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after-witch · 2 months

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Title: Are You There, God? It's Me [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Synopsis: You've been held captive by Feitan for months--you're long-since used to seeing blood. But it's the blood from your first period since you've been taken that has you feeling sick.

Word count: 2671

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, descriptions of wounds and violence, mentions of previous physical abuse, reader gets their period

Over the past few months, you’ve seen a lot of blood. You’ve seen clotted blood on festering wounds; fresh blood seeping from underneath knives and nails; spatters of blood on the walls from the sudden trauma of severed limbs, fingers, toes.

Over time, your stomach has stopped rebelling at the sight of it. Not that it gets easier to see, but it has gotten easier to stomach. Maybe your body refuses to give up the few nutrients that do make their way down your gullet, thanks to Feitan’s dislike of cooking and unwillingness to provide you with a basic grocery stock to work from. Frozen dinners only go so far.

Whatever the reason, you’re rarely physically ill anymore when Feitan drags you to the basement and makes you watch him torture people. For information, or for fun, or sometimes both in equal measure. Emotionally, mentally, socially, psychologically ill is another thing entirely…

But here, now, in the quiet upstairs bathroom, the sight of your period blood smeared on your underwear has you ready to hurl. Your guts seize together and you wonder how quickly you’d be able to clean the toilet, should vomit make its way out of your throat.

Your period is… back.

It’s been a while. A few months. Stress had stolen it away, and you hadn’t thought much about it. You remembered when your dad died years ago--you hadn’t gotten your period for maybe 4 months, then. So it was no wonder that being kidnapped by some crazed serial killer who could turn his nails into knives seemingly at whim might throw your body’s organic clock all out of sorts.

But here, now, in the same damned quiet upstairs bathroom where you sometimes retreat to cry into towels, it’s back.

What are you supposed to do?

Your first thought was to search the bathroom for period supplies, but of course, there were none. Not a single pad or tampon.

(The sick thought occurs to you: even if one of Feitan’s victims survived long enough to get their period, it’s not like he’d be letting them take a break to put on a pad...)

No pads. No tampons. Certainly nothing as innovative as a cup.

So you’ve made do with the old standby: folding as much toilet paper as humanly possible and sticking it in your underwear. But you know it won’t last long. It’s meant to be a temporary stopgap on the way home from work or school, or until you can run out to the shop to grab a fresh box.

You can’t just run out to the shop. You can’t go anywhere. Not even outside, not even for a minute. You’re not even meant to freely ask for things; asking for anything--some fresh vegetables, a blanket that’s actually warm, new underwear--is a grueling, draining task that you often prep days in advance.

And he doesn’t always say yes.

And this? This? No. There’s no way. You are not going to waltz up to your kidnapper and tell him that you’ve started something so personal and intimate. Humiliation doesn’t begin to describe the act. You want to fold up like a piece of paper and blow into the wind whenever you recall the conversation you were forced to have regarding new underwear made from 100% cotton--

Why? He’d asked. And you’d said it was more comfortable. He snorted. And you were worried that he might not think it was important, so you had to explain that your body reacted poorly to anything less than 100% cotton. And he’d asked, simply: What do you mean? And you’d had to actually explain, voice mumbled and face blazing hot from shame, that you get irritated down there by other fabrics.

You can’t go through that again. For heaven’s sake--you’d have to tell him what sort of supplies you’d need! Did he even know the difference between a pad and a tampon? What if he asked why you needed an overnight pad versus a normal one?

And there’s other things to consider. The dull ache in your lower stomach… he does have painkillers, but he’s only doled them out for serious things (your broken wrist, for slapping him--and the time you slipped on the stairs and hurt your back; you’re not allowed to walk up or down them on your own, anymore).

A heating pad would be nice. And a body pillow to put between your legs and curl up with. But to get them, you’ll have to ask Feitan. Ask him properly, the right way, at the right time.

And he’d have questions, wouldn’t he?

He’d want to know why you need a heating pad (“Because my uterus feels like it’s being clawed out, goddamn it!” would probably not fly) and who knows, maybe he’d tell you to just suck it up and you’d have to deal with the humiliation of being rejected on top of the shame of him knowing you’re bleeding from your most private of parts and--

No.

It’s not happening. You aren’t going to tell him, and that is that. You’ll do what you can to get through it--just a few days, that’s all, you used to have to sit through school without pain meds and heating pads and sure it sucked but you lived--and you’ll soldier on like you’ve done thus far.

You sigh, and carefully flush the proof of your period--toilet paper and blood tinged urine--down the toilet. You’ll have to be careful about where you sit, and how you sit, lest you accidentally stain the sofa or the dining room chair.

Then the thought comes to you, almost a buzz in your head--

Oh, fuck… what if it leaks on the bed when you sleep? Feitan would know. Feitan would see. You’d have to ask him for cleaning supplies or get caught dragging the sheet to the bathroom or… or…

No, that couldn’t happen. You’d do something. You’d--yes! The solution is simple. Easy as pie.

You wouldn’t still be sane without quick thinking, so you nab a few towels from the back of the bathroom closet, shove them under your shirt like you used to mimic pregnancy as a child with an overactive imagination and a tendency for dramatic imaginative play times, and prepare to scamper to your bedroom and hide them until night falls.

You’d make a barrier, that’s what you’d do. Simple, easy. Effective. And Feitan never had to know.

Feitan rarely bothered with you in the evening, anyway--he was too busy with his work.

It was a perfect plan.

It was not a perfect plan.

Everything was going fine. You’d draped a cardigan around your waist in the afternoon when Feitan insisted you watch a film together, although as usual he didn’t sit on the same sofa as you, and simply stared at you now and then from his vantage point on the chair. The same cardigan had come in handy at dinner.

No leaks. No stains. And you’d pushed through the pain and discomfort of your cramps, all the while practicing pretending that something you ate wasn’t sitting well with you, if Feitan had noticed.

He didn’t.

All you had to do was get to bed, make your barrier, and cover up with the blanket just in case it was one of the nights that Feitan came into your room in the middle of the night to stare at you like some sort of creepy owl. (Did he know you knew, or did he like to think you were unawares)

That’s it.

Simple enough.

Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Right?

Wrong.

Because as soon as you’d finished smoothing out the second towel on top of the sheets, Feitan walked through the doorway to your bedroom.

Where he stands, now, staring at you with a look of false passivity.

“Why,” he asks, in a voice so mild that you know it means he’s absolutely invested in an answer, “you have towels on the bed?”

You’d come up with excuses for cramps; you’d even dabbled with pretending that you’d scratched your thigh or something, if you happened to bleed onto the sofa.

Feitan never really came into your room while you prepared for bed, so the thought of an excuse here never entered your mind. And now your mind whirled for an answer, coming up blank.

“I, uh,” you say, plopping yourself down on the towel as if covering it up with your body would somehow erase his memory. “I was… cold?” You offer, not even believing an ounce of your own life.

Feitan’s expression doesn’t change.

“Why?” The question leaves room for no excuses, no lies, nothing but the truth. There’s an ‘or else’ in his tone that you don’t care to uncover.

This is sick. This is wrong. This is so unfair.

“I’monmyperiod.” You rush out the words, staring down at your thighs, cheeks so hot you’re sure the temperature in the room has raised by a few degrees.

“Slower.”

You could cry. You might, actually, you feel the pressure of tears building behind your eyes.

“I’m. on. My. Period.” The words come out behind gritted teeth.

You hear a sound you’ve never actually heard from Feitan before: a short, stuttered intake of breath. A surprised, involuntarily, clipped little noise of confusion.

It makes you look up, unable to process what you’ve just heard without seeing it. But what you see is even more confusing:

Feitan is blushing.

Oh, just a little. Just the tiniest amount of ruddiness on his cheeks. If you were one of his victims or some random person on the street, you wouldn’t notice. But you notice all of Feitan’s little expressions, the nuances of his body language. The difference between how far he raises his eyebrows at you can mean the difference between pain and mild discomfort.

So yes, you notice this slight ruddiness on his cheeks, and your brain whirs pathetically, trying to process what it means.

He sees you staring. His hand reaches up to his cheek, and he must realize it--

Because then he yanks his cowl up and turns sideways, leaning against the door frame in a nonchalant way that now seems painfully practiced.

He says nothing for a moment. Your heart thuds the entire time.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet and--you could swear--shy. Awkward. Like he doesn’t want to bring it up. It’s a strange reversal--normally you’re the one who’s left quietly murmuring.

“You need… lady things?”

Oh, this must be how you die.

It won’t be from breaking your neck on the stairs or from Feitan getting bored of you and slashing your throat. It will be from sitting on a towel-strewn bed in front of your secretly blushing captor as he asks you what type of feminine hygiene products you need.

You must not answer fast enough, because he jerks his head towards you.

“Well?”

He looks just as uncomfortable as you feel--it almost makes you feel slightly better. At least he’s not lording it over you. He’s never passed up a chance to make you feel degraded, but even this must be too much for him.

It gives you the push you need to speak, although your voice practically chokes on the words.

“Um. I need. Some pads? Over--overnight ones, because I tend to bleed a lot--” Your eyes shut for a fraction longer than normal, why did you tell him that, for fuck’s sake. “And--” Your voice cracks. “And maybe… if it’s not too much trouble, a heating pad?”

He shifts his position against the door frame. You wonder if he’s making a mental list. The thought of Feitan waltzing into some supermarket with a paper list that says “overnight pads” is too ludicrous to consider for long.

‘”Heating pad? What for?”

The sound you make can only be described as a short, painful keening groan. It’s not the cramps that hurt--it’s the humiliation.

“For cramps,” you say quickly. “Mine get really bad. They were um, pretty bad today, but--”

“Idiot.” Ah, there’s the Feitan you recognize. “Why not say something?”

The towel underneath your fingers isn’t very soft, but you scrunch the fabric up underneath them anyway. “I didn’t want... I mean… I thought that…”

And then that soft pressure behind your eyes builds from frustration, from the embarrassment, from the fact that you’re being held captive and on top of the many awful things you’ve experienced over the past however-many-months, you’re now having a discussion about your intimate period with someone who seems to delight in tormenting you.

The first sniffle is easily hidden. But not the second, or the third. And by the time your lower jaw is quivering and the tears are spilling down your cheeks, you can only lean forward and cry pathetically into your hands.

You hate this. You hate being here. You hate your period, you hate Feitan, you hate the fact that you can’t just go into the bathroom and slap a pad on your underwear. You hate this bed and these towels and the clothes you’re wearing. You hate everything.

“Fine.”

His clipped, sudden word doesn’t make you stop crying. But it does give you a pause, and you swallow down against your tight throat and look at him through sniffling tears. “Huh?”

“I get you heating pad.” He flicks his hand at you, like he’s shooing away an annoying pet dog. “Go to bed. You need more sleep now.”

You do stop crying then, if only because your brain isn’t sure how else to react. Your mouth hangs open a little as you curl up on the bed--a nap would be nice--and grab an extra pillow to shove against your stomach.

Feitan, for his part, snorts and leaves your doorway. You expect him to go into the basement, but instead you hear him putting on his boots, grabbing things from the foyer. He’s going out? Now?

All the while, he’s mumbling to himself. You only catch a few of the words--women, hormones among them--before he leaves. The door’s lock seems louder than ever and you clutch the pillow harder.

Later, you’re yanked out of a fuzzy dream when something both soft and hard lands with a thunk against your head, and your bedroom light is flicked on.

It takes you a few moments to get your bearings.

There’s something draped against you. You blink and hold it up. It’s a heating pad, the plug-in kind with a remote control and everything.

Feitan is standing in your doorway, holding a large sack.

When he sees that you’re at least vaguely awake and aware, he turns it over and dumps the contents on the floor. It’s about 20 boxes of overnight pads--a few different brands. He must have stolen half the shelf.

He regards you with a pleased expression that’s only half-hidden by his cowl. But you’d know his expression of self-serving pride at a job well done anywhere; you’ve seen it enough times when he’s tortured information out of someone.

“Well? This enough for the month?”

The choked sound that comes out of your throat might have had a laugh in it somewhere, but you hope he doesn’t hear it. You get the sense that laughing about this would actually bother him more than anything you’ve done lately.

So instead you nod, slowly, and unfold the heating pad so that you can plug it in somewhere. Since you’ll probably be up for a while, it would be okay to ease your cramps a bit before morning.

But when you look up… Feitan is still there, standing in the doorway.

He looks expectant, like you’ve forgotten something you’re supposed to do, but what--

Oh.

“Thank you, Feitan,” you murmur, swallowing hard, staring down at your lap as the sleep-induced grogginess begins to fade away from your brain.

He hums, then looks down at the pile of boxes he dumped on the floor.

“Put these away. Don’t want you tripping on them. Clumsy.”

For once, you don’t mind the insult.

It’s better to be back on familiar territory.

#yandere hunter x hunter #yandere feitan #yandere feitan porter #yandere #afterwitch writes

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corroded-hellfire · 2 months

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Fic request idea baby: what about Eddie with a gf who used to have an ED but she's doing better now but he notices that she's starting to relapse like skipping meals and he brings it up to her and just angst to fluff

+ Hey if ur taking requests:

what about if Effie's gf randomly stops changing in front of him like she's getting into pj and she goes to the bathroom and then starts asking for the lights to be off during sex and he's super confused and asks her about it and basically angst bc she's trying to hide it but may be she had a slip during ED recovery?

+ Hi lovie a lil request! What about Eddie with a gf whose in eating disorder recovery like she used to struggle but it's been a few years since then and she's don't just fine but he notices she's starting to relapse?

These three requests seemed to overlap just perfectly. The beautiful and talented @munson-blurbs was kind enough to write these with me so go shower her with all the love 💚

Warnings: eating disorders, body image issues, relapse struggles. Please, if you want or need to talk to somebody, I'm always here.

Words: 1.5k

You’re fairly certain you’re living on the sun’s surface.

Logic would say that you haven’t left Hawkins, but the temperature outside begs to differ.

“Christ, it’s like 1,000 degrees in here,” Eddie mumbles, cracking open a cold can of Pepsi and taking a swig. He plants a kiss on your forehead, careful not to disturb your reading.

You smile but keep your nose buried in the bridal magazine Nancy had bought for you. Page after page of wedding dresses had you swimming in a sea of white, each more beautiful—and expensive—than the last.

Oh, well. At least it would give you an idea of what to look for at your bridal appointment in a few weeks.

What truly caught your eye was an article tucked towards the back of the magazine. Its title boldly declares, “Shedding for the Wedding: Lose that Weight and Look Great!”

You shouldn’t read it. It’ll only upset you, only bring back the bad thoughts and routines and restrictions that you’d fought so hard to overcome. And yet you’re drawn to it, eyes scanning each fad diet for one that might help you.

No. Yes. No. Yes. Put the magazine down. Stop reading the diet tips and comparing yourself to the models.

But they’re so pretty and so skinny. If Eddie saw them, he might not even want to marry you anymore. Not when he saw how beautiful women were supposed to look in wedding dresses.

Maybe losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt. One diet couldn’t be so bad. It would be temporary, just until the wedding.

It was totally fine.

“What are we thinking for dinner tonight, babe?” Eddie rifles through the pantry and pulls out two boxes of pasta. “We have bowties and rigatoni. I’m personally more of a bowtie man myself, but it’s your call.”

You shake your head. “I’m good. Just gonna have some soup.” Reaching around him, you pluck a can of Progresso off of the shelf.

“Soup?” Eddie wrinkles his nose in confusion. “It’s hotter than Satan’s tits outside.”

You shrug, trying to play it off casually. “Period craving.”

“You’re not on your period.”

“Well, PMS.”

Something nags at you—if you have to hide your new soup diet from your husband-to-be, maybe it’s not a good idea. Maybe you should put the can away and make pasta instead. But then you remember those gorgeous models, so svelte and sculpted and perfect.

Soup it is.

It’s harder to ignore the problem as more symptoms of the illness start to return. The first time you’d gathered up your pajamas and taken them into the bathroom with you, Eddie just assumed you were going to take a shower. When you emerged with bone-dry hair not two minutes later, he was puzzled. But he didn’t say anything, not wanting to come across as overprotective or overbearing. Maybe there was some simple excuse and he didn’t want to make you feel like you have to answer to him about every little thing.

Eddie can’t ignore that there’s a problem anymore when you slip back into one of your old habits that has always broken his heart. Sex was now lights off and you kept your shirt on. Eddie wanted to see every part of you, touch every part of you. He was going to be your husband and the fact that you didn’t want him to see this part of you—that he has made very clear in the past that he fucking loves—disheartens him.

Stress begins to build up within Eddie. He feels like he’s toeing the line because he doesn’t want to sound accusatory, but he also knows something is going on with you. And he has a pretty good idea of what it is. You try to hide how you pinch at your stomach and thighs, but he sees. The way you measure your wrists with your fingers all throughout the day. He wonders if you even realize you’re doing it, or if it’s reflexive at this point.

Though you never mention it, you always have your green journal around the kitchen. Eddie respects your privacy enough not to go through it, but reaching for the keys over your shoulder one evening he notices that you’re making a list of what you’ve eaten that day. His stomach sinks as yet another familiar pattern emerges from the days when your disorder was at its worst. Your fiancé is coming closer to his breaking point and he still doesn’t know what to do or even who to go to about this.

The final straw though is when you turn down girls’ night with Nancy and Robin at the Cheesecake Factory. You lived for nights out with your two best friends. They knew you almost as well as Eddie did though, so he knew you wouldn’t be able to sit down at a restaurant with them and bullshit your way out of not eating a proper meal like you should.

Eddie knows now he has to say something. Anything, really. When you walk out of your shared bedroom in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, Eddie chews on his bottom lip as he mentally prepares for the conversation he knows needs to happen.

The moment you sit down on the couch, Eddie sits next to you. You reach for the remote but your hand doesn’t even make it to the piece of plastic before Eddie speaks.

“Can we, um, talk?”

“About what?” you ask, sitting back against the couch cushions.

Your fiancé leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He rubs his hands together and his tongue pokes out of his pouty pink lips like it does whenever he’s concentrating on something.

“I’m worried about you, babe,” he finally says. “You’re not yourself.”

Eddie doesn’t miss the way you reflexively shrink in on yourself.

“I’m just stressed with wedding stuff,” you say.

“That’s why you didn’t hang out with Nancy and Robin?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Mhm.”

“And all the pinching and not eating and not wanting me to see you naked? Is that because of wedding stress, too?”

You turn away from him and pull your knees to your chest, but he moves to face you again. “Baby, I know something’s wrong. And the last time I saw you like this, it was because…”

“I told you, I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m just stressed. Maybe if you spent more time helping me plan and less time planning stupid campaigns for a game you played back in high school, you’d understand.”

The accusation is unfair, and you know it. Sure, you’ve been doing most of the planning, but he’s been there every step of the way.

Eddie winces at your harsh tone. He looks like he has a rebuttal but gives up after a moment “Fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

Guilt from your outburst wracks your body and holds sleep hostage. After tossing and turning for a little while, you hear soft cries coming from Eddie’s side of the bed.

“Eds?” Your heart leaps into your chest. “What’s going on?” You give him a hug from behind, latching on like a koala to a tree trunk until he turns to face you.

Even in the darkness, you can see the way his eyes shine with tears. “I know you relapsed and…and I don’t know what to do,” he manages through his sobs. “I don’t know how to help, so I just stand there like a goddamn idiot, but I can’t keep pretending like nothing’s wrong! I can’t keep pretending that you’re not hurting yourself!”

He knew. The whole time you thought you’d been protecting him from the truth, and he knew.

You wipe at his cheeks, feeling the moisture on your palms. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie shakes his head. “‘S not your fault, I know it’s not, but…you need to get help for this. I can’t lose my girl.” He presses his lips to your forehead and lets them linger there, holding you as tightly as he can. “Please. Please.”

No. You need to lose weight. You need to look good; no, perfect in your dress. All eyes are going to be on you, and you can’t show a single flaw.

The argument sits on your tongue, defensiveness ready to spring into action. But then you see his brokenness, his vulnerability as he unabashedly wears his heart on his sleeve.

Skinny. Skinnier. Skinniest.

But then—Eddie.

Eddie, who laid his heart out for you. Who let down the walls he’d spent years building just so he could receive your love. Who felt your pain despite your best attempts to shield him from it.

Maybe you weren’t ready to get better for yourself, but until you were, you could do it for him.

You nod, pulling back and kissing him softly. “I will. I promise. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll wake you up the moment the sun rises.”

At this, you have to let out a small laugh. “The therapy clinic doesn’t open until nine.”

Eddie cradles your face in his calloused palms, leaning in to gently kiss your nose. “Then I’ll wake you up at nine.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fic #request

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venus-maneater · 6 months

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a loyal dog’s reward ii. | yan! criston cole

yandere / obsessed ! au

fem! targaryen princess! reader

part i

synopsis. suffering an injury from a tournament, criston has to deal with seeing you alongside his temporary replacement. fortunately, you weren’t interested in teasing too much this time, trying to distract yourself from your sister beginning her labors, and you were happy to cheer your poor mutt up.

note; I’ve decided to make this a series with no real plot lol 😭 if being attracted to criston cole is a crime then lock me up !! this chapter took a mind of its own bc this was not the original plot and it’s twice as long as part i

WARNING(s): obsessive / possessive behavior, manipulation, violence, thoughts of violence, implied murder, blood, injury, JEALOUSY, nosebleeds, talk of bastards and having bastard children, Rhaenyra gives birth, allusions to sex but no actual smut, cole def has a breeding kink y’all

Ser Criston Cole, your ever-so-loyal shield, always said yes when you asked him to enter tourneys. He knew how much you enjoyed them, and relished in your attention as he succeeded in competition. There were only two real downsides to tournaments for him: the hours he had to spend apart from you, and the injuries. Criston had always excelled at anything physical, but he was only mortal. He was just a man who could be maimed or murdered just like any other. It served to remind him of the status gap between you: he was a man while you were born from dragons.

He kept his eyes on your form in the nobles’ box until it was his turn. This was typical behavior from him, he was nothing but devoted to you. Since you’d discovered his true feelings, you gave him more attention than before. You entertained his tendencies, teasing him sometimes but always reassuring him at the end of the day. You wanted no one but him.

“Oh, don’t fret, my Criston.” You’d tut, “I could never replace you. You’re the only guard dog for me.”

You played with his feelings occasionally, trying to get a rise out of him, but he quickly found that he didn’t mind. His reward at the end made all his anger worth it. He never blamed you either, it was never your fault that men didn’t know how to leave you alone.

He wondered now if this was one of your attempts at making him jealous.

The large man who stood obediently behind you was the one taking over Criston’s position as he competed in the tournament. Usually, another Kingsguard member would take over, but this particular Knight had something to prove. He was highborn, from some house in the Vale, with wide shoulders and a somewhat handsome face. The two men looked nothing alike; the Knight next to you was pale, hazel-eyed, and thin-haired.

He doubted it.

You didn’t like men other than Criston Cole guarding you, you’d expressed so before. They’re boring and untrustworthy, you insisted. Your words made his chest puff out with pride. He liked that he was the only one you truly trusted with your life; you knew he would protect you. You chose him to protect you.

To be honest, you didn’t even seem interested in the Knight from the Vale; you looked stiff and bored, which concerned your sworn shield. You loved tournaments, you loved when he won things in your honor. Why don’t you look excited?

Soon enough, it was his turn again. With your flowery red favor around his wrist, he got into position.

You perked up a bit when you saw that it was Criston’s turn once more. You’d been rather stiff most of the event, and you partially blamed it on your boring temporary guard. The man was flat; no personality to work with at all. It bummed you out honestly, he was from the Vale but behaved like a Northman. He was presumably around Ser Criston’s age, but had not even half of his spirit. It wouldn’t have bothered you so much if you couldn’t feel his stare burning into the back of your head. You could give him some credit; at least he’s taking his job of supervising you seriously.

But no, the primary reason for your irritation and lack of focus was your father. He had demanded you to attend this tourney to celebrate Rhaenyra’s labors, not allowing you to be by her side. You and your sister were close, very close, and quite similar as well. To not be by her side when she was in pain had you tense. You didn’t want to be here, not even to see Criston compete.

Criston Cole was facing a member of House Bolton, a rather fierce young man who didn’t scare easy. Most Northerners were like that, but Criston should know best as he just beat another one last round. The tournament today was celebrating Princess Rhaenyra beginning her labors, so competitors have traveled from far and wide. The event had been planned for a month, so it was good news that the Princess was finally giving birth.

“Jessil,” you called to your guard with a smirk, “You should watch closely this round, my shield is competing.”

The man nodded curtly without a word, causing you to roll your eyes. His under-reactions irked you, but you were starting to blame Criston Cole for that fact. He always reacted wonderfully to anything you did, perhaps you were too used to it.

Speaking of your shield, you could see his anger growing the longer you were with another man. It was the only thing keeping you here at this point; waiting to see if he’ll get violent. Criston was the most amusing man you’d ever met, you just knew something was going to happen. There were only two more rounds until the event ended, and he’d been stiff ever since Ser Jessil bent down closer in order to hear your comments about two hours ago.

The two knights settled into their positions across the courtyard from each other, on opposite sides of the tilt. Then, a horn sounded, triggering their horses into a sprint. With their lances aimed, the men collided, wooden splinters flying but neither of them falling. New lances were readily tossed to them and the process repeated. Criston spared you a glance, noticing that Jessil had gotten a few inches closer.

Again, they charged forward. Only this time, when they clashed, Criston was thrown from his horse at the force of the hit. The Bolton fared a bit better, remaining on his horse, but he was hit in the face by Criston’s lance, causing the front of his helmet to cave in just enough to cut him.

What you saw made you shoot to your feet, your hands gripping the railing in concern. Never in your years of knowing Criston Cole had you ever seen him knocked from his horse in a tournament. He was easily one of the best fighters you knew of, it seemed impossible that this could happen. Had you pushed too far with your teasing? You’d never tried anything during a tournament before, perhaps Ser Jessil’s presence threw him off.

The round didn’t end there. Criston was quick to stand despite his obvious injuries, and his morningstar was swiftly given to him. His helmet had flew from his head when he fell, so his bleeding mouth was for all to see. He was holding his right arm close to his body, making it appear broken or incapable of proper use. Although he was right-handed, he gripped his weapon in his left hand and prepared for a fight. The Bolton Knight was also without a helmet at this point, ditching the damaged armor when he jumped to the ground to grab his sword. His nose was bleeding and looked to be broken from the hit.

“Is his arm broken?” You asked aloud, leaning over the railing a bit in an attempt to see better, “he favors his right.”

Jessil ignored your words, but inched closer so you wouldn’t go over the railing, “Princess, you could fall.”

Criston let the other Knight come to him, not willing to waste any energy. He used his time to look your way, not liking the way your guard was holding your shoulder.

The fight began, but didn’t last long. The Bolton may have made a skilled jouster, but not a fighter. He was no match for the angry Kingsguard, even when he had every advantage. Handicapped from his injuries, Criston swung his Morningstar with his left hand, swiftly hitting his opponent in the head while avoiding any oncoming attacks from the sword. The impact knocked the younger Knight out, but visibly broke his brow bone. Due to the force from the spikes, his face was bleeding badly and the area around his eye was caved in, perfectly mirroring the damage to his helmet.

Half the crowd was silent in shock (including yourself), but the other half was cheering loudly at the violence. You were desensitized to such things at this point in your life, but that didn’t mean you welcomed them. You didn’t like that Criston came so close to losing, or that you have to watch some poor Bolton boy bleed out on the ground for no reason, your shield was too injured to continue to the next round anyways. And due to your being a princess, it would be inappropriate to leave early to check on the Kingsguard member. Because your father wouldn’t allow to be with your sister, you’d made Criston your fixation of the day.

The two of you made eye contact as a few servants rushed over to him, helping him limp off to see a maester. It was soon announced that although neither competitor was continuing to the next round, Criston Cole was technically the winner.

“Well that was certainly a show” You cleared your throat, shaking Ser Jessil’s hand off your shoulder and finally taking your seat once again, “I knew something was going to happen.”

“So you did, Princess.” The Knight nodded curtly, recalling your words earlier, telling him to watch closely.

With Criston gone, your mind shifted back to a pregnant Rhaenyra, who was currently giving birth without your comfort. You stiffen up, nails digging into the railing before exhaling deeply and taking your seat. The two of you return to your proper positions and continued to observe the event for the next few hours, clapping dutifully when an insignificant Lannister won.

You made it back to the Red Keep in record time, it seemed. Even Jessil had trouble keeping up with you on your horse as you rushed home. You’d refused the carriage ride, eager to see your sister.

You were sprinting up the nearly infinite steps to her chambers, Jessil following close and maids jumping out of the way. A couple of people tried to stop your entrance, but you only shoved them aside and pushed your way towards your sister.

“Rhaenyra!” You gasped softly, a grin finding its way to your face when you saw her cradling her new baby in bed. After the death of your mother, childbirth was a sensitive subject for you and your sister, you hated being apart during this time. She dismissed the women in the room, leaving just the two of you and her first child.

“I’ve decided on Jacaerys.” She smiled at you as you crawled into the bed beside her.

She’d discussed baby name ideas with you before, with Laenor as well, who suggested Joffrey. Rhaenyra was adamantly against it, and you remembered the distaste you felt hearing it, knowing the implications that would come along if they decided on that name. You’d always liked Joffrey actually, unhappy with his death, but almost all of court heard the rumors of he and Laenor. You’d suggested Jacaerys, a Velaryon sounding name. Rhaenyra didn’t seem overly interested, so you didn’t expect her to choose it.

“Oh, Jacaerys.” You cooed, stroking his little head, full of dark locks. That wasn’t good, not really. Hopefully he took after Rhaenyra in his other features, or else questions of his parentage could arise. Rhaenys was half Baratheon, so that could be used as an excuse. But then the baby boy opened his eyes, revealing big brown orbs that mirrored Harwin Strong’s. You liked Harwin quite a bit, not minding. But the court would mind. You and Rhaenyra would just have to protect him.

“Have you slept yet?” You asked your sister, who hasn’t stopped grinning since you first saw her.

“Not yet, dear sister, I cannot stop looking at his sweet face.”

“Has… his father seen him yet?” You both knew who you meant.

“No. But he will soon enough, when I’m well enough to leave the room.” She gave you a knowing smile, which you returned.

Upon leaving Rhaenyra to rest, you were able to successfully escape Ser Jessil’s supervision with the help of Ser Harwin Strong, and went straight to Criston Cole’s chambers. You found out through your favorite handmaiden that he’d been released from the infirmary, and you took the first opportunity that presented itself to you. You didn’t knock before slipping into his room, but you were sure he wouldn’t mind.

Stepping in, your eyes were drawn to his place on the bed immediately. He was lying down above the blankets, with his arm wrapped and splinted in a sling resting above his bare midsection. His ribs were bruised, but it was apparently nothing bad enough that would need wrapping. Both legs were extended out, with his left pant leg pulled up to the knee to reveal his bruised ankle. He didn’t notice you enter, his eyes were shut and he was likely half-asleep. His face was fine, handsome as always, besides a cut on his nose-bridge that was beginning to darken into a bruise.

“Look at you, my poor sweet thing.” You cooed quietly at him suddenly, waking him from his relaxed state. His eyes shot open, head snapping over to the door.

“My princess.” He gasped. His chambers were much smaller and less impressive than yours, he didn’t want you in such an environment.

“Are you well?” You asked, closing the door as quietly as possible, “The maester says you’ve broken bones.”

“I’m well, I swear it to you. It’s a small break in the arm, everything should heal rather quickly.” He tried to reassure you as you approached, struggling his way into a sitting position, his back against the head board.

You hummed at his clumsy movements, stopping to stand at his bedside. Cute. Criston wasn’t an inherently violent man, at least not with you, so it was easy to forget how strong and dangerous he truly was. It was unnerving to see him injured; weak.

“How quickly would you say?” You asked.

“The maester says a month.” He answered quietly, not willing to admit the extent of his injuries. His primary goal was to get back to you.

You knew the Maester had actually said two months.

“Hm. Who will protect me for a whole month in your absence?” You held back a smirk.

You watched as Criston’s body language immediately changed. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, his leg twitched in frustration.

“I am still fully capable.”

Has he always been this attractive or does jealousy just look good on him?

“My father thinks you should take time to heal.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, “I don’t care what he thinks, you saw what I did to my opponent despite my injuries.”

“You ‘don’t care what he thinks’? He is King.” You said in a mock-scolding tone, lifting your knee to rest in against the bed, close to his lap.

“Yours is the only word to mean anything to me. I listen to no King.” Still seated, he leans forward to get closer.

“Though you listen to me? Only me?” You ask with a smile, batting your lashes at him and leaning in. He doesn’t move to kiss you first, he rarely does. He lets you do as you please, feeling the puffs of air from your giggle on his lips.

“Yes. Only you.” He whispers, his eyes begging you to just kiss him already. But nothing is ever that simple with you, and he knows it well.

You grin at him, leaning in until your lips are just grazing his own, before laughing and pulling away entirely. His face followed yours until you were out of reach, leaving him to huff and fall back against the head board once again. He let out a quiet groan, closing his eyes and tossing his head back so he could catch his breath.

“You’re so easy, Ser Criston.” You snickered. His lips quirked up at your joyous tone, but he resisted the urge to open his eyes. After a few moments of stumbling around the room in amusement, you bit your lip to keep quiet.

Criston went stiff when you fell silent, excited fingers beginning to twitch as the urge to touch you increased. But he was a seasoned warrior at this point in life, and could hear every movement you made. He heard you tiptoe back over to the bed before pausing. The mattress dipped as you climbed onto the bed and landed in his lap, straddling his thighs and avoiding his bruised ribs. It was only when you were on top of him that his eyelids fluttered open to watch you. You gave him a satisfied look. He was happy to let you believe you caught him off-guard.

“Criston?”

“Yes, my Heart?”

“There’s something I have to tell you…” You placed your hands gently on his chest and leaned in, your mouth next to his ear, “and you will not like it.”

“You think me incapable of handling such news?” He asked, a bit breathless.

You smiled, “Of course not. You’re my protector, my strong and most loyal servant. You can handle anything I give you, yes?”

He nodded, unable to speak properly with your lips on his ear.

“My father says that Ser Jessil will be your stand-in as my protector.”

Criston’s good hand immediately moved to your waist, gripping it tightly, “You don’t need anyone else to protect you. Only me.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” You kissed his jaw gently, “but you should heal and rest.”

“I will kill him. Do not doubt me.”

“He would just be replaced.”

“I don’t care, I should kill the next as well.”

“You go against my word?” You pulled back, sitting up fully. He hesitated in his response, so you continued, “Ser Jessil will be your temporary replacement, my King father has said this and I have agreed.”

It was a lie, technically; you didn’t exactly agree to anything. But you weren’t about to let Criston believe he had the power here. He’d started to get a bit too bold.

Your faces were close together now, the two of you holding heavy eye contact. Criston said nothing, though his body language revealed his true feelings easily. He didn’t like that you were taking your father’s side over his own.

“I love you.” He blurted out, brows furrowed in emotion.

Your hands moved up to hold his face, “I know that. I just want you well. You must rest and heal so you can be at your best. Don’t you understand?”

Criston nodded slowly, a satisfied shiver running through him at the thought of you caring so much. His health is truly that important to you?

“Good.” You say with a grin, pecking the corner of his lips and reaching up to pat his messy hair down. His long locks grew wild already, but the style worsened from hours of wearing a helmet.

Giving into you, per usual, the Knight sighed and wrapped his good arm fully around your waist, pulling you close so he could tuck his face into your neck. You cooed at him, returning his embrace and giggling in between your praises.

“I know that this upsets you quite a bit,” You began, gasping in surprise when you felt a warm tongue trail over your throat, “but I don’t mind making you feel better.”

“Feel better you say?” He questioned absentmindedly, more focused on the taste of your skin.

You hummed in confirmation, “I can take care of you in places you may need help with. You know….. here?”

Eyes closed, you placed a delicate touch to the bulge in his pants, smiling when you felt him stiffen beneath you.

Criston Cole was always half-hard around you, your presence alone able to rile him up. He often found himself having to control his thoughts when around other people, not wanting them to notice his… state. As much as he wanted to touch you all over— taste you and love you and worship you— he held a higher respect for you than himself. You were not just a Lady, you were a Princess. He would not dishonor you in such a way, at least not until the two of you were married.

“Princess—” he grunted, mouth dropping open in pleasure briefly before pursing his lips. He pulled his upper body away from you slightly, giving you a bit more space to do what you wanted.

“Oh, it’s fine, Ser Criston. I want to.” You reassured, shrugging because you knew he would end up letting you anyways, “You just look so good bruised up like this, all jealous over some loser, nobody Knight.”

You whispered the last sentence harshly, and Criston loved it. He loved when you degraded other men in comparison to him. He was who you wanted, not that loser, nobody Knight. It didn’t matter that he was low-born or sick in the head, you wanted him anyway.

“You prefer me?” He asked looking up at you, “to him? Tell me...”

“I prefer you to him, Ser Criston Cole. I prefer you to all other men.”

Pulling him by his hair, your lips captured his. Whimpering into your mouth, he now does nothing to stop you from reaching your goal. You smile into the kiss at his surrender.

“… but perhaps you’re right.” You pull away from his lips, but stay close enough to tease, “it would be so dishonorable and you’re injured as well. Hm.”

Criston, his mind in shambles, doesn’t say a word, just sucks his teeth and releases a shaky breath. He doesn’t like to argue with you, he won’t. He’s overwhelmed, you’re so close.

“Can’t think.” He muttered so quietly you almost missed it.

A breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it, “No? And why is that, Ser? Do I possess you so?”

“Possess? Princess, you are torturing me with your affections. I cannot think of anything else, I cannot focus, I cannot stop shaking.” His voice cracked at the last word and he wasn’t lying, his body trembled.

“Do I dominate your dreams as well?”

“Yes.”

You hum, curious. You knew of his fantasies; his plans to run away, marry, and have many children with you. But you never question the details, allowing them to stay fuzzy so he wouldn’t get too ahead with his scheming. Dreams, however, you could create your own world. “Won’t you share them with me?”

“We ah-” he pauses to take a deep breath, likely attempting to control himself, “You call me by name a lot.”

You tilt your head, a bit confused.

“Not Ser, not dog, not thing— just Criston. The sound of my name from your lips is like music to me. It makes me— I never want you to say another’s name ever again. And uh- a daughter. We have a daughter. She looks like you- so much.”

You begin to shift at his words. A daughter? No Westerosi man wishes for a daughter, at least not before a son, “Daughter you say? Why?”

“She will be you, reborn, carrying my blood. I dream of a baby girl that smiles like you. I will call her my little princess as you are my Princess. A child that is ours.”

“A daughter.” You repeated once more. It was… nice to hear a man express desire for a daughter rather than a son. You and Rhaenyra had suffered due to that mindset, spending most of your lives watching your father desperately try for a son, even at the cost of your mother’s life. He no longer felt that way, but it was too late, the damage had been done. He now had Aegon and Aemond, who he didn’t even pay much attention to. Your mother’s life felt wasted.

“Princess—?”

“A sweet thing it is.” You cut him off, “your dreams are endearing. But I must go now, Jessil has no doubt noticed my absence.”

Criston tensed, “Ab—sence” He croaked, jealousy building.

“Mmhm.” I nodded, “I’ve avoided him thus far, impressively. He may report this to my father if I’m gone any longer.”

Just a few minutes more, his mind screams. But he’s good for you, so he only nods. His jaw is clenched and there’s a noticeable twitch in his expression. His fingertips dig into your sides.

“I don’t want to part with you for so long.”

“Perhaps I’ll visit if you behave.”

“He’s clearly a bastard.” Criston spoke quietly, but plainly.

You’d snuck him into your chambers after a long day of cooing over Rhaenyra’s baby boy, Jacaerys. It’d been a couple weeks since his birth and she finally brought him to court for all to see.

“It is treason to suggest such a thing, Ser Cole.” You bitterly defended your sister as you brushed your fair, before rolling your eyes, “And even if it were true, what does it matter who the boy’s father is? He is Rhaenyra’s true son and her heir. The boy is a Targaryen.”

At the risk of upsetting you further, he held his tongue. Being rather low born, Criston grew up having to prove himself through his ability rather than his status. But when he was young, at the end of the day, he was still a rank above bastard children. He had that, at least. He knew that it wasn’t exactly fair, you can’t control who your parents are, but it was a mindset he was raised with and couldn’t shake so easily.

“What if my father marries me off to some Lord I do not love? Are you saying you wouldn’t fuck little bastard babies into me? Babes that look just like you?” You ask him, standing up from your vanity to approach his spot on your bed, feigning innocence.

Face twitching in annoyance, Criston grabbed your wrist and roughly pulled you to his level. With your faces were inches apart, he reached up and gripped your chin. The action made you bite your lip to hide a grin.

“I will be fucking little trueborn babies into you. I’ll make you my wife before giving you children.” He took slight offense to your words. How could you suggest that? You should know he would not let you be married off.

“Oh, of course, My White Knight. You plan to steal me away.”

“Hardly stealing.” He muttered, lovesick eyes staring into yours.

You don’t voice your disagreements, you only laugh. You did not belong to Criston Cole, you belong only to yourself. His words make you think that this game had gone a little too far; he’s getting too confident in his possessiveness. His hesitancy was one of his initial charms for you, and it’s leaving him. Perhaps it’s best to stop entertaining his ideas of a future with you, no matter how cute and pleasant you believe them to be.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t like it, even just a little?” You tilted your head, his hand still holding your chin softly.

“No.” That’s a lie, maybe just a small amount. Everyone knowing you belong to him, having his kids, despite your status. But the negatives massively outweigh the positives. Not only would it put so much dishonor on you, but Criston isn’t good at controlling his jealousy. He wouldn’t be able to handle you being married to another or his children not having his name.

You smiled knowingly, teasing, “I don’t believe you.”

He released his grasp on your chin, letting you fall closer into him, “I could never be fond of an idea where you are not mine.”

“Well I would be, only secretly.” You pointed out.

“I want you to be mine openly, in every way. By name.”

You knew that wasn’t possible, not even across the sea. But you didn’t want to burst the bubble he’d been constructing for the last year. You let it go. A short silence takes over, not an uncomfortable one, but not the kind you particularly liked. The two of you had extremely different thinking processes, and it was something only amplified when you discussed your ideas for the future. Luckily, your partner was delusional enough that he didn’t notice your discontent with running away.

“Criston?” You ask, letting yourself fall to lie flat beside him. He lets go of your wrist and his eyes follow your moments, as usual. He lies back on the bed as well.

“Yes, my Princess?”

“Why do you desire me the way you do?”

He looked slightly surprised at the question, like he’d never expected you would ask. The truth is, he hadn’t. It wasn’t like you to care why. You were quick to accept things for what they were.

“You’re special to me.” He eventually whispered, “I was made to love you.”

“Made?”

“The gods constructed me only for the purpose of worshipping you. You have bewitched me with no effort. I do not know whether to kiss the ground you walk on or fall to my knees and beg for your continued attention.”

You stare into his big, dark eyes silently. He’s loyal, like a dog. And he’s hopeless like one too. “You’re not exactly a poet, but I suppose that will do.”

He grins, and you can practically feel his heart racing, “Not a poet, no.”

You tear your eyes away from him to glare at the ceiling. “Do not call my nephew a bastard again.”

He tensed at your words, entirely disliking that he’d upset you, and nodded immediately. He was embarrassed, “Yes, my love, I’m sorry.”

You sighed and looked back at him, sitting up once more. “I think you’ll find him charming. Rhaenyra says he reminds her of me already.”

“Well I’m sure to be charmed in that case, aren’t I?”

“Oh, yes, since you’re more than quite charmed by me.”

“Charmed,” He smiled, pupils expanding as he began to fantasize, “I hope to be charmed by our own children one day.”

“Our own?” You entertained, “How many? Including this daughter of ours of course.”

“Five perhaps. More if you’d like.” He took a piece of your hair between his fingers to play with.

“Is that what our lives would look like if you had it your way?”

“If I had it my way,” His eyes shifted back to your own, darkening, “by now you’d be chasing around our first two children as your stomach swelled with our third. You’d be called Lady Cole.”

“Ah, yes. Lady Cole with her many Cole babes.”

Criston had to take a deep breath at that, practically vibrating at the mere thought of you carrying his children and living as his wife.

You giggle at his visible reaction, leaning down to claim his lips. He sighed into the kiss, hesitant hands reaching for your hair. He tugs, trying to urge you closer, onto his lap, “My princess, please.”

“He begs, ‘Please please please’. You are the wantingest man I’ve ever met.” You grin into the kiss, allowing him to take you into his lap.

“I will never have shame in begging you. My life belongs to you, I am yours.” His words are beginning to slur slightly, “It’s only natural for me to be greedy when you are the one who claims my heart.”

“Always trying to impress me with your words,” You playfully roll your eyes, “you’re nearly healed, you know. Ready to return to my side?” It was a lie, he had good a bit left of healing to do.

“I never should have left.” He squirmed, trying not to show his anger. He never left, not willingly. He was removed.

“Of course, of course.” You tugged on the dark hair at the back of his neck, “The man who’s been with me is utterly serious. Neither I nor Rhaenyra like him.”

Criston listened to your complain about your temporary shield with a sense of pride and giddiness. He was relieved you disliked his replacement. But the mention of your sister disliking him as well did nothing for him, as the princess Rhaenyra didn’t like most men surrounding you, Criston himself included. She never vocalized it much, but he noticed when she tensed and sneered when he got too close to you. He wondered if she knew about your relationship.

“I’m more your taste, Princess?”

A grin found its way to your face and you nodded, “That’s right, I can do whatever I please to you and you only bask in my attention.”

He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, argue with that. While he had his own boundaries of sorts, they were completely disregarded in your presence and he didn’t even mind it.

To prove your point, you began to kiss his jaw, sweet and gentle kisses. Criston hummed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back only slightly. You nipped at the delicate skin, comfortable with leaving just a few marks because he was still out of action; not many people would be seeing him anyways.

“G-gods-” he choked out.

“The gods cannot save you, I’m afraid.” You giggle.

“I beg them not to.”

You giggle at his dazed voice and expression, blowing cool air on his neck and enjoying his shiver. His hands keep twitching. Just to tease, you kept your face tucked into him, kitten licking at the skin until you felt something wet hit your cheek. Pulling away slightly, you quickly identified the source of the warm liquid; blood was dripping from Criston’s nose, falling over his lips down to his chin.

“S-sorry, your grace. I’m overwhelmed is all.” He muttered, hand immediately going up to face to stop the dripping. But you only pull his hand away with a smirk.

“You know,” you begin, thumbing some of the blood and smearing it over his lips, “in the way of Old Valyria, we share blood when we marry.”

“Please, please,” he croaks, big dark eyes boring desperately into your own. They’re shiny and lack any coherent thoughts, “Don’t say such things to me now— can’t control myself.”

“We use dragon glass to cut one another’s lip,” you take your bloodied thumb and swipe red onto your bottom lip, “then we kiss to show we are of the same blood now.”

His leg begins to bounce and he has to look away from your face. His nose continues to drip blood, but neither of you move to stop it this time.

“You like that idea~ i can tell because you’re shaking.” You giggle into his ear.

“M’not shaking-” he replies, but even his voice trembles.

“Well you’re bleeding, is that not a sign?” You tilt your head, “perhaps you’re unwell, should I stop?”

Before he can beg you not to stop, his sharp ears catch the sound of clicking armor in the hall. He tenses, almost forgetting he was in the Princess’ chambers; he doesn’t know how when yours was easily three-times the size of his own. There was no need to panic and hide, people were not permitted to just walk in.

Three hard knocks sounded throughout the room, causing Criston to freeze. Your expression didn’t change, as you’d heard the footsteps.

“Who is it? Do not enter please.” You answered, your eyes not leaving your knight’s. As nervous as he was, Criston maintained eye contact and didn’t move a muscle. With a small grin, your hand traveled back up to his chin, which was now smeared with blood. As your fingers traced his features, you leaned in close to his ear to place a few gentle kisses there.

“Princess, it’s Ser Jessil. Your sister, the Princess Rhaenyra, has sent for you. She is… perhaps you should open the door to let me explain. It concerns your safety.”

Your reactions vary; Criston’s posture is still stiff and he’s growing annoyed at the knight’s presence. It’s almost offensive how this pathetic creature is trying to protect you when that’s his job. But you’re worried, though you won’t show it. Rhaenyra? Is something wrong? But something about it didn’t make sense; if your safety was threatened, then why did Rhaenyra know first and why did Jessil bother knocking at all?

“I’d prefer you explain from where you are.”

You could hear his sigh through the door, an impressive feat, “She is suspicious that a knight of the king is sneaking into your chambers.”

Probably because it was true, you thought, glancing at a stiff and unhappy Criston.

“Let me ready myself and I will speak with her at once.” As you began to shift off of your shield, but he only pouted and desperately hung on. He had the mind to keep quiet, but his heart wouldn’t allow you to leave him.

“… Yes, Princess.”

You turned to him sternly, “Let go, Criston. Don’t be foolish, just hide for now and be gone when we leave.” You quietly scolded and his grip loosened.

He clenches his jaw, the most common hint to his annoyance, and said nothing. He allowed you to pull him up by the hand and drag him over to your wardrobe, shutting him in with a last apologetic kiss.

“Be good.” You uttered, and his gaze softened for a moment before the door shut in his face.

He could hear you shuffle around, dressing quickly to see your sister. He sucked his teeth angry. Did he deserve mistreatment? To an extent, yes, he could admit that. But this wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t you just— stay? Tell him to kill that bothersome knight and be done with him entirely. His fists clenched. He’d kill him— and soon. Right now even. Then he’d take you away and give you a nice little home with sweet little silver-haired babies. Criston was growing sick of waiting, it was eating him up inside. You affected him so severely, it was showing itself physically. He brought a hand up to the crimson liquid that had finally stopped leaking from his nose.

You were gone now— he knew this because he could feel when you were near. But someone was in your chambers, someone closer to his size. He could hear the metal clanking of heavy armor. The person was looking for something, an intruder most likely. But Criston was not the intruder here. The idea of someone who wasn’t him being in your space made him burn with anger. That was fine, he decided, he’d handle it. With balled up fists, he stepped out from the wardrobe.

“Has Ser Jessil been good to you, little sister?”

You shrugged at Rhaenyra, your chin resting in your hand as you leaned on the table. It wasn’t polite, but you were comfortable in her presence, “He’s fine, I suppose.”

“But you prefer that dog of yours.” Your sister teased. You could tell she didn’t like that— didn’t like Criston. You understood.

“He’s good, listens well.”

“Not for long— I can see it well. He’s a sick thing, sister.”

“I can handle him, he does as I ask.”

“He’s greedy, an oath breaker.”

You hummed in agreement, “He has pretty eyes.”

Rhaenyra scoffed with a grin at your reply, “He will try to steal you away. Not just that, but he’s also obvious. Painfully so. If I know, someone else does too. He needs to be put out. Be rid of him.”

“I… understand that he’s got troublesome feelings. But he’s become something of a pet to me now.” You pouted and your sister sighed, not fond of upsetting you.

“When I ascend the throne, he will be gone. I worry he’ll be your downfall.” She wasn’t being dramatic, she’d disliked the man for years and saw every bit of concerning behavior he displayed. She saw clearly his desperation to leave with you. When it comes time for you to marry, he’ll go mad.

You knew whatever you had with Criston wasn’t permanent, but to hear your elder sister give away her intentions of getting rid of him really struck you. “He’s brainless, Rhaenyra. Just a dog, truly. He can hardly read. He’s only a threat physically, and he would never hurt me.”

Rhaenyra sighed, wrinkling her nose in distaste for the man. She used to be like you, still was sometimes, but she would protect you from her mistakes. She would not allow any whispers at court of you being a whore and your children being bastards, not like her. Since the birth of Jacaerys, she’d grown just a bit more serious, and much more protective.

“You needn’t be literate to kill a man.” She replied after a brief silence.

You held back a huff. The truth was that Criston could read fine these days, though not nearly at the level you could. You’d only said that to give the illusion of harmlessness. Unfortunately, Rhaenyra would never buy it; she had seen the knights he’d bloodied during tournaments.

“I’ll be harder on him then, perhaps add a bit of distance. But, sister, he is important. As a member of the Kingsguard, his support and loyalty will aid your claim. One more soldier on our side— a good one.”

“I will not sacrifice you for my cause.”

“I’ve told you, he will not harm me—”

“It’s more complex than that—!”

It felt like you were 13 and 14 again, bickering over something that was caused by your sisters protectiveness.

No, you will not be coming with me. You will sleep in your bed and I will wake you myself come morning!

If that stable boy looks at you that way again, I will have father or Uncle Daemon take his eyes— probably Daemon.

No, sister. You are mad if you think I’m letting you anywhere near a wild dragon—!

You sometimes think that Criston and Rhaenyra hate one another because they are a bit similar.

“Nyra,” you groaned, head in hands, “I will fix it, you’re right, he has become a bit… extreme lately. But you must admit he’d be beneficial to our cause.”

Although Rhaenyra was legally the heir to the throne, there were already whispers of putting Alicent’s son, Aegon, on the throne in her place. Criston wasn’t very powerful politically, but he was a brilliant fighter and his words as a Kingsguard held just a bit of sway.

She furrowed her brows, “You’re too fond of him.”

You shrugged, standing up, “Perhaps. But I’m no fool; you come first. I will never flee with him.”

“And when he realizes that?”

You didn’t have an answer. You passed Harwin Strong on your way out, and bit your tongue to stop myself from calling out the hypocrisy.

What was the difference between her and Harwin vs you and Criston?

Well for starters, Harwin didn’t murder any man who entered Rhaenyra’s vicinity. Criston on the other hand…

By the time you returned to your chambers, the entire stone floor was red, the liquid seeping into your intricate carpet you’d had since you were a child. There was no body, suggesting that Criston had already gotten rid of it or the victim managed to escape. (But that was unlikely, Criston was a beast in a fight, and his temper was unmatched.)

“Princess.” Criston croaked from behind you, in the open doorway. He’d just arrived, and it took only one glance at him to know what he’d done. Blood covered his hands, arms, and chest. It was splattered from his face all the way down to his knees. He was in his civilian clothes still, rather than any armor due to being put on leave. His eyes were shiny, some sense of desperation in them, and he was fiddling with his red hands. Nervous. Why were you back so early? The sling for his arm was gone, though he surely still needed it.

“Is—” You cleared your throat. “Is he alive?”

But judging by the brain matter on the ground, you knew the answer was—

“No.” Direct and honest. He took a few steps forward, shutting the door behind him. You weren’t scared of him necessarily— you knew well enough at this point that he’d never hurt you. But he didn’t look quite human at the moment, so you took a step back.

Your simple shuffle backwards was enough to send him into a panic.

He dropped to his knees, blood soaking into his breeches as he inched closer, “My love— he was threat! He would’ve found me in here—” He babbled on about protecting you, begging for you not to be afraid. You let him talk, focused on the blood.

“Clean this up.” You finally muttered, patting him quickly on the head to avoid soaking yourself with the crimson liquid.

As much as a part of you wanted to coo at him ‘good dog’, you couldn’t. This was messy— emotional and obvious. Risky. He was a bad dog, a stupid one even. He wasn’t like Harwin— manageable. He was something else entirely. You liked him how he was, violently loyal and protective, but you couldn’t have it.

He quickly agreed to clean it and began to calm down, which led him to notice your own unease. He flinched when he saw how much blood seeped into your shoes and skirt, pulling you into his arms and placing you on your favorite stool.

He was cooing at you, “Sweet Princess, don’t worry about this, yes? I’ll rid you completely of this man, I swear it. I allowed his blood to soil your clothes, I’m sorry.”

Criston kissed at your collar bones down your arms to your palms.

“Criston,” his eyes shot up to meet yours. Big brown heart eyes. “No more of this, not in this castle.”

His hands tightened slightly around your wrists, “But you like it.” He muttered.

“It isn’t about that—!” You held your tongue, deciding to take a smarter approach, “My sweet Criston, the people in the Keep will soon notice a pattern, I cannot let that happen. My sister needs nothing in her way of that crown.”

He nearly scoffed, “Is it always about your sister and her crown? I have protected you again! From-from these perverts who wish to—”

“You’re the pervert-!”

“You love me! You love it! How you affect me— how you can physically see every thought that goes through my head about you! You love how perverted I am for only you! I see you— I love every part of you, even the part that gets off on a Kingsguard soiling his cloak for you!” Criston was shaking, “I am sick, and you cannot get enough! Just as I will never tire of you— I need you!”

There was silence, besides his heavy breathing. You didn’t expect such self-awareness, and you didn’t like it. You liked him better dumb, but it appeared he never was fully clueless. His brown eyes were wide and a shade darker than usual.

“Sit.” You commanded and he did, “Just clean this up.”

[taglist] @3abydolll @pearlstiare @caramelcandescence @eilishchaos @watercolorskyy

The Rhaenyra/Criston beef is gonna go crazy in the prequel

im hoping you guys noticed, but this chapter was meant to emphasize the lack of control the reader truly has on criston. like yeah, he worships you and is willing to do almost anything you say, but his urges control him more than anything else ever will. this is going to be a common theme in the future. i also wanted this chapter to show more daily life and readers relationship with rhaenyra compared to part i.

#dark! hotd #yandere hotd #hotd x reader #got x reader #yandere got #yandere criston cole #yandere asoiaf #criston cole #criston cole x reader #obsessive criston cole #dark criston cole #ser criston #targaryen reader

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gatitties · 8 months

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War & crack II

—Task Force 141 x young!reader

—Summary: more headcanons with your team as you being chaotic

—Warnings: none

Part One / Halloween special

yeah, I didn't finish my brainstorm and I bring more things from this sudden idea 🫣

─ Listen, you have a lot of problems.

─ And we are not talking about your jokes about death biting your ass anymore.

─ Price's going to go bald before he retires, how the hell are you still alive today? It is a mystery to them.

─ Everyone noticed during a mission where they had to stay in a safe house for a few weeks that you had the same concentration as a fly, empty thoughts behind your eyes lost in a distant point of reality.

─ You looked like another person when you were a simple civilian, Gaz had to pull you so you wouldn't get run over a couple of times for not looking at the traffic lights.

─ Price needs to put on videos of crunchy slime or Subway Surfers so you could hear what he was saying, (Soap won't admit that it also helps him focus).

─ They discovered that you can sleep in any position, seriously, whether it's standing up, in the bathtub, your body bent in an unusual way, now they understand why you complain so much about back pain.

─ Everyone looks in silence when they give you little impulses to do stupid things, like, last time you were walking to see the area and you found a woman walking her dog, you asked her if you could pet it and when she said yes you pet the woman instead of the dog, Ghost dragged you away murmuring an apology.

─ The following days they decided that you would stay at home, they simply fed your stupidity, every time they arrived you received them with the phrase 'where have you been, loca?' while playing a wolf howl in the background.

─ Luckily it was time to return to the base, during the trip you were listening to music, despite having your headphones you had the volume so high that everyone could hear it, Soap stuck to you because he liked what you were listening, the others decided to drown out the noise with some light talk.

─ Once you returned to the base you relaxed, returning to your working state, you focused again, which relieved all.

─ One day they decided that you needed a nickname since everyone had it except you, so they began to investigate your record as a cadet and even your years in the military school.

─ You kicked and fought because you were something else a while ago, but it was inevitable to find an old report where it said that you were violent with some classmates.

─ And in your anger for probably some nonsense, you ended up biting the ankles of a guy, or a group of guys, or even one of your lieutenants...

─ Soap and Gaz cried with laughter because there was a video of what was evidenced and you looked like a rabid chihuahua attacking its worst enemy.

─ Nibbles, at least it was temporary because you didn't entirely agree with the nickname.

— Since you were now known like that, you went from friendly punches to friendly bites.

─ Once you got kidnapped and you returned to the base the next day because your captors couldn't stand having you sing old Justin Bieber songs or listening to you talk about all your obsessions, they tried to cover your mouth but you just kept making too much noise, the information was not worth it.

─ You arrived in the middle of the meeting they had to prepare the rescue, having the courage to enter the room asking who they were trying to rescuing.

─ Price casually replied that they were looking for you until he did a double take, realizing you were there.

─ You were buried in a mass of muscles after the realization.

─ When you're depressed at random times (because you don't understand how your brain works and you feel bad out of nowhere), everyone will quickly notice, like even though you're not the most talkative person all the time, you usually drop some stupid comment, but on your bad days you are simply a piece of flesh and bones that walks without knowing where it's going.

─ The first time they saw you like this they tried to do something to cheer you up, Price gave you a few days off hoping your mood wasn't due to work overload, he even wrote some of your reports.

─ Soap bought stickers and decorations to your liking to decorate your prosthesis, he also told you that he could draw you a design to have your personalized arm.

─ Gaz tried to talk to you but you just didn't want to open your mouth, he chose to just keep you silent company, maybe you hug him, you need a little physical support.

─ Ghost will leave objects scattered around knowing that you would find them, knowing that they were things that you liked or had been looking for (because the poor guy always has to pick up what you forget around the common room).

— Nothing seemed to work until a stray kitten snuck in and lit up your face, so the easy answer was any baby animal would brighten your day, it was free therapy.

— You once dyed the boys' clothes pink by accident, but at least you told them that now they could go see Barbie with you.

— You promised you'd take them to see Oppenheimer, and that's why they agreed.

— You created a group chat just to send shitpost and teach them the meme path.

— Price just leaves it on seen, Ghost has the group muted, Gaz answers from time to time and Soap is the most active, he learns fast about today's shitpost.

— You really resist the urge to trim Price's beard to make it heart-shaped.

— You use the radio to sing parts of songs when you take too long to jump into action, Price scolds you for it.

— You complain that he seems constantly in a bad mood and you open a profile for him on every dating app you know, even on Grindr.

— You found Ghost's profile browsing Tinder and Soap's profile on Grindr... you decided to use it as a weapon in case you needed any favors.

— Gaz caught you red-handed, but you made a deal and he wouldn't say anything if he can profit from the manipulation.

— You hide it like you're hiding war crimes.

— Why does Price have so many likes from single moms?

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reasonsforhope · 18 days

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Flint, Michigan, has one of the [United States]'s highest rates of child poverty — something that got a lot of attention during the city's lead water crisis a decade ago. And a pediatrician who helped expose that lead problem has now launched a first-of-its-kind move to tackle poverty: giving every new mother $7,500 in cash aid over a year.

A baby's first year is crucial for development. It's also a time of peak poverty.

Flint's new cash transfer program, Rx Kids, starts during pregnancy. The first payment is $1,500 to encourage prenatal care. After delivery, mothers will get $500 a month over the baby's first year.

"What happens in that first year of life can really portend your entire life course trajectory. Your brain literally doubles in size in the first 12 months," says Hanna-Attisha, who's also a public health professor at Michigan State University.

A baby's birth is also a peak time for poverty. Being pregnant can force women to cut back hours or even lose a job. Then comes the double whammy cost of child care.

Research has found that stress from childhood poverty can harm a person's physical and mental health, brain development and performance in school. Infants and toddlers are more likely than older children to be put into foster care, for reasons that advocates say conflate neglect with poverty.

In Flint, where the child poverty rate is more than 50%, Hanna-Attisha says new moms are in a bind. "We just had a baby miss their 4-day-old appointment because mom had to go back to work at four days," she says...

Benefits of Cash Aid

Studies have found such payments reduce financial hardship and food insecurity and improve mental and physical health for both mothers and children.

The U.S. got a short-lived taste of that in 2021. Congress temporarily expanded the child tax credit, boosting payments and also sending them to the poorest families who had been excluded because they didn't make enough to qualify for the credit. Research found that families mostly spent the money on basic needs. The bigger tax credit improved families' finances and briefly cut the country's child poverty rate nearly in half.

"We saw food hardship dropped to the lowest level ever," Shaefer says. "And we saw credit scores actually go to the highest that they'd ever been in at the end of 2021."

Critics worried that the expanded credit would lead people to work less, but there was little evidence of that. Some said they used the extra money for child care so they could go to work.

As cash assistance in Flint ramps up, Shaefer will be tracking not just its impact on financial well-being, but how it affects the roughly 1,200 babies born in the city each year.

"We're going to see if expectant moms route into prenatal care earlier," he says. "Are they able to go more? And then we'll be able to look at birth outcomes," including birth weight and neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) admissions.

Since the pandemic, dozens of cash aid pilots have popped up across the nation. But unlike them, Rx Kids is not limited to lower-income households. It's universal, which means every new mom will get the same amount of money. "You pit people against each other when you draw that line in the sand and say, 'You don't need this, and you do,' " Shaefer says. It can also stigmatize families who get the aid, he says, as happened with traditional welfare...

So far, there's more than $43 million to keep the program going for three years. Funders include foundations, health insurance companies and the state of Michigan, which allocated a small part of its federal cash aid, known as Temporary Assistance for Needy Families.

Money can buy more time for bonding with a baby

Alana Turner can't believe her luck with Flint's new cash benefits. "I was just shocked because of the timing of it all," she says.

Turner is due soon with her second child, a girl. She lives with her aunt and her 4-year-old son, Ace. After he was born, her car broke down and she was seriously cash-strapped, negotiating over bill payments. This time, she hopes she won't have to choose between basic needs.

"Like, I shouldn't have to think about choosing between are the lights going to be on or am I going to make sure the car brakes are good," she says...

But since she'll be getting an unexpected $7,500 over the next year, Turner has a new goal. With her first child, she was back on the job in less than six weeks. Now, she hopes she'll be able to slow down and spend more time with her daughter.

"I don't want to sacrifice the time with my newborn like I had to for my son, if I don't have to," she says."

-via NPR, March 12, 2024

#united states #flint michigan #michigan #cash aid #basic income #poverty #poverty relief #child poverty #mothers #pregnancy #prenatalcare #healthcare #healthcare access #public health #child development #good news #hope

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ebonyslasher · 3 months

Text

Sleeping Time

A little something creepy for Valentine's Day. Hope you all enjoy!!

TW: A teeny mention of non-con thoughts in Billy's part

Michael was the subject expert at watching people from afar. Although he was tall, he was easy to miss for those who weren't paying attention. Even when he was on the prowl, ready to kill a nearby target, they still wouldn’t feel his presence until it was too late.

This was the same with you, as you soundly slept in your soft bed. Pillows surrounded you like a halo, the fan blowing right on your unconscious form. Michael stood off to the side of the bed, watching as you rested. You were none the wiser, not even feeling the aura of his presence in the room.

Michael tilted his head as he observed your relaxed face. You were unlike most he came across, your look was so beautifully unique. At first glance, he was immediately obsessed. His cold eyes took note of your position, on your back with one arm lifted over your head. The only sign that you were alive was the movement from your chest. Something that could be easily taken away, if Michael so chooses.

But, he doesn’t. He viewed your eyebrows, nose, and ears first. His eyes traveled down towards your mouth, chin, and then your neck. He spent ample time observing, his eyes going back and forth between your features. However, he couldn’t help but gravitate his view towards your neck. Especially when you move your head from side to side. Your neck didn’t look fragile, but it didn’t look strong either. Your skin looked smooth. The appeal of your neck made him want to reach out and squeeze. To see your pretty eyes open in shock and pain as he drained your breath from you.

But, he doesn’t.

Maybe one day.

Danny Johnson was a born stalker. In elementary school, it was seen as a childish quirk that he had. Easily dismissable. In middle school, it started to become concerning, but fluctuating hormones were used as an excuse. With eyes on his behavior, he tried to break the habit. In high school, he tried his best but failed. By adulthood, he had practiced how to get away with it. Now, he was using those skills to watch you.

Being a journalist had its perks. That meant he could carry a camera with him wherever he went. He had been stalking you for a while, taking notes on where you went and any routine(s) you had. He would often take pictures, usuallywhen you were looking off to the side or down. At first he was excited to have pictures of you so he could hang them in his room. However, he wanted a closer look, getting frustrated with just zooming as a temporary relief. Danny could only get so close to you in public without notice.

Danny planned to break into your house, once he was comfortable knowing the layout. He was already watching you from the window. You had knocked out on the couch with the TV still on. Bingo.

He carefully walked through the front door and silently made his way over to the couch. You didn’t stir at his presence, giving him plenty of time to watch you.

Finally, Danny could look at you closely. He peered at your face, eyes zooming in on your jawline and puffed cheeks. You looked so cute, so fragile. The desire to stab or pinch your cheeks made him smile wildly in glee. But…he didn’t want to ruin that pretty face.

In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to entertain the image. Ghostface unsheathed his dagger and lightly traced the tip of it right above your jawline and cheek. The peach fuzz on your face raised, the tip of the hair touching the knife. But, your skin was none the wiser. The urge to cut down on your fantastic skin increased. He did not want to ruin the moment, so he retracted the blade from your face.

He took a moment to look at you again. How peaceful. Danny gets out his phone, making sure the shutter from the camera app was silent. He took up close pictures of each individual part of your face. That cute nose. Beautiful eyelashes. Amazing shaped eyes. Soft, delectable lips. He sighed in pleasure at the view each time his camera focused.

Once he was satisfied, he walked out of the house. As he made his way home, he began to plan your kidnapping. There was no way he’d let anyone else view your perfect face ever again.

He had been stalking you for 3 weeks now. The first week was spent getting to know your routine, place of residence, car, and whatever else he could find. The second week, he went through the local building department archives, obtaining the blueprint to your house. The third week he solidified his plans, confident with your schedule and house layout. He had broken in a few times while you were away to practice.

However, one thing that he had trouble with was the dilemma of what he wanted to do with you. He needed to decide whether to have you in his collection or to keep for himself. Viewing you from a distance was not enough to make his decision. The pictures hanging in your house didn’t help him decide either. They were not enough, he had to get closer.

It was 2:03 am when he disabled your security system and snuck into your house. He goes straight to your bedroom, not wanting to waste any time. Thankfully, the door to your room was slightly open enough for him to slide through. He goes in, quietly walking up to your sleeping form.

You were sleeping on your side, hugging the pillow under your head. Your arm did not obscure the view from your face, thankfully. Asa focused on the curve of your nose that flowed nicely into wide nostrils. There was a shine against your skin, blessed moonlight rays hitting you from the window. Your eyebrows, which would scrunch intermittently, fanned out beautifully. As he took in more of your features, he wondered between the two options. While stalking you, he would watch your facial expressions often. They were quite alluring.

If you were part of the collection, he would have to decide which facial expression would be best to accentuate your features. A hard decision, as so many suited you just right.

But…..

If collected, he wouldn’t be able to see the full range of how you changed your face, especially when you’re being tormented and in pleasure. He pondered on the possibility of that face making delicious expressions. In that case…

It might be better to keep you to himself.

In the moments that he doesn’t want to gruesomely kill randoms, he likes to watch people. He’s very attached (literally) to his camera and likes to document the small things in life. He would do this to victims he stalked. It makes the build-up to the climax so sweet when they were killed. He intensely set his eyes on you at first sight, making him double-take at your beauty as you crossed the street. You were a knockout.

As he had his goons follow your every move, they noticed that you were a heavy sleeper. This was great news for Jesse, as he decided to take a closer look. You were knocked out, sleeping soundly in your messy bedroom. Jesse took his shoes off, as his heeled boots could make noise. He did not want to mess up this glorious opportunity. He tiptoed gracefully around everything to get close to you.

He leaned over, looking at your angelic face. As he appreciated the view, he made sure to record the whole thing, excited to review the footage whenever he felt lonely. Although, he would never admit that. He wanted you to be his little piggy princess.

But… he had to wait. It wouldn't be fun if he indulged now.

He continued to gaze upon your sleeping face, excited when you started going through REM. Your eyes shifted quickly under your eyelids and your mouth started to slightly open. His eyes dart to them immediately. It was a moment before you whimpered, eyebrows cutely scrunching throughout your dream. Random body parts would jump and faintly spasm, enthralling Chromeskull each time. It was obvious that you had sleep paralysis. The fight in your body made him excited. Would you act the same under his control, if he tied you up or held you down?

It seemed like the fight was beginning to end. Your limbs were successfully fighting off the paralysis one by one. He took the final opportunity to enjoy a full-body view of you writhing underneath the covers. He knew you were going to wake up soon. He dips silently, walking out the door as you wake up disoriented.

Billy loved to watch. Anything. He was a voyeur. Intimate moments were the forefront of their entertainment. Watching people shower, expel their waste, shave, cry, and masturbate were some of his favorites. It was his own reality tv show. But, the one habit he adored watching was people sleeping.

When Billy watched you sleep, it inspired his imagination to go wild. The thought of doing something to you, even around you, without you knowing made him feral. To imagine and know he could do whatever he wanted was so appetizing. It could be as innocent as caressing your soft hands. Or as devilish as wiping his cock lightly across your face.

The latter weighed heavily on his mind as he leered at you sleeping. You slept haphazardly but that did not hide the curve of your body. As you shift, he drooled at the way you twisted and moved under the covers. He wants to rip them off to see how you truly look.

Any sounds you made, Billy mentally took note to mimic. But not only that, your whimpers and odd sounds excited him. He wondered what sounds you would make if he pleasured your unconscious body. How he would love to see your face as he did so, imagining your blissed expression in glee. It was his favorite to watch if you had a particularly wild dream or nightmare, to see you toss and turn turned him on further.

The voyuer that he was loved watching you sleep. He wished he’d forced his parent to buy him a camera. It would have been a favorite pastime to take photos of your sleeping face. It would provide him ample jerk off material when he couldn’t observe you. Thankfully, he had plenty fun of jerking off to you as you slept before him.

The curve and plumpness of your lips was a sight to behold. It was equally enthralling watching them slightly open as it was seeing you talk. It turned him on so, so much. His eyes would pop when the covers would hug your form nicely, showing off your luscious curves. In certain positions, your body would look downright divine, often sending him over the edge.

The best parts would be when you tossed and turned to the point where the covers would start to fall off. The opportunity would give him a lovely view of whatever you had on (or not) to bed. If you were naked, he would go feral!

#slasher x reader #black reader #michael myers #ghostface #brahms heelshire #billy lenz #jesse cromeans #asa emory #danny johnson #chromeskull #michael myers x reader #brahms x reader #billy lenz x reader #asa emory x reader #jesse cromeans x reader #danny johnson x reader #ghostface x reader

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chrollohearttags · 4 months

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I heard you wanted some muscian Eren thirst so I'll do my best:

What if Ms. YN (back before she & Eren got matching/couple tattoos) got a custom temporary tattoo of her man's name & placed it like a tramp stamp? What if that night when she's performing with her crew she posts some spicy pics flashing the fake tattoo waiting for Eren to notice.

What if he noticed & when she gets home home & starts to undress she feels his hand travel up her body, bending her over the counter as he lifts her shirt to see his name just above her ass? Now YN's gone & awaken his need to mark her. Poor thing, she didn't expect him to damn near break her but she plans to surprise him with a cute lil permanent "E" on her ankle if this is the reaction a fake tattoo got. She ends up walking funny the next day for sure.

OMG BABES!! you’re an absolute genius 😭 I love this so bad chdkhdkd

because imagine…you’re on tour, traveling the country or it’s your first time performing internationally. Either way, you’ve been apart from Eren for quite some time. Although dancing on stage and living the dream with your girls is amazing, you miss your husband! Neither of you are strangers to extended periods of separation due to work. Long nights on the road, weeks at a time in different locations that wasn’t the home you shared together. It admittedly took its toll, in many forms…

“Yes, baby..I miss you too. I miss you so much..”

“So come home already. Please, (y/n)..I need you.”

the shrill cries and whiny pleas spilling from your beloved, EJ. The sound of the mega star rapper’s moans pouring from your phone’s speakers as he stroked himself on the end. That tight fist enclosed around his cock as he played the very vivid imagery of your previous nights together in his mind. It was quite apparent that he wasn’t taking too kindly to his wife being thousands of miles away from him. Watching you vicariously through a phone screen as he surveyed that beautiful body. Once twirling on the pole half nude and shrouded in glitter and now, completely naked and on full display for him. So egregiously horny with no shame for his blatant submission. Drooling and bucking his hips up into his enclosed fingers..

“Baby..I can’t..soon as I get home though. You know imma take care of you, daddy. Imma give you what you need..”

a statement he intended for you to follow through on. Because in the days since that very salacious phone call, he’d hand nothing but time and unbridled obsession on his hands..carefully surveying and watching your Instagram account like that of a hawk. Breaking his very own conditions on social media just to get a peak of his princess..his gorgeous wife who was fresh off of a performance with one of his respected ‘colleagues’, who’d joined the tour as well. Spinning around that metal pole with six inch Pleasers twirling in the air. A sight that he loved to witness. But alas, Eren would be met with another one. One far more savory and the catalyst for his greed and lust. The same greed and lust he’d undoubtedly take out on you the second you touched down back at the shared Miami estate!..

“You gonna give me what I need, right? That’s what you said?..so do it, give me that fucking pussy!”

tearing and ripping you out of your clothes before you could even so much as reach the staircase! Folding you over the kitchen counter with a rough hand scaling the curvature of your back. His open palm smacking roughly against your plump ass with heavy slaps…he was relentless! However, the reason for his sudden aggression wasn’t just the fact that he missed you. No!..but rather, the aforementioned sight had awoken something serious in him. The need to make love..the need to mark and claim you like that of a primal animal!

“..Rennn! Okaaay, fuck! Take it, please..”

because what he saw was a rather interesting piece of ink riddling your skin. A tattoo…and one of his name to be more specific! Something he was blissfully unaware that you had obtained. The fact alone that you had did so and behind his back nonetheless had Eren ready to pound that that tight pussy and fill it with every spilling drop of his cum until you couldn’t even walk straight. “You’re so sneaky, baby. I like that shit..didn’t think I’d see it, did you?” taunting mercilessly as he begins to rut his hips into your backside. The thunderous claps of your asscheeks against his pelvis with fluid yet deep strokes, one sharper than the next. All you could do was maintain that perfect arch and grasp for the marble countertop with all your strength to bear the sharp thrusts. But it wasn’t a reaction of misery. You loved it! You loved seeing him become so riled up at the thought of having you stamped with his seal. Clawing his fingernails into your waist and tugging you back with sharp gasps hissing in your ear.

“Tell me it’s mine, baby. Let daddy know who that shit belongs to..” the pure sex appeal dripping from his voice like that of honey. But he didn’t have to take your word for it. Because after countless rounds of rough and filthy lovemaking in every inch of the house. Taking you from the kitchen, the staircase and even the upstairs balcony for all the nights of pent up sexual frustration, you’d find yourself stumbling lopsidedly to the tattoo parlor. The shop where he’d gotten countless pieces on his own body done. Sitting upright in a chair as the artist engraved a single capital ‘E’ on your skin; right next to the diamond tennis anklet with his initials on it. Simply smirking at the thought of his reaction…and you didn’t have to wait long. Because nightfall would come around and you’d find yourselves engaging in another bout of steamy sex. This time in the comfort of your bedroom with R&B faintly thumping from the TV..pale red lighting illuminating the room and his chiseled body hovering over you. Placing tender kisses along your calf as he hoisted your leg up to his shoulder. Those movements getting lower as his rings grazed your skin. He’d whisper sweet nothings to compliment those pecks, telling you how beautiful you were but his reaction would turn from merely elated to all but ecstatic when he spotted it…

“You like it?..”

being met with a toothy smirk and the faint glint of his silver slugs on the bottom row of his teeth staring back at you. That was most certainly an understatement because he’d prove to you just how much he loved seeing you rock his name. Both physically and metaphorically..

“..that’s my girl..”

and soon, everyone else would too!

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 1 year

Text

Kissing Ace and Deuce when they ask what flavour your lip balm is

I write Reader/Yuu as female

Masterlist

ACE TRAPPOLA

“Babe,” Ace groans for the twentieth time in the past two minutes, “pay attention to me.”

“Ace,” you give him a look that does little to hide your irritation as you swipe your lip balm across your lips, “can you please be quiet?”

“Come on, Y/N,” he whines, giving you a pout as he poked your shoulder, “I just wanna spend some time with my girl. Is that so wrong?”

You gave him a look as you secure your lip balm’s cap and placed it in your bag, “We are spending time together.”

“I mean doing something fun. Not studying like a bunch of nerds,” he complains, “when you invited me to Ramshackle I thought that we were going to have some us time without babysitting your annoying cat or Loosey Deucy.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “I do remember telling you that I was going to be studying for Professor Crewel’s test this Friday. It was your idea to join me. Besides, you haven’t even been studying for the past ten minutes. I don’t remember going over house of cards assembly in Alchemy class.”

“Excuse you, Prefect, I worked very hard on that. I don’t see why you need to study so hard anyways. You’re practically the top of our class.”

“That doesn’t mean that I should start getting lazy.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, “you’re starting to sound like Riddle. All I’m saying is that we should take a break for a while. I don’t see you going over your notes when you stopped to put on that lipstick of yours.”

“It’s not lipstick, it’s lip balm. And I put it on because my lips were drying up.”

“Huh, what flavour is it?”

You look at your boyfriend and glance down at the scribbles in his notebook. To his credit he did manage to get some studying done in the past forty-five minutes he had been sitting with you at your self-proclaimed study table so you supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to indulge him for a bit. With a cheeky smile, you look at him and ask, “do you really want to know?”

With a look of confusion on his face, he replied, “uh, yeah?”

You lean forwards and place your hands on either side of his face before bringing his head towards you. Tilting your head to the side, you press both of your lips together in a sweet kiss.

When you pull away he immediately grabs the collar of your shirt and kisses you again with a mumble of, “I need to double check.”

And again, “I didn’t check it properly.”

“For good measure,” he winks at you with a smirk before licking his lips, positioning one hand at the nape of your neck and kissing you so roughly that you have to grip onto the edge of the table in front of you to avoid falling down on your back (though you know for a fact that Ace would never let you get hurt), your boyfriend’s mouth swallowing the embarrassing yelp you had let out. When he had eventually pulled away - since, apparently, oxygen was a thing - leaving the two of you panting slightly, he gives you a smug grin, “it’s strawberry.”

“Really?” you deadpan, “after all that, you still got it wrong.”

“Huh,” he looks at you confused, “what else could it be?”

“Cherry,” you state incredulously, “how can you not figure it out? I got it because it reminds me of you.”

That smug look is back, “really, Y/N? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’ve got feelings for me.”

“Trust me,” you retort, “even I don’t know why that is. My current guess is temporary insanity.”

“Whaa-hey!”

DEUCE SPADE

Reader is shorter/around the same height as Deuce

You snap your handheld compact mirror shut once you had finished applying your lip balm, the sound of its lid clicking into place catching the attention of your boyfriend, who had been replying to a text message from his mother. The two of you were on your way back to Ramshackle after you had waited for Deuce to finish his session of track and field club when his phone alerted him that his mother was checking up on him and ‘his pretty girlfriend’ much to his embarrassment and your amusement. He looked up from his phone to glance at you.

“What’s that?” he asks as you twisted the lid of your lip balm closed.

“Lip balm,” you reply, holding it up, “Vil’s been on my case about how dry my lips are so yesterday he gave me a set of these.”

“Oh,” he looked at the little yellow stick in your hand and noticed that there weren’t any labels on it, just a bunch of really small writing in black block letters on its side, “what flavour is it?”

You give him a smile, “why don’t you take a guess?”

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion and before he could say anything else you had grabbed ahold of his tie and gently tugged him down before stepping up on your toes and placing your lips against his.

You can tell that he’s startled from the slight inhale he does and the way his body had tensed under your fingers, but then he immediately melts into the kiss, pressing his lips closer against yours. When you pull away, you let out a quiet laugh at the sight of his face trailing after yours, his wide cyan eyes stared at you as if he was completely entranced. A bashful rosy pink had spread across his nose and over his cheeks and ears as you beam at him.

“So,” you tease, “any ideas?”

“Um, uh,” he whispers to himself, his head tilted downwards. A contemplative look adorned his face before he looked back at yours, eyes shining with anticipation, “vanilla?”

“That’s right,” you say happily, patting his shoulder. Just as you had turned around and made a single step forwards but you felt his hand grasp your wrist and pull you back. You turned to look back at the boy next to you to see his flushed face smiling shyly at yours.

“Can,” he muttered softly, “can I have another taste, please?”

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #deuce spade #deuce spade x reader #ace trappola #ace trappola x reader #fem reader

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celenawrites · 6 months

Text

late night drive (m.)

Summary -

After a stressful work day, you spend the night with two handsome men.

Pairing -

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x F! Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Warnings -

Explicit smut (18+ only), slight praise, usage of nicknames (good girl, sweet girl, lass, etc), Oral sex (F, M receiving), Reader has self-esteem issues and it shows heavily, slight angst.

w.c. - 6.5k

masterlist || ao3 vers.

MINORS DNI, or I'll bite your ankles. This stuff is for adults only. 18+ folks only.

You have met them both at a seedy bar set a little off to the left from the heart of the city.

Johnny and Simon. You remember them sitting at the bar, glasses half-filled with Kentucky bourbon, faint murmurs of their conversation flowing like a gentle stream between them and their hands tenderly drawing mindless shapes on their scarred skins. (as if they were writing their soft declarations of love with their fingers on each other, invisible to the eye and yet etched into their souls.)

You are uncertain how you caught their eye. You are not sure if there is something in you that they had caught in a passing glance, and decided to open their hearts (and their beds) to you for this one night as a result.

You had been there after bombing another promising job interview, pissed at your failed potential (you were an A plus student - honors call and all, until you weren’t anymore) and the dead-end job of yours that had you feeling miserable for the past three or so years. It didn’t help that any time you fiddled with your phone, you’d be bombarded with pictures of your schoolmates and college friends marrying, or going on vacations and having a family of their own - growing older with someone, anyone; their lives full and moving and vibrant with colors that usually hurt your eyes.

Meanwhile, you are just living.

A day at a time. A week at a time.

Day to day to day has always been the same. You wake up, work, cook and clean for one and you indulge in past hobbies in order to capture the joy that has somehow slipped past your fingers the older you grew. You have no furry companions you can use as an excuse to go out on a walk, no lovers to send raunchy texts to, and no friends who would abandon their children and husbands to give you company while you wallow in your eternal misery as you drink your pain away with a beer bottle with condensation settling down on its neck, leaving your palms wet and slippery.

You don’t even try to think about your family.

So there you are, an untouched glass of pink gin kept in front of you and your hands nervously raking through your oiled hair and your rumpled work outfit (a sky blue blouse paired with black pencil skirt) ostracized you further from the patrons of the bar. And then you’re approached by Johnny who eyes your colorful drink with mild interest.

Johnny with his wild mohawk and kind brown eyes and kissable lips - who wondered out loud what a pretty little lady like you was doing in a place like this (you almost snorted derisively at the casual compliment, but the fatigue had you more amenable to flattery) and then he asked you about your disheveled state, and you tell him that everyone with a job feels like this on a usually busy weekday. He nods like he understands you, and then he invites you to join him and his boyfriend for some drinks.

Who are you to refuse free drinks and such handsome company?

The conversation is freeing in a way that it allows your mind to forget that the world exists outside of this temporary, delicate bubble that consists of you, Johnny and Simon. Johnny fills the space with his warm voice, enveloping you in comfort and safety as he talks about anything and everything - he tells you that both of them are in the Army (But none of them would budge to answer any questions of yours. “If I answered that, I’d have to kill you”, he joked, but his hardened gaze told you that there is some truth to it.You decided to not let your curiosity guide you anymore.), the football game on the television hung up on the wall, the movie that came out last week, the bourbon they have been nursing for the past half hour or so (“Simon only likes it when it’s Kentucky”, he says and you understand the need for some delicacies of this life staying the same, no matter what.), and then he asks you if you’d like to eat something.

You and Johnny share a plate of cheese fries.

The fries are oversalted(the perfect drunk food, but unfortunately you haven’t even worked up a buzz with your neglected drink), and the cheese is too gooey for you to not eat without getting your hands messy. You cringe at the stickiness, and Johnny laughs at your predicament and you wonder if it is possible for radiant, burning stars to be born as mortals.

His boyfriend, Simon, does not join you in eating the food.

His face is covered by a black surgical mask, and he is mostly quiet - letting his more jubilant counterpart lead the conversation. But conversation lulls between satiating your hunger and Johnny encouraging you to drink from his glass. (“Try it, bonnie. Real booze hits different”, he offers hospitably, and then he chuckles as you sputter and choke at the liquid burning your throat. At least he’s kind enough to pat your back, and then he orders a tall glass of water for your poor throat.)

Simon shakes as he dryly chuckles at the antics of his partner, and you feel heat travel down your stomach at how rough and rich his voice sounds. You find it oddly comforting against the commotion of the busy bar tonight.

After you made a fool out of yourself, the masked man (with his dirty blonde hair and white scars that ran all over his face, only for half of it to be hidden by his black surgical face mask) is much more receptive to having a conversation with you. He seldom talks, but he doesn’t shy away from cracking a dark joke or two that almost make you choke on your own spit. His eyes are dark and intense, and sometimes when your own gaze meets his own, you find it almost impossible to look away from him - afraid that the moment you do, you’d find yourself alone and miserable at the bar again.

There seems to be a pleasant silence settling between you three, and with a warm face and heavy limbs, you lean into the warm hand that cradles the small of your back and let it gently spell something illegible yet almost affectionate into your skin, the fabric of the blouse acting as a poor guard between your sensitive body and the touch you were not aware you craved until now.

You look on with heavy eyes as the couple has a secret conversation between them with their eyes alone. Warm, lovely eyes that were scattered across the different spectrum of shades of brown. Eyes that pierced you and stripped you naked until you were nothing more than your deepest yearnings and fears. Eyes that carried a never-ending love for each other, and each other alone.

They talk in furtive glances, and all you can do is give up on deciphering their language and let yourself enjoy the circles being drawn onto your back by Johnny’s teasing fingers. (You possibly cannot expect to unfurl all of that history and love between them just because you get to be a part of it for a few hours, can you now?)

After they have made a decision and with a nod of mutual acceptance, Johnny turns back to you and you straighten up due to the sudden attention. He looks at you with something akin to desire, and you can only feel your mouth turn dry as he asks you:

“Wanna get out of here?”

They hail a taxi for the three of you.

Johnny is curious and impatient with his hands as he fondles you and leaves fluttering kisses up your neck. You should be mortified; getting frisky with a man you have known for only a few hours, in a taxi no less. But the attention makes it easier to swallow the humiliation that tries to consume your thoughts. Your back is pressed up against Simon’s side, who is all the more satisfied with watching his boyfriend paw at you like a cat fascinated with his new toy. You tilt your head back, and curse out when Johnny’s lips touch a spot that makes your knees buckle. And then you feel a hand engulf your throat, squeezing you gently and you think you might as well just forget to breathe all together.

“Such a pretty girl”, Simon whispers against the shell of your ear, and you are glad that the only source of light on your way to their place are the shitty streetlights, because you cannot school your expression into one of indifference. (You like the praise a little too much.You like it out of Simon’s mouth even more.)

After what seems like an eternity of being teased and taunted by sweet words and lazy actions, the taxi finally comes to a stop and you send out a prayer to any deity out there who might be awake at this odd hour and willing to lend you an ear, because you’re sure that this night will leave you ruined.

You get out of the vehicle on wobbly knees and Johnny is all the more willing to support you while he guides you to the apartment complex where he and Simon currently reside. Simon throws the crumpled bills on the lap of the driver, along with a generous tip for putting up with his frisky lover and the sweet girl they have taken home and for not kicking them out in the middle of nowhere late at night. Simon joins you both in the elevator, and Johnny is all the more eager to pin you against him and finally kisses you on the lips.

You moan into the kiss, your hands finally tugging on his mohawk and bringing you closer and closer to his body. (Not close enough, your body screams. Never close enough, it screams again.) His hands are all the more eager to explore every soft curve of you; restless fingers groping your breasts and making you arch into him even more.

“Fuck, bonnie.Yer so soft”, he remarks after breaking the kiss, and you can only pant at how breathless one kiss from this man had left you. You can only wonder what more he’s capable of making you feel.

You are turned around to face Simon, who looks at your crumpled blouse and your messy hair and the neediness that drips from your eyes and your swollen lips. He holds your chin and tilts it to look at him, before commanding you, “Open up, sweetheart”.

You comply without any complaints, wanting nothing more than to obey the masked man.

You open your mouth, letting your pink tongue tease your parched lips as you wet them and he pries your mouth open wider with a firm hand on your jaw. His dark eyes look down on you, and you feel as if you’re going to be sacrificed and all you can hope is that he likes the offering you have in store for him. (You you you, you offer him all of you.)

“Suck on it”, he orders and you swallow the thumb he offers you - letting you soothe your oral fixation while you impatiently resist the urge to tap your foot against the floor as you wait for the elevator to finish its ascent.

You twirl your tongue around it, wetting the finger in your mouth before you let it out with a resounding ‘pop’, a thin string of saliva connecting your soft lips and the thumb. Your eyes look up at him in reverence, pleading with him to reward you for your good behavior.

“Fuckin’ hell”, he rasps out, and he almost leans forward, almost closes the distance between you both when the elevator lets out a ring and stops on the designated floor.

Through drunk giggles and impaired body coordination, you follow the men as they lead you to their apartment. The moment the door closes behind them (locked carefully by Simon, while Johnny guides you inside), they’re back onto you - clinging to your body like you’re the anchor that grounds them in the storm of life.

And it feels nice to be needed like that, if only for a moment.

You’re on your knees on the floor as you wait for Simon to do something.

You are naked - your clothes peeled off from your body after Simon unzipped it for you and Johnny had been all the more eager to palm your breasts in his hands - warm and calloused and greedy for more.

Your blouse is discarded somewhere on the floor long forgotten.

(“Lovely tits”, Johnny had groaned as he had undressed you, and you thanked yourself for wearing a somewhat decent bra today. )

You sit waiting - a paragon of virtue and patience as you look up at the men who would be ultimately ruining you tonight. They talk in eyes again, and you feel a pang of irritation at your inability to decipher all that is said between them with just a single look.

Your arms are folded across your chest - a decision you had swiftly taken after feeling a wave of self-consciousness hit you in full force. You can feel your ankles getting numb at the posture - the pins and prickles forcing you to momentarily shift your weight from the ball of your feet to your knees, taking the lack of notice from either men as an incentive to ensure you don’t end up with numb legs while you wait for them to finish whatever secretive talk they are having without words.

Simon turns towards you and notices you struggling on your knees, and then he reaches for one of the pillows scattered near the headboard of their Californian-sized bed. He asks you gently, “Get up from the floor, lovie”, and you do, wincing as you feel the blood circulation return to your sore feet. He puts the pillow on the ground near your feet, bending down to fluff it up a bit for your disposal. You thank him for the considerate action, before assuming your position below him again - the pillow cushioning your knees and providing you much needed relief from the hard marble floor.

“Look at me, lovie”, he commands and you follow him eagerly, tilting your head up to meet his dark eyes. He looks godly, hovering above you like an ethereal deity - his scarred hands and intimidating gait only gives your body the incentive to feel the thrum of desire in your bloodstream as it flows south, making you ready for him.

For both of them.

“A little help here, Johnny?” he beckons and the other man stands in front of Simon, shielding your view of him with his back as he helps the masked man take off his shirt, and if the muffled groans are anything to go by - they’re both kissing and you cannot even see Simon’s face. After a moment, he unzips his pants and lets the garment fall down to his ankles - leaving him in nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs.

Johnny falls down to his knees in front of him and Simon has his mask back on. Kneeling below him, he uses his mouth on his clothed cock, peppering him with soft kisses filled with drool and lust. Simon groans above him, letting his fingers card through the man’s mohawk as he encourages him with throaty noises to continue his actions. Eager to feel all of him, Johnny slides his thumbs into the band of his briefs as he slowly slides down the garment from his hips, letting it pool around his ankles as well. From where you’re seated, you can see how thick Simon is, and you cannot help the way your mouth waters at the idea of being used by him.

You snap out of your thoughts when Simon pulls Johnny onto his feet by his mohawk, forcing him to bare his neck to the taller man and you swear you can hear him whimper when Simon catches his throat with his other hand before giving it a light squeeze.

The sight before you is nothing short of heavenly.

“Eager, are we?” he taunts him, taking his breath away with just a squeeze of his fingers and he lets out a throaty hum as he eyes up his partner, noticing the semi he’s been sporting in his jeans ever since he got a taste of you.

“But it’s her turn”, he motions to you and you straighten your back as both men look back at you.

“C’mere love”, he calls out to you, and you get down to your hands and knees, willing to crawl to him if that is what it will take for him to let you touch him, feel him under your fingertips.

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks.

“No, bring that pillow with you too”, he orders you, “Don’t want your knees to get sore now, do we?”

You feel his hands pull at your hair gently as he brings out his still hard cock out of the confines of your soft mouth. Your lips are sheen with spit and pre-cum and the running makeup paints a debauched picture of you before these men.

So perfect. So ruined. And all theirs for the night.

You look up at him with teary eyes and longing and Simon is almost tempted to allow you to keep going, to let himself finish in your warm, soft mouth. But he has quite a night planned for the both of you(You and Johnny, Johnny and you - consuming his thoughts and mind and even his heart.), and he’d rather not finish in a handful of pumps before you.

“Don’t pout at me, pretty girl”, he chides you playfully, his chest heaving as he takes in deep breaths to soothe the fire in his lungs that you have invoked within him.

You whine noncommittally, eyes focused on him and only him - and it almost shakes him to his core how much he likes having your attention all for himself. (Greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy-)

“Gotta get you ready for the both of us, yeah?” you nod eagerly at his statement, and then you feel a pair of arms around your waist lift you up in the air and you shriek as you’re thrown on the soft mattress, bouncing lightly at the impact as your head falls back on the bed.

“Johnny!” you scream out in surprise, almost tempted to scold him for scaring you but his calloused fingers trace your curves and they tickle your skin that makes it hard for you to control yourself. You let out a soft giggle as the man hovers above you, letting his hands map out every little scar, every little mole, every little mark on your soft skin.

He grins at you, before bending down and taking your lips in a soft kiss - growling a little as he tastes Simon on your lips. Pulling away, he looks down on you again as he cages you between his arms.

“Hi there, bonnie," he whispers breathlessly.

“Hi there, handsome”, you whisper earnestly, before turning your head to the side and kissing the inside of his wrist.

“Johnny will help you get ready. Won’t you, Johnny?” Simon asks, and Johnny groans as he lowers himself down over your body till his eyes line up with the hem of your soft black panties. You exhale soundly in anticipation, propping yourself onto your elbows so your head is up and your eyes gaze into Johnny’s warm brown pupils. You let out an audible exhale when you feel his hands grab the meat of your inner thigh, before he leaves a tender kiss on it, letting out his tongue to taste your skin. Your head falls back on the pillow below you, and your hands find purchase in the luscious locks of his mohawk as Johnny lets his tongue rile you up by licking and kissing every inch of your exposed skin, avoiding where you needed him the most on purpose.

“So sweet”, his teeth lightly bite the meat of your inner thigh, and you wince at the pain before whimpering.

“So pretty”, his fingers play with the flimsy fabric covering your cunt, slowly tugging them to the side and revealing how needy you are for him. For both of them.

“Johnny, please”, you beg him so sweetly with your fingers tugging on his hair, that he finally gives in to your demands with no further ado.

It isn’t long until Johnny is fucking you with all he has.

You have your face buried sideways into the pillow and a leg propped up on his strong shoulder, the position offering him a chance to fuck you deeper that your fingers or any half-hearted partner ever has.

The pillow is wet from the sweat and spit and tears it has soaked up from you, and you bite the fluff of it, trying your best to mute your incomprehensive noises down - lest the nice couple fucking you right now get a noise complaint from their neighbours tomorrow - but to no avail.

It’s like Johnny is on a personal quest to make you scream for everyone to hear.

It also helps that Simon has taken it upon himself to fuck his boyfriend dumb, and what a sight it must be - Johnny fucking into you desperately and letting Simon control the rhythm of his hips as he fucks into him. You’d beckon that he probably has his tongue out - no man can survive fucking someone and getting fucked at the same time without letting it dumb him down like a mutt in heat.

Too bad the room is pitch black for you to witness the filthy sight.

At least the dark room allows Simon to take off his mask, even though it stings to know that you may never know the man behind the mask - may never remember the man who is giving you the best night of your life before you return back to your mundane life of spreadsheets, burnt coffee in styrofoam cups and manila folders the next morning.

You feel your legs shake - the lethal amalgamation of pleasure and exhaustion coating your bones as you feel Johnny hit the spongy spot deep in you that makes you keel and beg into the mattress for the much overdue orgasm that has been building up inside you for the better part of the hour.

He bends down, letting his tongue lick your neck and his sharp incisors drag over the taut skin as he mumbles about how pretty you sound when you’re fucked dumb. None of that matters to you right now, not when you’re this close to relief - but Johnny doesn’t oblige; either too dumbed down just like you to understand what you need, or denying you what you need on purpose - which is probably the cruelest thing he could fucking do to you tonight.

You feel another pair of fingers slide up your thighs before said fingers finally map out your swollen clit amongst the mess of sweat and limbs and Simon uses his calloused fingertips to gently rub you until you’re crying and arching your back before you slide down back into the bed, your limbs sagging with relief as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Fuck, bonnie”, you hear Johnny grunt out, feel him fuck you rougher and feel his hands grope your breasts roughly, but you’re far away now - floating away in a strange, hazy headspace as you hear his groans before his hips finally stutter to a close and then he slumps forward, letting the brunt of his weight fall down on you.

Simon follows him soon after, slowly pulling out from his partner with a soft ‘Fuck’.

You whine at the impact, pushing at his shoulders weakly as you urge him to get his weight off from your sore body. You sighed out when he eventually obliged, letting himself fall into bed beside you, his fingers gently playing with your messy hair. You feel his stubble tickle your face as he lands a soft kiss against your jaw, “You were so good for us, lass”.

You preen at the praise, letting his soft words and touch comfort you as you slowly feel yourself regain control of your body and your mind, already missing how you felt just a moment ago.

You can hear the running faucet in the bathroom next door, and listen to the doors creak and soft footfalls before Simon returns to the scene with a wet washcloth. He taps your knee and you part your legs obediently for him - feeling the wet cloth drag over your innermost parts as he wipes you clean before offering you a few face wipes kept near his nightstand, which you take gratefully and you wipe away the smudged makeup, smearing the ruined mascara all over your cheeks. You hear Simon sigh before he gently pries the thin wipe from your hands, taking it upon himself to help you clean up nicely. In the dim moon light peeking through the windows, you notice he has his mask back on, and you feel disappointed at how you haven’t been able to look at him. You feel Johnny’s fingers gently massage your scalp, and the tension in your shoulders leaves you promptly, making you sag into the soft mattress as he coos at you, occasionally kissing your cheeks. It’s almost enough to put you at ease.

It’s not long before the boys clean up after themselves before they join you back in bed. Sandwiched between the two men, you feel exhaustion and the afterglow lull you into a false sense of security - and you almost feel like you’re cared for.

You hadn’t been able to fall asleep, despite your best efforts. Your thoughts have been nothing short of cruel, and you only feel shame creep under your skin the more you think about how this night had transpired.

You have desperately gone home of two stranger men (who are together, no less), sat down on your knees like a desperate whore (and liked it), had gotten naked for them (and let them see all of your curves and rolls and blemishes), and let them fuck you dumb till you almost forgot your damn name.

And now you lie between them, unable to put your mind at ease and sleep away the second thoughts.

Mortification seems to be the least of your worries at the moment.

The worst part seems to be the fact that you wished for nothing more than to prolong the facade of love and gratitude they had for you when they cleaned you up, only for it to be redirected to each other as they checked in on each other with hushed whispers and soft kisses, their intermingled hands serving you a bitter reminder that you cannot overstay your welcome.

It’s them first. And then you.

You are just another body they had invited to warm their bed for the night.

You are quick to wiggle out of the bed, feeling your ears burn in embarrassment as you try your best to locate your discarded clothes on the cold bedroom floor. You find your skirt near the legs of the bed, your cotton panties not far off from there. Your blouse and bra lie near the door, and you’re almost dressed when you hear a light click and see the light of the table lamp illuminate the room in a soft yellow. Johnny blinks, still sluggish from his interrupted sleep as he rubs away the sleep from his eyes, and you stay standing, frozen in your step. You almost feel guilty for waking him up. Were you not quiet enough?

You feel like a child who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar by her mother.

“Yer leavin’?” he asks with a helpless look on his face, and you almost walk back into his arms.

Almost go back to the space they have created for you - between them.

The clock reads a quarter past three when they both offer to drive you home.

It’s not long before Simon wakes up from the commotion. (You turn around and train your eyes on the wall, waiting until you’re certain that his face is covered - having taken the hint that he would not welcome the idea of revealing his identity to you yet.) Soon enough, they’re both asking you why you’re up and leaving and the sincerity in their voices almost convinces you that they want you here.

But you use work as an excuse to go back home, and despite how obvious that lie is, Simon insists on driving you home nonetheless. (You almost turn him down, but Johnny pipes in, “There’s not gonna be a whole lotta cabs for ye to hail. Let us make sure our lady reaches home safe,”, and you feel your walls crumble slightly, feel your very foundation of self-hatred and pity shake at how he addresses you as theirs. As if you’re now a part of them, like they’ve been a part of each other for years.)

They ask you to stay anyway, promising to drop you off to your home first thing in the morning - bribing you with promises of cuddles in your sleep and breakfast in bed; promising you intimacy you’re wholly undeserving of, and you cut them off swiftly as you tell them that you’d rather be at home right now so that you can wake up later and go straight to office - no detours welcomed.

Reluctantly, they comply.

So you let them both escort you out of the apartment building and you stand with Johnny while Simon revs up his car and lets the engine warm up before letting you both sit inside. Johnny naturally assumes his place beside Simon, sitting in the passenger seat and you sit in the backseat. You almost feel apprehensive about telling them your address, but your rattled brain cannot seem to care about it - too tired and strung up to give a shit about ‘stranger danger’.

Simon types out your address on the phone and he soon follows the path - the soft hum of the engine making you succumb to the tiredness you feel and you lie down on your side, the leather seat of the car cushioning your now-throbbing head and you cannot help but close your eyes just for a moment.

After a few minutes, you hear Johnny talk about buying groceries and he asks out loud if his boyfriend would like to add anything to the list. Simon softly replies back with a few additions - whey protein, some bananas, pancake mix, shower gel and a room freshener spray. Johnny mulls over it before recalling some more things they need to buy soon. (“Dusting cloths. Manure. Oh, gotta get some stuff from the hardware store too!” “Don’t forget to get some cereal and protein bars.” “Roger that, Lt.”)

The conversation lulls. And then it begins anew.

Simon asks Johnny if he’d like to have biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and he lets out an almost disappointing groan at his atrocious food choices. (Or so he tells him.) Instead, Johnny suggests they have some hash browns. (“Gotta get that carb in for the long day ahead!” and Simon just chuckles dryly at his reasoning.)

Then, they talk some more - about work and people. About how they’d need to go back to work, and how they’d miss staying home together. About how they should get some cigars for ‘Price’, whoever that may be. About how ‘Gaz’ is vacationing in Italy with his family. About how they should have a vacation the next time they get a break that lasts them more than a week.

They hold hands - at least Johnny does, and he brings his partner’s hand to his face, softly kissing his knuckles, and that is when your curiosity wins over as you open your eyes to witness the sickly sweet scene of two men, two souls being in love. Johnny looks at him like Simon’s his entire universe - and

You shut your eyes quickly, feeling like an outsider between them both.

That’s maybe because you are one, your brain supplies you with this thought rather unkindly and you dig your nails into your palms to distract yourself from it.

The scene oddly enough reminds you of your parents when they were still in love and when you were young and sleeping in the backseat after an exciting evening at the city fair. It is far too domestic and tender for an outsider like you to intrude upon, and so you keep your eyes shut - unwilling to witness them and get your heart broken again.

As their conversation fades to silence again, you bravely open your eyes - squinting in the dark as the only source of light are the street lights outside. You witness Simon with his hand on Johnny’s thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles against the soft cotton of his black joggers. You witness Johnny humming to himself with a satisfied smile on his face as he occasionally looks at Simon with love in his eyes. Pure, unconditional love brimming in his brown, almond eyes. And when you look at Simon, his eyes reflect the same - unfiltered affection and absolute devotion; all these emotions reserved for the love of his life. His only love of his life.

It makes you sick.

Sick with yearning. Sick with the green monster of envy.

You’re so sick with it all.

This time when you close your eyes, you feel a tear drip down your nose as you let the soft whirr of the engine and Johnny’s humming act as the lullaby you needed to hear before you sleep.

You feel someone shake you softly by your shoulder when you come into consciousness.

“Wake up, dove”, you hear Simon call you, “We’re here already”.

You stare up at him as he hovers over you from outside the car. His masked face gives little away about how he’s feeling at the moment, but you feel embarrassed all the same - for intruding upon them and for sleeping in their car as they drove you home half-asleep and still in their pajamas.

You get up and use the back of your hand to wipe away any drool, snot or tears you might’ve let out while you were out like a light in the backseat of their car. The opened car door lets in the chilly night wind, and you shiver at the drop in temperature.

“Here, have this”, he offers you a windcheater jacket - and you gratefully take it and zip it up till the collar of the clothing lightly brushes your chin. He extends his hand to you, and you take it - letting his calloused palm warm up your cold fingers as he escorts you out of the vehicle. Once you’re out on the concrete pavement, you notice Johnny leaning against one of the many lamp posts scattered across your street. He’s rubbing his hands for some warmth, and the yellow streetlights act like a halo around his tousled mohawk. He’s angelic.

The steady echo of your footfalls catches his attention, and he turns to look at you with such warmth in his eyes that you falter in your steps for a moment. His kind, blue eyes look at you like you’re the moon - like you’re something familiar and he’s known you forever.

You do not know what to make of it.

“Had a nice sleep, lass?” he asks you casually, and you feel the tip of your ears warm up in embarrassment.

You nod demurely, before responding, “Yeah, I did. I’m so sorry I troubled you with escorting me back home”.

“Don’t apologize”, Simon speaks up as he rests a gentle hand on your left shoulder, before he joins Johnny in standing in front of you. He looks at you with an unreadable look, and you worry that he can see what you don’t wish anyone to notice. That he can tell.

“We had to make sure our bonnie reached her home safe”, Johnny quips, and you feel your resolve crumble just a little bit - his honeyed words coaxing you to hug him and it catches him off guard, just a little. To feel your arms wrap around his body, to feel your heart beat so fast before falling into synch with his

“Thank you”, and you mean it - for taking care of you, for making you forget your shitty office and your shitty job for the night, for driving you back home, for showing you what love is (even though it burnt you from inside to see what they have and know that you’d never have that).

You’re thankful to them for a lot of things.

You’re curled up on your side on the bed as you try to catch some sleep before the sun greets you from between the curtains over your window, but all attempts to go back to sleep fail you.

You almost wish you hadn’t been woken up. You almost wish you were still in their car, letting them drive and talk to each other. You almost wish you hadn’t left their bed - letting their rough hands gently caress her into a peaceful slumber, feeling their love for each other fill her up.

You should’ve at least gotten their number.

It was worth a shot, and if they didn’t want anything to do with you after tonight, you’d have been able to console yourself with the possibility that you won’t have to see them in the future and get taunted by the very notion that you have been all too desperate and all too needy for someone to love you.

But you didn’t, and you caress your own arm with light fingers as you convince yourself that it was all for the best that you hadn’t done anything about it.

This was all for one night. They just needed someone to warm their beds for a night, and you did just that. Wishing for it to be something more is just plain stupid on your part. They’ve loved each other for a lifetime, and you’ve known them for only a night. You cannot fathom carving a place for yourself between Johnny and Simon. Simon and Johnny.

Not without becoming an unwanted third wheel - tolerated by the couple since they’re too courteous to tell you off. Not without becoming a placeholder - a human paperweight until a better man or a better woman comes along to be where they rightfully belong. With them.

So you hug yourself tight with your nails digging into your arm, and gently rock back and forth in the same place on your bed, as you soothe yourself with empty words and tell yourself that what you did was a brave thing - and this was all for the best, even if it makes your chest feel like a hollowed out tree, empty from within.

Note -

Got inspired by the poem - 'After the Threesome, They Both Take You Home' by Sue Hyon Bae cuz it resonated with how I have always been a bystander or a temporary placeholder between friends and couples alike - always fearing that I will never be able to experience love. Started writing this fic fuelled up on my personal thoughts and projections. Then, October came and seasonal depression knocked my ass out. Got back into writing it. Couldn't handle it well, so I rushed the ending. Bon apple tit, y'all. Or whatever the fuck they say in France.

#call of duty #cod:mw2 #cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x soap #soap x reader #soap x you #ghost x soap x reader #soap x reader x ghost #call of duty smut #call of duty angst #call of duty ghost #call of duty soap #call of duty headcanons #ghoap x reader #char.soap #char.simon ghost riley #celena.writes

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