#the shell will crack ;; musings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wordstome · 9 months

Note

könig as the nutcracker 🥹🥹

you just brought some terrible sleeping beast out of me, anon.

nutcracker prince König x fem reader (mostly gender neutral but you're wearing a dressing gown)

tw: mouse murder???

He's a very odd looking nutcracker, all things considered, but you can't take your eyes off of him.

"If it's a nutcracker why does it have that stupid veil over its face?" Your brother asks, noisily crunching candies between his molars. You glare at him, both for the rude remark and for chewing with his mouth open.

"This is a special one," your aunt gushes. "He's based off of a legendary soldier who never showed his face on the battlefield. One of a kind, from a specialty toy shop.”

"How interesting..." You muse, gently rubbing the fabric of the veil between your fingers. It's sturdy fabric, but still soft to the touch.

"He was probably ugly as hell," your brother declares. You swat him, and he only cackles and gets up to graze at some more sweets.

"Maybe you should try covering that ugly mug up once in a while," you call after him. He pelts you with a walnut shell.

Your aunt shakes her head fondly. "This one's not just decorative," she says. "He's a real nutcracker by Steinbach."

You look at her, wide-eyed. "So he can crack nuts?"

She nods and tosses you a hazelnut. "Try it."

You lift the wooden man's veil a little to put the hazelnut in his mouth. You could just pull the whole thing up and out of the way, but that feels almost...forbidden? You're not sure why you feel this way—he's just a piece of wood, after all, and he probably doesn't even have anything painted on underneath the veil other than those vibrant blue eyes. But even so, you're hesitant to unmask him.

Cracking the nut works like a charm, though, and some childish excitement bubbles up inside you as the remnants of the cracked hazelnut spill into your palm. "That's incredible!" you gush, running your thumb over the nutcracker's lacquered uniform.

"What do you mean incredible, that's what nutcrackers are for." Your brother returns, a few walnuts rolling around in his palm. He holds his other hand out. "Give him here."

"No. You called him ugly, so he's mad at you," you say, teasing him by holding the nutcracker out of his reach.

Your brother rolls his eyes. "Give it here, you little shit."

"Crack your own nuts," you shoot back. "This is my nutcracker."

He makes another grab for it, and this time he manages to grab the nutcracker's arm. It's only a lighthearted tussle between siblings as you shove at your brother and he refuses to let go of the nutcracker's arm—until it's not.

A terrible snapping of breaking wood causes you to gasp. The two of you stumble away from each other from the force, your brother holding a tiny wooden arm in his hand. He's just pulled it clean off. On closer inspection, your idiot brother has somehow managed to Hulk-rip the arm piece off of the piece that fits inside the socket. "This is a brand new nutcracker, how did you fuck it up?!" you cry.

"Hey, you should have—" Your brother takes one look at your expression and decides not to give you a hard time. "Look, I'm sorry. I was too rough on it. Sit tight for a second." You sit there, numbly staring at the pieces of your poor nutcracker. Really, it's your fault too—why didn't you just let him have the damn thing?

And why is this upsetting you so much? The nutcracker's just a decoration, albeit one with a little more function than most. You feel a sort of attraction to this little wooden man in your hand, though. Maybe it's because his unique design is interesting, or maybe it's because you're intrigued by the idea of a masked soldier who never shows his face. Either way, he was your gift anyway, so it's not that unusual that you're attached to him...right?

"Here, let me see him." Your brother's back, but to your horror, he's holding a pair of needle-nose pliers. "Absolutely not," you respond, jumping up from where you were sitting on the floor. "You are not getting anywhere near my nutcracker with those things. You're just going to fuck it up even more."

"It'll be fiiine," he insists, clicking the pliers open and closed like some maniacal toy surgeon. You're not sure you like the devious glint in his eye. Your brother's a nice guy for the most part, but sometimes he gets this look in his eye that you imagine Dr Frankenstein must have had when he was assembling his creation.

You hold the nutcracker and his detached arm protectively to your chest. "I'll figure out how to fix him in the morning with glue or something," you insist. "I don't need you poking around with pliers and splintering the wood."

"Are you sure? I am sorry, for what it's worth."

You wave him off. You're still kind of mad at him, but you're both adults. You'll live. "Don't worry about it. I think I'm going to head to bed soon, anyway."

"You should keep his arm with him, dear," you aunt pipes up. She had gone into the kitchen during the whole ordeal, but had probably heard everything go down. "Tape it to his side or something. You wouldn't want to lose it."

That's a good idea, you muse, examining your poor amputated nutcracker. You're just about to take her suggestion when you get an idea.

Your brother checks in with you later, right before he goes to bed as well. "You can't be serious," he says. "You made him an arm sling?"

You tie the knot on the little scrap of cloth around the little wooden man's arm nice and snug. "Oh, I'm dead serious," you say. "Doesn't he look cute?"

Your brother lets out a resigned sigh. "Yeah. Sure."

The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. You put the nutcracker in your room, right on top of the dresser, while you go about your bedtime routine. It always brings you a bit of joy to walk out of the bathroom and see him there, standing tall and proud.

Well, your evening would have been uneventful...had you not bolted awake in bed an hour or two later.

You're groggy and confused, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when you hear the cacophony of noise. It sounds like footsteps, dozens upon dozens of them, stampeding through your walls. And then the mice show up.

They crawl up from the corners and the floorboards, swarming across your room. You're too terrified to move or even scream out, sure that you must be having some terrible nightmare or hallucination.

And then your nutcracker moves.

You're absolutely positive now that you must be dreaming, watching frozen from your bed as your nutcracker leaps down from your dresser as if he's a living, breathing man and beginning to fight the mice. And he's even...talking?

"Finally, some worthy adversaries!" you hear him cry. You gape at this bloodthirsty little soldier as he beats through mouse after mouse with his tiny sword.

It's an impossible battle, you think. There's no way he can take all those mice alone, and with one injured arm aside...you're usually pretty squeamish when it comes to dubious little animals, but you can't just leave your nutcracker to be overwhelmed. Besides, this is all a dream, so nothing matters, right?

There's one mouse, larger than the others, who's at the back of the pack, squeaking as if giving orders. You're having quite a wild dream, honestly, because the mouse is even wearing a little crown. Like a king, you think with some amusement. You reach over the edge of your bed to pick the mouse up by the scruff.

You're not quite sure what happens next. One moment, the mouse is chattering angrily at you, the next you're on the floor. At first you think you've simply lost your balance and fallen onto the floor, but when you scramble to your feet, you nearly fall over again as you take in your surroundings.

You've shrunk.

Your bedroom is cavernous above your head, your bedposts and furniture as tall as skyscrapers. And worse still, the mice are huge too: the once palm-sized mouse king is now as large as you are, sneering down at you from his snout. You didn't even know mice could sneer.

You yelp and throw yourself to the side to dodge one of the mice lunging at you. "It's time to wake up," you mutter to yourself through clenched teeth. "It would be really really nice to wake up right about now...!"

The mice are unrelenting, a vicious gleam in their eyes as they nip at your heels. They manage to corner you against a piece of furniture, snapping their jaws menacingly. All you can think to do is pray as they draw ever closer, their breath hot as they crowd around you—

A sword neatly lops off the head of one of the mice in front of you.

You gasp and look upwards to see your nutcracker looming above you, his sword gleaming in the low light of your bedroom. He's incredibly menacing at this size, his veil becoming intimidating rather than charming. You're far smaller than him now—if he had been a normal sized man, he would have easily cleared six feet. His eyes are vibrant and intense, staring down at you for a brief moment before they turn back towards his enemy.

You sit there, stock-still in awe as you watch him mow through his adversaries. It takes you a moment to realize you probably shouldn't be hanging around and gawping. Good thing, too, because your knight in shining lacquer is too distracted to notice he's being snuck up on. The larger mouse is creeping up behind him, a wicked glint in its eye.

"No!" you cry. Thinking fast, you pull off your slipper and chuck it at the mouse's head, stunning it. I can't believe that actually worked, you think.

You have to give your nutcracker some credit, his reflexes are wicked-sharp. In a single heartbeat, he's run the mouse king through with his sword. He cuts an imposing figure, his eyes sharp and deadly. But there's a sort of glee in them as well, the kind of thing that should make you uneasy.

It doesn't.

The rest of the mice, seeing their leader fallen, beat a hasty retreat, tugging the corpses of their fallen comrades along with them. You watch them, fascinated, until all that remains of the bloody conflict are a few tiny pools of blood streaked along your floorboards.

"I must thank you," comes the voice of your nutcracker. You look at him, unsure of what to say. You're welcome for throwing a shoe at a giant mouse to keep it from killing you?

"I...of course," is what eventually comes out. You smooth out your dressing gown in a futile effort to look presentable. "I couldn't let him hurt you."

The nutcracker tilts his head curiously. "You don't know me."

"Of course I do. You're my nutcracker," you say, instantly feeling silly once the words leave your mouth. You just received him as a gift, and you only just found out he was sentient anyway. You don't know why you feel so protective...

He shifts his injured arm, the sling still in place. "You bound my arm, as well."

You flush with embarrassment. "I-it was the least I could do," you stammer. "I shouldn't have let my brother do that. Really, it was my own fault—" Your words die in your throat as the nutcracker moves in close to you, so close that you can feel his body heat. Since when did he have body heat?

"Pretty," he murmurs under his breath. You stare at him, dumbfounded. Is your nutcracker...hitting on you?

Suddenly, you snap back to your senses. "Oh my God," you exclaim, staring down at yourself and then back towards your surroundings. "I'm still small. And I haven't woken up yet. Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Please tell me I'm dreaming." You pinch your skin, letting out a small exclamation when it hurts. But you still don't wake up.

"Hmm...you won't solve your predicament that easily, little one," the nutcracker muses.

"Wha—do you know how to fix this?"

"I have a hunch," he responds, brow furrowing. You hadn't noticed eyebrows on him when you were examining him earlier in the evening, you note.

"Do tell."

"You've had a curse placed on you, but I don't know how to break it. I do, however, know someone who might know how."

"Well then take me to them!" You stare at him beseechingly. You watch as several indecipherable emotions run through his eyes, then he nods.

You visibly relax. "Thank you."

"You'll have to trust me. You may find the whole process a little...fantastical."

"More fantastical than my nutcracker coming to life and fighting an army of mice on my bedroom floor?" you ask, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes crinkle in a way that must mean he's smiling.

"More fantastical than that," he says. He offers you a hand like a true gentleman, and to your shock, it feels like flesh, not wood. His grip is firm but soothing, his hand so huge it dwarfs your own.

"Let's do this, then."

uhhhhhhh wow this got kinda long I had to cut it short. I'll probably write a part 2? But it's gotta wait because I've got a gazillion other things to write first :P Thank you for the inspiration, anon! 🥺

#yes this König has blue eyes #könig #konig #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig x you #konig x you #könig fanfiction #konig fanfiction #könig cod #konig cod #könig call of duty #cod #call of duty

742 notes · View notes

storiesoflilies · 3 months

Text

poseidon!suguru was a breathtaking vision of the boundless beauty and splendor of the seas he ruled over.

she was staring at him now, beached upon the shoreline; leaning back lazily in the sun with his ink-black hair carelessly cascading down his bare back. his skin was beautifully bronzed, with water droplets tracing the chiseled ridges of his body as they dripped down onto the sand. his lower half was hidden beneath the teal waves, a strong mauve tail occasionally flicking above the surface.

the god was perfectly serene, like the soft lap of waves gently breaking against an anchored ship. how could this be the very same being whose wrath was known to mercilessly drown hundreds of sailors and ravage seaside towns?

with his eyes closed, he tilted his head in her direction, a long strand of wet hair brushing against the sand. “i sense you, mortal. do not be shy, you may approach me.”

she hesitated, then tepidly tiptoed towards the god of the seas. as she approached, he cracked open an eyelid, a lilac eye peeking out like a glimpse of a pearl in an oyster, taking her in. perhaps it was foolish to have been spying on him, but she couldn’t help it. it wasn’t often that he was known to reveal himself, being an elusive and slippery god at the best of times.

“what are you hiding behind your back there, sweet little thing?” he asked so very sweetly, as soft as sea foam, a beautiful, easy smile gracing his features.

with her lip bitten, and reconsidering all her life choices that led her to this very moment, she kneeled before him and presented her gift as an offering, holding it in outstretched palms. it was a necklace made of seaglass, a mosaic of blues and purples, with white shells dotted between them like gems.

he reached out to touch the necklace, humming happily, his still-wet fingers brushing hers, sending a sensation as if she were incredibly warm and then suddenly doused with a bucket of cold seawater. she was even more surprised when the god placed the necklace over his head and slid it onto his graceful neck.

“what a wonderful gift,” he complimented smoothly, his eyes of purple coral gazing at her with an almost detached sort of adoration. “and what, pray tell, would a loyal follower of the sea wish to ask of me?”

she gulped. “n-nothing at all. only the honor of being in your company, great ruler of the seas.”

the god’s eyes widened playfully, and the waves beat a touch faster against the shore as a mischievous glint sparked deep within his irises. the deep purple fins of his tail broke the surface of the sea as the whole appendage slowly rose out of the water, curling backwards towards his face, his toned abdomen flexing deliciously.

“you seem quite interesting,” he mused, the corner of his lip curling upwards, as the tip of his tail fin touched the edge of her mouth somewhat affectionately. “i think i will visit you more often.”

she didn’t know whether to be scared, exhilarated, or both.

#💭 lily’s imagination runs wild #Poseidon!suguru #geto suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x greek mythology #jjk x you #jjk x reader

365 notes · View notes

tervaneula · 8 months

Text

“Dad?”

Splinter is currently sitting on his bed, preparing to turn in for the night. He puts away the pillow he was fluffing up and turns to look towards the doorway of his room.

“Yes, Blue?”

Leo doesn’t answer, instead shuffling next to Splinter and sitting down on the floor, leaning his side against the bed. He lifts his face to look up at him.

“I’m… just tired, dad,” he says, attempting to make light of it with a smile but his voice breaks in the end and that’s all it takes for Splinter to pull Leo into his lap, and as if on instinct the boy buries his face into the rat’s robes. He sobs, and Splinter feels his heart twinge with yet another crack.

“Oh, oh baby Blue, it is alright,” he murmurs, petting his son’s shell and the back of his head. He knows Leo hasn’t been sleeping again and he had hoped it would pass, like it always does, but for it to go on so long that it gets this bad… Now, this settles it. No more training, no patrols, no strenuous activities aside from rhythm games for at least a week.

All of his kids could benefit from a break, actually, and Splinter is glad that this is a fact – Leo won’t be singled out if they all are on a holiday of sorts. Brilliant. He knows he’s never been the perfect father, far from it, but he’s trying to do his best for his children and this time is no different. First thing tomorrow morning, he is going to tell his family of their impromptu vacation, and then take them out to Run of the Mill for pizza.

It’s a great plan.

Surfacing back to the present from his thoughts, Splinter realises that his musings must have taken longer than he thought because the turtle in his lap is now snoring quietly. With a soft chuckle, Splinter reaches back to grab his comforter and gently wraps it around Leo’s shoulders. He doesn’t mind acting as a pillow for his blue son and while he himself would be uncomfortable like that, partly on the floor, he’s witnessed enough turtle piles to know that the position is no hardship for Leo.

He keeps petting the blanketed shell, leans back and lets his butt fall asleep, too.

Just how he likes it.

#good dad splinter in the house 😭#my dad is far away but leo's isn't let me be #my brain is fried i have no idea which ep the reference at the end is from and couldn't find it to fact check im sorry lmao #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt fanfiction #rise leo #rise leonardo #rottmnt splinter #rise splinter #hamato yoshi #splinter #nqk adjacent #could also be canon compliant in fact #tervdraws #tervdrabbles #family fluff

482 notes · View notes

idkfitememate · 9 months

Note

Hihihihihi, I couldn't help myself but write something for the otter!creator its on my mind since the brainrot(yes I am the anon who sent that otter idea, and yes I shall dub myself as the otter!anon in your blog)

Set place in Childe in Court

The traveler and Paimon rush out to get out of their seats, seeing childe activing his foul legecy, "Ah! his activing his foul legecy!" Paimon cups her cheeks in shock, while traveler looks around to try and stop Childe from activing his foul legecy.

BOOM.

The traveler blinks, at the sudden slam from the stage, The traveler and Paimon quietly gasp as the dust cleared out, there Neuvillette standing over Childe who appeared knock out at the ground, "I am sorry" Neuvillette voice is loud and echo around the entire court "If you been wronged, we will find the truth" Neuvillette gracefully turn around "But the rules of the court, but be upheld" the clockwork meka rush past Neuvillette to take Childe into the fortress.

Then tiny claps slowly echo around the court, the audience, Paimon, Travelr, and Neuvillette look to the sound, up there next to Furina is an Otter, clapping frequently with their tiny paw pads, the Otter seems be treated well, seeing that the Otter is next to the Hydro Archon and seems to be sitting at the most softest and comfortable pillows known to whole teyert, the clapping continues on, if you look closely you can see tiny stars around the Otter face, seemly amaze by the outcome of this trial.

The Otter finally notice the attention, slowly ease their clapping and let out a tiny embarass "Kyuu..." which silently made Furina 'aww' before coughing loudly and anouncing that the trial is over, and the whisper slowly begin the court room, Neuvillette slighty smirk, perhaps the case wasn't so bad after all, their little friend seemed to enjoy it.

Aether Encounter

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Otter Reader x Fontaine & Aether

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 532

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff, crack, Paimon’s there too be warned

Following Neuvillette and Furina out after the trial, Paimon and Aether quickly gained on the duo.

“Wait!! WAIT!!!” Called Paimon, an out of breath Aether behind her. The pair stopped their little walk, turning to face them.

“Who’s your little friend?” Aether asked.

“Ah! Mon trésor! Yes yes, me and Monsieur Neuvillette’s darling ˈbābē! Oh, they are but a dear friend to us, isn’t that right, Ma raison d’être? Oh yes it is! Aren’t you so beautiful.~” Furina slowly stopped talking to them, instead cooing at the otter she held in her arms, akin to a baby. She rocked them and booped their nose, giggling throughout.

“Yes, I found ma moitié when I was taking a stroll, traveler. They clung to my leg and then held an amazing opulent shell to me. After taking it they seemed to request to be picked up, and how could I ever say no to ma raison de vivre.” Neuvillette gently took off the hat on the otter, smoothing the fur beneath it before patting the hat back on.

“They have stuck to my side ever since.” He mused.

“AND when they met moi, mon preux chevalier just couldn’t resist!~” Furina exclaimed.

“You guys sure do have a bunch of nicknames for them… jeez…” Paimon muttered.

Aether stared at the blue duo before gently reaching a hand out to pet the otter, only for his hand to get slapped away. When he looked back up, he was met with the glares of both Neuvillette and Furina.

“Do. Not. Touch. Mon. Trésor.” “GET YOUR FILTHY HAND AWAY FROM MON ANGE!” Both Aether and Paimon flinched back in shock.

“You dare try to place you hands of their gleaming coat!? I’ll have you know that it costs more than you’ll EVER SEE IN YOUR LIFE to make it this shiny!!!!” “Keep your tainted flesh to yourself.”

The traveling duo stared on in shock. That was… rather hostile. And now they were just glaring at each other.

Of course, that was until the topic of the discussion began to make noise.

All four of them looked down at the now squirming otter in Furina’s arms. They struggled in her grasp before dropping to the floor. They ran over to Aether before standing on their hind legs, reaching up at Aether to be picked up.

He quickly looked up at the others, noting their shock. Then, he hesitantly picked them up, cradling them in his arms. They began to chirp and chitter in happiness. Aether once again looked up at the other two, Paimon hiding behind him.

Furina and Neuvillette both stared with blank faces, before the hydro archon whipped her hat off her head, shoved it in her face and turned around. She bounced on her heels as she squealed.

“AWEEE!-,” she seemed to immediately regain composure however, “*Ahem* I- I mean, look at our ˈbābē!” She said as she turned back around, still hiding the lower half off her face behind her hat.

Neuvillette turned his head as well, his eyes closed and his hand covering his flushed cheeks and trembling lips.

“S- so adorable..!”

The otter simply snuggled into the man’s arms, continuing to chitter away happily.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Otter!Creator breathing: 🙂

Furina, Neuvillette, and basically the entirety of Fontaine: 🥹🥹🥹

Otter!Creator is so soft. Literally the difference between them and Boar!Creator is the fact that one was pampered and the other basically spent their first year entirely in the wild lol ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა˖⁺‧₊˚

They’re probably gonna have their own tag now, and welcome Otter!Creator Anon! When I finally get around to fixing up my blog so it’s neat and tidy, you’re gonna go right on the anon list, first place! (I really feel like people like Otter!Creator over Boar!Creator but it’s fine, it’s cool ૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა♡)

#genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #x reader #x gn reader #gn y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #Otter!Creator #Otter anon <3 #anon <3 #asks <3

611 notes · View notes

youaintnothinbuta · 1 month

Note

Hi, darlin’! May I request a fluffy Elvis fic if your requests are still open. Like a midnight snack craving thing? Where Elvis finds the reader in the kitchen or something? ☺️💓

“I can’t have you goin' back to bed unsatisfied.” — elvis presley x reader

Summary: you can’t sleep- you’re too hungry. Finally you decide to go find something to snack on, accidentally waking Elvis in the process. He finds you downstairs and you both decide to have a little midnight meal together

Pairing: Elvis Presley or Austin!Elvis x fem!reader

Word count: 897

Warnings: none! Teeth rottingly sweet fluff. Hopefully not any typos eee

A/N: thank you so much for this request, i really wanted to get back into writing for Elvis, it’s like you read my mind, I hope this is okay <33

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Each clock in the house would’ve read just past 2:30 AM, but there you were, wide awake. Your body had decided it needed something sweet, and no amount of tossing and turning was going to change that.

Barefoot, you quietly padded down the stairs, the soft creak of the wooden steps beneath the carpet breaking the silence. Reaching the kitchen, you opened the fridge, the cold air hitting your face as you peered inside, hoping something would jump out at you. But nothing did. A bottle of milk, some leftover dinner from earlier, a few eggs.

Next stop, the pantry. You opened the door, scanning the shelves. It was far from empty, crackers, chips, cookies, etc, yet still nothing that tickled your fancy. You moved some cans aside, your hands rummaging through the shelves, hoping to uncover something forgotten in the back.

Just then, you heard the soft padding of footsteps coming down the stairs, followed by the flick of a light switch, illuminating you, standing there with a handful of chocolate chips, looking guilty as ever. Elvis stood in the doorway, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, his eyes half-closed.

His low, sleepy voice asked, “Honey, what're you doin'?”

“I was tryin' not to wake you,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile. “But I just couldn't sleep. I’m hungry.”

Elvis chuckled, the sound deep and warm, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Well, let's see what we can find.”

He walked over to you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back as he leaned over to look into the pantry. His presence was comforting, and you felt a little silly for dragging him out of bed, even if it was accidental.

“I wanted some ice cream,” you suggested, biting your lip as you searched the freezer, “but I don't see any.”

“Hmm,” Elvis mused, reaching up to grab a box of cookies. “What about these? Or maybe we could make somethin'?”

You sighed, not entirely satisfied with the options. “Make something?”

Elvis grinned. “Pancakes?”

"Pancakes, huh?" You considered it, the thought of warm, fluffy pancakes topped with syrup and maybe some whipped cream making your mouth water. “Don’t you want to go back to sleep?”

“We can sleep in,” Elvis assured you, already moving to gather the ingredients. “Bring some ‘a your chocolate chips out here.”

You watched as he moved around the kitchen, his sleepiness fading away as he got into the idea. He pulled out a mixing bowl and started cracking eggs, his movements quick.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” you teased, watching him toss the egg shells in the rubbish.

“Well, you got me up,” he shot back with a playful grin, “might as well make it worth it. 'Sides, I can’t have you goin' back to bed unsatisfied.”

You couldn't help but giggle at him, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well aren’t you sweet.”

Elvis smiled. “It's my job, darlin'. Now, get over here and help me.”

You joined him at the counter, measuring out some flour. The familiar routine of it was comforting, and soon enough, the kitchen was filled with the scent of batter sizzling on the stove.

Elvis eyed you sneaking another handful of chocolate, telling you about the dream he'd been having before you woke him up, something about being on stage in front of a crowd that wouldn't stop clapping no matter what. You laughed, imagining him trying to bargain with an audience that was too happy to let him perform.

“Sounds like a good problem to have,” you teased, flipping a pancake as it turned golden brown.

“Maybe,” he said, leaning against the counter, his eyes soft as he watched you, standing there in your pj set, slowly adding to the growing stack of pancakes.

Finished cooking, you sat down together, a pile of pancakes between you and some syrup to go with it. Your tummy growled audibly, earning quite the chuckle from Elvis. Pouring a generous amount of syrup over your pancakes, you dug in, smiling with how pleased you were. The house was quiet except for the occasional clink of your forks against the plates, and the pancakes were warm and filling, exactly what you needed.

”I think I might've outdone myself,” he says between bites.

You leaned forward to take another bite, nodding in agreement. Once he was done, Elvis leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.

“Well, darlin', how are you feeling now?” he asked, his eyes twinkling in the dim light.

You smiled, feeling full. “Much better. Thanks for getting up with me.”

Elvis reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “Anytime, sweetheart.“

You stood up, attempting to clear the table and wash up. Elvis gently pressed his hand against your chest, sitting you back down.

“Tomorrow’s problem,” he said, his eyebrow raised slightly.

Sighing, you complied, “okay.”

“Come on,” he said, his voice a gentle murmur. “Let's get back to bed.”

You nodded, “Yeah, let's.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, guiding you back upstairs and into your bedroom. Slipping back under the covers, Elvis pulled you close, his warmth enveloping you as you snuggled into his chest.

“Sweet dreams, honey,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Sweet dreams, Elvis,” you murmured back, your eyes already drifting closed.

121 notes · View notes

oleander-nin · 10 months

Text

The Coldest Heart(Yandere Future Rise Donatello x Reader)

A/N, not important: Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: Apocalypse, kidnapping, freezing, dark themes, yandere themes.

Words: 1291

Summary: Donnie cuts off the heat

Winters were always frigid in the apocalypse, the broken terrain and weather making the places that have never seen a snowflake now completely frozen over. The “snow” that covered the barren wasteland outside the base’s doors was a poisonous brown, bubbling when it touched the ground instead of sticking. It may be frozen, but it was nothing like the fluffy white snow you held dear in your memories. You shiver under the blankets you were given, your body curled up in a weak attempt to preserve the heat trapped under the blankets with you. You were exhausted, sleep pulling at your eyes and trying to coax you under, but the cold biting at your fingers and toes was unrelenting. Your ears and nose burned, keeping you alert as you try to keep out the frigid air. The small amount of heat Donnie allowed in his lab was gone, the furnace broken and vents turned off. Cold had seeped into every crack and was now trying its best to choke you out as well.

You turn your head towards Donnie as he types onto a monitor projected by his ninpo, sticking your face into the bitter cold. His outfit amazed you, the mutant only being dressed in a thin sweater made to stretch over his battle shell and sweats that were a size too small. You look at him in envy, not understanding how he could withstand the freezing temperature in the thin clothing he had. Donnie turns his head at the feeling of your boring gaze, his eyes meeting yours and his tridactyl hands leaving his keyboard which causes it to falter, then disappear. For the first time in the months since he had stuck you in his lab in claims of protecting you, you don’t break your gaze. Whether it was from exhaustion or the cold, you no longer cared about such a simple thing as keeping your eyes off the man you hated most. If he was truly upset with your staring, he could come and close your eyes himself.

“You’re shivering.” Donnie muses, his voice teasing and airy as if the frostbite creeping over your nose was a mere tasteless joke. You scowl, burying yourself back into the plethora of blankets that covered the cot Donnie had you share with him. You hear him chuckle at your childish display, driving in the belittled feeling he had sunk into your heart.

“Fix the heat then.” You grumble at your captor, not caring for niceties. You can hear his chair shift and you look back at him through a crack in the blankets, seeing his eyes averted downwards as he chews on his cheek. His knuckles are now digging into his teeth, his eyes looking everywhere but you as he seems to be debating himself over something. His shoulders are more hunched, like he was a little kid who got caught stealing cookies late at night.

“You know I can’t.” Donnie says, like he was trying to be firm but his voice falters. He still refuses to meet your eyes, only staring at the floor as he chews on his knuckles. Your eyes narrow, your knees pulled closer to your chest as another cold burst breaks through the blanket barrier.

“You’ve already fixed it.” You accuse, the chattering of your teeth breaking up the sentence and making it sound more pathetic than you hoped. Donnie finally pulls his fist away from his mouth as he stares back at you, crossing his arms and protesting with a loud, “indignant scoff.” If you could feel your feet, you would run over there and strangle him.

“If you’re cold,” Donnie starts, his voice tight as he dodges your accusation to try and quell your thoughts, but ends up confirming it instead. “You can grab a blanket and come sit with me. I’ll keep you warm.”

You sneer, diving back under the blanket den you had created around yourself. Even if you wanted to cuddle up to the person who was holding you hostage in the name of ‘safety’, you couldn’t. Your feet were so frozen you couldn’t feel them more than a dull pain, and your fingers couldn’t close around the thin material of the blankets anymore. Silence stretches through the lab, and you’re sure Donnie had given up and turned back around.

A quick padding of socked feet breaks the silence and two arms wrap around your covered self, lifting you from the cot and into Donnie’s arms. He mumbles a swift apology as you flail and curse, quickly moving back to his chair and depositing you in his lap. He shifts the blankets around, helping you pop your head out so you could see. Donnie cups your cheek with one hand, the other still firm around your lower back so you couldn’t squirm away from him and escape. The feeling of his hand on your face is one you always hated, but the burning head of his warmth makes you hiss in pain rather than disgust. He was an oven, his hand slowly heating your cheeks and bringing color back to your face. You melt into him after a minute, nearly crying when his warm hand leaves your cheek to cup your ears.

“You are cold.” He mutters, mostly to himself. He continues to try and warm you himself for a small while, attempting to bring your body temperature up from the dangerous levels it had fallen to. He eventually signs and gives up, summoning a projected screen with numerous switches and buttons. He clicks a few things before closing the screen and pulling you closer, easing open the blankets you clung to so he could pull your whole body against him and try to warm you up.

You hear the vents above slowly whirr to life, the room slowly being filled with a strong heat that makes your head spin. You blink at Donnie, your limbs unstiffening as you try not to cry.

“You fixed it…” You mumble, letting your head hit the dull point of his plastron. Donnie nods, rubbing your back beneath the blankets. Anger pools in your chest for only a moment, the relief of the heat taking over and the exhaustion pushing through once more.

“I fixed it within minutes of its breaking. I wasn’t going to let the base freeze.” Donnie pulls you closer, kissing your temple with a smug smile. “You, however, weren’t letting me touch you, so I turned off the heat to try and convince you to let me touch you more, but that seems to have backfired.”

You scowl, hitting his shoulder with your forehead. You wanted to scream, to bite him, to do anything to make him suffer like he had you for the past few days, but you don’t. You were terrified he would turn the heat back off. His lab was obviously able to be isolated from the other parts of the base, which horrified you. For all you knew, he could leave and seal the doors before shutting the oxygen off for a couple minutes, just to let you suffer.

Donnie continues to rub your back, his quiet humming not showing any bit of remorse for the torment he had put you through. He seemed happy with the outcome, and you figured he was. Here you were in his arms, just as he wanted. Maybe once you could feel your fingers again, you’d try and fight him, but for now, you had given up. The heat was too much of a reward for you to risk losing it now. Even Donnie’s arms were a price you were willing to pay to not freeze. His plan had worked, and now nothing would stop him from doing it again.

418 notes · View notes

sashiavi · 11 months

Text

•·····🍑······• ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𝓣𝔀𝓮𝓷𝓽𝔂 𝓣𝔀𝓸 ⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪•······🍑·····•

𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝙰𝚟𝚒'𝚜 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚃𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚁 2023

#22•𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚡•#22

𝙰𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙺𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚑 ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ⁴ᵏ

He knew this was a bad idea, a horrible idea. A potentially illegal idea? Don't ask him, he wasn't a cop - He didn't particularly want to find out regardless. But. The warm huff of his girlfriend’s giggled breath on his hardening length. The flushed expression of the usually stoic man on his blaring phone screen. They almost make him forget about the passing headlights of cars and the dripping pipes puddling on the concrete of the graffitied alleyway.

It all started, Kaveh muses, earlier that night.

The Bumbling bustle of the bar oddly soothes Kaveh's nerves, an all-familiar place with even more familiar people. [Name] and Kaveh went out on the town with Tighnari and Cyno, leaving Alhaitham back at their apartment. He mentioned he had some important thesis he had to work on - Kaveh thinks it was just an excuse to stay out of it. Alahitham was a homebody, a grumpy near agoraphobic man that could live the rest of his life in a hole - And he'd be happy, too. Kaveh and [Name] would probably join him, the pair never wandered far from the aforementioned man. He was their rock, or maybe a boulder, temperamental, shell cracking at every misadventure the pair strung him through. Sometimes though, Alhaitham came out with the sweetest affirmations and it sent Kaveh’s brain barreling down a never-ending flight of stairs.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Kaveh’s phone buzzes on the table, lighting up with a message from his other half.. Or third? If his heart were a pie chart, he’d have a special place for both of his partners. All good things come in threes - or something - Regardless, his boyfriend texted him. And his girlfriend answers.

The ever so punctuated Alhaitham lights up his phone screen with his demands. Kaveh swears his eyes hurt trying to read his texts. He was too inebriated for this, the words swirl into a muddly ball of squiggles. He ought to punch Alhaitham in the mouth.. With his mouth… Maybe later.

“He’s no fun” [Name] pouts, swirling her deteriorating paper straw through her drink, mixing up the once rainbow assortment of liqueur into a muddy, watery red-brown. Kaveh watches his darling [Name] slump over the table, throwing her phone down, nearly knocking over his frozen margarita and whatever bizarre cocktail she decided to order herself. Tighnari gives a soft chuckle from across the table, eyes crunched with a sympathetic smile.

“Knowing him he’s missing you just as much [Name], he’s just not one for places like this, Cyno is the same.” Tighnari’s voice manages to cut through the live band playing away at some classic folk rock song everyone and their father knew. Speaking of; Cyno was nowhere to be seen - Long gone off to the bathroom or the bar.. Archons knows, that man was an enigma. Kaveh wasn’t sure he even existed in the first place, was Cyno real?

The ping on Tighnari’s phone nearly scares him. He shall appear Kaveh half recites in his head with an outward snort. He watches Tighnari with sleepy eyes, cheek pressed into the palm of his hand. The aformentioned man opens his phone with his thumb. He widens his eyes comically, quickly pressing the off button on the side of the device, nearly dropping it onto the table in his haste. [Name] squints at him from the table top, lips pursed and an eyebrow cocked. Tighnari clears his throat.

“Ah- Cyno messaged- He’s waiting for me in the bathro- uh I m-mean the back.. Room.. door- the back door! Cyno’s ready to leave.. I’ll see you guys around? G-Get home safe!” Tighnari stumbles of of his stool, most definitely not making his way towards the exit of the building. Kaveh blinks, sipping his frozen marg that was not-so-frozen anymore - Alright then. He side eyes his girlfriend, giving her a look - Are you seeing this?

“They’re gonna fuck” [Name] falls into a pit full of giggles, wrapping her lips around her straw, drinking up the watery thing this place called a cocktail. At least someone said it.

“I couldn't have said it more eloquently myself..” Kaveh says, sipping into the last ounce of liquid in his glass with a bubble of his straw. Mm tequila. Yuck.

“I’ll be back in a sec, Kaveyy~ Gotta go bathroom..” [Name] hops off of her stool and disappears into the crowd. Kaveh sighs, blinking his way back into the land of the sober. He nurtures her drink with the instinct of a mother pigeon, fending for her young in the big bad city. No harm shall come to this watered down mystery juice, not on his watch. He feels the burn of alcohol in his cheeks, the subtle sway of his body as he sits and stares. Much like going to the bathroom at a house party, stuck alone for a second to really take in just how drunk you feel. The horrible feeling is quick to dissipate when [Name] comes weaving through the crowd, back over to their little table. She had a quirk about her, a sly look in her eye, twitch on her lip.

“Welcome back,” Kaveh hands her, her drink. She graciously takes it with a sweet kiss to his cheek, staining his face with her lipstick. Kaveh gets awfully suspicious when she pulls out her phone, pressing her face to his own and snapping a cute selfie, sticky lipstick stain on full show. She pulls back with a giggle, grinning down at her screen nearly pressing it to her nose. Kaveh doesn't have to inquire, she’s quick to let him in on her mischief.

“‘Nari and Cyno gave me an idea~” [Name’s] eyes looked far too awake for the time of night. Kaveh cocks a brow, squinting at her phone screen as she swipes between her gallery pictures. He sees her in all her glory, somehow managing to look absolutely insatiable in the dingy bar bathroom. Tiny dress slipped half off, pretty lips parted with her tongue poking out just enough, a dangerous glint in her eyes. He sucks in a breath, he really shouldn't get so worked up - Like a greasy school boy that caught a glimpse of a teacher's underskirt. Not that he ever did that. He ignores how his pants grow a little tighter.

“You went to the bathroom to take nudes?” He reaches for a napkin to wipe his face. [Name] rolls her eyes, sipping the last of her drink.

“Lewds, Kaveh” She earnestly corrects him with a pout, rolling her eyes as if he should have known the difference. Seemed nude enough to him.

“What, you have a secret third partner you're not telling us about?” He teases her. [Name’s] pout grows into a playful scowl, gently shoving his shoulder.

“Yeah, and they’re way prettier than you~” She bites back with a smile, shaking her head and falling into a pit of giggles that Kaveh couldn't help but join in.

“Should I send them?” She leans back in, zooming in and out on the pictures she snapped.

“To your new plaything?” Kaveh smirks. [Name] groans dramatically.

“No- To ‘Haithem. ‘Wanna tease him..” She giggles and nods her head, eyes glinting in mischief. It could be fun, Kaveh muses. He could make a hobby out of getting on Alhaitham’s nerves - Respectfully of course, he still loved him after all.

“Tease him? He won’t be happy when we get back.. Puppy” His voice drops low, eyebrow raised with a cheeky smirk. He notices her visibly shift, mouth turned in a downturned smile, eyes squinting back at him.

“All the better, no?” She comes back at him. Touche. “C’mon, lets go now~” She beckons under his chin, pressing her finger into his skin, lifting his head with a quick flick. If she asked him to get down on his knees and bark, he’d probably do it. Who’s the puppy now - It's Kaveh.

The pair leave the bar and stand on the sidewalk by the building, [Name] eagerly scrolls through her pictures, biting her lip in an attempt to conceal her grin. She asks for his opinion, and he opts for something a little more modest, with at least some of her clothes on for imaginative purposes. She rolls her eyes at him, saying Alhaitham couldn't picture the colour green let alone a human. The two come to a compromise, pick one each and send off the cute selfie with her lip stain on Kaveh’s cheek.

Kaveh slips his hand in hers as they begin to make the walk home, not before letting Alhaitham know - With a little treat attached.

Kaveh doesn't even have to press the call button, Alhaitham’s name pops up bright on his screen. [Name] giggles again, hanging off of Kaveh’s arm. He swipes the answer button, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hello, Love” Kaveh, feigns innocence in his voice, flicking his eyes to the little minx next to him.

“Is [Name] with you?” Alhaitham’s voice is ever deadpan through the speaker, the man had a knack for indifference, but Kaveh could see through it every time.

“Of course-” Kaveh starts before being hastily cut off.

“Good. Put her on please.” He sounds tense. Not the angry I'm about to blow tense. The other tense. Still about to blow - Just in an all new fashion. Kaveh masks a laugh with a sigh, handing over the phone to his other-other half. Third? He hands his phone to [Name].

“Nawhhh ‘Haitham do you miss us?” She opens the call with a sweet voice, swinging Kaveh's arm as they walk the dusky city streets. Kaveh strains to hear Alhaitham's droning voice, crackling through the speaker pressed to his beloved's ear, muffled and illegible. He can only listen to [Name], hearing half of their conversation through her replies- not that she said anything other than; various versions of 'mmhm'.

"Uhuhh~ oh? really?... Yeah..?" Her tone of voice steadily becomes more sultry with every word she speaks. A tingle runs down Kaveh's tummy, right into his groin. Curse the effect this wretched witch - his beloved beautiful girlfriend - Had on his body. He intakes a deep breath of city air, trying to keep vigilant of their surroundings, half purposely ignoring their call to calm the ache in his pants.

“Just can’t wait until we get home, huh..?” [Name] continues, voice suddenly sobered up. For some reason it turns him on more, being half ignored between their heated ministrations. He can only imagine what Alhaitham could be saying, and it riles him up all the more. The anticipation of what's waiting for him at home doesn't help - He knows what Alhaitham is like. If they fuck around, they’ll definitely find out. The consequences will be laid out for them. Regardless of who starts it, Alhaitham ends it.

Kaveh is jolted out of his running thoughts by a tug on his arm. [Name] leads him on with a giggle, down a street or two, right into a secluded passage nestled between two apartment buildings. Kaveh reels his head together, coming to so quick he swears he gives himself whiplash. [Name] presses her glossy lips to his own, pashing him loud and wet right into the receiver of the phone. Kaveh’s head was reeling, crotch most definitely bulging at the seam of his pants. He hears a faint groan through the phone, just as [Name] bites down on his plump lips, eliciting his very own keening noise.

She pulls off of him, lips wet with a sticky string of saliva, still connecting their lips together. He watches it glisten under the dim street light, snapping and joining the slick gloss adorned on her lips. His girl bites at his neck, huffing little giggles as she sinks her teeth into his milky flesh. Gods he can barely keep quiet, whimpering softly, fluttering his pretty carmine eyes closed. There's a scuffle over the line, a sound of fabric shifting through the speaker of the phone.

“Kaveh” There's a sweet whisper in his ear, sending the most delicious shiver down his spine, nearly making his knees weak. He finds the voice, his darling girlfriend, eyes full and swimming with something he was all too familiar with. There's a short beep and a phone is stuffed into his hands, video call on, camera faced to the ground. Alhaitham’s face is on the screen, brows scrunched up, eyes searching the dark picture of the video.

“Make sure I look pretty” [Name] bites her lip with a giggle, trying to mask her cheeky smile. Gods didn't she always, it was near impossible for her not to be. She lowers herself to the dirty concrete floor of the alleyway, hands already easing into the loops of Kaveh’s pants. He's hyper aware of their surroundings - distant chatterings of drunk party goers, the beaming lights of a taxi driving by. His eyes strain at the bright phone screen, nearly fumbling to keep the video steady.

“Watch him.. Make sure he touches himself~” [Name] purs against the bulge in his pants. Alhaitham watches closely as she fumbles with Kaveh’s button, unzipping his pants. She hooks her fingers into his waistband, clenching her palms into the fabric as she pulls them down his frame. Kaveh hisses, feeling the hot pressure of his trousers become replaced by a cool spike of air. [Name] fingers into his briefs on her way down, revealing the soft skin of his groin to the video. With a giggle she fully releases him, his pretty cock slaps into his tummy with a soft noise, leaving a sticky bead of pearlescent pre on his dress shirt. He hears a crackled moan through the phone speaker and his eyes are on Alhaitham. The man bites at his lip, squeezing the base of his thick length, face slowly being overconsumed by a warm red blush.

Kaveh can't decide where to look - Past the phone and down at his pretty girl? Or into the video feed on Alhaitham’s shaky camera angle. He fails to decide when he feels a hot huff of breath on his cock. [Name] kisses at his flushed pink tip, smearing the last of her sticky lip gloss all over his velvety head. Kaveh’s mouth falls open, eyes squinting down at the pretty girl below him. His grip on the side of the phone tightens as he captures her licking her tongue flat on the underside of his length, sending a hot pulse right into Kaveh’s achy cock. He bites back a soft moan, eyes already getting bleary and teary. Gods he was sensitive, and didn't she know it. He eyes Alhaitham’s expression, his lips parted ever so slightly, teeth biting into the side of his cheek. He watches as the usually stoic man breaks ever so delicately. It's something Kaveh had come to absolutely relish.

Kaveh nearly cries, his sensitive tip suddenly engulfed by the pretty girl on her knees, kissing at the back of her eager throat. She swallows around him, gagging hot over his pretty cock, forcing fresh tears to bubble in her eyes. Gods she looked almost pornographic. Mascara already beginning to turn into a black liquid mess under her eyes, threatening to stream down her cheeks. She drools over his cock, taking him back and forth, always swallowing his flushed tip down her warm throat. She eyes the phone camera, raising a brow she pulls off of his length, blowing a cheeky kiss towards Alhaitham.

“Wish you were here~” She mockingly pouts at the man on the phone, eagerly taking Kaveh back down her throat. Kaveh keens out loud, moaning high from his throat with his head tilted back into the rough, graffitied brick wall. Gods she was rough, rougher than she ever was with him, was she teasing them? Showing Alhaitham exactly what he was missing out on? Was this how she took his cock? Rough and dirty and eager - Completely unlike the soft, doting way she wraps her lips around his own cock. Alhaitham crunches his brows, front teeth clenched with his lips parted in a scowl, Kaveh watches him stroke his thick length, the flushed velvet tip barely coming into the frame of the video.

“Makin’ a mess of yourselves in public huh? Trying to tease me? Better not come back here… If you know what's good for you..” Alhaitham’s voice babbles through the phone, playing along with [Name’s] little game. They all knew exactly what would transpire the second they walked through the door. It only eggs [Name] on further. It's her turn to moan, garbling around Kaveh’s long, pretty length as she takes him. She makes a show of sinking down on Kaveh, kissing at the base of his length, pretty eyes gazing up into the camera. Her mascara was running, pooling down her cheeks as she looked up at Alhaitham, purposely going out of her way to show him up. There's that feeling again, the burn in his tummy as he’s caught between their teasing, their little toy to rile each other up.

Gods it's nearly too much, Alhaitham’s eager shake of his shoulder as he jerks himself off, on show for only Kaveh to see. His cock aches and tenses as [Name] takes him down, rocking her whole body into him, suckling at him sweetly before fucking him with her throat. He cant take his eyes off of them, albeit blurred form the little pin pricking tears that well up in the corners of them. He stares through the phone screen, through the little square on the phone, eyes darting between [Name] and Alhaitham.

“[Name]... Haitham- [Na-].. Won't last..!” Kaveh’s hand wobbles, he was quickly certainly becoming the worst cinematographer in the world. [Name] rakes her palms over his cool, milky skin, caressing him with some ounce of her usual softness she leaves for him. A hot shiver runs straight into his groin, he can't help but thrust his hips forward, spearing his tip down her eager throat. She keens around him, swallowing hard on him, taking him deeper and faster his brain could barely keep up.

“Gonna come? Poor baby's gonna come..? Look at what you've done [Name].. Dragging poor Kaveh into your little game..” Alhaitham’s voice mocks them through the phone. That's right.. Poor Kaveh.. All caught up between their silly game. His eyes work double time trying to focus on the two, Alhaitham’s looney expression, slightly pixelated from the horrendous phone reception in the small walls of the corridor. [Name’s] eager expression, lips wrapped around his cock, lead and wet and slobbery. He throws his head back, he couldn't bear to watch them, lest he make a mess of himself.

He feels a hand on him, cupping at his balls, tender and ticklish - He feels himself tense, embarrassed at the man watching and hearing him through the phone, coming close from the pretty girl drooling over his cock. Gods, his brain was running overtime, absolutely reeling at everything it could. The flickering light above them, the headlights that stopped for far too long for his liking, the dripping pipe to his right. The warm engulf of his pretty girlfriend’s mouth around his aching cock, the usually aloof man in his phone, staring right at his groin with his own cock in his hand.

Kaveh’s cheeks burn, his balls ache and cock tenses hard. Gods, he was done for, unable to reel in the spike in his groin. His free hand comes down to his girlfriend’s hair, threading through the strands in an attempt to have her slow down. She manages to giggle, pushing past his attempt and suckling ever so sweetly against his hot tip. Kaveh whines and keens out loud, hiccupping in hot embarrassment, eyes finally allowing the warm tears to streak down his cheeks. He thrusts, he can't help it, giving in to [Name’s] pleasure, taking her mouth with his cock as Alhaitham watches through the camera. God he was sure he would never live this down, but he couldn't care - Not when his sweet girlfriend looks so pretty on his cock, not when Alhaitham chants through the speakers, commanding him to let go, to come for him.

Kaveh throws his head back, knocking his skull into the hard wall. He moans with an open mouth, spit hot on his tongue as his cock twitches hard. He can barely make out a short ‘Cumming-!’ before his sticky mess coasts [Name’s] tongue. He cums thick, milky ropes, whimpering as she suckles sweetly on him, edging all of his sweet, sticky cum out of him. Her tongue rolls over his achy slit, lapping up the pebbling spurts of cum that pulse from his cock.

[Name] makes a cheeky show of lapping at his pretty cockhead, tongue coated in his milky cum, smearing it all over himself. She sticks her tongue out for the camera, for Alhaitham to see, hot and milky, nearly dribbling off of her. She giggles and suckles at his swollen tip, swallowing around his overstimulated cock, earning a hot whine from his throat. [Name] stands from the dirty concrete, knees flushed and covered in a mystery dust. She snatches the phone from Kaveh, pulling him into a filthy, spitty kiss, swapping his creamy mess between them. She makes sure Alhaitham’s watching, peering her eyes to the side, seeing Kaveh’s fucked out, flushed face in the corner square as she kisses into him. Kaveh knew he surely looked a mess, lips swollen and teeth bitten, nose red with blush, eyelashes wet and stuck together. He can't bear to look.

Alhaitham practically growls, surely cumming in his own palm as he watches them swap Kaveh’s sweet, salty mess. He babbles, telling them that they’re filthy, they're in for it, pretty little things couldn't even keep to themselves. No wonder, he can barely keep himself from them regardless. [Name] pulls away first, nipping at Kaveh’s nose before turning to the man on call.

“Muah! Love you Haitham~ See you soon” She cheekily bites her lip, hastily shutting off the video call before the man could even get a word in. she crouches down, helping Kaveh re-dress himself. Oh the shame, he cannot bear to leave the sanctuary that is the dusty alleyway. His tummy flips at the idea of coming home to Alhaitham, maybe he could worm his way out? He was a victim - Just a bystander! The phone buzzes again, and [Name] giggles, shutting off the ringer and taking Kaveh’s hand into her own.

“C’mon~ Haitham is waiting~” She plants a hot kiss to his lips before dragging through the street once again.

“I don't know if I wanna ever see him again after that..” Kaveh pouts dramatically, heart pulsing in anticipation as [Name] punches in their building code. Here goes nothing, he supposes.

Hi, hello, welcome to November 😔

We're truly holding on by a thread here girlies-

Lmk if you enjoyed! Idk how I feel about this one- also idk if I regret making those texts- sksksjsh tumblr wasn't formatting them in like wOrd form how I wanted so I, for some reason created my own lmaoo

•··········🍑···········• ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪•···········🍑··········•

Thank You For Reading! I Really Appreciate Comments! Let Me Know Of Any Mistakes or Tell Me If You Enjoyed! I Love Responding To Everyone ♡

♡KinkTober Taglist♡

@heath-sama @yejiswifex @hunnibunnix @bleh09 @madsw9 @py-schi @wizzardcatwithastick @shiningpaint-marbleheart @cherrytomato2 @i-am-silver @your-tears-taste-sweeter @kqzutcra @themusingsofmany @kaijubxnny @tericula @omletteattack @maryeehawe @pomeiu @the-massive-simp @himenoakuma @medieval-raccoon @succub-suki @mayberaspberrywrites @yannvi @sleepyisgone12 @pvbbyb0y @fururonin @tttynat

ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ʳᵉ⁻ᵘᵖˡᵒᵃᵈ ʷᶦᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ ᵖᵉʳᵐᶦˢˢᶦᵒⁿ

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

420 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader

452 notes · View notes

placeinthemiddleofnowhere · 9 months

Text

The Devil You Know (Part 1) - The First Sin

Pairing: Demon! Captain John Price x Reader

(No use of y/n)

Warnings: This series will contain scenes of a violent and sexual nature, I will be more specific as I write more parts.

Summary: Reader is a soldier hanging on to their last gasp of life, trying to summon a demon associated with soldiers and battlefields in order to aid them. Unluckily for you though, the demon isn't interested in a short term deal. He finds himself quite attached to you, and he doesn't want to let you go.

-🔥-

Disembodied hands shook wildly as they set about their terrible task. At least that’s how it seemed to you - appendages moving around a blurred screen, drawing dirtied red symbols with panicked uncertainty. You swiped another slick fingerful of your blood into the dusty concrete and clenched your aching teeth together, finishing off the last curve of the sigil with a snakish hiss.

“I call to you…with the blood of my battle wounds. Jo- Jotan, I will be your willing servant.”

You looked around, eyes darting wildly for movement or any sign that your ridiculous little saving grace had worked. Though nothing happened. You blinked feverishly, feeling your lip wobble at first and then your entire body shake as you absorbed the facts in front of you. You were actually going to die.

A cackle broke out into the room, competing with the baying gunshots outside to break the walls of the decaying shell of a building. It was you. You were finally losing your mind, absorbing the facts in front of you with detached horror.

Perhaps the ruins were an office before, but now it was the final resting place of a desperate lunatic who’d decided to decorate their sepulchre before laughing themselves into death’s arms. The cruelty of it burned in your throat and stang at your eyes, soon searing hot tears into the ruined flesh of your cheeks.

It was a foolish last ditch effort anyway, you mused, collapsing onto your back in the middle of the blood seal. A stupid myth you’d clung to in a final attempt to save your life, a ritual told to you by someone that was long dead themself. If they presumably hadn’t bothered to use it, then why would it do you any good?

“Oh dear…I’m not too late am I?” cooed a soft rumbling voice.

Your eyes opened wide, the owner of the call demanding to be seen. That murmur fizzled in your ears and vibrated in your blood, forcing your hands to scrabble at the ground and set you into a sitting position again.

When you finally rose, you were held in place by the stranger. His onyx black eyes pinned you into place, watching you twitching and panting like a caught mouse. Apparently you amused him with this. His lips pulled into a grin, revealing a row of white teeth that curved into points at the canines and outer incisors, it was the smile of a predator. As if he needed to advertise any more warning signs.

His body was big and broad, his chest a large plane of solid flesh dusted with soot and soft dark hair that matched his bristly beard and hickory hued hair. His large arms were decorated with similar etchings to the ones you’d messily painted, both of them circled in two iron bands at the bicep and forearms, they looked like they could crack teeth in a pinch. There were also a few bands on the thick dark tail that waved behind him too, a detail you only noticed as it seemed to lovingly caress the shadows around his legs.

It was what finally confirmed for you that this was him. The fabled demon of battlefields - Jotan.

“You came,” you whispered.

“You called,” he returned, tilting his head at you. “Surprised you managed to complete the circle. You’ve lost a lot of blood, Sergeant.”

“I…I have,” you replied, feeling another wave of nausea roll through you.

“And I suppose you want me to do something about that?” he said, mouth twisting into a wry half smile.

It was almost worse than when you’d seen his fanged teeth. He looked positively ready to devour you, his gleaming eyes fixed on you like a tiger. You were just waiting for him to pounce, breath catching in your dry throat as you anticipated the killing bite. Suddenly you’d forgotten that it was you that called the terrible entity here, that he was supposed to be serving you rather than terrifying you.

“C’mon now, Love. You clearly knew enough about the ritual to get me here…aren’t you going to follow through?” he prompted, leaning down to meet you at your level. “It’s rude to keep a demon waiting, you know.”

His arms folded over his dark trousers, crossing over each other at his lap as if he were asking you to do something so completely mundane. He tilted his head at you again, flicking his eyes up to the doorway on the other side of the room as it started to shudder and bang. Voices were worming their way through the debris, shouts blasting in through the cracks.

Bang, bang, bang.

You didn’t have much time. Not that your body would be able to hold on much longer anyway.

“I want you to- please…take me back to exfil. Get me the fuck out of here and safely back to base and I’ll do whatever you want,” you said, voice cracking as you made your plea. “Ask anything you want from me, Jotan. Just get me the fuck away from here.”

His eyes curved into shadowed moons, once again he beamed at you. It felt like the stifling room heated a few more degrees. To add insult to injury your lungs began to struggle, it felt like your body was in its last stages of failing.

You briefly wondered if all this just might be a delusion. Maybe your head was presenting you with him as a way to cope with being turned to pink mist by the men that still called from the door outside, as a way to forget about your torn up arms that’d been sliced open by the bombings, and the bullet hole that had been weeping silently in your leg.

Bang, bang, bang.

“I’ll tell you what…I’m feelin’ generous,” the demon murmured, reaching out and forcing your chin up with in his charred fingers. “I’ll take you back to base, just like you want. And now…I could ask for your soul in return, for you to be my eternal servant when you do meet your end, and I really could have you do anything for me. However I won’t do that. Instead, I want to lend you my power. Just for today. That is my only offer.”

You frowned, a million racing thoughts crashing through your mind all at the same time. You’d made peace with the fact he’d ask for something awful, known it even. This clearly had to be a trick. Nevertheless, your head throbbed perilously and the door and furniture you’d messily propped in front of it were going to give way.You didn't have much time.

Bang, bang, bang.

“What will I do with your power?” you asked desperately, looking from him and to the end of the room.

“Let me worry about that,” he chuckled. “I’ll guide you, Sergeant. All you have to do is agree…that or let them flood in and kill you.”

Bang, bang, bang.

He motioned to the thundering door and raised his brows at you. At that point his dark eyes were like vortexes, they dragged you into his orbit and had you falling under his spell. You knew logically that whatever was going to happen was going to change the course of your life forever - and not for the good. Even then, you couldn’t find the strength to deny him, couldn’t hold enough faith in a glorious next life to accept that you’d leave this one.

“Fine! I accept,” you said, eyes wet and heavy.

An animal growl rattled through your bones and shuddered throughout the skeleton remains of the office space. Your body flinched back, responding just as your instincts wanted, but the demon didn’t allow you to retreat. He was quick - arms lashing out and moving like a whip. He gripped your neck like a farmer does to his chickens come dinner time, and just when you were ready for the snap, your body jerked violently.

You forced yourself to your feet, no, you surged upwards like you were under possession. Your legs didn’t feel like they’d buckle anymore, they felt renewed. Your heartbeat was steady like a punctual train, and your breathing returned to normal, better than normal even. Everything in you felt like it was new, like someone had taken out your broken parts and given you an upgrade. You smiled, lips curling over your teeth unnaturally.

Wait- were those…fangs poking into your bottom lip?

Bang!

There was no time to wonder at the strange way your mouth felt. Your head jerked up and suddenly you were greeted with the second worst sight of the day. The enemy soldiers had you surrounded, they flooded into the room like a locust swarm and pointed their guns at you, faithfully looking toward their Captain for the authority to execute.

Normally you would’ve shuddered, or maybe even fallen to the floor, but you held fast. Your breathing remained calm, but your vision went dark. That’s not to say you passed out, but a thick hazy filter seemed to descend across your eyes. Then just when you were about to question it, your arms reached out as if you were being puppeteered and your entire body unwillingly shot forward.

There was no time to even think to connect your actions to the seemingly absent demon then. Instead you latched onto the soldier in front of you like a bear and sank your teeth into his neck. The man screamed, and yelped, and made all sorts of inhuman noises as he struggled to try and pull you off. Though there was no helping him. You continued to bite at his arteries and savage him until his screams were silent and overtaken by the men around him.

Gunshots rang out, but none pierced you. Men beat at your back and pulled at your arms, but you didn’t break your hold. Copper filled your mouth, but you didn’t spit. You smiled with glee and licked at your own salty tears, disengaging from your target only when you were ready.

Little did you know, this was only the beginning of the butchery.

-🔥-

“For fuck sake, get yersel’ to the sink ye riot!”

You jumped out of your thoughts and hazarded a quick look up to your worried manager, following that up by nodding silently and running off to the bathroom. Fuck. All that you could do was grimly stare down at the blood while it merged with the clean tap water and remind yourself that it was fine. You weren’t outside the wire anymore, you were just wait staff in a small restaurant, and you didn’t need to worry about bleeding out anymore because the biggest hazard you faced now was apparently picking up a dirty knife the wrong way.

“Fucking hell,” you chuckled, quietly facing yourself in the mirror and taking a pause from the gory scene below. “It’s just a tiny cut.”

For a second, so quick you only just registered it, black eyes flashed behind you. You jumped back and hyperventilated, doing everything you could to stop yourself from screaming. Though it couldn’t be helped. You forced your hands over your mouth and yelled a muffled cry into your palms instead and rode out your panicked heartbeats until you could be sure you wouldn’t collapse.

You did a double take, searching the mirror for those horrible eyes or any other signs of their proprietor. However, there was nothing else to see but a pathetic ex soldier, black tile and cheap imitation herringbone wood flooring. Suddenly you felt absolutely ridiculous.

You slipped your hands from your mouth and covered your eyes instead, rubbing at hideously embarrassing tears with anger. That stupid therapist you were going to was so wrong, you thought bitterly, you were never going to make progress. You constantly swore that you could see those demonic eyes wherever you went, and sometimes you even thought you saw him. Well not the demon exactly, but a man that so closely resembled him - just without the tail and black eyes.

It’d been a full year since you’d been honourably discharged from the military, and even in all that time, you still hadn’t healed. Sure, the cuts and bullet wounds had made miraculous progress and faded to tiny scars, but inside you may as well have been a shooting range dummy right at the end of target practice. While your superiors had seen fit to dedicate you with a medal for the miraculous fight you put up against the enemy, your head still hadn’t gotten to grips with just how you did it.

Multiple therapists had put it down to repressed memory. They told you that whatever had really happened must’ve been replaced with that accursed demon summoning ritual that you dreamed up in an adrenaline filled haze. They said you might remember it all eventually once you’d healed more, or even that you might never get the answers you sought. There was no footage from your vest cam, and no other eyewitnesses left alive to say what had happened. Just you and your janky, wacky memories.

“Hey, Riot! You gonna come back on shift anytime soon or do I have to explain to Marco why the big bad ex-soldier is dying over a little cut?”

You turned to the door and smiled to yourself, feeling your chest grow lighter the second you heard that voice. Emily always knew how to pull you out of a funk. With that in mind, you shook your head, felt your goosebumps retreat away and stepped out into the scorching warmth of the restaurant. Once more back into the fray.

“The big bad ex-soldier had a lot of blood coming out that little cut,” you shrugged, “can’t be creating a healthcode violation, you know that.”

Emily raised one of her thick dark eyebrows in question and put her hands on her hips. Oh no, this was the serious stance. In fairness, the tables were mobbed that night and she’d been run off her feet by two difficult tables that were ‘not getting acceptable service by any definition of the word’ as one of them had apparently said.

“Put a blue plaster on it and get back out here before I give you a real war wound,” she growled.

Your eyes widened, but you still smiled despite yourself.

“You’re the boss!”

You rushed off to do as she said, ready to come back out and assist her, and if necessary neutralise any threat to her sanity. Emily was one of the few people you’d reconnected with after coming back home, and anyone that messed with her henceforth, was now messing with you.

She’d seen you out and about at the park one day, taking one of your ‘haunted walks’ as she called them - only because you had trouble sleeping and would walk around in a black hoodie with the hood up. It was like something clicked, after being so reluctant to share anything with your family, or military buddies that tried to reach out, it was like you’d found your key. You’d babbled to her about how badly you were struggling to adjust to civilian life, leaking your frustrations like a bled radiator, and she accepted you. She listened without pity.

Now while you wound a plaster round your silly little cut, you watched her zoom round the tables with true gratitude. She was the only reason you’d gotten the job, and been able to integrate back into real life. As much as you had your moments of frustrations, and had brief run ins with your PTSD, you at least had something to distract yourself with. Something that grabbed your attention and set your breathing straight again, when before you would curl in the corner of your room and scream for many minutes at a time.

Once the plaster was affixed, you fiddled with the cracked old first aid box and wrangled it shut, stowing it back into place with a thud before rushing back out to the floor. The smell of garlic and pasta filled your senses, and the voices of the patrons roared rapturously in your ears again. The normal hustle and bustle of the place set you back into your rhythm and the ramped up tempo sent you hurtling toward the kitchen.

“Where’ve you fucking been?” one of the chefs groused, “we’ve got a million plates for table ten here that need serving! I can hear them bitching from here, get moving!”

“Had a little accident getting the plates to Frankie,” you said, motioning to the plaster and your fraught KP behind the pass. “Good to go now!”

Rather than stay to hear the chef's curses, you rushed off with the plates and delivered them to the table, plastering on a smile as the customers moaned up a storm to your face. After offering them your apologies and promises of free sides, they hushed up and all was good again. You tended to your other tables and resumed duty as normal, rotating around Emily and the other waiter, Michael, like little clockwork toys. You all ticked along perfectly, leaving full stomachs and mostly happy faces in your wake.

“Can you take this to table thirteen, please? I gotta piss like crazy!”Micheal ordered.

He handed you a steak that was positively dripping in blood, almost setting you off again were it not for the fact that you were so confused by his request. There’s potatoes and salad and sauce on that plate, you thought to yourself, its not a body, just a hunk of meat.

“There isn’t a table thir-” you started, soon trailing off.

Michael had long since dashed off before you could correct him and you sighed to yourself. Great, now who on earth could this be for? You knew every table in the restaurant of course, your knowledge on the place was near perfect with Emily acting like a drill sergeant during your probation stages. However, you didn’t know where thirteen could be, because it didn’t exist. Most people knew that restaurants skipped that number because it was unlucky. Apparently not Michael though.

“I believe that’s for me,” called a rumbling voice.

You frowned and looked down to the man before you, startling as you realised that a table had been placed where it shouldn’t have, and in turn you were standing right over a poor customer. No wonder Michael had made the mistake, you had no idea where the table had even come from. Though you were too embarrassed to worry very much about that in the moment, you needed to recover in front of the man before you made an idiot out of yourself.

“Apologies, sir,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It’s been a busy night. Can I get you anything else?”

You placed down the food in front of him and were glad for it after you’d made eye contact. There was something strange about the man that made you jump. His stunning blue eyes captured your gaze and made you feel like you were in the middle of a laser sight. You gulped and looked away for a second afterward, trying your best to compose yourself.

“Thank you,” the man said softly, still fixing his eyes on you. “This is perfect.”

His sly grin struck you as familiar, but when you studied the man more, you couldn’t place him. He had a dark peacoat draped over his chair and wore a black shirt and fitted jeans. His beard was trim and cut close to his jawline, and his hair was near perfect, combed back neatly over his head. Everything about him was perfectly ordinary, perhaps would’ve been completely innocuous if not for his eyes.

You could’ve sworn there was a little black band circling the pupil, but just as you thought you’d lost yourself in them he chuckled at you. Causing your face to flame up in burning shame.

“I’m so sorry for staring,” you apologised, holding your hands up in appeasement. “I don’t know what that was about, sorry. You just seemed familiar for a sec.”

“Oh really?” he laughed, “Don’t happen to know a Jonathan Price do you?”

“Jonathan Price?” you repeated questioningly.

“My name, sweetheart,” he grinned, showing off his pointy canines. “Though you can just call me John if you like.”

“Oh my god, my brain’s going tonight,” you laughed, trying to get yourself away from him and the bloody steak that seemed to ooze with every passing second. “I’ll stop bothering you now, Jonathan! Enjoy your steak.”

His name sat heavy on your tongue, as if a fizzy sweetie had stung at the nerves and left it swollen and red. Jonathan. There was something about it that didn’t fit right. An unnatural force wanted you to turn round and call him a liar, demand that he reveal himself for who he really was.

Though you didn’t put much credence in unnatural forces anymore. Not when unnatural forces tended to be symptoms of your mental illness. Instead you shook your head and kept working, making a note to yourself that you needed to get more sleep that night. Sleep and meds usually helped, and you were praying that they’d set you right again the next day.

#Demon!Price #captain john price #captain price x reader #mw2 #call of duty

378 notes · View notes

sargeant-bxrnes · 10 months

Text

birthday ramé. [g.s]

—✮ summary: where your husband gojo, and your little daughter airi, are planning a nice birthday surprise for you, which of course, in true gojo’s fashion… must be a little chaotic. [requested!]

pairings: gojo x f!reader [married]

contents: pure fluff, girl-dad!gojo :) | wc: 930

my masterlist! | my requests are OPEN!

Gojo tiptoed around the kitchen with the grace of a rampaging elephant. His wild white hair seemed to have a mind of its own, adding to the general chaos that surrounded him. He was trying to do a nice gesture for you, and nothing will get in his way, not even his own lack of culinary skills.

Little Airi, a two-year-old bundle of joy and mini-Gojo, was perched on the kitchen counter, happily making an (artistic) mess with flour and sugar on the surface with her little hands. She giggled, resembling a pocket-sized version of her father, right down to the snow white hair, the mischievous glint in her eyes and the way she seemed to be fully charged with energy all the time.

Gojo, wearing his blindfold for 'professionalism' reasons, was attempting to crack eggs both in a rush and with dramatic flair, but ended up sending shells flying in every direction. Airi clapped her tiny hands, unaware of the kitchen mayhem she was contributing to.

Satoru smiled at his little baby, seeing a hint of your smile in little Airi’s face, she looked just like you, sometimes, but most if not all the time, little Airi was all him. Even now, when they're supposed to be preparing you a nice surprise but are downright creating chaos.

Suddenly, the unmistakable scent of burnt toast wafted through the air, and Gojo froze for a few seconds, realizing he might be losing control of the situation. He glanced at Airi, who was now happily smearing jam on a piece of pancake with her own little sticky hands, well, she was happy and away from the fire, all good.

"Uh-oh. Well, who doesn't love a bit of extra crunch?" He mumbles to himself as he removes the other pancake from the heat, aware that it's more of a... semi burnt pancake.

The kitchen door creaked open, and you, the birthday girl, walked in completely unsuspecting, rubbing your eyes from sleepiness, however an expression of amused confusion quickly took over your features.— you had woken up to the other side of your bed empty, which made you pout a bit, however that had soon changed by the muffled sounds of Airi’s little giggles and whatever ramble left Goru's mouth. — which prompted you here, to witness this cute moment.

"What kind of culinary circus is happening here?" You asked in amusement.

As Gojo valiantly attempted to rescue a pan from the clutches of overcooking, Airi presented you with a lopsided pancake. "’appy birfday, Mommy!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at the adorable mess unfolding before you, walking closer to the counter where little Airi was sitting down, as her little hands immediately made a 'grabby hands' gesture for you to pick her up.

Gojo, grinned like this chaotic deliver was planned all along, and turned to face you. "Happy birthday, love! Airi and I are just preparing a breakfast surprise, or as I like to call it, controlled chaos."

You raised an eyebrow with an amused expression, taking in the whimsical kitchen scene, an unnatural amount of dirty dishes all around, a mess of flour and sugar, and some cracked eggs by the side.

"Thank you, honey. And… Controlled chaos? Is that a new cooking technique?" You inquired as you picked up the baby and cradled her in your arms; she hid her head in the crook of your neck as her messy white hair tickled your skin.

"Absolutely! Cutting-edge stuff, really." Gojo muses, walking closer to you and your daughter, wrapping his long arm around both, leaning down to kiss her little forehead.

"Well, it's certainly a... unique surprise," you muse, tickling your little girl's side, making her giggle. "Thank you, my little chef. And you, Mr. Gojo, for this unforgettable start to my day."

“You are absolutely welcome, Mrs. Gojo.” Satoru grinned, leaning down to kiss you, his lips softly met yours in an affectionate gesture, the kiss was slow and filled with love, which admittedly he would've prolonged a bit more if little Airi hadn't patted his cheek with her jam smeared little fingers.

Gojo pulled back from the interrupted kiss, a playful whine escaping him as he shot Airi an exaggerated pout.

"Hey, little interrupter, Daddy was having a moment there." he chuckled, wiping a bit of jam from his cheek and smearing it playfully on her tiny nose.

Airi, seemingly unfazed, grinned innocently, her little head still comfortably resting on the crook of your neck. "Mommy mine!"

You chuckled, patting Gojo on the shoulder "Looks like you've got some competition for my affection, baby."

Gojo, not one to be easily deterred, leaned in close to the baby girl, a twinkle in his eye. "Airi, did you know I met your mom first? That means I can kiss her whenever I want."

Her eyes widened in curiosity, and before Gojo could continue with whatever questionable commentary he had in mind, you swiftly intervened. You shot your husband a look that warned him against taking the banter too far, and he paused, sighing dramatically.

"Alright, alright, I'll behave. For now," he conceded, and you gave him a mock stern look, shaking your head in amusement. "But just know, I have a whole repertoire of embarrassing stories waiting for Airi when she's older."

You rolled your eyes with a smile— Satoru wrapped his arms around you both as Airi giggles happy, and you realized that, despite the chaos, these were the moments that made your little family so uniquely charming, even surrounded by burnt toasts, lopsided pancakes and sticky fingers.

356 notes · View notes

callsign-rogueone · 7 months

Text

like snow on the beach - r.g.

Ridoc Gamlyn x marked!reader a continuation of love at first fight, part of the Ridoc and Sweetheart series 🦋 words: 2.8k 🏷: FOURTH WING SPOILERS. she/her, feminine reader (wears a dress for Reunification Day, referred to as a girl/woman). mentions of canon character death, mentions of dissociation and anxiety. you have a panic attack, but someone helps you through it. titled after the tswift song!

“Don’t look now, but that guy from second squad is staring at you again,” Liam says quietly. “At your four.”

You twist in your seat as if cracking your back, looking over your shoulder. Sure enough, the cute curly-haired boy who had handed you the dagger you’d won from Jack Barlowe the other day is looking right at you.

“Say the word and I’ll handle him,” Imogen offers, picking at her nails with disinterest. She’s been itching for another fight since her last opponent tapped out after ten seconds.

The tall redhead sitting across from him notices you’re looking in their direction, and he kicks his friend under the table. He looks away quickly, starting a conversation with the rest of the group. Not discreet at all.

“Hurting anyone in Sorrengail’s squad wouldn’t go over well with Xaden. And look at him. He’s harmless,” you defend.

“He definitely doesn’t want to kill you,” Liam agrees. “He’s just smitten.”

You glance to your right again. He has his back turned now, still engaged in conversation with his friends, who are all laughing at something he said.

So he’s the class clown type. Interesting.

Imogen scoffs. “He can bark up that tree all he wants, but we all know it’ll never get him anywhere.”

--------------------------------------

And bark he does. You can’t shake the guy and his sunny personality. He’s everywhere you are, always having something to say, some shameless line to drop on you.

“If I make this bullseye, you have to let me take you out for dinner. There’s an amazing pasta place in town, you’ll love it.”

“No,” you say flatly.

“You don’t like pasta?” He asks, and you know that if you say you don’t, he’ll just offer something else.

“I do. But we’re not going out.”

He misses by an inch and a half anyway.

You pick up one of your own blades, weighing it carefully in one hand before pulling it back and letting sail. It lands to the left of his, in the dead center of the target.

He doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. “Alright, we’ll stay in and work on my aim. Just you, me, and a whole rack of knives. What do you say?”

“I’d say that putting us in a room with one weapon is a bad idea.”

He grins. “There’s just something undeniably sexy about a woman who wants to kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” It’s true -- you have no ill will toward the guy, you just wish he’d quit while he’s behind.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You falter for a moment, thinking about it. You don’t think you’ve ever been objectively mean to him, just blunt in declining his advances.

“You’re moving your arm too much,” you say instead, yanking your dagger out of the wood panel, but leaving his where it stands, off-center. “Less in the elbow, more in the wrist.”

You don’t stick around to watch him try again.

--------------------------------------

Nothing seems to discourage him, not your dry responses nor being ignored completely. He’s determined to keep chipping away at your shell, but why?

“Is your dragon mated? I was thinking we could go on a double date. Aotrom’s an upstanding guy, she’d like him.”

You can’t even begin to imagine the conversations this guy must have with his dragon. Is he as weary of the boy’s enthusiasm as you are, or is he encouraging this behavior?

“I’d consider it if he wasn’t missing so many teeth,” Rhith muses. “But he’s a bit old for my taste.”

“Their personalities wouldn’t mesh at all,” you answer, as if you’re speaking about Rhith and Aotrom, and not you and Ridoc.

“I think if she gave him a chance, she’d change her mind,” he says slyly.

“I don’t date men under six foot.”

He mimes taking a knife to the chest. “You wound me, sweetheart. But I promise I can make up for it in all the ways that matter.”

“With that dazzling sense of humor?”

“I was going to make a dick joke, actually. But I’m glad you think I’m dazzling.”

You roll your eyes, leaving.

--------------------------------------

You have never considered yourself vain, but you’d spent a full minute admiring your reflection in the bathroom mirror before heading down for the festivities.

The formal dress looks incredible on you. Tight in all the right places, the cut highlights the muscle you’ve gained since starting the term at Basgiath, but it covers enough to still be somewhat professional.

You don’t need jewelry -- your rebellion relic is the perfect accessory, the black swirls forming the illusion of a lace sleeve up one arm, complimenting the black satin draped over your skin.

You’d even fixed up your hair for the occasion, freeing it from its usual sweaty braids and washing and drying it carefully, letting it fall over the exposed curves of your shoulders. Simple. Perfect.

Imogen hadn’t hesitated to hype you up when she saw you, her jaw dropping at the sight. “Holy shit, girl, you look hot. If you’ve ever wanted to fuck anyone in the quadrant, tonight would be the night to do it.”

You laugh. “I’ll be perfectly content to have a calm night. Some boring speeches, some fireworks, and then straight to bed.”

“Suit yourself,” she calls, headed off.

“Someone should tell Amari that she’s missing an angel.”

You don’t need to turn to know who it is, but you look over your shoulder at him anyway.

Ridoc continues to wax poetic, a lazy smile on his face. “You are a goddess among men. The kind of woman bards write songs about and men go to war over.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

“None,” Sawyer answers for his friend, sounding like he could use one himself. “This is just the way he is.”

Ridoc agrees, grinning. “Stone cold sober, gorgeous. I want to remember this sight forever.”

You laugh at his bold absurdity, and the light, clear sound goes straight to his heart.

He beams even brighter. “You laughed. That’s a crack in the armor.”

“You’re a menace to society, Gamlyn.”

“Gods, I love it when you’re mean to me,” he says with a dreamy sigh. “I’m gonna write about this in my diary when I get back to my room.”

“Goodnight,” you say, ending the conversation, or trying to.

“Someday, sweetheart,” he calls, watching you walk away. “I’ll get there someday, I know I will.”

--------------------------------------

You should already be on the flight field, but the fear gripping your heart has your boots stuck to the stone ground of the courtyard. You’ll be no use to your friends in this state, anyway. You need to relax.

You close your eyes for a moment, picturing the meadows of Tyrrendor. A dozen blue butterflies materialize in front of you, the gentle motion of their wings as they float through the night air soothing your nerves.

“Whoa.”

You startle, and the butterflies vanish, your head snapping toward the voice.

Ridoc stands a few yards away, still in his dress uniform, though he’s undone the first two buttons of the shirt, rolled up the sleeves and ditched the jacket entirely. A few dark locks fall across his forehead, loosened from the gel that had been holding them earlier.

He looks good like this. Too good.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he offers. “I’ve just never seen anything like them before. They’re beautiful.”

You compose yourself quickly. “They’re native to Tyrrendor. They don’t live anywhere else on the continent.”

“You’ll have to show me the real ones sometime,” he says, smiling.

You raise an eyebrow at the implication that you’d be bringing him home any time soon.

He continues, not missing a beat. “I may look like a hotshot dragon rider, which I am, but we both know you’d be the one in charge between us. I’d do anything you asked, sweetheart.”

“Anything except leave me alone?” you ask, regretting the sharp words as soon as they enter the air.

He’s silent. Maybe you’ve finally proven your point, proven to both him and yourself that you’re no good for him, that you don’t deserve the starry-eyed reverence he’s afforded you for months.

A whistle echoes across the courtyard, a three-note gliss you’d recognize anywhere; the one your parents had used to call you inside for dinner when you were kids.

You don’t turn toward the sound, still looking at Ridoc. For the first time ever, he isn’t smiling at you, and it feels like the world has stopped turning, that the sun has burnt out and the moons have disappeared from the sky.

You’re sick with guilt, struggling to form complete sentences. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… that was a really fucked up thing for me to say. I just… I don’t understand why you-”

“Hurry up,” Garrick calls, impatient. “Xaden is pissed.”

“You should go,” Ridoc says softly. “We can talk about this another day.”

Why is he looking at you like that after what you’d said to him? Why does he still care about you? Why did he in the first place?

“Be safe,” he adds quietly, and that’s enough for you to finally move your feet, to run toward your foster brother, to follow him and Xaden to gods-know-where for their final assignment.

Garrick’s words go in one ear and out the other as you race toward the flight field. It doesn’t matter where you’re going or what you have to do, only that you come back, that you see Ridoc again and tell him the truth.

--------------------------------------

The next few days go by in a blur, devoid of color. You’re barely aware of your existence, just going through the motions to keep yourself alive. You sleep, you eat, but your dreams are blank and the food tasteless.

You settle onto the cold stone of the main staircase, leaning your cheek against the banister.

It’s easy enough to conjure a few of the soft blue butterflies, watching them flutter about above your head. You reach forward, extending your hand to one, and it lands on your finger, flapping its wings gently.

“You’re getting really good at that,” Garrick says quietly, sitting down on the step above you.

Five years living as siblings has attuned him to your emotions -- he knows that something is wrong, that something had been wrong even before you were sent on this suicide mission and lost two of your friends. “Do you want to talk about what happened when I came to get you?”

You really don’t, but the words come out anyway. “I fucked up,” you whisper, still watching the butterflies. The sight of them only reminds you Ridoc, of the soft awe that had lingered in his eyes even after they’d disappeared — until you’d snapped at him. Gods, the look on his face…

You push the thought away, and they fade back into air. “I hurt him, because I was scared.”

“Scared of what?” He asks. There’s no judgment in his tone, just gentleness; he genuinely wants to understand.

“That he was being serious, that he actually likes me,” you answer. “I keep pushing him away, but he keeps coming back, he keeps looking at me like… like I mean something to him, and I don’t understand why. He doesn’t know me, he isn’t one of us, he isn’t even in my squad. There’s no reason for him to care about me.”

Garrick lets your words hang in the air for a moment before he speaks. “I thought it was fitting that you developed an illusion signet.”

You look up, waiting for him to elaborate.

“It took me a full year to figure you out when we met, to realize that the person you really are on the inside doesn’t match the person that you show people. I think he saw right through that perpetual stone-faced look, saw the girl that I’m proud to call a sister.”

“You really think so?” You ask quietly.

“I know so.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, a gesture that he knows is equivalent to a tight embrace from anyone else -- you’ve never been a touchy person.

You’ve never been good at feelings, either. “It’s too damn quiet in this house,” you say after a moment, changing the subject.

He laughs. “It really is.”

--------------------------------------

Ridoc is standing in front of you.

You’re relieved at the sight of him, that no terrible fate befell him in the week you’d been away, but you can’t handle the conversation that you need to have, not when you feel like your heart is going to give out.

“I can’t do this right now,” you say, but the words don’t come out as strongly as you’d hoped, not enough air in your lungs to speak properly. “So if you could find somewhere else to be, that would be great.”

In true Ridoc fashion, he isn’t discouraged by your protests, kneeling down next to you. “Can you look at me, sweetheart?”

His seriousness confuses you enough to comply. You raise your chin, stunned at the softness in his eyes -- you’ve never been this close to him before. He’s beautiful.

“I’m gonna check your pulse, okay?”

You nod silently, allowing him to extend a hand toward you. Two fingers press into the side of your neck, feeling for your heartbeat.

He’s never touched you before. His hands are warm.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Basgiath,” you answer easily.

“Good. How long have you been sitting here?”

“I don’t know. Since we got out of formation?”

He realizes exactly what upset you — that must have been your first flight since you got back from War Games with the rest of the marked ones.

“I don’t know what you saw out there, and you don’t need to tell me, but whatever it is, it can’t hurt you right now,” he promises. The genuine sincerity in his voice has the tears falling faster.

Through your blurred vision you see him open his arms, and you lean into them without hesitation. He’s so warm that you can’t help but melt as soon as your skin touches his.

He rubs your back, speaking softly. “You’re okay, pretty girl, you’re safe. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You attempt to match the even pace of his chest rising and falling against yours, deepening your shuddering breaths.

“That’s it,” he soothes. “You’re doing great.”

Grief comes flooding out of you, and you clutch at the fabric of his flight jacket to remain upright. “I miss them so much,” you sob. “They didn’t deserve to die.”

Liam and Soleil, the two marked ones that hadn’t come back with you.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

He continues to rub your back, murmuring soft reassurances to you until your grip on him has loosened and your breathing has slowed.

You’ve relaxed, your heart no longer pounding as it had been when he found you, but you still don’t want him to go, you couldn’t bear it if he left right now. “Stay?” You ask in a small voice.

“Of course,” he answers, pulling back to sit beside you. “As long as you need.”

Your tears have dried, leaving you with a headache and a hollow feeling in your sinuses. “Why did you help me?” You ask quietly, looking out at the river.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Because it was the right thing to do. And because I can’t stand to see pretty girls cry.”

“Of course you’re back to cracking jokes already.”

“I’ve never been joking with you,” he says, shaking his head. “I meant every word I said to you, sweetheart. You’re beautiful, but you’re so much more than that, too. You’re capable, strong, witty, kind, caring, gentle… everything about you is good, and I wish that people would see past the relic on your arm and realize that.”

You blink at him, stunned.

“It’s true,” he says softly. “When you smiled at me that day at challenges, I knew that there was a soft heart under all that steel.”

A soft heart. A sweet heart.

There’s a moment of quiet while you work up the courage.

“Is that pasta place still there?”

He laughs, perhaps a little too loudly, but you’ve grown to love that sound, and the way it shakes his chest is comforting, like the rumble of a thunderstorm when you’re safe and dry indoors. “I think so.”

“Wanna go there tomorrow? Together?”

He grins from ear to ear. “Are you asking me out right now, sweetheart?”

You look over at him. “Yeah. I am.”

“This is going in the diary too, for the record.”

You can’t help but laugh, leaning back against him. If only for a moment, your anxiety has melted away.

You feel like you could face anything, as long as you have Ridoc to come home to.

#ridoc gamlyn #fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn x reader #fourth wing x reader #mine #Ridoc and Sweetheart

261 notes · View notes