#when the horizon bloom

[perseabeth]

< What If >

this is a one shot written about @anotheroceanid amazing fic titled When the Horizon Bloom, read it on AO3 you will enjoy it very much and cry very much too - i do not own the idea of the fic and i certainly do not own any character. this is a version of “What if” things happened differently in the fic. enjoy ✨ and i’d love to thank the author again for the amazing fic that i’m becoming obsessed with

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Percy paced back and forth in her cabin, a growing sense of unease gnawing at her. She felt lost, unsure of whom to turn to, and the lack of dreams last night only heightened her fear. Sleep eluded her; every time she closed her eyes, she was jolted awake by terrifying nightmares.

She had faced Kronos, defeated titans, and held the weight of the world on her shoulders in Atlas’ place. She had endured experiences far worse than any nightmare could conjure, living through horrors that would break most. So why was she so afraid now?

A soft knock on the door pulled Percy from her spiraling thoughts. A blonde-haired girl peeked in. "Seaweed brain?"

Percy lifted her gaze to meet her friend's. Annabeth's gray eyes were filled with concern, as if sensing something was wrong. "You missed breakfast... is everything okay?"

Percy tried to muster a small smile. No, nothing was okay. Morning sickness was wreaking havoc on her, and the nightmares of gods punishing her were relentless. "Yes, I'm okay. I just woke up late," she managed to say, though it was far from the truth.

Annabeth looked at her silently for a minute, her eyes seeming to penetrate Percy’s thoughts. Percy was always amazed at how Annabeth’s eyes mirrored Athena’s, reading a person like an open book. she gulped, hoping Annabeth would believe her words. After a moment, her friend nodded slowly. "Your training starts in 15 minutes. The class is almost ready."

Percy gave a slight smile and nodded. "I'll be there." Yet Annabeth lingered at the door, as if waiting for Percy to confide in her. Realizing she wouldn't get any more information, Annabeth gave a final nod and closed the door behind her.

Percy hated lying to her friends and hiding anything from them. Since the war, they had all promised to be open with each other, to support one another through the healing process. But what could she say? That she was pregnant? Carrying a god’s child? No, not even one—three. Three small lives growing inside her, and she had no idea who to turn to.

She did have an idea. She wanted to turn to everyone around her, but her dreams held her back. Demigod dreams weren’t mere dreams; they were messages, visions, and warnings. And here she was, sleep-deprived because she dreamt of her children being killed while their father watched, emotionless.

The day passed rather quickly, as if Kronos had cursed time to hasten her doom. Everything was normal; life at camp went on as usual. Campers were enjoying themselves, chatting, sneaking drinks, and partying as if there were no worries for tomorrow.

It was ironic how carefree they all seemed. They had won a war and were free, savoring the remnants of their mortal lives. Yet, Percy was once again carrying the weight of the world. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed something strange about her. Then the news would spread like Greek fire, reaching the gods, who would learn of the prophecy. Percy and her children would be doomed.

Unconsciously, she wrapped a hand around her belly, as if trying to shield them from the inevitable. Just then, Percy noticed a pair of lingering gray eyes. "Still not feeling well?" Annabeth's voice pulled her from the ocean of her thoughts. Percy quickly removed her hand from her belly, afraid the gesture might reveal too much. "Yes, don't worry. I think I had too many cookies," Percy muttered, attempting a smile to reassure Annabeth. But she knew her friend wouldn’t buy it. Annabeth nodded silently.

The thing about a daughter of Athena was that she knew when something was wrong. But she waited for you to confide in her before uncovering the truth herself. That’s what Annabeth was offering Percy—time to reveal what was going on before she forced it out of her.

—————

The Olympus council raged with energy—too much energy for Percy’s mortal form to bear. She had been here multiple times before, she reminded herself, but nothing had prepared her for this moment.

She tried to catch her father’s eyes, but he immediately looked away, as if unable to bear the sight of her, ashamed. Her heart sank, and her soul felt like it was shattering. She needed someone to hold onto, but there were too many eyes on her, filled with anger and power. Desperately, she searched for other eyes, gentler eyes that had once looked at her with all the love in the world. Eyes that had held her tight, swearing to protect her from everything.

Percy sought his eyes—sky blue, like a beacon of light amidst the darkness. Her heart yearned for him, remembering how he had looked sitting leisurely on his golden throne, just like the first time she had seen him there. Yet, she couldn’t find those sky-blue eyes. Instead, she was met with golden eyes, burning with rage and a promise of pain.

"Well?" Her uncle's voice thundered through the room, the echo making Percy shrink. She had never been afraid of gods, never. She would have kicked the door of Olympus open and marched in like the hero she was. But today wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about harming her. It was about harming those precious to her—her children, hidden within her belly, shielded from the room's volatile energy.

"Apollo, what do you say about this, since you are, after all, the father?" Zeus’ voice was like thunder, each word more terrifying than the last. His tone dripped with sneer, as if the whole situation was beneath him.

Percy’s eyes remained on her lover, whose gaze had become a foreign land. Apollo did not speak; he just stared at her, as if silently threatening her, blaming her for their predicament. Then, with a cold, emotionless voice, he sealed her doom. "I will have none of this," he stated, turning his gaze back to his father. "They might be mine, but I will not claim them, and they will face the wrath of the gods like anyone else who dares to overstep their position."

Fog and mist clouded Percy’s vision. Tears welled up, blurring her sight. Perhaps her tears were merciful, blocking his face from her so she wouldn’t remember him like this—so emotionless, so heartless, promising punishment. This was the true Apollo, the one she had read about in books, the one who punished Cassandra and skinned a satyr alive. This wasn’t her Apollo. This wasn’t the gentle touch of the sun that had held her warmly. This voice wasn’t the sweet, melodic one that had whispered love to her. These eyes weren’t the beautiful ones she had always admired.

Zeus’ voice cut through the room again, sharp and authoritative. "Then the children should be punished and thrown into Tartarus, and they will take with them anyone who stands in the way." Zeus looked at her, a silent warning in his eyes—'You will go with them if you object.' He continued, "All in favor?"

Percy looked around in horror, her gaze landing on her father, pleading silently for mercy. But all she got in return was, "I agree."

All hands were raised, not one sparing her or her children. Cold, merciless eyes looked upon her, not with pity but with disgust, as if she had committed an unforgivable sin.

Percy’s tears could no longer be held back. She fell to her knees, perhaps because her legs could no longer support her, or perhaps because she wanted to beg. She didn't know. All she knew was that she was crying, her sobs echoing throughout the room, her trembling voice barely holding together.

"Please don’t. Please, please. I’m begging you. Please don’t harm them. Please. I’ll take them away. I’ll raise them far from here, but please don’t harm them."

She wasn’t sure if she was making any sense, wasn’t sure what she was even begging for. All she knew was that her heart was shattering, her soul was dying. She felt an immense, unbearable pain, and she was screaming.

——

Percy jolted awake, the room cloaked in darkness, but the light of the fountain was enough for her to recognize her surroundings. She was in her cabin. Safe and sound. She was safe, and her children were safe.

Tears filled her sea-green eyes once more, her heart shattering anew. For the first time, her cabin, her mini-heaven, felt suffocating. The events of her dream rushed back to her, and Percy could no longer hold back her tears. She needed to get out, needed to breathe. Air was scarce in the cabin, and she needed more.

With shaky legs, she stood and rushed to the door, trying to find air, trying to calm her sobs, but she couldn’t. She burst through the door and into the night. She didn’t remember where she walked or where her legs carried her. All she knew was that she found herself in the middle of a path lined with trees, the only light guiding her being the moon’s gentle glow.

She tried to control her sobs, tried to take deep breaths to calm herself. She was safe. They were safe, she reminded herself.

A sudden movement behind her froze the blood in her veins. She sensed him—felt his presence. His energy was always so warm, so peaceful, that she could always feel him. But this time, this peaceful energy brought her only fear. She didn’t dare look behind her, didn’t dare see if those eyes had turned golden again. She didn’t dare to hear that cold, merciless voice. So Percy stood there, wrapping her arms around herself, protecting herself, protecting them from the coldness she had just begun to feel.

"My love?" His gentle voice was like a sweet whisper, so lovely and filled with emotion. It carried love and concern, just as she was used to, before her nightmares.

"Percy, my love, why are you here?" he asked again, his voice almost a whisper, as if afraid of startling her. That’s when she broke down again. Hearing his voice like that only reminded her of her nightmare, her visions, and what his voice might sound like when all was exposed.

Percy didn't remember how it happened, but she found herself enveloped in warm arms. She remembered his gentle voice whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he held her, shielding her from the coldness of the night. It was ironic how the person she feared was the one giving her peace and comfort now, the only one capable of calming her tears. She sensed the fear and worry in his voice as he held her, felt his concern through the gentle touch of his hand soothing her hair.

If only he knew what he would become in the future...

She stayed there for what felt like minutes, maybe hours. She didn't even realize when he had picked her up and led her to a rock, where he sat with her wrapped in his arms, still caressing her hair and calming her down. She didn’t dare speak or look at him, afraid her eyes and voice would betray her

After what seemed like forever, she finally dared to look at him, to meet his gaze. He allowed her to lift her head, and she saw his eyes—beautiful, clear sky-blue even under the moonlight. His eyes were filled with love and gentleness, just as she remembered, now mingled with concern. Percy’s sea-green eyes locked with his, afraid that if she looked away, his eyes would turn to gold again. Her lover didn’t speak, only looked at her, always considerate, always patient, waiting for her to find peace before finding her voice.

“What’s wrong, love?” he muttered, his voice carrying the gentleness of the world. He brushed away the hair blocking her face, soothing her racing heart. He waited for an answer, but she shook her head, still unable to find her voice.

She felt terrible lying to him; she couldn’t look into his eyes and deceive him, so she averted her gaze, studying her surroundings. Only now did she notice they were in the middle of the forest. Suddenly, a warm hand gently held her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes again. “Percy… what’s wrong?”

She knew this tone—the tone of demanding answers, answers he would get no matter how long he has to keep her wrapped in his arms. A voice inside her head, a tiny voice, told her she could trust him, find peace in him, that he would protect her as he promised. But that voice was immediately drowned by the ocean of nightmares that filled her nights.

Percy shook her head again, trying to find her voice, now raspy from screaming and crying. “J-just a nightmare,” she muttered, still unable to look away as he gently fixed her chin with his warm fingers, holding her gaze.

Apollo studied her for a few minutes before gently stroking her hair again with his other hand. “A nightmare that made you run to the woods in the middle of the night?” he asked, still gentle and patient.

Percy simply nodded and muttered, “A bad nightmare.”

His gaze never left hers, studying her while his hands continued to soothe her. “What was it about?”

Percy gulped. She knew he would ask. He was always curious about every detail of her life, always there listening to her nightmares. He wouldn’t let this one go.

She looked at him, still holding his gaze, as if trying to show him she was being honest. “About the war.”

Apollo simply nodded before Percy felt the gentle touch of his lips on her forehead, kissing away her worries. His warmth spread throughout her body, comforting her, enveloping her in peace. For a fleeting moment, Percy wanted to believe that all was perfect in the world.

He whispered, his lips still on her forehead, "My love, have I ever told you how terrible of a liar you are?"

Percy's heart sank as nightmares rushed back to her—the memory of his cold voice, his golden angry eyes, and his indifferent gaze. She could feel her heartbeat in her hands, only for him to look at her again, his beautiful blue eyes meeting hers, guiding her through the darkness.

His eyes held nothing but pure gentleness, a hint of teasing, and a lot of love. His fingers started brushing her cheeks gently as he spoke again, his voice as gentle as a feather, "You are a terrible liar, and I love that you try to lie to the god of truth." He kissed her nose affectionately.

Speechless and unsure of what to say or how to react, Percy was overwhelmed. her silence didn’t seem to bother him as he continued to brush her cheeks and pepper her face with sweet, gentle kisses. "Now tell me, what’s wrong?" he asked softly, his voice filled with concern and love.

Percy couldn’t do anything but shake her head as she attempted to free herself from his embrace, only to find him holding her tighter. He remained silent, patient, silently facing their battle as she struggled against him.

She heard him sigh, and for a split second, fear gripped her—fear of him running out of patience, fear of meeting those golden eyes again. But the more she protested, the gentler his hold became. She looked into his eyes again, his lips curving into a small smile. “You aren’t going anywhere, my love, until you tell me,” he stated, his voice filled with warmth.

She shook her head as silent tears started rolling down her cheeks. “I-I can’t,” she whispered.

He shook his head, as if her answer wasn’t what he was seeking, before kissing her tears away, wiping them away with his lips. “Yes, you can, and you will, Percy,” he sighed before continuing. “I know you well enough to know that nothing, absolutely nothing, could make you run into the middle of the night like that unless it was something terrifying.” He kissed her forehead again, as if aware of the calming effect his gentle kisses had on her. And he wasn’t wrong. The more he did it, the more she felt at peace in his arms, despite all the nightmares.

He gently continued, still holding her gaze. “You looked at our dear grandfather eye-to-eye and stood your ground. I know my Percy. Nothing can scare her. So tell me, my love.”

She wanted to, oh how she wanted to tell him everything, to spill everything and hold him close. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew how he would react, and she knew what they would face.

Percy shook her head again, tears streaming down her face as she forcefully freed herself from his grasp. She couldn’t bear to look at his hurt expression, the pain in his eyes as she distanced herself from him, as if she were afraid of him. And who could she lie to? She was afraid of him.

She kept shaking her head, trying to make him understand. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he had to understand. She struggled to find her voice again. "I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!" she repeated, tears flowing freely. The night’s coldness enveloped her once more, while her body begged her to return to the warmth of his arms. Percy tried to look at him, hoping he would spare her from explaining anything, but she was once again met with his beautiful blue eyes, tinged with pain and uncertainty. His voice broke her, destroying all the self-will she had been trying to gather, as he whispered, "Don’t you trust me?"

She does! She wanted to scream at him that she does, that he was foolish to even doubt it. But does she? Percy questioned herself as she looked at him again. does she trust him? If she did, she wouldn’t feel afraid of him. If she did, she wouldn’t believe he would harm her or their children.

The longer she took to answer, the more pain showed in his eyes as his gaze locked onto hers. Then he spoke again, almost in a whisper, his voice showing hints of pain. "What did I do?"

Silence enveloped them, the night alive with the symphony of the forest. The rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant hoot of an owl, and the occasional chirping of crickets provided a backdrop to their conversation, amplifying the tension between them.

She kept looking at him, observing how he tried his best to understand what he had done wrong. Knowing him, he was probably going through a mental list of things he thought he might have done.

But how could she tell him?

“You didn’t do anything,” she finally said, her voice quivering.

“Then why?” he pressed.

“Why what?”

“Why are you looking at me like you aren’t sure whether you are safe with me or not?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on her, waiting for any reaction.

Percy couldn’t handle this anymore. She couldn’t tell him anything, yet she couldn’t not tell him anything. He stood there, hurt, thinking she didn’t trust him, yet he was so far from the truth.

Apollo slowly stood and stepped a little closer to her. Blame it on her nightmare or her lack of sleep, but she couldn’t help but take a step backward, earning her a quizzical look from him.

“St-stay away,” she muttered, hoping to stop him. She realized too late that her words had indeed stopped him, but not in the way she wished, as he stood frozen, looking at her with pained eyes. For the first time in her life, Percy witnessed fear in Apollo’s eyes.

She had hurt him, deeply. But who could blame her? If anyone with a healthy mind saw these visions every day, they would react the same way.

She tried to speak again, hoping to remove that pained look from his face. “I-I didn’t mean it that—“ But before she could finish, he spoke again.

“You are scared of me… What did I do?”

That’s when Percy broke down again. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was nightmares, maybe it was a terrible mix of both, but she couldn’t bear to see that look on his face. She started sobbing, holding her face in her palms. She felt him hesitate, unsure whether to step closer or stay where he was, knowing she was scared.

Percy kept sobbing as she muttered, "It’s not you... You will harm us... In the future, you will harm us... I can’t let that happen... They don’t deserve this!"

Apollo’s voice cut through her sobbing state as he simply questioned, “Us? They?”

Here’s a few things about Percy: sometimes words don’t go through her brain before speaking them out, which has gotten her into trouble with gods, titans, and monsters alike. When she is in distress, this tendency becomes even worse, and following order becomes harder for her. And in that special moment, Percy was in her most vulnerable state as she couldn’t control her sobs. Gaea had warned her to be careful with every word she says, but it’s not Percy’s fault that Gaea trusted her with such a mission. And it was too late when Percy realized what she had done as she looked at her confused lover. It was too late to withdraw her words; her tears still blurred her vision as he stood in front of her. “I-I mean us, me and you,” she stammered.

Apollo shook his head, didn’t he just tell her how terrible of a liar she is? “You just said ‘they’? Who are they, Percy?”

She wanted to run, to escape now, never look back because she just realized that she had messed up everything. Her tears were uncontrollable at this point, but she couldn’t let herself drown in them. She needed to stay awake to face him, but with what? What could she say?

In a blink of an eye, she felt warm palms cupping her cheeks, caressing them softly as his eyes poured into hers. “Who are you talking about?” he whispered gently, as if he was aware that whatever topic they were approaching was something destroying her.

Was it worth lying at this moment? Percy questioned herself. Maybe Gaea had promised to save her from all, but was it a real solution? Was she able to run from the twelve Olympian gods forever? Was she really able to postpone whatever destiny her children might face? She is a child of prophecy, and she knows how hard it is to escape prophecies. Was any of it really worth it?

She could feel a voice in her head telling her to confide in him, and another screaming and shouting at her, telling her that these nightmares would come true, and she was only making them come quicker. She could feel invisible hands holding her throat, preventing her from talking, a pressure almost preventing her from breathing. But one thing, one small thing, was holding her like an archer holding a ship amidst a dark storm: his eyes. Those gentle eyes that looked at her with all the love and concern possible. Eyes promising her that he would protect her no matter what. And in that second, she trusted those eyes, for they had never broken a promise.

“Our children,” she whispered, maybe even afraid that he would hear. But she knew that he heard, because the frozen state he was in proved that he did, in fact, hear.

His frozen state only fed her fears more; his eyes never left hers, but he was oddly silent, and that didn’t help her at all in this situation. She regretted blurting it out; she regretted not controlling herself, and she was about to regret confiding in his eyes when the silence was broken with his voice.

“You are—” he began, but couldn’t finish. He waited for her to finish, waited for her to spill the words so she could confirm them.

Tears rolled from Percy’s eyes again. That was it, that was the moment she had dreaded. But when was she a coward running away? Never, and she never would. Percy nodded, still holding his gaze, as she finished his own sentence. “—pregnant.”

And again, frozen, he was back again to that state where his eyes widened, looking at her, searching her eyes for any hint of a lie. She had to break this silence; she had to speak. She led armies, so she could lead a conversation, even with tears rolling down her eyes.

“triplet.. But there’s a prophecy… Dangerous… Gods will be angry… You will be angry… A lot of danger… Tartarus… I need to prote—” But before she managed to finish her incoherent speech, which she was sure made no sense, she felt warm lips on hers.

It was a gentle kiss, soft and tender, like a feather brushing against her lips. It was a kiss filled with happiness, reassurance and love, a silent promise. In that moment, all her fears melted away, replaced by a sense of peace and warmth. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, letting herself be enveloped by his love.

Maybe she wished to believe that it was a normal pregnancy announcement; maybe his kiss did make her feel like that. And for moments, she wanted to believe that. He broke the kiss only to replace it with another tender kiss, and another, and another.

She tried to whisper between kisses, reminding him of their situation: “Prophecy.” But it only gained her an inaudible mumble as he kissed her one last time. Maybe he didn’t hear her incoherent speech; maybe he was also wishing to live in his own world for a few minutes.

He looked at her again, and if she thought that she already found his most beautiful gaze, she was wrong. Because at this moment, there she found the most beautiful gaze. He looked at her with eyes full of love, happiness, pure happiness he barely showed, besides when she confessed her love for the first time. But now, it was a new type of happiness, a new type of hope. His hands never left her cheeks as he kept caressing them with even more tenderness. He whispered, “I love you... so much,” before kissing her again softly and mumbling, “Thank you.”

She hated to break that moment for them; she hated to ruin this happiness. But she had to. She had to tell him the full truth since he already knew the worst part of it. “Prophecy,” she mumbled again. That’s when she caught his attention, and he spoke, “What prophecy are you talking about my love ? I heard of nothing.”

She took a deep breath before she spilled everything to him, from the moment she discovered her pregnancy to the prophecy, to the nightmares, and even Gaea's secret mission in 'helping her'. She could feel Gaea’s rage; don’t ask her how, but she could feel it.

Only after saying everything did she finally dare to look at Apollo, who was now holding her waist with his brows knotted in confusion. He was silent for a few minutes, her anxiety at its peak as she waited for any word from him, anything.

Maybe after telling him everything, he would agree with her plan with Gaea? Maybe he would agree with how dangerous her children are? Maybe he would say that the prophecy could be wrong? She didn’t know. But she did know one thing: his face showed pure curiosity and not anger.

After what seemed like hours, he finally spoke softly, "No." She looked at him in confusion.

"No..." he repeated again, Percy still not understanding what he was trying to say, when he cupped her cheeks and forced her to look at him. "I don’t care what this prophecy says. I’ll have a talk with Rachel for hiding this. But I don’t care what it means."

Percy whispered, afraid of raising her voice, "You are the god of prophecy, you can't say that."

He shook his head, his blue eyes still filled with determination. "If me being the god of prophecy means I’ll let harm come to my children, then I’ll let Delphi crumble to pieces."

"No harm will come to them. I will not allow any harm to come to them, and I don’t care if the price to pay was Olympus itself," Percy tried to shake her head, as if she was warning him that he was saying nonsense, but he fixed her face and made her look at him. "Nothing, and absolutely nothing, will harm you or our children, love," he stated. "I swear it on the River Styx." A sudden thunder broke the silence of the forest.

An oath... he just made an oath while holding her as if he didn’t just make the most sacred oath. Percy tried to reason with him, "But Gaea—"

Apollo shook his head again. "I’ll not let anyone take care of you. I don’t trust anyone with you, and especially not a primordial goddess that was supposed to be sleeping."

"But Olympus—"

"I’ll deal with them. Leave them to me."

"But—" She tried to protest when his lips found hers again in a gentle kiss, silencing her. "Stop with buts. Nothing will happen, and you have the word of a god. I will never allow anything to happen to you... all of you." That’s when his eyes were suddenly filled with happiness and gentleness again. He suddenly grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug, burying his nose in the crook of her neck.

As he mumbled in her neck, in a soft, gentle tone, "Gods, Percy..." and "Thank you," she didn’t understand what he was thankful for, but she was sure of one thing: for the first time in weeks, she felt a huge weight lift off her shoulders, just like when Atlas took the weight of the Earth from her again. Yet this time, she felt utter peace. Complete peace.

For the first time in weeks, she felt her heart filled with happiness. She was in his arms, the arms of the one who made a sacred oath to protect her and her children. Not just her, but also them. And maybe, just maybe, it was worth it.

It was worth having this nightmare so she could find him here tonight. Maybe the Fates really took pity on her... just maybe, there is hope.

[anotheroceanid]

[FIC]

Very important topics (to me)

When Percy’s old friends get to meet her sons. Literally (actually, technically), only Rachel knew what was going on. And she's the oracle.

They didn't even know Percy was seeing a god, let alone that she got knocked up by one.

Yeah, another great day of CHB campers receiving “brand-new” information. At least this time it was Rachel gatekeeping it, not Chiron.

Annabeth’s live reaction:

[makesitprecious]

when you're having a serious conversation about trust but the sexual tension is THAT. HIGH.

[lola-writes]

Duty Is Sacrifice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Velaryon/Strong!reader

Word Count: 2,6k

Themes & Warnings: Winterfell, pov. first person, feelings realization, fluff and smut, fingering, orgasm

Summary: Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

Song: Skin and Bones (Cinematic) - David Kushner

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

The wilderness beyond the Wall sprawled before me atop the outlook, an uncharted immensity dripping with anathema. A frozen wasteland, it held a cold that seemed to seep into your very soul, promising to turn your bones to ice with a single, lingering glance.

The stories from the seasoned rangers down below had painted a vivid picture, but this, this was a masterpiece beyond mere words. The frigid air, a living entity, tore at my dark hair and the borrowed furs – those very furs my stubborn pride had initially dismissed. Now, the only thing missing from mirroring those same hardened rangers was a permanent furrow etched between my brows, a testament to countless nights spent battling the elements. 

Their Lord was a wall of warmth which prevented the gnawing chill from consuming me. His massive form broadened at my side, his very presence thawing me. Turning to him, I observed the furrow deepening between his brows as he regarded me, though it wasn’t a testament to the cold, but rather something concerned. 

“Winterfell beckons, Princess,” he said, his timber thick with northern accent, “Let us return to warm you.” 

His gloved hand, rough yet surprisingly gentle, reached out for me. Relief washed over me as I grasped it, the worn leather a welcome anchor against the treacherous turret steps.

“Blazing fires. Hot stew. How’s that sound?” His stoic expression nearly cracked to the rumble in my stomach. I noticed I was still supported in his grasp well beyond danger, when I felt his thumb tracing reassuring circles on the back of my hand, sending a delicious shiver snaking down my spine.

Gently, I returned it to my side. “That would be most pleasant, thank you my Lord.”

Days had bled into one another at his side, treating, feasting, drinking, strategizing, and though I had no doubt I had fixed him as an ally to my mother’s claim, some other heat beneath the veneer of alliance had begun to simmer in his gaze, a spark that mirrored the disquiet blooming in my own chest.

The iron cage groaned its descent down to Castle Black, echoing through the black shaft like cries of the damned. From the moment I stepped foot in Winterfell, he’d woven a tapestry of comfort. He recalled every detail I mentioned in passing, and behind his every effort to make me feel at home was a gesture conforming to something I’d previously told him I enjoyed – a steaming mug of my favorite herbal tea, a book on a subject I’d once expressed interest in. He was unlike any man I’d encountered. Each word he uttered was a silken caress, so gentle it felt like he feared his own timber could bruise me. But a heavy weight had settled in my chest. My replies had now become clipped, mere whispers that barely escaped my lips. There was so much more at stake now beyond my desires. Duty loomed heavy on my shoulders. I feared any careless words or lingering glances could brittle the alliance with the Starks to pieces.

We mounted our horses and begun our nigh-on two days ride back to Winterfell. Though not as biting as the Wall’s teeth, the wind on the Kingsroad still carried a relentless edge. The only warmth to be found radiated shyly from the small fires Cregan’s bannermen had built, and the thick fur I wove tightly around myself at night.

As the colossal granite form of Winterfell finally clawed its way up from the horizon, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me, settling heavy in my bones. Dismounting was an ordeal. Every muscle in my body throbbed in protest from the days’ ride. My legs, leaden weights, buckled before I could even consider lowering myself. 

But before I could hit the ground, strong arms, surprisingly gentle, encircled my waist, and lifted me from the saddle before I could even think to react. 

We stood there, my body swaying slightly in his arms, our eyes lingering on each other for a second beyond my comfort. His eyes, normally the clear blue of a summer sky, were now a stormy gray, swirling with unspoken concern. A tremor of something akin to fear danced in my chest, battling the unexpected flutter at his touch. 

“Apologies, my Lord,” I stammered, cheeks flushing with a heat that had naught to do with exertion. “Dragon saddle is one thing, but I fear horseback is another entirely.” I smiled apologetically. 

Cregan’s fingers lingered on my waist, a gentle caress that singed through my leathers and into my very skin, sending a jolt through me. He withdrew them slowly, and my side ached from their absence. 

“Fret not, Princess,” he rumbled, his voice a warm current, “Two days on horseback have felled men twice your size.”

I giggled to his obvious attempt at comforting me. “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied, taking trembling steps toward the castle.

Once in my chambers, I collapsed onto the bed; sleep, thick and heavy, stealing the day. When I finally opened my eyes, the only light in the room spilled from the dying embers in the hearth. 

A gnawing hunger, cold and insistent, hollowed my gut. With a deep breath, I rose, and dressed in my house colors, the fabric thick with responsibility. Then, I descended the steps in my hunt for scraps.

The massive oak doors of the Great Hall ground open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the flickering, golden glow of a roaring fire. Laughter and the murmur of rough voices hung in the air. Fur cloaked figures huddled around the immense hearth at the far end, casting dancing shadows on the towering walls. Lord Stark sat amidst his bannermen; tankards raised in boisterous revelry. 

The merriment dipped as I entered. Heads swiveled my way, some splitting into knowing grins. The bannermen rose in unison, scattering like startled crows, their boisterousness replaced by a respectful chorus of greetings and a flurry of curt bows. 

“My regrets for missing supper,” I said, drawing Cregan’s heavy gaze. His shadowed form, a giant even in the flickering firelight, rose with a quiet grace that belied his imposing physique. 

“You need not worry,” he said, ladling steaming stew from a small pot over the fire and offered me the bowl with one hand. A grateful smile lit my face as I accepted it. 

“You grow quite comely as a serving girl,” I jested, a flicker of triumph igniting in my chest when his mouth quirked up into a faint smirk, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes, a rare concession on his normally stoic face. 

I settled onto the bench beside his chair and began devouring the stew, its meat and vegetables soothing the ache in my belly. As I ate, I stole glances at Cregan, his face bathed in the rich firelight, a mask of unreadable emotions. 

Regret, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in my chest as I observed him. I had a duty fulfilled, but a heart unsatiated. I had come to Winterfell to remind him of the oath his house swore to my mother, and he had not left me wanton. Yet, the journey back to Dragonstone loomed large in my mind. The prospect of leaving him, perhaps for a very long time, cast a long shadow. Unless he too agreed to join us.

“The Queen’s sworn allies are too few to win a war for the throne,” I declared, my voice tight with the weight of responsibility, “She needs your men.”

His jaw clenched, his stoicism returning like a steel mask. “Cursed be the Hightowers,” he growled, venom lacing his voice. “But winter is coming. War of dragons is never a small ordeal. If the Queen is in need of my men to defeat the usurper, you must allow me to wait out the winter.”

Despair clawed at my throat. Memories and tales of past winters surfaced, stretching on for months, even years. Without the full support of the North, we could be crushed before winter even loosened its icy grip. Perhaps reduced to cinders beneath the wrath of the dragons. 

“It will be too late,” I pleaded, the urgency in my voice cracking the carefully constructed façade I had built.

Cregan met my gaze, his eyes a stormy gray. “It’s the best I can do, Princess. I hope you will forgive me.”

A spark of anger ignited within me, battling the tendrils of despair. “You swore an oath, Lord Stark.”

He held my stare, unwavering. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “You will have two thousand greybeards that can be ready to march at once.”

“What of you?” My voice trembled, tears welling up before I had the strength to stop them. “What if this is goodbye?” 

Understanding suddenly dawned in his eyes, and his brows furrowed in what I thought was despair. He came to sit beside me, the wood groaning under his weight. His large, calloused thumbs painted the tears across my cheeks. 

“I assure you, Princess,” he said softly, “This is not goodbye.” His hand came up to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. “I swear it,” he vowed, steel threading through his words. Hope surged through me; a lifeline cast into the churning sea of anguish. 

Starks do not forget an oath. 

“The Hightowers were doomed the second they put the imposter on that throne,” Cregan rumbled, his voice a low caress. 

The space between us seemed to have dissolved, his calloused hands engulfing mine in a firm, reassuring grasp. Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, tension dripping like honey. I waited for him to say something else, but he remained still, quiet, his fingers slowly and gently exploring mine, each touch sending sparks of lightning up my arms. I met his gaze, my breathing shallowing as I realized his lips were but a whisper away, his dark eyes shimmering with heat, flickering with an unspoken hunger that seethed beneath my skin with each second. 

“Their betrayal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his fingers ceased their dance with mine, and began their path up my arms, “…will not go unpunished,” he said thickly, his hands now grazing my upper arms, up my shoulders, ceasing at the curve of my neck, the movement sending a sizzling sensation through my blood. 

With the cold that had plagued me so these last few days, I began to fever. My lips parted as if I was suddenly short of breath, and I felt a curious pulse that drifted between my thighs. My whole body, like to an unseen force, drew closer to him, and he tensed beneath his leathers. His frame vibrated with desperate restraint, the fire in his eyes warring between duty and sacrifice. 

“I am a man of honor,” he groaned. My stomach tightened as his hands inched up my neck and traced the line of my jaw, his coarse thumb brushing across my lips. 

Something tugged on my stomach from the inside as the fiery heat of his fingers burned through my skin. My breaths came out ragged and shallow while he remained silent, as though he was immersed in concentration. 

Without knowing the full implication of my words, I whispered, “Dishonor me.”

For the storm, only just contained, raged wild in his eyes, a low growl sounded from deep in his chest before he crashed his lips to mine. 

I received them with a low, beckoning gasp. My palms came up to his neck, my nails running the length of it as he explored my lips, the roof of my mouth, my teeth, and under my tongue. Then his lips traced my jaw, finding my ear, breathed his warm air into it, nibbled my lobe, then covered my throat in wet kisses. I tilted my head to grant him access, as low, sensual mewlings poured from my lips, something carnal infiltrating my veins.

His hands came down to my waist, and I gasped in surprise when he lifted me and placed me in his lap, my legs latching around his back. 

He was so big and warm and hard. His eyes were lazy and dark as his fingers began to lightly trace down the side of my neck, then hooking into my dress to bare my shoulder. He kissed it with an open mouth and moving tongue, and I quivered beneath his touch. Then, with a sharp sound of a tear, he had pulled my dress all the way down my abdomen. 

He groaned at the sight of me, his lips slightly parted, his hands delicately cupping my breasts as if he’d found treasure. When the cold made me shiver, he leaned into me to lend me his warmth, while his lips tantalized me, drawing close to my hardened nipple, blowing it with hot air, then backing off, kissing across my breastbone to the other, until I forced his mouth to it.

He hummed with throaty satisfaction, latching onto it and giving it one slow suck, grazing the skin with his teeth. I threw my head back with a gasp. White heat shot like lightning between my thighs, before pulsing into an empty ache. I swayed into him, bucking my hips into his groin, feeling him harden beneath me. He suckled my other breast in warm, slow pulses, circling the areola, drawing panting moans out of me, before he found my lips again. 

Gathering my skirts, he moved his hands underneath them, gripping the fullness of my thighs, kneading them, squeezing them, to the point it pinched me, and I bit his bottom lip in protest. 

Cregan Stark was a gentle giant in all matters but things salacious. 

A throaty sigh escaped his lips as his hands found my buttocks, kneading the flesh between his fingers. Hot, slick tingles pooled between my thighs, and my fingers curled in his hair. My body hummed in anticipation as his finger slid downward, a groan pouring out of me as he grazed over my wet opening. 

“Oh, Princess.” The words were like magic on his lips, shooting through my core in throbbing pulses. 

His other arm snaked around my waist, locking me to his body as he explored and moistened my folds, leaving me a bucking, moaning mess in his lap. 

I felt empty and sickly. A fog had infiltrated my vision, my skin, my mind, my inhibitions. I coveted him. I needed him, more than I needed anything else. His eyes alone could touch inside of me, but I could not explain the pulsing, throbbing, delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and I ached for more. I felt unfinished, incomplete. 

Until he slid a finger deep inside me, and I gasped. Hot, sweet pressure filled me, and once I adjusted, he introduced another, threatening to overfill as he fingered me. 

Fast and then lazy. 

Over and over. 

The room filled with wet squelching noises and my moaning squeals. His deeper, throatier moans vibrated through his chest and lit me on fire, burning in my lower stomach, blazing, desperate for feed, or I would disintegrate. 

My nails dug desperately into his shoulders, as any attempts of filling myself up to completion were in vain by the power of his grip around my waist. He trailed every inch of my neck, kissing it as it if were my mouth, with lips, tongue, and teeth. His fingers penetrated deep and curled inside of me, rubbing something within that sent pressure bursting into tingles and flames, my veins burning up like dragon fire, and stars sparkling behind my eyelids. I cried out with the purest ecstasy as my body shuddered and clenched around his fingers, and he groaned against my skin with dark satisfaction as I clung to him desperately.

Once my trembles ceased and I managed to catch my breath, he took my cheeks in his hand and kissed me fiercely, passionately, his fires still boiling for release.

“I am coming with you,” he declared.

Tag list: @koyaa66648 @longlivemyblues @melsunshine @urdadsfavs @the-great-ladyg @barackosteaa @elysyannemimi @80sstradlin @hgyura @telltale-vixen @nyxbranwenn @tortargaryen @naxal-jlt @flowercrownsandherondales @red-hydra @lanadelray1989 @crumbledcastle28 @midnightcrw @prismaudee @nsr-15

[yourtamaki]

rip my ribcage open (devour what’s truly yours)

zoro x f!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: tummy-pusher zoro, squirting, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, prone bone, chokehold, slight breath play, creampie, violent imagery, religious imagery, bit of aftercare.

zoro thinks you might be trying to say his name.

he’s knelt between your legs, sitting back on his haunches and rocking his hips just enough to fuck you with the fat tip of his cock. there’s a rhythm to the unsteady rise and fall of your chest. short inhale, long exhale, the same way you always sigh his name when he’s reduced you to this.

tears dotting your lashes, drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, hips bucking mindlessly trying to get him to slip in deeper.

fuck, you’re hungry for it.

zoro is not a man of many indulgences. he doesn’t allow himself to be. having too many vices can only lead to a weak mind and an even weaker will. he eats but he does not savour, he sleeps but he does not dream.

but he’d be a shit swordsman if he didn’t understand the balance in all things. denying himself all of life’s comforts would make for a rigid spirit, brittle and easily broken. so he’ll sip on some sake and enjoy its fire in his belly, he’ll nap on sunny’s deck so when he wakes, it’s to the sight of his crew set to the backdrop of the setting sun. and when the sun dips below the horizon, there’s nothing to stop him from finding you in the dark and pulling you into a hungry kiss.

that balance is what makes nights like these all the better. knowing that having you like this, spread open and vulnerable, is good for him. that you’re making him a better man, a stronger man, just by letting him take you apart and make a mess out of you. there’s no need to resist the temptation now of bending low to press his lips to your trembling ones in a slow, ravenous kiss.

you taste like need and the sweetest of sins and he licks at the roof of your mouth, knowing he’s damned himself long ago to crave you for as long as he lives.

"if you want something, you have to ask,” he says, pulling back and idly groping at your tits, pinching your nipple when you don’t answer. you throw your head back at the sudden sensation and a wild heat blooms in his chest at the sight, scorching his ribs. how easily you bare your neck for him. how thoughtlessly.

"please, zoro, please. want you deeper, i wanna feel you here,” you take his hands, sliding them down your body until they come to rest on your lower stomach. irritation, sharp and sudden, cuts through his haze.

“don’t fucking beg,” he says, low and even, “you don’t have to beg. ever.”

it’s so far beneath you to plead, he has to swallow down the growl building in the back of his throat. zoro would topple empires for you, would cut the very moon in half if you asked, and you think you have to beg him for anything?

he doesn’t wait for you to nod before he starts pushing in. it doesn’t matter if you understand yet or not, he’ll fuck it into you until you do.

there’s a moment after he’s bottomed out inside you where neither of you move a muscle. he grits his teeth from the effort of holding on to the frayed rope that is his restraint and letting you get used to the wide stretch of him. ages pass before you reach up, slowly as if to not startle the beast above you, and cup his face in your soft palm. you stroke your thumb across his cheek, just on the edge of his scar. your touch is warm and gentle and cracks something inside him wide open.

the rope slip from his fingers. he lets it.

there’s no warning, no build-up before he’s pressing both palms down on your stomach and fucking into you. you reach up to hold on to any part of him, settling around his neck, a balm on his flushed skin even as your nails dig and bite into him.

“you feel that? hmm?” his smile feels jagged and sharp, more demon than man but you only moan at the sight of it, “you feel me in there?”

it’s a strange sensation, feeling himself carve a space inside you, the push and pull. it’s filthy and more intimate than it has any right to be and he fucking loves it.

“fuck, feel you i feel—” a rough thrust cuts you off and when you catch your breath, you’re still rambling, “—so good, you’re so good.”

zoro’s been called many things in his life but good isn’t one of them. it’s never bothered him before. good men don’t claw their way up in the world and leave a trail of slaughter in their wake. good men don’t scream at the heavens and demand to be heard.

zoro is not a good man. but he can be good. to you. for you.

“breathe, baby,” he says, “don’t forget to breathe.”

he presses down a bit harder and your reaction is instantaneous, legs kicking out, the tears that have been threatening to spill over since he stuffed a pillow under your hips finally sliding down your cheeks. you take him so beautifully and something barbed wraps around his heart and squeezes at the sight, shredding him to bloody pieces.

he knows you’re close before your eyes start to flutter, can feel it building like a storm inside you and chases your pleasure with reckless abandon.

“zoro.”

short inhale, long exhale. his name a sigh on your parted lips as you clench tight around him and cum. he doesn’t stop moving for a second, doesn’t let up the pressure even as he feels you gush all over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, his stomach. his strokes stay sure and steady as he fucks you through your high.

you shudder beneath him before relaxing back into the bed and he slows to a stop to let you catch your breath. it hurts to look at you, all divine and fucked out. it’s a sight too holy for a hellbound man like him to behold but he drinks it in anyway, burns it into his mind. 

what’s one more sin to a demon?

zoro slips out of you with a hiss through gritted teeth, taking a moment to admire the creamy ring around his base, your arousal and cum still dripping off him. you’ve marked him as yours and yours alone without even trying and his cock twitches at the thought.

“no why?” you whine as he pulls back further, “give it back.”

“turn over,” even as he speaks, he’s manhandling you until you’re laid out on your stomach, hips propped up with the pillow he takes care to push under you. zoro kisses down your spine before settling between your spread legs and greeting your cunt with a broad stroke of his tongue, “i ever tell you that you taste good like this?”

“like- mmm fuck,” you say, all breathy as he circles around your swollen clit, “like what?”

“stretched out,” he murmurs, “open.” 

you’re past the point of words as he grabs two handfuls of your ass, spreads your sticky lips open with his thumbs and buries his tongue inside you. he savours the sweet little gasps you let you like the finest sake, groaning into your pussy as you start to rock your hips and grind your clit against him. he can’t catch a full breath, thinks he might be suffocating, and moans a bit louder.

a swarm of words bubble up hot and fast in his lungs, taking up space where breath once lived. half-formed thoughts try and fail to take shape in his mouth, weighing down the tongue that makes you writhe in the sheets. 

he can’t bring himself to speak but if he could, he’d show you. zoro wants to crack his ribs open so you can see the bloody wreckage you’ve caused, let you crawl in and keep you safe next to the heart that’s always, always, been yours. he’d probably burst into flames with so much goodness inside him but that’s alright. at least he’d keep you warm.

the words stay trapped where they are though and all he can do is all he’s ever known how to. he goes to work. zoro is singleminded in his task, fingers digging into the fat of your ass to keep you still while he devours you whole and it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you off the edge he never let you stray too far away from.

he laps at your folds until you start to squirm away, crawling up the bed and away from him. he lets you put a bit of distance between you, lulls his prey into thinking it’s escaped before he pounces. between one breath and the next, zoro’s on you, draped along your back, licking at the sweat that beads down the nape of your neck. you arch into him, pushing back against the hardness digging into your ass before he rests his weight down on you, forcing you flat on your front.

“where do you want me, baby?” he asks, kissing behind your ear, “tell me where you want me.”

in this moment and in all others, zoro would do anything you told him to. you could make him hump you like an animal until he cums and lick your skin clean or stand across the room and jack off by himself with nothing but the lingering taste of your pussy to help him get off. he’d do it and he’d do it without an ounce of shame.

“want you inside,” you slur, “wanna be full.”

his entire being in the palm of your hands and you choose to be merciful.

“you sure?” he lifts up off you just enough to get a hand around his base and nudge his tip against your clit, “not too sensitive?”

“yeah, pl- i can take it.”

his grin is all teeth when he hears you correct yourself, “that’s my fucking girl. stay still, baby. let me take care of you.”

you’re soft and slick from his spit and two orgasms and when he bottoms out all at once, it’s with a low groan in your ear that echoes behind your breathy moan. sinking back inside you feels like rapture, like something he’s done nothing to deserve but basks in anyway with an endless greed.

he wraps his arms around you, one across your front groping at your chest while the other hooks around to put you in a headlock, keeping you pressed flush to him as he starts to rock into you. zoro is quiet in his worship, purposeful, and you’re nearly as quiet in receiving it, the room filled only by your soaked cunt and ragged breathing. though you don’t say anything, he can hear you loud and clear.

short inhale, long exhale.

a holy call he’s helpless to answer.

zoro fucks you to the rhythm of his name, short, devastating thrusts with his whole weight thrown behind him. he wants to live in this moment, could spend the rest of his days with his cock dragging along your walls slow and sure, relishing the way you tighten like a vice around him every time he flexes and cuts your air off mid-gasp.

but he swore an oath at your altar and zoro has always been a man of his words.

he cums with a sigh of your name, spilling inside you for what feels like ages before he collapses over you boneless and spent, his softening cock keeping you plugged nice and full just like you asked so sweetly for.

“you okay?” he asks, pulling out as gently as he can and helping you roll over when your trembling arms make it clear you can’t do it on your own.

“mhmm,” you pull yourself up until you’re nose to nose with him. zoro holds still as you scatter kisses across his face like stardust. his temple, his scar, the corner of his mouth. there’s no order, no pattern he can discern to the affection you bestow but he accepts it the way all blessings should be received. with silent gratitude.

“nothing hurts?” 

“no. but you’re carrying me to the bath.”

“okay.”

you tuck yourself into his side, reaching up to idly roll his earrings between your fingers, “and washing my hair.”

“okay.”

“and i’m gonna wash your hair.”

“okay.”

“say something else.”

he thinks for a moment, thinks of all he could never put to words and lets them stay as thoughts. instead, he meets your eyes and settles on a simple truth, “you’re beautiful.”

a smile, radiant and bright, breaks across your face. what happens, he wonders, when a demon is the cause of something as divine as your smile? it’s a question he doesn’t mind spending his life searching the answer to. 

dedicated to: mah wife @katslutski and the loml @saotoru

[tojisun]

this is an edit of my drunken thought last night but

hockey player simon is in my head right now—

thinking about how you are watching from the seats closest to the rink, and startling when he body-slams an opponent against the glass protector only for your eyes to meet his when he pulled away with a quiet snarl and snapped his head up in his anger.

he couldn’t have truly seen you, you tell yourself. he’s caught up in the middle of a game, high off his adrenaline, so you are damn sure that he didn’t really catalogue the interaction. that it was a fluke—eyes meet without the conscious awareness from the brains, you know that.

but.

riley (41) somehow began to gravitate towards your end of the rink, only slipping away for assists or to catch his mark. sure, the seat you chose was close to the ones that are angled well to the goal so perhaps that’s why he kept coming back, but there’s something electrifying at seeing the way he scans the crowd during the two-minute breaks, stopping when his eyes finally rest on you, before he skates away.

it makes your heart flutter, blood jumping as your mind runs with imaginations. you try smothering the blooming hope that maybe, just maybe, this man you idolize somehow is attracted to you. that somehow, amidst the craze and the adrenaline, you were able to leave such an imprint on him.

but the game rages on, with specgru managing to carve a tie against their opponents with mactavish (91) scoring a point. it makes the arena shake as screams and jumps erupt from your side of the rink; horns blaring as victory now seemed to be on the horizon. even the goalie, price (2), runs to mactavish, tapping his bucket, fond even in his excitement.

time runs. you swallow, parched, your eyes flicking between the screens and the rink itself as the tension reached new heights. your friend holds your hand, her nails digging into your skin, but you don’t even notice as you clock in riley’s fast skating, his blades slashing against the ice with intense ferocity.

garrick (33) passed the puck, and riley receives it.

your throat constricts, your eyes going wide. you plant your feet onto the floor, unconsciously tensing your muscles. your eyes follow his move, watching the way he devours the space to get to the best shooting spot—that sliver of angle in front of you.

you watch with bated breath, palm over your chest, but it takes your friend shaking you to realize what’s going on.

the roaring of the stadium is all of a sudden muffled as your mind catches up to your eyes, now finding meaning to what exactly it is you’re seeing. your friend is screaming your name but you’re deaf to it all, focused only on the man before you.

riley, the man that he is, points at you. then he turns, swinging his lumber, sending the puck flying past the goalie’s legs and into the net.

it happened so fast—barely a second or two—riley’s point and his score—but it unfolded so clearly before your eyes and victory sings in your blood.

“what was that!?” your friend screeches, pulling you up now that the game has reached its end with the specgru claiming their second win.

you try to tell her that you don’t know, that you don’t even understand what the hell actually just happened, but your voice refuses to form and your mind is back to buffering and riley is still staring at you—

jesus.

he is still staring at you.

god—

guys idek what this was but i woke up and saw bulletpoints of a thought so uhhh heres an attempt 😭

pt.02

mlist!

[ghoulphile]

wish you'd make me cry | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.3k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, dom!cooper, frottage, sitting missionary, dirty talk, degradation kink, pet names, teasing, dacryphilia, bareback, drug/chem use (jet), shotgunning, high sex ➥ summary | "You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c ➥ notes | drabble (that's no longer a drabble lol) request for @tearueful, thank you bby!! this one really got away from me... i had to stop myself from writing lol. un-beta'd atm. masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Setting up camp for the night in an abandoned warehouse, you and Cooper wait out a radstorm that blows in off the horizon. Because while he loves sitting outside with a smoke, soaking in the rads until he’s buzzing with frenetic energy, you don’t feel like hunting down RadAway tomorrow.

It’s quiet apart from the distant sound of super mutants and ferals roaming the city, the sporadic roar of thunder, and rain tinging off the sheet metal roof. There’s still hours left until daylight, and it doesn’t seem like the volatile weather will break soon.

Unfortunately, you’ve read all the Grognak comics you could get your grubby hands on three times over, and there’s not much else to pass the time besides scuff your boot along the concrete floor, and pluck at a stray thread hanging off your tattered sleeping bag.

Meanwhile, Cooper lounges on his side, unbothered. His hand - bare for once - props up his head, the unscarred skin of a commandeered digit stark against angry rad burns and ropey scars. Between the knuckles of his other hand, he rolls a vial of chem over and over in a mesmerizing flick of deft fingers.

A lantern sputters between you as the old battery struggles to keep it lit. Its jaundiced glow banishes the thick darkness; a fuzzy halo of light that elongates shadows and deepens the cuts of his face.

You kiss your teeth, and say, “Hey, you got any more Jet?”

Lazy eyes slide towards you. A hairless brow quirks. “And if I did,” he asks, the vial pausing between his fingers, “why you wanna know?”

“Dunno, I’m bored… wanna get high?”

“Well, shit,” he whistles, bares his teeth. A low, crackling laugh rumbles from his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask sooner.”

You shrug and crack a knuckle.

To be honest, the idea hadn’t occurred to you at first. Now that it has, anticipation curls low in your belly. Not only has it been a long, long time since you last got high (the sensation a hazy, half-remembered dream of fuzzy warmth and whirling thoughts), you know Cooper always carries a top-notch stash.

The little chem fiend, you think fondly.

“So,” you prompt. “Wanna get high together or what?”

“Sure as shit, darlin’. Let’s party.”

He settles against the pockmarked wall beside you with a soft grunt, the grit of concrete digging into his back. Thigh to thigh, his body is a rad warm line of heat. A bloom of suffocating heat in the otherwise biting chill of a wasteland night. Gunpowder and smoke tickle your nose when he leans over to rifle through his bag, leather creaking.

Muted, mellow; everything fades into a silent companionship as you pass the red inhaler between you. With every puff, whorls of smoke curl from your mouths until a murky gray cloud hovers in the air; defining the edges of your crafted universe.

The acrid vapor of chem burns its way through your lungs and into your bloodstream. A bitter taste coats your fattened tongue, lips tingling as your palm smothers little coughs. A flood of static rushes down your nerve endings, sends your head spinning.

As your vision blurs, the tension leeches from rounded shoulders with a bone weary sigh. And with every slow clicking blink, colors spark to life in a distorted kaleidoscope. Head lolling to the side, you watch through heavy eyes as Cooper rattles the inhaler and takes a shallow hit.

When he exhales, little tendrils of smoke caress the plains of his cheek. Dance along the hollow nasal ridge. “Almost out.” He grunts, your fingers brushing when he passes the cartridge back. “Go on, now. Finish it.”

The kind gesture (for him) touches you.

Then a faraway thought flutters.

Snags - settles into a nebulous desire.

And before you can second guess yourself, a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Wipes away the last of your common sense, and reservations. After all, why not? He was nice enough to share. You can too.

To his credit, Cooper doesn’t startle when you slink into his lap - not that you expect him to, even without being chem-addled. He tracks your movements from beneath a heavy brow bone, the dark Nuka Cola of his eyes glittering like shattered glass in the wane light.

“Heh, this that kinda party then, darlin’?” he asks once you settle, your thighs draped over his hips and your ass flush with his crotch. “‘Cuz you’ll be wanting ta extricate yourself if it ain’t.”

—Before I do it for you.

Humming, you dip forward until your breasts brush over the wide expanse of his chest. Interest flickers to life behind your navel; cinders cracking and popping along your spine. While you’d never considered Cooper a sexual availability beforehand (what with his never-ending search for family), the laden weight of his gaze as it pauses on your chin before dropping lower sings through your blood.

Kickstarts your heart into a galloping stutter that thuds against your ribcage as longing hooks behind your navel, tugs sudden and sharp. The world spins.

Maybe, you think, peering at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Maybe…

“Pervert,” you murmur, biting down on a small smile.

The knife-sharp smirk falls from his lips faster than a comedown from Psycho when your fingertips ghost over the curve of his jaw, turning his head towards you. Like this, you share breath, the scant space between you thrumming with energy.

So close you can see flecks of gold in the amber whiskey of his eyes.

Your forehead brushes over his; the rough drag of gnarled skin sending a shiver through your limbs. “Let’s share the last hit. S’only fair.”

Pausing, he considers you for several long moments.

His gaze bounces from yours to the playful curve of your mouth and back. A small eternity passes like this. And then - when you’re about to crawl away to lick your wounded pride - the most imperceptible of nods grants his assent.

There’s a hiss of aerosol, a lung burning inhale, and then you’re exhaling into the open gash of his mouth.

Wisps of smoke dance off your tongue onto his, the bow of your lips glancing off the swell of his top lip as you squirm closer. You feed him chem in a slow, steady stream until all the air has left you.

He groans - a wounded, low-throated sound.

Your eyes flutter open to find him already staring, his iris a thin ring around the Blackhole of his wide blown pupils. Hooded, hungry: a caged predator. You lick your lips, and in doing so, flick your tongue over his.

Your stomach swoops, “I --”

“You’re such a needy fuckin’ brat, y’know that, sweetheart?”

Whether it was an apology or some other retort stuck to the back of your teeth like hard candy, you’ll never know because in the next moment a rough hand knocks the Jet out of your hand. The inhaler cracks against the concrete with a plastic smack before skidding off into the darkness.

A burning palm curls around your wrist, calloused fingers digging into your fluttering pulse point. “Hey — hngg!”

He yanks you close, and you taste the violence in his kiss.

Harsh lips map out the softness of yours as teeth pinch and roll until your mouth is a swollen mess of tender flesh and smeared spit. Keeping up with the frenzied scrape of his tongue and the deep pulls of his kisses is like trying to weather a hurricane or fight off a Yao Guai with a single bullet.

“W-Wait,” you gasp, fingers twined through the lapels of his duster. “I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Cooper growls, worrying the swell of your bottom lip until a bead of blood bubbles to the surface. He sucks it away with a stifled moan, his hips kicking up against the plush of your ass.

“Shut the fuck up right now. You know what you was doing - trying ta act innocent when you’ve been gaggin’ for it.”

Flustered, you pull back, “No, that’s not true!”

It’s hard to keep your balance with chem pumping through your veins, and you sway to the side. The only thing keeping you upright is the bruising grip Cooper has on your wrist. “I haven’t been — you’re wr-rong.”

He spits out a mean spirited chuckle. “If that’s what you need ta tell yourself, sweetheart.” A critical eye drags down the pathetic sight you make, crumbled as you are in his lap. “But I know the truth. I felt you looking - pantin’ after me like a bitch in heat.”

“...”

Panic grips you by the throat, your pulse thundering against the thumb he strokes along the curve of your shoulder. You should’ve known better.

Of course, he’d notice.

He was The Ghoul after all - best bounty hunter from this coast to the next. It was his job to perceive everything around him, sus out friend from foe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

What else can you say?

He brought you along (for whatever reason, fuck if you know why), and you’ve caused nothing but trouble every step of the way. It’s a wasteland miracle he hasn’t kicked your ass and left you bleeding in the dirt by now.

I have to fix this. Whatever it takes.

“I ain’t wanting you sorry.”

Gulping, you will away the sting of tears, and say, “Please, don’t kick me out.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think it’s a miracle you survived this long at all.”

“You don’t have to be so rude about it…” 

“Listen good and well, sugar,” he says with a roll of his eyes, that tender hand brushing over your neck turning into a collar as he drags you close. His lips whisper over yours with every word. “I didn’t go through all of this bullshit just ta get rid of you. Now--”

Hips rut up into you, dragging the firm line of his growing erection along the soft globes of your ass. “Stop teasin’ and make yourself useful,” he says. “Or you will be sorry.”

Everything after that flicks in and out of focus like a zoetrope: the burning clasp of hands, the slick glide of hungry mouths, the frantic rock of your hips as you both chase after dry friction with a desperation that borders on madness.

Your hands don’t know where to settle, fluttering from the nape of his neck to the breadth of his shoulders to the rippling muscle of his stomach as he rocks into you. Bites at any exposed skin that he can until his teeth leave marks you’ll carry for days.

All the while the hard edges of his body crash into your softness like waves against an eroding shore. Liquid fire blazes in your belly like a raging wildfire, scorching you from the inside out until you’re dumb and dripping.

The chem snaking through your body enhances the littlest of sensations until you feel like one giant exposed nerve. Slick drenched and sweaty, you moan weakly and rest your forehead against his cheek.

“Please,” you slur, thighs trembling where they squeeze at his live-wire hips. “S’not enough - need more. Wanna cum. Please, please, please. Make me cum.”

Cooper bites out a curse, his fingers biting into the fat of your ass. “Yeah, s’that right, sweetheart - d’you think you deserve it for bein’ such a lil brat?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’ll do anything. Just - hhahh, fuck!”

The fabric of your panties clings to your folds, and your pants chafe.

Your clit throbs with every thud of your heartbeat, every firm grind of his cock and low husk of his voice. Want him seated so deep inside you choke - your poor pussy struggling to take his cock as he rides you so hard you cry.

“Anything?” he asks with a breathless chuckle.

The devilish gleam of his eyes rattles your bones, shivers of electric anticipation fizzing through your veins like Quantum.

“Well, shit. Don’t come cryin’ ta me when you regret it. Now, take off those fucking pants and ride my cock like a good girl.”

And when he bullies his way inside, those thick ridges dragging along gummy walls, you almost swallow your tongue. He’s so big - the biggest you’ve ever had.

Every inch is a struggle, a victory. He’s not patient, he’s not kind. You don’t want it any other way, spread so wide your pussy flutters pathetically, trying to push him out.

Then the fat head grazes past the rough patch of your g-spot, sliding home to kiss your cervix. Your knees lock around his ribs, your head tossing back as a high-pitched whine punches its way out of your throat.

“A-Ah! I can’t — oh shit — you’re so,” you babble. “Too much!”

An ache spears deep, roots behind your navel.

“Heh, you asked for it, sweetheart. Look at me.” A scarred thumb wicks away a tear as you peel your eyes open with a sniffle. “That’s it. Shit, you look s’pretty when you cry.”

He licks his skin clean, uses his wet thumb to reach between you and roll the pad over your abused clit. You jump, sliding up on his shaft only for gravity to drag you back down with a solid smack of skin, your limbs jello soft.

The motion slams him deeper and slick drips from you in a sticky gush to soak his balls. You cry out, reedy thin.

Cooper grunts, warns, “You keep doing that and we’re not stoppin’ til you’re dripping cum.”

Though the thick haze of chem and syrupy sweet pleasure, you cobble together a grin and lick your way into his mouth. Tangle your tongues and suck as your hips arch into his. “Please, ruin me,” you breathe.

A possessive greed glints at you from the depths of his hangman eyes.

“Don’t go sayin’ I didn’t warn you, sweetheart,” he promises.

[too-deviant]

freaky friday

OR… that one time you woke up in luke castellan’s body, told from the perspective of percy jackson.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Fem!Demeter!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Content: the most loser loser!luke has ever loser-ed. this is sooo unserious like pls.

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷

Percy Jackson had only been at camp for a day, but he was completely sure that something was wrong. 

It started early Sunday morning — well, when he thought back on it, he guessed it might have started late Saturday night, when he woke up to a few of the older campers (Luke included) sneaking off out of the cabin and not coming back until the sun was peeking through the horizon. 

But he didn’t really think about it until Sunday morning — when the thing that startled him out of sleep was a loud shout of  “Holy Fuck!” echoing from the bathroom. He sat up, startled, and eyed the door along with everyone else. Then there was a yelp. 

“Oh my gods. No — this is, this isn’t real. Am I still — oh don’t touch that. That’s not yours. Jesus, Luke — No. Stop looking. Oh my gods.” 

A few campers shared some wary glances, asking the silent question of who’s going to investigate? Eventually, Chris (Percy thought, one of Luke’s friends from yesterday), stood up with a sigh and a raised brow, stepping over sleeping bags until he stood outside of the door. He looked at them all, the curious eyes of literally every kid there, and knocked slightly. There was another yelp. 

“Uh…” Chris blew out a puff of air, “Are you okay in there?” 

A few seconds of tense silence, then the door cracked open and Luke Castellan stuck his head out. He looked at Chris, at all the kids staring at him, and smiled stiffly, “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”

He shut the door once more, the force blowing Chris’ hair back for a brief moment. The boy shrugged and nodded at everyone else to start getting ready because it was almost time for breakfast. He headed over to Percy, asked how his first night was, and left him to gather his bearings before they had to leave. 

The kids attempted to forget about Luke’s debacle in the bathroom, but when they started to get impatient about his hogging it, all disregard of his personal business went flying out of the window. One kid mustered the balls to knock, and then another shouted through the wood for him to hurry up. 

Just as one of the Stoll brothers was about to pick the lock himself and check out the situation, the door flew open, and Luke frowned at them from the doorway, “I’m done, my gods.” 

They looked at him — he was leaning against the now open door, hip bucked out and not a care in the world that he was in nothing but his underwear. He glanced at them, then at the kid who Percy thought was called Conor, and sneered in his face until the kid flinched back. When he did, Luke pushed the bathroom door until it hit the wall and gestured dramatically inside, “In you go.” 

Percy didn’t think he was the only one who was shocked by Luke’s sudden show of attitude. Sure, he’d only known the guy for a day, but he’d been super nice the whole time. Even when Percy was ready to give up on finding his skill, Luke was supportive and kind. Now, he just looked irritated at everyone in the room. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person. 

Yeah, that was probably it. 

Percy decided to let him wake up a bit instead of irritating him with questions about how the morning routine at camp usually went. Instead, he followed the lead of the kids around him and got himself ready before lining up along the wall. His face bloomed red when someone had to tell him to go to the back because he was new, but other than that he was doing somewhat alright. 

Chris and Luke were arguing quietly in the corner, being careful to ensure nobody else could hear their murmurs. At one point, Luke stepped up so he was nose to nose with Chris and the boy put his hands on his chest to push him back — only for Luke to sharpen his eyes down at them with such a scandalised look that even Percy was slightly confused from where he stood and watched. Luke folded his arms over his chest indignantly and Chris sent him a dumb look before muttering something that made Luke straighten and drop his arms once more. 

When the boys ceased their conversation and walked over, the kids pretended as if they hadn’t been watching their entire time

“Okayyy.” Luke spoke, huffing out a breath. He shot his hands out and waved them, “Let’s go.” Nobody moved, and he furrowed his brows, “Uh, onwards and upwards? Hop to? En guarde?” Silence greeted him and he rolled his eyes, clapping loudly, “Can yall just fuckin’ move?”

The kids at the front flinched slightly, deciding it best to just leave rather than wait for him to say his usual morning pick-me-up. Clearly he was having a bad day and they chose to leave him to his own devices. Percy followed at the back, and couldn’t help but listen as Chris muttered to him once more from behind him. 

“Can you at least try to act like a normal person, please?” 

“I am acting normal.”

“Luke Normal.” He paused, waiting. Percy guessed Luke must’ve agreed silently because the next thing he said was, “Thank you. Now get to the front of the line like the cabin counsellor you are.” 

Luke huffed, pushing past Percy to get to the front of the line. Chris followed, whispering something about Luke having a bad day and to just ignore him before jogging to catch up. The blonde boy had never felt so awkward — the only friend he’d made and the guy was skulking around like he hated the world only twelve hours after they’d met. 

He tried to brush it off by focusing on his breakfast — blue pancakes, blue cherry coke. Okay, not the healthiest option but he was having a bad weekend, let him live. 

Chiron came to find him a bit after that, asking Percy how he was settling in and if he was ready for the Capture the Flag game they were playing later. 

After that, Percy tried to avoid the prying eyes of Annabeth by spending his free hour in the Hermes cabin where she couldn’t get to him — only to walk in on something a lot more awkward. 

Luke was lying on the floor, groaning in pain. The smiley Demeter girl he had introduced Percy to the day before was on top of him, also groaning in pain. 

“Uh, are you guys okay?”

They flinched, scrambling off each other and pulling themselves to their feet. Luke brushed himself off and looked at Percy wide eyed, “It’s not what it looks like!”

“Seriously.” The girl said when Percy raised his brow. She shook her head slowly, “We would never —“

“Yeah.” Luke scoffed, “Like never ever.” 

The girl — Percy was still trying to remember her name — turned her head and looked at him blankly, “Okay. That wasn’t needed.”

“I’m just clarifying.”

“You didn’t need to sound so disgusted about it, though.” 

“Oh my god.” Luke scoffed a chuckle, shaking his head, “You’re such a guy.”

Percy screwed up his face, and Luke suddenly backtracked, “Uh, I mean — such a lie…er.” Even he looked confused by what he’d said. He straightened up and scoffed, waving his hands, “She wants me so bad. Right? Bro?” He held out a fist, but Percy just looked at it. 

The girl, who had swiftly knocked his hand back to his side and stepped slightly in front of him, smiled kindly like she had yesterday when she’d asked how Percy was feeling about the sudden change in his life. “Sorry for scaring you, Perce. We’re just talking about something. Did you have a question?” 

“Yeah, actually.” He looked at her, “Are you in pyjamas?” 

She looked down at herself like she was just remembering her white tank top and fleece pyjama pants with bats printed on them, and Luke laughed into his fist. Upon hearing his chuckles, she swivelled back to glare at him, “Hey, don’t laugh at me! Would you rather me undress you?” 

“What?” Percy asked. He was ignored. 

Luke took a step back and held up one finger, “Uh, no. I don’t need you looking at my tits, perv.” 

“What?” Percy tried again. 

The girl scoffed, looking away from him and muttering under her breath, “Kinda hard not to when they get hot in the night and climb out of your shirt.” 

Luke gasped and put his hands to his chest, “Oh my gods.” 

“I tried not to look but they were right there — !”

"Well — " Luke stammered for a rebuttal, eventually pointing in accusation at the girl beside him, "You had morning wood!

"What — ?!"

“Hey, guys!” Percy finally interrupted, and they looked at him in surprise like they’d forgotten he’d been standing there the whole time. “What the hell is going on?”

The two shared a look, but it was you who stepped forward and looked at him kindly, “Nothing you should worry about. You’ve had a tough weekend already, just pretend you never saw us.” 

Percy was tempted to refuse and force them to spill the beans, but they were two older campers who could very well send him to detention or whatever it was they did here for punishment — he wasn’t keen on finding out. So he left with a nod and closed the door behind him. 

Your voice drifted through the window, “—can’t believe you wear batman pyjamas.”

“At least I wear pyjamas.” Luke responded, “You left very little to my imagination this morning.” 

He walked off before he could hear anymore. 

He didn’t see either of you again until just before lunch. He was walking through camp with Grover, half-listening to his friend yap about a blueberry bush he thought was cute, when they passed you and your sisters giggling about something near the forges. 

“Gods, he’s cute, though.” One of them was saying, eyeing up a boy with soot all over his face. Percy couldn’t see much of him to determine him as cute, but your sisters seemed to agree with a loud dreamy sigh. 

“He is, don’t get me wrong.” Another girl added, “But consider this: Lee Fletcher.”

“Oh, yeah.” 

“He’s got potential. He’s got potential.” 

Percy found himself slowing down, the teenage boy in him wondering if someone would mention his name. Of course they wouldn’t — he’s twelve, and they’re all around yours and Luke’s age, but a boy could dream. 

One of the girls clicked her tongue, looking at you, “Who was it you said was sorta dreamy the other day?”

Percy watched you freeze, suddenly looking very awkward. You took a deep breath in and pretended to think about what you were going to say, but one of your sisters chimed in for you.

“It was Astor. The Ares kid with the curly hair.” 

“Oh yeah!”

“What?” You exclaimed, scrunching up your face. When your sisters looked at you all confused, you backtracked, “Uh, I mean yeah he’s…cute.” You forced the word out with difficulty, “But, I dunno. There's cuter guys out there.”

“Oh?” Your sister said, interested, “Who are you thinking?”

Now you were on the spot. You swallowed, making these exaggerated facial expressions that Percy assumed were you trying to convince the girls that you had just come up with this idea, when you’d actually probably been wanting to say it the whole time you’d been talking and just needed an excuse, “Oh, I don’t know…” You shrugged, “Luke Castellan’s sorta…y’know?”

The girls looked between each other, and you watched with slight anticipation. Then one of them, the one who had mentioned Lee Fletcher earlier, said, “I swear you said he was too full of himself.”

“What —?”

“Yeah, she did.” The other chimed in, “You said he would be cuter if he didn’t — what was it? — flaunt around camp like he had the biggest cock out of all of ‘em.”

The girls laughed, and you attempted a weak chuckle, but it sorta looked like you were in pain. Percy thought it best to walk off after that, looking for Grover who had long since left him to his eavesdropping devices and presumably wandered off into the forest to look for Blue the blueberry bush. 

So maybe Percy should’ve pressed harder when he’d cornered you and Luke earlier that morning. He thought he could brush it off, even when he kept seeing Luke lift up the hem of his shirt and poke at his abs in wonder, or when he saw you pushing your hair out of your face once every ten seconds before finally putting it in the messiest ponytail he’d ever seen. It was as if you had lost all sense of self overnight, like you'd never actually seen your own bodies before. It creeped him out, but he held back on asking. Maybe it was a demigod thing he hadn't been taught yet.

The straw that broke the camel's back, however, was after dinner. Usually when the nymphs take the plates away and the campers start to trickle down to the campfire, a few odd groups would stay behind at their tables, gossiping or finishing their desert until they had to get up and go — not only were you and your siblings part of this group of people, but so were Luke and Chris (and, by default because he had nobody else to hang out with, Percy). 

So the newcomer had the fortunate opportunity to bear witness to possibly the greatest series of events he’d ever seen (and he once saw a rat the size of a small dog eating a small dog). 

It all started when a girl from the Aphrodite table stood up and walked over to where the boys were sitting. 

“So, if you do ever want to sneak out to the forests, don’t go through the pavilion.” Chris was explaining, “Mr D has a birds eye view of the whole place from his bedroom window, so you gotta sneak as close to the Big House as you can get. But make sure to duck under the windows just in case Chiron is trotting around in there.” 

“And be careful around cabin four.” Luke butted in, “They have vines that spring out of the floor whenever a non-Demeter kid gets too close during the night.”

Chris turned to his brother with a look, “How do you know that?”

“Oh, uh — ”

“Hey, Luke.” 

Three heads turned to the edge of the table where she was standing — a pretty girl with short blonde hair, a few strands dyed pink near the front. She was smiling at Luke cheekily and Percy noticed Chris send his brother a smirk. 

“Uh, hi…” Luke trailed off, squinting.

“Laura.” She finished with a frown.

“Laura!” He exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “I knew that. I did.”

“Cool.” She said slowly, brushing off the moment and bouncing around the table to sit next to him on the bench. She leaned on her elbows into his side and Percy watched him shuffle back, only for Chris to push him right back forward. “So, uh, I had fun…last night.” She side eyed Percy across the table, but the boy just pursed his lips awkwardly. 

“Really?” Luke responded, a little shocked. He nodded, “Well, uh, me too?”

Laura grinned widely at that, back straightening, “I’m so glad we agree.”

Percy wasn’t so sure Luke agreed, he wasn’t even sure the guy remembered whatever saucy interaction she was referring to. But he was pretending to, for her sake. He blinked at her silently, but she just looked as if she was waiting for him to say something — Percy was only young, but he’d seen enough movies to know that she was waiting for him to suggest they do it again sometime. 

He did not. Instead he twisted his body away from her and back towards Percy, smiling at him, “Wanna head to the campfire, get some good seats?”

The boy was moments away from responding, but Laura clearly wasn’t taking his silence as an answer. She pulled Luke back to face her by his arm and blinked up at him, “I was just about to suggest we skip the fire tonight. Just us, y’know?” 

Chris cleared his throat and stood, ushering for Percy to do the same, “Let’s go, lil bro.”

“Wait — “ Luke stood with them, staring back with a silent plea of help. Chris wasn’t having it, just grinning at him. 

“Have fun, Luke.” He snorted, “See you later.” 

“No, you can’t — ” He started, but Laura was yanking him back with a high pitched giggle. 

“You heard him, Luke.” She smirked, “No one's gonna notice we’re gone, loosen up.” She ran a slow finger down his torso, and Percy watched him visibly tense up. He didn’t understand why she hadn't taken the hint already. 

Chris seized Percy by the wrist and began to pull him away, occasionally looking back and giggling like a schoolgirl, with the odd snort. The younger boy didn’t really want to look back, but then when he heard Luke yelp like a girl, well…

He had to. And thank the gods he did.

Luke was sprawled on the table like a scared rabbit and Laura was standing with one hand hanging limply in the air, looking confusedly at his stance. Chris burst into loud laughter when he noticed Luke’s legs were spread and the boy was trying really hard not to look at his own crotch. 

They walked over when it was clear someone needed to intervene, and Percy noticed the Demeter girls from before joining them — you were at the front, looking panicked and slightly annoyed.

"What's going on?" You asked, looking between the two of them.

"Nothing." Laura said plainly, "We were just talking."

Luke looked at you, “She — uh, she grabbed your — uh, your — ” 

He gestured between his legs with a shaky hand. Percy raised a brow, as did everyone else at the scene. Except for Laura, who began to cackle loudly, bending over at the hips and bracing her hands on her thighs. The rest of the kids stared at the pair with varying expressions, and Laura straightened up, wiping under eyes with a giggle before pointing between you and Luke. 

“You guys — oh my gods — ” She laughed again, shaking her head and trying to breathe long enough to get her words out, “Holy Hades, Castellan. I’m — I’m sorry.” 

She held her hands up in surrender, looking at you now, “I am. I didn’t know you guys were dating. I guess I took mine and Luke’s conversation the wrong way, but — ” Another wheeze, “And I shouldn’t be laughing, but he just referred to his penis as yours, and I — ” 

“Laura, it’s not like — ” You stepped up with a wince, trying to alleviate the growing tension between the group. The Aphrodite girl wasn’t listening. 

“I just think that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since…” She took a moment to think, catching her breath and smiling at herself as she thought about it. Eventually, she gestured to you with a laugh, “Well, since last night when you called Graham Lee an extra-terrestrial ass-kisser.” 

Luke licked his lips, taking a deep breath in and pushing himself off the table and to his feet. He went to say something to Laura, face serious, but then he stopped and knocked his head back in a slight movement. He looked around at nothing, as if he was recollecting a memory, and then he gasped and pointed a finger at you, “I did do that.”

“You called Graham Lee an extra-terrestrial ass-kisser?” You tilted your head at Luke, “Why?”

Luke shrugged, “He grabbed my ass.” 

Laura scrunched up her face, looking between the pair of them, “Are you guys on drugs?”

"There aren't any drugs at this camp." You blanked. You brother laughed.

"Says the drug dealer."

You raised a brow in shock, like you'd had no idea about your own small business. You looked at Luke intensely -- Percy thought maybe you were trying to keep your drug dealing thing a secret, and Luke had gone and spilled the beans. That would explain why he suddenly looked so sheepish. It wouldn't explain why you then said, "Well I am not on drugs."

"Then what is wrong with you guys?" Someone finally asked the question Percy had been sitting on since he watched you hover your hands over your own boobs before retracting them quickly as if it was against some demigod rule to touch your own body — only for Luke to see from afar and have some very stern words to say about it.

Finally, after ten seconds of intense eye contact, you and Luke took in simultaneous breaths. It was you who spoke first, addressing the whole crowd — which consisted of Percy, Laura, Chris, and the Demeter kids — “We’re in eachother’s bodies.” 

The Demeter kids made grossed out faces, but Chris just snorted into his fist and let the conversation go on. Percy had never been more confused in his entire life — and he had once thought his dad was Jesus. 

Laura chuckled, “Yeah, we know that. His penis is yours, or whatever freaky shit yall are up to.” 

“What?”

“No — ” 

You and Luke spoke at once, each taking a single step forward. You paused, looking at each-other until you gestured at Luke with a sigh, letting him speak. He nodded, “We’re serious. We are in each other's bodies.”

“Freaky Friday style.” You jumped in before anyone could make a sex joke. You sent the group a sharp look, and then zeroed your eyes in on Percy, “That’s why we were acting so out of it earlier.”

It was silent for a long stretch — everyone looking between one another. Percy didn’t even know what to say. It did explain their strange behaviour, but —

“How the hell did you end up in each other’s bodies?” A demeter boy asked, holding a finger up like he was in class. The rest of them nodded, wondering the same. 

“Well…” Luke sighed (or You sighed, he guessed. He was still confused), “At first we had no idea, but now I think it was Graham Lee.”

Another Demeter girl hummed, “He is a Hecate kid. It’d make sense that he put some freaky spell on you after you insulted him.”

Chris coughed, still red in the face from laughing into his shirt, “Okay, but why Luke?” 

You shrugged, “Dunno. I’ve never done anything to the guy.”

Suddenly, Laura let out a long, “Oooohhhh.”

Everyone eyed her. She pursed her lips in embarrassment, although Percy definitely saw amusement in her eyes. She tucked some hair behind her ear and winced, “So, maybe we went to the clash together.”

“The what?” Percy asked, finally speaking up. The rest of the group looked at him as if only just realising he’d been standing there, suddenly looking sheepish. 

“Uh, it’s a party.” Chris scratched behind his ear, “Older campers only, but if you don’t tell anyone about ‘em you can come to the next one.” 

He shrugged, “Deal.”

“So, wait.” You pointed at Laura, “You went to the clash with Graham? Like with him?” 

“Yeah.” She folded her arms indignantly, “But he was literally staring at you the whole time, so I left to flirt with Luke.” 

Your cheeks dusted pink, and both Laura and Percy realised she was talking to Luke, not you. She turned to Luke, clearing her throat, “Sorry. He was staring at you the whole time. So I left to flirt with…uh, Luke.” 

A collective breath ran through the group, everyone putting the pieces together in their own heads. Percy was still a little unsure, but he had the gist (maybe). Just as he was about to suggest they go find this Graham guy and ask him to undo his spell, one of the Demeter girls Percy had seen talking to you earlier gasped and looked between you and Luke with wide eyes. 

“So when we were talking before…” She looked at you, “We were talking to Luke?” 

You — or Luke, but as you — stammered, and Percy couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. Luke looked on, confused, and the girl looked at him with a smirk, 

“Earlier, we were gossiping about hot guys.” She chuckled, pointing at you, “And Luke suggested his own name, as you!” 

“What?” Luke exclaimed at you, partially appalled but also holding in a laugh. 

You stammered for an excuse, but then her face contorted and she zeroed Luke with an accusatory stare, “Well, you said I walked around camp acting like I had the biggest cock out of them all!” 

Luke scoffed, “You do.” 

“I do not!”

“You kind do.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You sorta do, man.”

You turned to Chris, scandalised, “Bro.”

The boy shrugged, “Sorry man. It’s true.”

Eventually, you managed to convince the kids to finally go to the campfire and leave Luke and yourself to fix your problem with Graham when you got down there. They agreed, although not without making as many jokes as they could on the walk down to the clearing. 

“So, how did you guys pee?”

“Have you seen each other all naked and stuff now?”

“Did Luke have morning woo — ?”

“Alright.” You smacked Chris hard on the back for that one. “To your sections, please.”

Percy sat down on the end of a log, and watched as the two of you walked over to Graham and spoke to him in hushed but harsh tones. At one point, Graham was looking between you two with the most genuine look of confusion and Percy assumed he only agreed to reverse the spell because it was making his mind go all wobbly just talking to you. 

When he saw Luke again, it was at lights out. Percy was tucking himself into his thin sleeping bag when the boy came over, crouching to his level and dropping something on his lap. 

He lifted the bag of coins to his eyeline and then raised a brow at Luke, “What’s this for?”

“Drachmas.” He explained, “Just enough to get you a new shirt at the camp store. Or a thicker pillow, some three ply toilet paper. Whatever you want, really.” He shrugged, “Partly a welcome to camp gift, partly hush money.”

“Right.” Percy lowered the bag and levelled Luke with a curious look, “How was being in another person’s body? Weird?”

“Oh yeah.” He nodded, looking into the distance like he was having some awful flashbacks. Percy remembered seeing you walk out of the bathroom earlier, a look of terror plastered in your eyes. 

He cleared his throat, “Well, thanks for the money.”

“No problem, kid.” He patted him on the shoulder, “Get some rest. It’s capture the flag day tomorrow and guess what?"

"What?"

"We're teaming up with Demeter."

[kairoot]

✶ 𝓗𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 ．．박종성

⤷ 𝑖n which you enjoy the sunrise on your small farm with your two favorite people.

𝒑𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : husband!jay x 𝑝𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍！𝑓．𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 : fluff 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 : no 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 : pet names, kisses, lmk if i missed anything !

( 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒏’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 ) : inspired by @allurecile bc i loved their jake fic so much and this thought has been in my head for forever.. jay pls become a farmer. & pls leave reblogs and feedback, they are much appreciated !! ♡︎

birds chirped and the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a gentle golden glow across the fields. dew-kissed blades of grass shimmered in the early morning light, while the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze added to the tranquil symphony.

the farm slowly awakened, with the silhouette of a barn emerging from the shadows and the distant silhouette of livestock beginning to stir, signaling the start of a new day.

you step out into the wide yard, yawning and stretching your arms out. you closed your eyes as the soft morning breeze swiped your cheek.

looking out over the large acres of your home, you spotted your husband crouched down near your crops. he wore his favorite flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up as he cared for the growing vegetables in your garden. you smiled softly, admiring how hard he worked.

he looked up from what he was doing, spotting you on your home’s porch. his face broke into a wide smile, eyes lighting up warmth and affection. he set down his tools and took off his gloves as he stood up to walk over to you.

“good morning,” jay said, his voice gentle and filled with love.

“good morning,” you replied, feeling a surge of happiness at the sight of him.

he reached out and places a hand on your belly, where your baby is growing steadily each day. you were about seven months pregnant, and both you and the baby were the healthiest you had been, thanks to jay.

the gesture is tender, filled with a quiet joy that you both share. you cover his hand with yours, feeling the connection between the three of you.

"good," you assure him. "just a little sleepy."

he chuckles softly. "i was trying not to wake you."

"you didn't," you say, shaking your head. "i just wanted to come out and join you."

jay smiled once more, placing a kiss on your forehead and then your lips. he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

together, you walk through the garden, taking in the beauty of the morning. the sun is rising higher now, casting long shadows and illuminating the dewdrops on the leaves and grass. the air is filled with the earthy scent of soil and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers.

as you stroll through the rows of vegetables and herbs, you talk about your plans for the day, the excitement of preparing for the baby's arrival, and the simple joys of life on the farm. jay listens intently, his hand never leaving yours, his presence a constant source of comfort and strength.

“she’s gonna love the flowers,” you smiled, squeezing his hand.

“and the animals,” he added, looking over at the barn. “they’ll love her.”

“daisy already does,” you giggled, remembering how one of your mares wouldn’t stop rubbing her nose against your belly when it started to grow.

jay nodded in agreement, smiling at the memory.

“yeah, but i’m not so sure about cocoa.” he said, reminding you of the younger horse who hadn’t been to fond of you ever since you became pregnant.

you sighed, “i don’t know why he’s been acting that way..”

jay rubbed your back comfortingly, “you know how much he loves you. he doesn’t want the attention on anyone else but him when it comes to you.”

you nodded, continuing your stroll with him.

“can we go see them?”

jay nodded, a thoughtful smile on his face. “of course, honey.”

you followed him toward the barn, the path lined with blooming wildflowers and the morning sun casting a warm glow over everything. as you approached the barn, the familiar sounds of the horses’ gentle nickers and the clatter of hooves greeted you.

jay opened the barn door, and you stepped inside, where the scent of hay and horses was comforting. daisy was the first to notice you, and she trotted over with a friendly whinny, her ears pricked up in greeting. you reached out to pet her, feeling her soft nose against your hand.

cocoa, on the other hand, was in the far corner, watching you with curious but cautious eyes. jay noticed this and gave you a reassuring glance before carefully approaching the younger horse.

“hey, cocoa,” jay said softly, extending a hand. “it’s okay. we’re just here to visit.”

you watched as jay gently bridled cocoa, his calm and steady presence seeming to ease the horse’s nerves. soon, cocoa’s stance relaxed, and he allowed you to give him a gentle pat.

as you were enjoying the interaction, you felt a familiar fluttering sensation in your belly—your baby was moving. you chuckled softly and placed a hand on your belly. jay looked over and smiled, sensing the moment of connection between you and the baby.

just then, daisy, who had been happily munching on some hay, suddenly jumped like she’d been zapped by a static shock. she let out a comical squeal and took a few surprised hops backward, her mane flying wildly.

“whoa!” you exclaimed, trying to stifle a laugh. “i think the baby gave her a good kick!”

jay looked over, trying to hold back his laughter as daisy continued to prance around with exaggerated steps, clearly puzzled by the sudden sensation. “looks like she’s not used to the baby’s morning gymnastics..”

you gently approached daisy, who was now eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “hey, easy,” you cooed, patting her gently. “it’s just the baby saying hello.”

jay knelt beside daisy, trying to calm her with soothing words while trying to suppress his chuckles. “there’s no need to dance, daisy. it’s just our little one showing off.”

the mare seemed to slowly realize that there was no real threat and cautiously approached you again, her ears still flicking back and forth.

“i guess the baby’s kicks are a little more dramatic than we thought,” you said with a grin, reaching out to give daisy another reassuring pat.

“definitely,” jay agreed, still laughing softly. “she’ll get used to the routines soon enough.”

with daisy settling down and the morning sun climbing higher, you and jay spent a few more moments enjoying the peaceful barn. the day ahead seemed even brighter, filled with the promise of more light-hearted moments and shared laughter as you prepared for the new adventures with your growing family.

✿

TAGLIST: @haechansbbg @contyynishimura @sasfransisco @kgneptun @jungwonderz @enha-stars @dioll @jakesangel @cupidscourt @violetwitchmcu @haohaoshoe @randomgirl02228 @wonsdoll @powerpuffstuts @flwrstqr @elysianiki — send an ask to join.

[ak-vintage]

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.  

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush.  Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”  

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.  

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

[nerdy-novelist017]

Denim (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader Smut)

Heyyyy, remember when i did that little poll forever ago and the majority of you guys wanted me to turn the ending into smut? Well, here it is 🤗 I just pray nobody who knows me IRL will read this, but i hope all of YOU guys enjoy this! 🫶

Benny x Bunny Masterlist

Word Count- 2.1k+

Summary- He nearly groaned at the sight of you, all sweet in your soft satin slip with his rough denim jacket dwarfing your small figure.

18+ Minors please do not interact!

******

Benny took a long, slow drag of his cigarette as he watched you from his place on the bed bend over to grab your slip dress from the floor. The trail of clothes leading into his bedroom were the result of his desires and fervor manifested by returning home to your sweet smile. After a particularly rough day with some new members joining the Vandals, his frustrations built and threatened to crack his carefully crafted persona of calm, his entire ride back home was filled with nothing but the dirty thoughts he had of bending you over the kitchen counter and releasing his anger. But upon entering his house, his senses were overwhelmed by the smell of something sweet baking in the oven. He found you standing at the kitchen island, adorning a flour-covered apron overtop one of your pretty little sundresses. You held a spatula in one hand, stirring it into the bowl of what Benny could only assume was batter, and the other was holding open a cookbook on the countertop, finger lightly tracing the words as you mouthed the instructions softly. 

“Hi, honey!” You greeted him with that smile that just seemed to melt away all his aggressions. “I’m baking a pie for tomorrow. I’ve never tried this recipe so I’m making my failsafe too, just in case.”

You were referring to another Vandals meeting happening tomorrow evening. A sickeningly sweet warmth bloomed in his chest and he knew he couldn’t fuck you there like what he’d planned. No, you were so thoughtful and kind. He wanted to make love to you, to show you that he loved you. That’s what you deserved. 

“God, you’re beautiful," he said as he watched the slip fall over your shoulders, gracefully laying over your body like water running over stones, covering your figure down to your mid thigh. 

He leaned his upper half against the headboard, one arm propped behind his head, the sheets pulled noncommittally over his bare hips. From the bed, he could see the blush tinge your nose and cheeks. He loved that he still had that effect on you, it filled him with a sense of pride that his words (among other things) could still garner a physical reaction from you. 

You grinned at him sheepishly. “That’s what I think about you.”

Benny had never been with a woman that called him beautiful before you. Sure, he’d been complimented many times, but called beautiful? That was something only you have ever told him. You found a lot of things beautiful, constantly pointing out flowers on the side of the highway or sunsets on the horizon. He loved seeing the world through your eyes. Sure, he appreciated the sunsets sometimes or your new dresses, but he only found them beautiful when you were on the back of his bike to enjoy the sunset, only thought the flowers were pretty when you placed them in your hair. Beauty was only a concept when you were involved. 

He watched as you began picking up the rest of your clothes, gathering everything in your arms, but then something caught your eye. Discarding the rest of your clothes on the foot of the bed, you bent, giving Benny a generous view of your chest before retrieving the item that gave you pause. 

He glanced down at it in your hands. His Vandals jacket. He quirked a brow as your gaze fluttered back up to his, a flirtatious glint in your eye. You turn from him and move to stand in front of the mirror above the desk. He watches intently as you slowly spin the jacket and bring it around behind you, sliding each hand through at a time before shrugging it over your shoulder. It was several sizes too big on you. Your fingertips barely grazed the ends of each sleeve and the hem of the denim covered your butt. You swiped at your hair trapped beneath the collar as you studied yourself in the reflection. 

You’re eyes locked with him in the mirror and you smiled. “You reckon I could be a Vandal?”

He nearly groaned at the sight of you, all sweet in your soft satin slip with his rough denim jacket dwarfing your small figure. “Bunny, I reckon you could take over that whole damn club tomorrow if you walked in wearing that.”

Your giggle sent a jolt through his stomach and he felt himself grinning like an idiot as he watched you turn from the mirror and do a spin for him. You were just too damn cute. 

“Now, you’re official,” he teased, blowing out a trail of smoke from between his lips, eyes unable to look away from you as you moved back to the bedside. 

“Not quite.” You fixed him with a mischievous look as you crawled onto the bed slowly, sliding a leg over his hips so that you were straddling his lap. “I still need something to ride.”

He smudged the rest of his cigarette out in the ashtray before his hands found the soft flesh of your bare thighs. You planted your palms over his chest and the sensation burned straight through to his heart. He leaned up to capture your lips. “I think I have something you could take for a spin.” 

He swallowed your moan, hands kneading up to your hips where he helped position you over himself. You had never been the one on top before, and your heart pounded at the intimidating idea. But because Benny always seemed to read your thoughts, he said, “It’s okay, baby. Just go slow.” 

Benny’s hands on thighs tightened, helping to guide himself to your entrance and you released a breathy moan of satisfaction when you felt his cock sink into you. He clenched his jaw tightly when you began to move slowly, hesitantly, his rough fingers tracing your soft skin with an almost reverent touch. “Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head momentarily as you rode him.

Though he wanted to remain locked onto you, his eyes couldn’t help but roam over every curve of your beautiful body, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He marveled at how easily you brought him to his knees, at how you seemed to just control his every thought. When he came home to you standing in the kitchen, so innocent and unassuming, all the day’s frustrations and worries just melted away. You had the power to do that. And now, with you rocking above him, your eyes locked onto his, he felt that very same sensation of awe wash over him again. How did he ever get so lucky?

“You feel so good, Bunny,” he moaned as his head fell back against the pillow, his heart pounding in his ears. “Just–just like that.”

He took one of your hands in his, bringing it up to his face and planting kisses to your palm. With every movement you made, his thoughts spiraled further, his mind becoming hazy. Mine, the word echoed in his head as a fierce and possessive need that both terrified and thrilled him. He had never thought he’d want something so badly in his life, never thought he’d care so much. But here you were, in his bed, in his life, and he was utterly lost in you. Every kiss he pressed to your skin, every touch was a promise – a promise to do anything he could to keep you, to make you happy, to be worthy of you. 

At his praise, you felt confidence bubble within you, and you picked up the pace, driven by the need to please him, your hips grinding into his with a friction that sent electricity straight into your core. The sound of your shared breaths, the squeak of the bed springs both filled the room in a sweet symphony that drove you to the very edge. 

Your name slipped from his lips in a broken, needy sound that made your heart skip a beat. You could feel him straining beneath you, his muscles taut with desire. You leaned forward, your hair falling into a curtain around his face as you pressed a kiss to his jaw, watching as his eyes darkened with fervor, his control slipping. 

His hand slid up your back, beneath the Vandals jacket, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss that made your head spin. He kissed you like he couldn’t get enough of you, like he was starving for you, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that sent waves of heat through your entire body. 

And in typical Benny fashion, he couldn’t relinquish control for long. Without breaking the kiss, he rolled you both over, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that caused you to squeal lightly. Not of fear, there was never fear with Benny. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving down to your neck as his hand cupped your breast through your thin nightgown.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice clouded by a possessive rasp as his hand gripped the bare flesh of your thigh, positioning it higher onto his own hip. You responded instantly, wrapping yourself tighter against him. “Every inch of you.”

 Unable to speak, you nodded, your hands moving up to grip his shoulders as he entered you with deep, powerful thrusts that made you cry out in ecstasy. Benny didn’t hold back – he couldn’t – his movements were rough and demanding as he took you, each plunge sending a shockwave through you, a white blinding sensation behind your eyes. The intensity of it was overwhelming, your senses filled with nothing but him – his touch, his scent, the way he filled you completely. 

“Benny, please,” you whimpered, your words almost incoherent as your pleasure built to a peak. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath tickling against your overstimulated flesh as his hand came up to interlock with your own, pinning it beside your head. He groaned, “I’ve got you, Bunny . . . I’ve got you.” 

His words were a promise, and they filled you with a warmth that went beyond physicality. And when the wave finally crashed over you, it was all-consuming, your body tightening against his as a cry escaped your lips. Benny wasn’t far behind you, his own release hitting like a storm, and he groaned against your skin, his body shuddering from the force of it. Your vision blurred with euphoria but you grasped onto the way he said your name so softly. 

Benny lowered onto his elbows, laying his upper body slack against yours as his labored breaths filled your ringing ears, his heart pounding against your own chest. For a few moments, you both lay there, each coming down off your passionate high, his hand still tightly wrapped around your own. He pressed a kiss against your temple as he whispered, “You’re everything to me, Bunny. Everything.”

You smiled as you brought your hands up to run through his hair. Benny rarely ever expressed his love in words. I love you, was not an expression he often used. Instead, he found other ways to emphasize his affections. They never ceased to fill you with a sense of belonging that you’ve never felt before. 

As the heat began to cool between you, he eventually pulled out, leaning up onto his elbows again, to gaze down at you with a lazy smile playing on his face. He brushed a strand of your hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek in a gentle caress. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, Bunny.”

You shot him a teasing grin. “Maybe I have some idea.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before he rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you along with him so that you were draped across his chest. You rested your head there, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat as your breathing slowed. 

After a few moments, Benny spoke up again, his low voice cutting through the comfortable silence. “How about we make a deal?”

You tilted your head up at him, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of a deal?”

His hand slipped beneath the denim jacket again to trace circles along your back as he mused, “Whenever you’re feelin’ low or like you’re not enough . . . you come to me, and I’ll remind you how wrong you are.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his words. He knew you struggled with confidence and to hear him wanting to actively help you in whatever way he could . . . well, it just made you love him all that much more. It was impossible not to fall in love with him every day when he said such things to you, when he made you feel like the most precious thing in his world. “And what about you? What if you need reminding?”

His eyes softened as they fluttered over your features. “Then I’ll come to you. You’re the only one who makes me feel like more than I am.” 

You leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet, sealing the promise. “Deal.”

You pulled back, a hint of mischief gleaming in your eyes, and you asked, “Do I have to wear the jacket though?”

He grinned, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you into him even closer. “Definitely.”

-Tag List-

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[himegureisu]

calls pt.2

Author's Note: I present to you all part two.

< calls pt. 1

“Where are you?”

His voice in short huffs came through the speaker as soon as he answered your call. In a haze, a medic brought you to the side and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. Your body trembled in response to the situation you’d been in.

“Just give me a location, baby,” he pleaded, eyes scanning the crowd for your physique, “I’m already here. I’ll come get you,”

“Outside the entrance, by the shrubbery,” you breathed out, barely could hold the tears in, and cracked, “Aaron, I need you,”

“I know, baby, I’m on my way,”

His movements rushed through the crowd almost frantic as you started to cry on the other side of the line. Your short breaths and hiccups increased but the moment strong familiar muscular arms picked you up from the curb the incoming panic attack subsided.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, arms tight around you. His scent and presence were the calm after the storm, “You’re okay. I’m here,”

“I was so scared,” you cried. His shirt was drenched in your tears as his started to fall upon the sight of you unharmed, “I forgot everything you told me. I’m sorry,”

“What matters is that you’re here in one piece, okay?” he stripped himself of his jacket, placed it on your shoulders, and handed over the blanket to the nearest EMT, “We can go home when you’re ready,”

In front of you, he knelt and wiped your tears as you gathered yourself together. Just waiting. Once you could breathe normally, you tiredly leaned against his chest, the steady beat of his heart calming you amidst the chaos.

“I love you,” you whispered, and he sighed, placing a small kiss on your forehead, “I love you too,”

“Let’s go home,” you said softly, he nodded and supported you as you made a move to stand, “Let’s go home,”

------------------——— 🔎------------------------—

In the morning tangled between the sheets, he’d laid on top of you. Your steady heartbeat was a balm for his frayed nerves but neither of you was able to sleep until the dawn broke out the horizon.

This tranquility broken in just an hour when his phone rang.

“Should I answer your phone?” you asked. His deep sleep-addled voice rumbled a barely coherent response but affirmed that you could, “Okay,”

“Aaron Hotchner’s phone. This is …” you introduced yourself.

There was a period of silence before a series of excitable giggles, squeals, and gasps came over. They take a deep breath and compose themselves before speaking to you.

“Good morning. We’re sorry to disturb you, but I’m Agent Jennifer Jareau from his team, the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” JJ politely greeted, as Penelope contained her squeals. We know that Hotch left for an emergency, but is there any chance you could convince him to come to follow us on our new case? We need his insight.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure to pass on the message,” you gently stroked his hair, faint snores escaped his lips as he slept soundly, “We had a rough night so I make no promises when or if he’ll come in,”

“That’s okay and we’re sorry for disturbing you,” JJ answered gratefully, as Morgan shushed Penelope and you assured them, “It’s okay he’ll call you for updates later,”

“Thank you. It was good talking to you.” JJ smiled, and unconsciously you did as well, “You too,”

------------------——— 🔎------------------------—

“Are you coming home in time for dinner?”

His smile made its’ appearance the moment he could hear the sizzle of the pan. Those awake in the cabin, namely Emily and Reid, horribly feigned disinterest in the conversation.

“For once, I will, yes,” he answered, staring at the passing clouds outside the window, “What’s cooking?”

“Your favorite for a job well done,” your smiles bloom. His dimples showed and a light tinge on his cheeks had Emily nudging JJ awake, “And me for dessert,”

He sighed.

“Baby, don’t do that to me,” he whispered, why were you such a tease? “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll be waiting,”

Tags Requested: @aaronhotchnersworld, @burningsongtimemachine, @lillisummers @charmedkim @acn128 @kodzukenie333 @wittygutsy @saint-marvel

[novaursa]

The Heir of Ice and Ash

- Summary: A little less than a year into your marriage with Cregan, you give birth to your first child.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter od Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes, and is bonded with dragon called Thraxata. These events happen after The North Remembers. To read all the chapters in chronological order visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 115

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

The sun sets below the horizon, painting the skies over Winterfell in hues of deep indigo and velvet, as if the Gods themselves pay tribute to the impending night. You stand by the window, your gaze fixed on the first stars twinkling above. They are a stark contrast against the endless darkness stretching out from the Godswood and the towering walls of the castle. Your hand rests heavily against the swell of your belly, the child within restless, as though sensing the night ahead will be anything but peaceful.

Autumn has fully settled upon the North, and even though the warmth of the hearth blazes behind you, a chill seeps into your bones that no fire can chase away. You shift uncomfortably, feeling a familiar ache in your lower back. It has been a constant companion these past weeks, dull and persistent. But tonight, it pulses more sharply—like the distant beat of a war drum.

Cregan finds you there, framed by the shadows and the low, flickering light of the fire. His presence is a balm, even before he speaks. The Lord of Winterfell—your husband—carries the strength and sternness of the North, but in his eyes, softened by the firelight, there is only concern and tenderness for you. His dark hair is wild, just as the snow-laden winds that howl outside, and a slight frown creases his brow as he crosses the room to you.

"Y/N," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "you should be resting. The Maester said the time grows close. You cannot push yourself like this."

You turn to him, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Resting makes me feel like a caged dragon," you reply, your voice laced with both fondness and frustration. "Thraxata would gnaw through her own wings before sitting idly while the world shifts around her."

He chuckles, but there’s tension beneath it. Cregan’s large hand covers yours on your belly, and you feel the child stir once more—a reminder of the life you carry, a testament to the love that has grown between you in this stark, unyielding place.

"The child takes after you, then," he murmurs. "Stubborn and fierce."

You meet his gaze, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Or perhaps after you—strong and steadfast. A wolf with a dragon's fire."

Before either of you can speak further, a sharp pain lances through your body. You inhale sharply, clutching Cregan’s arm, your nails digging into the fur-lined sleeve. His expression shifts instantly, dark brows knitting together with worry. You feel the tightness spread like a wildfire across your belly, and when it releases, you’re left breathless and trembling.

"Y/N?" The concern in his voice is almost a command, though he’s careful not to let the fear creep into it. "Is it time?"

You shake your head, breathing deeply to steady yourself. "Not yet," you whisper, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your tone. It has been hours since these pains started, subtle and far between at first. But now, they come more frequently, gripping you like waves crashing against a rocky shore.

Cregan doesn’t waste time. He steps away, only long enough to summon Maester Kennet and the midwives. You watch him move with purpose, the Lord of Winterfell transformed into a man both ready to command and helpless in the face of the unknown. His love for you is written in every line of his face, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his hands curl into fists as if he could fight off the pain on your behalf.

The midwives arrive quickly, bustling into the room with hushed voices and brisk efficiency. They guide you to the bed, their hands gentle yet firm as they help you settle against the piled furs and cushions. You clutch Cregan’s hand as the Maester approaches, his lined face kind but serious as he takes note of your condition.

"How long have the pains been this strong, my lady?" he asks, his voice even but edged with concern.

"A few hours," you admit through gritted teeth. "But it’s growing worse. They’re coming faster now."

The Maester nods gravely, exchanging a glance with the lead midwife. "Your body is preparing, my lady. It may yet be some time before the babe is ready to enter the world, but the process has begun in earnest."

His words offer little comfort. You know, intellectually, that this is how it must be—how it is for every woman who brings forth life—but knowing does nothing to dull the reality of it. Each time the pain comes, it tears through you with a force that leaves you gasping, gripping Cregan’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

"Stay with me, Cregan," you breathe out between labored breaths. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so desperate for his presence. 

"Always," he promises, his voice a low rumble, grounding you amidst the storm brewing in your body. He presses his forehead against yours, his warmth a beacon in the encroaching darkness. "You are stronger than any dragon, Y/N. You’ll see this through, as you always do—with fire and fury."

The night drags on, and with it, the pain ebbs and flows like the tide, relentless and unyielding. You find yourself slipping between moments of clarity and haze, clinging to Cregan’s voice as he whispers reassurances in your ear, his hand never leaving yours. You hear the midwives speaking softly to one another, discussing the progression, debating when to intervene, when to let nature take its course.

Outside, the wind howls, a mournful sound that seems to echo the turmoil within you. Somewhere far off, perhaps even from the Godswood, you think you hear the distant call of a wolf—your child’s ancestors, awaiting the new life ready to join their pack.

But for now, the waiting continues. The pain intensifies, like the tightening coil of a spring wound to its limit, yet still, there is no sign that the final moment is near. You can feel it, lingering on the edge of every breath—a future that hangs just out of reach, not yet ready to reveal itself.

Exhausted, you close your eyes, letting Cregan’s steady presence be your anchor. The Maester and midwives murmur around you, but their words blur into the background as you focus on the rhythm of your breaths, each inhale and exhale a battle won.

The night is far from over. The child within you stirs as if in answer, reminding you that the fiercest trials are yet to come. And yet, you are a dragon of Velaryon blood, a child of the conquerors and the seas. Winter may have yet to come, but it cannot quell the fire that lives within you. And so, you wait—braced for the storm, knowing that when dawn breaks, it will bring with it either triumph or heartbreak.

But for now, there is only the darkness, the pain, and the unwavering strength of your husband's hand holding yours, as you both prepare to face what lies ahead together.

The night stretches on, thick and unyielding like the ice that blankets the North. The chamber is dim, save for the flicker of the hearth and the low glow of the candles, their light wavering with each gust of wind rattling the shutters. You feel as if time itself has slowed, each moment pulling at you like heavy chains, dragging you deeper into the intensity of the labor.

The pain is unrelenting now, no longer coming in waves but crashing over you like a tempest at sea, leaving no room to breathe, no space to gather your strength. Every muscle in your body is taut, straining as the child within you fights its way into the world. You cling to Cregan’s hand, his knuckles white under the force of your grip. His face is etched with concern, a rare crack in the stoic mask he wears so easily. But beneath it all, his love is there—steady, unwavering, a lighthouse in the storm.

“You’re doing well, Y/N,” the midwife assures you, though her voice seems distant, as if carried through a tunnel. “The babe is moving down. Keep breathing, just like we practiced.”

You grit your teeth, trying to focus on the instructions, but it’s hard to think beyond the pressure building within you, the primal urge to push overwhelming every other instinct. It’s as if a fire roars through your veins, the fury and strength of your dragon blood awakened, urging you to finish this battle.

“I can’t… I don’t know if I can,” you gasp, the words torn from you in a moment of weakness. For a fleeting second, doubt curls in your chest, tightening around your heart.

But Cregan is there, leaning close, his voice a low rumble in your ear, filled with the deep, unyielding strength of the North. “You can. You are Y/N Velaryon—daughter of Rhaenyra, rider of Thraxata, a dragon forged in fire. There’s nothing in this world that can break you, least of all this.”

His words cut through the fog of pain, grounding you, reminding you who you are. You’ve fought for your place in this world—carved it out with both grace and fury—and you’ll fight for this child too, just as fiercely.

The midwife nods, seeing the determination flash in your eyes. “It’s time, my lady. With the next contraction, you must push.”

And so you do.

The first push takes everything you have, and the scream that tears from your throat is one of both agony and defiance. The world narrows to this one moment, the struggle of bringing life into being, of pushing past the pain and fear to reach the light on the other side. You feel the child shift, the head crowning, and the sensation is like being split in two, raw and fierce.

“Good, that’s it!” The midwife’s voice rises with encouragement. “Again, my lady, when the next one comes!”

You barely have time to gather yourself before another contraction grips you, fierce and unrelenting. Sweat beads on your brow, mixing with tears that you’re only half-aware of. You lean into the pain, letting it fuel your resolve, focusing all your energy on bringing this child into the world.

Cregan’s hand is still in yours, his voice a steady chant in your ear. “Almost there, Y/N. You’re almost there. I’m with you. We’re in this together.”

His presence is a comfort, his strength lending you the courage to face the next wave. The room blurs around you—the midwives, the Maester, all of it fading as you focus on the one task that matters. The pain is all-encompassing, a fire burning through you, but there is something else there too—a deep, instinctual knowledge that you are nearing the end, that you are almost ready to meet the child who has been growing inside you for all these months.

“One more, my lady!” The midwife’s voice cuts through, sharp and encouraging. “One final push!”

You gather every ounce of strength left in your body, the remnants of your willpower igniting into one last surge. With a primal roar, you bear down, feeling the child finally slip free, the sensation one of both release and completion. And then, for a moment, there is silence—the world holding its breath in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Then the air is split by the cry of a newborn—a sound so pure and strong that it brings tears to your eyes. Relief crashes over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath. The midwife moves quickly, cleaning the child and wrapping them in soft furs before placing them in your arms.

“It’s a boy, my lady,” she says with a smile, her eyes shining with the joy of the moment.

You look down at your son, tears blurring your vision as you take in the tiny face, scrunched and red, his little fists waving in the air. His hair is dark, like Cregan’s, but when he opens his eyes, you see a familiar shade of violet staring back at you—the mark of your bloodline, of your heritage. He is a perfect blend of both of you, a child of both fire and ice.

Cregan’s breath catches as he looks at the child, awe and tenderness softening his usually stern features. He brushes a hand gently over your hair, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “He’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done it, Y/N. Our son…”

The joy is overwhelming, the bond between the three of you already stronger than anything you’ve ever known. You cradle your son close, feeling his warmth, hearing his tiny breaths as he calms in your arms. The pain, the exhaustion—it all fades in the face of this moment, the pure love that fills the room like a warm light cutting through the cold.

“What will we name him?” Cregan asks softly, his fingers tracing the baby’s cheek with a touch so gentle it belies the strength in his hands.

You look at your son, feeling the weight of his future, the legacy he carries within him. He is of House Velaryon and House Stark, a bridge between two worlds, a symbol of unity and strength. “Killian,” you finally say, the name rolling off your tongue like a promise, one you will both keep. “Killian Stark.”

Cregan nods, pride and love shining in his eyes. “Killian Stark,” he repeats, his voice filled with certainty, as if speaking the name cements the child’s place in the world.

The midwives move quietly around you, tidying the room and tending to you both, but in this moment, nothing else matters. It’s just you, Cregan, and Killian—the three of you bound together by blood, by love, by the trials of this night. The wind howls outside, but inside, all is warmth and peace. Your child is here, safe in your arms, and for now, that is enough.

You lean back against the pillows, exhaustion finally overtaking you, but you don’t mind. You close your eyes, content in the knowledge that when you wake, you will find Cregan by your side, your son nestled between you both, and the future ahead bright with possibilities.

The night sky is a deep indigo, dusted with a thousand stars, as if the very heavens themselves have come to bear witness to the celebration. Winterfell’s courtyard is alive with the sounds of laughter, the crackle of bonfires, and the deep, melodic hum of Northern songs sung by gruff voices. The air is crisp and cold, but it carries the warmth of joy and camaraderie—a warmth that flows through the gathered Lords and Ladies of the North, drawn together to honor the birth of your son, Killian Stark.

It’s been a month since his arrival, and though the days have been marked by exhaustion and recovery, tonight is a time to celebrate. To revel in the strength of family and the bonds forged in fire and snow. Cregan has spared no effort in ensuring the night is one to remember, filling the halls and courtyard with the rich scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and hearty stews. Long tables are laid out under the open sky, heavy with food and drink, and adorned with simple yet elegant winter blooms and evergreen boughs.

You stand at Cregan’s side, your fingers intertwined with his, feeling the steady heat of his presence. The fur-lined cloak draped over your shoulders is soft, its weight a comforting reminder of Winterfell’s protective embrace. Killian rests peacefully in your arms, swaddled in thick, dark furs, his tiny face barely visible except for the delicate curve of his nose and the wisps of dark hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. His eyes, the deep violet of your lineage, are closed in contented sleep, unaware of the grand feast being held in his honor.

As you take in the scene before you, you feel a sense of pride swell in your chest. These are your people now—the fierce, loyal Northerners who have accepted you as one of their own. They raise their cups and call out toasts to your health and that of your son, their voices echoing against the ancient stone walls. There is a rugged beauty to this place, to these people, and it’s a beauty that you’ve come to love.

The drums begin to beat—a steady, rhythmic pulse that resonates in the bones, calling the attention of all present. At the center of the courtyard, the space is cleared, and all eyes turn to Cregan as he steps forward, raising his hand for silence. The Northern Lords and Ladies fall quiet, their eyes shining with respect and anticipation.

“My kin, my friends,” Cregan begins, his voice carrying easily across the gathering. There’s a natural authority in the way he speaks, his words as solid and enduring as the mountains that rise beyond Winterfell’s walls. “Tonight, we gather not just to celebrate the birth of my son, Killian, but to honor the woman who brought him into this world, my wife, Y/N. She came to us from beyond our borders, a daughter of fire and sea, yet she has proven herself as fierce and resilient as any Northerner born. She has brought warmth to our halls and strength to our bloodline.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. The pride in Cregan’s voice, the way he speaks of you as both wife and equal, makes your heart swell with love for this man who has made the North your home.

“And to you, Killian Stark,” Cregan continues, turning his gaze to your son, “may you grow strong in the ways of the North, guided by the wisdom of both wolf and dragon. Tonight, we celebrate you and the bonds that unite us all, both as family and as the people of the North.”

A resounding cheer follows his words, the Northern lords lifting their cups high. “To House Stark! To Killian Stark!” they shout in unison, their voices roughened by years of weather and war. “To the Lady of Winterfell!”

The toasts are followed by the deep bellow of warhorns, their sound echoing through the courtyard, signaling the beginning of the night’s revelry. The drums pick up again, faster now, a beat that invites movement, dance, and the unbridled joy of the North’s people. As the first notes of the fiddle and lute join the drums, couples begin to spill onto the cleared space, their steps a blend of tradition and wild abandon.

Cregan returns to your side, offering you a crooked smile. “Would you do me the honor of a dance, my lady?” His tone is light, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that suggests he’s asking much more than that.

You laugh softly, shifting Killian in your arms. “I would, but our son seems to have other ideas.”

Cregan’s eyes soften as he looks at Killian, who remains blissfully unaware of the world around him. “Let me hold him,” he says, taking the child from your arms with a tenderness that never fails to surprise you in a man of such strength. He cradles Killian against his chest, his movements careful, protective. “Go, dance. Let the people see their Lady take part in the traditions of the North.”

With a nod of gratitude, you hand Killian over and let yourself be led into the circle of dancers. The music is lively, the steps quick and purposeful, the kind of dance that demands focus and energy. You let yourself get lost in it, the rhythm of the drums syncing with your heartbeat, your body moving with a grace and fluidity that comes as naturally as flying on dragonback. The Northern women dance alongside you, their steps fierce and determined, their laughter wild and free. The men join in with strong, purposeful movements, celebrating with a raw, untamed joy that feels like a release after the long weeks of winter’s dark grip.

As you twirl and leap, you catch glimpses of Cregan watching you from the edge of the circle, Killian nestled in his arms. He looks at you with a mixture of pride and desire, as if you are both a miracle and a force of nature. The flames of the bonfires dance in his eyes, and in that moment, you feel the strength of the bond you’ve forged here in the North—a bond between a dragon and a wolf, between fire and ice.

The dance ends with a flourish, breathless laughter echoing through the night. You return to Cregan’s side, cheeks flushed, heart racing, but there is no exhaustion, only exhilaration. He hands Killian back to you, his fingers brushing yours with a touch that lingers, a silent promise between husband and wife. 

“Was that Northern enough for you?” you ask playfully, cradling Killian close as the warmth of the firelight wraps around you both.

Cregan grins, his hand resting on your back. “You’ve more than proven yourself, my love. The North is yours as much as it is mine.”

The night continues in a blur of song, drink, and tales told by firelight. The lords and ladies exchange stories of old battles, of hunts and harsh winters survived, weaving a tapestry of history that you are now a part of. The bonds of kinship, of loyalty to House Stark, are celebrated in each toast, in every clap on the back, every shared laugh.

As the hours pass, the revelry slows, giving way to a quieter, more reflective mood. Cregan’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for your ears. “For giving me a son, for standing beside me in this land of ice and snow. For being the flame that warms these cold stones.”

You lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. “And thank you, Cregan, for giving me a home, a place where I can be both dragon and wolf. Our family is strong, our future bright.”

In the distance, wolves howl, their voices rising in harmony with the night wind, a song that speaks of strength, unity, and the enduring spirit of the North. And in the heart of Winterfell, under the watchful eyes of the old gods and the stars above, you stand together as a family—rooted in tradition, yet reaching toward the future, ready to face whatever the coming winters may bring.

The revelry is in full swing when a sudden, urgent shout pierces the cold night air. “A dragon! A dragon is coming!”

The music halts abruptly, the notes hanging in the silence that follows. All eyes turn to the sky, scanning the darkness for the shape of wings. Even in the depths of night, you know the North is no stranger to strange sights, but the cry of “dragon” sends a ripple of tension through the crowd. It’s rare to see dragons in these lands—this far north, in the heart of autumn.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and a part of you already knows. Before you even spot the golden scales gleaming faintly in the moonlight, you know who it is. The familiar silhouette of a dragon with graceful wings and a golden hue, Syrax—the Queen’s dragon. Your mother has come to Winterfell.

Gasps and murmurs spread through the gathering as people look up in awe, some with fear, others with wonder. Syrax is a radiant sight even in the shadows of night, her scales catching the glow of the bonfires below as she circles the castle. The distinctive thrum of her wings reverberates through the courtyard, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine, not of fear but of anticipation.

Cregan steps closer, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. It’s not out of distrust, but out of habit—he is ever the vigilant protector. “It’s her,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, and he turns to you with understanding in his eyes.

“The Queen,” he murmurs, lowering his hand. “Your mother.”

There’s no mistaking the regal presence in the sky, even before Syrax lands with a soft thud that shakes the ground. The wind stirred by her wings sends cloaks and hair whipping around, and you instinctively tighten your grip on Killian, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Your breath catches as you watch the dragon’s rider dismount, a figure cloaked in dark furs, her silver hair flowing in the night breeze. Even in the shadows, the unmistakable violet eyes of your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, gleam with fierce purpose.

The lords and ladies of the North, who only moments ago were laughing and celebrating, now stand silent, watching the scene unfold with a mix of reverence and curiosity. Many of them have never seen a dragon (as Thraxata prefers her solitude) much less the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in person. There’s a hushed awe in the air as she strides forward, her gaze sweeping the courtyard until they find you—her daughter.

“Mother…” you breathe, hardly able to believe she’s truly here.

Rhaenyra’s stern expression softens the moment her eyes land on you holding Killian. The lines of worry and weariness that have grown on her face over the years seem to fade, replaced by something softer, something warm and achingly tender. She walks quickly, almost as if she’s afraid she might lose sight of you, and the crowd parts for her as if commanded by an unspoken will.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t hesitate. She pulls you into a tight embrace, wrapping you and Killian in her arms, her breath hitching as she holds you close. The scent of sea salt and smoke clings to her, a comforting reminder of your childhood. “Y/N, my sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “You’ve become a mother yourself.”

You smile through tears as you pull back slightly to look at her. “I have, Mother. Meet your grandson, Killian Stark.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten as she turns her gaze down to the tiny bundle nestled in your arms. She reaches out with trembling hands, and you gently place Killian in her grasp. Her breath catches in her throat as she cradles him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “Oh, he’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice cracking with emotion. “He’s so beautiful, Y/N. He’s perfect.”

The Queen, the strong and resolute ruler of the realm, stands before you with tears streaming down her face as she gazes at her first grandchild. Her fingers brush over his soft cheeks, marveling at the dark hair and those distinctive violet eyes that echo her own. She cradles him close to her chest, her tears falling onto his swaddled form as she gently rocks him. “My little dragon,” she whispers lovingly. “My grandson.”

Killian stirs, letting out a soft whimper, and Rhaenyra’s face lights up with a radiant smile, despite the tears. She presses a kiss to his forehead, her tears mingling with her laughter. “He’s strong. I can feel it,” she says, her voice thick with pride. “He has the blood of both the dragon and the wolf. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with one day.”

You stand beside her, emotions overwhelming you as you watch the most powerful woman in the realm reduced to tears by the sight of her grandchild. “Mother, I didn’t know you were coming,” you say softly, brushing away your own tears. “I wasn’t expecting—”

Rhaenyra interrupts you with a shake of her head. “How could I not come?” she replies, her voice breaking. “The moment I heard that you’d given birth, I knew I had to be here. You’re my daughter, Y/N, and this—” she gestures to Killian, “—is my blood, my legacy. I would fly through fire and storm to be here for this.”

Cregan, who has been watching quietly, steps forward and bows his head respectfully. “Your Grace,” he greets, his tone low and respectful. “Winterfell is honored by your presence.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at him, still holding Killian close. “Lord Stark,” she replies, inclining her head. “Winterfell is now part of my family as well, thanks to you and Y/N.” Her eyes flick back to Killian. “I see that my daughter has chosen well. You’ve given her a place where she can be strong and loved.”

Cregan’s eyes meet hers, and in them, there is a mutual understanding—one born of respect for the woman standing before him and the bond she shares with you. “I love her fiercely, Your Grace, as she deserves to be loved. And our son—your grandson—will know the strength of both his mother’s house and his father’s.”

Rhaenyra nods, satisfied by his words, but it’s clear she’s still entranced by the little life she cradles in her arms. “He is the future,” she murmurs. “Our future.” Her voice takes on a more somber tone as she adds, “The world is uncertain, and the storms may come, but Killian will be a light in that darkness. He will carry the strength of both ice and fire, of wolf and dragon.”

The lords and ladies of the North, who had stood back respectfully, begin to approach now, offering congratulations to the Queen, but always with their eyes drawn to the babe in her arms. The tension from earlier has melted away, replaced by a sense of unity. It’s as if Rhaenyra’s presence has bridged the gap between South and North, connecting them through shared blood and purpose.

Rhaenyra eventually returns Killian to you, but not without a lingering kiss to his forehead. Her eyes remain wet, and her voice trembles as she speaks. “I wish your father could see this,” she whispers, her voice tinged with both sorrow and joy. “He would be so proud of you, of the family you’ve built.”

You nod, feeling a pang of loss for Laenor, who never lived to see his daughter become a mother herself. “He’s watching over us, I’m sure of it,” you reply, your voice soft but resolute.

The night’s celebration shifts into something more intimate now, with people sharing stories of family, of home, and of the legacy that you are all building together. Rhaenyra remains by your side, her hand resting on your arm as she watches Killian sleep peacefully, content in the love surrounding him.

As the bonfires crackle and the Northern songs continue softly in the background, you find yourself overwhelmed by the strength of family, of tradition, and of the unbreakable bonds that have been forged this night. Winterfell, with its ancient stones and cold winds, has never felt warmer, never felt more like home.

[veritasangel]

⋆ ｡⋆ fem pov ୨୧˚ warnings: none ↣ {wc: 1.5k}

older knight! simon - one︱two︱three︱four︱five︱six

a/n: this series still has a few more parts with a bonus one at the end, but i'm going to delay them a little so you guys don't get sick of me lmao

The cottage you're in for your honeymoon was picturesque, a quaint little refuge tucked away from the rest of the world. The ivy-covered walls, soft chirping of birds and the fresh air felt like some much deserved peace.

You and Simon stepped out onto the sun-dappled path as you walked together. Hands entwined as you walked towards the meadow that stretched before you. The sky above was a canvas of endless blue sprinkled with cotton clouds crossing lazily across the horizon. The air held the sweet scent of blooms mingling with freshly cut grass.

"Isn't it magical?" you said, your voice tender in the gentle breeze. You smiled up at him, the sun catching in his eyes and turning them into pools of liquid gold. "It's like we've stepped into a fairy tale," you whispered, leaning into his warmth with happiness threatening to spill over the edges of your heart.

Fairy tales aren't real.

Or at least that's what he would've said before, but now- seeing how you look at him, it makes him think they might be.

"I think you're a fairy tale," he said, his voice gentle.

Simon's words wrapped around you in a soft embrace. You reached out and brushed your fingers against his cheek, marvelling at the tenderness that had come so naturally between you two.

"And you're my knight in shining armour," you returned, teasing the idea with a smile. "You rescued me from a life that I didn't know needed saving. You've given me the happiness I've been dreaming of."

He led you to a blanket spread under the shade of a willow tree. Its long, sweeping branches formed a natural canopy that made a private haven for just the two of you. "I didn't 'rescue' you. You've always been able to handle yourself just fine without me."

“Must you always be so- practical... Can't you just take a compliment?” you chuckled lightly.

Simon flopped onto his back, propping himself up on one elbow as he turned to look at you. "It's just hard to get used to the feeling that a person like you views me so highly, I suppose," he admitted, his voice tinged with awe.

You reached out, your fingers trailing gently along his arm. "Well, you'd better get used to it," you teased, "It's going to be a common occurrence in this marriage. No more self deprecation." you said as you cupped his face and waited for him to nod.

Slowly, purposefully, Simon nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "I promise," he said, his voice steady and resolute. "I will see myself through your eyes, and I will believe in the man you see."

He sat back up, as he reached into the hamper, grabbing a bottle of rosé and two glasses. He poured out the liquid, effervescent in the and handed you a glass.

"To us," he toasted, his eyes never leaving yours.

"To our forever," you replied, your glass touching his softly.

As you took a sip, the sweetness of the drink mixed with the loving air of this moment, and Simon swept a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers continued on to trace the line of your jaw, and that tenderness, that made your heart flutter.

"Is this the first time you've ever felt truly relaxed?" you couldn't help but ask.

Simon acted like he was thinking about the answer, and he felt his face flush because it was an immediate yes in his head. He knows you can see through him, especially when you laugh after his extended contemplation.

"I can tell." you began as you rested a hand on his shoulder, "You're not tense- You're going with the flow…Your hair is-."

"Hey- what's wrong with my hair?" he interrupts with a chuckle, a hand on his chest in mock offence.

"Nothing's wrong with it," you teased, a twinkle in your eye. "It's just a bit… unruly. But in a charming, carefree way."

Simon laughed, shaking his head. "Unruly? I think that's a fancy way of saying I look like a mess."

You playfully ruffled his hair. "A handsome mess," you corrected, your voice gentle. "It suits you—But, if you want, I can cut it for you, maybe help you shave too."

Simon raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. "And let you take a blade to my face? You must think I'm a lot braver than I am."

You chuckled, lightly brushing your thumb across his lower lip. "I promise I'll be gentle. Besides, you've handled far more dangerous things. A little shave shouldn't scare you."

"But a razor in the hands of my beloved? That's a different kind of terror." Simon joked.

You giggled, leaning closer. "Shush, I'll be careful, I swear."

He smiled, sidewise, cocking his head a bit. "As for the haircut…what if you cut it lopsided?"

You playfully pouted at him, giving him a sort of mock-stern face. "Well, then I guess you'll just have to charm everyone with your rugged appearance. It's a good thing you're a knight with a silver tongue."

He smiled at you, a contented silence filling the air. You leaned back against a tree, and he rested his head on your lap as you both burrowed under the shade of a willow tree.

"Well, I suppose if it looks bad, that's just an excuse to extend our honeymoon…you know, to let it grow back out?" he quipped, a smirk on his face.

You laughed softly and gently ran your fingers through his hair as he rested his head on your lap. "A clever excuse indeed. You always seem to find a way to turn any situation into an opportunity for more time together."

His eyes locked with yours, shining with merriment. "You caught me," he said, his lips playing with the thought of a smile. "But can you blame me? Every moment with you feels like a precious gift."

You smiled and then bent down to place a tender kiss on his forehead. "Well, if that's your intention, I'm certainly not about to argue. I'm quite fond of these lazy afternoons with you."

Simon sighed, very satisfied, and closed his eyes. He felt a moment of satisfaction. "I could stay here forever," he said, his voice only just above a whisper. "With you, everything feels different. Lighter. You make everything feel right. Like we were always meant to be here, in this moment, together."

It was then that you knew this honeymoon wasn't going to be a brief phase, but a lifetime of treasured memories. A soft breeze stirred the willow branches above, and your fingertips moved along his jaw. "I've been thinking," you said softly, "this cottage is cute, homely."

Simon's eyes opened once more. He looked at you steadily, sensing the change in your mind. "Go on," he said, his voice low with anticipation.

"Perhaps, a good place for a family," you mumbled, the words laced with hope. It felt like a thin thread arcing from the present into a future that the two of them had only dared dream about. Of course it's not like Simon wasn't already trying to get you pregnant, but voicing it aloud like this felt different.

Simon had already imagined it a thousand times, that morning alone. As nice as the castle is, with all those grand halls and bustling corridors. The privacy of a cottage does offer something more intimate, more serene. He could picture the laughter of children, echoing through the meadows, in wildflowers and rustling leaves, with tiny feet darting between sunlit patches of grass.

He turned his face a bit upwards towards you; his expression was tender as he gave you a soft smile. "I've thought about it too," he confessed; his voice was warm with emotion. "There's something about this cottage that has just felt right, a perfect little haven. It's peaceful."

Simon's eyes gleamed with tenderness and longing. "I already see us here, building our own traditions, filling this place with our own memories," he said, very serious, and reached out to sit up, his finger gliding along your cheek.

There was a flutter in your stomach at the thought of it, imagining Simon in that family role. "I'd love that," you whispered. You leaned in close and then rested your forehead to his, embracing this lovely picture of the future. "Let's make it our home."

Simon leaned forward, brushing his lips across yours to give you a light, gentle kiss. His eyes gleamed, full of love and a determination almost palpable, as he pulled back to look at you. "We'll make it everything we've ever hoped for," he vowed.

You both fell silent then, your shared vision settling about you like a warmth. The sun, wrapped the meadow in a golden glow and cast a shimmering halo about the two of you.

Here, on this honeymoon with you, he felt the truth of something he had once doubted. Fairy tales must be real, for he knows now that he's living in one.

༄ taglist:

@nijiru @lostrosemary @terralupa @vmaxis @alucardsdaddyissues

@s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @faridathefairy @lillysfrogsandbogs @backgroundgirl887 @dutch3-10

༄ cod m.list

© veritasangel ↣ 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴

[greenwitchcrafts]

June 2024 witch guide

Full moon: June 21st

New moon: June 6th

Sabbats: Litha/Summer Solstice- June 20th

June Strawberry Moon

Known as: Aerra Litha, Birth Moon, Blooming Moon, Brachmanoth, Dyad Moon, Egg Laying Moon, Green Corn Moon, Hatching Moon, Hoer Moon, Honey Moon, Lovers Moon, Mead Moon, Moon of Horses, Moon of Making Fat, Partner Moon, Rose Moon & Strong Sun Moon

Element: Earth

Zodiac: Gemini & Cancer

Nature spirits: Sylphs & Zephyrs

Deities: Aine of Knockaine, Bendis, Cerridwen, Green Man, Ishtar, Isis, Neith & Persephone

Animals: Butterfly, frog, monkey & toad

Birds: Peacock & wren

Trees: Maple & Oak

Herbs: Dog grass, meadowsweet, moss, mugwort, parsley, skullcap & vervain

Flowers: Lavender, orchid, tansy & yarrow

Scents: Lavender & lily of the valley

Stones:  Agate, Alexandrite, cat's eye, chrysoberyl, emerald, fluorite, garnet, moonstone, ruby & topaz

Colors: Gold, green, orange & yellow

Energy:  Abundance, balance, change of residence, communication, decision making, education, family relations, full & restful energy, love, marriage, prosperity, positive transformation, prevention, protection, public relations, relationships, responsibility, strength, tides turning, travel & writing

While strawberries certainly are a reddish-pink color and are roundish in shape, the origin of the name “Strawberry Moon” has nothing to do with the Moon’s hue or appearance.

• June's full Moon is typically the last full moon of spring or the first of summer. The June Full Moon will be extraordinary. For the first time since 1985, Full Moon happens precisely on the summer solstice, when the Sun is highest up. Because the Full Moon is always opposite the Sun, this year, you will see that the Moon is 10 widths lower on the horizon than the Sun ever is. 

This “Strawberry Moon” name has been used by Native American Algonquian tribes that live in the northeastern United States as well as the Ojibwe, Dakota, and Lakota peoples to mark the ripening of “June-bearing” strawberries that are ready to be gathered. The Haida term Berries Ripen Moon reflects this as well. As flowers bloom and early fruit ripens, June is a time of great abundance for many.

Litha

Known as: Alban Heruin, Summer Solstice & Whit Sunday

Season: Summer

Element: Fire

Symbols: Besom, fairies, God's eyes, sunflowers & symbols of the sun

Colors: Blue, gold, green, orange, red, tan & yellow

Oils/Incense: Cinnamon, frankincense, heliotrope, lavender, lemon, lily of the valley, mint, musk, myrrh, orange, orange pine, pine, rose, saffron, sandalwood & wisteria

Animals: Cattle, crab, horse & octopus

Birds: Goldfinch, kingfisher, meadowlark, owl, robin & wren

Mythical: Fairies

Stones: Bloodstone, diamond, emerald, jade, lapis lazuli & tiger's eye

Food: Ale, bread, cheese, edible flowers, garden fresh vegetables & fruit, lemons, meade, milk, oranges, pumpernickel bread, summer squash & wine

Herbs/Plants: Anise, basil, betony, cinquefoil, copal, elder, fennel, fern, frankincense, galangal, hemp, ivy, larkspur, lemon, lemon balm, mistletoe, mugwort, mullien, nettle, orange, orpin, plantain, rue, saffron, sandalwood, St.John's wort, thyme, verbena, vervain, wild thyme & ylang-ylang

Flowers: Carnation, chamomile, daisy, heather, heliotrope, honeysuckle, lavender, lily, marigold, orchid, rose, wisteria & yarrow

Trees: Elder, holly, laurel, linden, oak & pine

Goddesses: Amaterasu, Aine, Anahita, Dea, Cerde, Dag, Dana, Eiru, Fenne, Gwydion, Kupala, Mabd, Phoebe, Skhmet & Sul

Gods: Apollo, Baal, Balder, Bel, The Dagda, Donnus, El, The Green Man, Helios, Huon, Jupiter, Llew, Loki, Lugh, Maui, Mithras, Oak/Holly King, Ogmios, Ra, Surya, Thor & Zeus

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Agriculture, changes, divination, ending, fertility, life, light, manifestation, power, purpose, strength, success & unity

Spellwork: Fire & water magick

Activities:

• Charge and cleanse your crystals in the solstice sun

• Make Sun water

• Create crafts with natural elements such as flowers

• Burn a paper with things that no longer serve you or that you are trying to let go

•  Invite friends & family over for a bonfire and/or feast

• Gather & dry herbs for the upcoming year

• Clean, decorate & cleanse your altar with summer symbols

• Brew some sun tea

• Take a ritual bath/shower with flowers

• Make your own sun dial

• Craft a door wreath out of flowers & herbs

• Enjoy some sunrise/sunset yoga

• Volunteer at a food kitchen or animal shelter

• Plant trees (especially ones that may provide fruit or berries to feed the wildlife)

• Watch the sunset & say a blessing to nature

• Make flower infused anointing/spell oils

• Eat fresh fruits & berries

• Participate in a handfasting

• Create shadow art

The history of Litha reveals its deep connections to ancient agricultural societies & their reliance on the sun's power. Celebrated as part of the Wheel of the Year, Litha symbolizes the balance between light & darkness. Throughout history  customs such as bonfires, herb gathering & the construction of sunwheels have marked this festival. Today, Litha continues to be celebrated by various communities, with gatherings at sacred sites & private rituals in natural settings. It serves as a reminder of our connection with nature and the cycles of life.

• The traditions of Litha appear to be borrowed from many cultures. Most ancient cultures celebrated the summer solstice in some way such as the Celts celebrated Litha with hilltop bonfires & dancing. Many people attempted to jump over or through the bonfires for good luck. Other European traditions included setting large wheels on fire & rolling them down a hill into a body of water.

Litha is often associated with Midsummer, a celebration that extends beyond the pagan and Wiccan traditions. Midsummer festivities are observed in many cultures around the world, including Scandinavian countries where it holds a prominent place in their cultural heritage. Midsummer dances, bonfires, & feasts are integral parts of these celebrations, often accompanied by folklore and traditional rituals that honor the sun's energy and the abundance of nature during this time.

The summer solstice is the longest day of the year & in some traditions, Litha is when The Sun(The God) is symbolically at it's peak time of power & the World will soon be ripe to harvest. It is also when The Goddess is pregnant with The God who is to be reborn at Yule.

• In the Northern Hemisphere the Summer Solstice occurs when the Sun reaches its highest and northernmost points in the sky. It marks the start of summer in the northern half of the globe. (In contrast, the June solstice in the Southern Hemisphere is when the Sun is at its lowest point in the sky, marking the start of winter.)

Some also believe the history & spirit of Litha revolve around two deities, The Oak King & The Holly King. In Wiccan and Neo-Pagan traditions, each King rules the Earth for half of the year. From Yule to Litha, the Oak King rules. On Litha, the two battled for the crown and it is then that the Holly King triumphs. The Holly King will rule through fall until Yule, and the cycle will begin again.

Related festivals:

• Vestalia- June 7th -15th

Was a Roman religious festival in honor of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth & the burning continuation of the sacred fire of Rome. It was held from 7–15 June & was reserved as a women's-only event. Domestic & family life in general were represented by the festival of the goddess of the house & of the spirits of the storechamber — Vesta & the Penates .

On the first day of festivities the penus Vestae (sanctum sanctorum of the temple of Vesta which was usually curtained off) was opened for the only time during the year, at which women offered sacrifices. As long as the curtain remained open, mothers could come, barefoot and disheveled, to leave offerings to the goddess in exchange for a blessing to them and their family.

For the last day, the penus Vestae was solemnly closed, the Flaminica Dialis observed mourning & the temple was subjected to a purification called stercoratio: the filth was swept from the temple and carried next by the route called clivus Capitolinus and then into the Tiber.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[muniimyg]

10.5: love 》 series m.list

note: we made it !!! i am so incredibly grateful for everyone's love and support with c2u <3 meeting u all was so fun ,, answering ur asks and interacting thru comments truly made my day ! i'm glad i was able to share this silly goofy concept and have it well received . as usual ,, please lmk ur thots !!! i have 3 extras that will be posted soon (ie: their first hook up, a comfort scenario, and one final smut extra) so please look forward to those !!! thank u for ur patience ,, all the love 💗

warnings: sex tape vibes (kind of), pussy eating (nom nom), fucking LOL ... dirty talk & creampie! easy shit yk? lmaoo

taglist request: CLOSED

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @taetaecatboy @pb-n-juju @miss-rainy-days @firesighgirl @whoa-jo @vantxx95 @pamzn @kakixaku @casspirit0705 @tae165 @defzcl @sopebubbles @leefics @ggukkieland @bebebutbetter @yoongimentita7 @boraength @era-genius @4ksj @vampcharxter @miss-jupiter @floweryjeons @taegijns @jeonqkooks-main @ellesalazar

//

As much as Jungkook loves to play soccer for the glory, he loves it best alone. 

When the bleachers are empty and the field is wide and free—that’s when he feels the most love for his sport. To others, it comes off as lonely and sad but to him; it’s serenity. Sometimes, it’s the only place he feels like he can truly be himself. It’s a place where he doesn’t have to be anything to anyone. It’s a place where he can be lost and found at the same time. It’s also his go-to place when he can’t sleep. Jungkook hasn’t slept well in weeks. He figured it was time to be in his own space.

His haven. 

His favourite part has got to be when he plays so hard that he doesn’t even notice the world is waking up. The moment Jungkook looks up and sees the sunrise—he always gets this feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s an easiness that can’t be explained.

It’s an incredible relief. 

When he sees the sun, he stops playing. He takes a break and sits down to watch the sun bloom on the horizon. There’s so much bliss in the stillness of the world. He feels so much clarity when it’s just him, the net, and the ball. It’s like nothing else matters and his mind can focus on one thing: winning.

Jungkook has only done these late-night sessions a handful of times in his life. 

The first time was the day before Uni tryouts and he doubted his talent. Everyone kept telling him he had nothing to worry about, but that didn’t make him feel any better. To Jungkook, his luck was just like everybody’s. He was afraid of it not coming through when he needed it the most. Therefore, he worked his ass off regardless of his luck history. 

Note: Jungkook was the first in his year to get in. 

The second time was when he fucked up at a game and cost his team a minor setback. It wasn’t the end of the world—he just felt like shit.

The third time was the day he redeemed himself and scored the winning goal that got the team to championships. It was the best game he had in a while. It was also the first time felt tired of it. Tired of the game, tired of the play… Just tired. 

The fourth time was when he decided to take a break from soccer and tend to his burnout… Eventually, he came back after a few months. Of course, he did. He loves soccer more than anything in the world…

That was until you.

He didn’t go back to the field and have a session to himself to celebrate. No, he celebrated with you instead. You didn’t know and he never told you… But that’s what he did. The first day he came back to soccer, he went to you right after. With you, he found rest. 

That’s when he realized something… 

He wasn’t tired anymore.

At least, whenever he was with you.

He wasn’t tired. That’s all he could really ask for, right? To fall in love with someone that was his safety net. 

The fifth time would be today. 

Jungkook has been out here since 3AM, kicking the ball and practicing drills. It upset him, to be honest. He thought being here would help ease his heart. Everything feels so clogged up and messy to him. It’s like no matter what he does to try to clean up his mess, everything stains. So, he thinks to himself that maybe if he ran enough laps or kicked the ball hard enough—it would stop.

The mess. 

The yearning.

The loving. 

But it doesn’t.

No, instead his heart continues to ache. As he clenches it every so often, he thinks of you. Then, for a second, his heart is still. In the stillness, he tries to think of good things around him. 

At least the rain wasn’t pouring as hard as it was an hour ago.

At least the sun is coming up and it’s a new day. 

At least you were here—

Wait. 

You’re here?

Jungkook rubs his eyes. Partly due to disbelief and partly because the rain made it hard to see you clearly. Yet, somehow… In his heart, he knows it. He knows it’s you. 

How’d you know where he was? More importantly, why are you here? 

Why was his heart racing so fast again? 

Be still. 

He isn’t sure of what to do. Should he wave? Should he call your name? Are you here on accident? 

Considering it’s almost 6AM… It can’t be an accident, right?

Just as much as Jungkook’s head begins to fill with questions, yours does too. As you walk closer and closer to him, you can’t help but only hear your heartbeat pound louder and louder. Is this normal? To feel like your heart could jump out of your chest if it meant getting to him faster? You let your mind spin. 

Why the fuck are you here? 

What are you doing again?

Did you write everything down?

You sure felt a lot braver ten minutes ago… Suddenly, seeing him has made you doubt all the courage you worked to have for this moment. At the same time, the complex feeling of pure happiness and relief blossoms. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him. There’s a stillness in the world and it’s only when you look at him and it’s good. You know that now… But oh my god. 

You’re about to lose your shit. 

How did you get here?

When did it all begin? 

Was it from the first night you two slept together? Or was it the karaoke night when you realized you were waiting for him to kiss you? Could it be time he fucked you in front of your mirror and you vowed to never drink coffee before meeting up with him ever again? 

… No. 

Maybe it was when Mina came along. 

You gave him a blowjob just to stall him from going (bad move, by the way. That was pretty bitchy). Oh, and we can’t forget about the time you craved him when you were drunk out of your mind and all he did was take care of you. Half asleep, you woke up to him mounting your mirror on the wall… And well, maybe…

Maybe it was then. 

When he fixed your mirror, he fixed your heart. 

That’s probably why the time you two hooked up in his bedroom at the party felt so right. It was finally clicking.

You were into him then.

You just didn’t know how to admit it. Then, it got fucked up because you were caught off guard. 

The perilla leaf.

The exile. 

The hate sex. 

Everything good and bad has led to this moment and you can’t help but feel like you’re falling apart. Finding the origin of it all feels exhausting… In your head, you debate it all. In your heart, you’ve always known. 

You see, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

The friendship, the sleeping with him, the hurting him—the loving him… It wasn’t supposed to do this to you. You aren’t supposed to be this nervous and so impatient at the same time. You aren’t supposed to feel this stupid either… 

But you do. 

… And that’s okay. 

Sometimes, with love, you’re going to feel a little stupid. You just have to cross your fingers and hope the person you’re being stupid for is just as stupid as you. 

In your case… There’s a good chance he is. 

As you stand on the sidelines, Jungkook places his hand over his eyes to see you clearer. He tilts his head in confusion as you drop your bag. 

Then, just like that…

It happens. 

His thoughts pause, his heart goes still for the nth time, and his world slows down as he takes in the sight of you. Nothing will ever be better than this. The same way he feels an ease when he watches the sunrise—he feels it as he looks at you right now. 

God, he loves you so much. 

He has known it for so long but this… You in this moment; it’s bliss. 

Complete and utter bliss. 

If that isn’t enough… His heart is completely undone the moment he realizes two things: one, you’re wearing his jersey, and two; you’re holding a towel in your arms for him. He can’t help but let a laugh escape his lips. All that shit you said about how you would never be a part of his fan club and how you could never be that girl…

Oh, this is gold. 

Honestly, it’s more than enough. For you to show up and make this effort—it fills his heart. Yet, you’re you. Always full of surprises and ways of making his heart go on overdrive. As he sinks in his thoughts and soaks this moment in; he watches you take a deep breath. Then, slowly but surely, you extend your hand out to him. 

It’s then when he knows it. 

The wait was worth it.

The wait is over.

You and Jungkook sit on a bench, under the technical area’s cover. For a while, you two watch the sunrise in silence. Both too afraid to say anything to ruin the moment—both so undoubtedly in love. Once the sun is fully up, you brace yourself. 

This is it. 

Jungkook turns to you, chasing your eyes. 

“You nervous or something?” he jokes, as he begins to dry his hair with the towel you placed around his neck. 

“Yeah,” you confide. “Am I doing this right?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen as you scoot closer to him and take the towel. In your continued silence, you take over and start to dry his hair. Scrunching the towel, you pat dry his neck and cheeks. He gulps, unsure of what to do… He likes it though. He likes that you’re taking care of him and that you’re trying. He knows you are. 

As you pat dry him, you try to find your words. It takes a moment, but you think to yourself… It’s now or never, right? You’re already here. You’ve already folded. 

It catches Jungkook off guard when you suddenly tug him close. Putting the towel aside, you cup his cheeks with your hands. Your hands are cold, but he doesn’t mind. If anything, he’s holding himself back from kissing them. With a pout on your lips, you begin your confession. 

“I hate being your friend.” 

Jungkook squints at you and chuckles. He removes your hands from his cheeks, smirking at you. “What bullshit are you on now? Didn’t we agree on—”

“I never agreed,” your eyebrows knit together. “It’s been like… A day and a half and I’m going crazy being your stupid friend.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “Enemies?”

His suggestion annoys you.

You lift your hand to hit him, but he catches your wrist. Then, he opens his hands for you. You sigh teasingly but take it. Intertwining your fingers together, you two sit in silence again for a moment. 

Holding hands, watching as the rain pours, and preparing to give your hearts to one another… It feels like this could be a dream.

“Tae and Yuna, ” you begin, breaking the silence. Your voice sounds weary and desperate. “They’ve been friends since the very beginning. He always had feelings for her and she did too… But she didn’t do anything about it until it was too late. He’s dating Mina’s friend now or something—it’s so messed up. It’s so unfair, y-you know? They deserve each other so much and I—”

“Breathe,” Jungkook comforts you. “They’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t want that to be us,” you blurt. 

Jungkook blinks at you. 

“It’s so scary. Jungkook, I don’t want that to be us… B-but it is us, isn’t it? Y-you hate me because of—“

His eyebrows knit together. “___, I don’t hate you. Don’t say that.”

Your lips quiver, unsure of how to navigate through this talk. Maybe you should have planned it better. Maybe you should have written this whole speech out instead of word-vomiting like this… But that’s the thing. 

You aren’t good at this.

Regardless, you’ll try for him.

“I’ve been selfish,” you admit, letting your eyes dart to the field. You can’t look at him. It feels too overwhelming to.  “I’ve been inconsiderate and I know I can’t justify my actions because they hurt you—I just need you to know that I was scared. It was so scary trusting you, falling asleep beside you, and waking up next to you. It was so scary watching you laugh with other girls and not knowing how to tell you how I felt… I’m sorry I started fights while trying to figure out how I felt about myself… Honestly? I think I was so scared because you made it so easy.”

A beat.

“T-the truth is… I’ve always known how I felt about you.” 

Jungkook can’t help but smile. He wonders if you know what you’re doing to him… Do you? He’s afraid you don’t.

“Really?” he pries, moving closer to you. “How do you feel about me?”

Attempting to be intimidating, you turn to face him with a glare. 

“D-don’t push it.”

Jungkook pouts. “But I want to know… Please, please, please?”

For a moment you contemplate. Then, you look at him and take it all in. His wet hair, soft eyes, and pouting lips… How were you ever strong enough to say no to him before? Truly, you’re a changed woman.

Curling your fist, you shut your eyes and say it. You tell him the whole truth. 

You give him your heart. 

“You said you got ahead of yourself… But have you ever considered that I was beside you the entire time? L-like you said you’ve had feelings for me since the first time you made me laugh… Me too. I knew it then too. I just didn’t know what to do because every time I dated guys, it all felt the same… With you, it was different from the start. I don’t know how to explain it… All I know is that I like you in every way it’s possible to like someone—I like you. My heart has been yours all along. I’m sorry it took me so long to give it to you. It just felt like everything with you kept falling into place and I was terrified I was f-falling too… I think—n-no, I… Umm, I know that I…”

Something others may not know about Jungkook is that he’s consistently bad at one thing. That one thing is playing it cool when it comes to you. He has to fight his inner demons to stop himself from professing his love for you every 10 minutes. So, it would be a lie that he wasn’t loving this. He loves watching you feel what he feels. 

Your words, sweet and well-awaited, completely captivate him. 

He can’t help it when you’re like this. So perfect, so cute, so his. He can’t resist!

Which is why he kisses you mid-confession. 

Jungkook kisses you slowly and deeply. Like never before, you lose your breath from how passionately he kisses you. Once you two pull away, he rests his forehead against yours. Smiling, he sneaks in a couple more kisses. 

Timidly, you say, “So… You aren’t mad at me anymore?”

With a laugh, Jungkook shakes his head. “God, you drive me crazy.”

“So… That’s a no, right?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes and purses his lips. You press your lips against them and kiss him once more. 

“___?”

“Y-yeah?”

“... I checked my phone a moment ago and Yuna ratted you out. She texted me like ten minutes before you came. Said if you don't show up I should knock on your door and fuck your feelings out of you.” You gasp, burying your face with your hands. Sighly dramatically, Jungkook makes a cheeky comment. “Once again, I waited for you.” 

You hit his chest playfully. In pure disbelief, you groan at him. “What? Y-you knew and still made me do the whole speech—”

"I didn’t know!” You ignore his claim. “Although, I wouldn't have had any issue fucking the feelings out of you—"

"Are you insane?" you fume. "I was literally sick to my stomach trying to get this confession thing done right!"

“I was excited!” He teases, and nudges you. You remain annoyed at him. Jungkook can’t help but find it cute. “Awh, ___! Come on. It’s not every day that a guy gets to see his girl in his jersey, holding a towel for him on the sidelines! Also… I just really wanted to see what all your fuss was about. I promise, I didn’t know.”

It’s too late. 

Just as you stand up and storm away from the embrassment, Jungkook catches up to you. Out on the field, the rain continues to pour on you two. Drying him off was useless if you were going to be this dramatic. 

As he catches your wrist, you shove him away and cross your arms. 

“I feel stupid,” you sigh. “Y-you knew how I felt about you. I was worried and anxious the entire time and y-you knew!” 

Jungkook shuts his eyes and can’t believe how feisty you are. It’s entertaining and frustrating at the same time. God, you were so complex… But at the same time, he knows you’re just afraid. This is you finding an out. This is also you trying to stay. 

He takes your hand. 

You don’t shake him off say anything. 

You let him take it. 

He holds it like it’s all he has ever wanted to do (it is all he has ever wanted to do).

“I didn’t know everything! Hey, the fuss was cute,” he ensures you. “Do it again.”

“No!” you cry, feeling your clothes start to stick to your skin. It’s pouring now and you instantly regret being dramatic.

Except, Jungkook looks so perfect. His hair is wet and his shirt is soaked so you can see the way his muscles curve. He’s so handsome that you have to gather all your strength as a woman to keep yourself from jumping on him.

“This shit is so hard!” you complain through the rain. “How did you do this? You confessed like every time we fucked—”

“Yah!” Jungkook warns, feeling a little embarrassed. Maybe he should be the one to storm away now…  “Be nice to me or else I’m about to reject you.”

You roll your eyes at him. Grabbing him by the collar, you tug him to your eye level. Happily, he complies. 

“Do it then,” you call his bluff. “Reject me right now.”

Jungkook looks into your eyes, loving the way you look at him. He blinks at you slowly and bites his inner cheek. For a moment, he’s silent. You’d think he’s contemplating or something… But he’s not. He’s been sure about you since your first laugh, remember?

“Kinda cruel considering you’re all I’ve been waiting for,” Jungkook confesses, as he dips his head low and kisses you. 

As he kisses you, you squeeze his hand. Holding his hand tighter, he smiles into the kiss. The rain continues to pour, making everything feel unreal. As he pulls away, he looks at you the way he always has… This time, you get what Yuna was talking about.

The warmth in his gaze.

The love in it.

The you in it.

After what felt like endless heartache with other boys—this felt healing. 

This was yours. 

Him. 

And that’s when your heart tells you something you never knew… 

You waited well too. 

You two escape the rain and make it to your place.

In your bedroom, you quickly get undressed and sit in front of your mirror to dry your hair. Jungkook comes out of the washroom all clean. Passing by you, he plants a kiss on the top of your head. You watch from the mirror as he reaches inside your closet for one of his shirts. 

Your high from the moment at the field suddenly dies. Suddenly, you realize the confession wasn’t enough to move forward. For fucks sake, he has his clothes in your closet.

“Jungkook?” you ask cutely.

“Mhmm?” he responds as he dresses himself.

You almost choke on your words. “What are we?” 

He grins, coming back to you and swaying you side to side. Without batting an eye, he answers: “friends, of course!”

Instantly, you push him away. Your shoulders slump as you glare at him. He laughs his ass off, loving the way you reacted. When he calms down, he kneels in front of you and apologizes. 

“Okay, bestie,” you play along as he gets up. “Should we eat perilla leaves to celebrate?” 

Jungkook’s mouth drops. His eye practically twitches at the mention of perilla leaves.

Throwing his hands up dramatically, he cries, “Oh god... My girlfriend is so mean to me… She’s so hot, holy shit.”

Girlfriend.

That sounds about right.

He’s so big. 

Sometimes, you forget that.

It slips your mind because Jungkook has always been a giver. You never really had to worry about it being uncomfortable. He makes sure you cum first and always puts his needs above yours—tonight was a prime example of just that. 

As he towers over you, he leaves a trail of kisses from your neck to your lips. Each kiss is so soft and intimate, your pussy clenches at his very touch. It doesn’t help when he places his thumb on your clit, rubbing and stretching it out to stimulate you even more. As you moan into his ear, he feels shivers go down his back. 

You gasp as he bites your skin, enticing you to want him even more. 

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “put it in, please.”

“Mhmm,” he moves the hair strands on your face and kisses you. “Be good for me, okay? Be patient. Gonna fuck you good so I need you to be on your best behaviour.”

“B-best behaviour,” you repeat rather lewdly. “Okay… W-whatever you want, love. You have it. You have me.”

Love.

God, you and your fucking words.

Jungkook bites his bottom lip, trying his best to take his time. Truth be told, he wants to fuck you silly right now. He wants you so bad that your legs won’t work and he’ll have to tend to your soreness. He wants to fuck you so good that you scream his name and lose yourself in him… But he’ll take his time tonight. 

He wants to show you so much. He wants to show you how good he can make you feel. How you won’t ever regret your decision of being with him. He wants to show you what kind of man you chose and what kind of man you get to have.

A good man.

A man that has wanted you for so long that now that he has you—oh was he ready to drag it out.

Jungkook gently places his dick in between your folds. It’s hard and thick. You can feel it against your wet pussy and want nothing more than for him to put it in. Instead, Jungkook lifts himself and sits in between your legs. There, he holds the base of his cock and slaps it against your pussy. He rubs his cock up and down your folds. Then, he splits them open with his fingers and spits on it. He then spreads his spit with his cock. You feel so lucky when he pokes it inside once in a while. Like a tease, he takes it out so quickly that you begin to feel frustrated. 

“P-put it in, please…”

Jungkook smirks. 

“Put what in?”

You glare at him.

“Your hard, thick, stupid cock. Put it in my wet, needy, desperate pussy right now… Please?”

Jungkook lets out a sexy chuckle. “Not yet,” he tells you, as he fully stops. He then moves over and helps you sit up. Leaning against your headboard, he spreads your legs. Just when you think you can predict his next move, he reaches over to your nightstand and grabs his phone. Unlocking it, he passes it to you.

“Film me.”

You nod, following his orders.

Tapping record, you angle the camera to your pussy. You watch through the phone screen as Jungkook positions his face in between your legs. Gulping, you throw your head back as he makes his first lick. 

Jungkook holds onto your thighs, helping you keep your legs open. He digs himself into your pussy, devouring every inch of it. To deepen himself, he digs his nose in and curls his tongue as he licks you. When he pulls away for air, he sucks on your clit making sure to keep you on your toes. 

“Oohhh,” you sob. “S-so good. J-Jungkook—“

“Mhmm,” he murmurs onto your skin. “Tastes so good.”

“A-aghhh! Oh my god!”

The thing is… Jungkook has eaten you out before.

But this was different.

It was slow and sensual. The way he licks you and eats you out just feels so surreal. Your toes curl, your stomach winces, and your pussy tightens as you’re about to climax—

Jungkook pulls away. 

He has a devilish look on his face. You stop the recording and toss his phone aside. Suddenly, he takes hold of your ankles and tugs you down. On your back, you open your arms and welcome him in again. Gladly, he buries himself in your breasts and moans at your softness. 

“That was—“

“Everything my girl deserves,” he tells you sweetly. “My girl…”

“Your girl,” you pull him in for a kiss. “All yours..”

Jungkook moans, unable to stop himself. He lifts his hips, making space for him to quickly pump his cock before guiding it inside you.

… And oh my god.

He feels so good.

Him inside you is so fulfilling and healing. 

“You okay?”

You nod, mesmorized by the man he is.

“More than.”

With that, Jungkook kisses you and begins to fuck you. He thrusts in and out, making you feel his entire length with each stroke. Your body takes him in as if it’s welcoming him home. As he feeds you your craving, he picks up the pace. You wrap your legs around him, moaning from how good it feels as he buries himself in you. 

“F-fuck,” Jungkook hisses. “Love this. Feels so good.”

“Mhmm,” you whimper. “J-just like that!”

Jungkook continues to fuck you, drilling himself deeper and deeper. Soon, you’re chanting his name and his ego begins to boom.

Jungkook fucks you like he loves you… And you know it. You can feel it. To express so, you claw his back. Digging your nails deeper and deeper, holding him close.

“N-nghhh! I’m gonna cum—”

“Cum for me, pretty girl. You behaved so well,” he praises. “Proud of you.”

Your heart flutters. 

Then, your pussy clenches as you release. He feels it. Jungkook groans, accepting that this round will be over soon. There will be plenty more, for sure. As he pumps inside you lazily, cautious of being sensitive to your climax but also because he’s hitting his. 

Then, he creams your pussy. It oozes out, but he pumps himself a few more times to stuff you.

As he spills himself onto you, he lets out heavy breaths and collapses on top of you. You let him catch his breath there as you tangle your fingers in his hair. 

“I love you,” you confess. 

“Good… I was hoping you would.” Jungkook lets out a tired laugh. “I love you too, ___. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re everything I’ve ever loved.”

You hold him tighter.

“I love you more.”

Jungkook bursts into laughter. “Love, we are not going to play that game.”

Tilting your head at him. “Why not? It’s true.”

“You think you love me more than I love you?”

“Mhmm.”

“Prove it.”

With that, Jungkook laughs as you shift position. Leaving him on his back, you climb on top and straddle him. As you lift yourself to guide his dick inside, he lets out a whiney moan. You are so sexy. You are quite literally his favourite part of living.

“I’ll prove it,” you accept the challenge. “Will you last though?”

Jungkook’s lips slight part, amazed and shocked at your initiative. In response, he relaxes and gestures at your body. There’s a tightness that overcomes his entire body. It’s mixed with excitement and relief. For the nth time, he gives in.

Jungkook folds.

Happily, he gives himself to you.

“With you? Forever.”

Forever.

After 3 rounds, you two call it a night. As you drift to sleep, Jungkook holds you. Before this, you two talked as much as you could and even began to make plans. There is an indescribable comfort in being with each other.

Upcoming dates.

Better ways to communicate.

Everything and anything in between—you two want it all.

As the rain pours, Jungkook finally shuts his eyes. He pulls you closer, kissing you for the final time tonight. There would be tomorrow to kiss you anyway.

Tomorrow and the day after that… And the day after that. And the days that follow—he’d do just that.

He can’t wait to kiss you forever.

To hold your hand forever.

To love you forever.

For the first time in a while, Jungkook finds rest. His heart stays still and feels loved. Besides, this is what he has wanted to be all along—

Close to you.