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randomdragonfires · 6 months

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If The Sun Ever Rises | Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1 | To See You Again

SUMMARY | After narrowly escaping the Battle Above God’s Eye, Prince Aemond is now a hidden fugitive within the very kingdom he once ruled. Driven by vengeance, he plans to usurp Aegon III and avenge his family. His rage-blinded path to the throne begins with getting rid of Cregan Stark and the men who support his nephew’s rule. Having nothing to lose, he recklessly kidnaps the Northerner’s betrothed - his own niece - hoping to lure him and his men out to fight.

Soon, Aemond finds that memories of a first love are strong, and that he cannot steel his heart against the woman he has loved all his life.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; Canon Divergence - Aemond lives (but barely); Violence; Stockholm Syndrome; Mental and Physical Trauma; Angst; Canon Incest; Manipulation; No Happy Endings In This House YAY

WORD COUNT | 2k

Text Divider by @saradika

They had been running for three days now.

Slivers of moonlight pierced through the dense canopy above. The twisted and gnarled branches of trees, like skeletal fingers grasping for the Seven Heavens, cast their eerie shadows across the forest floor. The tangled roots snaked across the damp earth and moss clung to the ancient trunks like a dark shroud.

The air was heavy with the scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers that dared to bloom amidst the darkness. Faint whispers seemed to echo through the tangled undergrowth, as if the very forest itself held secrets long forgotten.

As they ascended the hill, the terrain grew steeper, the path narrow and treacherous. Each step was a struggle against the relentless pull of gravity, the earth slick with dew beneath their feet. Aemond held onto her hand as tightly as she could - she hadn’t allowed him to touch her initially, having been in shock at being abducted from the arms of her betrothed - but there was only so much a defeated, tired princess could do on her own.

She panted from exertion. The blood on her face was dry now – he’d needed to hurt her to get her to comply. She looked at him with all the anger that he knew she was never capable of, and a forgotten corner of his mind yearned for an easier time when she’d held different feelings for him.

In an ideal world, there would have been no war. He could have married her, just as he’d promised in the protected darkness of the nights in hidden chambers and intimate correspondences. They could have been happy.

Though his thirst for vengeance was screaming at him, a small part of his mind wished for a quieter time; a time that would never come.

His family was dead, and he needed her to balance the scales. He owed Helaena that much. He owed Aegon that much. Mother, Daeron, Criston, sweet Jaehaerys, and Maelor - all his kith and kin. He had failed them all.

He would be damned to all Seven Hells before letting their deaths mean nothing.

At the hill's summit, the forest parted, revealing a precipice that loomed over the land below. The distant glimmer of moonlight danced upon the surface of a winding river, its waters black as night. He let go of her, and she fell to her knees, relishing the feeling of a flat surface and slower breaths as she bid her heart to slow down. He watched her ears perk up as she heard the crunch of his boots over the dry leaves, stalking towards her in that catlike stealth that he had taught himself to have.

He took her by surprise as he tightened his arm around her chest and grabbed her by the neck, making her body twitch in fear as she rose involuntarily. At the edge of the abyss, he turned her around to face him as he let the cold steel of his blade kiss her skin and travel over her frayed white dress from neck to navel.

How did we come to this?

She did not recognize the man in front of her.

He was the boy who had brought her books when her brothers teased her to the point of crying; who had kept her company in her grief of being a dragonless Targaryen; who had held her hand and promised that he would marry her; the one who had come rushing to her the night he claimed Vhagar, promising to take her on a ride.

He was the man who had taunted her and her brothers' parentage at a family supper; who had kissed her senseless in a lone passageway the very same night when he found out that Rhaenrya had no intention of letting him have her. He was the man who had killed sweet, mischievous Luke; the one whom she had left behind when she had been sent to the North; the one whom she had hoped would come and take her away, against all odds.

So many memories tied to him, inexplicably. And yet, she did not recognize the man in front of her.

As a boy, he had had such striking eyes - in color, but more so in the volatility of their regard. Always flitting about, looking for things to imbibe, to brand into his memory. His functional eye had grown different since she had last seen him - distant, devoid of the charming curiosity that would shine in his violet orb.

The eye of a war-worn murderer. He had probably brought her here because he wanted to kill her too.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she whispered the words, almost uncertain. The coldness of his Valyrian steel dagger made goosebumps rise up on the planes of her skin, and yet, she surprisingly found that she was scared, not in the least.

He smirked and leaned in close to her, the leather strap of his eyepatch grazing her temple as she let the warmth of his breath bloom over her face. He raised the blade to her neck and teased her, being so bold as to let out a throaty, exhausted laugh that sounded more maniacal than anything else. She shut her eyes closed, hoping that if she could keep her world dark, she could pretend that this was all a nightmare.

She had often dreamt that he would take her away. She had hoped and hoped and hoped, and now that he was here, she couldn’t fathom how wrong she had been to wish for it.

Silly little fool.

“Sharp, sweet niece.”

His tone made her flinch. His voice was rough and predatory - so much so that she couldn’t tell if it was him or the situation itself that made her feel that way. “You’re supposed to be dead. Daemon….”

Her voice was lost in the air as he raised his eyebrow, a menacing smile in place as he pressed the blade into her skin - just enough to make a few blood red spots bloom. “I killed him. He thought he was better than me, the old fool. I stabbed him in his right eye, the very one that I lost. Vengeance, dear niece…” His thumb collected the first drop of blood that dripped from where he had made his mark, “... makes for the sweetest of spoils. And I intend to taste more of this victory…”

It happened on instinct, her reaching out to hold his wrist tight through his shirt. The irony of taking the hand of the man who wanted to hurt her and counting on him to not let her fall was not lost on her; but if she didn’t, she was sure she would faint.

“...With you.”

The last words confused her, having her mind scrabbling to piece the puzzle and figure out his intent. “Me?” She leaned her head back to breathe and put some space between her and his blade, but that only spurned him more as he pulled her to him by the back of her neck.

“Aegon, Helaena, Criston, Jaeherys, Maelor, mother…vengeance for them all. When he comes for you, to save you… I’ll kill him, and then I’ll kill the little boy that you call a King. Take what is rightfully mine and avenge them.”

The Aemond she had known was too calculated, too weary to tell anyone anything at all. But this, this wasn’t her Aemond. This was a different man - a mad killer, a stranger; one that intended to use her in his rage-filled path to regicide and revenge.

When he comes for you, to save you… I’ll kill him.

She could only think of one man who would come looking for her. Her betrothed, Cregan Stark - the same man who had shown her Northern hospitality and shared his home and hearth so she could be kept safe away from the bloodshed of the war.

And Aemond wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill them all and take the Iron Throne.

“Gods…”

She had always felt compelled to help during the war. She wasn’t a skilled warrior, nor was she a bold woman. Dainty little sweetheart, her mother used to call her. How can I manage to keep you safe and sound?

She had always wanted to help her mother - be a good daughter and play her part in helping her sit the Throne, as was her birthright. When she had been sent to the North as Cregan Stark’s betrothed, Rhaenyra Targaryen had told her that this was her duty, her contribution to the Blacks’ victory.

You will help me win by keeping my mind at ease about you, child, she had said. You will help me win by staying safe and bringing the Northerners’ allegiance to our cause.

That had been her contribution, but it hadn’t been enough. Daemon, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, Rhaenys… they’re all dead. She had done what she could, and it was not enough.

And now, Aemond wanted to kill sweet Aegon. Her beloved brother, the little one who held the weight of the world on his shoulders. He would make a fine king, she knew - but not if Aemond was going to lure Cregan out to fight and make him vulnerable to attacks.

She’d be damned to all Seven Hells if she let him win.

He had been observing her, it seemed. As she let her thoughts sweep her away, he had taken to watching her, reminding himself of every inch of her. She raised her hand to his warm dry cheek, bony from what could have only been a lack of proper food. How long has he been staying here, amidst the trees?

“You don’t have to do this, uncle. Let me go now, and it’ll be like it never happened. There’s been enough bloodshed.”

She thought she imagined it, but she knew it was true when she felt his grip on the blade falter for just a moment. She made good on his momentary lapse and kicked his knee to fold under him with all her might. He fell, and she took hurried steps away from him as he grunted in pain.

Her skirts swirled as she turned just slightly, sneaking a peek off the edge of the hill. If she jumped, she would fall into the waters that ran below - but would that be enough? She’d have to die. She had to. She would not let him use her; she would not let him kill them.

This was her contribution to the war. Her deceased mother’s victory lay in her daughter’s ability to keep the rightful king alive. This was her chance, and she was not going to fail her. He stood up with panting breaths, and she looked him in the eye as boldly as she could, knowing very well that she might as well be living her last and final moments.

She had always wanted to fly - and if she wasn’t going to do it now, then when would she?

She closed her eyes and threw herself over the edge, seeing the sky become a fading memory as she made the steep drop. Halfway through, she opened her eyes and saw him leaning over the edge, panicked, watching her free-falling figure from the hilltop as she flew, flew, flew.

She fell into the water, making contact with sharp tree branches and thorns on the way down in her descent. The blood on her face and body mixed with the water that surrounded her, and blood-red ripples muddled her vision as she closed her eyes.

Water filled her nostrils, and her vision went dark in a matter of mere moments.

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A/N: Got so inspired by the S2 poster, I managed to finish this damn thing hehe. This was a lot more fast paced than my usual writing style, and I'd love to hear what you guys think! I've been really out of touch with fic writing, and feedback is always welcome :)

SERIES MASTERLIST

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ladykailitha · 8 months

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Love is Kind

All of the stories I was reading today were sad Steve and it made me cry so I wrote happy Steve to make me feel better.

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

***

Jeana looked down at the purple water lilies in Steve's hand in distaste.

"Water lilies?" she asked, frowning. "Not red roses?"

Steve looked at her in confusion. "Yeah, your favorite flower in your favorite color."

"Yeah," she agreed, reluctantly taking the flowers. "But red roses are more romantic for Valentine's Day."

Steve went from wilting in disappointment to her reaction, to standing up straight with a spine of steel. "Oh I get it now." He took bouquet back from her forcefully. "Yeah, we're done."

Jeana's eyes went wide. "You're breaking up with me on Valentine's Day over a bunch of flowers?"

"No, Jeana," he said coldly. "We're done because you didn't tell me you wanted red roses. I assumed that the cheaper more personal water lilies would be the perfect thing for Valentine's Day."

Jeana winced.

"Ohhh..." Steve said, "I get it now. You wanted the Harrington money." He rubbed his fingers together. "Despite the fact that I work at a book store. That I told you when we first started going out that I had been kicked out."

Jeana rolled her eyes. "You still wore nice clothes and had fancy hair products in your bathroom, like I was supposed to believe that obvious lie?"

"I save for those!" Steve hissed. "I can't use anything else for my hair, I've tried. And yeah, so sue me for buying something nice once in a while."

She peeked around him to see the table was set with romantic candles and another bouquet of water lilies. "You weren't even going to take me out to eat?"

Steve tossed the flowers on the counter behind him. "Why else would I have you come here instead of picking you up?"

Jeana threw her arms in the air. "I thought you were supposed to be this Romeo, this Casanova."

Steve's nostrils flared. "Out!"

She stomped her foot and crossed her arms. "I'm not going anywhere until we talk this through!"

"There is nothing to talk about," Steve said, spinning her around and pushing her toward the door. "You were expecting me to shell out a shit ton of money on you, money you thought I was hiding from you. It's clear you were never interested in me, only the money and prestige the Harrington name brought you."

He opened the door and shoved her through it. "Goodbye."

He slammed the door behind her and gripped his hair tightly. Not enough to pull but just enough to feel pain at pressure of his tugging.

Now he had dinner that was about to be ready in ten minutes, no girlfriend, and a dessert he had slaved over all day.

He needed to call someone to share this with. Robin was doing Valentine's with Vickie so she was out.

Then his eyes lit up. He knew exactly who to call.

He walked over to the phone and dialed.

"Hello, Munson's Funeral Parlor, you tag 'em, we bag 'em," the warm baritone came through the line.

"Eddie!" Steve said with a giggle.

"Stevie!" Eddie greeted back. "To what to I owe this pleasure?"

"How goes your anti-consumerism night in?" Steve asked, avoiding Eddie's question.

"Eh..." Eddie said. "Could be better. I'm watching violent movies to make myself feel less lonely."

Steve chewed on his bottom lip. "I have a warm lasagna, fresh breadsticks, and a nice bottle of wine and suddenly sans a girlfriend if you wanted to have some company."

"What happened with Jeana?" Eddie asked.

Steve sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "She didn't want me, she wanted the Harrington money, the King Steve charm, and a Casanova, not Steve Harrington who works at a queer little book shop in the middle of town."

"Well, fuck her," Eddie said. "Her loss. You bet I'll be there, sweetheart. Just give me time to put on my shoes and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Eds."

Steve opened the door a few minutes later to find that Eddie somehow had found sunflowers in the middle of fucking winter.

“Where are on earth did you find these, Eds?” Steve asked, breathing in the scent of his favorite flower.

Eddie tapped his nose knowingly. He spotted the water lilies in the vase on the table and dumped them in the trash. He replaced them with Steve’s sunflowers.

“There, that livens up the place better,” he said, turning to Steve, “don’cha think?”

Steve smiled back at him. “Yeah it really does.”

He went and made up their plates as Eddie opened the wine. He set them down on the table while Eddie filled their glasses. Steve trotted back to the kitchen and pulled out the breadsticks that were warming in the oven. He put them in a nice basket a covered them with a towel. He set them on the table between Eddie and him.

“This looks fantastic, Stevie,” Eddie murmured and dug into the lasagna. “Ooh. This is better than fantastic. This is divine.”

Steve hurried to take a sip of his wine to hide the flush of pleasure at the compliment that dusted his cheeks. And judging from the smirk on Eddie’s face, he hadn’t been successful at all.

“So what were you watching before I interrupted you?” he asked, blush still staining his cheeks.

“Chinatown.”

Steve grimaces. “That is pretty violent. A little depressing too.”

Eddie shrugged, stabbing another bite of lasagna. “Was kind of the point. Didn’t want anything happy or romantic today.”

Steve picked up his glass and held up to Eddie. “I’ll drink to that.”

Eddie laughed, but clinked their glasses together and drank when Steve did.

They polished off all of the breadsticks, all of the wine, and about half of the lasagna. Steve put the leftovers in the fridge.

“You want a soda or something?” he called from the door of the fridge.

“I’ll take a beer if you have one,” Eddie called back from the sofa.

Steve grabbed two beers and handed one of the cans to Eddie.

“I thought you preferred bottles, babe,” Eddie said, popping open the can.

“I do,” Steve muttered darkly. “They were Jeana’s.”

Eddie cackled. “Here’s to stealing your ex’s shitty beer!”

Steve laughed too. “Cheers!”

Eddie went over to Steve’s record player and put on some Metallica he’d left over here and then flopped back on the sofa next to Steve.

“Thanks for coming over,” Steve murmured over the screaming riffs of Master of Puppets. “Rob is over at Vickie’s tonight and didn’t want to ruin her Valentine’s day, too.”

Eddie smiled softly. “And since I refuse to participate in the rampant consumerism of the day, there would be nothing for you to ruin.”

Steve chuckled. “That and you’re my best friend. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want to spend it with.”

This time it was Eddie’s turn to blush and he shoved a lock of hair in front of his face to hide the redness of his cheeks. He pushed playfully at Steve’s shoulder. “Fuck off. I’m sure there are lots of people you could have called that would have come running.”

“Rob was first pick,” Steve said, “you were second. I mean it, Eds. I wanted to share everything I’d done for her with you instead.”

Eddie’s blush reached his ears and stained the column of his throat. “You keep that shit up and this boy is going to start thinking impure thoughts.”

Steve blinked for a moment before he laughed. It wasn’t a harsh or hurtful laugh. It was bright and cheerful. “You put out on the first date, Eds?”

Eddie who was starting to think he’d taken it a step too far, stared up at Steve in amazement. He got his wits back fast enough to quip, “Only if they’re pretty enough.”

Steve ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck trying to hide his embarrassment. Well maybe that was the wrong word. Charmed. He was fucking charmed.

“You think I’m pretty?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie raised Steve’s chin with his finger. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen, Stevie.”

Steve gulped. “And if I told you that I’ve had the biggest crush on you for so long?”

“Then I would ask why we aren’t dating, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, leaning in close.

Steve let out a shuddering sigh. “Because I didn’t think I was an option for you.”

Eddie half knelt on the sofa, cupping his face in his hands. “You are my number one option, honey. Just say the word and I’m yours.”

“Mine.”

Eddie grinned and then kissed Steve gently on the lips. He pulled back after a moment. “This isn’t just because you’re lonely on Valentine’s Day, right?”

Steve pulled Eddie onto his lap and brushed their noses together. “No, baby. She was only ever a placeholder for you. And a piss poor one at that. She never loved me for me. Not like you.”

Eddie chuckled. “And what makes you think I love you, pretty boy?”

“Because you knew I would be sad and brought me sunflowers.”

Eddie kissed Steve fiercely. “You are too clever for your own good, honey. Yes, that is exactly why I brought them. Because I didn’t want you to be sad. Because I wanted you to feel loved.”

“And I do,” Steve murmured. “I love you, too. So so much.”

“Good.”

They resumed kissing. It was darker. Deeper. More potent. Eddie could write songs and poems and books filled with the love he felt for this man and finding out that he felt the same.

All the bookstores and libraries in all the world couldn’t begin to fill the amount of pages Eddie would need to even try and convey how he felt in that moment.

But it could be summed up in one word.

Ecstasy.

Just pure ecstasy.

Robin wasn’t sure if it could be called a walk of shame when she had told Steve that she would be spending the night at Vickie’s, but walking into their shared apartment after the wild sex they had had last night she did feel a little silly.

She stopped short when she saw who was in her kitchen making breakfast in Steve’s track pants.

“Eddie?” she squeaked.

Eddie looked up at her with a grin. “Welcome home, Bucksters! If you haven’t eaten yet, pull up a chair and grab a stack of pancakes. I’ve made plenty.”

“You’re not Jeana,” Robin said stupidly.

“Nope.”

“Steve would never cheat,” she said, again trying to figure this out.

“Nope.”

“You two are a couple now?” Robin asked, her brain still in first gear.

“Yup!”

Just then a very sleep rumpled Steve came wandering out of his bedroom and latched on to Eddie. “I missed you.” He kissed Eddie’s neck.

Eddie kissed his temple. “Sorry, sweetness. I got hungry.”

“Mhmm..” he muttered. “Does smell good.”

“Morning, dingus.” Robin crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You want to tell what this is about?”

Steve looked over at her and gave her a dopey smile. “Jeana sucked. Only wanted the Harrington money and not me. Called Eddie over to make me less sad. He brought me sunflowers and made me very happy.”

Robin looked over at Eddie who half shrugged around a clingy Steve. “That’s the gist of it.”

“Got it,” she said. “I’m happy for you both.”

She grabbed a plate and pilled on the pancakes, with Steve releasing Eddie to do the same.

As the three of them sat down and ate Eddie’s pancakes, Steve smiled happily to himself.

He was with the two people he loved most in all the world and he wouldn’t change a thing.

***

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#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #valentine's fic #fluff #minor steve/female oc #breakup

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blindmagdalena · 9 months

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language. “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols.

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression..

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think.

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away.

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns.

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe.

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

#i have no self control ENJOYYYYY #praise me it's shocking i finished this so quickly #although it's not really finished bc i'm stretching it into 3 parts but #couldn't help myself i needed him to be a little weirdo #next chapter is already started tho and shouldn't take long!#ALSO I MADE THIS GIF #i'm so happy lol #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #plus size reader

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insuke69 · 10 months

Text

What's in a name?

✰⁂ Hobie brown × Rich!Osborn!reader

Part I, Part II

1/3

Synopsis: Osborn is almost a disgusting name because of the messed up things it has and the dirty money that holds it up by threads. And here is the child that sneaks out one night and meets a punk that goes directly against her father.

✩Warnings: cussing, Some angst, 'crybaby' reader, misunderstandings.

(mostly based on how earth-138 is)

Rated 13+(??).

✰5.7k words.

⚥Afab reader

_________________

Osborn.

“Norman Osborn”

A name everyone has learned for the worst part, the name ‘Osborn’ has run though the streets of Camden through the blood and dirt that drips through its pristine and marble image, spoken like the candyman–as if it were uttered three times, they’d be cursed and face the consequences. The man who hated the poor and less fortunate that were scattered through England. The man who kept his paws clean by hiring those who needed the money, then turning them into the crooked police for the crimes he made them do. The cruel family man who’s destroyed homeless shelters and remade them into his own buildings for business, legal or not.

“(Y/N) Osborn.”

Here she was. The daughter of this monster, the girl who receives bloody money that her father steals from the innocent, The daughter who people are afraid to even talk to out of fear of her dad, the girl who can’t refuse what she’s given because she understands how much worse it can be. That doesn’t stop her from still trying as much as she can. Sneaking out of her mansion most nights to try and get a taste of college parties. Whenever she goes out during the day with her dad’s black card, She spends it on clothes and gives it away to those she knows really needs it, always wearing a face-covering balaclava so her father doesn’t somehow find this out. Instead of the piano lessons she attended where her fingers gracefully flowed between those white elegant tiles to create beautiful classical music–she tried to learn the electric guitar, mostly teaching herself to the rhythmic sounds and rough rumble of the guitar that Hobie Brown wields.

“Hobie Brown“

A name recognized as well throughout Camdon but for the exact opposite reasons, a name that drips with earned respect, a firm rough hardwood image that's covered in stuck-out nails and splinters. A Punk that directly strives against fascists like Osborn, and who’s blood boils when he learns Osborn’s cruel plans to begin using the old Canals again–mostly to flush out the homeless that reside there, The homeless who Spiderpunk always seems to be visiting and helping out.

“Spiderpunk”

Oh. Spiderpunk. A name Y/N can recognise due to her father’s phone calls that she overhears late at night, a name she always hears that is spit out with venom through her fathers and his colleagues lips, the name she sees in bold graffiti almost daily on her dads main company building. Jet black graffiti and red with blue undertones that drip almost beautifully down the glass panes it was sprayed upon. She always bites back a grin smile whenever she hears her dad ranting about the punk he ever so clearly despises.

_____________

Rough Meeting.

It was one of those days, those days where you despised everything in your life–that was unlucky, bad luck of yours to have been born in this universe. Bad luck that you were the daughter of a sadistic monster, how you were seen as a monster for even being related to him.

Guilt.

Rage.

Frustration.

These emotions burned through your veins, making your hands tense and chest heavy. These emotions pool in your eyes the moment you walk through your large white bedroom door and crash into your Jado Steel Style Rose-Gold Bed. Your tense body relaxing but messy black mascara tears flowing down your face. Nobody understood, it's like you were speaking their language on deaf ears that didn’t care to hear you out. They didn’t care to hear out the brat, The Spoiled girl who has her life handed to her, the brat that no matter how hard she tries-

Can’t prove anything to everyone who is dead set on her being a spoiled daddy’s girl.

With boiling tears drying upon your soft smooth skin, You get up and change out of the clothes your main ‘Maid’, Roxanne, had put out for you earlier for your Dads event of a damn Factory opening that was built over another destroyed shelter. Removing the ruffle black dress with small cute green ribbons to show off your dads company colors along for him to display his gorgeous daughter. It’s not like he cared for anyone's image besides his own anyways.

Glancing at the clock, you sigh and dip your head into the pillow again,

6:36pm

You take a calming breath and change into some jeans and a loose black tee after crying some more for a few moments, the shirt only allowed for you to wear at home since it wasn’t perfect and elegant enough for the Osborn image. Ugh. You enter your private marble bathroom to wash your face free of those streaks of ‘weakness’ as your dad would call it.

“Hey! Uhm, Roxy?” You call out softly, your door soon opening with Roxanne standing by it and looking over at you expectantly.

“Yes, Miss?” Roxy said back in her usual calm and blank expression, her expression shifting ever so slightly at the sight of you wearing your usual clothing you do whenever you plan on sneaking out without Osborn knowing.

“Don’t let father see me going out, if he asks about me, tell him that I’m upset and tired from the event and to not disturb me.” you tell her as you reach under your bed to grab a shoebox where your balaclava, hoodie, and gloves are stored and hidden away. You wish you didn’t have to wear all this just to be an actually not-bad person, but you can’t risk angering your dad. He always told you to never dwell on what has to be done.

“It’s a dog eat dog world, You can’t cry about others who don’t have the guts to do what has to be done.”

Those words are always playing in the back of your head, your own dad telling it to you soothingly to help stop your tears–when you were about eight. You were crying because you were thinking about the lives he’s ruined and took for you two. Well.. More like for Oscorp.

You snap out of that memory as you clear your throat and put everything on to hide the safety of your identity while Roxy watches with that neutral face you’ve seen and known your whole life. She’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a mother, by textbook definition because she brought you up with care and some affection. But your actual birth mom had died while giving birth to you, you never met her once besides the moment she passed with you in her arms. Since then, Your dad has seen you as if you were the last living part of her that he has besides memories and pictures of her. He's always telling you that you’re her spitting image but you just.. Can’t see it. Probably because she is always glowing and happy in her pictures with anyone, she had a normal college student experience with friends and parties, she didn’t have an overprotective dad.

You roll the glove over your wrist, pausing ever so slightly at a white gold bracelet your dad gave you when you turned thirteen, with your grandmas and mother’s name engraved into it, and yours engraved below theirs. An important and old heirloom to your dad since he wants you to always remain in touch with your moms side of the family–not like your dad spent much time with his family anyways.

“When are you going to get over this phase?” You suddenly hear Roxy ask from behind you which makes you jump ever so slightly before subtly moving it a bit lower on your wrist so the bracelet chain does not get caught in the fabric of the gloves.

“You really want me to answer that?” You ask rhetorically before fixing the balaclava over your features while walking to your window and sitting on the sil, Kicking your legs out and looking out on the city and lowering sun before actually answering Roxy, realizing she sounded even a little.. Disappointed.. in you.

“The Osborn name has done- Irreversible damage, And I’m just trying to help out the people who need it, and pay for my dads actions with actual kindness.” Your tone is soft and a bit honest, you adjust your hands to push yourself out of the window before Roxy can even reply.

Your thick black boots break your landing as you fall in the green fluffy grass garden that surrounds your mansion, rose bushes and flowers adding some color to it since your dad agreed it would look good for our image, as if it wasn’t soiled already.

You make your way out of your house and just walk, stopping by an old tree that stood beside the path from your house to the city. Your foot stands on a nook where the tree had a brach that went out and folded in itself and your hand stretched up into one of its hard woodend pockets until you feel a familiar fabric, you pull on it until the backpack falls out with your hand holding it by the handle and hopping off of the tree.

This was your secret backpack that you didn’t even want on your own property so you kept it safe in a tree. This bag contained little necessities along with spray paint, some basic tools, cash, and pepper spray. You keep walking down the path and arriving at the city, where the air was polluted and slightly hard to breathe while the rest of the city had occasional litter, trash, and shady looking people who make it seem like it's better to walk across the street to the other sidewalk.

You usually went out at night to be able to put some of your art on display in the streets: You had a sketchbook full of small things that you usually spray-painted on canals, or outside the wall of abandoned buildings. You didn’t know what this secret ‘hobby’ was really called, you just walked the streets of the city until you found a good spot and started to make your art.

Nothing was out of the ordinary until you walked past an alleyway and in the corner of your eye, you saw someone in dirty clothes wearing messed up jeans and a worn out jacket, sitting on the ground outside a little blue tent with a small fire in a bin that lights up some of the alley.

You come to a small halt and debate whether walking over to the person or leaving them alone, your vision focusing in the dim lighting and revealing the other few tents there, some of the tents zipped up and indicating that whoever is in there is sleeping, and some people standing around with a lit cigarette in their calloused hand.

You swallow that gut feeling to leave them alone and walk over to a gas station, buying some instant pizza, sandwiches, and food for the people you told yourself not to bother and walk back over to them with the plastic bag in hand.

You approach the person you saw, but they look over at you and seem to tense and quickly stand as they face you.

“Hey! Hi, relax, I brought some things for you and your friends?” You said with a gentle soft tone as you stepped closer slowly since the vagabond seemed wary of you with their eyes locked on your face.

“Oh! Damn, I forgot, hang on.” You murmur as you reach up to pull your mask over your eyes to show your face so that the person would be less afraid of you, holding out the bag of food.

Their face changes into a grimace, as if disgusted at how you’re trying to help them out. Recognizing you as the creation they and their whole community despised due to the cruel name that comes after your first.

Osborn

They grimace at you and stare at you as if you were the one trying to drive them out of the city. The one that’s destroying non-profit shelters, as if it were your company that’s dumping all kinds of waste to the community- but that didn’t seem to have any matter to them anyways.

Staring at you like you were some Monster.

“You’re not welcome here.” The person murmurs with a coldness and genuine hatred in their tone, sharp like an icicle that cuts through your heart sharply. It’s not like you couldn’t understand that, they didn’t know anything about you besides what your dad has done.

Before you can respond, they continue as they walk closer to you with their hands fisted to their sides,

“You aren’t welcome anywhere around here, you don’t even know what has been going on here, ‘princess’. You’re just some brat who needs some kind of sick ego boost to try and make people love you and respect your image.” Each word spat like venomous cold spikes as they gesture one of their hands, as they get closer–you can see the other people in the alley look over and seem to tense up and get worried in some way.

“I know what my father does, I’m so s-” You begin as you take a step back, but being cut off be the person speaking louder with exasperation in their tone.

“No you don’t! You don’t have any idea what Norman is even doing to us! You just sit there and look pretty while your dad is ruining lives!” And if there weren’t other people around- well, if there weren't one of their friends, a girl with baggy jeans and a gray beanie holding them back, you don’t question what would’ve happened to you or what they would’ve done if that girl wasn’t holding them back.

“Dude..” The girl whisper yelled as she pulled the person yelling at you away from you and closer to herself, “What the hell are you doing? Don’t piss her off because she’ll tell her dad and he’ll fuck over each and everyone in this damn alleyway.” and she swats them on the shoulder.

Damn.

You really are just ‘daddy’s girl’.

You stay quiet and just place down the bag of treats and just walk off, out of the alleyway. Feeling the earlier emotions come to a boil once again as you fix the balaclava back on your face and walk down the pavement of the dimly lit street.

Rage.

Guilt.

Frustration.

With your eyes prickling with tears and resurfaced emotions following, you decide to walk to a part to calm down as the hot watered sadness drips from your eyes, down your cheeks and soaking into the fabric covering your face.

You find yourself here. Late at night. Silently sobbing your eyes out on a cold metallic bench you vividly remember your dad showing it to you when you were a kid.

You were about seven and you had fallen off a swing set and scraped your knee badly, you still have it slightly scarred on your knee if you looked for it enough.

Hot tears because of the burning pain on your soft flesh, you were sitting in this exact spot as your small hands were holding up your black and white striped leggings with your leg up, and Roxy tending to your wound with your dad sitting right beside you with his hand on his shoulder.

“You were reckless, and your mistake cost you. You don’t want to be getting hurt,” He begins before gently taking your chin with his calloused hand and making you look at him through sniffled sobs, “and you can’t be showing this weakness unless you want it to hurt you later on.” Your dad continued as he wiped away your tears with his leathery thumb brushing against your babyfat-filled cheeks.

And Now.

Crying like now you always did, as if you didn’t change. Still that little girl who only knows one thing: how to cry.

You sit back and hold your legs with your face in your knees, it's like everything that has been being held in–caused by your father or not.. Was crashing down and flooding your eyes like a broken dam through a canal. The balaclava grew damp before you hear an odd THWAP sound which makes you raise your head and look in the direction of the sound.

You see a familiar man with his gaze focused on you, wearing what seems to be a red spandex suit below a torn blue t-shirt and black ripped jeans that accentuate his already skinny and lanky body with a spiked leather jacket over his shoulders with several pins that decorate the chest and a spiked mohawk on his head.

Once you notice him approaching you quickly reach your hand under the balaclava to wipe your cheeks from the excess tears, internally grateful that your mask was already dark and the moisture from your tears won’t be too visible to this man.

“Excuse me? You- you alrigh’?” The man asks, his soft yet cockney voice immediately making you recall who this man specifically was: You’ve heard his booming words at protest rallies but never saw from who the vocal fighting came from because of your dad and his security quickly ushering you away to keep you safe–or to keep you unaware of your father’s negative popularity.

You sniffle for a second before answering “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a shitty night.” while you clutch your bag a bit closer to you since he was still a stranger to you. He sees you tense and he chuckles while shaking his head and putting his hands into his pockets.

“Calm down there, ‘m just making sure you’re not some dealer tryna make bad lives worse.” He says jokingly as he glances at the bag you’re clutching, but also at your body language, “You’ve gotta understand how it looks for me, to find some masked person sitting in a bench in the crappy part of town.” His voice was playful yet gentle as if to calm you, he had some kind of charm that made him seem almost easy to talk to–especially since this is the first conversation you’ve had in a while that wasn’t swayed against you due to your name.

“And imagine how this looks for me, some dude walking up to me as I’m sat happily on a park bench.” You say back to him with a smirk under your mask.

“Touché.” He chuckled as he shook his head and stepped closer while offering his hand, “The Name’s Spiderpunk.” Once he introduced himself, you felt a splash of relief as he confirmed who he was. His name is said in his own way, in such a calm manner that contrasts the venomous words your father speaks of him when he thinks you can’t hear his disrespectful language. “And you are..?”

His body language is weirdly calm and relaxed, not at all judging you or making you uncomfortable.. Is that a green flag or a red one? You take and shake his gloved hand with yours. This was the only time a stranger wasn’t immediately hostile or rude to you, and you didn’t want to lose that. ..So what’s a little white lie?

“Emily.” You answer him with a soft nod. Your mothers name? Why say her name?

“Emily,” Spiderpunk echoed with a smile in his voice, “And uh.. Wha’s with the whole.. getup?” He asked as he gestured to you vaguely, mostly to your mask that's covering your face and only shows your dark eyes and long lashes, that were ever so slightly red and puffy because of the earlier crying.

“Don’t worry about it, just- lets just say my face around here is.. Disliked.” Because of my damn father.

He nods slightly, if he has some kind of expression on his face then you can’t even tell what it is because of his mask, you open your mouth to at least try and ask about that but he continued without realizing he practically interrupted you: your face is equally as covered.

“And uh.. Not that I don’ believe ya for your word, but I’ll have ‘o check that bag.” He says while gesturing at your backpack that you're clutching against you.

What? What kind of request is that? It’s not like you’ve even done anything to prompt this question in the first place, and who is he to ask about the bag or something?

“What are you, a cop? Some kind of narc?” You ask with your tone slightly more hostile than you’d want it to be. It’s not like you’re hiding anything either, but you literally have money and spray paint: You can get in trouble for some vandalism you haven’t even done yet.

He pauses for a second, seeming genuinely offended that you accused him of being a cop, as if you called him something below the respect that even vermin have.

“No. Nothing of the sort, never compare me to a cop.” He tells you firmly before muttering under his breath, “fucking pigs.” and without warning, he thwips a white silky rope out of his wrist and it attaches itself to your bag and rips it from your grasp.

You find yourself staring at Spiderpunk as he starts to casually go through your bag as if it were nothing and like you fully offered it to him. He chuckles as he sees some of your spray paint, you hear the cans clink as he shoves his hand into it and checks everything out.

“Tha’s it? Here I was partly thinking you’re some dealer trying to make sure this part of camden stays ghetto, but nah,” He hands you back your bag–He seems mostly amused by the obvious grin in his voice, “You’re just a stree’ artist?”

Street artist? That's what it’s called? You always loved art ever since you were a kid–So your dad always provided you art lessons, good paint, expensive sketching pencils, but he always made you draw boring things like fruit bowls or paint sunsets. But you even one time helped him with ideas for the Oscorp logo! That was fun for you at the time before you knew the shit Oscorp was doing.

But you realize he was pretty much asking for you to confirm if you’re a street artist or not. “Yeah- Yeah, I’m a.. Street artist?” You respond as you take the bag back, not even knowing if you’re saying it right, but you shouldn’t rely on someone to teach you so you reword what you said with a bit more of a firm tone “Yeah. I’m a street artist, tonight I haven’t really done art though.”

He nods and stays quiet for a moment as he looks at your masked face before he looks around and holds out his hand for you as if to help you up.

“Come with me, I know a good spot where you can put up your stuff. I was on my way there anyway so I could show you.” He had this tone where you knew you could say no, swat his hand away and run, politely decline and leave, Something but..

“Sure.”

You take his hand and stand before slinging your backpack handle over one of your shoulders. His mask hiding every bit of emotion he can possibly be showing besides the lenses over his eyes that squint slightly at an expression every once in a while but beyond that–you have to heavily rely on reading his tones and body language.

“Do you trust me?” He asked as he glanced over at you. He seemed like he wanted to do something and just wanted some of your approval. He seems strong and like he’s able to do a lot–and he leaves the decision all up to you.

With an unsure nod of your head, he pulls you closer and wraps his arm around your waist, "Hold on." He told you before shooting a web of his up to a building, your arms wrap around his neck–over his shoulders.

You shut your eyes tightly as you suddenly stop feeling the ground below your feet and cold air hitting and blowing against your body as you swing through the city and hold onto him for dear fucking life.

“My god, holy shit.” You say as you try not to yell but unable to be silent. Spiderpunk holds on to you with one strong slim arm around you and the other expertly shooting webs and slinging through the streets of Camden as if it's some common occurrence for him–well, it was.

Your vision is slightly blurred with the lights and the slight tears forming because of the dry wind blown against them. But before you know it–you’re on the ground again with a soft thud with Spiderpunk still holding onto you like it's nothing.

“You alrigh’?” He asks with some kind of smug tone that implies he somehow finds how you clung on to him amusing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It's just that not everyone is used to slinging through the air.” You respond sarcastically as you let go of his with his hand on your waist lingering for a second before it falls to his side and his other arm raising his hand to gesture where you guys are and you feel your stomach drop once you see a familiar green logo- no, a familiar cut ribbon as well.

This is the new factory my dad opened.

Well, it wasn’t completely new that Spiderpunk was on his way to vandalize your dads newest business- how could you have forgotten? Your heart beats in your ribs as your eyes dart to the hidden cameras you know are there because your dad asked you to adjust them and help so you make sure they cover the whole area. “W-we shouldn't be here, at all.” you tell him as you grab his arm to keep him from getting too close to which he fully laughs while shaking his head and putting a hand over his eyes, Is this some sick joke to him?

“Didn’ think of you as the type to be afraid of Osborn. You’re full of surprises.” He coos while softly clutching his stomach teasingly.

“What? No! It’s just- there's security and-” You begin, before being cut off before he shoots webs in all directions and corners of the wall as though to cover the cameras- he over did some webs but they are definitely covered now.

“And we’re wearing masks. Osborn has nothing on us- and that sadistic fascist probably can pay someone to clean up. Bet this is worth pennies to him.” Spiderpunk scoffs, his voice full of disdain and genuine venom towards your father–and he doesn’t even know it.

Something about his words ring into your ears, it’s not like you didn’t know your dad was practically hated by everyone that wasn’t rich and privileged.

So why did this feel more.. real?

More true?

As if watching these acts in person other than the news you secretly watch is more.. In your face about these situations?

You swallow a big gulp and nod and take out your bag and open it to show the spray paints. Spiderpunk’s lenses squint as if he were smiling at you.

“Good girl.” He teased

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. A blur full of laughter, smiling, story telling, and paint. Spiderpunk makes his usual tag on the building as you try to get the hang of using spray paint cans. Genuine laughs from Spiderpunk when you have a stupid yet funny comment, and a smile seen in your eyes when he has a joke. Something warm develops in your chest and cheeks by being in his playful presence, a bit foreign but it's a nice feeling. Like a warm hug..

At one point you two actually get to painting, with a practice ‘drawing’ being a little spider like the one he has on the back of his jacket. “Aw, nice! Am I like your muse?” He coos as he looks at the art you’re making with a hand on his hip.

You chuckle as you glance at him then look away to focus on the spider itself, “Like it? It looks l-” You pause and cut yourself off at the sound of a camera and a light flashing. Your head whips towards the sound and you see Spiderpunk took a polaroid picture of you.

You watch as the picture prints and he shakes it while it develops before giving it to you with a squinted lensed smile again. You see the picture is of you with your back turned and the spray paint can in your hand while it decorates the blank gray wall it's on.

“Keep i’, let it be a reminder of the time you met Spiderpunk.” He comments playfully as he picks up another spray paint can and goes to the free spot of the wall beside you which makes you laugh and shake your head while he chuckles softly.

But then you think of a question that ends up erupting from your throat as you put the picture into your jean pocket.

“Hey, Spiderpunk..” You begin as you spray a line of your paint, leaving a streak of black since you’re starting on the outline.

“Yeah?” He responds as he holds his own spray paint can in one spot to create the little dripage to give his tag the right style.

“Why do you hate Osborn so much? I mean, I dislike him too, but do you have a specific reason to hate him?”

Spiderpunk pauses slightly but keeps his gaze to the wall instead of looking at you.

“He is ruining lives and screwing people over for his own selfish gains. He’s a fascist twa’ that likes the power trip. And I can’t stand his pompous daugh’er either.” He answers while going back to what he was doing with his paint.

At this, you’re the one who pauses and keeps your gaze away. Before you can ask a little follow up–your phone goes off and you check it with eyes going wide once you see the time.

1:03am

Shit.

How long have you two been spray painting? You have to seriously get home before Roxy worries-

Or before your dad finds out you’re gone.

“I have to get the hell home- like.. Right fucking now.” You say as you scramble to grab your things and shove the almost empty paint cans into your bag, suddenly aware of what can happen to you if you arrive late- Roxy is always giving passive aggressive threats of telling on you to Osborn if you arrive home late.

Spiderpunk gets confused at how you suddenly have an urge to leave but helps you pick up your stuff anyway. “Heh, did you sneak out or something..?” He asks with a chuckle but is mostly curious as to why you’re leaving in such a hurry now.

You breathlessly chuckle before zipping up your bag. “Yeah, something like that.. Can you-” You cut yourself off as you realize you were about to ask him to take you home. Obviously he can’t know who you are- you cant lose this friendship.. Or whatever this is.

“Take me over to the park you found me. Now. ..please.” You say as you sling your bag over your shoulder and wrap your arms around his neck again–even if this time his body is warmer and there's something there that makes your heartbeat a little faster.

“Wow, and I was ‘bout to ask if you were sick of me already.” He coos teasingly before putting his arm around your waist, and with a secure grip you’re swinging through the air again.

You roll your eyes and hold onto him, he comes to a stop at the park and leaves you exactly where he found you-

On the bench.

You awkwardly say your goodbyes before bolting away in the direction you first came, you hastily put your backpack back into the tree and make your way through the dark garden. You smile to yourself as you think back on everything that you and that masked punk did tonight.

You climb up the tree beside your window and jump into your warm bedroom where the only lighting was the bathroom light you probably forgot to turn off and the hallway light outside your bedroom door peeking in from below the wooden barrier.

You kick off your boots and start removing your mask as you walk back over to where the shoebox under your bed hides. You enter your dimly lit room and see it just how you left it. You take a breath of relief and smile to yourself like an idiot as you think about Spiderpunk, walking to your bed as you remove the balaclava from your face and put it into the box along with your gloves and the picture.

Once you close the box and safely hide it under your bed, your dad suddenly bursts through your bedroom door and Roxy behind him.

“No! Mr. Osborn, She’s-” Roxy was saying to your dad before she looks at you and stares daggers for a moment before continuing more calmly, “See, sir? She’s right here.”

She had been distracting your dad while you were gone and you definitely owed her something since she was busting her ass. Your Dad seems like he was fuming but his gaze softened when he saw his daughter in her room like roxy had been saying to him.

“Hey, sweetie.” He greeted, almost awkward because of his aggressive entry. “It’s late, you should go to bed.” Osborn says as he walked over to you kissed you on the forehead.

“Yeah, I was just about to do that.” You retort in the usual chipper tone you used with him so he really had no idea of all the things you did against his back.

___

The next morning you go downstairs to your kitchen but overhear your dad livid on a call, so you stand by the door and listen in without making yourself known.

“What?! What do you mean he already hit the damn new factory at Elm street?” He practically roars but keeps mind to his volume since he thinks you’re asleep.

You smile to yourself as he begins ranting about Spiderpunk, the grin widening once he says something that made your heart pump slightly faster.

“A second one? Who the hell does he think he is, bringing some kind of date to ruin my work.”

___ @eyesxxyou .... I did it.

I'll make part 2 if this does well since I also have sm shit to do now that I have a job.

#across the spiderverse #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown imagine #atsv hobie #hobie brown x reader #spider punk #hobie spiderverse #spiderpunk x reader #spiderman #fanfic #hobie brown #what’s in a name?

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robertreich · 1 year

Video

youtube

From Robber Barons to Bezos: Is History Repeating Itself?

Ultra-wealthy elites…Political corruption…Vast inequality…

These problems aren’t new — in the late 1800s they dominated the country during America’s first Gilded Age.

We overcame these abuses back then, and we can do it again.

Mark Twain coined the moniker “The Gilded Age” in his 1873 novel to describe the era in American history characterized by corruption and inequality that was masked by a thin layer of prosperity for a select few.

The end of the 19th century and start of the 20th marked a time of great invention — bustling railroads, telephones, motion pictures, electricity, automobiles — which changed American life forever.

But it was also an era of giant monopolies — oil, railroad, steel, finance — run by a small group of men who had grown rich beyond anything America had ever seen.

They were known as “robber barons” because they ran competitors out of business, exploited workers, charged customers exorbitant prices, and lived like royalty as a result.

Money consumed politics. Robber barons and their lackeys donated bundles of cash to any lawmaker willing to do bidding on their behalf. And when lobbying wasn’t enough, the powerful turned to bribery — resulting in some of the most infamous political scandals in American history.

The gap between the rich and poor in America reached astronomical levels. Large numbers of Americans lived in squalor.

Anti-immigrant sentiment raged, leading to the enactment of racist laws to restrict immigration. And voter suppression, largely aimed at Black men who had recently won the right to vote, was rampant.

The era was also marked by dangerous working conditions. Children often as young as 10, but sometimes younger, worked brutal hours in sweatshops. Workers trying to organize labor unions were attacked and killed.

It seemed as if American capitalism was out of control, and American democracy couldn’t do anything about it because it was bought and paid for by the rich.

But Americans were fed up, and they demanded reform. Many took to the streets in protest.

Investigative journalists, often called “muckrakers” then, helped amplify their cries by exposing what was occurring throughout the country.

And a new generation of political leaders rose to end the abuses.

Politicians like Teddy Roosevelt, who warned that, “a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men, whose chief object is to hold and increase their power,” could destroy American democracy.

After becoming president in 1901, Roosevelt used the Sherman Antitrust Act to break up dozens of powerful corporations, including the giant Northern Securities Company which had come to dominate railroad transportation through a series of mergers.

Seeking to limit the vast fortunes that were creating a new American aristocracy, Congress enacted a progressive income tax through the 16th Amendment, as well as two wealth taxes.

The first wealth tax, in 1916, was the estate tax — a tax on the wealth someone accumulated during their lifetime, paid by the heirs who inherited it. The second tax on wealth, enacted in 1922, was a capital gains tax — a tax on the increased value of assets, paid when those assets were sold.

The reformers of the Gilded Age also stopped corporations from directly giving money to politicians or political candidates.

And then Teddy Roosevelt’s fifth cousin — you may have heard of him — continued the work through his New Deal programs — creating Social Security, unemployment insurance, a 40-hour workweek, and requiring that employers bargain in good faith with labor unions.

But following the death of FDR and the end of World War II, when America was building the largest middle class the world had ever seen — we seemed to forget about the abuses of the Gilded Age.

Now, more than a century later, America has entered a second Gilded Age.

It is also a time of extraordinary invention.

And a time when monopolies are taking over vast swathes of the economy, so we must renew antitrust enforcement to bust up powerful companies.

Now, another generation of robber barons is accumulating unprecedented money and power. So once again, we must tax these exorbitant fortunes.

Wealthy individuals and big corporations are once again paying off lawmakers, sending them billions to conduct their political campaigns, even giving luxurious gifts to Supreme Court justices. So we need to protect our democracy from Big Money, just as we did before.

Voter suppression runs rampant in the states as during the first Gilded Age, making it harder for people of color to participate in what’s left of our democracy. So it’s once again critical to defend and expand voting rights.

Working people are once again being exploited and abused, child labor is returning, unions are busted, the poor are again living in unhealthy conditions, homelessness is on the rise, and the gap between the ultra-rich and everyone else is nearly as large as in the first Gilded Age. So once again we need to protect the rights of workers to organize, invest in social safety nets, and revive guardrails to protect against the abuses of great wealth and power.

The question now is the same as it was at the start of the 20th century: Will we fight for an economy and a democracy that works for all rather than the few?

We’ve done it before. We can — and must — do it again.

#youtube #politics #video #videos #Gilded Age #Elon Musk #Jeff Bezos #economics #money

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cumikering · 7 months

Text

Toxic Phillip Graves x reader

3.4k | angst, suggestive The commander with plenty of years ahead of you never saw you like you saw him, not even close

Next to the large window of the coffee shop, you sat with your book. You sipped your latte – the latte your cousin raved about endlessly the past month that tasted closer to milk. She wasn’t a coffee drinker evidently.

“’Scuse me, miss. Would you mind if I sit here?”

You looked up at the owner of the smooth, southern voice. The man wore an easy smile – too easy, like he knew he looked good. Your eyes wandered past him, to the many empty tables before meeting his blue ones again.

“Sorry, I’m Phillip. I couldn’t help noticing your read.” He held out his copy of the exact same book. This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper.

You gave him a polite smile. “Go ahead.”

“Not my usual read, but it resonates with me.” He sat and placed his cup of tea on the table before cracking his book open where his steel bookmark lay. “He shouldn’t have led her on,” he commented.

“But her story wouldn’t have started otherwise.”

He smiled. “That’s true.”

Phillip ordered you another drink as you discussed your common interest in literature. Before you could finish the tea, the alarm on his phone went off.

“It was such a pleasure meeting you, miss, but I’ve got a plane to catch.” He placed his bookmark back in his copy.

It was then that you noticed the scar across his right cheek. As if the cause had the full intention of ripping him off the Earth – like a personal vendetta, but divine intervention let it bolt past, catching the cuff of his ear instead.

“Would it be alright to call you sometime? Maybe we can meet again when I find myself in town.”

You put your number in his phone, not expecting anything to come out of it. Not from a chance meeting with a charming man more than a few years older than you.

But days later, Phillip asked if you’d finished the book. You spoke on the phone for half an hour, listening to his analysis of the characters. He was sharp, brilliant, eloquent. It showed that he was well-read and took pride in it.

He was initially vague about his job, saying he travelled a lot. You didn’t think it mattered at all what he did. He was an online friend who was into the same things as you were. A month later when he told you he was the CEO of a private military company, you weren’t surprised at all. It was plain in the way he carried himself, his poise and decisiveness. The way he filled a room to the brim even when he didn’t try to.

Over the months, he mailed you books to read and discuss once a week. Then twice, and thrice and the calls grew more frequent, longer, later. Quieter, deeper.

He became more than a name on your screen, more than a voice at the other end of the line at nightfall. Your conversations bled into the daylight. You felt less like a secret, more like a part of his life. Like an affirmation that, maybe, you were not the only one in the liminal space.

Thinking of you, sweetheart.

Always love hearing from my woman during the day.

Your man is having some good lunch. Wish you were here to share it with.

You make me feel like I may be close to some, but never close enough.

I’ll show you how much you mean to me when we meet again.

“You promise?” you asked one day.

“I make guarantees,” he affirmed without missing a beat. “I’ll have the last week of this month off. Why don’t you fly here? I’ll take care of your flights and hotel.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never done this before… Flown to meet anyone.”

“No pressure, darlin’. You mean a lot to me, you know that? Don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to.”

You booked your flights and hotel. You weren’t going to be a freeloader even that you knew it would have meant nothing to him judging by the suit he showed up at the airport in. You wanted to cry when you saw him and his boyish smile, carrying a large bouquet of roses and a sign of your name. You ran into his open arms.

“What are you doing dressed up like that?” you asked with a chuckle when you pulled away.

He kissed the top of your head. “Taking my darlin’ out on a dinner date.”

He helped with your suitcase to his grey SUV and waited for you to get ready in your room before taking you to a skyscraping French restaurant. Sat next to the floor-to-ceiling window, you couldn’t take your eyes off the view, the shadows of the city dainty against the gold seeping into deep purple.

“Gorgeous, huh?” He placed his hand on yours, making your turn to him. “I knew you’d like it. We can come back whenever you want.”

“I love it, Phil.” You beamed. “Thank you so much.”

“Anything for my darlin’.” He took your hand to his lips before raising his champagne flute. “To us.”

You clinked yours against his.

At your door, he asked if he could kiss you. You nodded, not meeting his blue eyes as you bit down a smile. He called you when he was in bed, and when you both refused to hang up, you wondered what kept you from staying at his instead.

Phillip spent the next two days taking you around the city and walking you to your room at the end of the night with a kiss, which lasted longer each time.

Darling, I need to take care of something on base. Would it be fine if you’re on your own for the day? His text read the next morning.

Instead of brunch with him, you wondered around the city on your own, reveling in the tall buildings and how friendly the people were. With a sweet Southern drawl, the older women called you honey, darling and everything else Phillip had called you. It made you miss him more.

As you enjoyed your dinner, your phone buzzed with his call. It didn’t take him long to pull up at the restaurant and give you a peck in front of his SUV. You’d seen photos of him in his full gear, but seeing him in his combat uniform in real life made your cheeks heat up as you held onto his biceps. With vivid eyes and a smirk like that, he was dangerously handsome.

His touch seared when he pushed you against the wall of his entryway, fingers grasping your jaw, as he licked and nipped.

“You kiss better than last night,” he mumbled against you.

You paused at the comment, but he didn’t relent. He hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as his hands roamed. He carried you to his kitchen, setting you on the counter, icy against the backs of your thighs.

His mouth trailed down the side of your neck, sucking harder at the base than you’re used to, but it hurt so good. You shuddered as a small gasp escaped you. He pulled away with a satisfied smile before setting you down on your feet, turning to open his French door fridge.

You took in his kitchen, All-black, with spotless marble countertops and seamless cabinets.

“What would you like, darlin’?”

“J- Just water, please.”

You were breathless with your cheeks warm when he led you to his living room which looked equally as lavish with the large TV in front of his plush leather couch. When he pulled you onto his lap, you let out a small squeak, making him chuckle.

“You’re always so adorable.” He kissed your cheek.

He put on some football on as he held you close, his hot, wide palm on your mid-thigh, exposed from him pushing your dress up. Every so often, he’d give it a squeeze as he sipped his beer, making your breath hitch.

“Darlin’, it’s getting late. Let’s get you back.” He patted your thigh. “Unless you want to stay? You can pick any room you want.”

He gave you a quick tour of his place, and you picked the room next to his. He gave you toiletries and his clothes for the night, and told you to come to his room when you were ready for bed. You opened his door to him on his bed in sweats, a book on his lap. He motioned for you to sit next to him, and you did, leaning onto his bare chest. You read with him, his arm around you, thumb rubbing your arm occasionally.

“Phil?”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I just- Well-“ Confidence eluded you as fast as it graced and your heart raced. “Nevermind.”

He laid his book down and turned towards you. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”

You felt small having to ask, embarrassed that it was even something that bothered you. But when you looked into his eyes, welcoming with that warm smile, you thought maybe it was alright. It was Phillip after all.

“I wanted to know… What are we?”

He kissed your forehead. “Whatever you want us to be. I’d love to be your man if you let me.”

You smiled, relieved as you nodded.

“Anything for my woman.”

Phillip wasn’t in his room when you woke in his bed the following morning. You figured he was in his office, and he was, with the door open.

He looked up from his computer with a smile. He’d put a t-shirt on, his light brown hair tousled now. You noted he didn’t have his usual cup of coffee with him.

“Good morning, darlin’. Sorry I didn’t mean to leave the bed so early, but I’ve got reports to send.”

“That’s okay.”

“I hope you slept well. Feel free to use the kitchen. I’ll join you when I’m done in a bit.”

You went to his kitchen, the counters lustrous in the morning light. Next to the fridge, something glinted. It was a bottle cap of his favourite beer from the night before, a foreign brand you’d never seen. You put the cap into your sweats pocket - a keepsake of your first visit to his. You made coffee for the both of you, and when you were scouring the cabinets for some sugar-

“Sorry, sweetheart, who are you?”

You gasped, turning to the kitchen entrance where the voice came from. It was a middle-aged woman, carrying grocery bags. She blinked, her smile polite but confused.

“Uhh, Phil?” You looked straight at her with wide eyes, at a loss for words.

“What is it, darlin’?” he replied from a distance.

“Phillip Graves?” the woman called out, voice thundering.

In a second, he rounded the corner.

“Mum. Hey, I wasn’t expecting you.” He took the bags from her hands, placing them on the counter before giving her a hug. “This, uh- this is a friend.” He gestured to you.

“Hi, Mrs. Graves.”

“Good morning, sugar.” She nodded at you, her eyes warmer as she unpacked the bags. “I stopped by to drop off some fruits. I was at the farmer’s market.” Her eyes flicked to you, a playful smile on her lips. “He never has anything in his house other than beer, does he?”

You let out a small laugh, and he had an amused smile as he shook his head.

“I’m still in the middle of something. I’ll finish up real quick.” He left again.

“He’s married to his job,” she commented as she opened the fridge, stocking it with the colourful produce she brought.

“Um, do you know where the sugar is by any chance?”

She turned to you and glanced at the two mugs on the counter. “If he hasn’t had his coffee yet by now, that’s probably because he’s out of sugar.” She smiled. “And you know how much of a sweet-tooth he is.”

You did.

She continued lining the fridge with apples. “He really does run on coffee. He never learnt to cook, that boy. Lucky he’s got you taking care of him.”

Your heart swelled. Did he tell her about you already?

“All done now,” she said, closing the fridge. “Tell him I say bye, will you?”

“Okay.”

She gave you a squeeze and pinched your cheek. “I’ll see you again soon, sugar.”

You beamed as you walked her to the door. She didn’t hate you, and it made you irrationally happy.

“Phil?” You stood at the door to his office. “Your mom just left, told me to tell you bye.”

He beckoned you to come in, and he pulled you to sit on his lap, his hand squeezing your thigh.

“You know why I said you’re a friend, don’t you? I promise I’ll tell her soon.” He gave you an easy smile. “It’s like introducing vegetables to a kid. You gotta do it in small doses.”

“That’s okay, I understand.“ It didn’t bother you seeing how warm she was towards you. Still, you held on to his words.

“Okay, I’m almost done now. I’ll drive you to your hotel to get ready and we’ll go out for lunch.”

As well as the day went, you went ahead of yourself, like you often did when things felt too good. It dawned on you this was a little dream, a fleeting paradise in your ordinary life. Like a ticking bomb, it was going to detonate into a million pieces, and you’ll wake up with nothing but little mice, a pumpkin, a tattered dress and the sweetest memory.

The demon lingered in the backroom of your mind, pounding relentlessly at the door, begging to be set free. You felt like you’d gone too deep, like you shouldn’t even have started with all this.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm, darlin’?” Phillip asked when you entered his house, tossing his keys into the entryway bowl.

You couldn’t even fake a smile.

“Did I do something to upset you?” He rubbed your arms and led you to the couch.

He turned your body to him, but you couldn’t meet his eyes. You couldn’t drown the riot in your head.

“Please. If it’s my fault, let me fix it.”

“How is this going to work?” Your eyes flicked to his, continuing in a smaller voice. “We don’t live close at all.”

“Got me worried there,” he exhaled, pulling you to his chest. “You can move here, of course.”

“It’s not that easy, is it?”

“I know it’s not. If I’m honest, I don’t have an answer for that yet.” He sighed as he caressed your hair. Silence lingered before he continued, “You know what my drill sergeant used to say? You can’t fly when you keep worrying about falling out of the sky.”

“You told me.” A smile flickered on your lips.

“We’re just a two-hour flight away from each other. As long as you still want this, don’t think too much of what’s going to come. It will work itself out.” He tilted your face to him by the chin. “We’ll work it all out.”

Perhaps he was right. You just needed to focus on what’s right in front of you. When you asked if you could extend your stay for a few more days, he gave you a peck on the lips.

He held you wordlessly for a long time until he got a call for an emergency meeting. He told you not to wait up if he wasn’t done in an hour. You hadn’t planned on staying the night, but you still had your toiletries from the other day. You got ready for bed and rescheduled your return flight, extending the timer on the proverbial bomb, even just for two more days. You wanted to float in this dream a little longer.

It was past 2 in the morning when your door creaked open. You turned, the dim light from the hallway bleeding into the dark.

“Why are you still up?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

“I should ask you the same thing.”

He turned the bedside lamp on and sat on the bed, holding your hand.

“I’ve been thinking. You’re really special to me, darlin’. I want to work this out. I promise we’ll find a way, okay?”

You choked out a sob. His words like balm to your burning chest. You sat up and wrapped your arms around him.

“You’re so emotional. It’s adorable.” He let out a small laugh as he stroked your back. “I love you.”

When your tears stopped flowing, he laid you down, caging you between his forearms as he kissed you. Your arm wrapped around his neck, a hand cupping his lightly stubbled jaw. You fell into the kiss, into the sensation of his perfect lips. His hand wandered, pinching, squeezing, rubbing, his lips unrelenting, ever intensifying.

You squirmed under him. “Phil, that’s- you’re being a bit rough.”

He pulled away. “My ex liked it this way.”

You appreciated his passion, but the comment didn’t sit right. He stilled for a second before lying beside you in silence. You didn’t know how long you lay there, but in the dark, your eyes blinked open at the click of the door.

Your heart drained, hollow, hanging by a thread like it was going to float away out of your gaping chest any second. What you thought was going to be a comforting night turned unkind, instead leaving you feeling less than. You let out an uneven breath, pulling the comforter closer around you, willing it to drown the ache.

The next morning, Phillip was quiet, not even meeting your eyes as he told you to get ready. It was jarring, when for days it was as if he couldn’t keep his hands off you, but that day felt like he didn’t even want you anywhere near him.

Perhaps he had a lot in mind, maybe something about his meeting the night before – you knew it happened sometimes, but this time, the stillness made you nervous. Rejected, unwanted, out of place. Something was brutally wrong and it hung heavy in the air, it made you hard to breathe.

He finally broke the silence when he pulled up at the hotel lobby. “This isn’t working out.”

You turned to him, not believing your ears. “What?”

“This is a mistake,” he declared.

“But… Last night, we just- You said you loved me.“

“Why are we talking like this is some kind of negotiation? It’s not.”

The harsh tone sent chills down your spine. He’d never used that voice on you.

“I thought you liked sex, sweetheart. Why’d you wear those cute outfits otherwise?” His smirk turned to a frown. “Also, you laugh too loud. It’s off putting.”

You froze in your seat, like you wanted to scream but your voice a prisoner in your throat. Your stomach churned, bitter, singeing.

“You didn’t think this was real, did you? Don’t worry, it’s not like I don’t want to see you again. We’ll get coffee when I visit, okay?”

Your lips quivered as you blinked your tears away, but you were not going to let yourself cry.

“Oh, come on! Don’t start crying now. You’re making me look like the bad guy.” He threw his hands up in exasperation.

Was he not? When he told you all those things, some of the kindest words anyone had ever said to you. When the gold he gave you was brass at heart.

“Fuck you, Graves.” You got out of the car, slamming the door shut. Your tears stained your cheeks as you walked away.

It was the last time you saw or heard from him until two months later.

Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m attached now. We’re visiting next month. Want to meet up?

You regretted not blocking his number. You wiped away the tear that slipped.

Three years later, the universe sprinkled chaos and stirred its pot. You met another Phillip. Your cousin asked if it was the Graves variety. You said no, with a smile brighter than you ever remembered smiling.

This one held your hand and brought you home to meet his mum. This one didn’t bring up his exes when you didn’t ask. This one laughed harder when you cackled.

This one didn’t have to lie about his intentions, because a few years later, his promise of forever came without you even having to ask.

Thanks @shadofireshinobi for making me write this <3

@tiredmetalenthusiast @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats

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cherriecove · 7 days

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A Courtship of Politics and Passion (Part 2)

Jacaerys Velaryon x Hightower!Reader

Summary: Cannon divergence, Rhaenyra Targaryen is queen after the Dance of The Dragons. In order to secure peace and ensure her son is able to take his rightful place on the throne after her she decides to make allies out of previous enemies. Cherrie's Note: Thank you so much for the love on the last post! Any more nice words and i might fall in love with yous ngl. Hope you enjoy.

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

The days after the royal feast were dripping with tension, as Jacaerys Velaryon and Lady Y/N Hightower found themselves annoyingly entangled in each other's company far more often than either would have liked. This, of course, was all part of Queen Rhaenyra's grand plan—a delicate little game of matchmaking disguised as diplomacy. She had hoped that a few shared walks and awkward conversations might bridge the bloody, betrayal-riddled chasm between their families. But, alas, Rhaenyra had sorely misjudged the depth of their mutual disdain. Every word they exchanged was polite, sure, but underneath the civility, each syllable was laced with the venom of old grudges neither of them could pretend to forget.

Their favoured meeting spot became the Red Keep’s gardens—a lovely place, in theory. It should have offered peace, with its fragrant blooms of roses and jasmine filling the air, but even the most enchanting flowers couldn’t mask the simmering hostility between them. One fine afternoon, under a deceptively serene, bright blue sky, they strolled side by side, their pace deliberate, every step as calculated as the sharp words lingering on their tongues.

Jacaerys had been brooding in silence for most of their walk, clearly troubled, stealing glances at Y/N when he thought she wasn’t looking. She, of course, was the picture of composure, but the tightness in her jaw and the rigid set of her shoulders betrayed the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. Eventually, Jacaerys couldn’t keep it in any longer. His voice, low and brimming with resentment, cut through the silence like a blade.

"I wonder," he began, his gaze steady and unflinching, "do you feel any guilt for what your family did? For nearly spilling blood in their attempt to steal my mother’s throne?"

Oh, and there it was—the blow he’d been itching to land, his accusation hanging between them like the sword of Damocles. Y/N’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but she didn’t avert her gaze. No, she was prepared for this—had seen it coming from a mile away, even if it stung just the same.

"I am not my father, Prince Jacaerys," she replied, her tone measured, though the steel in her voice was unmistakable. "And I am not responsible for his choices."

Diplomatic, perhaps, but Jacaerys wasn’t fooled. He heard the defensiveness in her words, a shield hastily raised against the guilt he wanted to drape over her shoulders. He stopped walking, turning to face her fully, brow furrowed as he pressed on.

“Yet here you are, sent in his stead to smooth over the wounds he created. How am I to trust you? How do I know this isn’t just another Hightower plot to weaken my family?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut—raw, accusatory. Y/N’s carefully crafted mask of composure slipped, just for a moment, and anger flashed in her eyes. She had anticipated this confrontation, sure, but that didn’t mean it was any easier to swallow. Even so, her voice remained controlled, though it quivered ever so slightly with emotion.

"I came here for peace, not to reopen old wounds," she shot back, her tone firm but not harsh. "My family’s past is far from clean, I won’t deny that. But I’m not here to repeat those mistakes. This marriage could mend the rift between our houses if you’d stop seeing me as the enemy."

Her words were sincere, yet Jacaerys couldn’t easily brush aside the memories of war, treachery, and all the chaos that followed. The Hightowers had nearly torn his family—and the realm—apart. The pain was still fresh, the betrayal too sharp, too real. His mind flashed back to the darkest days of the conflict, when every move felt like a step closer to the abyss, and the crown was slipping through his mother’s fingers.

He halted again, turning to look at her fully, his voice quieter now but still strained with the weight of his past. "It’s hard to forget that your bloodline tried to destroy mine."

Y/N stopped as well, standing just a few paces away from him. The space between them felt more like a chasm than the mere feet that separated them. But instead of retreating, she stepped closer, surprising him with her boldness. Her eyes were fierce, burning with a fire he hadn’t expected.

“And yet,” she shot back, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade, “here I am, ready to forge a new path. Can you say the same, Jacaerys? Or are you content to be forever shackled to the past?"

The intensity of her words hit him harder than he anticipated, and for a moment, the world seemed to freeze. The beautiful garden around them faded into the background, their conflict overshadowing everything else. Jacaerys could feel his heart racing—not just from the argument, but from something deeper. He saw, in that moment, more than just a Hightower standing before him. He saw a woman weighed down by the same burdens he carried—the weight of legacy, the expectations of bloodlines they hadn’t chosen, both trapped in a tangled web of history.

"You talk of forging a new path," he said slowly, his voice softer now, more reflective, "but how can I be sure? How do I know this isn’t another Hightower scheme?"

Y/N’s gaze softened, though the fire in her eyes remained. "You can’t know for certain, Jacaerys. Trust, like peace, has to be built. Brick by brick. Moment by moment. But it has to start somewhere. If we let the past dictate everything, we’ll be trapped in it forever."

Her words struck something deep within him. For the first time, he saw her not as an adversary, but as someone who understood. Someone who, like him, was navigating the treacherous waters of family, legacy, and expectation. There were no guarantees here, no easy solutions. But maybe… just maybe… there was a chance. A small, fragile possibility that they could build something better, together.

“I don’t know if I can forget,” he admitted quietly, vulnerability creeping into his voice. “But maybe… you’re right. We can’t keep living in the past.”

Y/N’s expression softened further, and she nodded. "No, we can’t. But that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy."

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of their words hanging in the air like a heavy cloak. The tension hadn’t completely disappeared, but something had shifted—a tentative understanding, perhaps. The beginning of something neither of them fully understood, but couldn’t entirely ignore.

As they resumed their walk through the garden, the hostility between them eased, replaced by something quieter, more uncertain. A possibility, fragile but real, that they might yet carve out a future that was theirs—beyond the legacies and bloodlines that had divided them for so long.

Taglist: @rafslytherin

#hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hightower reader

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nataliawrites · 2 years

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Sweeter Than Revenge // Toto Wolff

Toto Wolff x Verstappen!Reader

Toto Wolff was a perfectionist. He demanded nothing but the best. He refused to settle for second or third. He knew what he wanted and he knew how to get what he wanted.

That’s where you come in. Some would call you a jack of all trades. Despite your relatively young age, you had graduated at the top of your Oxford class with a Doctorate in Engineering Science — specializing in automotive and mechanical engineering — and a Masters in Strategy and Innovation. Your thesis on exploiting friction and wind resistance instead of battling against it caught the eye of numerous car manufacturers, all wanting to snatch up the mind behind the innovate approach that could revolutionize the industry.

But when Formula 1 teams joined the fray for your employment, your mind was made up the second you saw the email from the Mercedes-AMG Petronas team principal himself. The exorbitant salary, company car, and executive position Toto was offering you were benefits but they paled in comparison to the opportunity to do the one thing you had been waiting for since you permanently left home at 18 years old — prove the people that you had once called family wrong.

Growing up as the eldest child of Jos Verstappen and half-sister to Max Verstappen was anything but sunshine and rainbows. Constantly in the shadow of your younger brother. Always ignored in favor of your father’s golden son. Never receiving approval or the affection you desired after the loss of your mother. Always an afterthought to racing.

When you moved to an entirely different country, merely a teenager yourself, the only communication you received from your family was a text message from Jos reminding you “not to embarrass the family name” a few months after you started university. So you powered forward, completely alone in a foreign country and forced to work two jobs on top of school, but finding solace in your studies.

Now, as you hit send on your response to Toto Wolff, all of your struggles were going to pay off.

Not long after, you were invited to formally meet the team and sign all the necessary paperwork in the beginning of the offseason. You made the drive to Brackley and smoothed your power suit before entering the team’s technology center. A composed receptionist took your name before guiding you down the halls lined with moments and memorabilia from team history and leaving you in front of a door with a steel “Toto Wolff” nameplate on it.

You took a moment to collect yourself and rapped your knuckles against the solid wooden door, turning the handle when a deep accented voice from within the office told you to enter. The Austrian, who painted an imposing picture behind his desk, rose to greet you with a firm handshake. You quickly realized that he was tall and fit and, despite how hard you tried to keep your mind professional, extremely handsome.

“Dr. Verstappen, it’s great to finally meet you,” Toto motioned for you to sit down across the desk from him.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Wolff. I am so grateful for this opportunity.”

“The pleasure is ours. We are very excited to have you onboard this coming season. And, please, call me Toto.”

“Then you must call me Y/N. And while we’re on the topic of names, I’m sure you’ve noticed mine.”

Toto leaned back in his leather chair, “a funny coincidence to be sure. I hope that doesn’t mean you cheer for Red Bull.”

You hid a wince at his joking tone, “about that … it’s not exactly a coincidence. Max Verstappen is my brother. Half-brother if you want to get technical.”

You continue as you see him about to speak, “let me assure you that this will have no negative impact on my work with you. If anything, it will make me work harder towards the team’s success. I don’t exactly go around making this public knowledge, but my childhood was not the best and I haven’t spoken to my brother or my father since I first moved out at 18. They never supported me or showed that they cared about me. I’m doing this for myself. I’m going to help Mercedes win to prove them wrong.”

Your heart pounded out of your chest as Toto impassively stared into your soul. “I believe you.” A breath you didn’t even realize you were holding rushed out in relief. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Jos Verstappen and what you’ve told me does not exactly come as a surprise.”

“Thank you, Toto. I promise you won’t regret it. We’ll get Mercedes back on top.”

“I am counting on it. Welcome to the team.”

You spent the rest of the off-season working more often than not, applying the research your Doctorate was built on to the car and optimizing it as much as possible. You spent your days working closely with the engineering team and both Lewis Hamilton and George Russell, gathering as much data as possible before you flew out to pre-season testing. Your evenings were usually taken up by Toto, the both of you workaholics who stayed far past the time that everyone else had left, typically discussing strategy and your mutual loathing of Red Bull over dinner that was ordered into the office.

The attraction that you felt upon first meeting your boss grew more and more as you got to know him better. While his handsomeness certainly didn’t hurt, his intelligence and passion truly did it for you. His age didn’t bother you — boys your age certainly left something to be desired — but you refused to be known as the woman who slept her way to the top (despite how unfair and inaccurate that would be) in a heavily male dominated field. So you used all your willpower to stay professional and prayed that Toto didn’t notice when you would gaze at his lips or his forearms or his chest in that famous button up shirt for a bit longer than strictly appropriate.

There was no way that Toto Wolff could possibly reciprocate your feelings so your resolved to keep them tightly bottled up.

He had a different idea.

You were in Toto’s office to mark your last dinner before flying to Bahrain for pre-season testing, lightly talking over a bottle of wine, when he abruptly set down his glass and looked resolutely down at you. “Tell me if I’ve misread the situation,” he pushed your plates to the side, uncaring, as he reached out to pull you across the desk and towards him.

You seized up in shock but melted as he crashed his lips to yours.

You gathered what little common sense you had remaining to detach yourself from him, “Toto, we can’t.”

His eyes went guarded, “Do you not feel the same way?”

“No but-“

“Then why?”

“Because you’re my boss! Because even the thought of this is unprofessional! Because it can ruin both of us!”

“But you want this.” He said it as a statement.

“Of course I do,” you deflate. “But we can’t-“

“And I want this too. I want you. You are strikingly intelligent and incredibly beautiful. We are both consenting adults and the team does not have a fraternization policy. There is no reason we must suffer in restraint.”

He takes both of your hands, engulfing then with his large ones before continuing, “you have been taking care of yourself for so long. Now, let me take care of you.”

You were extremely thankful the next morning that you accepted Toto’s offer to join him on his private jet instead of flying commercial charter with the rest of the team. At least this way he had time to drop you off at your apartment so you could pick up your luggage on the way to the airport without having to rush.

The other perks were pretty nice too. If you had told your younger self that you would be joining the Mile High Club with Toto Wolff on a private jet heading to Bahrain for the start of the Formula 1 season, you would have laughed in your own face (and then tried to work out the physics of how you time traveled to see your younger self in the first place).

Once in Bahrain, you jumped into the beautiful chaos that is the F1 season head first. Mercedes started off on a much higher note than last year and the mood around the garage remained light as the team kept the momentum going. It quickly became common to see 1-2 Mercedes finishes or at the very least both Mercedes drivers on the podium as the optimized car and your unorthodox strategies gave them the extra edge.

You and Toto tried to steal as many moments together as you could away from the hurricane of work that sometimes swallowed you up. Soon, neither of you particularly trying to keep your progressing relationship a secret, the rest of the team became aware that you were together. Despite your initial fears of backlash, you were met with support and the worst you got from the team was gentle teasing about managing to tame the infamous Toto Wolff.

As the season unfurled, neither your father nor brother had noticed you working for their rival. While photos of you with Toto, your drivers, and generally around the team did circulate, neither of them made the connection between the woman in Mercedes gear and the daughter and sister they cut off years ago. You ignored the traitorous pang in your heart every time Max or Jos’ eyes glossed over you, not realizing who they were looking at.

Or at least they didn’t until the FIA Prize Giving ceremony.

Toto was attending to receive the Constructors’ Championship trophy while your drivers collected their respective Drivers’ Championship and second-place trophies and you had come along as his date. While making the rounds on Toto’s arm at the gala after the ceremony, Max happened to overhear Toto introducing you to an acquaintance and your brother’s head snapped up at the sound of your name.

Max stared at the woman with Toto. It couldn’t be … but she had the same face shape and nose shape and hair color he remembered. His feet moved towards you before he could help himself, “Y/N?”

You heard the familiar voice interject from behind you and steeled yourself before turning around, “Max.”

“Is it really you?”

“Last time I checked.”

Toto had managed to excuse himself from his conversation and joined the awkward reunion between the estranged Verstappen siblings.

“Verstappen,” he nodded a curt greeting.

Your brother paused, looking between you and Toto, “wait-wait. You and him? You’re together?”

“For a while now,” you gained some satisfaction from the mix of emotions, none of them pleasant, that crossed Max’s face. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice earlier. I mean, Toto and I did only meet because I work for Mercedes. I’ve been around the paddock every race.”

You didn’t notice the approach of your father until you looked at Max’s wide eyes frozen on someone behind you.

“How dare you! To go against your own family? To actively work against your brother?”

“Hello, father. How are you? I’ve been great! It’s only been a little under a decade since I’ve heard from you.”

“Why you little who-”

Toto stepped in front of you before your father could finish what was sure to be a very complementary sentence, “Verstappen, I would stop it right there if I was you.”

“I always knew Y/N was an embarrassment but even I didn’t expect for her to become a gold digger going after men her father’s age.”

Toto came to your rescue once again, “she’s far from a gold digger. Y/N is Mercedes’ Executive Engineer and Strategist. She’s a large reason why we beat your son all season long.”

“What she is,” Jos spit out, “is a shame to the Verstappen name.”

Toto resolutely held you close, “then it’s a good thing she won’t be a Verstappen for much longer.”

Taking the opportunity, you raised your entwined hands to show off the diamond ring that graced your ring finger since Toto took you on vacation to the Seychelles and surprised you with a beautiful proposal a week ago.

“Max, Jos … we’ll be sure not to invite you to the wedding.”

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xsister-serpent · 9 months

Text

Earbuds & Intrigue

Warning: 18+ MDNI, cursing, spicy audio, sexual explicit,

Summary: Goth!Reader is a supporter of a spicy audio content creator CraftedClassic on Patreon. Her routine office job takes an unexpected turn when she discovers that her new wealthy CEO is none other than CraftedClassic, the infamous spicy audio creator she admires.

A/N: This has been back burner of my computer for years and I finally had the time to work on it. This was heavily inspired by those spicy audio's on gone wild reddit. This is going to be a series for sure. Might make a playlist for this story. 🖤 Hope you guys like this take on CEO Kylo btw. Kylo's username is: CraftedClassic and Goth!Reader username is DeathMajesty. link for Part 2.

Having worked in the office all day had been tiresome and treacherous. There were daily reports to prepare since the month was almost over. It had been okay for you to come in two out of five days since the lockdown. In addition to not having your former employees next to you, you were able to listen to music and be on Zoom calls at your convenience. Although it wasn't important, you were a shadow in the background, and you appreciated that. Today was different, however; word got around that you were going to have a CEO boss. Rose, your cubicle mate (or, as you both coined the term, cell buddies), messaged you. You placed your dark wave music on hold as you saw her messages ring up.

ROSE: Morning! Hope you had your coffee. Just a little forewarning about the new CEO. He’s a bit uppity.

Y/N: Aren’t they all?

ROSE: He’s worse…he’s like a male version of Miranda Priestly.

Y/N: Good thing I wear all black, huh? Can’t go wrong with that fashionable look.

You chuckle and then go to work. You didn’t care about new people at this point if you were being honest. You expected an older man, of course, like all stereotypical CEOs, if not a preppy-looking man with a traditional family values background. As you went back to your reports, you saw Maz, your supervisor, entering the building along with a man dressed in a fine all-black suit.

He took off his sunglasses and glanced around the building. He had black shoulder-length hair, an aquiline nose along with beauty marks. He was tall and built, and the suit made him look all the more intimidating. He had an unusual handsomeness to him that caught you off guard.

‘Okay, you weren’t expecting that at all.’ You went back to your work, seeing Maz and him draw closer and closer to your workstation. You withdrew an earbud as you saw Maz wave at you with a kind smile, “Ah, the little ghost! Y/N is one of the best drafters we have here. Y/N, this is Kylo, the new CEO.”

You glance up at him and stuck out your hand, “Hi, nice to meet you.”

Kylo's gaze was tense as he shook your hand, “Afternoon.”

You could see why Rose used that term; even his presence was intimidating. His hand gently but firmly shook your hand. ‘God, even his hands are huge,’ you thought. You could tell Maz was in a rush as she moved on to show Kylo more of the building.

“Reports looking good?” Maz spoke.

“Always,” you mused as you went back to work.

Kylo trailed right behind her only to look back at you once from the corner of your eye. He leaned over to say something to Maz. She didn’t glance back but nodded assertion.

What did that mean? Was it your workwear? Was cooperate goth not good enough anymore, you’d be damn to wear those awful brown-colored company polos.

You were a ghost in that company, and you wanted to keep it that way; his attention was the last thing you needed. You were clocked out at 3:30 pm and cleaned the temporary workspace. You had messaged Rose on your break about the CEO. However, you didn’t mention the side conversation you saw with him and Maz. You kept that to yourself, trying not to think too much about it. You took off in your black car, blaring the deep vocals of Peter Steele as you drummed to the beat of the song. You pulled up to the light and waited, softly singing to the chorus of 'My Girlfriend’s Girlfriend’. As you glanced over, you saw him. Kylo. He was in a black convertible, of course, talking to someone on the phone with a narrowed look. Immediately, you turned the other way, avoiding contact. As you waited for the light, you quickly glanced at him, gandering him.

“Hmm, looks like you're made of old money—the quiet type of rich. Oh, check out that watch,” you quietly observed, “Breitling. Not quite a Rolex, though.”

You turned your attention to the traffic light, and almost incidentally, you saw Kylo glance your way. You gripped onto the steering wheel and kept your eyes forward.

‘He didn’t see you; he’s just checking out the window.’ You told yourself.

Thankfully, his light had turned green, and in a roar of the engine, he took off.

You made your way back to your apartment and were greeted by your roommate's corgi, BB8. You gave him a boop on the nose and a little treat.

"Stop giving him treats Y/N, he’s gonna get tubby," Rey chuckled as she slipped on her shoes. You looked at the now-sad pup who shamefully went to his spot and sighed heavily.

"Sorry, BB," You soothed as you went to the couch, "You're out of here already?"

"Yeah, got a weekly meeting with 'the family'," she said as she slipped on her blazer, "I'll probably be back late, make sure BB gets half of his dinner."

You looked at the tubby corgi who was almost hiding her face in shame. "Of course."

You knew Rey from high school and knew she, too, came from a rich family. One she said was a near mix of Succession. All the more it made you curious about why she'd want to live in a regular 2-bedroom apartment with you in a middle-class area. You could tell she hated family holidays, and most of the time, she spent it with your large, loud family if her dad was out of town.

"Sounds good," you nodded as you landed on the couch, taking off your docs. "Wish me luck; I'm meeting with my annoying cousin," she sighed.

"The one who totaled the car?" You chuckled as you remembered her story of the last Christmas party she went to with her dad.

"Yup," Rey spoke as she ran her fingers through her hair, "I need to get Bravo on my family; we'd make good headlines. Welp, I shall see you two later." Rey waved as she blew a kiss at her dog, leaving you alone.

You looked over to BB8, who was now snoring into her blanket. With a chuckle, you got up and went to your room. You had changed into your black oversized tee and sweats as you mindlessly scrolled through social media.

Until a notification came from your subscription to Audios After Dark, a website for audio erotica. You stumbled across it and immediately got into it a few years back. It was better than seeing those fake pornos and way healthier for your sexuality—over the million accounts you had found one to your liking. A user named CraftedClassic had one of the smoothest and sexiest voices you had ever heard.

You listened to his introduction hearing his baritone voice through your headphones and you entered into the rabbit hole of his audio directory. A few times you had left him a tip and a little comment here and there to which he replied with appreciation.

You saw a new audio from him this time it was a script he created. In this scenario, he played a submissive something different from what he had usually posted. You just shut the door and pulled on your headphone clinking the link. You closed your eyes hearing him through your headphones.

“I know it's been a long time since I uploaded but I hope you all enjoy this one, it was quite the experience for me,” he spoke with a deep chuckle.

You are back on your bed hearing him describe his restraints and how he needed to be fucked. Immediately you felt that heat between your legs grow with excitement and lust. You went over to your nightstand and took out your viberator. His moans and pleas making you feel all the more excited for this audio.

You quietly went to work on your release picturing this man kneeling before you begging you for your touch on him.

‘Please I need this! I need you! I need to taste you in my mouth,’ CraftedClassic cried in pleasure mimicking what sounded like eating you out, ‘Fuck you taste soo good, I want you to break me..’

As you worked your fantasy your mind to Kylo as your vibe went a few stages higher on your clit. You pictured him being submissive his hands bound behind him as he buried his face between your legs moaning and whimpering into your throbbing pussy. You heard CraftedClassic wanton pleas and begging that made you finish with a silent cry of pleasure as he made the sounds of his climax. You came hard and fast, your body trembling as you felt yourself melting into pleasure. You lay there in a blissful state, your mind still reeling from the intensity of the experience. You heard CraftedClassic heavy breathing through the headset as he released another soft moan coming down from his undoing. As he closed his audio session you left a like along with a short comment:

10/10 Keep up the good work.

Almost within seconds, he replied.

'Glad I could give you the satisfaction @DeathMajesty ;)'

You looked at his profile photo once more wondering what this CraftedClassic looked like out of curiosity but it was all anonymously which you couldn’t blame him for.

“No digit footprint at all,” you sighed shutting your vibe off.

The digit footprint was always in the back of your mind but it was fine for this. Better spicy audios than a lecherous porn site that used sex workers’ content. You sighed and logged out of the site setting your phone to charge.

You went back to social media and doom-scrolled once more, seeing Rey's post on her social. She was in the upper side of the city taking dinner selfies with her good-natured father Luke and boyfriend Finn. But then something else caught your eye in the background. You paused her video and zoomed in. It was Kylo. A slight laugh escaped your lips connecting the two dots, he was the dread cousin Rey had told you about. You clicked his name but of course, it was private. The only icon of him was a black-and-white photo of his silhouette.

“Interesting,” You chuckled going back to watching Rey’s post and exiting out of the app.

You stopped scrolling and went to make yourself dinner settling in for a salmon bake bowl and coke. As you feed yourself you fed BB8 who was already spinning in excited circles for food.

#star wars #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x reader #ben solo x reader #kylo ren smut #reader x kylo ren #ceo!kylo ren x reader

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missglaskin · 2 years

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Yan!Targaryen Men (Jacaerys, Daemon Blackfyre, Maegor, Aegon II, Viserys III) with servant!Darling

Note- Originally there were meant to be more characters, but I couldn’t think of any other ideas for them and I didn’t want to risk being repetitive. Also I really hope this doesn’t get reported either

Tags: EXPLICIT/SMUT, Coercion, Power dynamics, Implied noncon, abuse of power, forced marriage/relationship, semi-delusions, forced feeding, mentions of vomiting

Jacaerys

At the table where you are pouring wine for one of the lords. You felt a pair of eyes watching. Looking to see it’s the prince. Almost in awe, you see his brows rise and eyes widen. But it’s cut short when the lord shouts at you for overspilling the wine. You mutter your apologies all the while scrubbing the mess you caused. Feeling further flustered when the prince comes to your defense.

He yearned for you. It was wrong, even dangerous and scandalous for the two of you. Still, you see him making his way through the crowd, through the halls searching for you. And when he’s finally face to face with you, there’s the awkwardness in not knowing what to say. It was almost endearing, in a way.

Still, no matter how many times you try to push him away, Jace persisted. And not being able to truly deny him, you found yourself indulging in some of his desires. Keeping him in your company in which you hoped remained nothing more than a friendship. But it grew ever more difficult in seeing how he gazes upon you and the glares those close to you receive.

Though there came a night right before the sunset where Jace brought you to the dragon pit. In what you assumed was to be an introduction to the dragon is followed by a hand guiding you on top of the said dragon. With the wind blowing in your face and the sunset view ahead, your nerves fade. Looking back, you see Jace's face inches from yours. He closes the distance, and you find yourself melting under his touch.

Subtlety was not one of Jace's strongest traits. At feasts, dinners, meetings, his eyes hardly left yours. He left lingering touches such as when you come to pour his wine or when you pass him by the halls. Times, there are kisses exchanged in dark corners, one where you must pull away before praying eyes find you both.

At his chambers, where only the night sky is your witness. Your bodies are tangled underneath the sheets. You whimper as his cock slowly fills you up. It being your first time made you feel as if he was splitting you open. Clutching him close and tight, as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. With every slow thrust, you adjust to his size. Moans slipping from your lips as the pleasure begins to numb your senses.

In one of those nights. Marry me. Was uttered to your lips. There was a glimpse of confusion, but it was quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming pleasure. With his cock disappearing into your cunt. The sounds of skin slapping echoing as you bounce on him. Jace’s mouth moves to your chest, tongue making contact with the hard nubs. And then you hear the same words uttered once more.

But as you stand in front of the septon. Your mind starts to race. There’s a look of panic in your eyes. Still, Jace ever so gently cups your cheek, saying his vows, even yours when the words cannot escape you. Holding hands with you, he walks you to his chambers or what he considers ‘ours’. And as the two of you consummate your wedding night, you only fear what his family would think.

Daemon Blackfyre

The first time he caught sight of you was when he was twelve. Participating in a squire’s tourney to which he won. Watching as the king bestows the steel sword on him. Only to have the crowd watch you as the just knighted Daemon places the crown of roses in your lap. In spite of being a bastard, Daemon's blood is still one of royalty. So imagine the shock when some commoner is crowned as the queen of love and beauty.

To make matters worse, you were a servant. Throughout your wanderings and tasks at the red keep, you rarely passed Daemon. But ever since the tourney, you try to conceal your surprise when seeing him stand in front of you. Simply nodding in greeting before rushing to leave his sight. Though over the years, you have grown accustomed to his presence.

It was known that he was possessive of you. His mother and him were the only ones you served under. You were safe and well-protected. It didn’t matter to Daemon if it was a commoner, a knight or even a lord that tried to harm or seduce you. You were his. In Daemon’s eyes, you have already been claimed. Even when his gestures seemed helpful and sincere, you knew there will come a day where he’ll expect a favor in return. One quite so intimate.

Daemon’s violet eyes often stare into yours. His gaze alone tells you of his interest, so piercing, as if he can see into your soul. It leaves you feeling so vulnerable. Still, you found yourself returning his gaze. His face etched with an amused smile in response. Struggling to keep your heart at bay as it pounds so mercilessly.

What starts as a hint of your intentions to one another becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Flusteredness is felt, but not so much of shock. Back pressed to the wall. At times, you envied his charmness, his way of luring you into his arms, into having your lips meet. And most of all, into luring you into his chambers. Like a sailor following the sirens into the deep sea, only to drown and never be seen again.

He saw it within his right to take your maidenhood. In claiming you that day, he came to claim your body and soul as well. In his chambers, the charmingness never left him. Those lips to which you feel trailing your skin. Whisper all sorts of confessions and praises. Further sinking you in his grasp.

Seeing you in the halls, a smirk curls on his face, his hand briefly roaming your body as he did, all to remind you of the nights you spent together. Daemon proves that the blood of the dragon courses through him in his passion and aggression. With his desire to have you anywhere he can. Grown addicted to the way his cock slides in and out of you, the way you clench around him, the taste of you on his tongue.

Daemon wanted to refuse his father’s arrangement to the Tyrosh. He desired you. Your place was on his side, as his wife. Daemon didn’t need the king’s promise for him to have a second wife. And when he was legitimized, fighting for his claim to the throne. Daemon declares that any man who speaks against you, makes a mention of your status and the children he hopes to share with you. They will face far worse than a tongue cut out.

Maegor

Keep your head down and do your duty. Was all you’re told when arriving at the castle and you did just that. The man you’re serving truly lived up to his reputation. Unleashing such a wave of violence rarely ever seen. As a matter of fact, the building you stand in saw no builders considering he killed every one of them. You were right to fear him, right to avoid him at all costs. But fate seemed to have other plans.

You hated the feeling of being watched. But it wasn’t as if you could do anything about it. You felt it when you would remove the sheets from the bed, when you’d start his bath, when you would pour him his wine. There was a time where you dared to look, met with a pair of violet eyes.

At first, you also served his wives. They paid no mind to your presence, as expected. But soon enough, you could feel their eyes watch your every move. There were all sorts of expressions on each of their faces. But it was Tyanna’s that filled you with fear. You didn’t know whether to feel relief when informed you are only to serve the king from now on.

Deep down, you knew that the king, Maegor, had anything but good intentions for you. That not only he formed an interest in you, but in that he desired you. And when Maegor is driven by his desires, it wasn’t good for anyone involved. What you wanted to know is when he will fulfill these said desires.

Day by day, your duties dwindled to the point where you had nothing to do. Only when you are given your own chambers, do you realize what is truly happening. Wide eyes staring at the man that invites himself in-Maegor. Your hair stood on end as he towers over you—not in just height, but in his intimidating presence. Taken aback when his hands carefully undo your dress, allowing it to drop and gather around your legs.

There was hardly any prepping. But even if it was given, there's no way you can fully adjust to the sheer size of him. His fat cock stretching your hole with each thrust. His thrusts are hard and deep.It renders your mind to go fully numb and vision hazy as you cry out. The blunt head of his cock bruises your cervix, and you can feel the pressure of his broad hand on your tummy bulge.

He never wastes his seed. Squeezing your legs around his waist so his cock can fill you to the brim. The angle allows him to pound your sweet spot with ease. The sound of his hips snapping against your skin echoes throughout the dimly lit chambers. And when he reaches his high, dumping his hot load against your cervix.

Maegor has shown again and again he has no care for what others think of him. He’s the dragon. His word is the law. The faith, the court, they can try but none will stop him from taking you as his wife. And when he finally presents an heir, there’s no care if his mother was a commoner. They had the blood of the dragon coursing through their veins. That’s all that matters.

Aegon II

Your first day already filled you with fear. As the rumors didn’t only reach your ears, but they were told to you. The prince being known to pinch or fondle any serving who strays within his reach. Already you felt his eyes on you, but dared to never look at him. Fearing that even a glance will spur him on. There was a relief in only seeing him during dinners and feasts. Until Dyana had to leave.

No other servant wanted the task of cleaning his chambers. It was only morning you had to see him. The rest of your duties were done in his absence. They assured you. Still, nothing eased your nerves. All it took was one moment alone with the prince. It wasn’t necessarily what he would do to you that scared you. It was the aftermath. There was nowhere else for you to go, no other place to call home.

True to their word, you only saw him in the mornings. Being as sneaky as possible and leaving safely every time. But in the end, you caught his attention. Normally, you would always clean the bath and leave just before his arrival, but on that particular day, the prince shows up a little early. The worst part of it all was your dress being tucked up to your knees to prevent getting wet. Heart hammering as soon as you saw his gaze on your bare legs. Your saving grace was the knight that entered his chambers and informed the prince he was needed.

For most of his life, Aegon has always gotten what he wanted, and he wanted you. And who could stop him? The knights who are meant to protect the innocent. The queen who was meant to care for the common alike. You had no titles, no lands, no castle. Your name had no value-you were of no value. So you didn’t fight the lips pressed roughly against yours. Didn’t resist when feeling the hands roam your body.

This was a means of survival. They are to send you away the next morning, and what will be of you? So you allowed yourself to give into the pleasure. To forget the shame of it all. Aegon went still in your arms when you pulled him close to you, almost wrapping him in an intimate hug. Your fingers caressing his cheeks or stroking his silver hair. Even daring to smile at him, all while letting a tear slip down your cheek.

To your relief, you weren’t sent away. But instead, your place was on his side. You did everything Aegon wanted. You kissed him where he wanted. You fucked him where he wanted. What once was your days spent running errands, is now waiting in his chambers for hours. Ending the night with your legs shaking, whines and moans shared between the two of you-having you spasming around his cock.

Rarely did you leave his chambers, but if you would. The jewelry that shined under the moonlight will catch the eyes of many. The dresses you adorned resembled the ones his sister wore, to replace the ‘filth’ -as according to him. But hardly did you wear them, the golden fabric on the floor as you lay bare in his bed.

One day, Aegon asked if you loved him. A simple question, yet one that causes so much hesitancy and fear. You told him you did. And when the day came where you dressed him in his ‘king’s attire’ right before his coronation. To ease his nerves, he had you caged against the wall, pressing your slit with the tip of his cock, before pushing past your folds. Swallowing his ‘fantasy’ as he spoke on how he would take you as his wife-make you his queen.

Viserys III

The second you stepped into your position, you were warned by the other servants of the man you will serve. To address him as you would do to a king. To treat him with the utmost respect and admiration. Anything less is an insult. Every word, every step, every task was done ever so carefully to avoid his wrath.

Unfortunately, you are not free from his acts of cruelty. As your behavior was believed to be deserving of such treatment. And what was your act of crime? Plopping a fruit in your mouth. You were unaware of his presence, and he was already done with the food, meant to be taken to the kitchen. Still, it did nothing to subdue his rage, to punish you for ‘stealing’ from him.

What you thought would leave you being scarred or worse sent to your death. Is instead experiencing something far more humiliating. Forced to eat every single thing on the table, tears streaming down your face as your stomach aches. Your pleadings fell to deaf ears and when you could no longer eat, the food was forced down your throat. Only for you to puke it all out. The voice of Viserys is heard as he demands you to clean up your mess.

The incident has been held over your head ever since. At every chance, you are reminded of what could have been your demise. You can see his sister’s pity, but she fears to utter a word. Then again, she had hardly been his target of wrath. That honor went to you. Becoming his plaything was what you believed to be a fate worse than death.

Late at night as you run his bath, Viserys asks, no, demands for you to join him. And he doesn't give you a chance to speak before you feel the water seeping into your dress. A pair of hands holding your waist with your hands on his shoulder to support yourself. You gasp when you felt it. Something firm between your inner thighs. Yet you do not muster the willpower to fight it.

With Viserys, you are constantly reminded of your status. How you’re beneath him. There’s the lingering threat that at any moment, he’ll be rid of you. That he has no need for you. Yet almost every other night is spent in his chambers.

Him pounding in and out of you mercilessly. Hips roughly pressing against yours. Watching your face contort to pleasure and the tears coat your eyes. The pad of his thumb presses against your lower lip when you bite it to hold on to the moans. Grunts and groans seeping out of his mouth on how your cunt belongs to him and only him.

There’s him also pulling you on top of him, having you ride him as your life depends on it. Lower back gripped as he guides your hips up and down. It’s when you come from your high does he whisper of your shared future. When he will one day claim the iron throne. You pretend to close your eyes. But in that moment there and then, you realize he does indeed have a need for you.

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vaultie-and-theghoul · 5 months

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So, You Comin'?

Cooper watched the coward, Henry, jet away into the wasteland. Of course, he had noticed his Vaultie right away, gun held tightly in her hand. The barrel shook as she stubbornly aimed the gun at her father. Taking the shot for her was the least he could do.

Now the Ghoul stared out over the wasteland, mind running a million miles an hour. He noted how Lucy kneeled over the young man below her. A painful, angry heat rose in his chest. Jealousy. Cooper started monologing, something from his acting days he did to time to clear his mind. While the words left poetically from his lips, a spark of hope flickered in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, his Vaultie would join him on this journey. This time willingly.

"So, you comin'?"

The silence that followed stretched on forever, but the feeling that accompanied the distinct sound of a pistol being drawn was significantly worse. Cooper steadied himself, preparing to take the bullet. The shot itself was unlikely to kill him, but the pain of rejection felt enough like death. The Ghoul found himself feeling a sort of pride as well. His little Vaultie not only pulled a gun on her father but now has her finger on the trigger ready to shoot.

There's my little killer. Cooper took a deep breath and waited for the shock of pain.

*Bang*

Cooper slowly turned his head, searching for what exactly his Vaultie shot. The now-dead feral ghoul had escaped his attention earlier, but now he was all too aware. A question pulled at the Ghoul's lips, but now was not the time for questions. From the look of the feral, that was undoubtedly a mercy killing. It reminded Coop of that poor ghoul he turned into ass jerky. That had been a mercy killing too, even if his vaultie hadn't seen it that way.

Dogmeat trotted up to him, and Cooper knew it was time to head out. This battle was coming to an end and the last thing he wanted was to get caught up with the damn brotherhood of steel. The Ghoul decided to walk on without looking back. He wasn't going to beg or ask again. It was up to Lucy if she wanted to accompany him or stay with her new little boyfriend.

When Coop was about to give up hope, he heard his Vaultie rushing to catch up. The same smug smirk lifted his lips, and a voice that sounded a lot like the old him whispered Good Girl.

"Let's get the fuck out of here sweetheart," Cooper turned to face his Vaultie. She had just found out that her father had been lying all these years and had most likely killed her first living creature. Despite this, Lucy pulled herself together, nodded, and followed him into the desert. She'll talk when she's ready. Until then, the Ghoul would simply enjoy the company of his Vaultie.

AO3

#vaultie and the ghoul #lucy maclean #the ghoul #fallout prime #cooper howard #fallout #walton goggins #ghoulcy #lucy x cooper #drabble #fallout fanfiction #vaultghoul

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the-insouciant-scientist · 1 year

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Coins of the Neath! This is only about half of the project I have planned, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to show off what I have so far.

Descriptions and explanations under the cut!

Top left is a First City Coin. Described in game as having a cedar on one side, and a circle of script around either a face in profile, a pair of eyes, or an image of the Bazaar on the other side. The script is a mix of proto-cuneiform, archaic Sumerian ideograms/pictograms, and symbols of my own design, and is intended to translate more-or-less to "The Masters approach/bind the King to divide the earth, to guard his prince's heart. The Bazaar's oath to see the sun is the foundation and the destiny". It's roughly the story of the First City's fall, and the Bazaar's quest. The face is based on some representations of Gilgamesh, as a reference to May.

Top right is Hinterland Scrip. In game it appears to be more the paper money kind of scrip, but I'm from a coal and steel industry city and go nuts for scrip coinage, so this was a little self indulgent. It's a 50¢ coin since one scrip is about equal to 50p in game. The naming of the fake company is mostly just me wanting to both include hinterland in the name, and not have to cram in "the great hellbound railway company" on such a small coin lmao. 1899 is a personal reference to when I unlocked the railway. The punch design is a reference to FB's logo.

Center is a rat shilling! Not uh, technically coins, but I wanted to draw a rat. They're described in game as a flat piece of metal, sometimes a button, with a rat face scratched into one side and a knot of tails scratched into the other. One side reads "valid until no longer valid", which I find absolutely hysterical. I tried to invoke a kind of rostygold color to this one, since that's what it reverts to when the rat market closes.

Middle right is a Justificande coin. They aren't described very much in game, just that they're seven sided and say "one day you will forgive" on the back. So I took a lot of artistic liberties with this one! The seven headed serpent and roses are both very common Iremi symbols, so it made sense to me that they'd be featured on their currency.

Bottom left is a Fourth City Echo. Described in game as having a familiar profile of a spire on one side, and hudum writing on the other. Talking to the Numismatrix gives you further info that the writing is a promise for repayment, and a warning against using any other currency. I had to translate this through two different translators in order to get traditional hudum script (they use Mongolian Cyrillic nowadays more commonly) so it may not be perfectly accurate, but from left to right it should read "One Echo. The Only Currency."

And then bottom right is an Amber Ha'Penny. They're described as being tiny, sticky, and stamped with the image of a chain. It's supposed to be the same image of a chain on both sides, one being broken and one being forged, but I decided to have the sides slightly vary to reflect that better.

#fallen london #fallen london fanart #art #the scientist scribbles #coins

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queerofthedagger · 2 years

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Inspired by this absolutely precious dreamling art by @anabimelo ! <3

The first time, Dream doesn’t do it on purpose.

He visits the New Inn as he has taken to doing a little more often than perhaps he should, and finds Hob with bruised skin beneath his eyes and a stack of unmarked exams scattered all around him.

“I can return at a better time if you are busy?” Dream offers; he would very much like Hob’s company, but he dislikes seeing him tired like this—much more, he would dislike adding to the reasons for it.

“Stay,” Hob requests, doubt flickering across his face before he nods at the bench beside him.

Dream has been finding himself increasingly incapable of denying Hob anything. He very carefully ignores the implications of said condition.

“Are you certain?” he asks. “You appear to be stressed.”

“All the more reason for a break,” Hob says, waving him off. “You could tell me about… just anything, really. News of your realm? How is the rebuilding going?”

Dream has been trying to become better about this—telling Hob his name and his purpose, all those minute implications that come with it—and so he does.

He speaks of the restoration process of the library, and Lucienne’s tireless work. He spins the stories that make up the inhabitants of the Dreaming and their various histories, while life in the pub keeps playing out around them, a comforting lull that never once disturbs their quiet bubble.

Hob listens, even as his eyes seem to grow heavier, exhaustion radiating off of him.

The first time is not on purpose, and so when Hob Gadling rests his head on Dream’s shoulder, drifting off into his realm, Dream freezes. He is painfully, viscerally aware of the warm weight of Hob’s head, the hair tickling his neck, the soft cadence of Hob’s breathing now pressed against Dream’s side.

Within his chest, something awfully close to a heart is thrashing against its bone-coloured constraints.

The implicit trust is almost overwhelming, would be too much if it wasn’t Hob; Hob, who is muttering a name in this early stage of sleep that he has learnt only months ago, pressing his nose into Dream’s neck as if to build himself a home there.

Dream can do little but breathe, can do little but wrap the magic of his realm around them so that he can carry Hob to his bed without waking him.

He lingers, for the briefest of moments, witnessing Hob’s sleep.

He ignores the blooming tenderness within his chest, too.

While the first time was an accident, the following instances are not.

Hob doesn’t mention it the next time they see each other, as their meetings spill over from the Inn to strolls through London’s early autumn streets and into Hob’s flat. They huddle up on Hob’s sofa, as Hob talks about anything and everything, and nudges Dream to do the same.

So he does; he talks about Matthew and Rose and Jed, about his siblings and his plans for the Dreaming. He lets his voice drop low, lets it drag and curl through the room and wrap around Hob like the magic of lullabies that people dream of.

When Hob’s head comes to rest on his shoulder once more, Dream forgets that he does not need to breathe. He forgets the weight of eternal responsibility that usually presses down on his spine, forgets the phantom coldness of glass and steel, and comes alive beneath the steady, never-ending rhythm of Hob’s breathing. --- So it becomes a habit. Selfishly, Dream builds himself a sanctuary between the sleeping mind and the waking form of his only friend.

He allows his voice to coax Hob into his realm and pretends not to see the knowing glint in Hob’s eyes. He talks of his past and his present and his future as if of gifts that are simple to hand out, and he offers them all up at Hob’s feet for the comfort of his warmth against Dream’s shoulder. For how, without fail, Hob’s calloused hands will find his. How, without fail, once Dream puts him to bed after taking his fill of the warmth, Hob’s fingers will still curl into the insubstantial fabric of Dream’s clothes as if asking him to stay.

It has nothing to do with him, really, and there is only so much Dream can allow himself to indulge. So he never does, no matter how much the longing is threatening to swallow him whole—to lie down beside Hob, to press his nose into the tender skin of Hob’s throat. To pull the covers over them and bask in Hob Gadling’s warmth as if he were the sun and Dream the thawing ice of early spring.

So he never does, until one night, Hob’s grip on his clothes does not loosen; instead, he blinks up at Dream with drowsy eyes that are full of fond exasperation.

He shouldn’t be, is the thing. No mere human should possess the strength to tear themselves out of the Dreaming’s grasp—not with Dream’s attention on them, with no nightmare or outside force to throw them back to waking.

Hob Gadling has not been an ordinary human in a considerable time. He is blinking up at Dream, slow but awake, awake, awake. He says, “Stay. Please.”

Dream’s throat is dry, air stuttering through insubstantial lungs; part of him is tempted to step back into his realm and the safety of its loneliness.

Hob’s fingers are still warm against the skin of his wrist. Beneath the exhaustion and the hope and the quiet confidence, Dream can read the nervous anticipation as if in bold letters.

You have been staying for months now, he seems to say. Will you let me stay with you too, finally, finally?

Dream has been finding himself increasingly incapable of denying Hob anything; Hob’s constant, gentle tenacity renders it impossible, at last.

“As you wish,” Dream murmurs, and means, please; I would stay for as long as you have me.

Hob smiles up at him as if he understands, and once Dream has stretched out beside him, Hob reaches for him. The blanket is spread over Dream, and Hob’s hand finds his wrist, unerring.

“Could’ve just done that weeks ago,” Hob says with a sigh, pulling him close with a light arm around Dream’s waist that he could slip out of if he so pleased.

He doesn’t; he stays silent instead, tension unspooling as his body melts into the warmth of the bed, the scent of Hob around him—its own kind of lullaby.

“Thank you,” Dream says, the words slipping off his tongue in a rare moment of missing deliberation. He can’t bring himself to mind.

Hob hums, a small, content sound before he presses his lips to the crown of Dream’s head. He pulls Dream a little closer yet, and then he drifts back off into Dream’s realm as if it all really is as easy as this, for him.

Dream breathes in, and lets the quiet joy seeping off of Hob’s mind fill the cold cracks within himself. He breathes out and presses his nose into the crook of Hob’s neck, feeling at home for the first time in over a century.

#the sandman #dreamling #hob x dream #the sandman fic #mona's writing #this art has been living rent free in my head since i've seen it I just HAD to write it #and considering all the things I *should* be writing instead this felt like the perfect time

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