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trashogram · 6 days

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He Chose You (Pt. 13)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E for Explicit.

“This is just a dream.” Your words came out in a tangled string, altogether as air being forced out of a balloon. You partially sagged as well, instinctively locked muscles loosening again after you’d realize there was another person next to you on the beach.

She was beautiful, as always, with long silver-blonde hair and violet eyes cut into a soft face. You froze for the briefest instant at the fact that her tall, Amazonian body was clothed, but dreams never followed the rules.

With your arms out wide, you reached for the woman that had appeared beside you on the beach. “Right? Is it just a dream? L… like the ones before?”

You wanted it to be true. The swell of hope rose within you like the tide at your feet, but it was tainted by something that shook you and made your heart race.

The truth was like oil leaking through and into your bloodstream, sticking to your veins until it couldn’t be ignored any longer. Until it made you feel sick and trapped inside your own skin.

“Right?”

The serene expression on Eve’s face gave way and rendered her heartache. She looked at you with violet eyes gone glassy for a long, long moment.

Eve shook her head slowly. “No.”

—

The realm-traversing portal opened up amidst rolling clouds without much fanfare. Lucifer’s eyes snapped shut as he was accosted by piercing white light on all sides when he stepped out of it.

“Ugh.” The blond blinked rapidly, trying in vain to adjust to the shift from dark red to blinding light. “It’s like crashing into the sun...”

Heaven’s gates came into focus.

“… while it’s going supernova.” Lucifer finished, muttering as he took a moment to shake out his sleeves.

He stayed in place, readjusting his clothes while his wings folded back behind him. Heaven loomed on the horizon, only a short walk away. A fact that was eroding the King’s resolve with each passing moment.

Lucifer swallowed, straightening his bow tie.

He wanted to turn back.

It had been many millennia since he’d stepped foot anywhere near what was once his home; and in spite of the time and the distance, Lucifer could feel dread creeping up on him. The memory of being pushed and plummeting down, down, down into fire and brimstone came to him as if it had happened yesterday.

Lucifer glanced down, anticipating the rise of molten rock and plumes of smoke as he headed straight into the Earth’s core.

He was still standing, hands shaking so hard that his apple cane was tapping against the slow yet merrily rolling clouds.

The former angel closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply to steel himself.

This was for you. He needed to know that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

This was for you.

He’d do anything for you.

Another breath. Lucifer stepped out from behind the clouds and onto the golden path that led to you. Just a few feet away and the blond tried to keep his eyes level with the gate itself, purposefully avoiding the all-knowing symbol above.

A very bored-looking angel was flicking through the pages of what Lucifer assumed to be a reservation list. He couldn’t quite put a name to the face, as unless St. Peter had dyed his hair and grown a good deal of scruff on his chin, this was someone totally new to the gig.

Lucifer grimaced, wondering if this was a boon or not.

“Excuse me!” Lucifer called up.

“Ah!” The angel squawked. “Oh! Shi-I mean—!”

He fumbled with the book, accidentally crumpling a page mid-flick. Lucifer waited, tapping his foot nervously while the gatekeeper pulled himself together.

Finally, he smacked both hands against the book, using it as leverage to lean over and get a better look at the new arrival.

“My apologies! Welcome to He-Hâ€¦” Pupils shrunk to mere pinpricks within the angel’s eyes upon catching sight of the newest ‘arrival’.

‘Oh fuck, okay.’ Lucifer lamented, posture sinking as he readied himself for a shitstorm.

His wings stretched out once more, and Lucifer glided up as stealthily as possible. The angel reeled back upon his approach, horror-struck, while the blond met him face-to-face.

“Yes! Hello there Mmmm—”” Lucifer squinted at the name tag pinned to the angel’s chest. “Matthias! Wonderful to meet you! Unless we’ve met before, in which case I apologize! It’s been quite a while since I’ve been up rather than down. Heh.”

Matthias continued to stare, jaw practically hanging off his face. “Y-you—you’re-!”

Lucifer’s smile waned like a melting candle. He drummed his fingers against the table top and cleared his throat.

“Right.” Lucifer continued. “So, anyway, I’m here just to say ‘hi’ to a very special someone, and I would be eternally grateful if you could help me out with that.”

He waited a full minute, watching Matthias shake like a leaf. It left Lucifer torn between irritation and anxiety.

“Look, I’m not here to make waves.” He tried again. “I’ve done that enough for an immortal lifetime! And you know that, clearly.”

He chuckled, pulling at his collar. “I’m not asking for much. If anything, I’m actually doing my due diligence as far as Heaven is concerned and what’s that you got there? Is that a flip phone? Didn’t know they made those anymore. Who’re you dialin-”

“PETER!” Matthias screeched into the dated device. Lucifer’s whole body flinched at the sheer volume.

“Wait, no, no, no!” Lucifer panicked, arms flapping to regain Matthias’s attention.

Matthias continued to rear back until he’d fallen off the podium, and he barely managed to remember his own wings before hitting the ground.

“Peter!” He cried. “Come back! We have a situation here!”

“No we don’t!” Lucifer tried to butt in. “He’s being ridiculous Peter. Don’t listen to him!”

“You need to get back here now! No, now!” Matthias snapped the phone shut and kept aloft a good distance from the King of Hell.

He then made the sign of the cross, of all things.

“Stay back!” The angel yelped. “I’m warning you I-I-I’ve been abstinent for over a hundred years and it didn’t break me! Neither will you, foul Tempter!”

Lucifer stopped, lips peeling back as if he’d just sucked a lemon.

“Okay, I didn’t need to know that.” Lucifer said, floating closer. “Look, maybe you didn’t get what I was saying, I’m just—”

“I said stay back!”

Lucifer groaned, running a hand down his face. “Fuck me for thinking Heaven learned to listen.”

—

You felt lighter as you made your way back into the cityscape of Heaven, although your heart was truly aching.

There was no use in staying hidden in the trees, but as you crossed back into the modernized version of paradise, you vowed to return. Unless Eve herself decided to make another reappearance and join the rest of her angelic peers.

Speaking of which…

Wandering had led you back to the center of the town, and you noticed that it lacked an angel or two… hundred.

“Where is everyone?” You asked the empty air. Not a soul stirred at your inquiry, but you stared at the cafe on your left.

The majority of cafe tables hadn’t been bussed. You peered at the plates of half-eaten pastries and teacups, noting that more than one was still full and steaming.

“There you are!”

The unmistakable voice of Emily put a stopper in your confusion. “Where have you been? I was so worried!”

The holy woman hovered before you, unable to stay still as her wings beat against the air frantically. You frowned.

“Hey Emily.” You responded slowly, your brain still picking up the inconsistencies. “Do you know where everyone is?”

The angel shook her head, staggering you as she instantly took your arm and plucked you from the ground like a flower.

“Woah! Hold on, wait a second!” You choked on your own saliva in surprise. You struggled to pry her delicate hands off of you as you were dragged through the air. “Emily! What’re you doing?”

“You have to come quickly!” Emily exclaimed.

“Let me go!” You demanded.

You gawked when she just sped up. Emily raced through the empty town center with you dangling behind her, until she had taken you out into the open air. The gate into Heaven rose above all else as you fast approached it.

—

A crowd had amassed from the city pavilion to stand and watch, aghast at the scene before them. Some cowered in their places while others edged closer to whatever was happening on the other side of the gate.

People were still floating in as Emily rocketed toward the front. You had no choice but to follow her lead, windswept hair falling in your eyes and mouth. You spat as you were planted on solid foundation again, and jostled forward by a no less overwrought Emily.

You parted your hair like curtains, expression already screwed up and twisted in anger. You looked up and over your shoulder at the angel nervously chewing on her lower lip.

“Excuse my language but what the hell is going on?” You bit out. Ugh, hair still caught on your tongue.

Emily didn’t deign to give you any answers beyond a hand raised, finger pointing ahead. Her gesture made you scoff, though you let your curiosity get the better of you.

The last thing you expected to see was a squad of angels in pastel blues and whites, brandishing technological spears at Lucifer fucking Morningstar.

“Please, everyone, there’s absolutely no need for any of this!” Lucifer’s tone was an odd mix of disarming and pacifying.

He was bowed over, arms held out in a bid for calm. It was only met with more hostility, as several of the spears pointed at him sizzled with visible electricity.

“Spare us your lies, Serpent. And be gone.” One of the aggressors spoke, sporting a remarkably deep voice despite his youthful appearance. A chorus sounded behind the creature, shouts of ‘be gone’ and ‘back to hell’ resounding until the pounding of your heart drowned it all out.

Your breath came up fast and shallow, the capacity to rationalize long gone at the sight of the Devil.

You’d just accepted the loss of him, had exposed the wound he had left behind in your soul to the open air and grieved the lesson it taught you. Death had parted you both and you had been preparing to accept it, no alternative left to contemplate.

“Lou...”

Mouth open, you tried to formulate your thoughts into words. You were coming up short, voice cracking and striped like a dying animal.

“Lucifer.”

You went ramrod straight, electricity enveloping your sight. He staggered.

“LUCIFER!”

Pain lanced through him, but Lucifer only had eyes for you. You, calling his name and racing forward to grapple with the bars of Heaven’s gate. You, beautiful and glowing and real again.

The King stood up, gripping the spear that had made contact with him only moment’s ago and throwing it off. Gabriel fell to the wayside like a swatted fly, his squad of soldiers swarming around to try and right him.

They might as well have ceased to exist as Lucifer moved toward you. Heaven ceased to exist altogether, as soon he was close enough to take your outstretched hands.

“You’re here.”

***

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shesjustanothergeek · 3 months

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Two

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author’s Note: 8.6k words, and here we are! Sorry for leaving you on that cliffhanger. xD This chapter is extra long because our dear reader’s life hangs in the balance. Will she survive? Who knows? (I do) You’ll have to find out! Thank you so much for reading! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Chapter Warnings: brief discussions of assault, Aegon losing his marbles, pseudoscience (watch me act like I know anything about medical stuff.)

The beaches of Dragonstone were home to you. The brimstone wafting into your nose and the salt clinging to your skin felt pacifying, like finally engulfing you into your bed sheets after a particularly irritating day. Digging your heels into the sand and furrowing your thick brows, you concentrated as your father spoke.

"When you are at your lowest, stand back up, and spit in the face of your enemy. They will not take pity when they see your weakness. They will kill you. Do not let them get the chance."

You strode towards him with unwavering confidence, a surge of excitement coursing through your body. Without a hint of hesitation, you tightened your grip on the practice sword as he charged towards you. With ease, you deftly parried his blow. You could have easily overwhelmed him with the sheer force of your attacks, but you held back, not wanting to expend too much energy too soon. Then, you remembered a tactic your father had taught you just the day before and decided to put it into practice. It was a bold move, but you were fearless.

Despite having yet to master the finesse of a pressure glide, you executed it precisely, causing your blade to slide across his with a high-pitched screech.

Daemon took two steps back, surprised that you still had the energy to make a move. He smirked at your ambition, seeing a bit of himself in you. He thrust his blade forward to an undefended side, but you narrowly avoided it by dodging, the blade narrowly missing the metal of your breastplate by a hair's breadth.

Your father was unrelenting in his exercises, slicing, parrying, slashing, and countering every action you took until sweat dripped onto your brow and neck. This was the ritual—a song and dance that your father was the master of and you, the student. Risks were meant to be taken in training, leaps of blind faith, hoping whichever move you decided would be your opponent's last. The uncertainty made victory all the more sweet.

Daemon was on the attack, aggressively charging forward each time you advanced. Any moment you got the upper hand, he would effectively charge beat and break your stance into something new. You pulled out every defensive measure you could recall: avoidance, beat parry, counter parry, ducking, anything you could think of. You were exhausted from the prior hours of stamina and strength training, still feeling the heavy bags of sand on your shoulders.

Soon, your shields began to crumble. Your arms trembled with exertion, sweat stinging your eyes, as Daemon pressed your sword and opened you for a line of attack. He swung his blade into your left side, the force of it punching the wind from your lungs as you attempted to right yourself in the sand. Your father took your unguarded body to his advantage as he raised his arm, bringing the pommel of his practice sword onto your temple with an ear-ringing thud.

***

The prince found himself pacing in his rooms while waiting for your return. Aegon wanted to give you the time and distance he believed you desired, but guilt still weighed on his soul like a shroud, his last moments with you replaying in his mind's eye. He fretted to the bottom of his cup and repeated the act until his pitcher of Arbor Red was empty.

The servants readied him for bed, sponging the areas where sweat accumulated throughout the day, and even then, his sanity did not ease. Aegon had not slept alone since before he could recollect; wherever he rested was occupied with a whore, and now you. It felt empty without a body. Cold on an even colder winter night as he curled into himself.

Anxiety kept him wakeful as the candles across the Red Keep were snuffed, servants finishing their late-night tasks without the disturbance of the Court. Aegon wished you would come to him eventually, that he would rouse to you, sliding underneath his luxurious woolen sheets and wrapping your arms around him, falling asleep in your soothing embrace. But he did not.

It was the hour of the wolf, and you still did not venture into his chambers.

The idea that you willingly chose isolation crossed his mind more than once, discouraging him to near tears. You may have desired seclusion, but he did not, so he departed his rooms, exiting through the passage he used many times at this hour, save there was no wish for fulfillment this time. He only wanted to know if you were all right. He would sleep on the floor if you did not want his presence in bed. He would move across the room if you did not want him so near.

Aegon would take whatever you gave, even if they were mere crumbs.

The prince finally arrived at your quarters and unlocked the painting behind which he had hidden. As he entered, his violet eyes immediately went to your bed but found no sleeping lump under the blankets. The candles had burnt down to the wick, adding to his confusion. His countenance showed a pout as he continued walking further into the room.

Perhaps you were in the Godswood? It was not uncommon to uncover you nestled within the roots of the Heart Tree, head resting against the blanched bark. But it was much too cold for that. Frost dusted the windows and sparkled on the grass. If you were out there, you would undoubtedly catch your death.

As he got closer, he noticed two glasses and a flagon of wine on your dining table and was taken aback. He couldn't help but wonder who you were sharing a drink with. Suddenly, he stumbled over an object and nearly lost his balance. Seeing a boot carelessly discarded on the ground irritated him, and he couldn't help but wonder where the other one was. It was highly unusual to see your belongings scattered about like this, especially given your maids' reputation for being so diligent.

Blood drained from the prince's face at what he saw mere steps away from your carelessly jettisoned boot. At first, it was your stockings, wrinkled and tossed aside with your small clothes, a sinking feeling in his gut. Then, your foot, blanched and lethargic, your legs barren of any coverings, and a puddle of liquid glistening around you on the stone floor.

His heart plunged, terror rising in its place as he rushed over to you, a pile of vomit and red saliva next to your crown. Aegon did not know what to do, panic and illogical thinking racing in his mind as he gathered your listless frame in his arms. He brushed the black strands of hair stuck to the dried cruor on your cheeks, roaring a feral howl of agony.

This couldn't be. This couldn't be. You were dead. You were dead, he shrieked.

No guard came rushing in to answer his cries, his sobs of injustice as he brought your forehead to his. Aegon never felt so helpless, so worthless, as he held you in his arms. The one he loved, the only person who loved him, now lifeless.

Was this divine punishment? Had his sins against the Seven finally caught up to him in the form of a dead loved one? It was what he deserved, yes, but not you. You were innocent and good. You cared for others even when they did not merit it. You instructed him to be a better man, husband, brother, and father. It should be Aegon who lay with a gaunt, emotionless expression, eyes shut to the world around him.

But then, he felt it. It was but a feather caress of your breath on his cheek. Weak, a whisper against his skin, but still there, Aegon released his hold and placed you carefully on the floor, your head lulling loosely to the side. It was as if the Heavens opened up, an angel taking pity on the poor leech and answering his silent prayers.

The prince ran faster than ever into the Keep halls, screaming for help—for someone, whether a servant or a lord, to hear his cries and save his beloved.

A guard rounded the corner, responding to his pleas, the footsteps of several others following distantly behind as Aegon babbled nonsensically to save his love's life. He did not care if they thought him mad. You were dying, clinging onto the string of life with barely a finger.

The knight quickly ran to Maester Orwyle first, alerting the slumbering man that a royal family member lay barely respiring on their chamber floor. Then, to the Lord Commander of The Kingsguard, Ser Harrold, as they hastily went to the Tower of the Hand.

They awoke Lord Hightower, who begrudgingly answered the door, aghast at the news, mind already reeling at the future. He hurriedly dressed himself into his day clothes, not overlooking to place the pin of the Hand on his left breast. Otto was genuinely alarmed at the notion that someone attempted to murder the princess, not because he worried for your safety but what the threat to your life would bring.

Rhaenyra's wrath was not a care; it was Daemon's. You were Lady Flea Bottom, yet he treated you as the favorite. Any lord or lady would learn that fact simply from how he looked at you. What gnawed at the back of his senses as he went to his daughter's room was what would happen should your father find out.

Otto Hightower was sure he would be dismissed from his position as the King's hand. Despite having carefully planned and strategized for decades, everything he had worked for would be in vain due to the death of a bastard. However, as a proud and stubborn man, Otto would not let this obstacle ruin his plans.

The Queen followed her father to your chambers, her nightgown replaced with an elegant emerald green and gold dress. Alicent nipped her fingers as she tasted the metallic tang of her essence, but she did not stop.

“We must keep this within these walls," Otto declared, his pace brisk as he gestured to Ser Harrold.

The Lord Commander abruptly broke out of his distressed musings. His forehead creased with anxiety as he glared at the Hand. "My Lord," he objected firmly, "the King and his family have an absolute right to know what has transpired here. It is my duty, and I have solemnly sworn an oath."

"You have a duty to follow the word of the King. When he is not present, you will obey my commands," Otto stated firmly, dismissing any notion of objection to his plan.

"I, too, am afraid of what will become of my husband's health should he learn of the news. The girl's father will surely complicate more things should he arrive," the Queen interjected, simmering the knight's dissent.

Truthfully, Alicent wilted at what Daemon might do to Otto once he arrived. He already had much disdain for him and was frightened at the thought that he might sentence her father to death. The Queen could recall the stories of the Rogue Prince in the Stepstones, the bloodstained, traitorous acts he committed, wearing their bones as a crown. She would not give him the benefit of the doubt. And Rhaenyra, her friend from long ago, the woman who ordered Alicent's son to be sharply questioned after her child stole his eye, would allow her uncle to do as he saw fit.

The Hand, his daughter, and the Commander of the Kingsguard entered the hall to your quarters, seeing a small gathering of servants spying on the scene. Ser Harrold ordered them away and to keep their mouth shut before anyone could instruct him to, threatening that their pay would be cut and that they would spend a sennight in the Black Cells should they refuse to listen.

The three of them pushed their way past the guards that surrounded a wailing Prince Aegon, screaming and weeping with you in his arms as the Maester attempted to examine you.

Alicent released a gasp of horror, her father groaned in disgust, and Ser Harrold muttered a 'Gods be good' under his breath. Your body was inanimate in Aegon's embrace, a mix of vomit and blood in your hair and flesh, his lips pressing into your temple as your arms hung limply at your sides.

To all others, you appeared to be dead, and the Queen wondered for a moment if her son had gone frantic with grief and convinced himself of your consciousness. Still, Maester Orwyle nodded, assuring everyone around him that you were alive, although barely.

"Her drink was spiked with poison," Aegon declared, his words thick with anguish. Orwyle glimpsed at him, perplexed about how he could be so confident, keeping steady fingers on your pulse point. "The table! The wine!" he stammered, pointing at them in distress.

Everyone turned in time to see what he said, two goblets filled with the princess's favorite Essosi wine resting on the oak table. The Maester quickly went to both drinks, observing and smelling each one to see if it could give him any indication as to what could be afflicting you. The second one he sniffed appeared as normal as the other, but the faint stench of nose urine, one people knew well in the castle, slightly wafted from it. Orwyle deeply sighed as he turned, a grim facade and gaze distraught as he spoke to the Hand.

"I fear there is nothing we can do but pray," he conveyed solemnly, Aegon's bleary vision directed to him. "At most, all I can do is give her charcoal to help absorb the poison, but I cannot guarantee the Princess will recover."

"Then fetch it!" the prince screeched at the Maester, his voice broken.

Orwyle stared at the Hand and the Queen, seeking permission from both, but each hesitated, glancing at one another as they weighed the outcomes in their mind.

"What is it?" Alicent finally questioned, her brown orbs never leaving the discarded shoes and small clothes on the floor.

"Poison Hemlock," Orwyle answered with a lowered head, "there is no antidote."

Aegon wept at the revelation, burying your face into his heart as his tears dampened the collar of his tunic. Otto's acquiescing nod was accompanied by a firm command to the Maester to fetch whatever was required to assist you. You needed to survive, as was also the Queen's wish. The Blacks would be at a significant disadvantage with one less dragon rider, but they understood Daemon would undoubtedly return with a vengeance regardless of the outcome.

It wounded Alicent to see Aegon so mournful, crying the same fat tears he did as a babe. She went to comfort him; after all, he was her son, but Aegon roughly shoved her away, bringing your listless figure closer to him.

"Stay away from her!" he sneered, lifting you in his arms and taking you to the bed. "This is your fault. You wanted her gone, and now you seem to have granted your wish."

Alicent's lips thinned, and she inhaled with muted disagreement as she ordered the rest of the guards and Ser Harrold out, swearing them to secrecy. "You know this is not what I wanted," she proclaimed, her voice pointed and somber. The consequences of this far outweigh any benefit."

Otto glanced at his daughter, a grey, golden brown eyebrow raised. He felt proud of Alicent for taking the initiative to eliminate you. However, he wished she had included him; perhaps this spectacle could have been avoided.

Aegon scoffed, reeling around to face his mother with heated regard. "You speak of her as if she is nothing but an object. You were the one who summoned her here!" he argued willfully. "To prevent the shame that I bring wherever I set foot! You are a wretched woman, mother."

A smack of skin-on-skin contact rang through your chambers, silencing everyone until they could only hear your inaudible, ragged breathing. Aegon touched his cheek where his mother struck him, noiseless outrage written on his face as he stared at her, seething.

He was used to this. This was the mother he knew, the woman who raised him with the rod to be who he was today.

"You continue to disappoint me even when there is nothing left." Alicent shook her head, her loose auburn curls swaying at her waist. "You are not the son I bore."

He had heard this line before, and it had previously caused his amethyst eyes to well with tears, but now, they only hardened him with a scathing acrimony.

"I am what you made me," he snarled, ordering Ser Harrold to enter the room as he dragged a cushioned chair to your bedside.

Alicent had no rebuttal, a rapid of insults and pleas all begging to be said aloud, but she could not move her quivering mouth. She crossed her arms as Maester Orwyle entered moments later, her chestnut orbs trained at her slippered feet. The Queen decided there was no more use in convincing Aegon of his mistakes. Her son was too far gone, sick with the illness of your inamorata. The Queen clenched her jaw, her plump lips pouting as she turned to leave, ignoring the condescending stare of her father.

Ser Criston was waiting for her when she left your chambers, striding alongside the Queen as she encircled her arms around her torso. Alicent knew who was behind this. She had seen this play out successfully before.

She did not desire Ser Harwin and his father to perish in a fire. She only wished for Rhaenyra to learn that she could not flaunt around the realm, siring bastards without consequence.

Alicent should have learned this would be the outcome. Larys was a vindictive and wicked man. His words were like an ill-made balm to a wound, soothing the compromised area only to wake the following morning with it infected and oozing with pus.

Alicent was fatigued of continuously being a piece on the board, the men in her life moving her as they pleased. The first man, her father, who was meant to care for and protect her from the world's vices, used his young daughter as a political pawn, placing her within the King's chambers under the guise of comfort. He only thought of furthering his lineage, unconcerned about how he affected those he used. Otto and Larys were the same—ambitious men who exploited others to their advantage.

As the Queen reached her door, nails picking at the dead skin of her lip, she turned to her sworn protector. They shared a long look of understanding, the Dornish man tilting his head and lowering his brown eyes. He left Alicent wordlessly, the only sound being the clank of his armor as he went to fetch the Master of Whispers.

Alicent refused to be an object wielded by men any longer. She would take her life within her own hands. In the end, she was all she had.

***

Aegon had migrated from beside your bed to in it, his arm draped across your weak frame, head resting in the crook of your neck. He would only leave your side to allow the Maester to tend to you. Orwyle stared at him blankly each time he saw the prince clinging to you but did not order him to move, for it was not his place.

Aegon assisted the maids when summoned, attached with tears in their sights. He washed the gore from your hair, blood, and saliva from your cheeks but chose to respect the older servant's request to leave the intimate areas for them. He went to protest, of course, but thought better of it, keeping the modesty of your relationship in mind. He chose the nightgown you dressed in, observing how the two women lifted your limp form, limbs moving like the ragdoll Jaehaera played with.

The younger maid gathered your feather pillows, her freckled face red with barely withheld tears as she propped them under you. The elder went to your dressing vanity, retrieving a silver brush and comb as she made her way over to your unconscious body.

Aegon oversaw her remove the pins hidden within your midnight hair, pulling the strands out of the ratted style until they hung loosely over your shoulders and onto the sheets. He realized then that he had rarely seen you with your hair free, having either styled it in tight braids that stuck to your head or pulled it partially up to keep it away from your face. Aegon wished you wore it like this more often. He couldn't help himself when he hooked an ink-like strand onto his digit, watching it drag like silk across his knuckle.

He motioned wordlessly to the older servant to give him the brush. The woman gazed skeptically but passed it nonetheless as Aegon moved behind you, resting his back against the mountain of pillows, raking the bristles through your snarled hair.

You were his little princess, though you loathed the name. He would ensure you were cared for till your last breath, and even then, he would still be at your side.

The two maids looked at Aegon with confusion, as if puzzle pieces were slowly falling into place in their minds. They finally understood why you were so arcane about the marks on your neck and bruises on your hips that Fiora and Jeyne noticed while bathing you. Although they knew you must have been involved with some lord or knight, they never suspected it would be a prince. It became clear to them why you had chosen to keep it a secret, even though you were so transparent about everything else.

Jeyne never liked Prince Aegon, especially after the drunken assault he committed on Dyana. She praised the Mother that the Queen walked in before he could fully traumatize the girl, and she was unsure if you would've continued your affairs if you had. Jeyne believed you made a terrible choice in lovers—first, Ser Dalton Greyjoy and now Prince Aegon. Prince Aemond, despite his hot temper and lack of forgiveness, would never defile a young girl. But as she and her companion observed Aegon gingerly brush the knots in your hair, concentrating on not tugging harshly, she thought that perhaps he was different now.

Jeyne recalled when the prince was a child, how he screamed and wept until the Queen gave him affection and then, as he became older, turned the longing into dangerous afflictions. Perhaps, after years of internal torment, Aegon found someone who would desire him as much as he did them.

No one was truly evil, just as no one was wholly good. Aegon was no different.

"What are your names?" the prince asked, unwavering in his movements. "You've cared for the Princess since the day she arrived, and I've yet to know them."

Fiora glanced at Jeyne wearily, searching for guidance with reddened eyes swollen from tears. She nodded to the girl, who was never without a smile and placed a calloused hand on her lower back.

"Fi-Fiora," the young maid answered with snivels. Her throat became thick again as she looked at you and gave a stiff curtsy.

"And I am Jeyne," the eldest followed willfully. Her chin remained high even as Fiora hiccuped beside her, ignoring the itch in her nose. "We also had Dyana, for a while, but her skills were better spent caring for the little prince and princess."

Aegon's gaze flickered up to Jeyne's, and she saw the recognition in his violet eyes. She wanted to clarify to the prince that she knew about his dishonorable actions against your former maid. Jeyne understood that you would be furious if you found out, and she was not afraid to speak up. The prince swallowed and quickly looked back at your shiny hair, knowing that Jeyne was not one to be silenced.

"I see," he despondently replied. His brows raised in displeasure as he continued to dote on you, ensuring no hair was unmanageable. "When in service to the royal family, loyalty is paramount. It is not only your job to ensure they have whatever they need, whether it is certain teas, oils, dresses, or food, but you also must protect them. Yet, you failed to do so."

Fiora released a throaty sob, unable to stifle her shame and agony with the palm of her hand. Jeyne bristled as she fisted the hem of her crimson skirt, quelling the snarky comments she wanted to spew.

Loyalty? What did the whore prince, who had his cock in every working woman and man in Flea Bottom, know about loyalty?

"Tis an honor to serve my lady," Jeyne bowed her head in reverence toward your expressionless facade, trying to appear impartial to his words. “I would gladly put myself in her place, die if need be, so long as the Princess was safe and well."

Her words were weighty, more sincere than the vows one took at the altar as she held her gaze firm. Aegon flicked his sullen face toward the two maids, letting them stew in the silence to see if they would waiver. When neither did, he sighed deeply through his nose, pulling the front of your dark strands behind your back as he ran his fingers through them.

"Good," the prince shook, nuzzling his nose into the rose-scented locks. "You will help me find who did this. I know the servants see everything and hear everything. The walls have ears and eyes, and you will be mine."

Fiora bobbed fiercely without a second thought, wiping away the snot that accumulated above her pink lips as Jeyne stiffly tilted her head in acquiescence. "For the Princess."

"For the Princess," Aegon repeated as he dismissed the two women.

***

Lord Larys Strong sat within the Queen's chambers, his chin resting atop his fist on the firefly of his cane as the candlelight flickered across his pale skin. The scene reminded him of a memory from long ago when the curse of Harrenhall had taken away his brother and father.

He knew why he was brought here.

Alicent scratched at her chest weakly, needing an outlet to channel her horror. Her blunt nails created red welts on the delicate skin. She did not know where to start, terrified of the mousey man who sat before her. Her instructions were explicit to Lord Larys; there was no way for him to misconstrue them. The Queen wanted you to return to your family.

"What are children but a weakness?" inquired the Lord, interrupting the young Queen's thoughts. "You may think you've cheated the darkness of its victory, but it will always persist in some form or another."

Alicent remembered these words. They haunted her every time she saw Larys, watched him stroll through the halls with discerning calm, yet she knew of the atrocities those hands committed.

"But for them you will surrender what you should not. You may know the right thing to do, but love stays the hand. Love is a downfall," the Lord swallowed, shifting his body to where the Queen stood, staring his cold and piercing eyes into her watery ones. "I said that to you once after the death of my brother and father. I do not believe you heeded my words."

"She's dying," Alicent declared, her voice wavering. "You've passed judgment once more on things you had no right to. Now, my son sits in anguish next to a girl who might not make it through the night."

Larys tilted his head to the side, wetting his lips as the Queen threatened to burst with anxiety. "My Queen made a wish," he stated with the quirk of his unruly brow, "who am I to leave it unfulfilled?"

"I," the Queen hiccuped, words stuck in her throat as she gestured to herself. "I did not wish for this. I wanted her sent back to her family."

Larys hummed, tightening his lips into a displeased yet proud line. "And so I have."

Alicent could no longer bear the sight of him, arms swiftly hugging at her sides as tears of disgust that lined her lashes began to fall. It was directed at the man before her and herself. She should've anticipated that Larys would twist her intentions to fit his agenda as he had done before, but a part of her who desired to have a connection, a true sense of trust with another person, hoped that he would not.

Despite being at the heart of Westeros's most densely populated city and in a high position of power, the Queen's life was lonely. She had no friends, no companions she felt would not betray her trust. The ladies at Court provided superficial conversations with no genuine sincerity, happy to say whatever Alicent wanted to hear that would benefit them the most.

Despite her father's betrayal, she refused to be a victim. Otto was a malicious man, but she was his cherished daughter, his only daughter. She owed him nothing for elevating Alicent to the highest position of power that a woman could ever attain.

Women were sold into marriages of lesser importance with husbands who took them by force and beat them bloody. She should be grateful.

"You have gone too far," the Queen stated, finally finding the will to speak again. "What you did to her," she turned, hand clutching her neck, her voice unable to say his atrocities out loud, "was most heinous. You defiled the princess while she was incapacitated."

Larys sighed, using his sturdy cane for support as he stood, body hunched and icy stare boring into the disheveled Queen. "As you've said, your grace, she is a bastard, too arrogant and undeserving of her place here at Court. She was born in sin. 'Tis only fitting she shall die in sin."

Alicent gasped demurely, appalled with his callousness, delicate fingers covering her raw lips as briny tears damped her cheeks. She was religious, finding comfort in the divine from a gray world filled with suffering. All beings deserve life, and Larys' complete disregard for it repulsed her. He looked down on those who endured remarkably through their love, seeing them as ignorant and impuissant compared to his genius of apathy.

And now, a young girl lay with labored breathing, assaulted and permanently scarred should she survive—another victim in the line of his detached ideology.

The Strong Lord bowed, parting with 'your grace' for his improper farewell. Alicent's wet lashes fluttered with regret, panting as she struggled to regain composure. She swallowed a lump in her throat, guilt weighing heavily over her head as she leaned on her writing table for support and stifled her wet sobs with the back of her hand.

***

If one entered your chambers, they would not be met with the usual smell of roses and lavender; instead, it would be that of a sick house—the type of scent that carried wherever those infected with illness went.

Smoke hung in the air. Different incense was placed throughout your apartments, herbs at various points to ward off spirits that ailed the soul. Maester Orwyle had created a workshop in your bedroom, tonics, salves, tinctures, and ingredients scattered throughout the different tables. Aegon stood over him impatiently, playing with his fingers as he watched the Maester create a concoction with a bag of gray dust and some thick paste.

"What is that?" the prince questioned, unable to keep the bubbling anxiety at bay.

Orwyle hummed, acknowledging that he heard Aegon as he concentrated on measuring water and slowly pouring it into the mixture. "It is a paste that will draw out the toxins. It is made of charcoal and clay," he answered, stirring the mixture in a small bowl. I must ensure I do not add too much of one ingredient, for it could diminish the efficacy."

The prince grunted. The science behind the Maester's actions was beyond him, but he trusted the man and his judgment. He would try anything. Aegon would offer up his blood if it meant you would survive.

Once Maester Orwyle finished the mixture, he took a brush, walked over to your unconscious form, and mumbled a prayer under his breath. He removed the blankets, the cold air causing your nipples to involuntarily pebble underneath the fabric of your nightdress, pulling the hem up to reveal your stomach. Aegon quickly moved the sheets to cover your modesty, uncomfortable with the notion that another man, Maester or not, would see you in your small clothes.

The Maester began to paint the charcoal and clay onto your abdomen, all the way to under the crease of your breasts. When he finished, he recited another prayer, asking Aegon to join him in hands over your fighting body.

"We pray to you, Father, Mother, Maiden, Smith, and Crone, to take pity on this innocent sinner. She has no control over the vices of men, and we pray to you to ask for the forgiveness of her sins so that she may live another day."

Aegon mirrored Orwyle, clasping his sweaty palms together as he bowed his head, eyes trained on the rise and fall of your chest.

He was never a devoted follower of the Faith, forced by Alicent tooth and nail to attend service when he was older. One of Aegon's first memories was in the Sept of Baelor, him not nearly reaching the height of his mother's waist yet as she knelt, lighting a candle to pray. He remembered watching his mother's lips move in noiseless reverence; her dark brows knitted together as he copied her, sitting on his knees, his forehead just reaching the top of the altar.

Aegon asked her then what she was praying for, his voice soft and violet eyes wide as the scent of frankincense drifted in the dim chamber. He understood now why his mother hesitated in telling him. He was too young to comprehend the troubles of adulthood, but she placated her curious tot with words and hopes for the future. That one day, she and his older sister could finally make amends and be companions once more.

"Protect your daughter as she fights this atrocity against her soul, bring the man responsible to your divine justice, and guide this lost girl into your light," Orwyle recited, brown skin laced with nervous sweat. "And to the Stranger, may you spare her one moment more from eternal sleep."

They ended the prayer with a solemn nod, the Maester pacing toward his table of supplies to make another concoction. Aegon still knelt at the side of your bed, fists clasped until his knuckles turned white as the paste on your stomach dried and hardened.

He believed there would be more time for you and him together, that you would grow old by each other's side and share the woes of life hand in hand. His existence felt like a great tragedy told of in storybooks—the kind where the hero goes through the trials of loss, pain, valor, and internal conflict only to have the love he was trying to save die in the end. It felt like Aegon's two decades of suffering were for nothing; his trials were for naught.

The prince understood, with a sullen look, that his grandfather and mother wanted you gone. He knew his grandfather would go to lengths to ensure his schemes went unobstructed, but Otto was the type of man to go about things much more delicately. The Hand played the long game, maneuvering pieces of the board without one realizing to get what he desired. Aegon did not feel he was behind this, for this was much too gauche for his proper standards.

However, his mother posed an uncertainty in his mind. She greatly desired that you leave King's Landing, and the prince was unsure how much she truly wished you gone. He did know, just as he knew the sun would rise on the morrow, that Alicent was involved in this somehow.

"My prince," Orwyle said tentatively, holding a rag and the same bowl of charcoal and clay in his wrinkled palm. "I must remove the paste from her abdomen."

Aegon nodded in understanding, peeling himself from your side, though he did not stray far. He would privately speak to his mother about this but not go to her. The Queen would have to come to him. Despite Ser Harrold stationed outside your doors, he was on edge. Aegon was frightened at the notion of the assailant returning to finish his duty and trusted no one but himself to watch over you.

Maester Orwyle turned to the prince, holding the ashy mucilage in the bowl with a brush. "This must be applied every thirty minutes or until it hardens and cracks," he explained, the necklace of the Seven Pointed Star glinting in the candlelight.

Aegon tilted his head, eyeing the bowl's contents in agreement, as he took it from his hand. "Thank you, Maester."

Orwyle sighed, gaze lowered as it flickered over to you, lips in a grim line. He felt helpless, knowing there was something more he could do, but the risks involved outweighed the benefits in his mind. There was still a chance your body could fight off the poison. Not many survived the effects of Poison Hemlock, and those who did were left with permanent symptoms, which often left them wishing for their death.

"Your grace, I feel I must tell you, not as a servant of the Crown, but as a man, a human with a living and beating heart." Aegon eyed the Maester wearily, painting your stomach gray. He inhaled deeply through his nose, bracing himself for the prince's impending reaction.

"What I am doing with her now are only superficial treatments. She needs to get rid of the poison from the inside out, but I am afraid by doing so, bile might fill her chest, from which there is no escape."

Aegon swallowed audibly, finding his mouth had become impossibly dry. "What is it?"

The Maester tucked his lips into a thin line, wringing his book-worn digits. "We will place a metal funnel with a tube of thick leather into her throat and pour a water mixture of charcoal into her stomach. It will induce vomiting, but if the princess's muscles are paralyzed, it will go into her lungs and she will suffocate."

Aegon stared at Orwyle, terror-stricken at the idea of the barbaric tactic, and ceased his actions. Shoving a tube down your throat to force vomit was pure barbarism. Indeed, a tactic of torture was used within the Black Cells to force prisoners to confess. He would not subject you to such a thing. It would not be what you desired.

"There is a chance it won't travel there, and she will survive, but I must warn you, those living with the after-effects of Poison Hemlock sometimes wish they did not," Orwyle stated in forewarning, mahogany eyes anywhere but the prince.

"Are you suggesting we just continue to pray to invisible Gods in hopes that she survives?" Aegon barked, rising from his hunched place at your side to his full height.

"No, my prince. I shall do whatever I can to ensure her survival. You'll need to inform her family of what has happened here." Aegon's stare was intense, his face firm and filled with barely hidden rage. "The Hand has ordered all ravens titled for Dragonstone barred. Gold Cloaks are placed within the rookery in the Keep, and I am unable to inform them."

The prince huffed. Of course, his grandfather would do something like this. He would not put it past his mother either that she was complicit in it. They knew what havoc it would wreak on their schemes, the ones they tried so hard to convince Aegon of since he could read. The Rogue Prince and possibly the heir to the Iron Throne arriving in the Red Keep would indeed prevent them from placing Aegon on the throne when his father passed. He did not care.

To hell with his mother and grandfather. To hell with the plans they made without Aegon's consent. To hell with the future. If you did not survive this, he would not be willing to live a life.

The prince did not thank Maester Orwyle for his knowledge, too far gone within his rage to extend the courtesy for the man who had done so much to save his love as he exited with a bow, going to his quarters for much-needed rest.

***

Aegon tended to you with the precision of a Maester, applying the charcoal remedy and wiping away your sweat as he mulled over his subsequent decisions. He trusted only his unassuming sister-wife to aid him in his efforts. When your sworn shield came to relieve Ser Harrold and urged Aegon to rest, he vehemently refused. The prince hurled a barrage of insults at the knight that had Helaena covering her ears. Her lilac eyes burned with intensity as she watched over your listless body, attempting to lose herself in her thoughts.

He shrieked with the fury of an enraged bull, belting to Ser Arryk that he would have his head, that he would geld the man and impale him on the same battlements that rested the crowns and bodies of traitors. Aegon's actions were nothing short of deranged. He would lash out at anyone who even glanced in their direction, accusing them of contributing to the decay of the life he dreamed with you.

During Aegon's bout of madness, he accused Ser Arryk of conspiring to murder his lover. He claimed the knight let the assailant inside because he could not bear his envy towards his love. Arryk was appalled by this, for he felt nothing but revulsion at your coupling.

The knight denied having any part in harming the princess, desperately beseeching a manic Aegon that he was not at his post when it occurred. He realized the error of his words when the prince became eerily silent, staring at Arryk with a heaving chest and dark eyes.

It was a moment before Aegon yowled, a brief eery quiet that seemed to halt time as he lurched forward with bared teeth and scratching nails, beating the Kingsguard senselessly. Only at the screech of a frightened Helaena did Ser Harrold intervene, prying a howling Aegon off Ser Arryk, who could not defend himself due to the prince's status.

The Commander of the Kingsguard scolded Arryk for not being at his post and failing to perform his duty, turning to Aegon and asking him what punishment for his crime would please him.

"He is to be stripped of his armor and taken to the Black Cells," the prince seethed, "where he will await his sentence until the princess wakes. 'Tis her right to decide what level of treatment this cowardice deserves, though I fear she will be kinder than me."

Harrold confidently nodded to the prince, knowing this was one of Aegon's most merciful decisions. With a deafening sound, he swiftly ripped off Ser Arryk's white cape, causing Helaena's body to shudder. The Commander forcefully yanked the ties to Arryk's armor, leaving the knight with no choice but to accept his shame.

He broke the vows he had kept steadfastly for years. Within a matter of hours, Arryk was an oathbreaker and an unwitting accomplice to your murder. He felt the unseen eyes of the Gods upon him, bearing witness to his failures and sins with curled lips. The knight was lucky that Ser Harrold took pity on him and did not parade him to the other members of the Kingsguard.

The Commander felt that the embarrassment of having a lecher wastrel prince attack Arryk in front of Princess Helaena was enough, so he continued to throw piece after piece of silver armor onto the stone floor, the metal ringing out with each drop.

Helaena could not stand the rhythmic clanging, each noise vibrating her bones as she observed your breath, attempting to dissociate inchest'shest's hypnotizing rise and fall. She thought of bringing the twins to see you. They greatly missed you, and Jaehaerys began questioning where you had been the past weeks.

Helaena was no fool. She felt it in the marrow of her bones that you and her brother made amends. The heaviness that lurked about in her mind had lifted, and her womb began to feel the effects of growing life. Foreign movements within her gut became more frequent, causing Helaena to have a hand pressed to her stomach nearly every moment, absentmindedly stroking it whenever her eyes fogged and her ears whispered words she couldn't understand.

She felt drawn to the table littered with medicinal supplies, violet orbs flicking over the different bottles and salves. She stopped at a bowl with ash-colored paint, dipping her fingertips into its contents and rubbing it with her thumb. It had no smell and was cool to the touch, liquid smooth as she curiously eyed the mixture dripping onto her wrist. Helaena felt the urge to gather more, scooping her digits down to the second knuckle in the gray paste as she turned to your bed.

Her movements were otherworldly as she carried herself across the mattress on her knees, hand positioned so as not to spill a drop. Helaena uncovered your body from the sheets and lifted the hem of your nightdress to the middle of your breasts. She straddled your thighs as she began to apply the ashy mucilage. Aegon's movements were delicate as a skilled painter, ensuring each space was covered evenly, but Helaena's were possessed, puppeteered, her arms jerking as she rubbed her palms across your abdomen.

"Hand turns loom; spools of green, spools of black. Dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread," she mumbled, smearing the paste down your torso. Helaena's words were not hers, as if something had taken control, her mind not within her body. "Beneath the boards, rats bite. The drink of fools; a sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn in flames."

Aegon abruptly turned to his sister, face etched with concerned annoyance at diverting his attention away from the humiliation of Ser Arryk. His sister was hunched in her turquoise dress, which seemed nearly splintering as her spine stretched the seams with her movements. Helaena's thoughts were incoherent, mumbles of words only she comprehended as Aegon nervously watched her smear the prescribed charcoal and clay on your stomach.

He barked for Ser Harrold to take your sworn shield to the dungeons, concern for his sister at the forefront of Aegon's mind. He approached Helaena like a frightened deer, as if she would flee into the depths of the dense green forest, never to be seen again. As the prince came closer, he noticed she was no longer applying the mucilage, her tiny, lithe fingers drawing symbols above your womb, flesh peeking between the gray. They looked familiar to Aegon, like something he saw within the misty years of a childhood he could never recall as Helaena's body swayed.

The intensity of her actions churned fear in his gut, and he worried that she was reverting to one of her states. Aegon tentatively placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and stole Helaena from her trance. She flew into a fit of rage, eyes wide, snatching his wrist with her dirtied hands as she glared into his startled eyes.

"The poison takes root in her womb, bringing peace with fire and blood," she declared, a fierce glint within her vision.

Aegon stared in bewilderment, his nostrils flaring as he fought Helaena's ironclad grip before she was again brought within her body. She recoiled into her dreamy-eyed self and released her brother, sighing as she slumped over your body.

Aegon wet his pink lips to speak, voice raw and sore from his fist of screaming, but Helaena ceased his struggle, gazed trained on the symbols painted onto your skin.

"She will grow old in love with you. I shall not," she plainly expressed, no hint of sadness in her tone. He went to protest, but his sister silenced him once more. "We never desired to marry one another and only created children out of duty. Your union to her will be of love, and the children will love her as if she bore them from her blood." Her words were wistful, never looking at her brother to see his reactions as if she already knew.

"Helaena," he interjected, reaching out to seek comfort you could not give, but she brushed him away.

"The dragon has three heads." Helaena pulled your nightgown to cover your bosom. "Aegon spent ten nights with Rhaenys for every one he spent with Visenya," his sister stated, leaning up your body to gingerly stroke the frame of your face. Her brother glared at the cryptic statement, unsure of what she meant, unexpecting the sudden history lesson of his namesake. "But you will spend every night with her."

"Helaena, I love you. You are my sister," Aegon protested as if he was being attacked by an unseen predator and needed to defend himself.

"Precisely," she responded with a faint smirk of her thin, peony lips, kissing your cheek before she nuzzled herself into the curve of your warm side.

Aegon stared at his sister in confusion, unable to discern what she was saying as he sat in the chair beside your bed. It was all too much to process at once, his mind exhausted and thoughts a maelstrom. He could not find the ability to digest all that had happened in the early morning hours. Now, it was midday, and he suddenly realized he had not slept. The empty spot beside you looked inviting, but he refused to impede on you and Helaena's space.

Observing the two of you brought a suffocating wave of guilt he had never felt before. Aegon fucked whores and spent countless nights away from his wife and felt not a shred of remorse for his actions, yet observing his sister lay next to the woman he loved pushed all the consequences he buried deep within, now festering in his soul.

Helaena was too precious to be tied to a man such as him, too good for the world she was born into, and at the realization, Aegon's nose began to burn.

"Brother, won't you come lay with us?" she asked lightly, her words slightly muffled against your skin.

The prince did not protest. He was too tired and too weak to fight anymore as he slotted himself on the other side of you, arm snaking its way across your chest. He felt at peace. All Aegon had wanted was to sleep beside the one he loved, and now that he did, he was finally at peace, intertwining her fingers with his as they locked in an understanding embrace over your slowly rising breasts.

His eyes trailed from their connected fists, gazing at the symbols that now cracked with your breaths. Aegon wracked his already mushed head for the meaning, the answer scratching at his mind when suddenly his sister's rambles finally made sense, connecting the words to the drawings.

They were not illegible scribbles of a distressed woman but were the glyphs of his ancestor's near-extinct language, a tongue only the privileged few spoke.

The word 'peace' was inscribed into the gray paste on your womb in High Valyrian, the strokes and slopes Helaena made on your skin near perfect, and at that actualization, Aegon could finally rest.

Masterlist of Series

Fun Fact: Hemlock is a broad term for various plants closely associated with each other, and they are an invasive species in North America. One plant within the family is called fool’s parsley because its leaves resemble those of the herb. You can eat a plant that looks close to the poisonous ones called Queen Anne’s Lace, and you can eat it. I wouldn’t recommend it because it’s nearly identical to the bad stuff.

P.S. Are we excited to have the return of a certain zaddy in the coming chapters?

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @prettykinkysoul, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @zillahvathek, @heavenly1927, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk, @xitsemm, @justbelljust, @qardasngan

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gaspshichat · 2 months

Text

pearl quotes !!

i write down a lot of pearl quotes and sometimes share them in her discord server. i've decided to put every single one i've gathered into one tumblr post. i will reblog the most recent addition every saturday with any new quotes that i have acquired. you can also send me quotes in my ask box or my dms on twitter [username is gaspshichat, like usual]. no guarantees that they'll be added though!

a lot of these quotes are sus and very out of context. that is part of the point! if pearl wants me to delete this, i absolutely will

[before it gets asked, karn is her bestie boyfriend]

~|•🌙•|~

pearl: before we do that let me restock my balls

pearl: ooh there's things happening on the ser- A BEACON ????

pearl: don't thank me because i didn't approve of it

pearl: i hope you guys understood what i said because i didn't

pearl: "you killed a frog?" yup! it was for science......let it be known that is a terrible excuse in real life

pearl: "do you take iron tablets?" i have them!

pearl to keralis: well you're a letdown but i don't talk about that

pearl: fix ai, make them breedable

pearl: i got the double p! please don't acronym that

pearl: "do you use slabs in terraforming?" *zooms in on a slab she used for terraforming* no

pearl: "don't sell yourself short" it's okay i'm tall

pearl: they don't bite! much..

pearl: doc owes me child support!

*long, stunned silence*

cleo: ....okay….

cleo: so keralis did the kidnapping, and you did kidnapping by proxy

pearl: ...no

pearl: it was a heart of mutton. it was creepy

cleo: it was a meat heart :D

cleo: i want to mail horrible things, like animals, to iskall

pearl: oh! that's horrid

pearl: "you charge your other mats rent?" yes

pearl: i don't know if this is lag or if my balls are just popping in really slowly

pearl: these balls ain't going away

pearl: let me move my balls aside for you

pearl: hello ♪

karn: is it me you're looking for ♪

pearl: no ♪

karn: oh :(

pearl: i don't need a big, strong man to kill me

pearl: turn down the thing you need to turn down...you know what it is

karn: i fractured the world from what i can tell

pearl: ..bruh

pearl: what does the button do?

karn: THE BUTTON SHUTS THE DOORS ON US AND SPAWNS A BUNCH OF MOBS

pearl: i pushed the button hehe

pearl: cleo made the child

false: ...the child?

pearl: yeah :D it's a bebe

pearl: "why are there beach umbrellas at the post office?" *long pause* maybe it's because of all the water?

pearl: you caught me mid construction

gem: i know >:3

pearl: he's letting his babies loose

gem: look at you up there. you're adorable *punches her*

pearl: aH-

pearl: i am greatly navigationally challenged right now

pearl: i got too comfortable with hermitcraft actually working

pearl: ah! moist!

pearl: anyway that's completely distracted me away from my really passionate rockies

pearl: we have pickles to do !!

karn: let's not sit on the balls

pearl: 🤨

karn: *holds up cat toys*

pearl: oh- *starts laughing and hides her very red face*

pearl: just shove it in

pearl: how do you know what brimstone tastes like

karn: i've lived quite the life

pearl: give it a suck

pearl: our feet are not equal

karn: why are you bringing our feet into this ??

pearl: i could give you the australian bestie word-

karn, oblivious: alright

pearl: -but it's not pg

karn, realizing: ahhh

karn: it's a mental thing, you see

pearl: oh

karn: yes, i'm mentally stuck here

pearl: i see

karn: yes, i'm in a position where i don't want to leave-

pearl: that's very intense for a friend

karn: it's just as sweet as you

pearl: don't butter me up

karn: too late!

pearl: i'm flee with extra flee

karn: you okay, my dear?

pearl: *sobbing*

pearl: did you pee in the ocean?

karn, instantly: yes

pearl: stop wasting your bullets!

karn: sorry ☹️

pearl: did you think his ass was his face ????

pearl: in what realm is a butthole a face ????

karn: *trying to explain*

pearl: babe :I

pearl: take that you stupid ass robot

karn: on the count of three. one-

pearl: *starts blasting*

pearl: stupid ass spider

pearl: a butt is clearly defined by two cheeks, a hole, and a tail!

pearl: [karn] is very special. in multiple ways

#pearlescentmoon #hc 10 #hermitcraft 10 #pearlescentmoon quotes #hermitcraft 10 quotes #hc 10 quotes #correct quotes #funny quotes #any quotes from tomorrow's video will be added onto next week's quote batch

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yeyinde · 1 year

Note

I know this would be terribly inaccurate and morally wrong, but it's taking too much space up in my brain and I can't write NSFW to save my life and I'll stop rambling and get to the point about this random hoe ass dream I had the other night about Bear (Graves).

But that table in the middle of their storage area room thing (with the cages)? Imagine getting railed on that table. Horrible consequences if you're caught, but in the moment that doesn't matter.

I didn't even really clock the morally wrong portion of this until just now—I just immediately started writing it.

Warnings: MATURE | 18+ — pseudo exhibition kink, corruption (as in, MC does everything possible to break Bear), risk-seeking behaviour; light smut Word Count: 2,2k Notes: it's been so long since I wrote smut that I kinda forgot how. alsoooooooo. it's deffo early season 2 Bear. With the beard and the unhinged madness and tragic angst. Okay? Okay.

It's a whim.

One of those terrible ideas you sometimes get—like the insatiable curiosity to know what it would feel like to snuff out an open flame between your thumb and forefinger, or lick the anode and cathode of a 9V battery just for the thrill of it. The electric hum of recklessness that surges through your veins, pitched right between the accompanying high of a short-lived adrenaline rush. An addictive sense of danger that isn't really dangerous.

It isn't enough to kill you, or cause any severe injuries—no. You're not stupid. It's just one of those passing no good, bad, and very terrible ideas that leak from that place inside your head where madness and idiocy spool.

Sometimes, it doesn't even hurt.

(But you've always liked it better when it does.)

This, then, must be that.

This, of course, being:

Bear—so austere, so stalwart—bracing his thick fingers against the back of your neck, palm so wide it swallows you whole. Clipped nails pinching your skin when he digs in tight, holding on to you as he fucks you stupid, fucks you senseless against a metal table, perfectly perched in the middle of the room like an altar.

His nails cut a scratch on your hip when he pulls you back by the bone to meet his heavy, hurried thrusts, growling low in his throat at the madness of this all. The danger. The recklessness.

Eyes oscillating between the open doorway split into three possible entry points where anyone—Chase, Trevor, Buddha, Caulder—could walk in and see, catching Bear fucking you over a table; and you—

Bent over, fingers scratching at the linoleum beneath your hands, keening desperately for more.

It's more brutal than you'd expect him to be considering where you are, where he is, but there's a weight to the way he pounds into you, a palpable sense of urgency, and need. Rapacious, you think, and wonder if it's the tantalising aspect of exhibitionism, the fear of getting caught, that brims white-hot in the balmy air between you, or if it's the setting alone that threatens to undo him.

Fucking out in the open—with a man who yelped when you tried to ride him on the bed of his stupid pickup truck under the stars; vanilla incarnate, all American apple pie left to cool on an open windowsill in the heartland—is probably as close to true trouble as a man like him, the one bent over you now, has come before. You wonder if this is his Saddam. If he scents brimstone in the air when he curls over you, staining your skin with droplets of sweat that pools down from his brow, drips off his temples.

It was that same sweat that started it all.

Anger carved canyons into his forehead, ploughing five neat, little lines through tanned skin—flushed slightly pink near his hairline, and bleeding down across the bridge of his nose, the patch of skin between his lash line and beard, undoubtedly from standing on the sun-beaten shores of Virginia Beach all morning. The sweat that beaded across his skin was patchy, drying into patches of congealed salt above his brow, but dripping down his temples in rivulets of exertion, and cutting a clear path to his jaw, where it fell, pooling like a lagoon in the dips of his collarbones.

You wanted to lick it off.

An odd thought considering the arched reprimand he was in the middle of doling out. Sharp, slurred words of can't be here, and reckless, all undercut with an air of something balmy, something hot that simmers below the surface.

His eyes flashed, cool blue to cobalt, when you lifted your shoulder in a lazy, half-hearted shrug, shirt slipping down, exposing skin to his irritated gaze, and, oh. Oh.

The scorching heat you felt wafting off of him in puffs of humid air had little to do with temperature, with anger.

The words, then, took on a new meaning.

Can't be here, can't do this here. Reckless.

And so, you leaned up on the tips of your toes, and flicked your tongue across his skin, eyes lidded and heavy as the briny tang of sweat and seawater flooded your senses.

It was surprising that he let you. That after some more growling protests about shame, and public decency, he quieted fairly quickly when you slipped your hand into his trousers, letting the heft of him fill your palm.

An incorruptible man, corrupted.

Opposites attract, you think, and then bite the notion in half when he slides in as deep as he can go, husking out a muted fuck, fuck, fuck, feels so fuckin' good into your shoulder. Opposites, maybe. But something about the way he grabs you hard enough to leave marks on your bones, drags you back into his harsh ruts, his frantic pace, makes you think something reckless, something damning, lives inside him, too.

(He never would have let you tug his trousers down over his hips, let you arch over the table for him, if he didn't, after all.)

"This is—" his breath is humid on your skin, hands spasming over your flesh. You taste clarity in his words. Cognisance bleeds into them, spilling panic, and frenzied worry over your flesh. "This is stupid. We're gonna get caught—"

He huffs, and the rough scratch of his beard skates over your skin when he mouths against the curve of your bone.

There is a moment when you think he might pull away. Where the urge, the drive, to be proper and pious, prim and good, brim up through the overwhelming dizziness of cacoëthes that spindles through your marrow, but you arch into him until you're pressed taut to his hips, full and gasping from having big Bear inside of you this deep, and tuck it back into the box it snuck out of.

There's no place for decency when he has you bent over a table where anyone can wander past and see how good you take him.

So, you push back against him, taking him in as deep as you can, and then deeper still when his hips stutter at the sudden push. It edges into too much when he's pressed flush against the soft curve of your ass, but you swallow down the whimper, and rock back on your heels, swaying against him until all you see is hazy gunmetal swimming in front of your eyes.

It's always on that uneven edge of pain with Bear—dual sensations of too much intermixed with a heady thrum of pleasure that buffers out everything. A test of your mettle. He quizzes you on the limits of your resolve when he bucks his hips, sliding inside as deeply as he can go. Eking out a place within you that you might have been untouched, undiscovered, until him.

Where his tests are physical—pushing into you as deep as he can, until you swallow him whole—you excel in destruction. The erosion of propriety. His self-control.

(He shatters so prettily in your hands, like a supernova scattering across the inky black sky.)

This, then, is his test.

And he clues into it almost as quickly as the plan formed inside your head, spooling fast and recklessly in that place that convinces you that adrenaline is your friend, and that climbing higher is always the goal. The spot inside that makes you always pick dare instead of truth.

Bear knows—knew—of your plans when you pressed your lips to his, and still let you. A quick glance to the open doorway as you slide your tongue against his. The press of his fingers on the bow of your lips, a firm admonishment not to be too loud.

You could take it as:

Don't let us get caught.

And you do. But you also hear the unsaid words murmured into your ear when he fucked you harder, hips pistoning into you as if daring you to make a sound:

Don't let this end too soon.

"You're so bad, Bear," you coo, words tangled in pleasure as the blunt head of his cock batters into that spot behind your navel that never fails to make you sing. It rises. A quick flash of heat roiling in your belly; the whine of a coil being pulled too tight. Liquid bliss in red-hot agony. "Fucking me like this. I bet you want them to see. I bet you want them to watch you fuck me, don't you?"

The hiccup in your voice belies the accusations in your words. A tremulous, teasing warble that is met with his sharp, heady groan.

"Oh, f–fuck—"

He's close. You feel him swell. Hear the rumble in chest as he loses that mechanical rhythm; a stutter of his breath, his hips. The bones in your hip ache when he digs in tight, holding you still as he pounds you with a fury unmatched by anyone else you'd ever known. He takes you like he's working out a problem. Like he's on the opposite lines of an allegiance, and is trying to fuck you stupid enough to ramble out the answers to the questions he asks. It disintegrates into madness. Desperation. His measured thrusts grow sloppy. His breaths ragged.

The implosion of his self-control is almost more euphoric than the flood of molten pleasure blooming in your core. Your release offset by the unignorable crumbling of his resolve.

"Come for me, Bear," you pant, your breath whitening the gunmetal table with plumes of condensation. "Come for me—"

His hand presses against the smooth slope of your neck, pushing your cheek into the slick table. His thick fingers spasm as he grows frantic, desperately chasing his own end in your spasming body, ready to follow you—quick and reckless—over the edge of a precipice, filled with an adrenaline-rush spiking through the pleasure.

Things just feel better when it's dangerous, after all.

Bear comes with a groan he can bare smother, pulling your hips back into his as he spends himself inside of you, the punchy grunts of a well-earned victory tumbling from his lips. The sound bounces off the condensation-slick walls, renting the air in two. His heavy breaths are magnified in the sudden absence of silence that always seems to follow a loud sound.

His misery-filled groan is muffled by the back of your crown when he tips forward, and buries his face into your hair. In his defeat, you victory. A sweet damnation that you relish as he struggles to regain footing after losing control. His brassbound resolve is still in tatters, and spilled across the back of the table he'll use tomorrow with everyone else, haunted by the images of you spread out and willing as he tries to pretend he doesn't know what it feels like to grip the end of the table and fuck you senseless in a room designed to amplify all sound.

You grin into the metal when he husks out a mangled fuck into your sweat-slicked hair. It reeks of resignation. Of a man who stood so long on the crown of propriety slinking down to the depths of hedonism and bliss. Breaking the rules feels almost as good as fucking on top of them, and your mind races with all the ways you can break him again.

And Bear, as usual, has a tap into that place inside that leaks bad ideas, and can only shake his head with a huff.

He doesn't even bother saying no.

(Caulder owes you ten bucks. It seems you can teach an old, pious seal new tricks.)

Your legs are still shaking like a newborn fawn. You feel him inside you still, and the phantom stretch of him touching places and pieces of yourself he really shouldn't makes you quiver. The ache in your thighs is the good kind, though. The lasting impression of success after obtaining exactly what you set out to do.

Climbing a mountain. Running five miles. Fucking Bear Graves in the locker room with everyone else just a breath away.

(Check, check, and check—)

He helps you into the truck, eyes sweeping over your shoulder to look for anyone else in the parking lot who might ask questions. Solid, reasonable ones like why do you stink like sex? and did you just fuck them in the locker room, Bear?

You could try and reassure him that it's empty. That no one cares. That it's all in his head.

But you like the clench of his jaw, the flash of teeth when you giggle at him. Once the high of his release comes down, anger will follow. The kind that makes him loom. He'll lecture you about safety and decorum and not to sneak into his work to fuck him—

He'll wind himself up. Get himself nice and heated. He'll see it as a question to his authority. A tremor in his self-control.

And to regain the footing he lost—

Well.

It'll be a good night for you.

"You're a bad influence," he mumbles into your jaw, words muffled by his heavy breath he buckles you in.

You count each line in his forehead as a win, and try not to preen. "You love it."

#Joe Graves #Joe Graves x Reader #Bear Graves x Reader #i hate editing my stuff and tagging things #and that is all #Bear Graves #Bear x You

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askyuuandco · 3 months

Text

Twisted Wonderland Incorrect Quotes 16

Idia's Mom: What brings you Yuu and Grim? :D Yuu: We wanted Idia to come with us to the beach! :D

Idia's Mom: Ooh! That sounds fun! >w< Idia: uh...yeah...I'm not going =-= Idia's Mom: *angry death stare* Your best buddies went out of their way to ask you in person. You're going to the beach Idia-kun. ಠ益ಠ

Idia: oh dear...(๑•́ㅿ•̀๑) --- and with that Idia goes to the beach---

Idia: =-=... Yuu: see! wasn't that fun? :D Idia: yes it was... -------------------------------------------

Young Lilia: Son! Have you been reading Heresy recently?! *slams book on the ground* Young Lilia: Unacceptable. *holds weapon* >:( Silver & Sebek: AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

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

Riddle: *picking up uno cards* WHAT IS THIS GAME DUDE!??!?!?! ARE YOU SERIOUS GIVE ME A GREEN CARD!!!! WHAT. ARE . YOU . DOING!?!? HOLY S^#$!

Yuu, Ace, & Cater: *wheezing and laughing* XD Cater: oh don't do it...oh don't do it <XD Yuu: *plays a green card* XD

Riddle: I DON'T HAVE A GREEN!!! Yuu, Ace, and Cater: HAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Riddle: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!! -----------------------------------------------------

Yuu: Gentlemen Gentlemen let's be civil about this. Let's make a deal! :D Yuu: You surrender and you don't die! How does that sound?! :D Enemy team: And how do you intend to kill us? Yuu: Oh no I can't kill you. I have no magic! :D Yuu: But my buddy can! Say hi buddy! ^u^/ Dragon Malleus: HI... :) *starts raining sending fire and brimstone on the enemy party* Enemy Team: AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! ------------------------------------------------------------------

Leona: you're not my friend. Kek. Yuu: *fake ugly crying*MAAAAAAAAAAAHAAA.... ;A; Leona: *covers his ears* Yuu: AAAAAAAHHHH!!! ;A;

Yuu: TAKE THAT BACK!!! D':<

#twisted wonderland #female prefect yuu #anon ask #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #ace trappola #cater diamond #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #idia shroud

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hrtsfrmaeris · 4 months

Text

what kind of music the agents listen to hcs

Brimstone: dad rock

Viper: i feel like she doesn't really listens to music but if she does then retro music

Omen: same with Viper but he maybe listens to jazz while knitting

Cypher: alternative

Sova: retro that he listened to with his babushka

Sage: pop. she would enjoy taylor swift

Phoenix: listens to 1D (canon, i said it)

Jett: K-POP !!! especially NewJeans and IVE

Raze: let's be real. she has the best music taste EVER. she listens to everything

Beach: Metal/rock

Reyna: Lana del Rey. look me in the eyes and tell me that she doesn't

Kj: listens to whatever Raze listens to

Skye: Clairo. there is one of clairos song on her spotify playlist by VALORANT. also feels like she would listen to indie genre

Yoru: listens to 1D with Phoenix and pretends not to like it but he actually does

Astra: i feel like her top artists would be M83, salvia palth, LAGXNA

Kay-o: doesn't listens to music

Chamber: pretends to hate Taylor Swift but lives for her music

Neon: Travis Scott, Avril Lavigne, yeat, Kendrick Lamar, ...

Fade: Rock, Alternative, Metal like Deftones, Slpiknot, Korn, MCR, Pierce the Veil

Harbor: beach wave sounds

Gekko: pop and also a big k-pop fan.

Deadlock: same with fade

Iso: also listens to everything

i re-read everything but tell me if there are any mistakes i lowkey have dyslexia

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oh-hell-help-me · 10 months

Text

July 29: National Lipstick Day

Luigi hadn’t dabbled much in makeup, but Wendy was adamant that he finds his ‘colors’.

Starting from his foray into dresses, his only experience with lipstick is the clear gloss he puts on with his more put-together outfits.

Upon learning this, however, Wendy put her foot down:

“You mean to tell me you don’t have any lipstick?!”

“Um-“ Luigi remembers tugging at his gloves nervously, unsure where exactly it became an interrogation. “I, never really brought any? And… it didn’t seem like a big deal…”

Junior, who was doodling nearby, joined Wendy on staring at him in shock. “But Mama! You would look even prettier!”

“Um…”

“Junior’s right!” His daughter is quick to grab his hand, tugging him to and out the door and -presumably- to her room. “A dress without makeup is like a suit with no tie! It’s required by fashion law!”

From there, it was a series of events that had led to Luigi putting on his favorite dress, getting the rest of the kids as a makeshift judge panel, and ‘posing’ for each color and shade imaginable.

His personal favorites where ‘Nude Beach’ and ‘Pretty in Pink’, colors that went well with his skin tone and apparently gave him a ‘naturalistic look’.

But, overall, Luigi didn’t think there would be any shades he would really like-

And then he tried ‘Written in Blood’ (what are these names).

It was a dark red, a few shades lighter than dried blood (which he knew because of kitchen related accidents), and had let his blue eyes ‘pop’.

Mostly, he liked how it made him look almost elegant- maybe even a bit alluring, for a lack of a better word.

Of course, the kids just thought of it as ‘pretty’, but he’ll take their unanimous agreement on the color being ‘his’.

And Luigi ended up with a new, if not small, collection of lipstick.

From then, he dipped into wearing lipstick every now and then, usually sticking to the natural colors for everyday use and wearing the dark red for special occasions.

(It also led to growing his collection through recommendations from Peach, Daisy, and Wendy, but it’s a story for another time.)

The first time he wore it in front of Bowser was during their fifth anniversary, eliciting a sputtering, wide-eyed reaction that had Luigi feeling particularly fluttery.

And when Bowser nervously asked if he could wear it more often?

Well, Luigi may have acquiesced for more than one reason, but the smoldering brimstone look from his husband was his biggest.

#bowuigi #NATIONAL HOLIDAY #some research has been done #but literally color swatching for two hours to test and name

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ihasnotomato · 5 months

Text

Brimstone Beach: Sunny Days

Finally got my summer piece done for what I am now calling "Brimstone Beach"! I hope to make a lot more content for it this year so I hope you look forawrd to that!

#demon #demon oc #demon girl #my art #my artwork #beach #summer #brimstone beach

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cosmichoneibeee · 1 year

Note

Hello, hope you're doing well today. I noticed requests were open so I was wondering if we could have a picnic date with the controllers? (If you don't want to do all five then at least Brimstone, Viper and Omen? They need more love I think.)

Have an awesome day regardless.

Picnic date with the controllers

Warnings: none, I guess

Reader is: GN and the scenarios are not really implying a romantic date, so it can be platonic too

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ˙·٠•●♥ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ♥●•٠

❝Astra:

You had already gone on several dates and to make something more memorable, she proposed a surprise to you.

She chose a picnic at night, in a beautiful moonlight when there is no cloud in the sky so you can see the stars.

Although Astra is super easygoing, she was just a lit bit stressed to plan everything, it had to be perfect.

Would you like her idea? What if you don't?

Harbor has to calm her down so she can see it's going to be fine.

It's a surprise date, so you didn't know what to expect...and as a result, she wouldn't let you help with anything either.

I think Astra knows how to cook mouth-watering food, and she used that skill to make your favourite foods, most likely your comfort dish that you once told her was without any pretense and she kept that information as if was something precious.

Efia keeps the memory of your face glowing with the revelation in her heart, when you went to meet her on the HQ terrace and saw a shiny towel spread out with several plates of food on top, some candles lit and even a telescope, you looked so happy and she knew she nailed it.

You ate, watched the stars - she showed you her favourite constellations, laughed with stories of your day to day and when you realized it, it was already time to say goodbye.

She walked you to the door of your dorm and as you gave her a goodbye kiss on her cheek, you promised that the next date you would plan.

❝Brimstone:

He liked to have picnics when he was younger.

Until he had to dedicate himself full time to the army and that habit was left behind.

One day you heard Kay-o talk about a picnic he and Brim had in the backyard of the white house and even though he denies he did it, it stuck in your mind

You decided to ask him out on a date, but didn't say very well how it would be, just that it would be on the beach.

When he arrived and saw you under an umbrella, on a towel, putting the snacks you had prepared....man, he felt his heart skip a beat.

He loves you so much

Enjoying the breeze and eating quietly, he felt extremely light, forgetting all the responsibilities and headaches that the Protocol gave him.

At that moment there was only the two of you in the Universe.

To be honest, you two looked like a married couple, just enjoying life's calmness

He is very grateful that you took several hours out of your day just to do something nice for him.

Maybe he dragged you to take a swim in the sea together if you don’t fear the water

And laughed nonstop because of your grumpy way about getting wet

Building several sand castles for sand Brimstone and sand [y/n] to live in.

After you had enjoyed a lot, when the sun was already setting, he decided to take you for a ride on his motorcycle.

And like a movie, your day ended on the back of your partner's motorcycle, enjoying the surroundings of the beach.

❝Harbor:

Y'all didn't know what kind of date to do until during some quick research, he liked the idea of having a picnic.

Like, really liked it.

You've never done anything like this before, it would be nice to do something so..domestic.

He looked like a puppy, begging you to come have a picnic with him

And of course you agreed, he didn't even have to ask that much.

You did everything together. From choosing the place to which snacks you would take.

But you had to take the lead in the kitchen, as his cooking skills are questionable and somewhat dangerous.

Harbor guided you through a forest in the middle of nowhere and for quite some time, which honestly, if you didn't know where you were going, would make you suspicious of being the next victim of a serial killer.

Until you arrived at your destination: on the banks of a huge waterfall, with multiple falls and crystal clear water. It felt like a scene straight out of a fantasy movie and he knew it catched your eyes.

Perhaps Harbor used his power to make it more beautiful and voluminous, but you can't say for sure how he planned it all.

With everything set up and the food laid out on the tablecloth, it didn't take long for you to eat it all - you wasted a lot of energy walking over there.

If you're not afraid of water, after the meal, Harbor would invite you for a swim, taking advantage of the very cold water to get rid of the heat (and sweat) and have the opportunity to tease you, splashing water on your face with the help of the bracelet

If you're afraid of water, he won't force you to take a dip, leaving you on the shore while he bathes for a little while, then coming back close to interact with you - something he much prefers and teasing you by giving you hugs while he’s still soaking wet.

Viper wasn't too happy to see how you ended up getting the HQ corridors wet on your way to the dorms, though.

❝Omen:

Omen doesn’t go out a lot.

He’s really self conscious about his appearance

In fact, it was very difficult to you to convince him to go on a date in first place.

It was very difficult to maintain a relationship with him in first place

So you deserve a wave of claps for this achievements

He wants to please you but it’s almost impossible to go out like normal people and that frustrates him.

So in order not to make him so uncomfortable, you preferred to have a “picnic” in your room, where no one would see you two.

It was quite…exotic, like you two. There was no basket or tablecloth, in fact, almost nothing reminded of a picnic at all other than the two of you sitting on the floor eating snacks.

Can Omen drink or eat at all?

Anyway, you really liked your choice of sandwiches, fruits, cakes and juices.

It was a quiet, intimate moment of the two of you, sharing food mostly in silence, occasionally sharing nice and funny stories and short comments about what you were going through and that just felt right, comfortable.

Omen isn't very vocal or transparent about what he's feeling, but you know he likes you and liked your idea.

If he could smile, he would be grinning from ear to ear right now, knowing that you care about him so much that you decided to have a picnic inside a closed, dimly lit room just to make him happy.

❝Viper:

Viper likes luxury, a calm and controlled environment;

Her dates are usually in extremely fancy restaurants and she always makes sure to pay for everything, you just need to be there and enjoy.

So when you suggest you'd like a picnic date, out in the middle of nature, something super simple and basic, she's horrified.

You can see the desperation in those green eyes.

She doesn't know how to execute the idea and for someone as methodical as Sabine, it's like living in a nightmare.

Brimstone decided to help with suggestions and little by little she manages to come up with a plan that would work.

It had been a while since you had any news about the date and since she didn't seem to be very excited about the idea, you assumed that she gave up

Until she takes you to a park in downtown Seattle and there it is, under a large tree, on a red and white checkered towel, a little woven basket, full of homemade foods for the two of you to enjoy.

It may not look like it, but she cooks really well and she made all the dishes herself, including the beverages, all natural.

She wasn't very excited about the idea at first, but being there with you, getting some air and eating all that..she started to like it

The smile on her face and the laugh she let out every now and then, you haven't seen her so happy in a long time. The tension of having to prepare everything just melted away and she seemed content to enjoy it with you.

You were very grateful for the effort, giving her lots of thank you kisses afterwards;

She even liked breaking the routine...and receiving your kisses so lovingly.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ˙·٠•●♥ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ♥●•٠

@ Do not copy any of my works, translate and/or post it on others websites.

#valorant #valorant x reader #valorant fanfic #astra #astra x reader #efia danso #brimstone #brimstone x reader #liam byrne #harbor #harbor x reader #varun batra #omen #omen x reader #viper #viper x reader #sabine callas

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redvolet · 1 year

Text

Valorant Headcanons - what do the agents smell like

idk why this came up to mind mind but now i feel the need to share my thoughts.

no warnings!!

Astra: idk if that’s even a thing but she smells like midnight air. like cold wind in the night idk

Breach: motor oil. he uses it for his arms or something like that

Brimstone: like a grandmas house

Chamber: french.

Cypher: i think even tho he doesn’t show his face or anything at all, he takes care of himself and smell like some fancy cologne (a woody pr powdery one maybe? idk about this)

Fade: definitely cigarettes

Gekko: honestly idk, hair dye and bobba tea

Harbor: BEACH

Jett: i think she user perfume everyday but it washes off very fast due to her fast wind abilities, still nice

Kay/o: like breach, motor oil, and metal

Killjoy: probably oil too, bc she is always creating machines and all that

Neon: sweat, she’s very athletic and is always running

Omen: probably nothing??? if anything smoke

Phoenix: he obviously takes a lot of care of himself but he is always on fire too, so good cologne and fire/ashes/smoke

Raze: she is a mechanic too so probably oil as well, and paint

Reyna: I just now she smell really good, like a really good classy perfume. like a rose one

Sage: she must smell really good too. in my mind she smells like the plant sage, or like mint

Skye: either like a farm or like a forest and flowers. Surely both, just in different scenarios

Sova: heads and shoulders shampoo

Viper: probably something toxic she works with idk, like venom. and some big brand perfume, like chanel, dior etc

Yoru: hair gel.

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fritzthehero · 4 months

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Intro

(My name is Fitz/Flesh/Pixel. I'm 26 and use He/They/It

This is a side blog for Fritz, my OC for Terraria Calamity! Fritz is 32 and uses He/They.

This is mostly to keep track of art, info and can even function as an ask blog! Do whatever you want, the world is your oyster.

This contains an oc ship between the Guide and Fritz.

Here is Fritz's ToyHouse and his Spotify Playlist!

Fritz's story is below. Have fun!

If sending asks, you can send any for AUs or any specific point in time! This blog doesn't follow a timeline. The current AUs are; Modern, Merfolk, Fallen Hero, Brimstone Sorcerer and Angel AU. There's also normal Fritz and Endgame Fritz.)

STORY:

One day, in the Land of Excitement (A Celebration Seed World), Fritz woke up on the beach with 0 idea who he was or where he was. He only remembered his name.

He went to town and passed out in front of everyone.

Andrew, the Guide, said a hero was to arrive to them that fit Fritz's description.

Fritz started out as a terrible hero. He was bad at fighting, terrified of the small things and didn't work hard during training with Andrew, who was preparing him for the journey ahead.

People lost hope in him and people began to dislike him.

Until the Eye of Cthulhu spawned on the town. Fritz challenged the Eye to defend the town and won, though was badly wounded.

Everyone started to regain their hope in him and Fritz started working harder during training. He started to get cocky as he defeated boss after boss.

Though eventually, Andrew told him he needed to make a great sacrifice to progress and that he was meant to be the sacrifice. Though due to their time training, he has grown to really love Fritz and didn't want to die, pushing aside the prophecy.

The two begin a life together until an accident involving a voodoo demon down in the underworld took place, ultimately killing Andrew and summoning the Wall of Flesh.

After that, Fritz was devastated to learn about Andrew's death, but found he left behind a Friendship Bracelet, which he wore everywhere.

Turns out, the bracelet is a summon item, and it brought back Andrew. Andrew is now a summon item (Or a squire, a minion you can guide) but is about 1 foot tall.

Despite this, Fritz is still very depressed and upset as this just made him feel worse. The air between the two is very tense.

As time goes on, Fritz kills more bosses as the cycle of violence starts to eat away at him. He is practically mad at this point, starting to view the prophecy as a curse and the heroism he must fulfill as a burden.

His depression amplifies and now he has strong suicidal ideation, but keeps going because he knows Terraria is doomed if he dies.

Eventually he fights Calamitas. It is an intense battle that Fritz didn't want Andrew to witness. Calamitas hits him with a powerful blast of Brimstone Magic but he absorbs most of it, creating a white streak in his now longer hair.

When the fight is over, Fritz lets Calamitas move into his and Andrew's home, as they had a spare room.

Calamitas decides to learn a few new spells and tries them out on the tiny Andrew, eventually turning him back to normal Andrew.

Fritz and Andrew properly reunite and they continue their relationship, but Fritz is still highly depressed and a huge mess.

Story will continue as the Calamity mod progresses.

#pinned #txt

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silverefflux · 2 years

Text

Got Your Six

Request from @elegance-and-power: Sova catching feelings with y/n who is also a protocol agent and has past military history? You can do headcanons or a story, whichever you prefer.

I got your six, fam.

Sova didn’t notice you much at first as you had different roles (I was thinking another military peep in the VP would make a great Controller)

But you both worked closely with Brimstone. He liked how you both understood his lingo and are no-nonsense people at work

You make great mission buddies. You have enough utilities to smoke off a site and have some spare to block off enemies he’s spotted without delay

You guys went hunting together a few times. You’re impressed with how well he knows the woods and the animals in it. He’s impressed that you could basically eat anything in the wild

You always wore your hair in a bun out of routine

The first time Sova saw your hair down, you were fresh out of a nap when he knocked on your room to ask for site data you borrowed from him

He didn’t expect to feel dem butterflies when he saw you looking like some Farrah Fawcett wannabe (where my bun wearers at LMAO)

“By the way, Y/N, that hair looks good on you”

“Thanks, I…didn’t do anything with it.”

For a man who values openness and honesty, he was excellent at keeping his feelings a secret from everyone

Another thing he loves about you is he knows you can keep up with his level of exercise and has the discipline to show up consistently

He happily conceded to you in a pushup battle once

He is lowkey jealous that you workout with Skye more

Months into your stint with the VP, he decided it’s confession time

He was taught all his life to bring your date somewhere classy, and that’s nowhere to be found at HQ which stressed him out

This is when he asks help from Sage in the morning to set up something romantic while he gathered flowers from the nearby forest

But Sage asks for decorating help from Neon

And Neon asks for cooking help from Jett

And Jett is always with Phoenix, so now he wants to be the one to light candles

He doesn’t set things on fire, but he was loud enough to inform the rest of the Protocol of what Sova has in store for you

Great, so now you know you have to dress up for the occasion, so you borrow a dress from Reyna

Sova comes back shocked to find that everyone knows now, but appreciates that they all got his back

Sova knocks on your door to attempt properly asking you out, feeling a little awkward knowing you have figured things out already

You reassure him by saying that you’re going and that you’re excited for later

He does a final check for the evening and is pretty satisfied with the setup. The only thing that makes him nervous is making sure nobody fools around during the actual date

Evening arrives and my golly he looks dashing in a suit + bouquet of fresh flowers in hand

He tries not to lose his composure seeing you all dolled up (no way in hell you’re wearing heels under the dress though, knowing you guys will be walking on nature and stuff)

He leads you to this beautiful candlelit table on the beach, complete with strings of lights above and awesome food

The protocol peeps who weren’t involved in the date would either pass by the HQ windows to see what’s up or just full-on watch from the building (definitely Killjoy and Cypher)

You guys had a great time together, but just when you thought it was over, turns out Breach and Raze were watching you guys through binoculars from a boat in the middle of the ocean, waiting for the time to bring in their own little fireworks display (They did well…mostly because they were excited to get their hands on a fuck ton of explosives again.)

Sova took you back to your room, and you gave him a kiss on the first date because how the hell could you not

He feels like the luckiest man in the world; thanks everyone for the help after the date while helping with cleanup

You both def got a talk from Brimstone about fraternization the next day, but you promised your relationship won’t interfere with work. Yall are lucky Brim trusts you both to do just that

You guys are essentially a chill friends-to-lovers story

#valorant x reader #valorant headcanons #valorant scenarios #valorant sova #sova valorant #sova x reader #valorant x y/n #valorant x you #sova #Valorant

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strawhatsoraya · 2 years

Note

I would like some NSFW Sanji if you're still taking requests. Lots of teasing before the good stuff. Female reader, slightly older than him with more experience under her belt (no pun intended) who doesn't understand HOW no one on this crew has seen how sexy he is and taken action to let him know...so she does.

Hello Anon! It took me a while but I have it here with meeee! I hope you like it. I love Sanji, and honestly, I don't know how everyone in his crew can keep it together around him. I certainly couldn't.

Your Name

SANJI VINSMOKE X READER | FEM! READER, SHE/HER, 3.4k wc

CW: Profanity, unprotected sex, groping, oral male receiving female giving, oral female receiving male giving, dry humping

A BADLY WRITTEN SUMMARY: The one where Sanji meets someone at the saloon, he is bad at climbing stairs, shirts get ripped, and you don't know my name'.mp3

You had your eye on him for a while now.

They had been staying on your sunny and humid island for a few weeks; patching up something on their ship and seemingly enjoying their time on the sandy beaches. Him and his crew frequented the saloon you worked at, devouring and drinking everything in sight as if bounties for their heads didn’t exist. You were impressed at their bottomless pits and their audacity, but you were more impressed by the cook’s ability to stay sober under duress.

He had a soft but commanding presence that drowned out the din of the establishment the moment he walked in. You were helpless. You had no choice but to stare. You would watch him with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth as he moved towards the table, making sure to steer the ladies of his crew in the right direction. It was unreasonable how jealous it made you every time. You could tell there was no genuine interest there between them and it baffled you how they were able to keep their hands to themselves for so long.

You hadn’t said more than a few words to each other. He probably didn’t even know your name. A sinking feeling dragged below your navel, filling you with anxiety. He could leave any day, and you still wouldn’t know the sound of your name rolling off his lips, the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin.

Desire fills you with little burning pockmarks; tiny little fires erupting everywhere. It becomes increasingly difficult to tear your eyes away from him. You are hypnotized by the way the cigarette hangs perilously on the corner of his lips; how smoke oozes and floats away from it towards the ceiling, rivulets of breath and promises. You wish to take it in–the scent of tobacco and alcohol in his mouth. You furiously clean the glasses behind the bar, anything to keep yourself from walking over right now and slamming your hand on the table.

Heart hammering in your chest, you blink rapidly, hoping it would cast out the impure thoughts running through your mind. You could picture yourself, slowly lowering yourself over him, picture yourself digging your nails into the softness of his hips. You could almost take his precum on your tongue–if you focused enough.

If you left tonight without speaking your truth, if you went to sleep tonight without feeling him move against you–you would simply perish. No fuss. No complications. Just death.

You were a woman with a high sense of self preservation. That was your excuse, as you took pitchers of beer to their table unprompted. You valued your life above all else. That was your resolve as you took the opportunity his arguing crewmates provided you and leaned forward, breasts spilling over your top. You wanted what you wanted, and always grabbed it with unwavering hands. That was your call to war as your fingers ghosted over his forearm; lingering a bit too long, a bit too hot.

“I wonder,” you murmur close to his ear. You smell smoke in his hair, feel heat kissing your skin. “Are you getting bored yet?”

His eyes meet yours and you are blown asunder; pieces of you fall from the sky–the fire and brimstone of his gaze. Bright embers splash against his cheeks, a tempting pink beckoning sweetly. His lips part and you breathe in deep, wanting to trap his sweet scent in your lungs.

He says nothing, and you feel like dying. So you grip his arm tightly, long fingernails leaving half moon marks on his skin.

“Do you need me…” he asks timidly, breath hitching in his throat. “For anything, my lady?” You hum, stalling, swallowing the dirty dialogue prompts bursting in your mind. You needed him, yes. You need him, badly, in so many ways. You nod in lieu of speaking, and release your hold on his arm. As you pull away, he is standing up, jaw tense. His heat is dizzying. Entrapped, you struggle for control, so you lead him by the wrist, fingers sizzling with frayed nerves at the touch of his skin.

He follows you like a puppy; eager and clueless. You resist the urge to laugh. You had waited this long and it had been this easy. Why had you hesitated? Fear of rejection? Fear of the unknown? You needed to know. Perhaps you’d find the answers on the inside of his cheek, or the curve of his dick.

Fortune was finicky but tonight she must have been feeling indifferent. As indecent turns of events would have it, the room you rented was just up the stairs of the building next door.

Fate accompanies you up the steps, spotting Sanji’s back, as he wobbles and falters; you reach down to grab his ass before he’s even through the door. Crimson bloomed over his pale cheeks like bushels of roses on snow; but every rose has its thorns so you resist, this time keeping your hands to yourself. There was no need to stain your hands with your own blood. After all, you were a woman with a heightened sense of self preservation. You valued your life more than anything else. At least, so you thought.

Is that why you pressed your hands at the bottom of his firm stomach, hips quickly flushing against his? Is that why your lips brushed against his chin, his jawline until they found a particularly lonesome earlobe?

Your benevolence was unparalleled. The lonely, the downtrodden needed to be saved, you thought, so you take his earlobe with every ounce of tenderness you possess and suck. He is pliable, easy, soft. His breath is yeasty and he fidgets in your embrace. You are reminded of kneading dough, shaping it against the protests of its elasticity. He moans as your tongue continues its ministrations.

His vagabond hands grasp your ass with hesitation. It feels almost impossible; a hallucination of sorts. He is aware that this is his body, dealing with the blows of your hot mouth on his neck. He is aware that this is him, his hands now moving to your breasts, where they squeeze and grip, unable to memorize just yet the softness of them.

He is aware of this, and the rest of your heat swallowing him whole, yet couldn’t bring himself to truly believe it.

So he tries to lead; a clumsy spectacle of a waltz. One step, two steps, three steps. His hands seek your face, holding it like water. His mouth collides into yours, tongue darting between lips to devour your own. He tastes your soul in your breath, your convictions against the front of your teeth; that which makes you soft on the inside of your cheek.

One step, two steps, three.

The waltz was private and intimate; a step box of a dance that ensnared you. You pushed against its walls in rebellion. Your hands are on his chest, and you summon the rest of your force to drive him backwards. He falls on the mattress with a light oomph. You are on him, a tidal wave of desire and liberation. There’s a meek sound of protest trying to move past his lips but you smother it down with your tongue, running it flat against his bottom lip. Your fingers are devious things, undoing buttons as his muscles flex and contract from stimulation under the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Please,” he says, his voice dark and hoarse. He clenches his teeth–a feeble attempt at holding back a hiss when you drag your long nails down his naked chest. “I want to–” You silence him again, taking his tongue for your own. One of your hands finds his throat and you apply enough pressure to warn him. His gaze is on your mouth before he drags it to meet your eyes.

Your breath hitches; wings flutter like pests in your chest. It repulses you, so you do the only thing you can think of: grind down on his hardened cock. He moans, fingers digging into your hips. You lean forward, press kisses against his collarbone and neck. Your hips are vicious, moving against him, chasing down all his sighs and moans.

“Your name?” he asks breathlessly. “Please. I want to know your name.”

You laugh at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation–at your hypocrisy. Minutes ago you had been drowning in your angst spurred by the idea that he may never grow to know your name and now here he was; a beggar–your name the only scraps he wanted.

So why couldn’t you just fucking give it?

You lower yourself to lay between his legs and pull down his trousers. You palm his erection through his underwear, bringing your mouth to give kisses over the cloth. He feels thick and satisfying. You are mystified. Part of you couldn’t wait to get him in your mouth. His hips buck as you move down the length of his shaft, one hand massaging his balls. You feel the precum wet through the fabric, and you squeeze at his tip gently, loving the way he whimpers and bites his lip.

He looked vulnerable, frail. It tugged at your heartstrings but you didn’t have many to begin with. You pull at his underwear, and his cock bounces out–erect and alert. You curl your tongue around the tip of it, taking in the last of his precum with a moan. You hollow your cheeks and put his full length in your mouth, slow at first, then faster. His fingers are in your hair, twitching and pulling. You feel his hips thrust against you, slamming his cock against the back of your throat. Tears collect on the corner of your eyes but you do not resist, you don’t run. You fight him head on, pulling him out with a cough and a gag to suck on his balls and take them into your mouth sloppily and noisily. He grunts, and bucks, almost as if trying to get away from you. You follow him, mouth hungry and persistent.

The throbbing between your legs is starting to become unbearable so you ease yourself back on his crotch, to grind yourself against him. You’re soaked and can’t wait to have him inside you, but you don’t want to beg; not you, but him. He moans, grips your hips. “Name,” he grunts with his jaw clenched. “Please.”

“I know yours,” you tell him instead; breath hot against your swollen and tender lips. Your hips move slowly. You enjoy the look on his face, equal parts pleasure and pain. His face is flushed, his neck and chest matching colors. He looks mortified, but unable to do anything. Is that why he held you so tightly? You lean forward to run your tongue along the shell of his ear. “My name doesn’t matter. You’re going to leave anyway.”

You swallow the bitterness, and hum at the friction of his cock against your swollen clit; a lewd prayer. You press your mouth against his ear. “Do you want to fuck me, Black Leg Sanji?” You reach down to your hip, unclasp his hand from where he was digging into your skin. You ease it forward under your skirt, push it between your heated cunt and his crotch. You move your hands, rubbing his palm against you, ensuring he feels the moisture seeping through your underwear, enough to coat his fingertips. “You see how wet you’ve made me?” Your voice is tattered; crumpling against his cheek. “Don’t you want to know what I’m like before you leave?”

His brain misfires; he’s sure. Static noise overpowers his thinking. Thoughts come flying like projectiles and his body responds before he can form a sentence. He flips you over, eager to prove himself. You consider giving in, giving up. A flash of white–a flag to surrender– crosses your mind's eye as he rips your shirt in half. You whimper at a loss. His mouth is on the swell of your breasts, leaving wet sloppy kisses. He mumbles against your skin, sweet promises that will never stick; ones he will soon forget. You close your eyes and arch your chest as he runs his tongue over the edge of your bra.

“Your name,” he says gently looking up at you through his dark blond lashes. From where you can see his tongue is everywhere–tasting, and he pulls on the bra to expose your erect nipple. You don’t answer him so he runs his tongue around the edge of it; sending goosebumps running for their lives. “Your name,” he commands again, just as gently, and he takes your nipple into his mouth for a long and noisy suck.

Your back takes off the mattress. You are embarrassed at your reaction. He was not your first–far from it. You had worked many years at the saloon. You served more pirates than you could count, and bedded more than you should have wasted your time doing so.

Then why was he so compelling? Your moan turns into a whimper as he uses his teeth to torture you deliciously; tugging and nipping at your nipple. His free hand flicked and twirled the other one between soft fingers. For a pirate his hands were dangerously delicate.

He tries to hide his nerves so his hands never stay still; never long enough to show the way they shake. He can tell from the way you kissed him, from the way your eyes burn his skin wherever they gaze–that you are a woman he may never have the chance of pleasing. Your laugh earlier had wounded his pride but he tried to swallow it; ignored it for the sake of lust. Now, more than ever, he wanted to learn your name; earn it–and he wanted you to give it willingly, along with the rest of you.

So he takes action by slipping his fingers under the elastic of your underwear. He pulls them down in one swift move before you can protest. He adjusts himself between your legs, pushing your skirt up, and placing soft thick thighs over his lean shoulders. His breath is erratic so he takes a deep breath, a weak attempt at control. He takes in your musky scent, pressing his mouth flush against your entrance. His nose presses against your clit, as he drags his tongue ever so slowly up your dripping slit. His eyes roll back at your taste, his stomach twists in pleasurable knots.

He takes sickening pleasure at the way your thighs twitch; at how you try to squeeze your legs together when he picks up the pace, tongue moving up and down. “Your name,” he says against the inside of your thigh, where he bites, and sucks hard enough to leave marks behind. He kisses over them to ask for forgiveness. “Will you tell me now?” He laps at your folds, drinking up every drop of you. He suckles on your nub, and chuckles softly when you grip his head with your thighs again. He doesn’t push your legs apart but sucks harder instead.

You find yourself letting out a yell when he inserts two fingers, quickly scissoring them inside you.

“Love,” he breathes out harshly against your puffy and sensitive cunt. “Beautiful girl, won’t you tell me your name?”

A sea of stars swim behind your eyelids. You think it impossible that he can bring you so close so quickly. Your hands claw at his hair, you grip it trying to rip him off of your clit. You scream as the orgasm hits you, and a moan continues floating in a song. He doesn’t let up, flicking his tongue against your sensitive clit.

“Tell me,” this time it’s a growl against the softness of your belly. He kisses up, all tongue and teeth until he meets the underside of one breast. He grips the other with some roughness. “Tell me your name.” He bites on the underside of your breasts. Your legs quiver, and they part to allow him in between.. He pumps his cock, hard and sensitive, tip angry and red. He slaps your cunt with it eliciting a yelp from you. Surprise makes way for arousal and you feel yourself get wetter. “I need to know your name.” You feel his tip against your entrance. He slides it in, just enough to tease you before pulling it out. You bite down on your lip, your nails are on his back, leaving marks where you squeeze him.

He rubs the tip against your folds, rubs it in circles against your clit. You whimper, and pull him in for a kiss. You give in and melt into him. You are soft in his embrace, soft against his tongue. His fingers tangle into your curls, and he hears your mumbling against his lips. He breaks the kiss enough to catch your name tumbling out of your mouth.

He repeats it against your cheek, against your temple. He says it a few more times, each time with a little more faith; like he had found a new religion.

His fingers grasp a bundle of your hair and he tugs on it, forces you to look up at his flushed face, his bruised and moistened lips, the darkness of his cravings trapped behind two eyes. He says your name like a summons; a call to arms. He presses his forehead against yours and announces: “I’m going to fuck you now.” He helps you fold your arms around his neck with one hand, the other positions his tip smeared with precum against your entrance.

He gives you a kiss so tender it provokes you to dream–tricks you into believing in impossibilities, before he slams into you; hip to hip. You cry out at the suddenness. He is kind, you think, a damn gentleman as he stills inside you for a breath or two, waiting for you to adjust.

This moment of consideration is short lived. His hips begin to move against yours at a quicker pace, wanton noises collapsing from his mouth. He is awestruck at the feel of you; you are so hot and wet he can barely function. All he can think of is getting more and more of you. He says your name against your hair as he fucks you harder, holding you tightly against him. He tilts his head as he moans, before pulling away to look down at his masterpiece in the work. He bites his lip at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your wet pussy; he loves the slickness of you, the way it coats him, and runs down your thighs.

You watch him with the last dredges of your consciousness. His flushed face, and the noises he makes affect you more than you would like to admit. He is so eager to please, so eager to taste and learn. You run your hands over his chest, flick his nipples with your fingernails and smirk at the sounds he emits.

“Do you like it?” you gasp, words paused. It becomes increasingly difficult to think the more he pounds against you. He looks at you with a hazy expression, trying to process your words. He nods slowly, two beats behind. “Aren't you glad?”

He laughs and collapses on top of you. His face is buried on the crook of your neck, he digs his fingers into your ass and lifts your hips up at an angle. He increases his pace, slamming his hips against you. You moan, as you feel his pelvis grind against your clit, feel the tip of his cock hit that spot that makes your toes curl. Your legs kick out slightly, as you feel your orgasm coming again.

“I��m gonna cum,” you cry out, and he holds you tighter. He is dismayed at how quickly he becomes undone when you clench around him. His eyes roll back and he moans your name, pushing and thrusting inside you still as he cums, ribbons of hot white cum painting your insides. The squelching noises are embarrassing and you toss your head on the pillow even as he kisses your cheeks, still inside you, still moving slowly–so slowly.

“You gave me your name,” he says, looking away from where he could see his cum slipping out from your cunt. “So I thought I should give you something in return.” He kisses you again, slow and tender. “It’s only polite.”

#sanji vinsmoke #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #sanji x reader #one piece sanji #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece smut #sanji smut #fic request #for the cummunity!

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