then left in just the nightgown, with her cheeks tinted pink. Once the ladies deemed her prepared, she was abandoned by all but her husband.

Later came silence.

It must have been the tears that dissuaded him. Once they began to flow, all of Prince Aemond’s attempts to breach the distance between them ceased. She was too shaken to speak; before she could gather her thoughts, he had already left.

Marriage is her duty to the realm. To her family who strived to ensure the best possible match. Marriage is to become her battlefield, and her life, and if the gods are kind—oh, please, let them be kind—it would eventually become a source of joy.

Only she sits alone amidst alien walls and furniture, and there is no trace of contentment she might have once envisioned.

How is she to find happiness, she thinks bitterly, when her husband refused to touch her once?

“Husband,” she greets him, and her voice miraculously doesn’t waver.

He is standing in the entrance to the bedchamber, stiff and pale, with dark shadows marring the underside of his eyes. Pink scar peaks from beneath the leather eyepatch he seems to never part with. His robes are as black as they were every time they have seen one another. He wears darkness like an armour.

Prince Aemond isn’t carved in shapes of impudent rowdiness that she now knows his brother wields to compel attention. There is a quietude in him; a softness coming through the sharp lines of his features. He keeps his face artfully blank; most of the time, it doesn’t betray a single emotion. She does not attempt to look into his eye. She fears that all she’ll find there is repulsion.

“My lady,” he says. Not wife. “I shall escort you to the feasting hall. The Queen wishes for us to break our fast in her company.”

His words lack warmth, though perhaps she should not have expected that from him. Prince Aemond doesn’t seem to possess much fire at all, what with the stone-cold composure he seems to cling to. She wonders if it is only a masterfully crafted mask; if there are any flames deep beneath its layers, flickering and crackling.

She smothers her silent musings. Hurt still lingers inside her.

The Queen may be the only kind face within these walls. Princess Helaena seems to always be lost in her own mind; Prince Aegon is never sober, and on the rare occasions that he is, it seems best to avoid him altogether. She cannot search for a companion in her ladies, or servants, and certainly not in any man.

She is alone.

And her husband doesn’t even want to touch her.

Scarlet shame rises to her chest, and she hopes that it’s not painted all over her cheeks. The Queen will know. She will look at her once, and immediately she’ll realise that she remains untouched.

Perhaps she knows already, and it is the reason for her summons. Perhaps she means to scold her, and berate her, and shame her for all nobles in the Red Keep to see.

Have the servants scanned the linen sheets? She doesn’t recall anyone looking for proof of the newfound union, but surely, they must have.

She swallows her trepidation down and forces her face to remain blank. She cannot decline. It is her duty to obey the Queen’s orders, and this one, she is capable of fulfilling.

When the newlyweds walk down the corridor, it feels like they are miles apart.

Solitude is all she knows.

Her days are filled with nothing of true meaning. She is mostly left to her own devices, be it embroidery or soaking up the sun. She traverses the foreign walls; explores the royal gardens; consumes book after book, hungry for entertainment. Sometimes, she joins Princess Helaena and her children, and they sit beside each other in complete silence.

It is not a bad life. She is luckier than most, she knows, though this fact does little to dissipate her desire for more. She wishes to be alive. She wishes for her smiles to be genuine. To be more than the pretty wife of a prince made of marble.

In truth, she isn’t even that.

Her marriage is not a marriage at all—not in the eyes of the gods—and all the freedom she now has is fleeting. She may lounge about in the courtyard, and eat the best cakes in the entire realm, and read every book to exist, but it’ll take less than a moment for the privileges to be lost.

“My prince.”

She hasn’t called him husband again. They shared all of a dozen words since their wedding night. Prince Aemond is clearly intent on avoiding her company, choosing to spend his time in the training yard or the libraries, and it doesn’t appear that he has even an ounce of desire to change this routine.

He is halfway to the door. Her eyebrow arches.

“Are you leaving?” she asks.

She falls asleep alone and awakes in the same manner, but she never thought that the Prince abandoned the bedchamber completely. Before, she imagined that he slept little.

He didn’t. He simply slept elsewhere.

“I wouldn’t wish to make you uncomfortable with my presence.” He strides over to the door without once meeting her gaze, and his hands clutch a collection of books. “The bed is yours.”

Her voice is harsher than she intends when she spits out, “The bed is meant to be shared.”

The Prince stops in his tracks; she traces the line of his spine when he straightens.

It must be the first time that he looks at her. Not even the vows they exchanged prompted him to meet her gaze. The last rays of sun that crawl through the window turn the purple of his eye a warmer shade.

“Do you—” she begins, and the tip of her tongue wets her lips when they suddenly go dry. Her throat closes up. She pushes herself to continue, “Do you find me repulsive, my prince?”

He must. She has heard many stories of marriage—both good and bad—and none spoke of husbands that refused to touch their wives.

Surely, there must be something wrong with her. Perhaps it is her hair that he dislikes, or her nose, or her lips. Perhaps he imagined her to look completely different, and there is no feature she possesses that pleases him.

Prince Aemond says nothing.

She picks her next words carefully.

“I know that I’m not a wife of your own choosing.” Her hands fidget, and she grabs onto her skirt to keep them occupied. “Neither are you the husband I wanted.”

Warmth. Gentleness. When she was a girl, she pictured a man who would hold her in his arms without shame. She imagined true affection and devotion. It’s been long since ascertained that Prince Aemond is not that husband. That her dreams have always been just dreams.

He doesn’t meet her eyes, and she finds herself vexed by his continued insistence to remain detached. She searches his face for scraps of emotion and finds none. He wields indifference like a sword.

She cannot so easily yield.

Her voice drops; nails sink into the skin of her palms. “You must understand, my prince, that it is me they’ll treat with contempt, should they ever find out.”

And they will. Of course, they will. Her womb will remain empty, and soon they’ll point their fingers at it and pronounce it barren. Humiliation will be hers to swallow; disgrace will fall upon her head like a thorned veil. They will feel pity for the Prince, to be certain, but not for her. Never for her.

The Prince’s hands tighten around the books, but it is the only reaction she receives.

He must not care for her at all. Why should he? She is but a stranger.

But they are now bound to each other. Strangers or not, their lives are intertwined.

She pushes closer to him, and finally, finally he raises his head.

“An untouched wife is no wife at all. It’s a breach of my oaths.”

There is a trace of contemplation on his face. It comes with a crease between his eyebrows, and the slightest twitching of his lips. Prince Aemond lets out a quiet hum, and she must strain her ears to catch its sound before it’s gone.

When their eyes meet, her heart lights up in flames.

“I will not touch you when there’s nothing but fear in your eyes.”

He is gone before she can retaliate.

There is a shift in his demeanour, though it comes hesitantly; with reluctance.

Prince Aemond enters the bedchamber while she’s seated by the vanity. She now recognises the sound of his footsteps—light and unrushed, often reminding her of a predator on a hunt. Her fingers become motionless, weaved into the intricate plaits atop her head. She warily waits for whatever comes next.

They have fallen into a habit of keeping one another at arm’s length. There is a barbed line that divides them, and neither is willing to cross it first.

Fear. This is what he thinks rules inside her heart. He never let her refute—now, she thinks it would have been pointless to even try. There might have been fear that shrouded her expression, but it was never induced by him. She feared the pain, and feared the unknown, but never, never feared the Prince.

He must think himself appalling. Capable of evoking dread. The realisation hits her like a tidal wave. She recalls whispers murmured in shadowed corners, all vicious and biting; wonders how many of them he has heard before. The scar on his face has been there for years. The Prince must have endured constant torment.

Whatever it is that they see—monstrosity, abomination, hideousness—her own eyes perceive nothing of the sort.

Prince Aemond is quite handsome. In truth, he is so striking that her heart jumps out of her chest each time she catches a glimpse of him.

It threatens to jump out now, when she sees him meeting her gaze without the usual aloofness.

He takes a hesitant step forward.

She freezes.

They are never alone. She sees him when they dine, and when he trains, and when he’s lost in another book. She sees him in daylight. In crowds.

Never like this.

There is a silent resolution that she notes in the tight line of his lips. Aemond comes closer, and closer, and doesn’t stop until his heat trickles down her spine.

She holds her breath when his fingers weave in between the strands of her hair.

Prince Aemond’s face betrays nothing. She watches his reflection so intensely that she forgets to blink, and all the while he keeps his expression blank. His fingers are warm. Gentle.

Just hours before, they were holding a sword and aiming it at his opponent.

It certainly feels as if he put a sword to her own throat. She can barely breathe.

His movements are slow and careful. One after another, he unravels the braids, mindful not to tug at her hair. His skilled fingers smooth out the tangles, and every once in a while, they come to her scalp to caress it in a soothing manner.

She traces the curve of his jawline, and the mangled flesh, and the dark eyepatch. He looks rough and feels soft. He is made of contradictions.

When he takes out the last little pin, she breathes out.

It is the first time that he has touched her.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes meet. She wishes to wipe at the mirror, if only to make its image clearer. Has he always been this delicate? Is the glint in his gaze a novelty?

When he clears his throat and averts his eye, his intention to leave becomes explicit. Tension dissipates. This time, she makes no objections.

“Sweet dreams, my prince,” she mutters, and the answer comes in the soft closing of the door.

Her head emerges from beneath the water surface, and she greedily takes air in.

She has wasted her day on blissful procrastination. For the entirety of it, she remained inside the bedchamber, shielded from all eyes and gossip, obstinately rejecting the company of anyone who dared offer it. These people know nothing about her, anyway. Their wish to spend time with her is masterfully feigned.

Sometimes, she misses her home. She misses it so terribly that her lip trembles. She misses being known. Despite the passing time, she has yet to acclimate herself to the new reality. The Red Keep feels as cold as it ever has.

Would she be dismissed, she wonders, if they knew that her marriage was a farce? Would she be ruined, or given a chance to start over?

Perhaps she ought to confess the truth.

Or maybe—just maybe—she should seek out her husband and push him into a wall, and claim his lips until all restraint dies.

Her depraved thoughts seem to summon him.

Aemond enters the bedchamber in his usual manner, and immediately turns back towards the door once he catches sight of her state.

Her breasts peak from the foamy water.

Her skin tints red.

“You don’t have to leave,” she calls out.

The words are quick. Too quick to come across as nonchalant. She bites her tongue, but doesn’t take them back. Perhaps she has reached another level of desperation, and this is the only opportunity she gets to let it run free.

He is more dragon than a man. He cannot keep running from her in fear. She sees the moment that Prince Aemond seems to come to the same conclusion; his hand flexes at his side, once and then again. His shoulders become tense.

She is quick to bite back her smile when he turns around. He wouldn’t have seen it, either way, what with the way he keeps his eye stubbornly downcast.

As if she wasn’t his wife. As if seeing her bare skin was a sin.

Reluctantly, with his head courteously bowed, he moves to take a seat by the table, reaching out for a random book.

Water ripples when she sinks deeper into the bath. If he has no desire to see her, she will not strive to bear herself before him.

The silence is heavy.

“Did you go out for a flight?” she asks, itching to dissipate the suspense.

The Prince hums, as is his habit, and offers a slight nod. “I did. It’d been days since I last rode Vhagar.”

This is a part of him shielded at all times. He keeps it deep in the crevices of his heart—in its darkest, deepest corners. She doesn’t blame him for it. Even without understanding the nature of the fire in his blood, she recognises it as something private. Intimate.

But it is the first time that he spoke the name in her presence, and she cannot hold the reins of her unabashed curiosity.

“When you’re apart,” she begins, “does her absence feel like a missing limb?”

The Prince’s eye turns to her, and though they are far from one another, she is able to catch a glimpse of intrigue.

Briefly, she ponders whether anyone has ever dared ask him unpracticed questions like this. If there was someone who wanted to know him—his innermost beliefs and convictions, and his soul. If anyone attempted to push through the walls he has built around himself.

She supposes that the slightest widening of his eye is an answer in its own right.

Prince Aemond doesn’t immediately reply, and she bites her tongue. “Forgive me, my prince. It is not my right to ask.”

“You’re my wife,” he says simply. It is the first time he acknowledges it. “You have the right to ask anything of me.”

Keeping her bewilderment subdued, she arches an eyebrow when he nods to himself.

“It doesn’t.” Prince Aemond clears his throat, fingers fidgeting against the pages of his book. “It doesn’t feel like a missing limb. Even in her absence, I always sense her.”

It must be the most that he’s ever said to her.

The water has gone lukewarm. Goosebumps rise atop her skin. She could politely request that he take his leave in order to get out of the bath. She could.

She won’t.

“So a part of her lives inside you?”

He turns, and now they are facing one another.

Has the foam dissipated? She doesn’t dare take her eyes off of him, and so she cannot check. If the foam is gone, he can see the outline of her body. Does he see it?

No, she thinks. Surely, he would have already looked away.

“As does a part of me inside her,” he admits. “In more ways than not, we are one being.”

One being. Is this why he refuses to let her come close? Is it because there is no more space in his heart left for her to rest in?

It seems a plausible enough theory. In truth, all theories seem to be true when she’s wallowing in solitude and sorrow and rejection.

“It must be nice,” she murmurs, and this time she is the first to break eye contact, “to be known from the inside. Intimately. In the deepest crevices of your heart.”

Something in him changes. She catches it when she glances at him. The Prince’s hand abandons the book, and when he stands from his seat, she is sure that he’ll leave.

But he doesn’t. She gapes at him when he comes closer to the bath.

“Scoot over,” he instructs.

Her mouth parts, ready to sputter questions, but they all dissolve into nothing when she catches the intensity in his gaze.

She holds her tongue. No words could reflect the depth of her confusion.

Prince Aemond now watches her without past shame.

The scent of fire and smoke permeates the air, and she inhales it sharply. His heat engulfs her back in gentle flames, and she draws her knees to her chest, oddly bashful.

When she does as instructed, he is quick to put his hands on her scalp. A gasp falls from her lips at the touch.

He is washing her hair.

Does he hear her heart pounding? It’s so loud. So very loud.

“It does feel good.” His fingers weave through her hair. “Before her, there was no one who wished to know my heart at all.”

They dine with the Queen, and she engages in conversation with a desperate sort of enthusiasm. The past days have mostly gone in perturbing silence, and she yearns for the opportunity to erase it, even with idle talk. They speak of the gardens, and the ladies-in-waiting, and Princess Helaena’s children that seem to be growing more and more each day.

Aemond holds his tongue beside her, and the quietude in which he wallows no longer takes her aback. More often than not, his silence speaks for itself. All she must do is look into his eye to comprehend the words.

“Children are a woman’s greatest joy,” the Queen rambles on, and there is a softness in her face that takes away all remnants of the usual misery that she wields. “It is only a matter of time before you’ll find it yourself.”

She straightens her spine.

Words die inside her throat. Does she smile and change the subject? Does she confess that she will not find it—she’ll never find it—because her husband has no desire to be a husband at all? All protests and confirmations and pretty promises are insufficient. She thinks it is better not to speak at all.

She nearly jumps out of her seat when something warm engulfs the skin of her palm. It’s Aemond. He has taken her hand into his, and the way he holds her is both gentle and firm.

Do they not fit perfectly? Aemond’s hand is larger than hers; its lines are harsher. She lets their fingers lace together, and when she hesitantly turns her eyes towards him, she finds him already watching her.

He holds her gaze with unmasked expression, as if to say: this is me trying.

She is possessed by a surge of boldness.

The lights of the chamber are dimmed, and she is long prepared for the night. There is a tremble in her hands. She cannot discern if it’s one of trepidation or excitement.

Aemond offers nothing more than his usual greeting when he stalks into the room. It’s neither warm nor cold; as always, it’s not enough. She watches him stride towards the table, and he sinks onto the chair, hands reaching for one of the books.

He doesn’t truly read them. It took her a while, but she now sees right through his habits. Aemond repeats the same exact process every night. He sits with a book, and keeps his eye downcast, and sometimes—just sometimes—his gaze moves towards her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Each day, he comes back not to read, but to see her.

Each day, she waits for him to act.

There are moments when they touch, and when their touches linger longer than they should. There are moments when he takes her hand into his, or brushes hair away from her face, or grabs her waist as he walks by. There are moments that she allows herself to push closer to the heat that he radiates.

She is tired of surviving on moments alone.

With her breath unsteady, she waits.

Aemond taps his fingers against the surface of the table, and she cannot help but observe the motion. His rings shine in the flickering lights.

“What are you reading?” she asks, keeping the buzzing anticipation on a leash.

His shoulders tense. She never interrupts his lectures.

The floors are cold beneath her bare feet. She keeps her pace slow. The distance between them shrinks, and soon she is standing right behind him.

Aemond’s heavy exhale hits her ears. She wishes she could preserve the sound.

With her shaky hands, she reaches for his shoulders. He is firm and solid; strong and warm. Scorching. When he says nothing—when he doesn’t move away—she lets her hold on him tighten. Just this once, she wants to touch him as though he was hers. Like a wife ought to. The way she never learned how to.

Emboldened by his stillness, she bends closer; their faces are at level. She brushes away the silver strands of hair that shield him from her, and soon she is free to take the sight of him in.

The line of his lips is thin and tight. There is a small, white scar on his temple. His skin catches the slightest hint of pink, and it crawls onto his cheeks in gradual motion. He is right there—right there—and her mouth is dry. She puts her lips to the soft skin of his cheek before she can hesitate again.

Aemond’s breathing turns rugged. She sees the rise and fall of his chest, quicker with every inhale. Her fingertips burn with the want to feel his heartbeat.

When she grabs the book he holds in a vice grip, he turns to her.

Their noses brush.

The air is gone. There’s nothing left of it. Her gaze trails from his eye to his mouth, and they’ve never been this close.

It takes the smallest tilting of her head for their lips to meet.

She is blinded. Flames flood her vision. Her heart bruises her ribs, and Aemond’s fire burns her tongue, and never before did she imagine that a kiss could leave her so ruined.

He is quick to match her pace. His mouth moves against hers with a brutal force; he breathes her in, and she catches the silent groan before it dissolves. She nibbles at his bottom lip, hungry for more, and when their tongues mingle, she no longer remembers her name. He’s sweeter than any cake she’s ever tasted, and she wishes to forever devour him—to never, never stop.

But then his lips are gone. Strong arms seize her hips, and he effortlessly moves her away from him.

She doesn’t understand. Aemond shoots out of the chair, and rushes towards the door, and she watches his shrinking figure—always, always watches him leave.

She senses his gaze on her skin.

An entire day has gone by, and she’s long since stopped expecting Aemond to return. Her heart has turned into stone. She forced it to do so.

And now he’s standing there. Watching.

“Am I not worthy of your affection?”

She regrets the obvious cracking of her voice, though there is little to do about it now. He isn’t deserving of the mask of collectedness that she could attempt to put on. She will not veil her hurt. Because he chose to cause it, he may well see its aftermath.

Aemond doesn’t answer. She knew that he wouldn’t.

“Is it because there’s no fire in my blood that you deem me below you?”

She turns, eager to see his features, and then almost wishes that she hadn’t. There is something broken about him. His face is ashen, marked by shadows of exhaustion. His lip quivers.

“I’m chained to you,” she half-whispers. “The least you could do is not tighten the shackles around my neck.”

“I never wished for it.”

“I never wished for it, either!”

There is a dull ache in her chest. The stranger before her won’t meet her eyes, and she loses her footing again, alone and tired and desperate for a change.

She won’t beg. She’ll never beg.

But she is not yet ready to stop pushing.

“You won’t even let me close.”

Aemond’s face crumbles, and she finds nothing in him but raw, agonising vulnerability.

“It is not easy to learn something so foreign.”

Her fingers find the lacings of his riding leathers.

They have succumbed to a heavy sort of silence. It stretches and grows; haunts their days and nights with equal intensity. She allows this quietude to exist with a trace of vindictiveness inside her bones. If one of them ought to break it, it is him.

As always, he prepares to leave with the first mark of sunset. She bites back all protests rising to her lips. She will not speak. Her words do little more than fall upon deaf ears.

She allows herself this much: crumbs of him, all stolen, when she stands close and brushes her fingers against his clothes. She ignores his scent, and his warmth, and the way her skin itches with the want to press closer.

Aemond’s eye scorches the skin of her cheeks.

He hasn’t moved away. She is glad not to have been forced to choke on scarlet shame—to have him flee her touch again would be the end to all the lingering remnants of hope. Aemond stands still and stiff, and she is half-convinced that he’s holding his breath.

She freezes in her tracks when one of his hands grabs both of hers into a gentle embrace.

The tips of his fingers are calloused. He strokes her skin with his thumb, and she clings onto the last of her composure, unwilling to melt before him.

A single touch. That’s how much it takes to shatter her resolve.

“You’re too good,” he says, and the words are little more than a whisper. “Pure. My hands could only ever ruin you.”

Her eyes find his, and she wishes she could decipher what remains unspoken by looking at him alone. She wants to know his heart and his mind. She wants to know all his thoughts.

Her greedy fingertips trace the lines of his palm. His hand trembles.

“How could something so gentle ruin?”

He has only ever held her with meticulous cautiousness. She knows his touch as tender and attentive. Warm. Doesn’t he see the shivers he evokes? Doesn’t he know that they come from fondness and devotion and the deep affection that she drowns in? He cannot ruin her. His hands are not capable of it.

Aemond doesn’t believe her. His vulnerability shows through the cracks of his usual composure. He tries to enshroud himself in indifference, but she has long since learned his mannerisms. The mask of blankness will not deceive her.

He attempts to tear his hand away, but she tightens her hold.

“Look at me, husband.”

It is a demand. Aemond must recognise it as such, because the lowered eye flickers and gives in.

Because she is a woman of weakness, she lets herself put a hand on his cheek. Her fingers hook under the strap of the eyepatch. She hears him gasp for air, and the sound reverberates in her ears like a prayer.

Her heartbeat is wild and strong, and she whispers, “Don’t you see? There is no fear in my eyes.”

The memory of his gaze induces odd tremors long after he departs.

The mattress dips behind her.

There is an onslaught of heat that spreads over her bare skin, though she has yet to discern what it stems from. The air goes still. Heavy.

It begins with a fingertip tracing the length of her forearm. The touch is featherlike—no more than a gentle stroke that lacks any pressure. So light. So light, barely even there, and yet at once she is consumed by flames.

“Husband,” she breathes into the night.

A rush of hot air hits her ear when he whispers an answering, “Wife.”

Aemond’s fingers traverse the expanse of the skin that isn’t covered by blankets. He moves from the side of her palm, through the nook of her elbow, higher, higher. His hand reaches her shoulders; fingers spread towards the outline of her collarbone, dipping into the crevices and searing a string of goosebumps into her skin. She holds her breath. Her heart pounds against her chest in violent patterns.

He smells of smoke. She wishes to inhale his fragrance until she chokes on it; until it fills her lungs and replaces all oxygen. Aemond presses closer to her, and she holds back a whimper when he moves his hand to her neck.

“I have neglected you,” Aemond murmurs.

“You have.”

“And now I must beg your forgiveness.”

Aemond’s hand closes around her throat, and she holds back a gasp.

Their bodies are pressed together. She exhales in surprise when she finds his forearms as bare as hers. He must have abandoned his shirt before crawling into bed.

Their bed. The bed that is supposed to be shared.

“I rather thought your constant neglect was deliberate practice,” she says, forcing her voice not to crack. “Why would you beg forgiveness for something you feel no remorse about?”

A gasp tears out of her throat when Aemond seizes her arm and flips her onto her back.

Their faces are close; closer than she thought they’d ever come again. In the pale moonlight, his features become soft and veiled. She wishes she could see him in sharp lights; wishes to trace every blemish and mark on his skin. This subdued version of him is not sufficient. She must imprint every part of him in her mind.

When he hums, her own skin vibrates with the sound.

She clamps her legs together.

“Yes,” he muses. “You have voiced your displeasure with astonishing fervour.”

Her lips part when one of his legs sneaks in between hers. He is quick to push her knees apart.

“As was my right,” she replies, and the words come out as breathless.

Aemond’s thigh is solid. She feels the flexing of his muscles against her own skin. Her nightgown rides up from the friction, and soon her calves are left exposed.

“You said you were chained to me.”

“And it was the truth.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when you pretend that you’re not chained to me as well.”

Slightly, slowly, she pushes her head up. His breath hits her cheek; her lips come so close to his chin that she could press them against it without straining.

Aemond’s fingers tighten their hold on her neck.

Their eyes meet, and it is fire clashing with fire. The purple gives way to a deranged darkness; Aemond’s face is unmasked. She looks at him and holds her breath. Looks at him until everything in the background blurs. Her trembling fingers reach to cup his jaw, and when they connect with the soft skin, he lets out a quiet gasp.

“I do it for your own sake,” he breathes out. “You know nothing about the depravities living in my mind.”

She trembles when his thumb comes up to caress her lips.

“So good. So pure.” Aemond trails the outline of her mouth, voice dropping with each word. “And yet you’ve instilled a madness in me that I can no longer quench.”

She wants to grab him by the neck and pull him closer. She wants their lips to press together; to meld into one, and turn to ashes from the force of flames. Does he know that she dreams of the shape of his lips? Does he know that her eyes trace it when he’s reading—that she now knows it by heart? His taste haunts her. Sometimes, she puts her warm fingers onto her mouth and imagines that the heat is him. Sometimes, she touches herself and imagines his lips nibbling on a different spot.

Keeping her scorching desire leashed, she remains still.

It is he who must cross the remaining distance. It is he who must light up the flames.

His hand comes up to her face. Her cheek tickles from his fingertips; lashes flutter when he brushes his thumb against them. She opens her mouth—to taunt him, or curse him, or beg. She only knows that she must say something. Anything. She cannot let this fire die. Her head spins and her skin tingles—

And then his mouth is on hers.

It is a hungry kiss. He aims to devour her. She moans into his lips when he bites down; he shifts his weight, and her skin burns underneath his body. Aemond holds her chin; tilts it to his liking, claiming her mouth with greed and lust and depravity. She forgets to breathe. There is no need for air when he’s this close.

Out of fear that he’ll try to move away, she wraps her arms around his broad shoulders. His skin is scalding-hot, and she cherishes the way it burns.

She licks his bottom lip, demanding entrance, and he is quick to oblige. Their teeth clink, and she pulls him closer, and soon their tongues swirl around one another, none willing to yield. He tastes like fire. She wants to swallow him whole.

They break apart when his fingers grab the fabric of her nightgown.

“I want this off,” he says, already hiking it up, impatient to leave her naked.

“Do you?” she teases.

Aemond is not in a mood for her games.

She gasps in surprise when something rips apart, and then she sees two pieces of white cloth hanging from his hands. He has ruined her gown, and seems to be awfully pleased with himself. She should make her displeasure clear—

He traces the outline of her lips with his tongue, and she forgets all about the robe.

“You’re so sweet,” he pants. “My sweet wife.”

His words push her to the brink of madness. Wife. Wife.

His eye trails from her lips to her throat, and lower towards her breasts. He looks at her peaked nipples, red and aching like her mouth.

One of his fingers brush against the pebble, and she stifles a moan.

“Look at you,” Aemond breathes, and his chest rises and falls with increasing intensity. “I barely touched you, and you’re already trembling.”

He must not realise the extent of his influence on her traitorous body.

She opens her mouth to tell him as much, but then his mouth travels down her throat and her breastbone, and soon replaces his fingers. He peppers her sensitive skin with kisses; nibbles at the flesh in the hollow of her bust. She quivers under his attention, hands finding the strands of his hair. When Aemond’s lips wrap around her hard nipple, she cries out.

His hand traverses up her thigh. Wantonly, she spreads her legs so that his hips can fit in the middle. He is quick to push against her—push until there’s barely any space left between them—and when she feels his rock-hard length, she forgets all about swallowing the desperate sounds. Her back arches, and Aemond keeps sucking at her breast, alternating between soft brushes of his lips and harsh bites of his teeth, and she is burning. Flames consume her whole.

She pulsates against him. Her walls clench around nothing—they’re empty, they’re empty, and she must be filled or else she’ll go mad.

“I want you inside,” she demands, nails sinking into his skin, too lost in her desire to veil herself with feigned innocence.

Aemond breathes out a laugh in response, and the warmth mingles with the cold saliva that he’s left on her nipple. She makes a strangled noise.

He raises his head, and there is a sudden sobriety in his expression. She knows its roots. Aemond insists on holding onto self-deprecation, and it is clear that he still doesn’t think himself worthy of touching her.

She will rip this doubt out, even if its thorns draw blood.

Her hands come up to cup his face.

With intensified ardour, she repeats, “I want you inside.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he rids himself of his resolve.

Her breathing turns rugged when Aemond grabs both her thighs, pulling them further apart. It’s dark, but he must see the way she glistens under the moonlight. Her cunt is dripping wet. She restrains herself from rocking her hips forward in search for friction.

“You do want me.”

She does. She does. She needs him, and she must be touched, and if he doesn’t bury himself inside her—

Her body jerks when Aemond’s fingers descend to her clit.

His touch is a firestorm. She shudders when he circles around the nub; all her rational thoughts die in flames. Aemond flicks his thumb back and forth across her clit with a firmness that has her panting. His digit is already slicked with the wetness pooling out of her entrance; his fingers gather the moisture and spread it over her pulsating lips. Her face and chest must be red with want. She wants him so much that it hurts.

A shaky moan tears out of her mouth when the pressure of his touch increases. Aemond speeds up his movements; it burns, it burns. She buckles her hips, and the muscles of his thigh tense, and he is watching her with raw wonder.

Aemond kisses her sloppily. The way their tongues brush against each other is filthy. She takes his bottom lip in between her teeth, and he grunts into her mouth, and his fingers don’t stop moving against her. The friction is euphoric. Before she knows it, it brings her over the edge.

She spasms beneath him, and he doesn’t let their lips part.

It is like reaching the stars. Like drowning. Like water given to someone dying of thirst. She’s suspended in a place without time; without faces that aren’t his. There’s just Aemond. His lips. His fingers.

He doesn’t slow until she cries out from overstimulation, and even then, he strokes her bundle of nerves in a featherlike caress.

“Touch me,” Aemond breathes against her shoulder.

Still reeling from her high, she is quick to oblige.

“Here?” she asks, hands trailing down his spine, and his answer comes in teeth biting her neck.

He’s softer than she ever imagined.

The way Aemond shudders underneath her palms makes it clear that he’s unaccustomed to tender touch. It breaks her heart into pieces to think of the boy he once was—the one so starved for love but unable to accept it, always, always thinking himself undeserving of it. It hurts even more to know that even now—even when they’re chest to chest, bodies bared and mouths connected—he believes himself unworthy.

He’s so soft. Hard. He is made of harsh lines and smooth dips, and her hands greedily traverse the expanse of his exposed flesh, hoping to prove that her desire for him has no bounds. She wants him as he is. She wants every part of him.

Aemond looks into her eyes, and the purples become blurry. “Your touch heals the rot inside me.”

She claims his mouth because she can. Because he is hers.

When he enters her, she is finally whole.

It hurts because it must. He pushes until the barrier inside her relents; he is slow enough to let her adjust to his length. Pain doesn’t take away the overwhelming sensation of being full. Her breath hitches, and Aemond is quick to steal another kiss before the sound dies on her lips. He kisses her once, twice—kisses her for so long that she forgets who she is.

His next thrust renders her dazed.

Aemond’s neck is slick with sweat. Emboldened—crazed—she gathers the dampness on her tongue. There’s a sound of skin hitting skin; he ruts into her with increasing force. She is not herself anymore; no longer recalls who she was before this. Before him. No one, she thinks. Empty, empty no one.

Her vision swims when his fingers find the spot where she aches most. Aemond sears the smallest of circles into her clit; one of his hands remains on her breast, and her eyes roll back from the onslaught of sensations. His cock thrusts inside her at an agonising pace. The stretch burns.

She begins to toe the line between lucidity and delirium, and he is there to carry her through the threshold.

Her fingers tug at his silver hair. Legs wrap around his waist with a crushing force. She holds him close, and he presses against her, and the sinful sounds that fall from their lips are surely loud enough to awaken the entirety of the Red Keep.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. Now that Aemond is inside her, she never wants him to leave.

Aemond’s grunts become desperate. His movements are stripped of control, and she feels him sink his fingers deep into her hips. He holds her like he wants to leave bruises; pulls her closer with each thrust.

“Is this duty?” he whispers into her skin.

“No,” she is quick to answer. “It’s not. It’s not.”

This is something else. Something more. This is wildfire engulfing her heart; flames bursting through her bones. This is her body moulding into his in a perfect shape; lines blurring.

When his teeth sink into her shoulder, she knows that he is close. She rocks her hips against him, meeting each of his thrusts. She’s somewhere high above ground. She is flying.

“Inside me,” she rasps with the last of her breath. “I want your seed inside me.”

“Fuck.”

It sends him over the edge.

Her toes curl. Aemond’s movements turn wild, bordering on violent, and when he shudders and cries out and collapses, he takes her right with him.

There are stars inside her, and all erupt at once. She can do nothing but thrash beneath Aemond’s solid body; hold onto him so she doesn’t fall. She thrums with pleasure and pain and something else—something she cannot name—that has her gasping his name into the darkness. Aemond. Aemond.

He smothers the words with his lips on hers.

She cannot breathe. Air isn’t sufficient for her lungs. Aemond’s hands trail up her body, slow and exhausted, and soon he is cupping her face.

Their foreheads are pressed together.

All she knows is the colour of his eye.

Husband and wife. He holds her close, and their heartbeats match, and they are one.

[tired-biscuit]

oki i saw u repost the ‘herding dog x lamb x wolf’ post and i am asking u to pls walk w me here … that trope with naruto and kiba. maybe naruto is the protective hearding dog, anxiously looking for the lost lamb that strayed a bit too far from the herd one night. the poor pup’s so worried, ears flat against his head and big eyes shaken with fear that something bad happened to you as he walks deeper into the dark forest.

little did he know, the helpless little lamb was far from in trouble. in the arms of the big bad wolf that caught her, how could she be? as poor naruto is wondering around the woods, fearing the worst case scenario, you’re on your chest, squished against the grass as wolf boy kiba mounts you from behind, knot inflating as his canines mark you all over. grunts and moans of pleasure come from the both of you, only aiding naruto in his search.

and when naruto does end up finding you, he’s… conflicted. well of course he’s horrified at first! a wolf is mounting you for goodness’s sake! at the same time, however, he can’t help but feel a bit jealous. why does the stray get to mount you and he can’t? he’s been so nice to you, after all, and he’s known you the longest! if anyone should fill your holes, it should be him!

when naruto interrupts you n kiba, it only turns into a territorial match of who can knock you up first, to truly claim you <33

— possible 🌺 anon? :))

18+ MDNI, fem!reader / cw: hybrids, knotting, breeding

naruto is a tricky one in my opinion, because he might come across as someone who only wants what’s best for you, but then when he gets the chance to pick you up and carry you to safety, he just… falters. doubts himself and his clashing desires.

and the fact that you smell like nothing but sweat and restless hormones doesn’t help his case either. he tries being the hero, tries to stand his ground and threaten and intimidate kiba for taking advantage of a sweet thing like you in such a ‘disgusting’ manner, but the wolf hybrid just sneers, exposing his elongated canines while he tells him that all he did was keep you safe. after all, the woods can be quite the dangerous place for a little lamb such as yourself, so it’s actually a good thing that a big beast like him has kept you warm and protected from other predators, is it not?

but that can’t possibly be true, can it? though come to think of it, the dazed smile that sits on your innocent-looking face now sure tells naruto otherwise… you’re perfectly content, with or without him. you feel safe, even with several bite marks and scratches littered across your plush body.

and you also feel… needy. like you’re in heat.

so it’s no wonder that you bunch up his shirt in your trembling fists and wiggle your hips while he’s still holding onto you. that you whine and immediately try to push away from him and go back to your new scary-looking wolf friend, whose already sharp smile grows even more honed when naruto, being the loyal dog that he is, tells you that you don’t need to worry, that he’s going to get you right back home.

but the problem is that you don’t want to go home! no, no, no, what you want is to stay right here, and feel the dirt underneath your fingernails while the big bad wolf continues to make you feel like one of a kind and special instead of just another head amongst the herd.

so after a bit of back and forth, and a warning growl so deep that it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention when it escapes the wolf hybrid’s throat, naruto finally succumbs.

kiba isn’t particularly happy about it — his gaze is piercing and his teeth are bared in a snarl as he watches you unclasp the collar and unbutton the dog hybrid’s pants — but he lets you do as you wish if it means that you’ll get to stay in the end. his desire to have you underneath him again is just another form of possessiveness. he’ll swallow the bullet even if it kills him.

and naruto, well, he feels this upcoming sense of animalistic frenzy come forth as he watches you lay on the soft grass and spread your legs for him; clearly beckoning him to give in to the urges that he’s been having for months now just so that you can get your way in the end. by the time he finally crawls on top of you and pushes his cock between your wet folds, still visibly hesitant, you’re already pliant, soft, and so slick between your thighs that he can see them glisten.

he knows what the reason behind it is. you’re already so full of cum and fucked out that you take him with utmost ease. your body is so warm and stretchy that when he goes to push your knees to your chest, all you do is sigh with pleasure instead of squirm with discomfort. he cautiously licks the side of your cheek, tasting salt, and his canine instincts take over eventually — making his back hunched and his temples drip with sweat as he mindlessly ruts into you, pounding your sweet pussy in a frighteningly similar way the wolf had previously done.

in the end, they’re two sides of the same coin.

you let out a broken whimper when you feel his knot begin to swell inside you. he’s nothing like the good boy that you’ve once known him to be; no, now his collar lays abandoned in the grass beside you, and he’s growling lowly into the side of your neck, letting his canines drag across your pulse point as he holds onto you with a grip so tight that it might just bruise your already marked skin.

when he sinks his claws into the back of your thighs and spills his load inside you, kiba is already nosing his way between you, cooing at you that you have to roll back onto your belly now because it’s his turn to breed you again, that he has to make sure the pups are his instead of the ‘mutt’s’.

they don’t like each other, that much is obvious.

however, they will refrain from ripping each other’s throats out if it means that you’ll offer them yours.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Would you like an AU in this trying time?

Honestly, I can't remember if I sent you this one before because it is an older one from my brain, but I woke up with it on the mind. Rotating in my brain.

Anyway, another Dark Vampire AU for you.

Humans are, in a word, extinct. Not that they aren't around, but they don't exist outside captivity anymore.

When technology advanced and cloning became easy and cheap, Vampires no longer saw any reason to hunt and capture their food. Instead, they captured and controlled the whole world, putting humans in their rightful place as domestic food or tamed pets.

Cloning added in a new fun activity for vampires: Design Lines. Human beings genetically designed to taste delicious and to have easy to manage temperaments. A cross between Designer Dogs and GMO foods. Genetic control for the benefit of Vampire Kind.

There is a whole industry for design lines. The high end lines are seen as a way to flaunt one's wealth. Covens brag over what kind of humans they have in their possession like a rich person would talk about rare vintages of wine. Design Lines are ABSOLUTELY a status symbol.

Not all lines are Design Lines. Not all Vampires are rich or powerful, but they still need to eat. There are fodder lines that just get sold for cheap, just so Vampires can eat. Usually, these fodder lines are just Design Lines that were considered failures. Something went wrong in the genetics that made them imperfect. Imperfections are noticed when the human is pretty young, so they immediately go on discount and are bought by less affluent vamps.

However, it's a pretty big rule that Vampires don't bite human kids. It's not a law, but it's considered pretty taboo and Vamps would look down their nose at that. Kids don't have much blood. A vampire could ruin them before they grow. It would be a WASTE.

So, nobody realized how DELICIOUS the Blade line was until they grew much older.

The Blade line was a “failed” designer line. They came out with Pink hair, which was strange but could be waved off. The bigger issue was the temperament.

The Blade line was downright aggressive!

Why were the human kids so angry at being contained? Why didn't they act all docile and sweet? It's soooo weird. No one would want to purchase such an unruly human. So, the Blade line was sold off for pennies while they were still kids, the research for the line was scrapped, and the company responsible for creating them moved on to different projects.

Only for years later to find out that the Blade line had THE MOST DELICIOUS blood.

It becomes a collectors nightmare as suddenly all of these big name covens want to get their hands on one of the Blade line. It was a test line of only about 100 humans. Quite a few are already dead, drained by stupid or starving vampires. Some were killed just because they really are stubborn as hell and Vampires don't always have patience for that in their food. Many covens don't want to part with their sudden status symbols. Others are more than happy to win favor and trade one of the kids to a more powerful coven. It becomes a bit of a craze to try and get a Blade line. The company that created them tries to recreate them, but it never seems to work well.

It's a bit of a mess. A new item went viral and now no one can purchase it sort of mess.

Technoblade was purchased by a mid-grade Vampire coven when he was a kid. The Vampires in the coven aren't starving but they certainly aren't anyone powerful. They tended to buy fodder lines for food, but that was out of practicality and frugality, not desperation. They didn't needlessly throw away food, either. Only when it got too old to be of use anymore.

Technoblade had never been bitten. He was approaching the age that it would be acceptable and he saw the looks that the Vampires gave him, but he was also given a wary look. He HAD broken one of the Coven's nose when he swung a iron pipe at its face during an escape attempt.

He had been punished for that.

Anyways, the coven's wariness means that he is never bitten before the coven finds out what a TREASURE he is. How much he is worth. The coven argues on what to do with him. Keep him for themselves? Sell him for more wealth? It's debated hotly with the coven.

In the end, the decision is made for them when one of them accidentally offends the Antarctic Coven.

The Antarctic Coven demands recompense and the coven that owns Techno is frantic. So they do the only thing they can think of.

They offer their Blade Line human to repay.

That MIGHT have been completely planned by the Antarctic, but who could say?

So, this coven drags Technoblade along with his AKC paperwork to the Antarctic Coven, who act so very surprised to get a Blade Line human. Such a shock. But of COURSE they could forgive random coven, they have given them such a great gift.

Technoblade is less than enthused. Sure, the rooms are nicer and the clothes are fancier, but Techno is still not happy to be stuck in the home of leeches.

Anytime they try to so much as touch him, he tenses and tries to punch (or bite) them. Very feral kitten coded. Technoblade reacts with anger whenever Phil or Wilbur or Tommy coo over him. Over his hair. Over his eyes. It pisses him off even more when they seem to enjoy his scathing insults or glares.

Those ARE all trademarks of what he is, after all.

They DO have to confirm if he is ACTUALLY a Blade. Papers can be falsified, after all. And he COULD be from one of the failed recreations.

Of course, the easiest test for that is blood. To compare his blood to the records or the Blade line. Technoblade is VIOLENTLY opposed to getting blood drawn, even if it isn't through a bite. He's held down by Tommy and Phil while an expert carefully draws blood to be tested. Not only tested for legitimacy, but also for health, individual genetic anomalies, but they also rank it's flavor against the others in the Blade line. Just because you might as well be competitive about that.

Techno ranks in the top five on that. Wilbur laughs that his temper must be why.

Technoblade throws a vase at his face.

But he…doesn't get punished for that.

Some Vampire covens break the spirit out of their food/pets/humans. The Antarctic Coven doesn't care for that mindset. It's boring. It's weak to have to beat a human into submission.

They prefer a softer route.

It's so easy to make a human feel safe. It's so easy to give them softness and be rewarded with gratitude. They are well practiced in gently guiding a human to accept the collar they weld around their throats. The Antarctic Coven has done it time and time again.

They don’t bite a human until they are allowed. Until the human agrees. And, usually, that's pretty easy to do.

Except Technoblade is SO. Fucking. Stubborn.

He WON'T agree!

So they keep trying, using the ante. Upping the gifts and the seeming kindness. Giving him a soft room(only one door to leave), a beautiful window view (iron bars to prevent him leaving) and anything he could ask for(within reason). So why isn't he baring his neck for them????

And in that confusion, they have to ACTUALLY see Technoblade as a person. It's been CENTURIES since they have seen humans as people. Like, sure, they were human once, but they don't remember it. But they start treating Techno as a person and not a pet and things…shift.

They bond. They genuinely see Techno and they love what they've found.

Technoblade starts to enjoy them, as well. Their requests to drink become an inside joke between them, Techno giving colorful refusals.

Of course, eventually there would be a moment where Techno feels like they were just manipulating his emotions. Maybe he overhears another Vampire complimenting them on their methods, throwing them all back to square one.

Technoblade is angry and hurt and glares at them with hatred. He wants nothing from them. They can just take his blood and leave him alone. Stop with the games. Just bite him and take away the illusion that they actually care.

The Antarctic Coven looks between each other and agrees. They decide to bite Techno. Technoblade is in emotional agony and doesn't really notice how much the initial bites hurt. Especially with how euphoric it becomes as the venom numbs. Technoblade's head swims. And swims. Until he falls unconscious.

The Antarctic Coven decided that Technoblade wouldn't be food. He would become one of them. Changed. The only time they bit him as a human was to make him into one of them.

Technoblade sleeps for a decade, the change very very slow. And there are quite a few people who think that the Antarctic Coven have lost their minds. They gave up a priceless treasure. But The Antarctic Coven sees that Vampirekind lost something when they ruined Humanity. Like, they had truly destroyed Humanity. The concept of Humanity. And the vain and bored Vampires couldn't even see it.

Technoblade is going to be angry when he wakes, but that value that about him, not as a pet but as himself.

Lenn, words can't express how obsessed I've been with this one lately, I've been on a vampire AUs and bloodbag AUs kick lately the concept is so good and can be done in so many ways ranging from hurt/comfort to dark to fluffy and this one is just -ferally tears up the couch cushions-

[mrsjellymunson]

Imagine coming home after a long day of work or what not and you hear eddie talking to someone, you assume one of eddies friends or his uncle is over so you head in to the living room to greet eddie and who ever just to find eddie with like four maine coon kittens he glances over at you and smiles "look what i found in a box babe we can keep them right? I didn't wanna leave them out in the cold or well in general"

NO you did NOT just invoke The Maine Coon Principle™️?!?! 🙀 (This is one of my bestie’s favourite breeds and she’s had numerous over the years, and I’ve even been lucky enough to look after them at my house on occasion).

“Four, Eddie? You’ve brought four cats into the house? You realise we live in an apartment, right?! Well, they are pretty cute, maybe we can keep one. Ohhh, their fur is so sofffft… Okay, maybe two. What do you mean, we can’t split them up because they’ll pine for each other? I’ll split something in a minute… Stop making that face at me. You know I can���t say no to you when you make that face… Don’t- don’t touch me either. Stop. Stop it! Okay, okay, I submit, I submit! We’ll keep them all, Jeez… You gotta promise to help out with the litter though…”

Eddie calls the white one Falcor, and he spends most of his time lounging on sunny windowsills. Despite what you’d heard about white cats, he’s not deaf. Unless you’re scolding him for something, in which case he most definitely invokes his selective hearing.

The grey and white one is Ozzy. He’s the biggest, and he has a wild expression and demeanour that mirrors his namesake. He does what he likes, when he likes, and couldn’t give a dead mouse about what you think.

The brownish-black one Eddie calls Bear, because, well, he is one. He’s a massive softie (just like Eddie), and will find the most inconvenient and inappropriate times and positions in which to demand affection. On the phone to your boss? His butt is in your face. Trying to cook? He’s pawing at your sleeves from the kitchen counter (what is he doing up there anyway?! Get down Bear, you know you’re not allowed up there!)

And the smallest one, a tabby who’s still in reality much larger than your average domestic cat, is called Pickle, because she’s a cheeky minx and is always getting into scrapes. Once, you thought she’d disappeared because you didn’t see her for days, but it turned out she’d made a home on top of the kitchen cabinets. And that time you had to have the flooring up to fix an electrical fault, she managed to sneak down there and came back with fur absolutely covered in cobwebs and, you suspect, a belly full of spiders.

You keep them as house cats because your apartment’s on the fourth floor and there’s no safe space to let them out. And you wouldn’t want to anyway, because they’ve all grown up to be so pretty that you just know some crazy person would take a liking to them and try to steal them away. (You sometimes feel a little like this when Eddie’s playing The Hideout, but you’d never let a little healthy jealousy stop him from doing what he loves. Plus, you know he only has eyes for you. And the cats...)

You don’t know for sure whether they’re siblings (though it’s highly likely), but you understand enough about cats to know that won’t stop them *ahem* procreating. So you got them all neutered when the local animal shelter had a promotional offer, making it more affordable. They’re happy and healthy, and you feel secure in the knowledge that there aren’t ever going to be any ‘surprises’ under your bed one night when you get home. Frankly, that day Eddie brought the box home was quite enough of a cat-related shock to last you a lifetime, thank you very much. (PSA: NEUTER YOUR CATS!)

They eat you out of house and home, the litter thing is never ending, and the hair issue (that was already bad enough just with Eddie shedding his voluminous locks) makes you want to move out sometimes.

But the look on Eddie’s face when Pickle tries to climb between him and his guitar when she wants cuddles, and when two, some times three of them curl up on top of you both when you snuggle down for a movie night, makes it all worthwhile.

There’s debate about whether this breed are either extremely intelligent, or actually a bit stupid. You think you could say the same about Eddie, and you’re still undecided about either the cats or him. You suspect it’s actually a mixture of both. And you wonder whether that’s one of the (many) reasons why you love him, and your found cat family, so very, very much.

🐱🐈

Tagging my general taglist, even though none of you have ever asked to be notified about any cat-related content 😹😹: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @curlyjoequinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi backtagging @rebelfell

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

“You’re gorgeous.”

Lips brush softly against Billy’s temple. Fingers card into his hair at the base of his scalp, holding him like he’s something precious.

Billy scrunches his nose.

“Knock it off,” he scoffs.

When he bats his hand around, shrugging away from the touch, his wrist is snatched with a gentle grip.

“So fussy over nothing,” Eddie muses. He smooths his thumb from side to side against Billy’s inner wrist, leaning forward and planting another kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Why do you always get so grumpy when I compliment you, hm?”

Now, Billy’s brows draw together. Eddie kisses the crease, snorting into Billy’s palm when his free hand flies up to shove at his face.

“‘Cause it’s gay.”

“Well, I have some news you’re not gonna like.”

The brunet’s voice is muffled. He wiggles his eyebrows from between Billy’s fingers, and Billy only retracts his hand when lips press against his palm.

He makes a show of wiping his hand against the front of his shirt, and Eddie snickers.

“I don’t like it, okay?”

“Don’t like kisses? Blondie, I’m wounded.” Eddie closes the short distance between them, crowding Billy against the headboard. “You sure seemed to like ‘em a minute ago when I was—“

“Shh, stop,” Billy interrupts.

He can feel his skin grow hot when Eddie cracks a face-splitting grin, so close he can almost taste it.

In the back of his mind, on loop, is the sound of the headboard thunking against the wall over and over. The box springs creaking. Those damn fucking handcuffs rattling around his wrists.

As if sensing how deep his embarrassment runs, Eddie reaches up to tuck a curl behind Billy’s ear.

Just enough softness to cut the edge. Always.

“C’mon, you know how pretty you are, how can you expect me to not wanna smooch all over your face?”

“I said knock it off,” Billy warns.

Eddie stays close. Lingering well within the short reach of Billy’s personal bubble, but his expression dulls ever so slightly. Like a switch being flicked off, the light behind his eyes vanishing.

It has Billy holding his breath.

“Do you think we’re doing something wrong?”

The brunet’s voice is lower than before. Quieter. Billy opens his mouth and closes it again, looking for the answers in the other’s expression.

When he doesn’t provide a response, Eddie huffs amusedly and tilts his head to the side. Releases Billy’s wrist in favor of interlacing their fingers.

“Just ‘cause you don’t want love to come your way doesn’t mean it won’t, y’know.” He leans back against his free hand, giving Billy adequate space to breathe, and chews his lip in brief thought. “Don’t have to be naked to be loved, either.”

For a long beat, Billy just stares. He almost wants to run to Munson’s bathroom and look in the mirror, just to check and make sure his thoughts aren’t written all over his face for Eddie to read aloud. It’s a silly urge, all things considered.

He’s sitting in a trailer that he spends more time in than his own bedroom, wearing a stupid t-shirt and boxers that aren’t his, surrounded by pillows that he forced Eddie to buy because one pillow just wasn’t up to code.

The devil is in the details, and suddenly the air feels thin.

Even with the small space between them, Billy is still boxed in with no feasible way out. He furrows his brows and clenches his jaw.

“You don’t love me,” Billy spits.

Then Eddie laughs and it brings his blood to a simmer.

“I kinda do, though,” he lilts. “I get this happy little rush whenever I see you, I think about buying you cassettes and other shit with my negative account balance, and I quit lookin’ at nudie mags a little while back. If you’re mopping up what I’m drippin’.”

He fucking winks and Billy’s sure his face is redder than a tomato right now.

“What do you look at?” he hears himself ask.

His voice sounds far away over the thundering in his ears. Eddie snickers and leans over towards the edge of the bed, pulling the top drawer of his nightstand open and routing around.

How he keeps track of anything in this room is beyond Billy. Still, he manages to produce exactly what he’s looking for; a Polaroid.

Eddie sits back up, looking over the picture fondly for a moment before he hands it over. Billy accepts it with shaky hands.

The camera has made it into a few of their sessions before. For later, Eddie always says, and then snaps the most diabolical picture any lens has ever seen. The pervert probably has a whole shoebox full of them by now.

Not that Billy would ever ask to see.

He’s expecting something filthy when he turns it over in his hand. A shot of cum all over his face, or his mouth full of cock with a fist in his hair, shoving him deeper. The last thing he needs to see right now.

Instead, it’s an image of him smiling. Fully clothed. Eyes shut, and crinkled at the corners.

He looks genuinely happy, and he can’t even recall when the picture was taken. All he can deduce from the background is that he’s in Eddie’s room.

Go figure.

“We were smoking,” Eddie says, leaning closer to tip the picture down so he can peak at it once more. “One of those first times, before we ever did anything, and you were so giggly. Laughed at damn near everything I said, and I knew I wanted to remember that sound and how pretty you looked when you smiled all big like that.”

“Wanted to remember?”

“Mhm, you immediately smacked the camera out of my hand and yelled at me,” Eddie snickers. “Wasn’t sure I’d get another opportunity.”

He sighs fondly, like that’s endearing to him, and Billy presses his lips into a line.

“You jerk off to this?”

“Well, when you say it like that—“ Eddie pauses. Dawns a bit of a blush and shrugs one of his shoulders, still peaking at the picture. “You look relaxed. Totally at ease and happy, and it just gets me excited, I guess.”

Billy nods.

“How many times have you whacked to it?”

Eddie clears his throat and averts his eyes, sitting up straight reaching to toy with a lock of his hair.

“Like, uh, I dunno. A lot?”

“What’s a lot?”

Briefly, Eddie’s eyes flit back to Billy’s, and he looks away again. Tugs his hair in front of his face to hide his rapidly reddening complexion.

“Maybe something like 20-ish?”

Billy’s brows shoot upward.

“20 times?”

“Just counting the times I’ve used it exclusively.”

“Christ.” Billy shakes his head, spreading the faintest hint of a smile. “No wonder you keep saying you like me so much, you fuckin’ Pavloved yourself.”

“No, I felt that way the first time!”

Billy laughs, and he doesn’t miss the way that Eddie stares at him through half-lidded eyes. Like he just did something sexy with the intention of getting a rise out of the brunet.

It makes everything too real.

The air between them is suddenly hot again like it was mere minutes ago. Billy swallows thickly.

“That’s really your ultimate fantasy? Making me happy?” he asks. Glances back down at the picture. “More vanilla than I would’ve guessed.”

“Oh, you saying I can’t fuck you nasty and make you happy at the same time? That’s a challenge I’m willing to accept.”

Eddie crawls closer again. Dips down to nudge his face into Billy’s chest like a cat, pressing kisses against the worn fabric of his shirt.

When a hand brushes up his side, Billy goes rigid. Takes a few calming breaths and fights the urge to squirm away when Eddie kisses at his collarbone. He warily pushes his fingers through the brunet’s hair instead, cradling the base of his scalp.

Because maybe he’s something precious, too.

“You’re weird, Munson.”

Eddie chuckles, nosing fondly at his neck.

“You’re gorgeous, Hargrove.”

[claiestve]

𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 ꨄ Alex

˜”* ❝𝙄 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙄'𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮.❞

⎯⎯ ୨ ୧ ⎯⎯

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ & ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ

⎯୨⎯ " " ⎯୧⎯

“What do you mean?” 

Honestly, you didn’t know what happened. It seemed like, at that moment, your conscience took over. You still debated whether this was a good decision, but no matter what, you could never change the answer. It wasn’t like a ‘good or bad’ thing, but rather a right or wrong. And which one did this fall under?

“[name]! I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted to be considerate of your feelings.”

“You always say that, Alex. You always say your decisions are made to better both of us. It’s like you think you’re my guardian angel or something.”

“I’m not implying that at all.”

That was such a lie and you knew it. Alex always made a point to be the ‘humble’ one who cared for you more than himself. Your friends used to ask you how you found someone so caring like him. It wasn’t a complete facade but it was an exaggeration. 

He could sit in front of your face all day and pretend he was always right. Not a liar just stubborn. 

“What would I do without you?” You mocked his tone, “I didn’t ask for you to be considerate of my feelings, Alex. Lord knows if I wanted that, I wouldn’t ask to talk to you and catch up.”

“Look, it’s clear there’s still animosity and I don’t want to make this tension worse.”

“Alex, there’s no tension. I’m just trying to make myself clear. Now, can you answer to my request?”

He sighed, looking around. You didn’t know exactly what he was looking at or for and you didn’t like that it wasn’t you. Even when you were right in front of him, practically begging for an answer, he didn’t want to give you that attention. 

Often, you thought about it but you never saw it. How different you two were. Sometimes you’d ask yourself where everything went wrong but you knew exactly where it all went wrong. It was sad though, seeing how you went from being so in love to now standing in front of him getting ticked off by every move he makes. 

“That’s… fine. We can catch up,” He cleared his throat, “I am quite interested in what you’ve been up to recently.”

You smiled at his attempt to lighten the mood. It was the least he could do.\

“Great, let’s walk around.” 

You smiled at him. It was partially fake. You weren’t exactly happy at the moment but you weren’t upset either.  

“So, how have you been? Have you been making a name for yourself in The Big Apple?”

“Well… it’s been great. I mean, the projects I’ve had the privilege to work on have been amazing and I’ve been accompanied by so many amazing people too. I miss home a lot though… and you.”

The last words made you stop. You didn’t need to hear them at all. Maybe if this was months ago when you were still thinking about him every night, but you were healed now. There was no longer a desire to see him or know how he was. 

There were days you couldn’t even get out of bed because all you could think about was him. For a while, it felt like he was a resident in your mind. You never thought you’d be okay after the break up so when you were, it gave you a new kind of confidence. However, hearing him say he missed you shattered your heart. Maybe because you lived partly in the dark after him. 

“Um,” He tried to refocus the conversation, “How has being a lawyer been?”

“It’s been good. I can’t talk about much, but even if I could, it wouldn’t sound nearly as interesting as your whole photography thing.”

He nodded, looking at you expectantly. Like he wanted you to comment on him missing you. Possibly wanting a reciprocation. 

“I didn’t know you missed me.”

“It’s hard not to. You were my everything outside of my career. You meant– you mean so much to me so it’s not exactly easy to let go.”

“I get that.”

He scoffed at that. It felt like he was disappointed with your responses because he wasn’t getting proper validation. He wanted you to want him. Alex loved the way you loved him so what happens when you no longer do?

“I mean, [name], c’mon. You can’t act so nonchalant about this. You hear me, right? I’ve been telling you I miss you and all you can say is ‘I get that’.”

“What? Do you want me to tell you that I missed you too? I did but that’s in the past, Alex. That breakup really fucked me up. I wish you knew how bad it actually was. My existence doesn’t revolve around the love we once had for each other.”

“I still love you. I don’t get why you insist on putting us in the past!”

“Because, Alex!” You start to match his tone, getting as loud as him, “You may love me and I promise I love you too, and I always will but I am not in love with you. There’s a difference. I don’t want to relive that pain so yes, we are in the past so I can heal in the present!”

You stop walking and look at him, deep in his eyes. Seeing him nearly beg for you to run back to him made you feel betrayed. 

“I have taken time to heal which is why I thought we could have this conversation but I was clearly wrong. I hope you can do the same, Alex. Trust me, you’ll be so much happier once you leave our relationship in the past.”

You tried to walk away before feeling a firm grip on your wrist. 

“You can’t just walk away, [name]! Why do you choose to walk away from us?”

“Because I’m not choosing ‘us’,” You removed his hand, “I’m choosing myself.”

With that, you walked away as fast as you could. You were eager to get out of that because you knew that nothing good would come out of that conversation. 

Your friend smiled and reached out to embrace you. 

“I’m so proud of you for that.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

glad we made it this far um yeah! that shit made me mad and i wrote it sooooo yeah but anyways round of applause for the reader

[johnwickb1tsch]

👀👀👀 (I’m not sorry at all jsyk)

I KNEW YOU'D SEND THE FUCKING FOOT GIF!!!🤣🤣🤣 I love you @treedaddymcpuffpuff !!!😘😘😘😘

Peep Toe Pumps - Kevin Lomax x fem!Reader

warnings: nsfw, foot fetish? fire divider by X

"You have pretty feet."

It's the first truly personal thing your new boss, Kevin Lomax, [Esq.] , says to you after months of working for Milton & Lomax. Maybe it wasn't entirely professional, wearing open-toed heels to the office, but it had been a looong winter in New York, and the first nice day of spring you couldn't resist.

He couldn't either, apparently.

You should have been suspicious, when he breezed into your cubicle and threw down a thick stack of papers, totally out of order, and said you were going to have to stay late to sort it all out. He was the boss, and it wasn't like your collection of houseplants were going to miss you...

And be real. One searing look from those burning dark eyes mixed with that sugar-sweet southern accent, and you would have done The Little Teapot dance on your desk in front of everyone if he asked you to. That man just has a magnetism. It's almost supernatural, the way he can sway people.

You guess that’s why he makes The Big Bucks. 

It's late and the office is practically deserted, by the time you've finished collating the mishmash of the court file. How had that even happened? Almost like someone dropped all the papers on the floor and deliberately mixed them together badly. And maybe, maybe you feel the slightest trill of alarm, as you realize how alone you are on the floor, making your way past all the empty cubicles. But you push it away, down down down with all your other little intuitions about this place, because you don't really have a choice. This city is expensive, and you are not going home.

You knock on his office door, and receive a muffled invitation to come in. "Here you are, sir," you say, resting the tome-like stack upon his behemoth of a walnut desk. He's sitting by the window in his shirt sleeves, black suspenders stark against his white button up, cuffs rolled up over powerful forearms. Though you know he’s a widower, he still wears his wedding ring. You don't know why the sight seems almost intimate to you.

It's late, and you are tired.

"Thank you, y/n." You nod, and make to go. "Want a drink?" The offer makes you freeze in your tracks. It's not something the partners usually extend to a lowly secretary like you. But as he lifts his drink your way, swirls an amber liquid with ice cubes clinking in his cut-crystal glass--he is the very embodiment of temptation. You don't even really like hard spirits, don't know how you'll drink it without making a ridiculous face in front of your boss, but still you find yourself nodding slowly, almost as though you don't have control of yourself. 

He smiles at you, knowing, but not unkind. 

It must just be the reflection off his wire rimmed glasses, but for a moment, it’s almost as though his dark eyes glow. 

He gets you the drink himself, waves for you to sit down across from him. You have to admit you are happy to get off your feet. You take a small sip, and do your level best not to grimace. 

“Good?” he asks, and you can tell he is laughing behind his own glass. 

“I don’t know,” you decide to answer, setting your tumbler down with a sigh. You take a moment to look out the window, the lights of Manhattan like your own galaxy twinkling below. “Quite a view you have up here.” You don’t get to see the lights like this, on your ground floor in Brooklyn.

“It’s breathtaking,” he agrees, and your heart does a little dance in your chest, when out the corner of your eye you realize he is looking at you. 

You shouldn’t be here, that little voice in the back of your head whispers. You know it’s right, but you just can’t convince yourself to get up and go. 

You are used to men staring at you in this city. Men will be men. But usually they’re looking at your breasts, or sometimes your mouth. Your legs, even, what they can make out protruding from your knee-length business skirts on the subway. 

This is the first time you have ever noticed a man blatantly, lustfully, staring at your feet. 

“Those hurt?” he asks, pointing at your heels with his chin. You cannot help but think he resembles a king in his court, sprawled in the comfortable leather chair across from you. It’s the most at ease you’ve ever seen him. 

You laugh a little nervously, not entirely sure what you’re getting into here. “Only since about 4:30,” you admit, which would have been the point you would have changed into your Nikes for the slog home, on a normal day. 

“Poor thing,” he laments in that cloyingly sweet drawl. God. Before you started working here, you thought men who sounded like that toted shotguns in denim overalls and hunted gators. How your perceptions have changed. “Give ‘em here.” Those long fingers make a ‘come hither’ gesture from his knee–and you think you might expire. 

“Sir?”

He smirks at you, a sparkle in his dark eyes that utterly steals your breath away. “Or not. Never met a woman who didn’t like a foot rub after a long day, but maybe you’re the first.”

Lomax makes you feel silly, when he says it like that. Like you’re the odd duck, balking at your boss touching your feet. Or–embarassed by how very much you would like for him to. You start to reach for the buckle at your ankle, but he leans closer, eager. “Allow me.”

That is how your foot ended up in his beautiful, strong hands. How he almost ceremoniously propped your shoe on his lap, on trousers that probably cost a month’s pay for you, so deftly undoing the little buckle by your ankle with clever fingers and sliding your foot free. 

It does feel heavenly, if you’re being honest, and the corner of his mouth ticks just a notch as a sound escapes you when he squeezes the ball of your foot. “Like that, sweetheart?”

“Too much, maybe,” you admit with a shaky little laugh. 

What in the ever loving FUCK do you think you are you doing?!

He traces the curve of your ankle bone with the blade of his thumb, and your eyes slide closed as though he touched you somewhere very different, your painted toes curling in his lap. This is magic, if you’re being honest, and you’re not sure you realized how much you miss being touched until this very damning moment, alone after hours with your very hot boss.

“No such thing,” he insists with that little smile that you’re sure has enticed multitudes of people to sign their lives away on the dotted line. “You’ve been working hard. You deserve a treat.”

That’s when your eyes flick down. You just can’t help it. And you see the bulge at his crotch, his burgeoning erection straining against the fabric of his pants. A spear of lust splits you down the middle, like a lightning strike to your loins–and you know this is very, very, wrong.

Oh. God. 

“Sir–” 

As though he senses your sudden need to bolt up and flee he leans towards you–without thinking, you plant your foot right on his chest, preventing him. A beat later you are horrified by your action, but you get zero time to dwell on it. With a wicked smile that melts your panties he takes your foot in his big hand–and brings it to his mouth. 

Your toe disappears between his luscious, kissable lips, his tongue tickling the bottom of your foot, and you discover you really might die of wanting. The strangled sound you make as his tongue explores between your toes is pure desire, and you know you are a ridiculous thing but your throbbing clit demands more and don’t stop. 

His lips trail up your instep, the line of your calf–is it just the light, or do his teeth suddenly seem sharp, somehow? You blink and he is on his knees before you, pushing up your skirt so his trim torso can wedge between your legs, his big hands on your thighs beneath the fabric. It takes you a moment to realize that little scream came from you. 

He looks you in the eye, as though he can see to the very depths of your soul, his pink mouth pulled in a smirk. He’s laughing at you, sure, but he still doesn’t seem cruel about it. That counts for something, somehow. 

“You want me to stop, Miss Y/n?”

Your hands are on his broad shoulders, your nails digging into the webbed fabric of his suspenders, your breath a quick and elusive thing in your chest like the fluttering of birds. He is the very embodiment of temptation, and though you know you should say yes, you simply can’t. You shake your head no, and that smile widens slightly. 

“I’d like to hear you say it aloud. An oral agreement, as it were.” 

He surely feels it, as you squirm beneath him just at hearing the word.

“No, Sir.” 

You can tell that you please him, and that should not make you feel so accomplished, so right, so liberated. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

Hearing that should not fill you with a searing heat that settles between your legs, warm and wet and so wanting. 

And that is how your boss debauched you, how he kissed you silly and ate you out in that fine leather chair, before carrying you to the desk for proper fucking. That is how he ended up inside you, you still only wearing one shoe, your legs wrapped around his waist as he railed you on top of all his important papers. You flail for something to hold on to, knocking the file you so painstakingly stayed late to organize, the pages scattering across the floor.

“Oh no,” he pouts through a devilish grin, filling you with his thick cock until his tip kisses your cervix. “Looks like you have to stay even later now.” 

“Fuck,” you moan, but it has nothing to do with your impending workload, and everything to do with the way he’s rearranging your insides, stuffing you full with that beautiful dick while his thumb flicks your clit. “You are. A devil,” you pant, so close to climax, the pleasure building and clawing in your pent-up loins. You would do anything, anything, for just a little more, right there. 

“No, just his son,” he answers through another sharp toothed grin.  

“What?” You’re not sure you heard him, over the sound of your desperate moans, your heartbeat deafening in your ears. 

“Nothing, baby girl. You cumming with me?”

“Yes sir.” 

He laughs, a wonderful, almost boyish sound, before his teeth sink into your shoulder and his hips lock against yours, spilling himself inside you as your needy little cunt flutters around his dick, milking him with the tremors of your pleasure. Utterly spent, wrung out, and more than a little ashamed, you collapse back on the desk. Still inside you, he brings your foot to his mouth again, kissing it lovingly with that wicked glint in his eye. 

“Wear those little peep-toes anytime, beautiful,” he teases you, his accent thick and sweet as molasses. Yet somehow–you sense he’s serious. 

Jesus fucking christ. 

You’re going to have to go shoe shopping. 

[zorosprincess]

Deciding Your Fate

PAIRING - Miya Atsumu x Reader WC - 1.2K GENRE - light angst, fluff CW - mentions of drinking, pining SYNOPSIS - Spending the Miyas' birthday with the two of them separately first, Osamu makes you realize that you have to decide if you'll spend the rest of your life worrying about hiding your feelings.

PREV PART | MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

Growing up with the Miya twins, if there was one thing you'd learned about their birthday. The day was meant to be all about them. 12 years of birthdays and this year would be running the exact same way as the rest.

You had to make time to see each of them individually first. Either that or hear them both whine and cry if you tried to only hang out with them together. So you always kept the tradition. Separate first, then together.

You'd spent all morning on edge this time. Got ready slowly to try and hype yourself up for the events of the day.

Atsumu got you first this year. You'd put them on a rotating schedule, changing every year who you saw first in the day. Atsumu had dragged you to the park, to a small coffee stand in the main courtyard, one that the two of you had claimed as your own on the first week at university.

For some reason this year, you couldn't get over how he looked. His hair was messy from the autumn wind and you had to refrain from running your fingers through it. His cheeks were tinted pink from the chill and you wanted to press your lips to them.

He'd shrugged off his jacket early into the morning, the first time you shivered. It wasn't quite his jacket that had warmed you up, but rather how he'd noticed and gave it to you without even breaking his sentence, draping it over your shoulders like it was second nature.

You'd laughed when he'd shivered not even ten minutes later. Your scarf was wrapped around his neck right after. It stayed there for the rest of the morning.

You spent the whole of your time together trying to hide your smile behind your coffee cup as he chatted at you. You were happy just to listen to him. He sat there with your scarf wound around his neck, his long sleeve stretched around his arms, hair getting caught in the wind. Everything in your body screamed to touch him in some way, to get closer.

Your heart ached by the end of it. Watching him wave carelessly as he held the present you'd gotten him in the air proudly. Your scarf was still wrapped around his neck and his jacket was still heavy on your shoulders. You'd tried to give it back but he'd refused, promising he'd grab it from you at the party that night.

The Miya twins' party. About to be the biggest event of the month. That is, of course, until the end when Suna would throw his famous Halloween party.

You were still wearing your look of distress on your face when you showed up at Osamu's dorm room. Entering without knocking and kicking your shoes off, you silently fell onto the bed before letting out a loud groan.

The creak of Osamu's desk chair echoed through the room as he leaned back and turned to face the bed. "Hello t'ya too."

"I'm gonna die." You groaned back, the words muffled by his pillow as you refused to lift your head and show your flushed face.

There was a beat of quiet as Osamu took in your form before he huffed out a laugh. "Is that m' brother's jacket?" You groaned and lifted your head, looking at him with puppy dog eyes, silently begging him to not go down the line of conversation he was about to. "Get it together." He rolled his eyes and threw a bag of chips from his desk at your face.

"Ow." You whined, not really in pain but sending him a dirty look nonetheless. "I didn't ask fer it! He jus' gave it t'me 'cause he noticed I was cold."

"Can ya just confess t'im already? Gettin' sick o' hearin' 'bout 'im." Osamu grimaced at you, shaking his head in disappointment as he popped a chip from his own bag in his mouth.

You groaned as you sat yourself up, situating yourself better on the bed to properly face him. "I didn' choose this curse." You puffed some air into your cheeks and your lips formed a pout as you tugged your bag open. "I blame it on ya."

"T'hell did I do?" He screwed up his face, tossing a chip at your face. "Not m'fault that ya fell fer his dumbass." You groaned and dropped your head back for a second, only pulling it back up to shove some of your chips in your mouth. "S'yer fault that ya haven' confessed after nearly three years."

"Two and a half," you pointed at him in accusation, "don't go addin' years. And anyways, I can’t!" You exclaimed, throwing your hands in the air and almost losing your bag of chips in the process. "Y'know that it ruins ev'rythin' if I do!"

"Ruins m'day when ya don't." He smirked at his own joke but when you glared at him he put his hands up in surrender. "Alright! Sorry!"

He sighed and it was quiet for a moment. Both of you were digging into your respective bags of chips until he spoke again.

"Look, I know yer afraid of losin' him. But y'ain't gonna lose him."  You gnawed on your bottom lip as you listened to him. "He loves ya. Trust me."

"S'hard Miysam." You sighed and fidgeted with a chip between your fingers. "I know I care t'much sometimes, but I can’t ruin what we have now. I know that I can survive if he doesn' love me the way I love him. But I can' handle it if we'll never be the same." You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked back up to Osamu across from you.

"But can ya spend the rest of our lives glancin' behind ya? Afraid that everythin' is gonna get snatched away from ya with one wrong move?"

You sighed. You'd never thought of it like that. Never thought of the long term repercussions of keeping your feelings to yourself. Never thought about how you'd silently resigned yourself to going the rest of yourself without telling him about your feelings.

"Ya gotta tell him and if it doesn' work then we’ll figure it out."

You sighed. He was right. You knew he was right. You had to do it. Had to tell Atsumu finally. Had to loosen your grip on your fears.

"Okay." You sighed in finality. "Okay, yer right. I’ll do it."

Osamu's jaw dropped as he looked at you. "You will!?" He was shocked that you’d actually listened this time. After all the times he'd tried before over the years.

"Tonight." You nodded, your breakfast trying to reappear. "I'll get drunk and tell him and if it goes well awesome and if it doesn'?" You shrugged your shoulders. "I'll get alcohol poisonin' and ferget all 'bout it."

"I-" Osamu was going to protest your reasoning but instead just sighed and resigned that this was all he'd get out of you. "Sure, do that." He snorted as you nodded along slowly, trying to not freak out.

"Now, can you scoot over and stop talkin' bout my brother so we can watch this damn movie before we gotta get ready."

You snorted a laugh and moved closer to the pillows, allowing him space next to you. "Yeah, whatever you ass."

Tonight, you swore. No matter what.

TAGLIST - OPEN

@faumpje @all-in-the-fandoms @pearl-blue-musings @chaes-tea @qichun @winniethepooh-lover

[bigsexiest]

What’s a little rain?

So this is my first smutty fic and hopefully it’s not as cringe as I think it is. It’s kinda long but it started as a cute idea I thought of when reading @sentientgolfball ‘s ‘Cant Get Enough’ fic. I didn't proofread since my laptop is abt to die. Idk i hope you like it.

Word count: 2361

Summary: Swiss is scared of thunderstorms, so Rain distracts him.

Swiss had always been afraid of thunderstorms. Something about it reminded him too much of his time in the pit. It makes him sad that he doesn’t enjoy storms as much as Rain and Mountain do. He envies their happiness as they run together through the halls of the ministry, trying to get outside. He’ll watch them from his window; Mountain splashing in the muddy puddles, and Rain diving into his lake. Swiss will watch them until the lightning becomes too frequent and the thunder becomes too frightening. Then he’ll close his curtains and dive under his covers, trying to keep the images of his friends having fun at the forefront of his mind. Eventually, the sound of his own labored breathing and whines will give way to snores and Swiss will awaken to clear skies wondering if he could’ve been brave.

He wants so badly to be brave. Swiss wants to be able to run through the halls with his two friends, happier than ever that the thunder is rolling through the valley. He wants to roll around in the wet grass with Mountain and he wants to play in the splashing water with Rain. But everytime there’s a storm he’s reminded of his own cowardice.

From what he understands, no other ghoul knows of his fear. They don’t notice the way he always retreats to his room at the first distant boom of thunder. Or if the skies turn a deep gray, he returns to the ghoul den immediately. It’s not like they can hear his whimpering over the sound of the storm, either. Swiss doesn’t know if this is for the better. He’d probably fare better with the soothing company of another ghoul, but he finds his fear somewhat embarrassing.

It’s humiliating to be the only ghoul who can’t handle a simple storm. He knows rationally that there’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s indoors with a roof over his head. Even Rain who goes outside during every storm has never once returned with anything other than a feeling of deep satisfaction. Sometimes Rain will go out alone, or he’ll bring a whole group of ghouls to have fun with him. 

Swiss remembers looking out his window to look for the water ghoul and finding quite the impressive sight to behold. Rain, Dew, Mountain, Aether, and Cumulus were all outside naked on the muddy ground in a pile together beside the lake. It was hard to see, but Swiss was rather certain something very inappropriate was going on. He could see Rain writhing on his back with Mountain and Dew at his sides. Whatever was going on was blocked by Aether’s body furiously slamming against Rain’s hips. Cumulus had been firmly seated on Rain’s face. 

Swiss had never felt more turned on yet left out before in his life. He was sure they’d have invited him if he had asked, but he couldn’t bring himself to run to them like he’d have wanted. He wanted to pull at his own cock which was firmly erect within his trousers, but the sound of another roll of thunder ruined his arousal. With his tail tucked between his legs, he once again crawled beneath his covers ready to hyperventilate his way to sleep.

Now, he could hear the very distant rumble of an oncoming thunderstorm. He had been sitting curled in an armchair within the ghoul den, dozing during the hazy hours of a late afternoon. Rain had been clattering around with various pots and pans in the kitchen. None of the other ghouls were around. Sister had taken Dew and Aether with her and Papa on some Ministry business thing. The girls had decided to go on some sort of camping trip for the weekend. And Mountain was off visiting some weird garden he had been yapping about. Swiss had found himself purring at the cozy ambience of being in the solitary presence of Rain. 

At the sound his eyes had snapped open with a small whine escaping his mouth. His calm had been thoroughly destroyed by the promise of what was to come. Rain, on the other hand, stomped from the kitchen to the living room to find Swiss. He still had a pan in his hand and tomato sauce smeared on his cheek. He looked insane with a wide smile on his face and bright eyes staring right at Swiss.

“Let’s go have some fun.” Rain’s tone left no room for argument, though Swiss felt sick to his stomach. He was excited for what Rain might do to him, but he was terrified of finally leaving the safety of his room. And to go outside into the thick of it, no less.

If Swiss’s face had shown any clue about how he really felt, Rain didn’t say anything. He just dropped the pan and grabbed Swiss’s arm, dragging him through the halls at a very fast pace. 

Swiss wanted to stop him but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth. When they finally reached the doors leading to the lake, Swiss was happy to find that it hadn’t started pouring yet. It was only sprinkling and the sky was still a little bright.

Rain was still holding Swiss’s arm, trying to drag him all the way to the lake, but Swiss finally dug his heels into the ground and told Rain to wait.

Swiss felt tears building, but he couldn’t stop now. He felt humiliated but he wanted Rain to know how hard this was for him. He was able to say “I’m scared of thunderstorms, Rain”, as he was clutching at Rain’s hands trying to find comfort.

He wished more than anything that he could have been in the dry safety of his own room, beneath the warm covers that had protected him during every storm. But he had come too far now, he wasn’t going to back down.

Rain’s face was a weird mix of confusion and worry. He didn’t mean to hurt Swiss, he just couldn’t imagine someone not loving thunderstorms. Rain relished the feeling of a downpour on his skin. Especially when he was naked and the drops would wash down him. He loved the sensation. But he didn’t want to make Swiss uncomfortable.

Rain was starting to profusely apologize and trying to drag Swiss back inside, when Swiss clarified that he wanted to stay outside with Rain.

“I want to enjoy the rain like you enjoy it, Rainy,” He had grabbed Rain’s arms and was looking directly into the water ghoul’s eyes, which had started to glow a blueish hue as the rain started falling harder. “I watch you out here sometimes, from my window.”

Rain was speechless. He had started blushing. He knew what happened sometimes in the hardest rainfalls of the season. Something about the weather makes him horny. He had always thought it had been a private event, everyone else too focused at looking up at the clouds through the windows to think of looking down. 

But he was quickly thrown from his thoughts as a considerably loud clap of thunder marked the start of a torrential downpour. The rain had started falling in what felt like sheets, instantly soaking the two ghoul’s clothes. Rain could see Swiss’s eyes shut tight and his shoulders hunched down, like he was trying to hide himself. His hands were still on Rain’s arms but his claws were digging into the meat of Rain’s forearms. 

“Swiss, can you look at me?” Rain could see the Multi ghoul was slightly shaking. Eventually he opened his eyes to look at Rain.

Here is where Rain found the incentive to peel his soaking wet clothes off his warm skin. He started with his shirt, making sure Swiss was watching the entire time. When he got down to his underwear, he made sure Swiss could see how aroused he was.

Rain, being fully naked, now instructed Swiss to follow along towards the edge of the lake where Rain told Swiss to strip as well.

Despite the few softer thunderclaps, Swiss’s attention was fully on Rain. Rain was aware of how he changed when in contact with his element, and he tired of it’s affect on other ghouls. His skin starts to glow so he stands out from his surroundings, and his webbing and gills became iridescent.

As Swiss was stepping out of his jeans, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the way Rain’s gills fluttered as raindrops raced down his chest and neck. Some of the drops got lost within his gills, and Swiss couldn’t stop thinking about chasing them with his tongue.

Lucky for him, Rain was putting his mouth to good use in a different way. 

Swiss watched as Rain layed down in the shallowest part of the lake, with his back, shoulder, and head partially submerged in the water. Swiss still couldn’t keep his eyes off the way the water lapped at Rain’s gills. It was invigorating to watch them work halfway out of the water. Rain’s lower half was still on the shore his erect cock throbbing on his stomach.

Swiss’s mouth started watering at the sight of Rain’s red tip, bobbing for attention.

Sitting up on his elbows, Rain motioned for Swiss to start sucking him off. Instead of fucking Swiss’s mouth like Rain often did, he encouraged the Multi ghoul to go slow and steady. 

Swiss can’t help but tug at his own forgotten erection. Feeling the rough tip of Rain’s cock slide from his lips, against the roof of his mouth, all the way deep down his throat made him feel like his was going to lose his mind. He started whining when Rain told him to slow down even more.

His cheeks were bright red, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle at Rain’s pubic bone every time his cock reached deep in Swiss’s throat. He started gagging when Rain reached down to grab and stroke at Swiss’s neck, feeling the way his cock bulged out.

Rain told him to breathe through his nose and take his time. The tears falling down Swiss’s face had nothing to do with thunder anymore.

When he started to hollow his cheeks and stroke at the underside of Rain’s cock with his tongue, Rain involuntarily bucked his hips stuffing Swiss’s mouth even more.

Swiss had abandoned stroking his own cock in favor of squeezing Rain’s hips with both hands and grinding into the sandy shore beneath him.

Rain felt like he was choking despite gasping in heavy lungfulls of air. Swiss’s mouth was so warm and wet, and the rain falling was so cold and refreshing. The water of the lake lapping around his head and shoulders contrasted the influx of pleasure he was receiving from his pelvic region. His nipples had pebbled with the combination of all the sensations. His hands wandered their way down to tangle in Swiss’s hair. He had been on the edge of cumming from the very moment Swiss had started swallowing slowly around his length. But he had held off because he wanted to keep the beautiful Multi ghoul distracted from the storm for a little longer. Rain wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold off for.

Swiss had started to moan with his mouth full, doing his best not to speed up the pace Rain had set. His mind had started to feel cloudy with pleasure, and all he could focus on was the way Rain’s dick was throbbing with heat dragging back and forth from his lips to deep in his throat. He had stopped making the movements, his head being dragged up and down by Rain’s hand threaded in his hair. He kept swallowing, trying to keep his spit from making a mess, but it was still dribbling out every time Rain pushed Swiss’s head deep onto his cock. It had started to pool on Rain’s pubic bone and balls.

When Rain felt the telltale sign of his release, he couldn’t help but smash Swiss’s head firmly onto his lap. Rain’s entire body bowed forward like he was doing a crunch, his shoulders fully off the ground and his legs slightly raised on either side of Swiss’s body. He used both hands to trap Swiss on his cock until he was finished. 

Swiss’s nose was smushed into the soft skin of Rain’s wet belly, and he continued swallowing Rain’s thick cum until it had all dissapeared down his throat.

In the aftershock’s of his orgasm Rain had fallen back down into the water, but Swiss hadn’t lifted his head away. Rain groaned with overstimulation and continued to softy buck his hips up with the aftershocks.

Swiss was still lost in the comforting headspace the sloppy blowjob had given him. He could faintly feel the warm buzzing sensation of the afterhaze of an orgasm emanating from his own cock, but he had little understanding of anything that was going on. Swiss was sure he had cum, but he wasn’t sure when. He could barely hear the rain anymore, and his own body had been filled with a numb fuzzy sensation. He can’t think of a time where he’s ever been more satisfied. He doesn’t want Rain’s cock to ever leave his mouth.

Rain never wanted to leave the water, but he knew he couldn’t leave Swiss to fall asleep in the afterglow, still impaled on Rain’s softening cock. Rain was surprised to see Swiss’s skin and sleepy eyes glowing in the same way Rain’s do. Maybe he was part water ghoul after all. 

Rain decided to grab Swiss from under his arms and drag him forward off of his cock and into the lake. It’s there that they continue to float like otters, Swiss on top of Rain, until well after the storm has passed.

[merbear25]

hi mer!! thank you for answering my last request, its lovely as always 💕

im bothering you with another ask of crocodile - san (can you tell hes my favorite, hehe?)

could i ask for hcs of him in bed / kink hcs with him, x transmale reader who is very compliant with whatever he wants, and they themselves prefer rougher sex?

hehe, thank you !!!!!

-🐊 anon ^_^

Hello, my lovely 🐊 anon! Thank you for sending this in and please bother me about whatever idea you have. I'm always happy to hear them. This man has quite the hold on you, doesn't he? 🤭 I can see why though, I mean...look at him! I hope I did your request justice and you like it 💜💜

CW: NSFW, MDNI, headcanons, transmale reader (includes both pre/post transition hcs), penetrative sex.

His little plaything (Crocodile)

Crocodile would be a very kinky man. He’d like to explore different avenues and interests in the bedroom, especially when he had someone so willinging to satisfy his every whim.

At first he wouldn’t push your limits too much, as he’d want to gradually explore what you could handle. Every twitch your body signaled, every time your face flushed from the building intensity, every desperate moan that passed your trembling lips: they were all part of the fun when it came to exploring your body.

When you whimpered, “Harder,” a cocky smirk stretched across his face.

“Be careful what you wish for,” his voice low and gravely.

If you didn’t have bottom surgery, he’d plough deep inside your walls, playing with your most sensitive bundle engorged at the top to ensure you unraveled on him quickly. However, feeling you come undone on him would only increase his hunger for you, wanting to push you over the edge again and again until you were begging him to stop.

If you did have bottom surgery, he’d tease your cock, edging you till you were begging for him to fuck you. Your pleas fueled his more sadistic nature. While he watched you huff and groan from your pent-up lust, he’d enter you from behind. Starting off gently to savor the way your body adapted to him, he’d pick up the pace to satiate his need to see your face stained with tears.

He’d want to eventually branch out and explore the kinkier side of things:

Role-play (mostly kept to a theme of abusing power), pet play (to have you crawling on all fours for him), slight humiliation kink (to be in awe of how deliciously pathetic you could be), and slight BDSM (some rough slaps, choking, and maybe a paddle). Ultimately, he’d want to ensure you were turned into a pitiful, whimpering mess.

Whether or not you were pre or post op wouldn’t matter when it came to giving you oral because he’d be so dead set on having you squirm either way.

Your cries of ecstasy fanned the flames of passion until they grew into a raging fire, and that was something he’d never tire of feeling when in bed with you.

[nomoreusername]

Not Proud

⚠️ Self harm ⚠️

Pairing:Newt x female reader

Summary:As you're ready to give in again and cut, Newt catches and comforts you.

Requested by @newts-limp

I wasn't proud of it. Not in the slightest bit. If anything, I was ashamed, but I didn't know how to stop. There's just something about the blade that seems to call to me, telling me that it was the only thing that would ever understand me.

And maybe that’s true. Maybe I’m so addicted to this thing that it truly is the only thing that matters. Maybe it's the only thing that can take the pain away. If I focus on this pain I don't have to think about the other kind. The kind on the inside that makes me want to close my eyes and not wake up.

I’m not suicidal. I don't think so, but I wouldn't exactly mind if something happened to me. I just don't have it in me to care anymore. I don't have it in me to have hope that anything good will happen soon or at all. Getting out and being actually happy and meeting other girls all feels like some dream that I’ll never get to reach.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath as I held it over my waist. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't good for me. It wasn't a solution, but I had to. I needed to do this. I had already gone a week without it, and if I didn't cut soon I was going to go crazy. I was going to lose it. I was going to do something worse than even this.

They itch. The cuts itch the most when they're healing so I just won't let them heal. It's as simple as that. Just like it's so simple to drag a blade across my stomach until I don't want to die.

I was desperate. I was really, really desperate.

I know it's wrong. I know it's an addiction, but I won't quit. I can't, but I don't need to. This isn't going to kill me. This isn't hurting anyone, and it's like I have something to fill the void inside of me. It's fine. It's fine, it's fine, it’s fine.

Taking a breath, as I went to do it my hut door opened. Frozen in disbelief, I stared at Newt who stared at me, holding my shirt up and placing a razor on my stomach. That also meant fresh cuts and old scars were on display, revealing to him just how messed up I actually am. Even though I was the best at hiding it, there was no way to brush this off.

“Hi,”I got out, managing to put my shirt down. Then, before either of us could say another word, I broke down. As I was shaking I heard my razor clank to the floor, gravity taking my biggest curse and worst blessing. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I kept mumbling incoherent apologies.

“It’s okay. It's okay, love. It's okay,”He said quickly, shutting my door and sitting beside me. Shaking my head, I kept wiping my eyes just for more tears to follow.

“It's okay. It’s okay. You're alright,”He repeated. As I buried my face in the crook of his neck the lump in my throat, along with the guilt in my stomach, seemed to get worse as he rubbed my back.

“I’m sorry,”I repeated.

“It's going to be okay. I promise. It’s all going to be fine,”He soothed. With my harsh sobs turning to sniffles, I kept my eyes close as I clung to him. Not even about to speak, I essentially shut down. While this usually happened when I was done feeding my mind and body's demand for pain, I was just so drained from it all. Knowing I had been caught was surreal, but I also knew that some things would probably change. Things I probably didn't want.

“Y/N, let's go to sleep?”He suggested. Not seeing the point in saying no, I nodded my head. I mean it wasn't like I was going to be getting any words out anytime soon. It wasn't like I even wanted to.

Laying down, I kept my head in his neck. With his arm still around me, he traced hearts on my skin, making sure his hands didn't touch my waist.

“I do love you. I will always love you. Nothing anyone says or does, even you, could ever make me stop,”He whispered. Keeping my eyes shut, I took a breath as I accepted that right now was the most peaceful I had felt in a long, long time.

I could never bear to lose him. Ever, ever.

But if I do in the future, I have him right now. He’s with me, and that has to be enough to make everything just a little less terrible.

[listofwhyyouloveher]

the gang talking you through it??

Summary: The Outsiders talking you through it

Warnings: vague mentions of smut

Author's Note: none

PONYBOY CURTIS

Ponys the type of guy to wait until marriage to sleep with you, not like he's religious or anything but he wants it to be perfect and passionate

He's also quite nervous, his hands are shaking during your reception and he's seeking you out as soon as it ends

Reminds you that you don't have to do it if you don't want to but you brush it off by saying he's just nervous

Ponys incredibly gentle, telling you all the things he's going to do, asking if you like it and overall just being an amazing partner

JOHNNY CADE

You met Johnny after you graduated college, you and Pony were in the same year and you often hung out,

Johnny really liked you so you eventually got together and went on a couple of good dates

Johnny isn't against sleeping together before marriage but he really likes to take it slow which is obvious in the way he acts with you

He's generally taking it slow and steady, and observing your face to make sure you aren't in pain, asking you if you're ok and liking it etc

SODAPOP CURTIS

Sodapop has had his fair share of girls in bed, however it's always quick and/or rough and sometimes he just needs a break

You're his girlfriend of 2 years and he's yet to sleep with you because he doesn't want to get too attached and get hurt like what happened with Sandy

However when he finally does sleep with you, it's nothing like he ever imagined (he's probably imagined it a lot)

It's his first time taking it slow and he's telling you what he's doing, where he's going to touch, asking if you're ok, the full 9 yards

STEVE RANDLE

Steve is really something quite different in the streets and in the sheets, he's a cocky bastard outside and with you hes very kind

Steve gets praise for his performance in bed but your first time with him is a very awkward and silly mess

He wants to make everything perfect because he loves you quite a bit and you keep telling him that he doesn't need to tell you everything he's thinking.

However he really just wants to make sure you're comfortable so he's walking you through it, telling you when he's going to move and what he's thinking about doing next like it's a TV program

TWO-BIT MATHEWS

Two loves to praise you, he's finding so much joy in the fact that he can make you smile and blush during your most intimate moments

Two's whole mission when sleeping with you is to make sure you're happy with it, he's telling you how good of a job you're doing, asking if you can handle it etc.

It's not very often that he'll go rough with you, but if he does he's still asking you once and a while if you're OK

Generally, Two isn't someone who hops into bed with any random girl, so he's a little less experienced than say Dally, however that makes him somewhat of a better partner because he's utterly focused on making it an enjoyable moment rather than relying on what works

DARRY CURTIS

Darry is a very soft man when it comes to sex, he's making everything perfect and prefers to sleep with someone he's been seeing for a long time.

However, that doesn't mean he hasn't had his fair share of girlfriends, now he knows what a girl likes

He knows a lot of girls like intimacy so he's making things perfectly intimate for you, candles, music all that. He's making you look at him while he does it, asking if you're enjoying yourself

He generally likes to tease you under the guise of innocent curiosity, asking if you're enjoying it and making you respond in full sentences

DALLAS WINSTON

Dallas likes to be rough and fast in bed, he rarely talks anyone through it and prides himself in being able to make you feel good without the intimacy

He finds himself very rarely talking to you during or after, the only few times is either to degrade you or to buff his ego

However, if it's your first time or he's being lazy he'll be quiet and gentle(r), and every once and a while he'll praise you on how good you take him

It doesn't last long, however, and he'll return to his usual self when he regains his energy or whatever

[windcarvedlyre]

Venti Week day 1: Old Friends

For this! Really overdue, apologies. I'm not completely happy with it but I could always polish it for something else later, haha.

A conversation between Venti and Vennessa after the webtoon prologue.

It was the evening after... that. Everything that had happened still hadn't fully sunk in for her. Her imprisonment. Facing the dragon again. Someone she thought was a mildly obnoxious bard, the ancient god of Mondstadt, descending on her people and healing their wounds and laughing in the faces of her captors. Her people's silence as they trudged back to their homes in the aftermath, words beyond them.

-

Wind gently rustled the grass around Vennessa's feet. She stood near the edge of a cliff overlooking Mondstadt.

The exchange after he asked them to make good on their word had been short but heavy with meaning. Venti had left, but not after implying- a hint of sharpness under his playful tone like a knife tucked under a carpet- that the nobles would change the way they do things or he would be back.

She hadn't expected him to be back this soon. He stood ahead of her, back turned and quietly watching the city. Should she be surprised? Her brain still wasn't working properly.

Venti turned his head to glance at her, the green of his hat and cape dulled in the setting sun's glow. Attire that had been shed for something white and radiant and revealing hours earlier.

She continued to stand there. Staring.

He inhaled.

"So."

She blinked. "So."

He glanced away, perhaps fidgeting slightly; it was hard to see much at this angle.

"I should start by thanking you again." he said, head turning back. "You caused quite the scene back there! It gave me the perfect opening to step in."

"Opening?" she replied. "Did you need one?"

"Technically no, but I prefer to help Mondstadt in a way that involves its people," he said, "and I'm reluctant to replace one tyrant with another."

"Right. Because you're... the god of freedom."

He winced at that. "...Yes."

Both of them stood in silence for a moment. Vennessa tried to pull herself together.

"I should thank you for helping my people as well. If you had come seconds later... I don't want to think about what would have happened there."

"Your role shouldn't be underestimated either! The fire burning in your soul is unparalleled. I suspect your prayers are what finally shook me awake."

...Awake?

"You were asleep?"

"Indeed," he replied, before turning back to stare at the city, "though I'd thought I would wake up somewhat sooner than this."

He paused.

"It's really been this way for centuries, hasn't it?"

"It has."

Venti didn't speak further. The breeze tousled their clothes, cold against Vennessa's bare skin.

Vennessa paused, wondering if she was about to cross a line.

"Venti."

Venti turned back to face her.

"Yes?"

"Are you... okay?"

He smiled.

"Of course! My energy reserves are regrettably somewhat depleted, but my public reappearance will accelerate my recovery significantly. I'll be right as rain within a-"

"I meant emotionally."

He froze mid-sentence. If not for her experience reading people she would have missed his eyes widen almost imperceptibly- just for a second.

"Venti?"

"It's fine." A pause. "I'll fix things."

"That wasn't a yes."

He laughed. It sounded a little strained.

"You shouldn't worry about me. You said it yourself; I'm a god, remember? I exist to serve Mondstadt's people. And I haven't been doing that. It's their feelings that matter here."

That last part was oddly familiar. It brought her back to countless sleepless nights before matches, stroking her sister's hair as she rested, crushing down her fear and telling herself she just had to hang on a little longer. She could feel once they were free.

Clearly Venti hadn't let things become this way on purpose. From what little she'd heard about him in legends...

"...You left to give them freedom, right? I guess that included the choice to-"

"Have they been free?" Venti snapped. The breeze suddenly intensified. "Free to express themselves? To self-govern? To live?"

Vennessa didn't know what to say to that. He was right, but...

Suddenly a dam broke, words pouring out of him.

"Do you know what a thousand people praying in desperation sounds like, Vennessa? Because I do. They've been flooding in since my little stunt earlier. But Mondstadt was so quiet before. How many generations did that take? How many people begged and begged for my help, still believing someone listened and cared?"

Wind whipped wildly around them. Sparks of teal in his eyes and hair grew in number and intensity the more he spoke.

"Venti-"

"And that includes you! And your people! You've suffered for generations and I did nothing! Why aren't you angry?"

Vennessa paused at that.

Should she be angry?

Her head was still swimming with everything that had happened. Emotions had swirled around her psyche like dust, the air too turbulent for them to settle into anything coherent.

Maybe she should be furious- should call him spineless and a coward and demand justice for everyone that came before her. But that somehow felt wrong. Like there was more to this.

Something in his face reminded her of Lind outside the city's gates. Trapped. Terrified.

"Did you actually choose to leave? Or was there some god business that-"

Venti laughed almost hysterically.

"Oh, that's it. Are you making excuses for me because I'm Barbatos? Because I could smite you where you stand? It's okay, you can still leave! I'm not even your-"

Screw worrying about lines. While she still couldn't say she knew him, god or not, he clearly needed help.

Gathering her resolve, she marched through the cutting gale between them and threw her arms around his shoulders. He made a sound almost like a squawk.

"V-Vennessa?"

"You asked if we could be friends."

"But-"

"Friends help each other when they're struggling."

"But you don't have to be-"

"And I'm not doing this because you're Barbatos. I'm doing it because I want to and you helped me."

"Only after-"

"I don't care what fuckups you've made in the past. All I've seen is you trying to fix them in the present. And I could do that with you."

He was as stiff as a board. The winds around them thrashed, confused and warring against themselves. He tried to push against her chest, push her away, but she squeezed him harder.

"You don't owe me anything. You could die! Your people could too!"

"That's always been the case, Venti. You've given us the first glimmer of hope that things could change. And do you know the most important thing my elders taught me?"

"That the gods should be there for you?" he mumbled into her.

She pulled back a little to look him in the eyes. He was like a deer in torchlight.

"That we shouldn't do everything alone."

Something within him tore. His face crumpled as he pulled himself back into her, a quiet whine escaping his throat.

"I'm sorry." He was almost inaudible.

"I told you-"

"It's just-" he paused- "it's been so long since anyone said that to me."

She hugged him tighter, raising one hand to rest on his head.

"Maybe people should do that more."

"But they need me-" he said quietly, his voice cracking, "to be perfect for them. To not do this. I'm their last line of defense, I can't be weak, I-"

"But you're not perfect."

He went silent again.

"At this point I'm not sure anyone can be," she added. "But that's why we lean on each other. To cover each other's weaknesses."

"You're genuinely not leaving?" he choked out.

She laughed gently. "We both have people on the line if this mess isn't fixed, right? And didn't someone say they owed me some keys?"

His breath hitched. His hands tightened their grip on her clothes.

"It's okay, Venti. I'm not going anywhere. You can be a person around me."

As Venti, archon of Mondstadt, person with feelings, her friend, lost the last of his composure and sobbed into her chest, she knew that her life would never be the same again- that the world would never look the same to her again.

But if even the gods were fallible, so were the Lawrences.

Things could change for the better.

They just had to keep going.

[spicyraeman]

I'll leave who they're looking at to your imagination

[sysig]

*You’re starting to feel very sleepy... (Patreon)

[termagax]

i spent like. a stupid fucking long time on this. full under the cut if youre curious