#the valiant must fall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kneelingshadowsalome · 2 months

Note

What about princess reader who falls for Konig? He's a retired royal soldier (Bit of an age gap but I was thinking more like he was so good he was able to retire early) that she saw every once and a while and she does the typical "disguise myself as a commoner so i can sneak into town" routine and he pretends he doesn't know but he used to serve her family so ofc he fucking recognizes her

He tries to be gentle with her but honestly she should just be happy he isn't ratting her out to her family 🙄🙄🙄 (not that she minds)

CW: 18+ MDNI. Medieval AU, forbidden love, mutual pining, virgin!princess!reader x veteran!knight!König. Undefined age gap (reader is of legal age which means she’s "old" for an unmarried woman of this period). Reader is kinda coercive, König is implied to be a virgin too. Bittersweet romance vibes, brooding guy/gentle girl trope, ambiguous ending.

Word count: 6.4 k

You never thought you’d have the guts to slap a knight.

Violence is unladylike, and even if you’re a princess, it doesn’t mean you should force your status down someone’s throat like that. Far less his, the man you were taught to respect and listen to because he’s a man, and older than you.

The fact that he was also an anointed knight didn’t seem as important as the simple truth that he possessed a cock between his legs, and it always annoyed you to no end that this was the reason why men ruled the world. As a lady still unwed, you’re supposed to be afraid of cocks, especially if they’re old and gruff.

But you never were afraid in the presence of your father’s most loyal knight. He was your sworn shield too, and the only time he had been away from your side was when he asked to go on a pilgrimage to some chapel nearby. Said he wanted to seek forgiveness for his sins.

A man like him must have a lot to pray forgiveness for, but knowing that he could split a man in half with that greatsword of his doesn’t stop you from sneaking out one night as you follow him outside the castle walls and into the local inn.

Dressed as a stable boy, you watch with wide eyes how he gulps down three pints of beer and doesn’t turn any dumber from it. His speech never slurs, his shoulders never slump, but when some kitchen wench sits down beside him, your breath gets caught in your throat.

You look at the odd couple for a moment or two, watch how your father’s knight, the secret object of your silly daydreams, finally loosens the strings of his purse and offers the girl a copper coin.

It’s more than you can take, so you shoot up from your bench and march to him. The woman looks up at you with lousy disinterest as you ask the man of your dreams if he’d like to have another pint of ale. Your knight recognizes you immediately, even in your too-big tunic and your uncomely hose, even with that dirty felt hat covering your hair.

And he’s mortified, from what you can tell.

Both your eyes are wide now, and the woman beside him is smart enough to leave. She slides herself off the bench and sneaks past your side, and your valiant knight just looks at you, looks at you, looks at you.

You should be worried that he’ll snitch about your adventures to your father, but right now, all you can do is stare at him like he’s the thief, caught fresh and red-handed. Because he is a thief, and a devil, the worst man on earth when he was supposed to be the best. You snort to let him know how much you despise him—for coming here and bedding women for money when he’s supposed to be a sworn, celibate knight—but what truly hurts here is that he’s bedding someone else than you.

When you march out of the inn, he follows you, even dares to lay his hand on you by grabbing your arm outside. That’s when you turn on your heels and deliver a fat slap on his cheek, lightly stubbled and sweet, something you had hoped to plant a kiss on for many, many years.

“Your grace,” He grunts and rubs his chin, slightly amused. “Have I offended you?”

The slap couldn’t hurt that much, and this man never does amused. Even now, the mirth extends only to his eyes, never to his lips.

“You know perfectly well that you have, sir,” you clasp your hands in front of you, now entirely his princess even though you’re dressed like a peasant.

“My lady,” he bows both in body and in voice. “I truly don’t know what crime I have committed.”

You’ve never seen him so… jovial.

Usually this knight looks like there’s a stick up his ass, that someone pissed in his porridge and shat in his stew, that there’s nothing but hailstorms and calamity in his life.

Were you any more clever, you’d leave him be, but God has made it so that you’re drawn to battered and beaten animals. Of course you’re drawn to him too, lonely and spiteful as he is. This man broods so much you sometimes wonder if he’s the reason why it rains so violently up here in the hills. He probably summons dark clouds above the castle with those ponderous frowns alone – but now he’s looking at you as if he just woke up from the dead and walked into the shy sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

“You… You shouldn’t bed women,” you tell him, and he looks at you even more curiously.

“You shouldn’t pay for it,” you mumble next – unladylike, again, especially when your eyes turn to your shoes and away from that hawk-like, calm stare.

There’s a short silence after that, and you almost turn heel and walk back to the castle from the desire to escape the weight of his eyes. Eventually, he shifts his weight to the other leg and clears his throat.

“I sometimes pay for women to hold me. There’s nothing more to it.”

You raise your eyes to meet his, but the mirth is all gone now. It’s replaced by solemn acceptance, some sorrow you never even knew he had. Yes, he’s always silent and looks a bit pissed, but he’s not heartbroken, no, not your brave knight…

“To “hold you”, sir?”

The sorrow is covered with white lashes before you get to the bottom of it. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth—shame and frustration, probably.

“To hold me. Like a mother would. Is that a sin?”

His eyes search for yours from under dark brows, they beg for your consent as if it mattered to him. They’re quite catching, his eyes; enchanting in their intangibility. You know he doesn’t need your acceptance, nor is he threatened by your disgust. He’s unreachable, untouchable, forbidden—a mountain you can never climb because you wouldn't even find it among the mist. And those eyes see everything but feel nothing: they haven’t taken part in the troubles of this world in years.

…

He evades you for the whole of next week.

Leaves the hall if you choose to dine there, walks away when he sees you at the stables, looks through you if you have the courage to address him. You stand watch by the window every night to see if he slips out of the castle, but it seems your knight has lost his interest in kitchen wenches and copper hugs.

It burns like hot broth in your stomach, the thought of him in some other woman’s embrace. This mighty giant of a knight, kneeling in front of a girl, paying for her to simply put her arms around him.

You’re not sure if you’re childish to believe him and his words. To trust that he truly goes to them just to be held. You’re not sure if you’re the worst lover of poor, crippled creatures for not wanting to let him have even that...

Because you wish to hold him yourself, here, in the softest of all beds. Just wrap your arms around him after you’ve unburdened him of that heavy mail and thick gambeson; you’d help him with anything he needs. Let him sigh against you and have those lines of worry on his brooding face smooth somewhat. Maybe sing a soft song for him to help him sleep...

The thought of him being so lonely that he spends his wage on girls just to have a hug is driving you to madness.

It’s tearing you to pieces because he would never, ever have to pay you to hold him.

It’s forbidden, you know: this love you’ve harboured for years. He’s far below your rank, even as a bannerman, he’s far below you even if he’s taller than the tallest war horse in your father’s stables. He’s older than you too, but that’s hardly the biggest problem: your father took his second wife when he was five and thirty and the maid was seventeen. The match was considered perfectly normal, even healthy, but this would not. This would cause an outrage.

Oh yes, you’re to be wed far away to some sadistic young lord if your father has his way. You’re sure they’re already gossiping about it in the streets: how you should’ve been sold like a horse years ago. How is it that you’re still here, burdening the kingdom with your presence and swallowing up coin?

If they only knew that you’ve fought against every match with tooth and nail, the townsfolk would work themselves into a small uprising. And you’re not against marriage because you like it here so much... You’re against it because the knight who dresses himself in black mail and makes the servants piss themselves with his heavy footsteps alone makes your heart flutter like never before.

Your father would kill both of you if he knew.

And you wonder… What would he do? Your pale, brooding knight?

Would he scoff and turn his head away if he knew you dreamed of him before sleep, would he be appalled to hear that you’ve touched yourself to the thoughts of him? Would he think you a whore…?

You dress differently that night, the night you catch him escape the dull horrors of the castle once more. Boredom oozes out of the walls here, a poison of nothingness and despair. The stones won’t offer warmth, not even during the height of spring, so it’s no wonder that your knight is headed elsewhere for warmth and a mug of ale.

You dress accordingly to see what this toughest of knights is made of: with a brown woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, you look the part of a kitchen maid who forgot half her garments at home.

People look at you in the streets, but without your usual attire and with your hair styled differently, they wouldn’t know who they’re looking at even if they saw you frolic around like this in court. You know they’re looking at you because you're a half naked woman ripe for taking, stubbornly out at night and dressed so suggestively it’s a miracle no guard rapes you before you reach the inn.

Maybe it’s the royal pride that keeps them away: you certainly look like you haven’t toiled in the fields or shoveled horse dung in your poor miserable life. There’s an air about you, and he notices it too, far before you’ve sat your pretty bum on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing,” he asks with a slightly alarmed voice.

He has that stick up his arse again, sits so straight that you’ve never seen such a ramrod back on anyone. When you set your hand over his, he only blinks.

“One silver to hold you, sir,” you lean to whisper on his skin, the shaved cheek you’ve wanted to kiss for so, so long. “What do you say...?”

He’s still breathing, even if there’s no sound to prove that he is. You can only see it from the rise and fall of his chest, covered by a stained, cream-white gambeson, that he’s breathing. He’s big, even without his armor, big and strong and intimidating, a tower of strength in one man.

“I cannot bed women,” he talks to the stout logs that make the walls of the inn, refusing to even look at you after one quick horrified glimpse.

“Who said anything about bedding?”

“This is a dangerous game, your grace,” he warns with a low purr when you won’t relent.

His voice is parched but smooth, and you smell smoke; delicious smoke from the fire that sticks to the clothes of a person who spends too many hours staring into a fire. You smell ham and earth and leather and sweat, horses and metal, the rusty stench of mail gone bad.

You wonder how you smell to his nostrils – is it something sweet? Fresh herbs and lavender oil maybe, or soft, spun wool, some tangerines and summer wine?

“I’m not your grace,” you tell him, nose now touching the bridge of his ear. “Not in here.”

You see from the turned sleeve of his padded tunic that the hairs on his arm are standing on end. His eyes are closed, and you can finally hear his ragged breaths. Desire speaks in them, or then you’re in over your head... Why else would he sound like that, like he’s already making love?

“One silver, sir, and I’ll hold you all night,” you repeat softly, and he swallows with a dry, open mouth.

“I don’t have such money on me,” he rasps, voice drenched in slow, drowsy want.

He wants this; wants, wants, wants….

“Really? Is my price too high?”

“Far too high for a man like me.”

You breathe a smile upon his skin, the place where his neck meets his jaw. Running your fingers across his wrist, you leave little to the imagination and you both know it.

“You can pay for the room and we’ll see how much you have left after that.”

“Princess, this is–”

“Hush.”

He’s in pain now, you can see it: the sharpness, the distant eagle gaze from his eyes is gone. He can barely keep his lids open, and when you peel the sleeve back with your hand, pet him like he’s one of your cats, press your lips on the spot you know is the most sensitive, he groans.

“You’re going too far,” he whispers, but won’t move. Breathless now, he can’t even speak with dignity. Gone are the distanced grunts and the composure, even the stick in his arse has melted away.

If a touch of your lips and the softest caress can do this to him, what would happen if you straddled his lap? How would it feel to be pressed against him, naked and entwined in a mutual embrace?

“You didn’t say no to that other girl,” you breathe more kisses on his skin. “Am I so horrendous…?”

“You–” he starts, opens his eyes somewhat. “You are teasing me on purpose.”

“You never were the brightest of my father’s knights,” you smile a little laugh in his ear.

He grabs his pint as if that could save him; out of fury or lust, you don’t know. And that’s when your little adventure gets interrupted: someone must’ve had enough of this disgusting display of seduction and whoring.

“Pardon me, lovebirds. The room’s a copper, if it please you,” a tired voice says from somewhere above. “And the ale is–”

“Ja, ja. I’ll pay,” your knight grunts with such annoyance that you’re not sure if he’s mad at you or the poor soul who interrupted you two.

Everyone here must think that you’re here to make some coin on a lonesome, desperate man. And he’s desperate, by God, he’s desperate… But when you walk upstairs and into your room, he takes a dip in cold waters without you knowing anything about it. When the door shuts behind you, your knight is back to the unbroken effigy he was last week, as he has always been.

“You sleep there,” he points at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There’s plenty of room on the–”

“One more word from that pretty mouth and I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to.”

You’re sent to your bed without supper, in your silly clothes, and get to watch how he barely takes his boots off before setting himself down on the floor, back turned to you. The innocent question “You think my mouth is pretty?” only gets an irritated scoff for an answer.

From under the linens, you watch him sigh and slowly turn to stone on the cold floor. There’s a big rug there but it’s barely enough to keep the chill out, and the hearth is cold during late days of spring. You’re warm enough here under your sheet, but you would be warmer if your knight was here with you… Warm body against yours as you both hold each other through the night.

If only he could be enticed here by lying that you’re freezing... His honor would force him to share the bed with you, and your poor knight wouldn’t have to wake up with sore joints. The more you listen to him let out those occasional sighs, the more you want to shake this man. This silly act of martyrdom has to come to an end, now.

Slipping out from the warmth of your bed, you tiptoe to him. You know he can hear you, probably cursing in his mind with that crude foreign tongue of his. Laying yourself down behind him, you snuggle close until your front is glued to his back.

It must pain him to have a maiden leave the comfort of her bed and trade it for the dirty floor, but you wonder if there’s pleasure in the pain when your touch finds him once more. And it’s not just want and lust you feel when you place your arm around him. It’s not motherly love either, although you do feel like you’re embracing a giant child who doesn’t want to be comforted. You know nothing about how lovers touch or hold each other, you’ve never touched a man other than your father, and those touches were never affectionate and warm, those touches were barely there at all.

You wonder if you should be scared: you were taught that men will fuck everything that moves when given the chance. If a man of his size chose to take you here on this floor, there would be nothing left of you. Such an outcome seems dubious, however, when your sworn shield acts like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Let me hold you,” you whisper when he continues to be stiff as a rock in your embrace. “You don’t have to pay me. Surely you know that you don’t have to–”

He moves, and at first you fear he’s about to rise and dart to the door. Make a run for it and slam it shut because you pushed it too far, his dumb, danger seeking maiden.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around and buries his face somewhere in your neck. He does it so forcefully that you’re almost sent to lie on your back, and you barely catch the naked pain in his eyes before a rough arm snakes itself around your waist and pulls you close.

Warm breaths hit your skin, sending all the little hairs in your body shooting up – were he to move an inch further down, his face would be buried in your tits…

And then come the tears.

You’ve never heard a man cry like that – well, you’ve never heard a man cry at all. You didn’t even know they knew how to weep. It’s like all the tears in the world are reserved for women and children because there’s no wetness even now: your knight cries in thick, dry sobs, shudders that shake the both of you, years and years of suffering sighed through gritted teeth and into your hair.

Slowly, so slowly, you place your arm around him once more. Your hand barely reaches the middle of his back, so vast is this man, now only a crumbling mountain in your embrace. But when you won’t waver, when you refuse to turn your tail and run, he slowly melts in your arms like spring snow.

He still breathes as if in pain, the sounds that come out of his mouth heartbroken and strained. You’re not surprised to see that even his crying is an act of violence; he’s a man inconsolable.

And yet, you console him. Comfort him. Like a mother, you stay and let him cry his fill in your ear as he clutches you, threatening to tear the back of your poor cotton blouse while doing it.

When he’s done, the shakes recede and his body is warm and calm, soft, almost. He pants and swallows, comes down from it with so much shame that you’re sure he has never done this with anyone, not ever before.

And then…

“I beg for your forgiveness, my lady,” he gruffs on your skin. “That was–”

“Shh... It’s alright.”

You caress the back of his neck, sweaty from the toil. He releases the fabric of your blouse only to grab it again in an even tighter fist. The face in your neck is buried deeper, his lips now pressed right over your throat.

“It has always been you, Geliebte... God knows it has always been you.”

You freeze in the middle of his confession, the panting on your skin intolerably thick now. When you swallow against his mouth, he pulls you against him, the body that used to be rigid and cold now like a hot, thick furnace, threatening to devour yours.

“You must know it too,” he whispers. “You must. You’ve seen my torment. Tell me you’ve seen it…”

He’s not demanding more than he is desperate, some dam suddenly being breached by a long-held flood.

If anything, you thought he hated you... You thought you were alone in your anguish, but it turns out he has carried the same soft secret all these years.

And it drowns you for a moment, his want and yours. Hands trying to touch whatever they can, mouth searching yours like he’s about to die if he can’t have a sip. You’ve heard what happens to women who allow themselves to get groped in dark hallways and winding steps; they hardly ever escape a man’s touch with their maidenhood still intact. And yet, this is what you’ve always dreamed of; a hot, blunt, forbidden encounter with this man.

Now that he’s finally on fire for you, you’re not so sure though. What if you’re about to mate with a beast?

“Sir…” you whisper when he plants trembling kisses down your throat. He thinks you’re only moaning his title in the throes of pleasure, and squeezes you against him so hard that a tight little whimper is squished out of your mouth.

“I’m–I’m untouched,” you tell him before he sends his face between your tits, and it finally has the effect you feared and hoped for.

He freezes too, in the middle of tearing down your blouse. A shivering hand releases the fabric slowly, reverently; it rises to cup your face as your flushed knight meets your stare with shame.

“Of course you are,” he hushes upon your lips, strokes your cheek softly. “I cannot bed you. I know. But let me…”

He blushes while searching for the right words. That’s the moment when you start to suspect if he’s ever even been with a woman. What kind of a womanizer would blush when they’re about to make love to a lady?

“Let me make you feel good,” he finally suggests. “I’ve heard… of a way.”

He almost stutters when he says it, and you wonder if this is what he’s prayed forgiveness for. If he’s been thinking about different ways of wrecking you so much that it’s enough to send him to hell…

“And then,” he continues, “we’ll never speak of this again. You’ll become my lady, and I’ll become your sworn shield once more. We’ll be as we always were. As it always was...”

You’re not sure if you like that – returning to your status quo, becoming who you were before clutching each other on the floor like mad animals about to mate. But you nod.

Whatever he wishes to do to you, it must be something good, and you trust him. Even after he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before, you’d trust this man with your life.

Your valiant knight carries you back to bed, and delivers on his promise. He never undresses you, he never defiles you. He just lifts your ankle to his lips and gives it a soft, reverent kiss, grazes your shin with his mouth before starting to worship you like a pagan idol of old.

You don’t know where he heard about it–at the stables, or the kitchen, at the barracks or the taverns–but the way with which he makes you squirm doesn’t require a cock, not even a hand. His lips are gentle, but his mouth is hungry, and you don’t know how to feel shame when he’s buried under your dress like that. You can’t even see his face when he makes you his, claims you with his mouth alone.

It must be a sin to not take you like a man takes a woman on a wedding night; it must be a sin that it does not hurt at all, what he wants to do to you. But you don’t care. Love is much better and far messier than how they depict it in the songs, and no one ever talks about the noises a man can make when they pleasure a woman.

He groans like a beast, but moans like a whore – it sends a flush of hot blood up your cheeks to hear him so utterly needy and vile. Your knight who barely gave you a grunt as a greeting in your father’s hall now whines with a broken pitch between your legs. His hot sighs drown your own, and you thank Saint Mary and all the angels that there’s loud music and booming laughter downstairs. It’s still there, the dirty tavern, even if you’re being sent to heaven on this bed...

He gives you mercy only after you break upon his mouth with a series of tight cries. Spends a lengthy amount of time under your dress too, licking and kissing you clean.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to get out of there, but when he emerges, he looks like a drowned, happy puppy, this giant, brooding knight… The sight seizes your heart in a flaming hand that you know will never let go: it’s forever engraved in your heart, that drunken, devoted stare. You thought that men had the needs of an animal and that women were put on this earth just for them to have their fill, but when you look at your knight, it appears it��s the other way around... This man has finally found what he was looking for. Between your legs, he just found his Heaven on earth, his Holy Grail.

And so he returns from his quest with a devotion that leaves you breathless. Takes you in his arms like an injured bird, making you feel like it’s summer already, and the world is nothing but songs and tales and long nights of bliss.

“Know that I am yours,” he says. “Until my dying breath and even beyond, I’m yours.”

It’s a pledge, not a statement, and it’s said with so much weight that the vow he swore to your father pales in comparison.

“Sir... You always say such silly things,” you whisper back while lying in a pool of shimmering love, a heaven on earth indeed. Not even anointed, true to their faith knights talk like this… And he just smiles languidly when you raise a hand to brush his cheek.

He looks like another hug could save him, like a simple adoring stare from you is all that is needed to keep him going for another year. It irks you that he’s ready to settle for so little when you’re ready to give him everything he’s ever wanted and more. With what just happened, he’ll live on for a thousand, thousand years, he’ll survive even the coldest of nights – but you won’t.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you tell him, and a flash of fresh panic crosses his eyes.

“Süssling…”

He says it with worry, but does nothing when you send an exploring hand to his bulge. Drawing a sharp breath when you sweep your hand over it, he goes rigid again, this time for reasons other than just nervousness.

You’re younger and therefore more impatient, which means you’re at the strings of his pants in no time. He looks at your greed with a slack jaw and a set of furrowed brows, but never tries to prevent you. It only spurs you on that he’s acting so shy in front of an eager maiden when other men would already be bullying their cocks in your unexplored heat.

“This is madness,” he whispers when you pull out the heavy, hard cock that reminds you of the members you’ve seen on horses and bulls.

Of course the man’s big down there when he’s practically a myth walking… And there must be a way to pleasure him too, some lovely devilry that will leave you a maiden. A virgin for him to take on your wedding night – because you will marry this man, no matter what anyone says. You’ll burn the whole kingdom down before giving yourself to any other man.

You wrap your fingers around him to punctuate it that he’s yours. If he feared you might mirror what he just did to you, he makes no comment about it when you don’t, only whines when his cock is snared by a frail but eager hand.

“Princess,” he warns, slightly out of breath. “I will stain your dress…”

“Shh. Show me how to please you.”

The worry in his eyes is wild and bright, but the way your fingers mold around him leaves no space for arguments. A broken, stiff sigh is punched out of him when you begin to move: if he won’t show you how, it’s no trouble at all to try and find out yourself.

But when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of him, he finally brings a trembling hand upon yours. He starts to guide you, adjusts your grip, huffs when you both apply pressure on it. The curious creature that you are, you look down to witness the ugly beauty of it all.

It’s intimidating and rough, the cock in your hand... It looks like a weapon, honestly, a battering ram that leaks heady liquid from the head. Smooth and heavy and ripped with veins, it’s like a too hard muscle about to bludgeon something, and your hand is making it drool profusely. Would that it were inside you, you would be in grave danger, and why is it that you find the prospect so seductive?

His hand is far bigger than yours, and it makes your heart run wild, the way he tries to be gentle while using your grip to get himself off. He can’t even keep his eyes open from the shame, just takes a quick glance at your enthralled face before squeezing his eyes shut once more.

“Look at me,” you command softly, and he obeys – what else can a sworn knight do? – but you can see that the poor man is on the verge of tears. Shaking and panting, he stares at you while fucking himself with your hand, and when you close the small breath of air between you and kiss him, he melts.

The first thick spurt surprises you completely, you even mewl into his mouth when it shoots to stain your dress. You didn’t expect that to happen, at least not so fast… And because this is the first time you’ve seen a man come undone, you quickly leave the panting, moaning mouth and look down.

There’s so much of it, and the release is so violent; it looks and sounds like it hurts because the man is shuddering and groaning as if stabbed. Thick, white pulses of seed coat the brown wool of your dress, but it soaks the semen gladly: there’s nothing left of his cum other than dark, damp stains after he’s done.

And there’s no end to his shame. He pries your hand away from his cock as soon as he’s somewhat composed. Does it with a shaky hand, wipes what little stains of hot, wet seed you have on your palm to his pants, and all you’re thinking about is what it would feel like to have this giant trembling and groaning like that above you, inside you… If you could even take all of that thick, brutal length. If he would be able to move away when inside your heat, if he’d let you hug him again, just hold him close so that he’d never ever leave anymore…

“I have soiled you,” he mutters while looking at your skirt.

“Nonsense. You have only claimed me... I’m yours now.”

“Princess… No amount of silver–”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

You actually manage to kiss him silent. Tears begin to run down his face when you show him where he belongs. It’s the final surrender as he pulls you into his arms and finally drowns you in love – at last, you find yourself under him as he takes what's his. What seems like hours later, he breaks the kiss, only to look into your eyes with full-blown adoration.

“How am I to live without you after this?”

“You don’t have to. Not ever,” you say.

“Princess. If there was any hope for me to have your hand, if there was any hope that your father would give it, I would have carried you away from this place years ago.”

For a while, you fear it’s the fear of sin that burns him. But then you realize it was always only just you.

He looks so anguished now, even more in pain, when all you wanted to do was relieve his agonies. This was only a taste of what he can’t have. You both took a bite of the forbidden fruit but can’t eat the entire thing – no wonder he looks like he’s cast out of heaven he didn’t know even existed.

“Sir, I cannot do this,” you grab his face with both hands now. “Please don’t make me do this...”

He sighs and looks at the mess you just made. He’s broken every oath he’s ever taken, and the evidence is scattered right there between you. The only thing deadlier than this would’ve been if he pumped all of that hot, fluid sin inside you.

“Sweetling,” he laments. “Look at us. You’ve already ruined me. Ruined us both…”

“It’s called love, silly.”

He breathes a short, shy smile, the first you’ve ever seen on him. It’s cute and makes him look young, the quick flash of teeth between unruly lips, the almost bashful, downcast eyes that are not quite ready to meet the full brunt of your devotion.

“Ja,” he breathes. “Ich weiss.”

Then he brings his eyes back to yours, his smile slowly making way for a more serious expression. He lifts a hand to touch your cheek, and you find yourself soaring in the sky like a bird, a phoenix that has risen from the dead. It’s heavenly, the way you both caress each other, here on the lowly tavern’s bed, covered in salt, sweetness and sin.

“Your father will have both our heads if he finds out,” he tells you as if you needed the reminder.

“I pray our heads will never be separated then.”

He snorts a quick smile again. It makes you heady, that you’re apparently the only one who can make this gruesome giant laugh.

“You’re dangerous, princess,” he gruffs. “I knew you were trouble… And yet I curse all the years I left you in peace.”

“I know,” you smile. “Never the brightest one, my love...”

When you lie in his arms that night and tell him about your silly little fantasies, he grows hard again. When you tell him you now have new ones—ones where you’d want to feel him inside you—he looks like a man condemned to death.

The stares he shoots your way make it clear that he’s lost – no matter what he says, he can’t be kept away from you, not anymore. You suppose he’ll forsake even more secret promises and vows before forsaking the pledge he swore to you. Even at the cost of your lives, he’ll come scratching at your door, howling for some quick, hot love in the night, begging for you to give him everything he has denied himself.

And eventually, you grow more serious too. While lying in his arms, safe and tucked away from all the horrors of this world, you play with the leather strings of his gambeson, tugging them and twisting them around your finger like a child.

“There will come a day when they promise me to another,” you whisper, wondering if he’s already asleep.

He promised to never leave your side again, he promised. And still… What will happen when the carriage and horses take you to some distant, hostile kingdom, far away from him? What if you only get this summer together, and then nothing no more?

“They’ll take me away,” you tell him, almost without a voice.

A soft, hearty grumble answers, a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.

“No one will take you away, sweetling. Not as long as I live.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #medieval au #konig x reader #könig fanfiction #cheesy romance warning

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hangmanssunnies · 7 months

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Summary: After a failed Tinder date, you go to hang out with your friend Jake "Hangman" Seresin. When you get to his house, you unexpectedly find him with a baby, and it is a sight that rewires something in your head. Jake needs a baby of his own. Right now — like yesterday, actually. And that is a task you would be more than willing to help with; now, you just need to find the courage to bring it up.

Pairings: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Word count: 9k

AO3 Link

Warnings: 18+ Only, Friends to lovers, baby fever, smut, P in V, Oral, Hangman with a baby (deserves its own warning)

Author's note: The attorneys at work keep bringing their babies in and letting me hold them, and @top-hhun has done absolutely nothing to discourage the subsequent baby fever I've been dealing with. Anyways, that's where this fic came from. I hope you enjoy this. My inbox is always open if you want to let me know your thoughts. Reblogs with your thoughts, opinions, and tags are gold to me. I love reading through them.

You had become friends with Jake unexpectedly some years ago, hitting it off at your mutual friend's wedding. Part of you had, of course, hoped the attractive blonde aviator would be interested in you, maybe in a romantic sense, but it never came to fruition. He shipped out the week after the wedding, but the easy rapport you carried with him started with sharing jokes about how trashed other people got at the reception, and eventually developing into a true and close friendship.

It was for the best because the more you got to know Jake, it became clear to you that he didn't want the same things that you did. He was focused on his career and didn't have time for a partner. When he did talk about settling down, it was never in an authentic way, more joking that he was waiting to swoop in if Coyote's marriage fell apart or that his Mama would set him up with a nice southern belle who wanted to give her twelve grandkids. Jake would claim he was too busy for a relationship, away from home too much to be steady. However, none of that seemed to stop him from finding time for you, which is probably why you hadn't been able to completely repress your feelings for him despite some valiant efforts.

Just today, after a failed lunch date with someone from Tinder, you texted Jake disheartened. He hadn't hesitated first to ask if you were okay and then invited you over for dinner to tell him all about it. He had even promised to cook you whatever you wanted. A special treat guaranteed to make you feel better, considering Jake's superb culinary skills.

You walk into Jake's house without knocking or ringing the bell, knowing he left the door unlocked in anticipation of your arrival. After securing the front door's lock into place, you toe off your shoes, making sure to set them neatly in line with the others there. Jake's home is clean and tidy, just like it always is; the organization of the entry is no exception. You know from the smells and sounds wafting towards you that he must still be cooking, which is odd because he's almost always done by the time you show up.

Venturing further into the house you see him, standing in the kitchen, with a baby strapped to his chest. It's an unexpected sight, and you're frozen by it. Jake's in a casual white teeshirt, jeans, and a dark navy blue sling with a camo pattern wrapped tightly around him, securing a tiny infant in place against his broad chest. His hair is fluffy like it often is on his days off, and the golden strands fall across his forehead. Seeing it like this always creates an instinctual desire to run your fingers through it. However, you can hardly even process that thought because you're so distracted by the bundle on his chest. Music is playing on his record player, and he is humming along.

Jake suddenly stops the humming, and the prep he is doing, looking down at the baby. After a pause, a smile pulls at the edges of his lips, his eyes crinkle before he drops a kiss on the infant's head. And it's like everything is right. Jake with a baby seems so natural. The fact that he exists any other way than with a baby in his arms every day feels wrong. Your heart starts beating harder in your chest, and a thought pops into your head, instantly taking deep root: Jake needs a baby of his own. Right now — like yesterday, actually.

You don't know what sound you must have made, but Jake looks up and finally notices you standing in the hallway. He doesn't appear at all startled as a wide grin spreads across his face as he greets you, "Howdy there, Doll!"

"You have a baby," you say stupidly in an entirely delayed response.

"Yeah, this little guy is Jackson. Coyote and the Mrs wanted a date day, so I offered to watch the baby for them. They were supposed to be here two hours ago to pick him up, but I'm sure they just got caught up." Jake laughs and presses another kiss to Jackson's head. Before continuing on, "I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," you manage to breathe out, unable to tear your eyes off Jake or even pretend you're not staring. He quirks an eyebrow at you but otherwise doesn't comment. After he gestures for you to join him, he returns to the cutting board in front of him. You are transfixed; when you sit down at the bar in the kitchen, it occurs to you that you should probably say something and not just stare like an idiot. "Do you want me to take him?"

"I think he is just fine here," Jake says, examining the sleeping baby strapped to his chest again. Jackson has hardly moved since you showed up, clearly passed out, not disturbed by the music or any of the kitchen sounds.

"At least let me help finish cooking then?" You request.

"No, Ma'am. Bubba and I have this dinner taken care of. I did pick up that wine you like from the store. Maybe you can open it up for us?"

Entering the kitchen, you pull out two wine glasses from a cabinet. Opening the fridge you see your preferred wine stocked, as well as a few of your other favorite drinks stored there. Warmth blooms in your chest that Jake picked up things for you when he was at the store last. It was touching that he would take care to buy something he would never touch but getting it anyway just to have beverages you prefer on hand. After pouring the wine, you set one glass next to Jake's cutting board, making sure it's in easy reach for him.

"Thank you," he says appreciatively. You sigh and lean against him, pressing your face into the bicep of his arm, careful not to disturb Jackson or the sling as you do. Closing your eyes, you breathe him in, looking for the subtle cedar scent of his cologne to soothe you. However, only a hint of it tickles your nose, the cedar not as strong as it usually is. Today, Jake smells more like clean laundry and his natural musk than anything else. You are surprised to find it still does the trick in helping settle your nerves, though. Jake hums but doesn't protest your closeness, instead asking, "Long day?"

You don't answer with words, just humming noncommittally against his arm. You leave your face pressed there for a moment longer. "Not enough wine to talk about it yet," you eventually say into his arm before pulling away. Settling on the other side of the counter again, you take a long drink of the wine you poured. Deciding to admire Jake again, you ask, "How was your day?"

"It was pretty good. Javy dropped Jackson off this morning. We had tummy time, went on a walk, and to the grocery store to get things for dinner. Then we got a little cranky, so we rocked in the lazy boy for a while." You took a moment to picture Jake doing these activities and can't decide which is most swoon worthy. Jake is always swoon worthy, of course, but knowing that he was caring for a baby while doing it feels like an extra kick to the stomach or maybe ovaries.

"And?" You ask him, taking another drink of your wine and pillowing your face on your palm.

"And what?" Jake asks.

"What else did you and Jackson do today? I want to hear every detail."

Jake gives into your request easily. Starting his description of the day over, he tells you how even though he has babysat before, the Machados were still anxious to leave Jackson alone here when they dropped him off that morning. Jake told you about tummy time, which toys they liked and which were uninteresting. How long their walk was, and what they saw. He told you about the old woman who fawned over them in the store and how they helped her with getting her groceries to the car. It was endearing that Jake used the first person plural 'we' as if he and Jackson were a team with equal agency in their day's activities. It was especially cute when Jake told you about the tantrum they had thrown earlier in the afternoon as if he had been crying right along with his godson.

Just as dinner was finished and you were setting the table, Jackson woke up and started to get fussy. Jake cooed to the baby affectionately, leaving to the guest room, where Javy had stuffed almost a car full of supplies for Jake to watch Jackson. Some of the just-in-case supplies included toys and clothes Jackson wouldn't even be able to use until he was at least a year old.

When Jake comes back, both he and Jackson are wearing different clothes. Jake is in a soft green shirt and sweats, while Jackson is now wearing a giraffe onesie. He has the baby propped on his hip and doesn't offer you any explanation aside from that they had an accident. Then he sees that you have plated and set everything for dinner at the dining room table, and he offers a soft thank you.

You watch as he balances Jackson on his hip and starts following the written out directions for making a bottle that's taped to his fridge. Jake isn't someone who struggles, and you know that this is something that he is fully capable of doing, but you also can't help but think that it would be easier for him if he had two free hands. So, you gently pull Jackson from his arms and into your own instead.

The baby blinks up at you, his eyes still soft and sleepy. He babbles a bit of nonsense but otherwise makes no protest at you. Jackson has the same brown eyes and skin tone as his father. Even with his chubby cheeks, you can tell that the little boy is going to be Coyote's mini-me. The similarities in their appearance are so close it's like the universe had just hit copy and paste.

He is so cute you can't stop the grin that stretches across your lips when Jackson snuggles into you. One of his hands starts grabbing at your shirt's fabric while he absently gnaws at his other one. The little boy completely steals your attention as you walk around the living room and dining room with him. Asking him how he feels about his day with his Uncle Jake, pausing for his babbling like they were real answers. Jake comes up behind you several minutes later, setting a steady hand on the small of your back.

"Here, let me take him," Jake mutters practically in your ear while reaching for Jackson.

"No," you protest, turning away from Jake's reach. "You've had him all day. I've only gotten to hold him for a few minutes."

"Now, darling," Jake drawls.

"Don't darling me."

"Doll," He says

"Don't Doll me either." You snap, though the aggression of it is completely manufactured.

"Fine, fine," Jake says, holding his hands up. "You can have him for a few more minutes, but then it's my turn again."

"How is that fair?"

"It's fair because he is my godson."

You pout at Jake, and he pouts back." I can't believe you're going to be a baby hog like this. Don't you know sharing is caring?"

"Jackson isn't a rental car, sweetheart. Can't just hand him out to anybody."

"So what? You don't trust me with him?"

"No," Jake says, suddenly dropping all of his dry, teasing tone. "Of course, I trust you with him. Of course, I trust you."

Jake steps closer when he says this, crowding a bit into your personal space. His sea glass green eyes hold you in place, and you don't think you imagine that they flick downwards, that he has his sights set on your lips, that Jake could be considering kissing you. However, a breath later, he is swooping Jackson out of your arms and into his own, quickly back peddling.

"You can have the baby back after I feed him, okay? I don't want to risk him throwing up on that pretty blouse you've got on."

"Kidnaper! Baby Snatcher!" You half gasp, half yell, and start to chase after Jake as he runs away, holding Jackson close and carefully but still managing to evade you.

You're both laughing, and Jackson has started joyfully screeching as well when the doorbell rings, startling all three of you. Jake hands Jackson to you wordlessly before going to check who's at the door. It only takes a minute for him to come back with Coyote in tow. Who immediately rushes to sweep his baby from your arms and press kisses all over his cherub face.

After Javy examined his son to ensure nothing was out of sorts, he handed Jackson back to you to hold while he and Jake packed up all of his stuff and moved the car seat. This was only after he made a sly comment about how good you looked with a baby in your arms, though.

When you are alone with Jackson again, you take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror hanging on the wall. It wasn't such a hard thing for you to imagine holding a baby, and it looking normal, like something right, especially when you start to picture one with Jake's features or one that would take more after you, possibly even some sweet mix. The feeling of casual want that started from seeing Jake when you first arrived suddenly twists into an unexpected ache and intense need.

You expect it to let up, but it doesn't. Rather, the feeling smolders in you, burning hotter and hotter until it feels slightly consuming. Seeing Jake hug and kiss Jackson goodbye, promising they would spend another day together soon, nearly does you in. Heating your feelings from a low simmer to a roaring boil.

When you and Jake finally sit down to actually have dinner, it gets a little hotter with every sip of wine you take. Every time that Jake smiles and his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way he asks about your failed date with the perfect mix of sympathy and care, even the way he reheated dinner, all adds to the fire. As Jake is starting to put away the leftovers from dinner, refusing to let you help, you can't keep it in anymore, and you boil over.

"Jackson was so precious," you say, casually swirling the bit of drink you have left around in the glass.

"Little mans is so fun. I love him. It's always a treat to babysit,"

"You were really great with him today."

"Aw, thanks Doll. Now, what do you want to do with the rest of the night? Play a game, watch a movie? We can do anything you want."

"Anything I want?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jake says easily as he pops the lids of his pyrex container into place.

"I want a baby." You say in a quick breath. You nearly slap your hand over your mouth in horror that had just jumped out of your mouth. You really haven't had enough wine to be this bold, but then again, maybe you were a little intoxicated on having seen Jake be so domestic.

"What?" he asks with a laugh, probably thinking he misheard you. You grip the edge of the cool countertop trying to steady your nerves and prevent your hands from shaking.

"Jake, I want a baby," you tell him more slowly, making sure each word comes out clearly.

"No, you don't," he laughs, shaking his head. He starts tossing dirty dishes into the sudsy water of the sink and stacking up the food containers to put in the fridge. Jake turns away from you before saying, "I thought you've said you didn't want kids."

"It's complicated," you explain softly. "Are people not allowed to change their minds about things anymore?"

"Oh, so are you debating or like —"

"I don't really know how to say this more clearly. I want to have a baby with you, Jake."

He freezes. You see his shoulders tense, and he stares into the fridge for a long moment, slowly finishing storing the leftovers. When he closes the fridge, he still doesn't look at you immediately.

"You want me to be the father of a child you have? You want to have my baby?" Jake asks you incredulously. You gulp, now feeling entirely too vulnerable to speak, so you just nod in agreement instead. Jake's eyes are piercing, and his body language is tense as he stands in front of the sink again. He heaves a heavy sigh, his lips flattening into a tight line. Then he scrubs his hands over his face before narrowing his eyes at you, "This is not a very funny joke."

"It's not a joke, Jake. I want a baby, and I know you would be a good father." When Jake's demeanor still doesn't change, you continue on hurriedly. "I think we could do the whole platonic coparent thing easily enough. We get along so well, and we're already such good friends."

There is a long pause where he does not say anything, turning on the sink, waiting for the water to heat, and sudsing up a scrub daddy sponge. Only once this task is started does he answer you in a very stoic, perfectly level tone, "No, I don't think I can do that. I can't just sleep with you."

"Oh, well. I see. Forget that I asked, please." You mutter, embarrassed but trying to not let the sting of rejection affect your tone. You knew that this could backfire, but you didn't think it would feel this bad. Feel like the pit of your stomach falling so low you are almost nauseous.

"I'm sorry, Dolly."

"It's okay, Jake, really. It's just the wine getting to me."

"Are you going to ask someone else?"

"What?"

"Are you going to ask someone else to give you a baby?" Jake asks in a gruff tone.

You wouldn't actually, you wouldn't want one without Jake. In fact, this urge to have a child came from seeing him. However, you didn't know how else to play off your out-of-pocket request than to commit to the bit. Nonchalantly, you say, "Maybe."

"I could help you find someone," he offers.

"Please, Jake. It's okay you said no. You don't have to try and fix my situation."

He practically ignores you, asking, "What about Rooster?"

"I'm sure that I would have fun with the process," you say. Jake, who has focused himself with dedication on the dishes, looks up at you sharply. He quickly looks away again as you continue, "I'd be worried about having a baby that's born with a full mustache, though. So, no, thank you."

"I'm sure Fritz would be happy to help you out."

"No —"

"Harvard—"

"No Hangman. Stop," You say much harder with emphasis, cutting him off and leaving no room for argument.

"I tell you no for one thing, and suddenly I'm Hangman to you?"

"No, you're Hangman when you disregard the people around you, no matter what they say. You're Hangman when you decide something's a mission objective, and you refuse to let it go. This isn't your problem to fix or one to pawn off on one of your friends."

"You made it my problem when you just asked me to give you a baby," Jake says, frustrated. Roughly scrubbing the dishes, rinsing, and setting them in the drying rack.

"Well, the moment you said no, it's not your problem anymore. I'm absolving you of responsibility. It's my problem, and I will find someone for myself to put up with me, at least for a night." You joke, trying to lighten the mood again, not wanting to ruin the whole night from this mishap. Jake doesn't react more than his face darkening significantly, a deep frown pulling at his lips as he rinses the last dish and closes the dishwasher.

"Put up with you?" He asks, his eyebrows knitting together. Jake reaches for a dish towel to dry off his hands, and you're momentarily distracted by the thick fingers and web of veins tracing up his arm. It's a better sight than meeting Jake's intense eyes, those eyes that can stare you down and leave no room for you to hide.

"I mean, I know I'm a lot, but I think even I can get someone to fuck me once or twice. If I want and am very lucky, I'll only need one night. There are also other options, of course, like sperm banks and adoption. Let's just let it go. Okay?" When you don't get an immediate response, you glance at Jake once more. He is staring at you, but it's not a look you like. He's looking at you like you are a problem to be fixed, a puzzle to solve, an item to take off his to-do list. So you force a chuckle out and smile.

"I don't think I want to. Actually, I can't let this conversation go."

"We have to," you insist.

"Why?"

"Because Jakers, it doesn't have anywhere else to go. I expressed a stupid desire without thinking. It was awkward, and that's okay. It doesn't have to stay that way, though. Now we laugh and forget it. There is no other option."

"A lot. Put up with. Stupid desires," Jake scoffs the words as he rounds the kitchen island. He spins the bar stool chair you're sitting on by the back, turning you to face him. Then he sets his hands on the marble countertop on either side of you, effectively boxing you in. Even sitting on the tall bar stool, you have to tilt your head a bit to look up at him. When your eyes meet again, the green isn't as soft or kind as you're expecting. "I don't like how you're talking about yourself right now."

"I'm just being honest. I'm taxing to deal with; people get tired of me. My past relationships have certainly taught me that I'm only desirable under the right conditions. And I am stupid. I just ruined our whole night because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. What kind of normal person asks one of their best friends to fuck a baby into them unprompted?"

"Oh wow, I'm not even sure where to start with all that." Jake breathes. You can't take seeing his furrowed brow and disappointed frown. So instead, you examine his right arm that's stretched by you, mapping out the moles and freckles there. "You've developed a warped sense of the truth, Doll."

It's your turn to scoff and roll your eyes. When you do, the arm you've been studying shifts, and Jake cups your cheek. Gently, he urges your face to turn back towards his, and a calloused thumb sweeps across your cheekbone. "Listen to me good now. The things you want and desire they ain't stupid, and neither are you. You're not too much. You're just enough."

"Thank you, Jake." You whisper. And while his words are kind, you don't really believe them.

"Don't say thank you."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Say you believe me and mean it," Jake urges you.

"I don't want to lie to you. That's not who we are, that's not our friendship," You say. Jake's hand drops from your cheek, and he steps back quickly as if he's been burned. After you had been so surrounded by him, you nearly reach out to urge him close again. Running a hand through his hair, you can tell he's resisting the urge to pace.

"Is that our friendship, one built on honesty?"

"I thought so."

"Then I've failed you, and I've failed us because it's not."

"Jake, what are you talking about?" You ask him, confused. He shakes his head at you and doesn't respond, instead backing away further until he is abandoning you in the kitchen. Swiftly, you stand to follow him, "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving."

"And going where? This is your house," you remind him. You've caught up to him in the doorway of his bedroom, where he's grabbing a hat and his wallet. "I'm sorry I ruined tonight, and I'll leave. You have to be honest with me before I do, though. I have to know we're going to be okay tomorrow."

"I can't," Jake says tersely, not meeting your eyes and attempting to sidestep you in the doorway.

"I was wrongly under the impression there wasn't anything you couldn't do, Hangman. But I guess we are finding a lot of things you just can't do tonight, aren't we?" You aren't expecting the little lash out of a taunt to get you anywhere. Jake is normally always calm, cool, and collected, acting with decisive precision. However, nearly as soon as you've finished speaking, Jake's hands are on your arms, and he backs you up until you gently hit the wall of the hallway across from his door.

"You're asking for more self-restraint than I have, Doll." He warns roughly. The sudden movement doesn't make you back down like he was probably expecting. Instead, the rush makes you feel emboldened.

"I don't care. I can accept you don't want a baby with me, that you don't want to fuck me. I can accept that you want to force me to talk, but I can't accept you making me question our friendship."

"Oh god. You really don't understand. My honesty is not going to make this better," he warns.

"Yes, I do. Whatever it is, please tell me. I can think of many things you could be referring to, like that I'm not attractive to you. How I would make a terrible mother. Maybe I'm not a good friend. Or you don't actually like spending time with me. Whatever it is, you have to tell me. I've never thought you would lie to me. So, I need to know, or it's going to drive me crazy."

"There you are, all twisted up again," Jake sighs.

"And whose fault is that?" You snap back. Jake still has you pressed against the wall, so you set your hands on his broad chest with the intention of pushing him away. However, he doesn't budge; in fact, he does the opposite, coming even closer so he is flush against you. You refuse to tilt your chin to look up at him as he looms, rather only lifting your eyes in a cold stare. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're going to leave me hanging to dry, but you could at least —"

You don't get to finish the thought because a hand has snaked to hold the side of your neck, thumb tucking under your chin, turning your face upwards to Jake's waiting lips. The first brush of his lips on yours doesn't line up quite right, but that doesn't stop your breath from catching. Shifting to get a better angle, Jake applies two more feather light kisses. Your hands, which are still resting on his chest, creep up, and you loop them around his shoulders, using the leverage to lift higher on your toes and get closer to him.

This prompts him to deepen his next kiss, lips moving harder against yours. When you open your mouth wider in invitation, Jake's tongue traces along your bottom lip but doesn't dive in. You whine when Jake pulls away to take a breath.

"Forgive me, Doll, I should've asked first."

"Asked what?" You wonder, not moving your eyes away from his lips and strategizing how to get them back on yours. You think if you could just get a little higher, you would be able to kiss him without Jake needing to bend down so much.

"May I kiss you?" He asks.

"Yes, please." You answer immediately. You tug your hold on his shoulders, hoping it will urge him to get right back to it. Jake doesn't, though. His hand shifts from your neck to cup your cheek again, his other leaving the wall to settle on your waist.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes, Jake." His hand traces up your side from your waist and back down again in what is a soothing motion. It's too soft and delicate for what you want right now, though, so you tug on his neck again, pressing your chest into his. He gives in this time, molding his lips to yours once more.

When his tongue meets yours, a low rumble emulates from Jake's chest, and the sound sends a new wave of arousal coursing through you. Reaching up, you push off Jake's hat, not caring where it falls, only that it's no longer in your way. When you thread your fingers into his hair, it's smooth and silky, providing no resistance when you tug it.

"Tell me what you want, Doll," Jake says when your lips part again.

"You. I want you," you whimper, tugging his hair again. A wide grin breaks across Jake's face, and his eyes crinkle around the edges. He tucks his face into your neck, and you can still feel him smiling.

"What else do you want?" He questions. When his lips brush a spot that makes you stretch your neck to give him easier access, he nips it lightly. You stumble, coming up with a response, just sighing his name as he finds another spot to bite. "Come on now, you said it so pretty earlier. Tell me again."

Once his request processes through your lust filled brain, you push on Jake's shoulders once more. This time, he doesn't resist, backing away from you and creating some space between your heated bodies. Sagging against the wall, you try to catch your breath while examining Jake. His hair is disheveled now, some of it falling across his forehead.

"You said no, you don't want that with me. You don't want this with me," You answer, finally dropping your gaze to examine the grain of the hardwood floor near your feet. Confusion at this sudden turn in attitude from him settles over you as your head clears. One of Jake's hands enters your field of vision, turned upwards in an offering. "Come sit, we need to set some things straight."

Taking Jake's hand, he curls his fingers with yours and gently tugs you back through the doorway of his room. With his direction, you perch on the edge of his four poster bed. Jake presses a kiss to the back of your hand and lets it go to settle on the accent chair that's in the corner.

"We'll be honest, right?" You say hesitantly, already missing the feeling of Jake's hand in yours.

"Yes. I'll be honest." Jake answers reassuringly before continuing, "From the beginning, I never wanted to be friends with you.

"You didn't?"

"Nope," he says, popping the p. "I never wanted to be friends, and then once we were friends, I was stuck. You didn't seem to want the same things as I did, and I'm not the kind of man to complain about the friend zone."

"I haven't friend you zoned you," you say, scandalized at the suggestion.

"Just earlier tonight, you asked me to have a baby with you, platonically," Jake deadpans.

"Because I can't conceptualize you wanting me any other way."

"I want you. I've always wanted you, but not platonically, baby."

Baby. Jake was a casual sweet name user, there was doll, sweetheart, honey, darling, those all were commonplace, but baby was new. Hearing it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. He called you baby, and he has wanted you. You could have had him from the start if your fears and insecurities hadn't held you back.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to need me, to love me," Jake explains with more hesitation than you've ever heard from him as if he is tip-toeing through this conversation. Worrying your fingers together, you have to take a calming breath to settle your own hesitation before answering him, "Well, that's easy because I do."

A gleeful grin stretches across his face, and it's so bright you feel a matching one appear. He rubs a hand over his face, hiding it from view for a moment, and when you see his face again, he is still smiling. He looks as if he is trying to bite it back but can't quite manage.

"Well, alright, a few more things we have to iron out then. I love spending time with you. You've never not been desirable to me." You can't help a disbelieving laugh when Jake says that, and the look he gives you is disapproving. "I mean that. I was thinking about it even the time I came over to bring you soup when you had the flu. Wanted to bundle you up and crawl into bed with you."

"Oh, come on, that can't be true. I was so gross."

"It is. I promised I would be honest, and I'm not going to be breaking any of the promises I make to you. Can you believe that?"

You study his face, tracing over his nose, and jaw. He still has the hint of a grin that hasn't slid off his features yet, and he looks so very earnest. You can't imagine that Jake would be in the business of lying to you, and the openness he is offering makes it feel like you can believe him. That you can keep trusting him just like you always have. "I can believe that."

"Great. So, baby —"

"Yes?" You say entirely too breathily before he can even finish the sentence. It was really a surprise how much hearing him say that already turned your brain to some form of liquid.

"I want to sleep with you," Jake says plainly.

"Then why are you all the way over there?"

"I didn't want you to feel any sort of pressure while we were talking, and wasn't confident I could keep my hands to myself."

Standing up from his bed, you walk steadily over to the chair Jake is sitting in. Crawling into his lap more confidently than you truly feel, his hands automatically slip around your waist, steading you against him. Holding eye contact with him, you say, "I don't want you to keep your hands to yourself."

"Fuck, you're going to kill me," he sighs, tightening his hold on you. You go to kiss him again, but when you do, he blurts out, "I don't have any STDs or STIs." His cheeks stain a little pink, and he looks as surprised by the declaration as you are.

"That's good to know. I'm clean too," you inform him.

"Good to know. I just thought it was important to put it out there. Got to do safety checks first and everything. I don't want us to have any questions or be unsure about anything, and it's important to consider all the factors involved with —" Jake's rambling comes to a halt when you dip your face into his neck, kissing at the underside of his jaw softly.

"Jake," you say, linking your arms around his neck and playing with the short hair there. "Will you give me a baby?"

"Fuck, Doll. I promise to give you anything you want. The ring, the house, the baby. It's yours."

You don't waste any time kissing him. When your lips meet, all the hesitancy and nervousness that Jake had while you were talking melts away. His mouth confidently teases yours open for his tongue to quickly follow. Your hands thread into Jake's hair again as his start to roam your back, sides, and arms. When you wiggle closer on his lap, he groans and grabbing a handful of your ass, lifting you up. Jake stands easily and walks you back to the bed.

He doesn't drop you on the bed like you're expecting. Instead, he sets you down gently, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as he does. Laying on your back with Jake standing over you reminds you just how large and broad he is.

With surprisingly little fanfare, he pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the side. Jake shirtless is not a new sight; in fact, it's a tantalizing one you've seen too often. He has every right to be proud of his body, you know how much time he dedicates at the gym. So it shouldn't be a surprise that, never one to be self conscious, Jake hardly could be found wearing a shirt if the situation didn't require it. However, you realize this is the first time that you don't just have to look but can also touch.

Wanting to get the nervousness of undressing out of the way, you sit up, quickly discarding your shirt and tossing it aside. Before you can shimmy out of your bottoms, Jake's large hands are on your wrists, stopping you.

"You're doing my job," he chastises huskily. Jake is slow and meticulous in removing your clothes, running his hands over all the skin that's exposed to him. When he pulls off your bra, leaving you only in your panties, he just sits back and stares for a moment. Such intense scrutiny from his gaze has you covering your chest, crossing your legs, and looking away.

"I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone tonight," you mutter, knowing that you don't have the sexiest underwear on and perhaps were not as physically prepared for this intimacy as you would like.

"Good," he says lowly. "No one else is going to get to see you like this anymore." Grabbing an ankle in each big hand, he spreads you out for him. He slides off your panties so you're completely bare, and takes up his staring once more. "Ain't you fucking gorgeous?" Jake mutters and you realize he ain't talking about you necessarily; he's talking to your pussy. Whining his name gets Jake to shove off his sweatpants, leaving him in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs as he crawls over your body.

As he kisses you again, your hands greedily explore his exposed skin. His chest hair proving to be much softer than you had imagined it, and his shoulders are taut as he holds himself up. While Jake's lips move with yours, you use a leg to encourage him to ease more of his weight into you, seeking friction. Kissing down your neck he lavishes attention to your breasts, licking and sucking his way across your skin.

"You know, I was too busy to make dessert," he says when he reaches your core. One of his hands teasingly traces all around the skin. Placing a kiss on your inner thigh, he asks, "Do you mind filling in?"

"Jake, you don't need to." You say, trying not to squirm when his fingers dip between your lips.

"I want to. Do you not want me to?"

"I know it's not everyone's thing," you answer, giving him an out.

"It's my thing," Jake says. His eyes lock onto the cleft of you, and he licks his lip, biting at the bottom one. Reaching up, he grabs one of your hands and brings it up to his hair, encouraging you to thread your fingers there. His fingers that are teasing you spread you open more, and he groans, "Oh yeah you're my thing."

Jake's tongue traces over you, probing until he finds the spot that makes your hips jump. Once Jake finds your clit he doesn't waste his time. Widening his mouth, he latches on and sucks. While he starts gently, he ramps up to sucking hard and twisting his tongue as he does. When you pull at his hair, he moans encouragingly.

"More," you request tugging his hair gently. Jake listens, sliding a finger into you. Whispering praise into your thighs about how pretty you are and how good you taste. You don't know how long Jake spends between your thighs, but he doesn't seem to be in any hurry. He sucks and licks, fucking his finger into you until the sound is sloppy and wet. He slips a second finger in, stretching you, occasionally scissoring them wider open in you.

Even when you are whining and gasping, working against Jake's tongue, he doesn't let up. You don't have the mind to worry how you're trying to suffocate him with your thighs, which he keeps pushing back open with no complaints. All that you can focus on is Jake, how good he is making you feel, and how close you're getting. It's a matter of time until you're shuddering and falling apart for him.

Continuing to lavish attention even as you jerk with sensitivity, Jake seems content to keep eating you out. You try to pull him away by his hair, but he just licks into you harder. "Jake, enough," you whine, trying to wiggle away from his mouth.

"I haven't had my fill yet, Doll," he says, pulling his mouth off you but not going far, pressing wet kisses to your thighs.

"I haven't even seen your cock yet, and I don't know why it isn't in me." You say, trying to reason with him. It doesn't come out very strong, though as Jake's fingers curl in you, making your cunt flutter.

"Patience is a virtue," he teases.

"Being virtuous isn't really at the forefront of my mind at the moment."

Jake sighs dramatically and presses one more kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his haunches. You can see the hard outline of him in his briefs as he gets off the bed. You watch his every move closely, more than ready to finally see him naked.

However, Jake is clearly taking some sort of joy from making you wait, because he detours to start picking up your hastily thrown clothing. As he is laying them out on the chair, you lose your patience. Grabbing one of his decorative pillows, you throw it at him. It smacks him between his shoulder blades before dropping to the floor with a thunk.

Spinning to face you, Jake crosses his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge, his eyebrow raised. "Did you just hit me with a pillow?"

"No, I wouldn't do that," You deny trying to look innocent. Jake tsks at you, picking up the makeshift weapon and setting that neatly on the chair as well.

"Being desperate for my cock isn't an excuse to misbehave, baby."

"Big talk for someone who still hasn't shown it to me. It's okay if you don't have a pretty dick, Jake. It won't change how I feel. I'm still going to want you to fuck me."

Goading someone into action was a wonderful tactic you had learned over the course of your friendship with Jake. Something he easily did with others, and something tonight that it proved was just as effective against him because he doesn't even respond to your words. Sliding off his underwear, his dick springs free. He's hard from eating you out, and just from the first glance you get, it's clear there isn't one thing for him to be self-conscious about.

The fleshy pink length is nestled among dark hair, and the size of him is nothing to dismiss. It's a very symmetrical cock, lining up nicely with his balls and adonis belt. Bouncing a bit as he gets back on the bed, you can't bring yourself to look away. You know he is going to fill you so deliciously. When he's finally close enough for you to touch, you hesitate though.

"Speechless?" Jake wonders, with no ounce of shame or self-consciousness present.

"Can I touch?" You ask. Jake nods, taking your hand and bringing it to your mouth. You suck a few of your fingers in, wetting them with your spit. Then he guides your hand to his dick, encouraging you to wrap it around him. Jake's hand covers yours for the first few strokes, showing you what he likes, but then it falls away, letting you explore. He grunts when you trace one of the veins that runs along the side, following it down to cup his balls. He allows your teasing for a few more strokes before he pulls you close, kissing you hard.

The hard planes of Jake's naked body pressed against yours is nearly too much. He is so close and yet not close enough. With some gentle maneuvering, Jake is in between your legs and checking that the position is comfortable for you. Jake runs his length through your lips, the head bumping into your clit. Despite all the encouragement and build up, he's still not in a hurry. When his cock is wet from you, it starts to slide effortlessly. Losing your patience, you cup Jake's face, making him look you in the eyes.

"Jake, fuck me now. Please." You say. He nods, kissing you slowly. Then finally, he grabs his cock lining himself up and pushing the tip into you. When his pelvis meets yours, he holds himself there, your breaths mingling together in light pants as he stretches you out. The time he gives you to stretch and adjust is necessary, but once you have, Jake fills you deliciously.

"How're you feeling baby?" He asks. Your thumb moves across his cheekbone, soothing until the worry lines between his eyebrows disappear. Only responding when you know you're okay and so is he, "Perfect. Feel so full of you."

"I'll fill you up," Jake promises.

"Yeah?" You ask. He hums his agreement and rocks his hips against your experimental, drawing a small gasp from you.

"Promise," he says, starting a lazy punctuated rhythm, moving his hips against yours. Your hands explore the skin of his back as he thrusts into you. You hike a leg up on Jake's hips, letting him get a little deeper in you. The action makes him moan, and he pulls your other leg up around his hip, too.

Hooking your ankles together, you use the leverage to encourage Jake to fuck into you faster. Digging your heels into his ass and lifting your hips up to meet each of his thrusts increases the heat boiling between you. His face falling into your neck, Jake starts whispering dirty praise about how good you feel around him and how long he's been dreaming about this.

Stamina clearly isn't something that Jake is lacking in. He fucks you until you are both dripping with sweat, and you are begging for him noncoherently, unable to process anything but how good his cock feels. He maintains a steady rhythm, snapping his hips to meet yours the whole time.

"You feel so good. Want to get you there again. What do you need?" Jake pants huskily.

"Harder," you answer shakily, snaking your hand to play with your clit. You're close, and you know it's not going to take much more for you to get there with how long Jake's been building you up. He listens, slamming his hips more pointedly into you, grinding his pelvis every time he bottoms out.

Huffing, Jake pulls out of you a few minutes later. Making you cry out wantonly, reaching for his retreating body. He takes a moment to kiss both your hands that he unhooks from his neck. Then, shushing you gently, he grabs a pillow and lifting your hips, he slides it under them.

"It's okay, just a little better angle." He explains to you. You flop back on the bed, content to have Jake manhandle you any which way he wants if it means he'll be in you again.

"Oh, you're such a needy thing, aren't you?" He asks, as your cunt clenches around nothing, empty and wanting him. His fingers dipping in to play with the wet dripping from you. A flash of shame passes through you as he asks that. You drop your arms that had been reaching out for him back to the bed, and you screw your eyes shut, turning your face to the side looking away from him.

Jake had already got you to cum once, and it was possible he didn't want you all over him as he was trying to get off now. Preferences were probably something y'all should have talked about more in depth before jumping into intimacy. You didn't want him to think you were overly needy or hard to please. You didn't want to ruin what you and Jake could have the very first time together. Noticing the shift in your enthusiasm Jake immediately stops pressing his cock into you, worriedly asking, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you answer, staring up at the ceiling looking for patterns there. It's easier to play this off if you don't have to look at him; easier if you don't have to acknowledge the unexpected, unwelcome swell of emotion that's overcoming you.

"Doll, look at me." He orders you, but you shake your head, refusing. Jake grips your chin, tilting your face to meet his eyes. They are intense studying you intently, completely focused on you. "The honesty we just promised each other needs to extend to sex nearly more than anywhere else going forward with this relationship," Jake says seriously. His hard dick is pressed against your thigh, and you don't know how he's able to have such a level-headed conversation considering the circumstances, just having been balls deep in you a minute ago. "So, what's wrong?"

"I don't want to be too high maintenance or needy," You sigh, trying to work through your words. Knowing this conversation is important, but also not completely sure how to express what you're feeling. "Sometimes I might seem needy, or maybe I could take a while to cum or not at all, which wouldn't be a reflection of you. I don't want you to think, well, I don't want to be too much for you to change your mind about this, and now I'm ruining the mood with a dumb fucking insecurity."

"Stop," Jake says gently, but leaving no room for argument. "You haven't ruined anything. I'm sorry I called your pussy needy. I didn't know it would make you feel this way. Can I tell you something, though, Doll?" When you give a hesitant nod, Jake's voice drops so low it's nearly gravelly. "I want you to be needy. I want your pussy desperate for my cock, desperate for my cum. I want you as desperate for me as I am for you."

"You're desperate for me too?"

"Frantically and wildly so." He answers easily. Then he asks with his thumb ghosting over your nub, "Are we okay? Is this still okay?"

"Yeah, this is good," You sigh, enjoying the zing that runs up your back when he nudges your clit more pointedly.

Jake grabs his cock, giving it a few languid strokes before he guides it back into you. You push your hips up to meet him. The new angle that the pillow gives him leverage to hit somewhere that's just a delicious feeling. As he rocks into you, his thumb maintains its place on your clit. Your fear of the mood having been ruined proves wrong as the coil in your core quickly builds, pushing you near the edge once more.

"Cum in me, Jake, please. Give me a baby," you request, your thighs quivering as you near your orgasm.

As his hips snap nearly frantically, Jake rolls your clit over in nearly the same rhythm. He moans your name a minute later, falling over the edge and spilling inside of you. Though his hips stutter to a stop leaving himself fully seated in you, he continues working over your clit. It doesn't take long until you're dissolving into pleasure along with him.

The ripples run through your body, and you feel every muscle tense and relax, turning into jelly. Jake grunts when you spasm around him but doesn't move or pull out until you've fully melted into the bed on the downward crest of your peak.

When he does pull out, he doesn't go far, shifting enough to spoon you. Settling behind you, Jake pulls you close to his chest, wrapping you tight in his arms. His hand is tracing lazy patterns on your hip and occasionally venturing to the soft skin of your belly. You don't have the mind to be self-conscious at the moment, still a little too blissed out. It takes significant brain power to process his question when he asks, "Do you actually want to have a baby?"

"Do you?" You wonder.

"You can't answer a question with a question," Jake chastises you. Turning in his arms so you are sprawled against his chest, you snuggle close, nuzzling him affectionately.

"Do you know how it was seeing you with Jackson today?" You ask him.

"If it was even half of how it felt seeing you hold him, then I'm sorry."

"Whatever you felt, double it. Triple it even." You say lightly. "It was enough for me to ask my friend, who I thought could never want me, for a baby."

"I do want you," Jake immediately reassures you.

"Thank goodness for baby fever, then. Because at least now we know we want each other," you reason, slowly starting to draw mindless patterns of your own against his skin.

Jake heaves a sigh and strokes his hand down your back, wondering, "Was this just baby fever?"

"No," you answer after thinking about it for a long span of silence. "I would have a baby with you. It seems right. I want that, I think." You can feel the relief in his body, hearing that, all his tension easing into relaxation.

"Good," is the only response he gives you, kissing the crown of your head. You expect more but don't get it. Rather, Jake seems content to just bask in the afterglow. That doesn't seem to be too bad an idea, so you close your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat.

When you wake up from your impromptu nap, you're not alone in bed. However, you are now under the covers of a different comforter than there was before, and Jake is no longer acting as your pillow. He is on the other side of the bed, but his hand is stretched out, grazing the middle of your back.

Rolling to face him, you admire the sight he makes stretched out on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Jake's got a book open, folded in half, clearly abusing the book's binding just so he can have one hand on you. When he notices you sleepily admiring him, Jake shoots you a soft smile.

"Hey baby," he whispers.

"Hi," You whisper back scooting closer to him and grab the hand that had been touching you, threading your fingers together.

"Let's go on a date," Jake suddenly springs on you, squeezing your hand.

"I would love that," you respond, feeling giddy as butterflies erupt in your stomach. "Want something first, though."

"I already told you I would give you anything you want, and I meant it," Jake says, setting his book on his bedside table and giving you his full attention.

"Good, because I want round two and a shower, which hopefully has round three involved."

"Your wish is my command," Jake says easily. You move even closer to him so your lips are only a breath apart. "I meant it, the ring, the house, the baby. I can make it all happen by tomorrow."

"Let's start with breakfast in bed," you say, kissing him hard. When your lips hardly touch because you're both smiling too wide, well, that actually makes it feel all the better.

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman x you #jake seresin x you #hangman imagine #hot hot hot!#hoeing for hangman

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fromforeigntofamiliarity · 9 months

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Hell Hath No Fury | Aemond Targaryen

Request: Yes

Summary: Aemond has become distant and you find out why.

Warning: blood, miscarriage, cheating, assault

Hell Hath No Fury Masterlist

You couldn't believe it.

He was the good brother, the dutiful son, the valiant knight... the faithful husband. There was no way that your Aemond wouldn't do this to you.

This explains why he was traveling so often to Harrenhal away from you for so long when you needed him the most, you thought as you rubbed your swollen belly staring at the piece of paper in your hand.

He had gotten that whore pregnant, and from the letter it seemed you two were both soon to give birth.

Alys Rivers, the strong Bastard, the Witch...Yet another thing you two had in common, maybe your husband had a type.

This was it. the beginning of the end. If Alys Rivers gave birth to that child there is nothing that would stop her from coming to court, having her child legitimized, having Aemond take her as a mistress, bringing shame and embarrassment upon you and your child.

No.

"Push princess, push." The midwife needlessly instructed as someone wiped the sweat from your brow.

"I do appreciate your help and respect and acknowledge that you have helped bring many royals into this world so please forgive me when I say, 'please shut the fuck up and let me concentrate." You yelled back as you took two deep breaths before closing your eyes and letting your head fall backwards.

Opening your eyes again you see your in a hallway standing in front of a door, you can still hear the midwives telling you to push. placing your hand in the door you push it open slowly as you see the sight of Alys Rivers and Aemond in bed together.

His arm is wrapped around her, as they are both naked it isn't hard to guess what it was that had made them so tired. Walking into the room you hear the door close behind you just as you stand right above them. As if sensing your presence Alys' eyes snap open and stare up at you.

She opens her mouth to wake Aemond before you stop her.

"Don't bother calling out, her can't hear us." You informed her reaching for his arm and throwing it away from her causing his to shift in his sleep and turn over. "No one can. From the look on your face I can tell you know exactly who I am, which is amusing considering I knew nothing of you a moon ago."

"I know this must be upsetti-."

"No! You don't because you are not his wife, you are not the one he married and swore loyalty to only to turn around and impregnate some whore." You sneered at her as she flinched back. "What was your plan? to take my husband, become and mistress, you seek to replace me and my child?" You asked as she simply shook her head in denial.

"It was never meant to happen like this, but I love Aemond and he loves me, I'm sorry that you are hurt by this but that is the truth of it. I never thought I would be able to have children but this is a gift that Aemond has given to me and we both are thankful to be having it, but that does not mean he is any less thankful for your child and I promise you that I mean no harm to your life, marriage or the life of your child." Alys rushed to explain. Taking a moment you look on at this women in bed with your husband and think of her words.

"Words....are not enough." You say before Alys' body is forced down into the bed. Leaning over her you pulled the sheets from her body exposing her milky skin to the cold air.

"What are you doing?" Alys asked as she struggled against the invisible force.

"Don't worry I am simply righting a wrong," You informed her as you pulled a knife from your dress. "The child that grows inside of you belongs to my husband" You continue as you placed the blade to her belly.

"No! Please no." Alys pleads as she fight to get away from you. "I'm beg you please. I have wronged you I admit but my child is innocent, Aemond's child is innocent."

"I know." You say before plunging the knife into her womb as she lets out a blood curtailing scream. Once the cut was made you reached inside of her wound ignoring the blood and cries of the women as you pull the child from her body. Cradling the child in your arm you softly coo to the child as Alys lets out another round of sobs. "Please do not morn for the child will live, but it will be birthed by me, as should all children of my husband."

Turning and walking away the door slowly creaks back open allowing you to walk back into the hall. "Though I am very thankful for this gift you and my husband have given to me Alys, I trust it will be the last one" You say before the door closes once again.

"Just one more push my princess." You left you head once again over come with the pain of child birth. "Here it comes." After one more push the room is filled with the cries of your child.

"A prince, you have given birth to a prince." The midwife announced moving to retrieve a blanket for the newborn. She began to hand you your child before you leaned forward and let out a painful groan. "The afterbirth."

another midwife crouched between your leg as you groan in pain. "No there is a head, there is another babe." She informed sending the room into another round of panic as you were instructed again to push.

"Another prince." She soon declares as the second child begins to cry.

Cradling both babes in your arms you look down at the two clearly Targaryen princes with a small smile, Alicent entered the room quickly making it to your side "Aemon and Armon." You names them as she looks to her grandchildren made my her favorite son.

***

It had been three days since Aemond woke to Alys' screams, the sheets around her covered in blood as she cradled her stomach. The maesters said it was a miscarriage, but Alys insisted that it wasn't, when Aemond tried to comfort her she yelled for him to leave her and refused to be near him. After the second day of trying he chose to return to Kingslanding where is was notified that his wife had given birth to twin boys.

Entering the chambers he sees his wife cooing at the two newborns laying on their bed. Turning towards your husband your eyes widen. "Aemond, I thought you were Beth to assist me with taking the twins to midday meal, the family wished to meet them."

"Well I am sorry to disappoint you," Aemond teased walking closer to the bed. "But I promise I can try to be as good as Beth until she arrives."

"Oh stop." You laughed a bit before letting out a sigh. "Actually I am glad that you are here, I wanted to speak with you."

"What is it you wish to speak of?" He asked rubbing his knuckle along Aemon's face.

"I know that this marriage started as an arrangement, but I understand that at the time we both believed that we become fond of each other and perhaps even love, and I thought that we had begun to share these feeling but I realize that I can not hold you to promises we made as children." You now had his full attention. "And if it is what you want, I will not fight you on seeking annulment."

"You have been distant and it was not until the twins were born that I realize just how distant you've become, we used to spend time together, reading, painting, laughing but I gave birth for the first time and my husband was not to be found." You explained. "I do not blame you for not returning my feeling or for pulling away but I can't live thinking that I'm driving you from your home or thinking that this distance between us will affect our children."

"Please," Aemond says grabbing your hand and kneeling at your side. "Your feeling are returned I swear it to you, my distance is of no fault of your own."

"Then what is it?" You pleaded looking into his eyes. "I wish for you to be there for our children, for them to love and be moved by you. You once told me you didn't want to be like your father, I do not want this either."

Looking into your eyes Aemond knew he couldn't tell you the reason, he knew it would break your heart and he couldn't do that to you not after you had just given him two son, not ever. "It matters not, It will never happen again." He assures giving your hand a gentle squeeze. "I will not be the father viserys was to me and I will not be the husband he was to my mother. You three are my life and I will spend every second to assure that you know it.

"My princess It is time for your midday meal with your family." Beth informed entering the chambers.

"Thank you Beth would you please hold Aemon and I will take Armon you instruct as Aemond stands and helps you from the bed. Standing and walking towards the door you asked Beth to please walk ahead of you. "I thank you for hearing me Aemond and I do hope this isn't asking to much but I also must ask something else of you."

Aemond nodded as he rubs his hand up and down your back in comfort.

"I wish for this to be a pleasant occasion so I must ask you not fight with Jace and Luke, though it seems you have grown quite fond of Strong bastards as of late." You say before walking ahead leaving his frozen in the door way of the room.

Part Two

#house of the dragon imagine #House of the dragon #aemond targaryen #alicent hightower #aemond x reader #Aemond Targaryen x reader #Alys rivers #aemond x alys #house targaryen #king viserys #jacerys targaryen #lucerys targaryen #harrenhal

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astroboots · 10 months

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EVERY YOU EVERY ME #15 - FINALE

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: All things end.

Word count: 3,400

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous]

Traveling through Strange’s inter-dimensional portal is a different experience from going through one of Miguel’s. It’s less of a laser light show and more of a psychedelic drug trip.

Shapes and patterns warps in front of you, and the strength of gravity seems to press in against you from all sides as you fall upwards through an endless space.

You lose track of time. You don’t know how long you’ve been in here. It could be hours or seconds, but you can't tell the difference. Then it stops.

There is a gentle light ahead of you, and as you pass through it, the soft warmth of it trickles away. Then you find yourself standing in a familiar vast and empty space once again.

Staring into the far distance, the only thing you see is the blank whiteness ahead of you, just as jarring and endless as last time.

You clutch onto the pink-gemmed amulet hanging from your neck, gifted to you by Strange. A magical artifact that’s meant to help you keep your physical form in this space so you don’t fade away like you did last time.

Everything is static here, stale. There’s no air flow, no sense of temperature. The environment is neither hot nor cold against your skin, but somehow you feel an ever-present chill seeping into your bones.

Taking a deep breath, you start to walk forward.

You're shivering with each step you take. There's no sound under your step. No shadows cast under the soles of your feet.

"Boss lady,” Lyla pipes up, her hologram avatar hovering over your shoulders. “I really don't like this. Let's go back home, Beyoncé is holding a concert in Amsterdam! I got us front row seat tickets."

It's a valiant attempt, Miguel really did a great job coding her, but you’re not going back without him. Ignoring Lyla, you continue on your path.

There’s no sign of Miguel anywhere. It's all infinite whiteness as far as the eye can see, with no signs of an end.

The last two times you were here, you didn’t have a chance to gain an understanding of how big this space is. For all you know it could be as vast and endless as the universe itself. What if you’re stuck wandering in this place for an eternity and still never find Miguel?

You walk on, eyes roaming the space, and a dull ache starts to form behind them from staring at the glaring brightness.

There! Off to your left, you finally spot… something.

Your heart leaps in your chest as you clock a disruption in the blank whiteness. A tiny disruption. Or maybe it’s just far away? The emptiness of this place is hell on your depth perception. You veer in that direction, squinting as you approach, until you’re finally close enough to make out what it is.

In the middle of the vast nothingness, there is a tiny ball of crumpled up yellowish paper floating at knee height.

Huh?

Isn't this a complete void where nothing exists or can exist? Why is there trash here?

You squat down hunching over your knees until the little paper ball is eye level and inspect it closer.

The color and thickness of the paper is familiar. It looks like a post-it note that’s been folded in half, tiny, uneven triangles sticking out at each of the four corners.

How weird.

Crumpled as it is, you can see now that the crooked folds and creases aren't all random. Looking closely, there seems to have been a failed attempt of trying to fold them in a sequence but lacking the proper hand to eye dexterity to do it properly.

Wait, is this…? It must be.

You recognize it now. It’s one of your unfortunate attempts at an origami frog from when you were killing time with Miguel at your work. But what is it doing here of all places?

Tentatively reaching out, you poke at the piece of paper. To your surprise there’s resistance.

That's... odd.

There's nothing else here. Nothing holding it.

Just the failed paper frog suspended in thin air.

You try again, grabbing a corner of the paper this time, but the results are the same. It stubbornly refuses to move. When you tug, it jerks back, away from you.

Squinting your eyes, you lean closer and carefully observe the space in front of you.

Now when you’re paying close attention, you can just about make out a vague, almost invisible outline.

It’s barely there, and you can only tell because the blank whiteness in front of you seems to warp slightly with the smallest tremor of a movement.

Whatever this is, it really doesn’t want you to take your piece of trash back from it.

You frown in annoyance. This doesn't make sense. Why would your poor deformed paper frog even be here? The only people who even had anything to do with the stupid thing are you and–

"Miguel?"

The movement stills at your voice.

When you don't look away, it seems spooked by your gaze, shirking at the attention. The thing shifts in its shape, shrinking down like it's trying to make itself smaller.

You try to move closer, and the obscure translucent form moves away from you, gliding seamlessly into the empty space.

Without a shape it takes you a few moments before you register its movement and what it's trying to do. It's moving fast, as if it's trying to flee from you.

Because it is. Shit!

You run after it, guided by the vague hazy contour against the nothingness that surrounds you. Even without legs, this shapeless thing is moving fast.

"Stop!" you shout, "Stop, stop, please stop! It's me!"

You leap forward, grabbing at the empty outline in front of you, and to your surprise find purchase on the nothingness under your grip.

"Miguel, stop running!" you shout.

It does. He does.

There is something there now, a semi-invisible mass, slightly more opaque than it was a second ago.

You open your mouth to speak, but you don't know what to say. Don't even know for certain that this is Miguel or not.

But you hope it is. Have to believe it is. You’re too desperate to overthink it, and you spout the first thing that comes into your head.

"Come back, Miguel. Come back, and I'll take you back to that cheap Chinese diner you liked so much. We can get all the food you want, all of it deep fried! I'll even share the egg tarts this time."

You think you see something shift before you. It could just be your imagination, but the tiniest speck of color seems to emerge from within the translucent mass.

Somehow, whatever you’re doing must be working, and you quickly try to think of what else you can say that will tempt him to come back.

Food. Maybe more about food will work? It worked for you, after all.

"The Reese buttercups in our other apartment are all expired, but I think they'd still be okay to eat, and– and– And I'll make you cookies if you come back! Blue spiderman ones that match your suit."

The speck of color pops, fading into thin air, your fingers sinking further into the nothingness of his form, and a spike of panic stabs through your chest.

Why isn’t it working!? Was it not the food that made him react after all? You don’t know what else to try.

That first time you were here, Miguel was able to bring you back to yourself with the intimate details he knew from the other lifetime you two had shared. Maybe you can do the same.

"Your name is Miguel O'hara," you start, "and- and-" And then you have to stop, not sure of what else to say. "And your eyes are red... for some reason. And you have fangs! Fangs that can deliver some kind of fucking paralysis venom, which is completely ridiculous by the way!"

Nothing happens. There’s no change save for that the form underneath you squirms and tries to get away from your grip.

"And... and..."

Shit. This is getting you nowhere.

Unlike Miguel, you haven't had the front seat experience of living a lifetime together with him. There's only so much you know about him. Because that man is more secretive than a CIA agent.

You bite down on your lip in frustration.

"Goddamnit, Miguel! I barely know anything about you because you never tell me shit!"

The shape underneath you stops wiggling underneath you.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you gather yourself, then you reopen them again, staring up at the upper part of the half-invisible shape like he's standing in front of you.

There's no point in trying to beat Miguel at a game of knowledge. You will never win. You never got to learn or memorize every personal and intimate detail about the man and his life. But there's one thing that you know beyond any doubt.

"I miss you," you tell him.

Strokes of soft colors streaks through the translucent mass at your words. A gentle blossoming spreads and you can see the opaque material reform inch by inch, until it vaguely resembles the silhouette of a body.

"I can’t even eat without you around, which has never happened to me before. I’ve been able to eat through food poisoning. But now the cupcakes from Gladis remind me of you and how you're not here, and they taste like cardboard."

He feels firmer somehow, more solid, and there’s even the faintest trace of warmth under your fingertips. Hope flutters in your chest at the change, and you tighten your grip on him.

“I miss you. More than I ever thought it could be possible to miss someone."

You can faintly make out limbs and shoulders, and the outline of a head.

"I miss falling asleep next to you. It's too quiet without your snoring, and the bed is too big without you there."

The body grows taller, and you can see the familiar tan of his skin now, the line of his jaw and the sharp angle of his nose re-materializing before your eyes.

"I miss watching you eat three dozen tacos in one sitting, scaring the tables around us. I miss having you with me and getting to talk to you, or even just sitting next to you doing nothing.”

You lean up towards him, raised on the tip of your toes, until you're up against him. “I just want you to be here with me. Please come back," you whisper into him.

Then he's there. Right in front of you, large and firm and warm as he towers above you, forehead pressed against yours, in your arms.

He’s here. Miguel is here.

His hair is a soft tousled mess. Eyes warm and hazy as he slowly blinks them open like he's just woken up from a hibernation while he gazes down on your face in an intimate silence.

It doesn’t last for very long. His gaze sharpens, blinking in rapid succession as confusion bleeds into his face. You can see the exact moment that consciousness and awareness fully return to him. Because he steps back from you, red eyes burning with an angry determination.

"What are you doing here?" he snarls at you.

Because of course he does. Of course anger is his first reaction at seeing you here.

"You can't be here," he says.

You don't even get a word in before Miguel reaches for your wrist.

"Lyla!" he barks out, and there’s a ping on your arm in response.

"Lyla, stand down," you command, smacking your palm over the face of the dial before the hologram can pop up. You already know that the next words out of his mouth will be a command to whisk you away again if you let him speak.

His lips twist into a frustrated snarl. Eyes glowing with that red fury that you recognize by now as the beginnings of an anger tantrum.

“Why don't you get it? I need to do this," he seethes, gesturing at the void, "I have to disappear. For your sake! It's my fault. I'm the reason you keep dying. I’m killing you!”

“That’s not true! You saved me! You caught me when I fell off the Chrysler building—twice!—and–”

“That doesn’t matter!” he snarls, rounding on you, “Don’t you understand!? You’re still going to die! If I'm with you, you die.”

There’s a moment of resounding silence, and you watch as the anger bleeds away from Miguel’s face, leaving something else in its place.

Something like grief.

“I can’t– I can’t do that again,” he says quietly, and he looks so sad that it damn near breaks your heart.

“Miguel…”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such raw and obvious grief. Until… suddenly, you do.

“Whether you're here or not, I could still die, Miguel."

Your words seem to hit him like a blow, and he flinches back, his eyes going round and liquid, open mouth quivering for a moment before it pulls right into a hard downturned line.

"Even if you were gone, there still wouldn’t be any guarantees," you say.

You brush your hand alongside his, trying to hold his hand in yours but he draws it away.

"You could save me by erasing yourself from existence and tomorrow a bus driver that isn't paying attention might hit me and I'd die anyhow," you continue, and he flinches visibly. "You can't control these things, and I would rather be with you and take the chance and be happy until it happens."

His hand balls up in agitation at his side. "I– I just don't want you to die again," he says, helplessness bleeding through every syllable of his words.

Your heart aches at his obvious pain. All you want, all you've ever wanted is to make that pain a little bit smaller. You step forward closing the distance between you, and he doesn't back away or move from you this time.

“Everybody dies. Regardless of what happens here I will too someday. But you’ve given me extra time. You did that. You saved me, again and again. And I’m so happy that you did. That I got to have that time with you. To share donuts with you in bed, or fold post-its frogs in the office."

His eyes close tightly, and he gives a slight shake of his head, grief and denial warring in his features. “None of that matters if you don’t survive,” he says quietly.

“You say it doesn’t matter, but it does, Miguel. Those moments matter to me. And even if we die here in this stupid video game loading screen, or if we make it out of here, but something else gets me, it will still matter to me.”

There's no telling if your grand speech is actually getting through to him because he's still not looking at you or meeting your eyes. You grab at his shoulder for his attention. It's all you can do to not shake him and rattle him until he accepts what you are trying to tell him.

"I want to be with you, and even if you can’t save me in the end, that's okay. I just want to be with you for as long as I can. However long or short of a time that is, I won’t have any regrets as long as I get to spend it with you. I told you, didn’t I? Every me in every universe would say the same, given a choice."

He doesn’t respond this time and part of you feels like you’re talking to a besieged wall. Reaching up, you cup his cheeks in your hands and pull his face down to meet your eyes.

“How many other universes are out there where those versions of us never get to know each other at all? …Thousands? …Millions? We’re the lucky ones, Miguel. We got to meet, and we have a chance against all odds. So what if it means we have to jump through a few hoops and universes to be together?”

His eyes open fully at your words, and lock on your face. You think you can see the cracks in his defenses. His hands unfurl and twitch at his sides as if he’s fighting himself to reach for you.

"I love you,” you tell him, and his lips part with a slight tremble.

You’re running out of things to say that can convince him now. The only thing that’s left is for Miguel to make the choice.

Your hand slides down from his face, and he looks distraught at the loss of contact as you take one small step back and away from him.

"Let's try to be happy this time," you tell him.

Reaching out your hand towards him, you try your best to smile through your nervousness, hoping that he is going to say yes to you this time despite his trademark stubbornness that you’ve come to love and hate sometimes.

Miguel looks at your hand, hesitation carved into every shade of red in those eyes. His hand flexes by his side, but doesn’t move.

He’s still unsure, and hope falls flat in your chest at the thought that he might very well make the choice to stay and destroy himself despite how much you don’t want him to.

But then he nods, and your heart begins to sing.

Tentative as it may be, his arm still reaches out towards you, fingers seeking out yours and he takes your hand.

"Yeah," he answers quietly. “Let’s be happy.”

Your smile grows wider, eyes watery as your vision blur around the edges when you look up at him. Happiness blossoming in your chest until it feels so full you think your ribs might burst from it.

You squeeze down on his larger hands in yours, to reassure yourself that he is really here, with you. And he is.

"Lyla," you say, and your watch pings at your command, before Lyla’s face lights up the space above.

"Good to have you back with us, boss," she says with a salute in Miguel’s direction. “Where to now?”

“Lyla,” he acknowledges with a faint smile and a nod, but he doesn’t look away from your face. "Do the thing. Take us home. Home-home."

Warm amber light rises up to surround you both, and Miguel pulls you into his chest. A kaleidoscope of colors explodes before your eyes, swirling around the two of you as he holds you in his arms.

You can't stop smiling at him, grinning like an idiot, as you tilt up to press your forehead to his.

Reality reforms around you, specks of navy-blue filling the large and vast sky. You're standing on the rooftop of a tall building surrounded by the skyline of brightly lit skyscrapers, a labyrinth of levitating bridges and streets laid out beneath. Floating vehicles buzz and soar through the sky like flamboyant dragonflies. Below your feet there is an ocean of dotted neon lights and colorful hologram billboards filling every inch and corner of the city below.

This must be Miguel's home dimension. What did he call it? Earth-3000-something? Nueva York, he said, and it certainly looks new—bright and fantastical, like nothing you’ve ever known before—but you only have eyes for the man in front of you.

Miguel pulls back slightly, squeezing down on your hand.

"So what do we do now? As long as I exist, the universe will still be out to get you," he says.

Despite the bleakness of the picture he’s painting, his eyes are soft and there’s something that sounds like hope in his tone.

You smile at him, eyes narrowing against the bright neon lights of the tall towering buildings around you.

"We live,” you answer, “Together. As long as we can. I hear you're some kind of genius scientist or something. I'm sure we'll think of something fun to do in the infinite multiverse."

“What do you want to do first?” he asks.

“Sleep.”

He's smiling at you, the corners of his fangs peeking out against his lower lip, eyes squinting in a way that makes him look almost boyish.

The sight of it makes your cheeks warm pleasantly and affection blossoms endlessly in your chest for him.

This isn’t the end, but if it were, it feels like it's a good one this time. Miguel walks out towards the ledge of the building, turning back to reach out his hand to you.

"Let’s go, Cielito."

[Nueva York, Earth 928-C]

The end.

Credit and Dedication: One final time, this is dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss who is my muse, my partner-in-writing-&-brainstorming, who makes writing so much more fun everyday.

And then of course. To everyone of you. We are finally here. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I want to thank everyone who has followed along in this story this entire time. Writing Every You Every Me has been one of the most joyous writing experiences I've had. That is largely because of you guys! Thank you for every heartfelt feedback you guys have left here, thank you for coming into my asks, thank you for clicking that little heart on the bottom letting me know you've read it and for the lurkers who has followed along all the while, thank you for taking the time to read this story of mine! Having this audience has made me grow so much as a writer. Having your company while I wrote this has brought me so much joy. Reading everyone's reactions and theories has been a privilege that not a lot of writers get in the process of writing a multi-chaptered story. Thank you so so much.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

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maizylx · 28 days

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How can a man like him be a mighty General?

Short Jing yuan x reader (gn) fluff story!

Words: 821

it's my first story on this account so don't expect too much! :D

As the tranquil evening settled upon the Xhianzou Loufu, your beloved boyfriend, Jing Yuan, was in the midst of a valiant battle against the forces of chaos reigning over his side of the bed. With determination etched upon his features he embarked on a quest to liberate the bed from the clutches of clothes and Mimi’s unruly fur. Despite his efforts, Mimi’s fluffy tufts seemed to fly merrily in the air, especially now as the weather gets hotter. You sat on your side of the bed, a grin playing upon your lips as you observed his valiant struggle to free his pillow from the feline’s fur, only to surrender with an exasperated huff. The day had been long and arduous and with a sigh he finally surrendered to the comforting embrace of the bed burying his face into the pillow. Bathed in the gentle glow of the evening sun his silhouette against the soft backdrop cast a spell of delight upon your heart, filling you with a sense of joy and contentment. Your boyfriend's gaze lifted from the plush comfort of his pillow, his lips curving into his trademark lazy cat smile. "What had you grinning just now, my dear?" His voice, deep and resonant, reverberated from his throat as he fixed you with a curious stare.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you replied, attempting to feign innocence, but Jing Yuan wasn't in the mood for games today. With a swift movement, he reached out, his hand encircling your hip as he drew you closer to his body, ensnaring you beneath him. Nestling his face affectionately into the curve of your neck from behind, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you securely in place, making any attempt to escape futile. You grumbled in protest, but his innocent cat-like smirk softened your resolve, and you found yourself reaching out to caress the side of his head, fingers tangling in his long, fluffy white tresses. He leaned into your touch, emitting a low purr of contentment as he cuddled you from behind, enveloping you in his warmth and affection.

As the evening sun began its descent, casting shadows that gradually enveloped the room in darkness, a switch seemed to flick on within him, prompting a wide yawn to escape his lips. A chuckle bubbled up from within you, unable to resist teasing him just a little. "Feeling a bit tired, are we?" you cooed teasingly.

"Indeed, my dear, tackling paperwork all day can be quite exhausting," your beloved replied with a hint of weariness and a touch of smugness.

"Oh, I'm sure pretending to do paperwork must be absolutely draining," you teased back, earning an instant pout from him. "There's still room on the couch, you know," Jing Yuan said in mock offense, lightly nipping at the skin of your neck.

You couldn't help but giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips against your neck, squirming playfully under him to face him. As you turned around, he nestled into his favorite pillow; your chest. He let out a contented hum as you gently caressed the back of his head. With a blink of your eyes, he had already drifted off into slumber, soft snores emanating from his throat. Seriously, how could he fall asleep so quickly? It wasn't even night yet, and he was already sleeping like a baby.

You didn't complain, though you attempted to drift off to sleep as well. However, you hadn't quite mastered the art of falling into unconsciousness within seconds like him, so you found yourself staring up at the ceiling. After a while, the monotony of staring at the ceiling became too much to bear, prompting you to reach for a book resting on the nightstand. You couldn't read in the pitch-black darkness of the room, so you flicked on the small night lamp, casting a soft glow over the pages of the book. The light wasn't bright enough to disturb your beloved's peaceful slumber, but it did cause him to shift a few times.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic cadence of his breathing and the gentle rustle of pages being turned. Your mind became ensnared by the captivating tale within the book, your focus narrowing solely on the words and the vivid images they conjured in your imagination. However, a soft whining sound broke through the enchantment of the story, pulling you back to reality. You glanced down to find your boyfriend, his features contorted in sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. After a moment of attentive listening, you managed to discern a few words amidst his slumbering mumbles. He was mumbling your name with slight possessiveness "…y/n…mine mhh…" You couldn't help but smirk slightly at his childish display of attachment.

Seriously, how could someone like him, who behaved like a clingy child in his sleep, be the dreaded General of the Xhianzou Loufu who commanded thousands of men?

Thank you for reading <3

#hsr x oc #hsr x reader #hsr x female reader #hsr x male reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr posting #jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan fluff #hsr fluff #hsr men

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merakiui · 3 months

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omg i just watched damsel on netflix (i recommend it’s so good!!!) and i just imagine octo azul who dwells at the depths of the ocean. every year, a sacrifice must be made to him so he won’t destroy the kingdom!

this year, they send y/n down to be eaten, but instead of eaten, he falls in love! this hardworking and diligent person is so different from all the other princesses.

little angelfish is trying so hard to escape and go back to the surface but its okay!!! tako azul will do everything in his power to ensure you are safe and sound. maybe even stuff you either babies to keep you entertained ><

Omg omg I've seen it as well!!! What an exciting film!!! >w< I could absolutely see this same concept with Malleus. 👀 but that is a brain rot for another time hehe.

Throwing you to the tako... >_< you find yourself trapped in a complex cave system. The only way out is up, as the ocean is everywhere below. It's where the beast lurks, sliding soundlessly through submerged tunnels while you walk over precarious ledges and peer off of dangerous precipices, eyeing the severe drop to the water below. You're walking with a limp, pain and betrayal set deep beneath your skin. It hurts, but you have to keep moving. Otherwise the beast will catch you and you'll lose your life like the many princesses who came before you.

You managed to narrowly escape him earlier, when he ensnared you and you swiped at him with your dagger. He had been so caught up in you, watching with wide eyes, his horizontal pupils studying you intensely, that the momentary distraction allowed you to slip out of his hold. Now you're doing all that you can to survive and escape. You're determined. You won't die down here!

You put up a valiant fight, but Azul has done this one too many times. He knows these caves like the back of his own hand. It was only a matter of time before you found yourself in his grasp once more. You fight him, kicking and screaming, as he drags you into the water. He assures you he won't hurt you. You're unlike the previous princesses he's encountered. He's fallen in love with you! So please don't struggle. He intends to make you his bride. You can live down here with him! He won't destroy the kingdom now that they have so generously provided him with a lover. Besides, why would he bring harm to the body that will bear his clutch? :)

You may object now, but he knows you'll come around eventually. Now that you're soft and round with his young and he's been nothing but patient and kind, you'll reciprocate soon enough. Once that happens, the two of you can finally put aside your differences and live a happy life together! Just the both of you and the fry. He's the last of his kind, but now that you're here, his beloved, sweetest mate, that can change. <3

#twisted chit chat #yandere twst #tw: oviposition #tw: pregnancy #tw: implied noncon

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mhathotfic · 2 months

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This is a brothers Grimm inspired retelling of sleeping beauty and my first proper somno and noncon piece so please be gentle with me and give me some constructive feedback so I can improve!.

Warnings: somnophilia, noncon, afab reader with she/her pronouns, vaginal penetration described, oral(reader receiving), delusional/yandere!Todoroki, fantasy au, I feel like it's open-ended but could be left as a standalone one shot

Pairing: prince!Shouto Todoroki x sleeping beauty!reader

Our story begins with a prince who’s grown restless under his father’s strict control.

The prince known as Shouto went on many trips, all of which were under secrecy to avoid the wrath of the mad king Enji. For if he was discovered by his father, he’d surely be severely punished.

Maybe with a beating, or perhaps isolation, or worse his siblings would suffer for his actions.

He couldn’t risk the consequences, that’s what he told himself when had discovered an old castle in ruins.

‘You’ll be late’ he tells him as he examines the thick overgrowth of thorny vines that wrap around the aged and crumbling walls.

‘You need to return’ he reminds himself, cutting through overgrowth and forcing his way into the old palace, ignoring his better judgment in favor of his curiosity.

If he were truly honest, he was hoping to find whatever valuables were left behind so he could keep on the run and never return home. So he may dare to be selfish and not worry about anyone else’s ill fate, if he were honest that is.

Clearly whoever had owned this castle was long gone, old rotting furniture and aged paintings that were caked in thick grime and dirt.

He almost turned back, nothing here could possibly be of worth right? And yet, on some sort of fateful divine intervention, he felt compelled to look around a little longer.

For what, he did not know, he certainly could not have even imagined he would discover the perfectly preserved body of a beautiful young maiden.

She appeared roughly his age when she was put to rest, he thinks it such a shame that she must have passed young.

He steps closer to observe her better, shocked to witness her chest rising and falling. He presses a hand against her soft face, noting the warmth and softness of her skin.

He knows it’s insane, her clothes were dusty and the room around them was clearly aged decades, perhaps centuries, but she is most assuredly alive just asleep.

Certainly, this must be a curse and undoubtedly one he was destined to break. Why else would he be so compelled to go searching for her?

But how?

If the stories of witches and their evil deeds and tricks were to be believed, then a kiss should do. So with this in mind, he leaned down to capture her lips, certain that the spark he felt was a sign from the heavens.

Soon his princesses would awaken and she would be so greatly impressed and grateful that she would marry him without question.

He waits what feels like one, two, three, four whole minutes, and watches in confused frustration when she remains peacefully asleep.

‘Then a kiss is not enough’ he comes to realize ‘I need to do more, I have to show her she was meant to be my wife’. It made perfect sense to him, there was no need to question himself or his motives behind this because why else would a simple kiss not work?

Clearly, he needed to consummate this divine union.

He shuddered at the thought, the reality of the situation hitting him suddenly and making him unsure if this was all a delusion of grandeur.

Maybe he should reevaluate and deal with the creeping sense of disgust in himself, or maybe this deep and sudden desire for her was truly divine?

But this was unquestionably a sinful crime in any other circumstance, something a valiant and righteous prince like himself should never allow themself to indulge in.

But his urge to move forward must be a sign, it’s brought him this far, and he wouldn’t even be here if he had ignored it.

If he did follow his compulsion, the consequences would be well worth the actions right? Just a husband committing to his wife, that’s what this was.

It isn’t wrong for him to lay his hands on her sleeping body, positioning her to aid him in removing her old clothes, and laid his hot lips on the warm flush that was revealed.

Allowing himself to travel every exposed inch until he had her sex in close sight. He laved his tongue over it in curiosity. Humming in approval when he found her to secrete the sweetest nectar he had ever had the pleasure of tasting.

He lapped away at her as if he would never be allowed to again, no, as if he had never been fed. As if he had been starving for longer than he could remember and this would be the only meal he would have in who knew how long.

He found himself greedily pressing his fingers into her little hole, desperately trying to drag out more of her essence. Long slender fingers moving back and forth, dragging against her inner walls and unknowingly inching a dam of sorts closer and closer to snapping.

It almost startled him when she squeaked out a pleasant-sounding moan, practically pouring her heavenly nectar like a fountain for him. Her sex tightening and convulsing around his fingers, he finds himself enraptured by her involuntary response to him; assured he was right to think that this was the correct action.

He resettled himself between her legs so his sex was in line with her sopping wet warmth quickly. He would take his time to know her body properly later but for now, he would focus on introducing his body to her own.

He takes a breath, takes himself in hand, and rests against her entrance. Pausing to steel his nerves before pushing into her with a single thrust. Savoring how her wet warmth parted around him and held so tightly.

‘This couldn’t be wrong when it felt so heavenly’ he thinks, throwing his head back.

He hears a murmur of discomfort from her, he figures he must be her first lover. Good. This doubtlessly meant that the divines had been saving her for him.

She was meant for this, meant to be his love, to be the vessel for his seed.

So, there was no need to hold back on her until she’d taken it all in her womb, right?

He silences her involuntary whines with hot wanton kisses, allowing his tongue to slip into her mouth and explore every bit of it. Uncaring of the lack of response, he has plenty of time to know what her kiss truly felt like once she awakens.

He lets himself indulge in her. Dragging his finger along the little pearl of pleasure that made her leak more of her essence. His hips slapped against her at a rough and quick pace, chasing a pleasure that was well worth the effort.

He wondered, would she accept loving this rough when she did wake? Would she want the way he was being so forceful or would she rather him be gentle and tender? He supposed he could be gentle.

It did sound rather nice, but he would honestly prefer this. He thinks maybe she would too, her sex twitched and spasmed so desperately around him in response to his actions. Almost as if to wring out his love, it’s hard to imagine she wasn’t or wouldn’t enjoy this.

He wondered if she would call his name loudly, he could imagine it clearly based on the sounds she was already making.

‘S-Shou! Oh, Shouto! Please!’ she’d cry out, on the verge of spilling over again and pulling him with her, accepting every drop of his white-hot love inside her.

He barely catches himself from clasping on top of her, he can feel himself starting to stir again inside of her. How must this look to her?

“W-who are you?! W-what are you do—!”.

He cuts her off with a kiss, frowning when she jerks her face away. Didn’t she understand that he was her husband now?!

“Your husband,” he says it calmly, almost coldly as his hips pick up speed again. It would seem he’d have to teach her this new role as his wife.

And this is where we leave, with a king and his queen. One will live happily ever after, the other has no option but to be “happy” with her new life.

Tag list: @when-you-are-just-done @justabratsworld @kkatsukiswife

#shouto todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader smut #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader smut #shouto x reader #shouto x reader smut #todoroki x reader #todoroki x reader smut #tw somno #tw non con #fantasy au

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stubz · 4 months

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late shift

Shuttle for Mars is departing now. Please keep hands, feet, tails, and other appendages clear of the yellow line.

‘Nice, finally get off work on time for once! Man is it empty, way less busy than the 5:45 one…

Are they sleeping? Please tell me they’re sleeping…’

“Snnrk…”

‘Oh good they are, oooh lots of empty seats next to them! Nice.’

The young human sits across the large figure and looks around.

‘Wonder why everyone else is sitting so far away from this guy? He’s not that much scarier than a Alteauh…OH! He’s an Orc! An actual Orc, oh this is so cool! Wait. Calm down, control yourself. Orc’s are people too, not some exotic animal in a zoo….he’s sooo cool looking tho!’

The human smiles and takes out their headphones and listens to some music and take in the view they see through the shuttle’s windows. From time to time they peek at the orc, can’t helping themselves from people-watching him.

Like what most humans imagined, he was huge. Easily more than 7 feet tall, with large calloused hands bigger than their head. He had large tusks but unlike the stereotypes he was well trimmed with well relatively kept hair. It would have neater had there not been dust in it. The orc wore dirty cloths and work boots. Beside them what looked like a tool box and bag.

‘Must be a construction worker or works in a trade’ they mused

‘Poor guy, he’s gotta be exhausted to sleep here. At least he gets to go home now.’

The shuttle shakes and with it so does the sleeping giant. Rocking side to side.

'That's not good.' They nervously slide off their headphones.

The turbulence increases until the sleeping orc leans too far and starts fall face first off his seat.

“OH SHIT!” Diving to their knees they manage to catch his head and shoulders.

“Mm?”

“You okay?” Damn he's heavy!

“Mmm…sorry.” Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he slowly got back into his seat, the turbulence now gone.

“No worries, I just didn’t want you to hit your head.”

“Heh, wouldn't be the first time I’ve done it.”

after rubbing his eyes a bit more and a crack of the neck he looks at them, brain finally working to some degree.

“…wait. You caught me?”

“Uh-huh”

“But you’re so small! Are you hurt?”

“You're not the first sleeping giant I’ve caught. I’m alright.”

“I am so sorry for that. I just finished working a 12 hour shift fixing the 1st and 3rd engine rooms and couldn’t help myself from dozing off.”

They whistle. “12 hours? No wonder you’re tired! If I were you I’d be in a coma.”

“Ah but surely you have a difficult job yourself. How else would you be able to catch me?”

“No, nothing like yours! I just work at a youngling centre.”

“The one on the ship?”

“That’s the one.”

“...YOUR ONE OF THE BRAVE WARRIORS WHO RISKED THEIR LIVES TO PROTECT THE CHILDREN??!”

“…you’ve heard of us?”

“Every orc and warrior worth their blade knows of your valiant deeds!! Tell me, what is your name??”

“Kim, uh and you are?”

“Fenrir. It is truly an honor to meet someone of your bravery and intelligence."

"Likewise! I've heard that the orc species are a true warrior race."

For the rest of the trip the two talked. Kim sharing how her and Max built such a safe room in the centre, which lead to the two realizing how similar each other's planets are.

"You have wind whirlpools as well? I thought they only existed on Bantor!"

"Well we call them hurricanes and tornadoes but yeah. Do you guys have hail?"

"Not where I grew up but nearby farther up they get a week or two of light hail showers during the fall. What about animals? Do you have reptiles bigger than an adult with large teeth and live in rivers? We call them darthrang."

"Oh we call them crocodiles!"

"Amazing! To think that your species live in a world much like mine!"

When the shuttle finally reached it's destination the two went their separate ways. A few days later they meet again, this time on the later shuttle. They sit and talk and create a routine of sorts where they became each others travelling companion for the trip to Mars.

One day however, Fenrir stopped coming. The human was saddened as she enjoyed his company but was soon surprised when seeing him at the centre.

"Kim! I've been transferred to stay on the ship so I won't be taking the shuttle to Mars anymore."

"Oh...well, as you know I only go home at the end of the week so maybe we can hang out now. Like eat lunch together or have a drink after work...or something like that!"

"Actually we'll be seeing each other everyday now. But if you don't get sick of me then yes, lets each lunch together."

"Great! But why will I be seeing you everyday?"

"Because after telling my family about you and the centre they've enrolled my nieces and nephews and younger siblings here...and I offered to drop them off and pick them up."

It was then that Kim noticed the dozen of orc children hiding behind Fenrir. The tallest and what looked the eldest of them stepped forward.

"Hello, I am Athea, uncle Fenrir said your one of the ones who saved the centre."

"Yes, my name is Kim. It's great to meet you AtheaaAA!" The orc girl pulled the human into a tight hug, lifting the adult woman off of her feet.

"Thank you for saving Nova." she mumbled into her chest.

'Ah, the Captain's daughter' Kim thought. "I was just doing what any teacher would do."

After a moment the human was put down and lead the children into the centre. The day went well. Fenrir's young family members were quickly won over by the humans, first with the saving of the centre, then with how they understood how wonderful their planet was rather than terrifying or deadly.

They were also greatly intrigued by how such a small species could survive in a planet that was thought to only be habitable to orcs.

"How can you carry us?" asked Thor, one of Fenrir's youngest brothers. "We're much bigger than a human child."

"Yeah but your not bigger than my cousins who are teenagers. Also just last month I had like 10 kids climbing on me. Two were tighalaxes."

"Your joking!"

...

"It that tumpon?!"

"Hm? We call it maafe, but it's also known as peanut stew, do you want some? It doesn't have any meat in it though."

"Guys Max has tumpon!! Can you tell Fenrir where we can buy the ingredients?"

"Of course. Finally I'll finish what gran gave me without having to gain 10 pounds."

And thus the first day ended on a high note! Now if only Kim could figure out why the children looked at her and nodded while talking to Fenrir...

So this based off of a post by @llamagoddessofficial about humans meeting actual space orcs. Sadly I can't find the actual post. but yeah, here u go, space orc and human meet cute

#the adventures of kim and max running a space child care centre #space orcs #humans are space orcs #humans in space #the beginning is something that actually happened to me #caught a sleeping construction worker who I sat across from on the bus when heading home from work #thankfully he was just a little taller than me and not a giant like fenrir #also my brother went through a phase of randomly doing trust falls in front of me so I am experienced in randomly having to catch people

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animehouse-moe · 9 months

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The Valiant Must Fall Volume 2: Nonstandard

So, finally, we've gotten the second volume of Aida's latest series in English. Not too far off from the experience of the first volume, it improves in some areas, expands on various pieces, but may leave readers dissatisfied or questioning what's going on. Is it worth the read? Personally, I believe so, but I don't know if it's quite for everyone, which is what I'm hoping to explain here.

Also, apologies for the lack of images but I couldn't find any scans for the series online, so I've had to do without.

Okay, so Adashino, Kinsmen, Sessohiki, Meiji Restoration, etc. etc. Yeah, bit of a hefty plate for those that aren't too interested in a more traditional approach to Japanese historical storytelling, and those that don't have much knowledge of Japanese history.

Much like the first volume, I think that Aida does a good enough job in filling in the gaps for those that might not have the necessary knowledge and understand. I say "enough", because I think there's more that could be done in structuring the story to help readers, but that's mostly because of the average English speaking person's understanding of Japanese history and storytelling.

Anyways, lets go back over some of the core aspects to the story. Haruyasu and Shino try to kill her mother and fail, Haruyasu nearly dies due to the Sesshoseki, and Shino's brother leaves the group there. Following that we go on the run as the crew regroups.

And that's really all that happens in this volume. The storytelling is very slow, but then hits explosive moments towards the end of the volumes. You might say that it's a bit formulaic, though we're only on the second volume so it's hard to really be fair in that regard.

Let's talk specifics about this volume though. There's two things that sort of rub me the wrong way, that I think will be even taller hurdles to others: the Sessoseki (for reference, the name literally means "killing stone" and comes from a Japanese myth), and the handling of characters.

The concept of Sesshoseki is undeniably cool. An all powerful sword that consumes its user. It's dangerous, and is treated as such within the story. But it's almost underplayed. The demonic side of it isn't really displayed, and the combat feature doesn't carry the weight that you might expect. I wouldn't say it's terrible, none of this really is, but it's aspects that can very easily turn readers off from the series. Which is why it might be important to note that Aida's art is rather stiff through this second volume as well. Good layouts and paneling, but it can't really create that feeling of movement or flow that the art itself can.

Alright, the handling of characters. The supporting cast can fall flat, frankly speaking. I think some are certainly more interesting than others, but characters can easily become one dimensional or focus solely on delivering a single aspect to the story. I wouldn't say it's incredibly uncommon in more traditional Japanese storytelling to see single-faceted characters like this, especially with how Aida can treat them through this second volume. But for regular audiences this side of the pond, it can be abrasive. A character that seems important one second is gone the next, and that guy with the name that you can't remember actually comes back to be important and interesting. It's not quite hit and miss, but it's very whimsical and flippant with how characters can be approached.

So where does that leave all of this? In between a rock and a hard place?

Yes, but sort of no, but mostly it depends. There's bumps in the road for almost every reader, but overall I think it's a story that has the potential to hold interest, especially as this volume ends in a more interesting fashion, teasing the involvements of Shino's other siblings. The real question isn't so much if you like point A and point B in the story, but rather if you can find interest in the distance between them. The gaps stuffed full of historical information and interactions, the names that are a mile long and the details that seem all too forgettable.

Gunslinger Girl was never a mainstream or wildly popular series, but The Valiant Must Fall surely shrinks that fanbase to even a fraction of its predecessor. I know it sounds like I'm saying a lot of bad stuff about the series, but I really do want potential readers to be cautious with signing on for this series. It's not impossible to get into, but it's also not something you can just jump on and get the gist of.

#the valiant must fall #yuuki aru mono yori chire #勇気あるものより散れ #yu aida #gunslinger girl #manga reccs #manga recommendation #manga review #anime and manga #manga

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faline-cat444 · 1 year

Photo

Mailboxed

At least one more is bound to appear tomorrow

#I Want To Be Your Doll #The Valiant Must Fall #Soul Eater #The Strongest Sage With the Weakest Crest

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loaksky · 1 year

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— 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 [𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦] | ii

the lowdown — the one where neteyam is dangerously close to losing; but maybe you two are meant to be.

the who — neteyam x fem omatikaya!reader, brief reader x oc (for plot purposes heh)

the word count — 4.4k

the tags & warnings — language, even more emotional constipation, mentions of blood & injury, childhood friends(?)2l, unrequited love, arguably too much back n forth.

the notes — after forever & a day, here is the second installment to btg! thank you everyone for your patience, & i hope you enjoy! (proofread, but not well oops).

part one | masterlist

It becomes apparent to Neteyam that you’re not going to make this easy for him.

Regardless of the soundness of his declaration that afternoon in the forest, despite poking and prodding at the fissure in the facade you wore like an armor, you weren’t budging and Neteyam was growing far too restless and too impatient with the state of things.

It comes as a surprise to nearly all of the clan. The leader’s son was usually always so composed, always stiff-spined and unblinking when it came to the matters of his heart and matters pertaining to you. Now he’s like a pup constantly nosing at your leg, like a baby loud and unapologetic in their cries for attention.

He can’t help it. Not when the tether you have on him has no slack.

And, Ewya, these past few weeks shaded by your shadow have given him ample opportunity to see you in your entirety. To admire how beautiful you’ve grown since you were kids, painfully so. Because you’re not only beautiful outwardly, a mix of soft planes and sharp angles, but your mind and soul are so radiant, Neteyam doesn’t know what to make of himself.

“Maitan,” Neytiri’s voice is firm, but gentle, as Neteyam makes his first move of the morning for the flap of the tent’s exit.

He pauses, throws a look over his shoulder, then comes full stop when he sees the purse of his mother’s lips, the furrow between her brows. It’s like looking in a mirror and his shoulders fall slack.

“Yes?” He clears his throat, then straightens.

“Maybe…” She seems to choose her words carefully. “Maybe you should give it time to breathe.”

Neteyam doesn’t answer, wants to play dumb, because if he gives his full acknowledgement, he’ll have to admit that things aren’t getting any better between the two of you despite his valiant efforts.

He manages a hum before Neytiri continues.

“The last time we spoke about this situation, I know we made it seem like you didn’t have much of a choice in your selection feast,” Neytiri says. “But perhaps things change, and maybe you and ________ are no longer Eywa’s will.”

The thought makes Neteyam physically recoil. Makes the bile rise in his throat.

He’d been so against the two of you at first, didn’t even want to think of the idea of a future with you, but now his heart’s molding to form around the shape of you and he doesn’t think he’d have it any other way.

Especially not now that he’s forced himself in your proximity, has watched you function in your element, seen that you’re far from the peculiar girl he’d spent so much of his childhood running away from.

You’re everything but. You’re almost detrimentally kind, so soft and gentle to the moon and its creatures. And you work hard, dedicate every waking moment to serving your people despite no longer claiming any commitments to marrying into the tsahik’s position. You heal, and you mend, and you fix everything that’s broken, and Neteyam’s forced to watch on the sidelines as you stonewall him.

“Eywa’s will or not, I…” The words are nearly as weighty as his mother’s gaze. “I choose her.”

Neytiri blinks, then blows out a long breath.

“Neteyam, it’s important to realize that a selection feast is not one-sided,” she says. “She must choose you just as much as you do her.”

It’s something he’s been having to grapple with the past few weeks, the uncertainty of things. Your love for him had been a sure thing at the beginning, but now Neteyam’s not so reassured.

“She does, she will.”

He realizes he sounds like he’s convincing himself.

“Her parents have expressed their desire to withdraw from the preparations of your union,” Neytiri says.

The news is rather stale, but still leaves an awful taste in Neteyam’s mouth.

“They want to arrange for a new suitor.”

But that, that’s news to him.

You’re right where he expects you to be, in his grandmother’s tent with Mo’at herself and Kiri, testing a few trials of salve for the new round of candidates trying for their iknimaya.

You’re no longer bandaged up, just sporting a raised scar. The navy blue skin is tough, fused and blends with a few of your stripes, but Neteyam knows it’s there. Has felt and rewrapped the wound so many times that brushing over it with his fingertips is like muscle memory.

But now that you’re healed, practically as good as new, you don’t let him close. He doesn’t know what you feel like, has nearly forgotten the sensation of your hands on his skin.

“Teyam,” Kiri greets happily when she clocks her older brother.

He sees your eyes close in defeat, shoulders deflating because you just want one day of peace.

“Can I borrow ________?” he asks.

You answer before Mo’at does.

“We are very busy,” is all you say, but Neteyam won’t take no for an answer.

Your name leaves his lips firmly, like there’s no room for argument and you finally look up from your task to meet his stony gaze.

For a moment, his expression is familiar, makes you wonder what you’d done to piss him off this time around. But as you stand to your feet to shuffle out of the tent for some privacy, his hand ghosts the small of your back.

“What?” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

Neteyam doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Your parents are trying to marry you off,” he breathes.

You blink.

“I sought this out on my own accord,” you reveal, gaze bored as you watch his face morph into horror.

“You what?” he splutters.

“Just because we are no longer promised to each other doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to companionship,” you say harshly. “I have a duty to my parents to start a new generation.”

The thought of you with someone else makes him sick. Doesn’t even know who’ll claim you as his, but thinks the most violent and ill thoughts of whoever will put their hands on you.

“So you’ll just spend forever with some asshole you barely know?”

Neteyam’s being crass, but he can’t help it. Not when this is the closest he’s felt to losing.

You shift uncomfortably, anger shuttering over your features as your arms tighten over your chest.

“You’re awful, you know that?” you whisper. “You spent so much of our adolescence and young adulthood pushing me away and treating me so horribly.”

Neteyam sighs shakily.

“I know, I know,” he swallows. “And I’m sorry, you have to know that. I just—”

“You what, Neteyam?” you bite. “You’re so used to getting what you want, to everyone fawning over you and doting on you because you’re the olo’eyktan’s son that it feels like shit now that someone doesn’t?”

That one stings.

“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?” you ask, voice watery. “You said that you’d forfeit your responsibilities as the future leader of our people if it meant not having to be with me. Do you remember that?”

He does, all too well. Recalls the shattered look on your face when the words left his lips.

“You were so disgusted by the idea of having to spend forever with me that you were willing to give up everything you worked for in life to avoid that chance,” you spit. “That’s all I think of when I see you, you know. That I’d been so in love with you and the idea of loving you, but you’d rather be nothing than have to accept that.”

Neteyam shakes his head vehemently.

“Don’t.”

“Leave it alone,” you nearly beg. “Leave me alone.”

Neteyam decides to abide, but a greater force must have the cruelest sense of humor. Or perhaps the elders scheme. Because Neteyam is being hurtled into your proximity despite his best efforts to give you space.

Be it opposing teams in the training circle, adjoined scavenger groups in the forest, you’re so close yet so far. The berth between you and Neteyam grows until he can no longer close the distance.

From afar, he’s forced to notice things he’d been too stubborn to realize. Forced to realize that his grandmother wasn’t exaggerating when she’d warned him that there were many young warriors vying for your attention.

At first it’d been comical, watching the way they tripped over themselves to try to catch your attention. The way they’d linger, empty conversations and little trinkets. Neteyam found it laughable until you started accepting the advances. He’d been so absorbed in his duties, in turning a blind eye to you, that he hadn’t realized just how many people were waiting for a shot.

It makes the bitterness brew, knowing that if something doesn’t give, the possibilities of you spending forever with someone who isn’t him increases with every passing moment.

But the look on your face outside of Mo’at’s quarters is burned in his brain, tears that brimmed your sunny eyes lodging a lump in his throat.

A storm roils inside of him that can be felt by everyone near and far, casts such a heavy weight with every space he enters.

You have to feel it too, the yearn. There isn’t a way you’ve been able to cast years worth of pining and wanting to the side so easily. God, is this how you’d felt this entire time? Had it always—

“Alright, you’re done,” Jake grunts.

Neteyam’s drawn from his thoughts, glances down at the spearhead that’s been whittled down to practically nothing. It’s the fifth in his pile and his father looks cross.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, fingers loosening.

Jake sucks in a deep breath before prying the tools from his eldest’s hands.

“Just take a breather,” he says. “I’ll see you in the evening.”

Neteyam nods once, hesitantly, then concedes, withdrawing from his task to make for anything else that will get his mind off of you.

He’s about halfway to the stream when an elder stops him in his tracks.

“Where are you headed?”

He hangs his head in defeat.

“Off to clear my head,” is all he says in return.

“Care to help with preparations for this evening’s meal?” the elder asks.

He wants to say no, hasn’t helped with dinner preparations in who knows how long. He’d always been too busy with other duties, with learning about the ins and outs of tending to the clan, but the elder is smiling hopefully and Neteyam’s always had a hard time saying no.

“Sure,” he replies. “What do you need help with?”

“The fish,” she says. “Need to filet them.”

He hums in response, thinks it’ll just be him and the elder descaling the village’s catch and fileting them for roasting, but he stalls when he enters the clearing and finds you with your back to him, hunched over a basket.

It’s the closest he’s gotten in days, an aching mix of him keeping his distance and you avoiding him leaving him relying on personal recollections to map your features in his head. He feels like he’s intruding, like maybe he should make an excuse to break away, but you’re peering over your shoulder at the rustling of the leaves and he’s frozen in his spot.

Your shoulders tense, turning your attention back to your task at hand as the elder nudges Neteyam forward and he skids to a seat a few feet away from you.

“I have to retrieve another basket,” she announces, and you both miss the knowing look on her face.

You hum and Neteyam’s looking over his shoulder wide-eyed as the older woman retreats to leave the two of you with many baskets of fish.

He can’t help but sneak glances at you as he begins his work, fingers working over the slender catch like muscle memory.

The silence is tangible, thick like a woolen blanket and pierceable.

He’s flying through his basket, already on his fourth while you still fiddle with the same one you’d been working on since he sat down.

“You’ve always been good at this,” you say quietly, and Neteyam blinks hard at the sound.

He hadn’t expected you to break the silence.

“Maybe you’ve always been bad,” he says, huffing a little laugh as he glances at you again.

“Yeah, maybe,” you whisper.

The memory seems like it was yesterday, when the two of you were nine and you’d revealed your intentions to spend forever with him.

Another uncomfortably long stretch of silence passes with nothing but your nervous breathing and the rush of the river when he finally bites the bullet and turns towards you.

He shifts closer, hands closing over yours. You’re trembling, he realizes, and he squeezes.

“Why are we doing this?” he asks gently.

The implication of his words are weighty.

Your throat bobs.

“You know why,” you say softly.

“I don’t,” he tells you. “I really messed up, I know that, but you can’t convince me that there’s nothing here anymore.”

His fingertips ghost underneath your collarbone, right over your heart.

The look on your face is anguished.

“I know you’ve been patient with me,” he sighs shakily. “It took me way too long to realize that you’re it for me and I’m sorry.”

You’re taking in a shuddering breath and something tells Neteyam to hold on extra tight this time around.

“I’ve given you every part of me,” you say resolutely. “And you..you—”

You don’t even finish your statement, just look up at him with your round eyes and the reality of it all seems to settle like a disgusting feeling he can’t shake.

He’s willing to wait for you twice, thrice as long as you’ve waited for him, but he sees the exhaustion written on your face. Sees what a toll loving him has taken on you regardless of any healing you’ve endured physically and emotionally.

“This is my last time asking,” he whispers. “Promise. Just—think about it. Regardless of your decision, I’ll…I’ll understand.”

True to his word, Neteyam stays away. Gives you all the space you need by throwing himself headfirst into spearheading the next round of warriors’ iknimaya training. And you take advantage of it; think to yourself that the longer you take to put a final end to this all, the longer you can cling to the remnants of your first love.

It agonizes you, thinking of diverging paths with Neteyam, of being with someone else when you know fully well that the hold that Neteyam has on your heart is ironclad.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself, no matter what solace you search for in another, it will always be him.

But there are people counting on you, counting on him, and with each passing eclipse, your duties to the clan grow far heavier. Dancing around this is becoming tedious, so you take the plunge.

It’s why you finally give into Raime, a quiet boy in the village. He’s two years your senior, the most accomplished hunter in his lot, and he’d been the first to express his interest in you when you’d told your parents you wanted to search for new suitors.

It’d been rocky, tumultuous, at first, but he’d been understanding. He’d known about you and Neteyam, had admitted that he knew the feeling of wanting all too well.

“...and Mo’at was so angry that—”

You stop because Raime hasn’t stopped smiling at you since you started speaking and your cheeks are warm.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he assures quietly, eyes glancing back down at his task at hand.

Ironically, the two of you are huddled in the clearing near the river, skinning the village’s catch and preparing for the evening’s meal. Like always, your fingers are fumbling and Eywa must have a funny sense of humor because Raime skins, guts, and cleans like he does it in his sleep.

He notices the silent struggle, corner of his lips quirking up higher as you fruitlessly move a stray hair away from your face with the back of your wrist.

He rinses his hands in the river, dries them on his loincloth. You notice his fingers in your periphery, but he’s stopping himself.

You look up, see his hands near your face, and your throat bobs.

“Can I?” he asks gently.

You don’t know what he’s asking permission for, but you nod nonetheless, heart going soft and stomach frenzied because you’d never known such a tender kindness from a man in all your pining.

Raime’s fingertips are gentle against your temple, threading his fingers through your hair softly to tuck the stubborn strands out of your face.

“Thanks,” you hiccup, searching his chiseled features.

He hums and you tuck your chin, trying to hide the blooms of purple over the apples of your cheeks.

His weight shifts closer, fingers ghosting over yours as he settles like a guide.

“Head to tail,” he says softly. “Knife over the rib cage, not through it.”

The bones easily lift and you let out a triumphant breath, smile growing as he pulls the next fish and walks you through it hand-over-hand.

You’re too engrossed with the foreign feeling of affection, with allowing yourself to melt into a new beginning, that you don’t even realize the eyes that have spotted you.

Neteyam had been waiting patiently for your decision, but nestled among the foliage, he sees the soft grin on your lips, the dent of your dimpled cheeks, and he gets his answer.

Raime is a man of few words, Neteyam comes to find out. He’s got him cornered, right before eclipse a few evenings later, and the look in his eye is a warning.

“Be good to her,” Neteyam says, voice calm like the eye of a storm. “You’ll pay if you’re anything but.”

Raime doesn’t protest, doesn’t argue, because he knows with far too much familiarity what the nuances are between the two of you. Knows that your hearts are still bound by the most stubborn of threads whether he likes it or not.

So all he does is nod, throat visibly bobbing.

And for Neteyam, well, it would do.

You decide against a selection feast. Because Raime holds little status in the clan and you no longer train to lead, you both agree that you’ll come together as one on your own terms.

Toeing a relationship with Raime is simple, easy. But things seem a little too quiet, too good to be true. You’re used to the chaos, the storm that thunders when loving someone, and while you don’t think you love him quite yet, you think that like all things, you could learn to.

The two of you idle near the hometree, picking herbs, laughing about younger villagers’ antics, the hunts he participates in, among other things when you catch the whispers.

Did you hear about olo’eyktan’s son?

Your ears twitch.

How unfortunate.

Self-consciousness pricks the back of your brain momentarily as you strain to hear what the gossip’s all about. Raime doesn’t seem to notice that your attention is divided, still laughing quietly about a particular villager’s plight with training.

Think he’ll be okay?

Who knows, heard the fall was pretty bad.

Your brows furrow, brain shifting gears to the younger son. Neteyam was too careful, too cautious. But Lo’ak, on the other hand, was careless, daring.

You want to settle on the idea that Lo’ak’s gone off and hurt himself, but then you see Kiri off in the distance, eyes wild and searching.

When you two lock eyes, she’s crossing the trodden path hurriedly.

“Kiri–”

“Please,” she breathes desperately. “It’s Neteyam.”

Neteyam’s injuries make your heart squeeze. He’s bruised, blood mottled under the surface of his wounded skin, and he’s broken his arm.

You’d heard the conversation before you entered the tent. Despite being hurt, Jake was laying it on thick.

“What the hell were you thinking!” Jake’s voice echos.

“Just needed to clear my head.” Neteyam’s voice was scratchy, weak.

“After what happened to ________, you know there’s absolutely no flying or traveling alone! Especially not as far out as you did!” his father chides. “You could have died, Neteyam!”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“This really impedes on your duties, you know that?” Jake bites. “You–”

“I’m sorry,” Neteyam repeats again, voice a hoarse whisper.

He sleeps now, the smallest of furrows between his brow bones. His broken arm is wrapped tightly, resting over his stomach as his chest rises and falls with every breath.

His parents had left you with him after your quiet request for a moment, but you don’t wake him.

Instead, you’re digging through your satchel, finding the solidified salve wrapped in the center of a balmy leaf. You wedge off a piece, warming it between your palms as you work over shallow wounds and purpling contusions.

Your heart had pounded so hard in your chest hours prior when Kiri had told you that Neteyam was hurt. It made you absolutely sick to your stomach, body wracked with nerves as you followed her frantic strides.

As you kneel before him now, working softly over his skin, you realize that letting this go isn’t as easy as you thought it was going to be. It’s further solidified when your eyes burn and you’re surprised to blink back tears.

“Wow,” you whisper shakily to yourself, knuckling away the tears in annoyance as your chin tilts towards the apex of the tent to stop them from falling.

The salve is still warm in your hands when you feel a set of fingers ghost over yours.

Your gaze snaps to Neteyam who watches you with sleepy eyes, hooded and struggling to stay awake.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you swallow. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he says softly. “A lot better.”

You nod simply, hope he doesn’t notice that you’re trying not to cry, but Neteyam’s learned to read you so well over the last few months. Comes with the territory when you’ve been orbiting the same person for years.

“You’re crying,” he observes hoarsely. “Why?”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, the familiar burn behind the bridge of your nose forcing more tears.

“I’m not,” you argue weakly.

Neteyam looks shocked, making a move to sit up.

Your hands are on his shoulders, gently restraining him as you shake your head quickly.

“You need to rest,” you warble.

“Why are you…are you…”

“You scared me,” you say weakly. “I thought–”

You hiccup and his face softens.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he assures you. “I’m good.”

You bite the inside of your lip, smooth the rest of the salve over his uninjured arm, and his nose twitches at the scent. It’d been the same one his grandmother had slathered over his cuts and bruises; the one you’d made especially for him.

Despite knowing you’ve been spending an awful lot of time with Raime, it makes something triumphant settle in the pit of his stomach knowing you still carry around something you’d made thinking of him.

But he doesn’t say a word, keeps the comment to himself. Instead he watches you with bated breath.

Then you surprise him, forehead meeting the firm planes of his stomach. His expression twists, uninjured hand ghosting over the back of your head momentarily before resting the full weight over your loosened braids.

“Wha–”

“I can’t do it,” you whisper, voice muffled against his skin.

“Do what?” he croaks.

“Be with him.”

He stills.

“What are you talking about?”

He swallows, waiting for your next words with anticipation.

“I can’t help it, Neteyam,” you sigh shakily. “Not when it comes to you.”

He knows what you’re trying to say, but he can’t bring himself to act on it without hearing the words with the utmost clarity. Needs the confirmation that you’re done fighting it.

When he doesn’t say anything, only presses his fingertips through the roots of your hair, you crack.

“It will always be like this,” you whisper. “No matter how much distance there is, it’ll...”

You push away gently to glance at his face.

“It’ll always be you.”

Neteyam can’t help the smile that grows.

“If I…” you swallow. “If I give in, you have all of me.”

“Only way I’d ever want it,” Neteyam says, trying to tamp down the hope ebbing into his voice.

“But would you be able to say the same?” you challenge quietly. “It only takes once.”

He sits up despite the sharp look you give him, traps your fingers in his uninjured hand and presses your palm to his chest. You feel it, his heart, fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird under the skin.

“Promise,” he murmurs, wincing when the skin over a particularly imposing wound stretches too taut. “I’m all yours, ________. I meant what I said. Union or no union, it’s you and me.”

A shiver rips down your spine as you nod, teary-eyed. You move to press your face to his chest, but his fingers skim your jaw, cupping the back of your neck as he brings your lips to his.

You’d imagined this moment a million and one times and even if the moment is fleeting, you feel the weight of things solidify around you.

Neteyam’s kiss is bruising, like parting means letting you go for the final time.

You only do when you feel something wet brush your jaw, breaking away momentarily to ghost the fingers not trapped against his chest over your cheek.

The most minute of furrows twitch across your features before you realize that Neteyam is crying, yellow eyes rimmed red and watery.

“Sorry,” he whispers, swiping the back of his wrist over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Your heart softens, melting, as your thumb brushes over the carve of his cheekbones.

“It’s okay,” you assure him quietly, and the expression on your face is devastating. It’s like you’ve morphed back into the girl who pined and yearned. It makes his gut twist with guilt. “We’ll be okay.”

He nods hesitantly, hand coming around your wrist as he presses his cheek further into the cradle of your palm.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, such silly human words he’d heard his father mutter to his mother time and time again. But in the moment it feels right.

“I love you,” he says gently.

You blink hard, spine rigid. Can’t help the smile that threatens to crack your full lips.

“I love you,” you assure him.

And from the other side of the tent’s flap, both Neteyam’s parents and yours catch whispers of the rekindling of a dying flame. Your mother, always in your corner, murmurs soundly with a relieved grin.

“Eywa makes no mistakes.”

an — do i lowkey hate this, yes lmao, but i will go absolutely nuts if i don’t get this out sdfjksdfaj, love you all <3

taglist; @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e , @s-u-t , @junieswrlds , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @neteyamo , @fanboyluvr , @mazemymirror , @theycallmesia , @girlpostingsposts, @athenachu , @hiya-itsamber , @morks-watermelon , @sanfransolomitatm , @lovedbychoi

#neteyam x reader #neteyam imagine #neteyam fic #neteyam angst #neteyam fluff #neteyam #atwow #avatar way of water #avatar the way of water #avatar the movie #avatar

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callsign-rogueone · 3 months

Text

a brief history of Navarre - x.r.

Xaden Riorson x marked!partner!reader (gn) Midterm week at Basgiath has you wanting to pull an all-nighter to study, but Xaden won’t let you. requested as part of my Valentine’s day celly 💕 (gonna be posting these well into March, oops) words: 745 🏷: no book spoilers and no triggers, just X taking care of his partner. established relationship between reader and Xaden. the reader wears one of Xaden’s shirts, but there is no description of how it fits on them (we bigger / taller girls are tired of reading that [character]’s clothes are soo oversized and long on us!) shoutout to the people who put a full timeline of the continent’s history online bc I was too lazy to find it all in my copy lol

“I’m calling it a night,” Xaden announces, closing his textbook. “Gonna go shower.”

You hum in acknowledgement, pen between your teeth as you read the same page for the fifth time tonight, still trying to cram six hundred years of history into your brain. You’ve been sitting on his floor for hours, and the lines of text are starting to blur together, words starting to look misspelled and foreign, losing their meaning with repetition.

You spent too much time reviewing the first fifty decades. You still have nearly another hundred years to cover, from 530 to present.

It has not escaped your notice that the book reduces the Tyrrish revolution to an afterthought, at the end of the text. The belittling words they’d chosen to describe your parents’ valiant effort had nearly been enough for Xaden to light the entire volume on fire, but he’d settled for ripping that page out of his copy and letting Sgaeyl torch it.

You’d left it in yours as a reminder that these people are not on your side, nor will they ever be.

The running water stops, Xaden stepping back into the room a moment later. “You’re still studying?” He asks, rubbing at his hair with a towel. “You must be really into that book if you aren’t checking me out right now. I’m literally dripping.”

He’s a little offended that you don’t even look up as you answer.

“This is important, Xay. It’s a third of our final grade.”

He dries his hands on his pants, taking the book from your hands easily -- your grip on it has loosened with your exhaustion.

You protest, but he shushes you. “Why did Poromiel not unite with Navarre after the great war?”

It takes you a moment to respond, pushing through the sleepy fog to find the answer. “Religious differences”, you reply tiredly. “And their king did not want to share his throne with Navarre’s.”

“Good. When was the second Cygni Incursion?”

“328.”

“And the second Krovlan uprising?”

“434.”

He shuts the book, gathering your notes into a neat stack. “You know this stuff, darling. You’re going to pass this exam with flying colors and set the curve for the whole class, but only if you get some sleep.”

Materials now confiscated, you have nowhere to look except up at him, and your resolve immediately starts to crumble.

He’s ready for bed, dressed only in a pair of black sweatpants that drape across his hips and cover the muscle of his legs, but every other inch of skin is exposed; the relic swirling up his muscled arm, the definition of his chest and stomach, the broad expanse of his shoulders…

You’re too tired to jump his bones right now, but it would be nice to stop, to cuddle up with him, to fall asleep in his arms. Your schedules are packed with classes, studying, training, his wingleader duties, and your responsibility for the younger marked ones. It’s been nearly a week since you’ve been able to hold him for more than five minutes. His skin is always so warm against yours, and his mattress is certainly more comfortable than the hardwood floor…

You hesitate, still eyeing the book in his hands. “I don’t know…”

“Yes, you do. C’mere.”

You sigh, letting him pull you up from the floor. Your muscles sing in relief as you stand, your back aching from being hunched over for hours. You relax into him, resting your eyes for a minute.

“Go brush your teeth,” he encourages.

You don’t want to move from his arms, but three years of dating the boy has taught you that he won’t yield on matters of your health. You sigh, heading to the bathroom.

When you get back, he’s packing everything into your bag for tomorrow — or today, rather. You’d started studying after dinner, and now it’s well after midnight.

He helps you out of the day-old clothes and into one of his shirts and a clean pair of underwear -- you keep a few days of necessities here for moments like these.

You curl into his side, pulling the blankets overtop of you, and the swirling thoughts are replaced with the easy contentment that comes with being held by your partner.

“You’re going to do great,” he whispers, smoothing a hand over your back. “Just get some rest, okay?”

You don’t respond, already lulled to sleep by the steadiness of his heartbeat and the warmth of his arms around you.

#xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #reader insert #fourth wing x reader #mine

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delicrieux · 6 months

Text

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 | endless drabble series (autumn edition)

pairing—james potter x reader genre—very light enemies to lovers in the span of 5 mins xx summary—someone comes to annoy you as you read your book on the pier word count—2.7k

author's note: i've been on james potter spiral. won't elaborate

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

there’s absolutely nothing romantic about the way james looks at you – gaping maw and all, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose because he smacked his hand to the thin, wiry edge to lift them up and did it quickly and clumsily and for no reason – and if you assume otherwise, you’re an idiot. but you don’t assume otherwise, nor are you all the curious about the tangle of mush that could, perhaps, in a mind more evolved, be considered a thought. james can, you suppose, have decency, and he can, given the benefit of the doubt, appear thoughtful and tactful and, based on the information that came to dorcas in a dream, be serious about his affections. which he has none for you, just to be clear. in case the scene might paint otherwise.

what a curious sight it is on the rickety pier of the boathouse. the weather’s grown cold, near frosty, and the sky had long turned into something grey and woolen. the wind scratches at your ears, and at your lips, and james’ nose has gone red and so have his cheeks, and he looks ridiculous in his coat and burgundy sweater peeking underneath that you almost take pity on him. almost. though, if any of your friends inquired what was so ridiculous about him in that moment, you wouldn’t be able to form an answer that would appease them. james potter is simply too much – is that not fact? why should there be a trial to scrutinize your claim when the words are truth? yes, he’s ridiculous, and he’s stupid, and his hair is all a mess, and—

“i didn’t expect to find anyone here, to be honest,” he says after the long pause of nothing but glances and an understanding you haven’t figured out yet. when you’ll go to bed tonight and toss and turn, perhaps you’ll pick up the magnifying glass and recognize it as interest and be tremendously distressed and nauseous of that knowledge. now, you only worry for a heartbeat that’s just a tad too quick, “’s a bit odd, innit?”

“what?” your voice could’ve been like a whip in the air if only it wasn’t so hushed. pillowed by the cold that had frozen the strings of your syllables.

“you are.” he explains, a hint of teeth showing from his smile.

if you swung with all of your weight, perhaps he’d fall into the freezing waters beneath your feet and be so shocked that he would never resurface. no one would suspect you as culprit, since no one would see you escaping the boathouse, and you could, with great smugness, mourn with the rest when his disappearance is declared as demise. how positively villainous. he’s sitting close enough, you could try, but you know that, while a valiant attempt, he would grab you quicker than you could blink and drag you down to the depths laughing, like some deranged grindylow. a mirror-image in appearance, too.

“sod off,” you mumble, and seldom have you spoken words more genuine. you flip a page of an inconspicuous book borrowed from the forbidden section, intended to be returned, of course, once you had absorbed all it has to offer. not much, so far.

“there’s a library you can read in,” james says, scooting closer, because your personal space must be shared and perhaps he’s curious of the text that has commanded so much of your attention. he nudges your shoulder, and nudges it again when you don’t look up, “not sure you knew that.”

“was terrified you might find me too quick,” and there is some truth to that, but more so you were dissuaded by the idea of the librarian catching you. the book supposedly reveals archaic jinxes that went out of fashion – either too impractical or too dangerous – and the long-withstanding mythos about the book implies it discloses only when the shift in temperature is great. so you sit here, and freeze, and if you were honest enough you would tell him, and you would add that you like it here, even when cold, because it’s tranquil and the castle looks trapped in a snowglobe under the dome of the sky.

he snorts, “found you anyway.”

“have you nothing better to do?”

“not really. you upset?”

“hard not to be, around you.”

“flattered. and thankful. for, you know, the stature that comes with such an accomplishment—”

there you go, taking the bait and reeling in close. if your teeth chatter a bit as you speak, well, you were already blaming the chill, no? so let him think what he wants – a smirk tugging at his lips and eyes all lit up and giddy – and his face could warm you a bit. but then, it was your temper all aflame that might solve the problem entirely. and all you can think is, ridiculous.

perhaps his conversation isn't stimulating. perhaps the cold numbs your thoughts. or perhaps he is a pretty sight against this miserable, clouded backdrop, and so are you. a hand comes to the cover of the book, still flipped, and the skin brushing against the page is frigid to touch.

"you're freezing," he says, eyes trained on the book, and perhaps he really is talking to the cover. you wouldn't put it past him, "fancy warming up a bit? back inside, near the fire place in the common room. with company, for once. bet that'd be better."

"with your company, i take it?" you chime smartly.

"didn't i just say that?"

"hmm," is a reply given with a hum, and he only speaks again when his stare hasn't caused your skin to peel away.

"c'mon, then. there's nothing for you here but a bloody draft. come up now and we can steal butterbeers from the kitchen, if you'd like." there are an unnatural many suggestions, like he's grappling for a hook even when his expression shows nothing. he's usually less scattered than this, and he never considers your feelings in his very many attempts: 'come to the three broomsticks with me,' and you ask, 'why?' and he replies 'cuz i wanna drink.'

"no." you say.

"stubborn."

"willfully," and the emphasis is drawn out so maybe it sticks. you've dealt with him enough that his ramblings can hardly deter you, though, no matter how charming the prospect might sound, because you hate him. you've practiced saying these exact words in the mirror only to make them sound more potent. train your expression not to wobble, because no matter how unassuming james can appear at times, he strikes the moment he notices a slight hesitation.

he doesn't, because if he had, your hand wouldn't be clasping his so tight.

"fine," he nods his head, a huff of white cloud billowing from his mouth as he says so. his hand is equally as cold, like ice against your palm, but then his fingers wiggle a bit and lace through the empty spaces to properly intertwine.

"james?"

"they say sharing body heat is the quickest, y'know."

"unnecessary," you hiss.

"warm," is his only answer, and he inches closer so it's no wonder his face flushes like that. he's got his other arm around your shoulders, knee knocked with yours, "how long, you recon," he mutters, "before frostbite starts?"

"soon," you drawl, and if there's a small shiver running up your spine, then that's all the cold. nothing to do with the person beside you and how unabashed he is at his own closeness, and how warm he could be in this circumstance – when he was offered no objections, "if lucky."

a subtle lean in your direction, a nose buried in a scarf that smells faintly of cinnamon, is, at this rate, your ultimate surrender. how painful it is to do so, when pride swells like a bruise deep in your chest and the pain lingers. perhaps you can hide behind the flimsy veil of not caring and listen to the pace of his breath under your ear where his chin rests on your shoulder. if you were to look, you'd see a vague pout on his lips – chapped, but red, maybe even lovely.

"what are you reading, anyway?" he mumbles.

"history," is the quick and clipped answer. he doesn't deserve the details.

"not quite my subject. boring as all, i take it. does it at least mention me? history? dunno how anything goes without the noble house of potter contributions."

"noble? hardly," you state, "absolutely vain, though, obviously."

"begrudge me my blessings, but you love them," he chuckles and if you were feeling nice, you would say that it was warm enough that it chipped a tiny sliver of ice away. just a little. you settle for pinching his wrist, and are entertained to hear him wail a little.

he is the worst thing that's ever happened. the most tragic accident, and you just happen to have the most unfortunate timing. did he take a specialty class to master the art of pestering people? his eyes are big and hazel, and maybe it's because they are trained on that they seem a bit darker. absolutely repugnant. you'd rather die, and that is the truth. a death by looking. a tragic fate, a complete misfortune, an absolute bloody mess.

"you're blushing," he says, and if he had to bring it up, at least his voice is soft. no amusement, and he sounds just as fond as he is mystified, "thinking dirty thoughts? and on school grounds, no doubt. i am positively scandalized."

"piss off," the hiss is made venomous on purpose, and maybe you mean it. maybe.

"hope you aren't thinking too many about anyone else," this is the closest he has been to sounding thoughtful in any conversation, "that'd make me all sorts of bitter. wouldn't like that."

"of course you wouldn't, not when the possibility exists to bully me with the information," a huff, a quick exhale that clouds the air like his smile had before, and maybe he'd be charming, if only his intent wasn't as devious as it is.

"or i really just wouldn't like it," and how he dares to sound wounded with such a tender sentiment, and perhaps your insistence upon finding his ways less than humble could have come with a greater reluctance. as if you were dragged out of this, kicking and screaming. how utterly sickening his lips might taste, and your want has to be damned, so you don't look. and instead, his head comes to nuzzle on a shoulder with a knit scarf tickling his cheek, "wouldn't like it."

how utterly horrid.

there is no solution, really, and if you had looked, his eyes would've been heavy and his mind more so. it doesn't bother him, even if you are so silent – silent as stone – and his voice comes a bit thick, but he's smiling and he's always smiling like the imbecile he is. that you know he is. no one could fake the joy so pure that is beaming across his face. and what's worse, what is infinitely worse, is that he sees what must look like something far gentler in your expression.

"you're sweet," and if he is smug, you'd hardly noticed. a press of his lips at your temple, a warm chuckle against your neck, "and bloody adorable, too," because if there's anything that you couldn't handle right now, it's a heartfelt conversation. a damsel-worthy declaration, because, knowing him, he'd embarrass the both of you enough to melt a few inches of frost, and that just won't do.

"don't push it."

"or what? afraid you might lose the resolve to your no-nonsense-pretend-to-loathe-everyone act? and it was so brilliant, too."

"please stop talking," the whine could've been unbecoming if you weren't so desperate for him to silence himself, but, lucky you, "seriously."

"so hard not to when you are. how are you real?"

"questionable," you mumble, and this must be torture, except the prick hasn't pushed you, or grabbed you, or anything beyond holding your hand and wedging a cold nose into your scarf, "at the moment, i'm not entirely sure."

"miserable, aren't we? c'mon," and the only solution is to knock his head with yours, hard enough to make a noise that's audible over your hammering heart, and this time you give him the courtesy of seeing a brief flash of pain. and if you give him the curtsy of pressing your lips into his, well, he takes advantage of it and gets your hands. warm hands around cold, pale fingers, and a hum sounds into your throat and might vibrate all the way to the ends of your hair.

he's the bloody worst, isn't he? and somehow you're fated to know how terribly true the statement is.

"no, really, your hands are cold," he says softly, and the weather hasn't affected him. his words are sluggish and slow, like the pace of his palms on yours, rubbing and trying to warm them, and he might have a point, but he won't have the satisfaction of knowing that. the confirmation only came with another kiss, and how is that a deterrent? it really shouldn't be, "adorable, but i see frost on your fingers."

you roll your eyes, but for what it's worth, his kisses have an aftertaste of warmth, "my savior," your murmurs, and the irony is evident in how unamused the words are, "thanks."

"always at your beck and call."

"have i called?"

"many times," he presses a kiss to a wrist and another to your palm, and if his breathing warms the space between your hands then the problem's almost solved.

"in your dreams, perhaps."

"quite vividly," james has always had a glint to his eyes – an ambition, maybe, that shines brilliantly every time he's truly serious, but it's an intensity you had only seen a handful of times in him. so many wasted words, and how ridiculous he could be, how aggravating, and stupid, and wonderful, and in that instant, you think you could see stars, "but they don't last much."

"nice to know you've figured your issue."

"oh, hush." and the lips are on yours, and he smiles while doing so and you might melt away if only because the frost were forced into it. he doesn't open his mouth or let his hands do more than touch your cheek, your neck, with such gentility and no wonder your face grows warmer. it must glow in the evening air and you could be seen miles away, looking like an absolute prat, being adored so thoroughly. a long inhale before pulling away, but he rests his forehead against yours, "see? better, isn't it?"

"dreadful."

"sure, love." and it must be the first time the petname sounds endearing rather than mocking, or perhaps the frost in your limbs has really started to settle and the chill has worked into your bones, or perhaps his skin looks so bright under this awful dome and no one ever talks about the way his hair frames his face. maybe his voice has warmed you more than his hands. or perhaps he is softer and gentle with his affections and he isn't as mean as he claims to be or you insist. maybe, just maybe, you are secretly, obviously, terribly fond the brat and the starry eyed fool sitting next to you. more, or just as much, as he's fond with you.

"can we go back to the castle now?"

"no."

"cold out here," he reminds.

"so i've heard."

"i could help you with that, though."

"thought you already are."

"amazing," a new kiss, quick and chaste on a corner of your lips, "this has got to be a new record of no arguing. good. i can't believe, for once, that all it took was a kiss and some, like, a minute or three of talking, and i would've done it earlier, too. probably."

"don't think too much of it."

"i will. warm-up?"

"what?"

"kiss me," is that impatience in his voice or the beginning of a tantrum? either way, when a something isn't instantly granted, it prompts a series of groans and complaints that surely rival the level of insufferability james has attained through the years. his head rolls onto your shoulder and you feel his voice against your neck. a hum, "you really, absolutely, one hundred percent have to."

"i never signed up for such a deal."

"you did. c'mere."

thank u for reading <3

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