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osachiyo · 7 months

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can we talk about sugar daddy fyodor too?

white lace ・ fedya ─── f!reader . sugar daddy!fedya hcs (?) approx 0.7k ᘎᘏ cw n/sfw mindbreak dark content naïve!reader manipulation use of the word daddy etc (mdni)

sugar daddy!fyodor who just wants a... distraction from everything. being a genius terrorist is hard, y'know? he's human after all, and as much as he hates to admit it− everyone has certain urges they desire to fulfill, no?

sugar daddy!fyodor who gets forced by nikolai to go to a bar, "have some fun!", the magician said− only to ditch the sickly russain man after having a few drinks, making out with a 'ditzy blonde bitch' as nikolai called her, in a secluded corner of the bar.

sugar daddy!fyodor who is annoyed, frustrated even. the place smelled like sweat and sex, people messily grinding onto each other and dancing provocatively− he hated it. but then you come by, and immediately catch his eye. you're a shy girl− but he manages to strike up a conversation with you smoothly. you're a college student, struggling to juggle two side jobs to pay for your tuition fees and study at the same time. it's pitiful, really. but as you were talking, voiced slurred from the drinks he bought you− fyodor couldn't help but notice how.. attractive you were. the way your tits bounced every time you moved, or the way he could see your cleavage from his point of view.your glossy lips parting as huffed breaths escaped you− you'd make a good toy for him, really.

sugar daddy!fyodor who decides, that he would take mercy upon you. he liked you. that's why he proposed that he'd pay for your tuition fully, even take care of your other needs− you just have to do something in return for him as well. and in the midst of your drunked haze, the proposal sounded heavenly. he made you sign a contract and everything− even getting your fingerprint on it. you thought the contract was only about him taking care of your needs and you doing something in return for him. but only if you weren't drunk− if you read the paper more clearly, if only you were so naïve− you'd see it officially labels you as "fyodor dostoyevsky's property".

sugar daddy!fyodor who only grins when you ask him what you had to do in return, combing a slender hand through your hair as he tells you not to worry about it for now.

sugar daddy!fyodor who actually keeps his word, paying off your student loans fully as well as buying you everything you desire. even though you had no idea where the money was coming from, and he'd refused to tell you multiple times− you couldn't bring yourself to really care as you practically glowed in happiness, seeing your wardrobe− the multiple designer bags, designer clothes and accessories he had gifted you. it was...addicting, much like the mysterious man himself.

sugar daddy!fyodor who finally, finally indulges himself after making you believe that you're indebted to him and you owe him your life, your career− you as a whole.

sugar daddy!fyodor who buys you the most beautiful, expensive set of lingerie− the white lace complimenting your complexion with utter perfection. "you look angelic, my dear," he'd say in a honeyed tone, caressing your sides in faux affection but you miss the way his voice holds an edge to it− the way his lavender eyes now darkened to a much, much darker tone as he relishes in the way the white lace hugs your curves perfectly− accentuating all parts of your body so nicely. it made him want to rip the clothing off of you− forcefully having his way with you and leaving you a crying, debauched mess and..but he figures that's a thought for later.

sugar daddy!fyodor who takes his time unraveling your intricate lingerie, peeling off the layers with delicate but chewed up fingers as you flush and giggle at receiving his attention. he'd kiss each and every part of your body; your face, neck, collarbones, chest, god those perky tits of yours, your stomach, thighs, calves then slowly make his way between your legs, head resting against the meat of your thigh as you twitch and flutter your eyes in need. he'd purposely miss the spot where you needed him the most, only smiling at the way you don't even ask him to, just patiently waiting until he wants to fuck that pretty cunt of yours.

sugar daddy!fyodor who feels...powerful at having you under his mercy like this− all sprawled out and cunt leaking, ruining the pretty lace but you don't dare tell him to touch you, patiently waiting for him even if it makes tiny tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. this is why he chose you− you know your place and don't dare go out of your lane. so he figures he might as well give into you now.

sugar daddy!fyodor who has you fully nude underneath him, your chest heaving as he traces a finger up and down your slit, your legs struggling to stay open from his feather light but teasing touches. his finger circling your sweet little clit in a clockwise motion before switching to the other way− watching as your brows furrow and lips part to let out noises that one would only describe as sinful. but he loved it− oh so loved it how you whimpered his name with utter neediness, hips bucking up into his hand only to get pushed back down, the older man's smooth but rich voice telling you to be patient, won't you be a good girl for daddy?

sugar daddy!fyodor who'd only prepare you half-heartedly. he, too, was growing impatient while torturing you with the slight touches that he couldn't help but press a soft kiss to your clit before pulling his fingers out and quickly replacing them with his cock.

sugar daddy!fyodor who'd watch the way your pussy sucked him in, bottoming out inside of you with a wet 'pop!' he'd pick you up in his lap and lean against the headboard, breath hitched as you clenched and unclenched around him.

sugar daddy!fyodor who'd only grin smugly when you look at him through your pretty lashes in confusion. he'd only sigh and mock you for being such a dumb little girl, "silly girl. I buy you all these luxuries and I have to put in work even in the bedroom? tsk, tsk."

sugar daddy!fyodor who watches you sputter and apologize, lips jutted out to a cute little pout as you try and lift your hips, only to slam back down on his throbbing cock. your eyes would be on him the entire time− god, was he beautiful. baby hairs sticking to sweaty his forehead as he sighed out uneven breaths, a flush covering his face to the base of his neck, brows furrowed as thin lips part to let out soft moans while he tips his head back− revealing his collarbones and neck for you to press sweet kisses on, your smudged lipstick leaving stains on his milky skin.

sugar daddy!fyodor who'd watch as you hop on his dick, breaths bouncing with each move and just begging him to twist and pull your perked nipples. and he did− shaky fingers gently caressing the soft fat of your tits, ever so softly circling around your buds before landing three swift smacks on each of them− making you cry out and halt your movements, only to have him thrust up into you from below, calling you a "pathetic slut who can't even do such a simple request".

sugar daddy!fyodor who tells you to rub that little clit of yours yourself. you want him to do it? no, why should he? you're lucky he even gave you the permission to cum in the first place− don't forget you're his property, nothing more, nothing less.

sugar daddy!fyodor who agrees to stay and cuddle for the night after you're finished, even reluctantly letting you apply your ridiculously expensive skincare products on him− that he spent a hefty amount of cash on.

sugar daddy!fyodor who leaves early in the morning− but not before leaving a fat stack of money on the bedside table; a silent order for you to buy some white lacey lingerie, and of course− treat yourself with the rest.

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated ♡

a/n : THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A 400 WORD DRABBLE BUT THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I WRITE FOR FYODOR. anyway...I hoped y'all enjoyed <3

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sagatale · 1 month

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Dreams Of You

Hello everyone! So, I thought I would give posting fanfics a shot, starting with this small "blurb?" of Jacob Black. Obviously, aged up! I have been wondering quite a lot recently how imprinting would feel and be perceived since it's described as more intense than normal love. I really hope you like it, and if you have any other ideas for a longer fanfic you would like me to write next, let me know, and I might write it!<3 sexual content 18+ minors dni

“I dream of you all the time.” His voice was low, his breath brushing against your collarbones as he found a place in the crook of your neck. Warmth surrounded you, scorching skin burning through the layers of clothing, heating you until all left were cold fingertips and even colder lips. “Even when I’m awake, I still dream of you.”

The words were almost unrecognizable as his mouth pressed against your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine. His words never failed to make your heart flutter at his blatant affection for you. Never did it cease to overwhelm you, for he told you that there were truly no words that could describe how he yearned for you every minute—every second of his long, exhausting days.

Indeed, you couldn’t imagine what that was like, for if you harbored feelings in that vast amount, there could be no other way for you to deal with them than simply exploding.

Sometimes, when Jacob was perched over you, arms wound tight under your back as he hugged you close to him, strong legs helping him push into you, you could almost be sure your thoughts weren’t too far off the mark. The way his hands always seemed to handle you softly now strained against his strength, pulling you so tight against him as if having you close was the only way to keep him from eating you alive.

His pronounced brows permanently furrowed something so terribly, eyes tightly shut as sweat dripped down his skin, the salty substance dripping down your chest as his lips distracted themselves by dragging his tongue over your pulse, breathing in your scent til it consumed him whole. Strained breaths could be heard, grunts mingling with your quiet whimpers as your hands trailed over his shoulders, feeling his body tremble beneath them, shaking something so terrible.

You’d ask him if he needed a break, worry consuming you when his strong arms gave up, pressing into you more urgently as the bed rocked against the wall. Yet it turned out there wasn’t anything the matter with his stamina as he growled in protest when you tried to sit up, his heavyweight over you making your attempts futile, desperate lips finding yours as he slowed slightly, grinding into you as you moaned at the tortuous rhythm he set.

“You’re shaking, Jacob.” You’d say quietly, fingers threading through his damp hair as his hazy, warm, brown eyes found yours, once more planting his lips against yours. “I’ll be okay.” He’d mumble through the kiss, tongue caressing yours as his hand softly placed itself on your cheek, threading over your skin as if it were porcelain.

It didn’t take long for him to move inside you again, eyes glazed over as he stared into yours through lidded eyes, mouth open over your gasping one as your fingers ran through his black hair. Bringing him down to you once more, you felt the ridges and bumps of his upper body against you, muscles clenching with every thrust as if it took every willpower of his to control himself.

“God.” He panted out, releasing you to slap his hands against the mattress, gripping the sheets tightly in one hand as you heard them rip under his harsh treatment, the other hand taking hold of the headboard. The wood complained under his hard hold, crumbling as his hold tightened. Your hand found his cheek amidst the pleasure coursing through you, thumb carefully stroking the skin as you whispered his name.

It felt like every sense of reality was swept away from Jacob as his unfocused eyes fell on you, heart thumping so hard against his chest it felt like it would punch through both skin and bones. Shaking his head, he looked at you again, still finding your lidded eyes staring back at him like he had created the world you walked on.

“You’re gonna kill me,” He grunted, reveling in the feeling of your cold fingertips against his hot cheek as his stomach coiled something so terribly, making him believe he was going to go insane with desire.

In a way, he always feared being this close to you, for only being in your presence was overwhelming for him, never mind feeling your soft skin against his and hearing your pleasure-filled whimpers as he took you. Oh, how he had longed for you, how much he longed for you now, even though he was the closest to you he could ever be.

He didn’t lie when he told you he always dreamed of you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you, like you were carved into his eyelids. He never could get close enough, and while that was a curse in itself, it was a curse he wouldn’t trade for any other.

#jacob black smut #jacob black x reader #jacob black imagine #twilight x reader #twilight imagine #twilight smut #jacob black #twilight fanfiction

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muddyorbsblr · 4 months

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when the feeling sinks in

'one look and they'll know' collection masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: dating era; a few months after 'one look and they'll know'

Summary: Ragnarok wrapped up filming and now you're back in your apartment, waking up a little too alone and feeling a little too lonely. You thought that you were the only one until you heard a knock on your door.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: language; mentions of alcohol use if you squint [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: slight angst; Tomathy enters his comforting bf era; Reader's a-plus premature timing

The chipper intro of your morning alarm taunted you today as the curtains drew open, bathing your room in the light of the sunrise. You felt conflicted, laying there in your bed. On the one hand, you didn't want to get up because you knew what awaited you was nothing but a long tiresome day of unpacking and cleaning your apartment, making the place livable again after being away for the last few months on set for Ragnarok. A pile of mail to open and checks to deposit and bills to pay, along with a considerably thick layer of dust on nearly every surface of your home, were all waiting for you to get your ass up out of bed and make this place seem like a home again.

On the other hand, you didn't quite want to stay in your bed, either. It felt hauntingly empty, a loneliness creeping its way through you as the words of the song filling up the room dared to mock you.

There is no way I'm looking for a boyfriend, there is no way I'm looking for a scene

So much for your adamant intent of not wanting or needing to be with anyone but yourself. After the last few months of feeling like you were living in some modern day fairytale where the 'plain Jane' girl entered into a whirlwind romance with the actor that has literally played princes and kings, the clock finally struck midnight.

And rather than being thrust rather harshly into reality, you were shoved back into it. Face down on the ground as soon as your plane hit the tarmac.

Now you were back in the bed you left all those months ago, painfully aware of what you were missing ever since you'd stubbornly decided that you weren't cut out for relationships all those years ago. The last few months saw your steady descent into becoming spoiled with affection, waking in Tom's arms, those sinfully skilled hands roaming your body as the sunlight touched your skin.

A decadent round of lovemaking before you even left the bed when your schedules permitted it.

You felt every bit like a princess when you were with him. Or in his words, a goddess. Now you were back to being a pumpkin and you needed to pick yourself up from the path you were spiraling down headfirst before you found yourself fully admitting to sentiments you swore you'd never feel again.

He must leave a trail of heartbroken women in his wake if he treated all his flings like that, you thought to yourself ruefully, your body whining and aching in places you didn't think they could as you sat up in your bed. Before you could even think about it, you reached for your phone and typed down the sentiment in a note, keeping it in a hidden folder that you for the most part did your best to never revisit once you'd placed something in there.

"Oh how you've ruined me for everyone else but you, Thomas William Hiddleston," you spoke out loud as you typed down the note, locking it away in a folder deep in your drive. You hoped that with putting away the note, the sentiment would be buried deep down as well.

You put your hair up in a bun, pulling on an old shirt and some sweats from your college days and started cleaning away at the house, putting your clothes from the set straight into the wash. The faintest scent of his cologne hit you as you tossed it into the washer, taking you straight back to your memory of one of the last times you saw each other, at the wrap party.

You stood at a little table with Bryan and Denise, nursing a strawberry lemonade with a splash of vodka, wincing the slightest bit whenever the liquor made its presence felt in the taste. "I said a splash," you grumbled, placing the drink atop the tray of the wait staff collecting drinks was holding. "Damn thing's probably fifty percent vodka."

"Hey hey there you three are!" Taika greeted you, pulling you all into a little group hug. "Making this has been a dream and a half, and I owe you and your team so much thanks, lil mayhem. I'm definitely calling you again when we start on the next one."

"Ooh, so Marvel's definitely getting you again, then, boss?" Denise quipped, excitement and a bit of alcohol reddening her cheeks and making her the comical picture of cherubic inebriation.

He shook his head with a wide smile that left you confused. "No," he answered her. "But a bit of positive thinking never hurt anyone, am I right?"

The song blaring on the speakers changed to a familiar beat from Zedd, your teammates and Taika all dragging you out into the dance floor with them as the words began to hit you like a freight train.

You are the piece of me I wish I didn't need

Instead of dwelling on the lyrics, you forced yourself to move your body to the beat, finding yourself even having fun despite the glimpses you'd caught of various members of the crew along with some members of the press openly flirting with Tom. Despite your words to him this morning, the sight of him still visibly moving forward so easily felt like a stab to the heart.

"Something about all good things ending eventually," your memories taunted you. "Thank you for giving me a good thing."

The song faded out to give way to the acoustic notes of that James Arthur song that you'd been hearing all over Spotify, and just as you were about to take your leave from the dance floor, you were spun into a familiar pair of arms. Suddenly the very eyes that you'd been trying to block out from your mind were staring down at you, a soft smile gracing those heartbreakingly handsome features.

Tom wrapped his arm around your waist, keeping you in a secure hold as he ran the backs of his fingers along your cheek with his free hand. "May I have this dance, goddess?" He broke out into a brilliant blinding grin when you mutely nodded your head, placing your hand on his shoulder as he began to sway you to the beat of the song.

"You should know right now that I can't dance like this to save my life," you told him, unable to fight back the smile that stretched across your face as you looked at him.

"Neither can I," he answered you with a chuckle, a tenderness in his eyes that had you struggling to stay upright had he not been holding you up. "Perhaps we could find our way together."

The seething piercing gazes of the women around you began to steer your thoughts down a rather self-conscious route, the bitter scrutiny in their eyes as they looked at your simple navy blue skater dress that you got on sale back home. Meanwhile their clothes screamed designer; even if some of them might have to be extra careful tonight so that they could successfully return them with tags intact, at the moment all that mattered to them was that they were dressed better than you…and yet somehow you were the one dancing with the most handsome man in the room.

Their faces screamed with the incredulous question "Why her? She's nothing special."

"You know I don't think it's expressly polite for you to ignore all the other pretty girls in this party," you mumbled, butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach as his gaze never left yours. As if he didn't even care about anyone else watching you. "They're practically shaking from itching to dance with you."

"They'll be left itching and wanting, then," he shot back, both of your breaking into a fit of chuckles from the thought. "And as for beautiful women…" He tilted your chin up to hold your gaze. "There's only one that I care about. And she's already in my arms."

"Smooth talking way too handsome for his own fucking good living breathing Disney Prince," you grumbled as you started your first load of laundry. You dragged your feet to the supply closet to grab a bunch of cleaning rags and start at your living room, feeling a slight satisfaction watching as the dust made its way off the various surfaces and you could finally start to see your home once again.

When night began to fall and you had to start turning on the lights throughout your apartment just so you could see and make your way around without bumping into any corners, you decided to order in some dinner. Mostly because your stomach was beginning to sound like a baby gremlin.

You were just about to press 'Order Now' on your screen when your doorbell rang. "Okay if that's my delivery they better not be charging me extra for psychic services, I haven't even pressed the damn button yet," you muttered, immediately feeling like you swallowed your tongue the second you opened the door.

It wasn't Postmates.

"Tom?" The air left your lungs as you uttered his name, refusing to believe what your eyes were seeing. Meanwhile the very same man with the oceanic eyes and god-like face and body that you were trying to block out of your mind was standing not even two feet in front of you, wearing the same smile that he had on his face like he just ran five laps around the studio.

His grin got wider as he breathed your name, running his gaze down your face and what parts of your body weren't covered by the door.

"What--What're you uhh…doing here?"

He became a bit sheepish, running his hand through his short dark blond curls, tilting his head down before looking at you with the most endearing boyish expression. "I erm…If I'm being completely honest I'm here because I wanted to see you." His gaze darted to beyond your door before landing on your face again. "May I come in?"

You immediately snapped out of your stupor, feeling a complete fool for forgetting your manners. "Oh! Uhh of course." You opened your door wider to let him step through, suddenly feeling rather inadequate in your own home, feeling like your college sweats didn't measure up to his no doubt designer threads. "Sorry for the mess," you mumbled, waving your hand in the direction of the insides of your house, then at yourself. "I was cleaning up since I haven't been home in months and I wasn't expecting company--"

Any lame apology for the frumpy way you looked died in a muffled squeak at the back of your throat when Tom pulled you into his arms and laid his lips on yours. You could practically feel yourself melting more and more into his embrace with every brush of his lips.

"I've missed you, goddess," he sighed into your skin. "Last night I went to bed alone and it felt so…empty." He continued to press tender kisses to your cheek, working his way up to your forehead. "So I hopped on the next flight here. To you. I just needed to see you again."

You could feel a lump at your throat from processing his words, the backs of your eyes prickling with tears from realizing that he felt the same way you did when you woke up this morning. "I know the feeling," you managed to choke out as he kissed his way back to your lips. "I uhh…I was just about to order dinner. If you're willing to wait about…an hour? You could uhm…join me? I mean if you don't already have--"

He kissed you again, cutting you off from rambling yourself into an embarrassing grave. He probably had prettier girls ask him out way better than you just did. "You've been exerting yourself all day, you should rest. How about I go and pick something up for us, and you just focus on unwinding and relaxing from the day you had?"

A warmth spread all over your body as he held you, nuzzling your noses together as he ran his fingers up and down the length of your spine. It had you feeling so content that every part of you wanted nothing more than to ignore the panic settling deep inside you that you were feeling too comfortable around him, something you swore to never be around any man ever since you vowed to stick to one so far undisputed belief in your life.

The most blissful moments have the most catastrophic ends.

And at this moment you felt a little too much of that bliss.

"I'd like that," you breathed out, unable to help the way your mouth stretched into a way too contented grin as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, touching his nose to yours again before he headed for the door.

"I'll be half an hour tops," he said softly, looking over you again with that all too soft gaze. "Do what you need to wrap up for the day and unwind. I'll call you when I'm nearly home--I mean, when I'm nearly here."

You couldn't speak through the lump in your throat, your heart doing backflips in your chest from his slip of the tongue. All you could do was give him a smile, waving him off. You couldn't even tell if your sentiment for him to be careful out there was audible enough to reach him.

Home. You didn't hear him wrong. He called your apartment home.

By the time you finished with your shower, the timer you set for 27 minutes was still a few minutes out from ringing, giving you just enough time to slather on some lotion and spritz on some perfume, considering that the flight along with the amount of cleaning you just did today had you feeling far from fresh. Even after the hot shower.

And also the fact that the embodiment of the phrase 'sex on legs' was on his way back to you with dinner.

By the time his name was flashing on your screen, you were already at your kitchen counter, sorting out your mail from the last few months, already writing your todo list for the next morning involving a trip to the bank to cash in some checks that came in. You had the naughty little thought of writing "Tom" as an item on that list, but ultimately decided against it.

"I'm not optimistic, let alone presumptuous," you grumbled, putting the pen away when you heard the doorbell ring again. What greeted you on the other side was Tom beaming at you with hands full of bags, already putting your naughtier thoughts front and center and on hyperdrive with how his muscles bulged under his sweater from the weight of them.

"Wasn't sure what drink you'd prefer," he said in an exhale as he put the bags down, taking out bottles as he listed them off to you. "So I got us a bit of a selection. Some sparkling water…some soda…and just in case…" He let out a bit of a chuckle before pulling out the last bottle, getting a giggle out of you as well the second you eyed the bold serif letters and the star on the gold label. "Champagne."

You started moving towards the cupboard where you stored your glasses when he crossed the distance between you two, placing his hands on your waist to stop you. "What're you--"

"I figured with the day you've had, you wouldn't want to do a single second of clean up so…" He darted over to the other side of the counter again, pulling out a small pack of paper cups. "I got these."

Oh dear fuck, he actually thought of everything, you internally swooned, indulging yourself in basking in another blissful moment that he'd somehow known to give you after being here for less than an hour.

"Also…" He reached into a bag that made a clinking sound when he set it down, pulling out a small vase that held three deep red carnations. "I got these for you. I know you're not one for those big garish arrangements, so I thought you might like these. They might go well in the living area, by your sofa, or also here--"

"They're perfect," you blurted out, not even bothering to hold back the smile that took over your face. You're perfect. I love you.

He stilled in his movements, looking at you with wide, shining, puppy-like eyes. "What did you say?" he breathed out, slowly starting to make his way to you.

Shit did I say that out loud?! "What? I didn't--I didn't say--" You couldn't breathe. Did you actually say those words out loud? Your knees felt weak. You clung to the countertop to stand upright, bracing yourself for the usual spiel.

You're a whole smoke show and all but I hope you didn't get the wrong idea. This was just for fun, where did that come from, sweet thing? I like you and all that, but I wanna keep this a bit more open, you know? We're young and I don't think I wanna tie myself down to just you.

Knowing Tom, he'd probably say something that stung less in the moment but when you actually took a second to let it sink in…the devastation would be on another level. He'd break you. And all you could do was brace for impact.

Once he'd crossed the distance between you two, he framed your face in his hands, those wide puppy-like eyes now seeing the sheer panic in yours, his expression betraying your expectations. He wasn't looking at you with a condescension and smugness that screamed of someone stroking his ego getting a girl to blurt out that cursed sentiment at a ridiculously early point in the relationship.

And saying it first, too.

But instead he looked at you with an increasing concern as your vision began to blur from the tears in your eyes. He pressed kisses up and down the side of your face, guiding you through your breathing so that you'd stop hyperventilating like the air was too thin to breathe in properly. "Oh, sweet goddess," he sighed against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "You weren't quite ready to say those words yet, were you?"

"I didn't say anything," you whimpered lamely, making him lean away to get a look at you, wiping away the tears that threatened to fall from your eyes.

"Alright, it's alright," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your lips. "You're not quite ready to hear those words yet, either. That's alright." He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace that deceptively felt too much like home, kissing the top of your head.

It took a good few moments before you could bring yourself to return his embrace, hearing a sound of relief from him when you finally did. "I'm sorry it's just--I'm not--"

"Shhh shhh, there's no need for apologies," he whispered into your hair. "I just want you to know something." He tucked his hand under your chin, tilting your head and kissing you again before continuing. "I want you to know how that I am already beyond happy that you share your time and your body with me, and I'll never take that for granted. And if the day ever comes that you wish to give me your heart, I want you to know that it will be safe with me. Because those words that you didn't say earlier? I feel the same way."

The violent fluttering in your stomach was back. "Tom, I--"

"When you're ready, and only when you're ready, I'll be here. I'll always be here." He pressed his forehead to yours, brushing his nose across yours. "We don't have to talk about it."

You eyed him with incredulity. How could you both just go on pretending that you didn't just stupidly blurt out those words? How could he be okay with that?

"Right now I am more than happy to simply spend the night having a lovely dinner with my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" you repeated, breathless. After the level of batshit that was the last few minutes, he wanted to keep this going?

"Only if you wish to be," he said in a rush, bewildering you when you saw a similar type of panic enter his eyes. "I'd--I'd be fine if you don't want to put a label yet I just…" He sighed, pressing another soft kiss to your lips before tightening his arms around you. "I didn't want what we started to end just because we stopped working together."

"I…" Your words caught in your throat, finding it near impossible to even form anything coherent while he continued to press kisses to your cheek and temple. "I haven't been anyone's girlfriend in so long," you said in a rush. "And the last time, it--it burned me."

That last time scarred you so badly you began to see the appeal of the 'eternal bachelorette' lifestyle. Because much as it was so tempting to get lost in the feeling of being pursued and courted, you knew the downfall when eventually they would grow complacent. When they started seeing you as something 'routine'.

When they want the thrill of the chase again, mixed in with the thrill of betrayal.

You barely had anything left in you to even attempt going into that adventure one more time. And yet you already knew that you were going to. For him.

Because you loved him. You even said it yourself with your a-plus timing that was so premature that teenage boys would be embarrassed for you.

"The last thing I would ever want is to hurt you," he whispered, his breath warming your face as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "All I want at this moment is to know that tomorrow morning I wake up holding you again."

You could hear how every single voice that gave you a reason to not take another chance on him fade away into a dull murmur in the back of your head. His eyes shone with all the barely-there restraint, as if he had more words ready. As if he was trying to stop himself from pleading his case to you.

One last shot, you could hear the tired voice in you give in. If this goes down the drain, I don't ever wanna try again. I won't have enough heart to break if he ever decides he's done with me.

"Girlfriend," you tested the word, his breath hitching when he heard you say it. "I kinda like the sound of that."

Getting used to a new timezone wasn't quite something that got easier with time, which was how Tom ended up waking earlier than intended, warm contentment washing over him once he felt you in his arms. He shuffled closer to you, stifling any sound that might come out of him when you met him halfway, your naked body pressing against his own and letting out a little contented sigh when skin met skin.

He still couldn't quite believe what happened last night, remembering the way his heart jumped in his chest when he heard the whispered words from you. It wasn't his imagination or his daydreams getting the better of him, you said them. I love you. And he wanted nothing more than anything to scoop you up into his arms and say the words back.

But the panic in your eyes once you realized what you'd said tore at him and stopped him from doing just about anything. There was a hurt that painted your face last night as if you were bracing for impact. Like you were just preparing yourself for incoming pain. And the realization that you weren't ready to say the words or maybe even hear them had him pushing the words back down his throat with every ounce of strength he had.

The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt you. The second to last was to scare you off.

Until that day came he would cling to the little things, find ways to show you his affections if hearing them wasn't quite yet an option. For now he was more than happy knowing that your relationship was far from over; in fact, it was safe to say that it was just beginning.

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, kissing a trail up to your ear and smiling against your skin at the little whimpers and moans that escaped you with every kiss. "Good morning, goddess," he whispered, pressing a kiss below your ear when you stirred in his arms.

"Hmmph…mooring," you slurred, stirring in his arms, your voice still rather thick with sleep.

"I'm going to go out and see what I can get us for breakfast. Any special orders? Cravings?"

It took a few seconds before he could make complete sense of what you murmured, your words jumbled together. "French toast and bacon, please."

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, his heart skipping a beat when he felt your cheek rise in a smile against his lips. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I'll wake you when I'm home." There it was again. That slip of the tongue that had him grinning ear to ear whenever he said it.

Home. It wasn't a hotel room in a hotel room in Sydney. Or Atlanta. It wasn't his house back in London. Or his mum's.

It wasn't even here, in an apartment in Los Angeles.

It was you.

He could be camping out in the depths of the woods folding himself into a tent, but if he was sharing that tent with you, then he was home.

And if his realization already had his heart behaving erratically, your next words had it going on overdrive. "Okay, be careful. I love you."

He waved a hand in front of your face. No reaction. Your guards weren't fully up because you were barely even half-awake. He decided to go for it, hoping that somehow even through your sleep-laden mind, his message would reach you.

"I love you, too."

A/N: In hindsight, if I knew that this was gonna turn into a whole series/collection, I would've named it better 😂 Anyways, welcome to the first 'chapter' in the 'said it first' arc! We've seen these two blorbos in their happy in love era with the Soccer Aid Chronicles as well as their Kinktober shot, but we haven't ever really seen anything from them that resembled angst…Well that's because that era went down early on in their relationship. Like in the first few months early on, and it really stems from Reader and her baggage making it a whole ass journey to say "I love you" without wanting to curl up in a hole she buried for herself.

This arc will have 5 entries…at least that's what my notes said, but let's see where my writer brain takes us 😂

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover

#tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x female reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston imagine #muddyorbs writes

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swordcreature · 5 months

Note

How do you think Dammon feels about dry humping? It can be fully clothed or in just undergarments. Both is good. I wonder if he would prefer to have you on top or bottom. Guess it would depend on both of your moods. I'm just happy as long as he is lol. - 💙

oooohohohoh anon

ohhhhh anon. the thought of Dammon doing a little grinding has me frothing at the mouth. i'm over here chewing at the bars on my cage thinkin' about this. so ty hehehehe

i'm going to just call this one a drabble because it's short and to the point. i just wanted to get my thoughts out without a bulleted list this time lol

Dammon - Dry Humping

sexual content MDNI/18+

Dammon’s a tease. At the tavern, you sit on his lap, his arms affectionately wrapped around you in a sweet gesture. It's comforting. But then he readjusts you under the guise of his leg falling asleep.

Except it just so happens that when he moves you like that, gripping your hips and pulling you tighter against him, you brush right over his already half-hard cock.

He’s picked this place for a reason. Everyone is too drunk to notice how often his hands are on you, pushing you over his lap, pressing you against his erection. The sneaky devil even cants his hips upwards occasionally, meeting your bottom halfway for more friction. It's torturous.

People definitely notice that you're very eager to leave the pub, though.

Walking home, he's relentless. Every couple of steps he pulls you into him by the hand for a deep kiss. Onlookers think it's cute, two tipsy lovers sharing a quick embrace.

They don't notice the way his hands slide to your back, though, urging you forward until he can grind his cock against you. It's long and hot beneath his trousers, and you buck forward to chase the feeling of it. But he backs away with a cocky grin on his face.

At some point Dammon stops pulling away to tease you, instead pressing into you again and again until you're practically indecent in the streets. It's by the grace of some god that you make it home without pulling him into an alley to quell the fire he's stoked in you.

The steps to the forge couldn't've come soon enough.

Then you're both down to just your smallclothes: thin linen separating your heat from the solid shape of his cock. It's nearly obscene how well you can feel him through the fabric, every ridge and vein delicious against you.

He starts with you on top, lying flat on his back with your hips straddling him. The hands gripping at your sides are steel vices, moving you as though you weigh nothing, forcing you down to meet his thrusting hips. Every movement leaves your core wet with want.

You can see his own arousal pooling down the front of his briefs as well - he's getting off to the sight of you on top of him just as much as he is the feeling.

He claws at your ass, his hands squeezing the plush skin almost painfully as he spreads you over him, cock seated perfectly under you.

You ride his hips, the wiry muscles of his thighs straining as he lifts you in the air with a forceful buck. It leaves you helpless to do much else but circle your core against him, grinding down with as much contact as you can manage.

Sweat beads at his brow as he lays still for a moment, breathless. And then suddenly he flips you over, too worked up to wait any longer. His sharp claws practically tear at your smalls until you’re bare beneath him. When he’s discarded his last layer too, he climbs over you, ready to feel you without all those clothes in the way.

#bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 dammon #dammon #dammon x reader #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #requests/suggestions #anon

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rebelfell · 5 months

Text

When it storms like this all I can think about is driving somewhere with Eddie, like for a big group trip or something. Except you and he had to leave later than everyone else, so you’re stuck riding in his van and pissed ‘cos he’s so annoying and his music is so loud and he drives like a maniac.

And all the two of you do is bicker—over snacks, over music, over directions. You give him shit about the girls he “dates” and he gives you shit about the dudes who you can’t seem to get to stick around. You punch his arm so much it starts to bruise but he kinda doesn’t give a shit cos you’re actually kind of cute when you get mad…

And then when you’re like hours from home, but still a ways away from your destination, you drive into this bonkers rainstorm and it’s impossible to see and his windshield wipers are going at full speed, but not doing anything.

And as if that’s not bad enough, the van starts to make some horrible sound and Eddie has to pull over. And he tries to look under the hood, but it’s fucking dark as shit and you’re legit in the middle of a monsoon—wind whipping his hair in his face, rain soaking through every layer of clothing he’s got on. And you’re yelling at him out the window trying to figure out what’s going on, but neither of you can hear over the wind and the rain.

So you get out to try and help and that just sends him over the edge—What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get back in there, it’s not safe! You could be hit by a truck or something!

And you just yell back that you haven’t seen another car on the road for hours because of course he wanted to leave as late as possible to avoid traffic and now you’re stranded on the side of the road at fucking midnight. And seriously?? He cannot believe you’re having this conversation now in the middle of the storm of the century.

So you climb back into the van, both soaked to the bone, both dripping with water, him spraying you with more when he ruffles his wet hair.

And like…luckily you have your bags that you packed for the trip and some extra blankets and pillows in case the ones at the cabin are shitty. So you kneel back to back in the rear and change into some dry sweats to sleep in, tugging them on over dampened skin. And you don’t look—not on purpose anyway. But yeah, you catch a glimpse of his bare back that tapers down to his narrow waist and his slutty, twisty hips that make you wonder if all those rumors you’ve heard about the freak are at all founded in reality.

And the storm just keeps going, the sound of it pounding on the roof of the van almost deafening.

And now it’s getting colder and you’re starting to shiver and the wind starts rocking the van and it’s not that you’re scared you just don’t like storms, okay? Is that so strange? And when a particularly loud boom of thunder rattles the van, it makes you jump and lands you in Eddie’s arms.

And Eddie finally breaks, coiling his arms around you tighter as you hunker down into the little nest of blankets you’ve made. Cos if given the choice between freezing his ass off and cuddling you…

It’s really not that difficult of a decision.

#it’s raining and I’m writing about it raining will wonders never cease #free write #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction

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legend-the-dumb-jock · 6 months

Note

I'm so stressed about the future and growing older. I'm worried about how I'll be able to stay a twink, I already need to shave everyday and it's getting harder to stay thin. Got anything that can help me face my fears of becoming a big old hairy bear?

Honestly if you’re having to shave every day. I’m jealous. It just means the curse is becoming stronger. And it’s only to get worse from here on out. You wake up and look down and yell I horror. You shaved your body. Before you went to bed the night before and looking down now you see that you’re covered in a dense rug once again. What’s worse is it seems like the hair is getting thicker.

This has to be some sick joke you think to yourself. It just has to be ! You’re supposed to be a twink! Not some hairy bear !! But this is happening all too fast now and you’re running out of razors! You scramble to the bathroom and you find your last razor. Thank god. Relieved you turned your buzzers on and shaved down the fluff once again. When it’s buzzed you take the razor and shave down. Looking in the mirror you’re relieved to see that you’re once again hairless. But for how long. How long is this going to last. Just last night you did this same thing. And that’s when you see it. In the mirror. On your face. You get up close to the mirror. Are you seeing things!! You can see the hair pushing its way out of your chin!! Backing away slowly you can see the 5 o clock shadow forming. You get dressed quickly and find that your clothes are tighter than before. You have to run to the sore down the street and get some more razors! This is going to make you go broke for sure!

But the time you check out. Get back to your apartment. Strip down you are shocked. Not only are you costed in hair. But your slim frame. It’s. Fading.

Yours abs see no longer there to be seen hidden under a layer of day and hair. And the hair only seems to be getting thicker. You try to shave it down again but this time your buzzer can’t get through the tangled mess. You scream as your body is so itchy now and you just seem to be getting hairier. “Please no! I’m a twink!!” You scream not wanting any of this to happen. When you asked for something to help you face your fears you didn’t mean this !

Your stomach lurches forward as its mats itself in more hair. Hair continues to wrap itself around your shoulders and down your arms. All the bay down to your toes that seem to be getting fatter. “Please make this stop!!” Your back begins to widen and you done even realize that you back is getting coated in hair just as thick as the front of your body.

Hair begins to spill from the waistband of your shorts as more hair is forming on your hairy body. Hair that youlll never be able to shave off ever again. And you’re starting to sweat. It rolls down your back and into the crack of butt making it sweaty and swampy. Your Bo kicks into high gear and now everyone will be able to tell you are around. No longer smelling like a round twink but thah of an old hairy bear. One that reeks of masculinity and sweat.

But that can’t be all that happens. You specially mentioned that you wanted to face your fears of being old. Well I already made you a bear. I made a big bear of a man. Now your body will get large. Muscle growing harder. Your gut sticking out more and you’re being hard as a rock and your hard will fall out. Your body hair thicker as your feet begin to stretch. Your body begins to ache as new pains of old age set in. Your back hurts from having to hold a keg up all the time. Your knees hurts from the weight they carry and so does your swollen ankles. That thick beard you aren’t able to shave turns white as your skins ages and sags. Soon your spitting image of a 58 year old man. A large hairy bear of a man. Holding mirror you scream but you can to anything to stop it. You have been forced to become your worst fear. And your twink life is all but long forgotten now.

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drurrito · 6 months

Text

welp, can't think of a title

---------

"Anything yet?" you say into your comms.

"Nothing, just hang tight and move when I say so," Steve responds.

You look over at the point of interest, it's a compound completely surrounded by high metal walls. There's a few other pairs of your team scattered around its perimeter. Steve needed all hands on deck for this mission, he even recruited some of the younger members for extra coverage.

You hear a shaky breath and hiss behind you. You turn to find Wanda rubbing her hands together for a few seconds and shoving them back into the pockets of her light coat.

"Cold?" You tease.

"A little," she says, you can hear her teeth chattering as she sucks in a breath.

"Everyone got the same 'pack more layers than you think' lecture," you hear Steve come through comms again and Wanda's cheeks turn red.

"Steve," you reply, chuckling.

"Alright, I'll butt out," you hear him cut out of comms and you find Wanda shrinking deeper into her jacket.

"Here, take my gloves," you start to pull one off but Wanda stops you.

"You don't need to do that," she gently pulls the glove back on your hand.

"What about..." you trail off, trying to think of something quickly. Your gloved hands reach for hers and you just hold them there for a few seconds before finally realizing that this isn't your best idea.

"This...won't work," you admit, nervously patting her hands still in yours, "humor me for a second."

"Yeah?" Wanda tilts her head with a crooked smirk that scrambles your thoughts for a few moments.

"Okay," you feverishly unzip your coat and open it wide. You feel the cold air try to bite you through your lighter layers as you envelop Wanda in the coat with you.

"S'okay?" You breathe out. You're waiting a few seconds in suspense until you feel Wanda's arms around your middle pull you in closer. You wrap more of the coat around her so her face is shielded by the fierce winds. You both stay still for a few minutes, you both can feel every breath the other takes. Wanda huddles impossibly closer, taking inventory of your muscles that impressively bulge through the layers of clothing you're wearing.

"Thank you," Wanda finally breaks the silence, managing a small smile, her skin too stiff from the cold to stretch any farther.

"Anytime," you smile back. You only get to share a few more minutes like this before Steve gives you the signal.

--------

Natasha is the only one who notices you come back without your coat. She also notices where, or who, it went to.

She trades a glance with Wanda who doesn't give anything away as she makes her way towards you. Natasha watches her take the seat next to you and has to bite her tongue to keep from making one of her trademark quips.

"Thanks again," Wanda tries to shrug off your jacket to give it back.

"Keep it," you say, "at least until we land. or whenever you break a sweat, whatever comes first," you laugh.

"Are you sure?" Wanda slowly pulls the jacket back on, Natasha doesn't bother to hide the sharpest smirk on her lips.

"Yeah, it looks better on you anyway," you grin and Wanda can feel her cheeks grow much hotter than the rest of her body.

--------

Wanda is cradling a cup of tea in her hands as she leans against a counter.

"So," Wanda jumps, she spins her head around to find Natasha leaning against the doorway.

"Sokovians get cold now?"

#i should have studied instead of this but here we are #works #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 7: Sundials]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.0k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even move.

He just stands there under the arc of the doorframe, half-shadow, half-firelight, dawn and dusk and the Rapture all rolled together into a handful of seconds that stretch on infinitely. He gapes senselessly—dead-eyed like a fish—blinking a few times as if he’s expecting to wake up. Then he spins around and sprints out of your bedchamber.

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, and again, slamming his fist against the wooden floor: “Fuck!” He scrambles to his feet and pulls on his clothes, his long silver hair disheveled, his skin glistening with your sweat. He’s wearing the evidence of your transgression like chainmail, like rain.

“Aemond…” you begin, petrified, your knuckles pressed to your face. Is this the end of us? Is this the end of me?

He doesn’t reply. There’s nothing for him to say that could comfort you. Instead, he takes off after Aegon and vanishes through the doorway, his footsteps fading into the entrails of the palace. You untangle the bunched-up layers of your gown and stand, wobbling on bare feet as you straighten the hem, dimly aware—like peering through a fogged window—that you’re whimpering with a helpless sort of dread. You follow after Aemond, pausing every so often to listen for the echoes of his steps.

Westminster Palace is serene like still water as the sun rises over it; the Greens are collapsing after a long night of wedding festivities, the Blacks are solemnly witnessing the final days of King Viserys’ mortal illness. Aegon runs all the way through the castle and then out into the gardens, past the stables, and across the daybreak emerald field to the edge of the forest. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you and Aemond finally catch up to him, until Aegon stops just beyond the tree line and doubles over gasping with both hands on his knees. Until he allows himself to be caught.

He knew he couldn’t shout at us inside the palace, you realize. Not without everyone else hearing. Not without announcing our treason to the court, to the world.

Aemond grabs for his brother, and Aegon shoves him away with a viciousness you’ve never seen from him before, that you didn’t know he was capable of.

“It wasn’t enough for you,” Aegon seethes through bared teeth. His face is a mottled, furious red, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes. “Mother loving you more, Grandsire regarding you as more worthy, being stronger, smarter, more talented, more disciplined. You had to have everything. You had to take her too. She was the only thing that was mine.”

Aemond glances at you miserably. “She didn’t choose you.”

“Since when have I chosen anything?!” Aegon screams, his hands like claws against his own chest. “None of us got to choose what we are or who we marry, I didn’t, you didn’t. Helaena didn’t, Daeron didn’t, Mother didn’t, and I was resigned to that. I didn’t choose her and she didn’t choose me, and I’m sure if she’d ever been asked she wouldn’t have wanted to be burdened with me because who the fuck would? But she was mine.” His eyes drop to your belly, where you are still a month away from beginning to show. “Am I even the father?”

“Yes,” you and Aemond insist simultaneously.

“You’re both goddamn liars. Why would I believe you? How could you possibly know?”

“Because…we haven’t…we’ve never…” You look to Aemond for help.

“Not all the way,” he clarifies. “Only twice and never to…um…completion. My completion, I mean. She…um…well…” Now he’s accidentally said too much and doesn’t know how to reverse course.

“Jesus Christ!” Aegon exclaims, wincing, rubbing his face with his hands. “You think I’m asking for those details? You think I want to hear that?! You know, maybe I’m the honorable Targaryen son after all, because I’ve had my share of scandals but I know exactly where I spent my fucking wedding night.”

You say softly: “Aegon, you had a child with another woman while I lost four of them.”

The rage drains out of him and the childlike shame seeps in, cold drips that slowly fill a bucket. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re a man?” you scoff.

“No, because it didn’t mean anything! That was the whole point, that’s why it was something I wanted, because it was the only thing in my life that wasn’t heavy or obligatory or self-sacrificial. But this…” He points from Aemond to you and then back to his brother again. “This means a lot.”

“It does,” Aemond admits.

“So she was your escape then,” Aegon says with razored bitterness. “I had wine and whores and you had fantasies of fucking my wife, and I suppose that dulled the pain a bit, didn’t it? The pain of being the second son, the pain of forever coveting what’s been forced upon me.”

“No. Loving her is the most painful thing I’ve ever done. I don’t love her because she was given to you. I would love her anywhere and at any cost.”

You watch him in the faint dawn light, higher than clouds, horrified to the bones. He loves me. He said that he loves me. Aemond gazes back at you. He shouldn’t, but he does. He can’t help it.

Everything about Aegon sinks, vertebrae crumbling like ancient ruins, vessels and ligaments folding in on themselves under the weight of your betrayal. His words are venomous. “I’m sorry that I’m standing in the way of everyone’s happiness. It’s what I’m best at, it seems.” And he begins trudging back towards the palace.

Aemond is frantic. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“God, you really do think I’m brainless,” Aegon replies, but he sounds more defeated than vengeful. “As if I have any desire to see her burned at a stake.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Aegon throws over his shoulder. “There’s nowhere else to go. There has never been anywhere else to go.”

He leaves you and Aemond alone in the newborn incandescence of the first day of May, 1485. The moment you shared on the bearskin rug is over now. In the daylight, it is impossible to ignore how risky it is, how unjustifiable, an act of thievery that can only end in heartbreak that swallows up lives far beyond the epicenter. Still, Aemond looks to you, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

After a while—long, burdened minutes punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the wind—you return to your rooms. Aemond retreats to his own. Princess Kunigunde, presumably, waits in vain for him to reappear in her bedchamber, the blankets pulled up to her chin and her clever, immaculate forehead lined with worry. Four people, none of whom should be alone right now, locked away in their own rooms with their own ghosts.

You try to sleep, but you don’t; you just lie there staring up at the canopy of your bed, green roses and gold dragons, shivering despite the warmth of the fireplace, fears clattering in your skull like pieces of porcelain or glass. At last one of your ladies arrives and yanks back the curtains, filling your eyes with daffodil-yellow mid-afternoon sun.

“Good morning, princess!” she says cheerfully, even though it’s long past noon. Throughout the palace the Greens and their supporters are unraveling from slumber and still in good spirits after the dancing and feasting…well, most of them, anyway. “You’ll need to dress straight away. The Duke of Hightower has summoned you.”

You jolt upright. “What? Why? What did he say?”

She offers you a puzzled glance before going to the closet to fetch an emerald-colored gown. “It’s time for lunch, of course. Lunch with the royal family. It’s Princess Kunigunde’s first day as Aemond’s wife. The Duke has had an authentic Austrian meal prepared.”

“Oh. Right.” You remember now; the post-wedding plans had slipped your mind. You consider the prospect of sharing a table with Kunigunde, Aemond, Aegon. “Um, actually Elizabeth, I’m not feeling very well. Nausea. The baby. I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.”

She raises an eyebrow. Your ladies have never exactly been yours. They’re agents of the Duke and the families he considers most loyal, daughters who have not yet married, chess pieces that have not been played. “He’ll be expecting you.”

“I’m sure he will, but under the circumstances…”

“Would you like me to inform the Duke that you are indisposed? I suspect you’ll soon find him here in person to express the importance of this gathering.”

You sigh heavily, swinging your feet to the cool floor. “No, perhaps not.” Of course now he wants me out of bed. Now that we all know my pregnancies weren’t doomed by physical exertion…and now that he wishes to pay every courtesy to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter. “I’ll endure it somehow.”

A table has been brought out into the gardens, and everyone else is already there. Kunigunde wears her characteristically neutral colors, not signifying anything except her own intrinsic worth; her gown is a shimmering cream with gold accents. She smiles politely, regally, as the Duke of Hightower boasts about the trappings of the table—kasespatzle, tiroler knodel, tafelspitz, powidltascherl, other mysterious dishes from her homeland, grapes, pomegranates, pitchers of wine and mead—but the princess is notably subdued. Aemond sits beside her with his hands laced together and pressed to his lips, as if in prayer. Sir Criston Cole has just located Aegon and is heaving him into his chair, eyes glazed and still bloodshot, straw from the stables in his uncombed hair. You are determined not to make eye contact with any of them as you settle into your seat as inconspicuously as possible.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Nico chirps, feeling your cheeks and the back of your neck with a lack of formality that Kunigunde seems perplexed by. Nico and Daeron are the dots of lantern light in metaphorical darkness, vines splitting through frosted earth. They are miraculously untouched by the times they find themselves living in. “You look awful! Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”

You hide your face by slurping your cup of mead. “Not much. The baby’s been making me ill.”

Aegon groans loudly, as if in pain, pushing some sort of potato-and-sausage monstrosity around his plate with a fork. The Duke shoots Aegon a repulsed sort of grimace but otherwise ignores him.

“Would you like to know what I’ve heard?” the Duke of Hightower says merrily.

“No,” Aegon mumbles.

“That the strongest children cause the worst sickness for the mother.”

Queen Alicent nods in agreement. She spends her days with her father and children rather than her dying husband. She has definitively chosen a side. “That’s true in my experience. I was horribly sick when I was pregnant with Aemond. Almost bedbound for the first five months!”

Aegon flinches and guzzles wine until it runs down his throat like blood.

“I remember,” Sir Criston Cole says, with a gentle sort of protectiveness that might strike you as odd if you weren’t already consumed by other anxieties.

“And very soon we should have another Targaryen heir on the way.” The Duke beams at Kunigunde with approval. “I understand that the wedding night proceeded without any hinderances. A spot of red on the sheets, as was required.”

She nods modestly. “Yes, Your Grace. That’s correct.”

You turn to her, startled; and you can see from the short-lived crease that appears in Aemond’s forehead that he is baffled as well. Aegon stares blankly at a thorny tangle of crimson roses. Kunigunde’s stoic face reveals nothing…but after much investigation your eyes find a shallow cut between the ring and middle fingers of her left hand. That was wise of her: a wound that can be concealed with gloves much of the time and easily explained away if glimpsed. Hands are a human’s great asset and yet profound weakness: when they go astray they get bitten, scarred, crushed, burned, carved to ribbons.

But why? Why would she lie for Aemond? A man she barely knows from a family that needs her so much more than she needs them?

And then you understand as you watch Kunigunde take dainty nibbles of her food and thank the Duke graciously for his hospitality.

Because she’s honorable, you realize. Just like Aemond is. She’s married to him, she’s been sent by her father to him, and so she’s doing exactly what a wife is supposed to. To support and safeguard her husband entirely. To protect his reputation. To purge herself of any desires, ambitions, dreams that diverge from his.

There’s a weight in your chest like an anchor. After less than twenty-four hours, she is already a better wife than you could ever hope to be. She really is the sort of woman Aemond should end up with. The kind he would have chosen for himself if he’d never met you.

Kunigunde steals troubled looks at you, questioning, wary. Aemond sips wine and forces down occasional bites of Austrian food. His hair is secured in one thick, rather untidy braid, woven in haste after little sleep. It is something that the Duke might easily mistake for a good omen; you know it’s the opposite.

Nico is chattering joyfully about her own wedding, now only three months away. Daeron smiles at her, warm and fond, every few minutes lifting her hand to touch his lips to her knuckles. “Do you think we could have Milanese food when I’m married? Minestrone and ossobuco and polenta? Panettone for dessert? It’ll be the wrong time of year for it, true, we usually only eat panettone at Christmas, but I do love it so!”

“You could wait to marry until December,” Kunigunde suggests pragmatically.

“December?!” Nico squeals, aghast. “I’m barely going to make it until August! I’d marry him right now if I could, here in the gardens with no ornate ceremony whatsoever, or in the horse stables, or in a dungeon, even! I’d marry him in a tree!”

Kunigunde is disturbed by her unabashed lack of ladylike inhibition. “Nico,” you scold, but you’re grinning. Alicent is laughing, the first time you’ve seen her truly happy in days.

Nico turns to the Duke of Hightower. “Do you think you could write to my parents and convince them to let me and Daeron marry sooner? Perhaps…by the end of May? Oh please, Your Grace, please please please?”

“Unfortunately, as much as I would welcome that, they were quite adamant that Daeron must be at least sixteen and a half before the wedding can take place.”

Nico rocks back in her chair and growls up at the sky. “I’m being tortured. I am a martyr to my parents’ well-intentioned aspirations.”

“Aren’t we all,” Aegon mutters.

“Might I have some more kasespatzle?” Kunigunde asks primly.

The bowl is resting beside Aegon. He pushes it towards Aemond with a balled fist. “Pass that to…” He pauses. He’s forgotten her name. “Uh. Your wife.”

Aemond gives the bowl to Kunigunde. She accepts it and tries to catch his gaze in the process. He peers down at the table instead. Soon he is embroiled in a whispered discussion with Daeron, who looks at him in a way that reminds you of how the Black children once regarded King Viserys: with admiration, trust, awe. You listen as closely as you can as Nico asks you about gown colors and styles, wedding frivolities. In Aemond’s war plans you detect the names of castles along England’s east coast: Norwich, Tattershall, Colchester, Framlingham, Castle Rising. Places for allied armies to meet them. Places to use as footholds against usurpers from the North. Kunigunde is staring at Aemond, and for the first time you see her mask slip, and beneath it is something horrible beyond words: desperation, fragility, despair.

You rise suddenly from the table, your chair shrieking against cobblestones. Everyone looks up at you. Nico is concerned, Aemond alarmed, Aegon sullen and loathing.

“I’m really, really not feeling well,” you say. “I apologize, but I need to go back to my rooms now. Right now.”

Nico begins: “Should I—?”

“No, no, I’ll be better after I rest a while. Please don’t let me ruin lunch for everyone else. I shall see you all tonight for dinner and dancing.” And it might kill me.

Nico frowns anxiously. “Well, okay, if you insist…”

You bolt for the palace. Aemond’s eye follows you all the way to the door. Kunigunde’s eyes stay on him, shiny with delicate longing.

You stumble through the hallways, leaning on the walls to catch your balance and your breath. Nobles pledged to the Greens stop—swarming like flies on a corpse—to ask if they can help you. You have that to thank Daemon for; he’s made you a figure of pity and blamelessness, an idol, a saint. They know nothing about who you truly are. You assure the loyalists that you’re fine and wave them off. There’s nothing they can do to help you. There’s nothing anyone can do.

You wander to the Great Hall, which is presently empty except for a few servants sweeping the floor. And in the quiet, under beams of afternoon light flooding in from the windows, you contemplate the throne. It’s vacant right now, it’s a liminal space like a doorway. The old king will soon be lowered into the earth; a new one is rising. You wonder if there’s a version of this world someplace where things turn out differently. You wonder if in another thread of time—running parallel to yours but never intertwining with it—Aegon was born somewhere else, far away, impossibly far away, and Aemond was the Greens’ heir all along, and you were the woman married to him, no one else, and you never became an adulteress and a traitor and a whore. You touch your belly, where your child is small and weak but growing.

You deserve a better world to be born into. You deserve better parents.

You’ve been standing in the Great Hall for some span of time that doesn’t matter—five minutes, ten, fifteen, twenty—when you hear the tolling of bells from the Tower of London. This is a perfectly ordinary occurrence, except that it isn’t; a new hour hasn’t arrived yet. And the bells don’t stop after a few chimes. They keep ringing, and ringing, and then it pierces you like a stone through a window. Now there are crowds rushing through the halls of the palace. Now there is clamoring, plotting, screaming.

The king is dead. But the war is just beginning.

You rush out of the Great Hall and are intercepted by hordes of cloying Green-affiliated nobles. “Your Majesty!” they cry, bowing to you and kissing your hands and feet. You give them your utmost appreciation—as is required—but your eyes scan the corridors for Aemond.

“Have you seen the prince?” you ask them. “Do you know where he is—?”

But they assume you mean your husband, because that’s who you’re supposed to be thinking of.

“Long live King Aegon II!” they chant, they shout, they will into reality with the brute force of the knowledge that his demise would mean theirs as well. “Long live the king!”

You dodge the crowds and dart through the halls, searching wildly for Aemond. Where will he go now? What does he need from me? Will I ever see him again?

At last, you spy him at the end of a long corridor covered in slanting amber-hued afternoon sunbeams; and the way he races to your side tells you that he was looking for you as well.

“Aemond, what happens now—?”

“Walk with me,” he says. It’s the same thing he told you when you miscarried at five months on Christmas night. And just like then, his arm hooks around your waist to whisk you along with him, his head bent close to yours to murmur secret things.

“My father is dead. The Blacks have already left Westminster Palace. They took their horses and are riding North to raise men to fight and die for Rhaenyra’s claim.” His face goes hard and vicious. “They tried to burn the stables down before they fled. With our horses still inside. Sir Criston and the guards stopped them.”

“Monsters,” you breathe.

“They were in Green territory here and they knew it. They scattered like cowards, like rats. But north of Nottingham, the Blacks have the advantage. They will gather their forces and return to bring fire and blood to our doorstep.”

Aemond is leading you outside towards the stables. Your feet move hurriedly in tandem together over soft spring grass. He’ll have to go to war, you know he will. Between his strategy, his swordsmanship, and Vhagar, he is the greatest asset the Greens have on the battlefield. “When must you leave?”

“Now, Ivy.”

“Now?!”

You’re in the entranceway of the stables; you hear the agitated stomps and huffs of horses who can smell the shift in the winds. “We must ready our own armies and pursue Daemon and Rhaenyra,” Aemond says. “The farther we can keep them from London, the safer you’ll be.”

Aegon—grim and with half of his short hair tied back—strides into the stables. He turns furious when he sees you. “Of course you’re saying goodbye to him. But cheer up, wife, maybe you’ll both get what you most wish for and I’ll be killed in battle.”

“Aegon, I don’t want that—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he snaps, mere inches from your face. Aemond glares at him savagely and your husband withdraws. He goes to Sunfyre’s stall and leads him outside, where servants are working in a flurry to saddle the Greens’ horses. In the chaos and the sunshine, Daeron and Nico are enmeshed in a needful embrace, weeping and exchanging ardent promises as servants slip Tessarion’s bridle over her massive grey head. The Duke of Hightower is issuing orders in every direction.

“Aemond, what can I do?”

He coaxes Vhagar out of her stall and saddles her; she won’t tolerate anyone else doing it. She’ll kick them until their brains litter the ground like fall leaves. Will I see him again before autumn, before the baby is born? Will I ever see him again at all? “Write another letter to your brother Alonzo. It should be able to reach him before he sets sail. Tell him and his forces to meet us at Castle Rising. Nico and Kunigunde should send the same message to their own kingdoms.”

“I’ll make sure it’s done.”

“Get your sword from under the cedar tree. Keep it with you. You might need it.”

“Alright, but—”

“I have to go now,” he says, fastening Vhagar’s bridle. Then Aemond turns to you. Your left palm presses to his chest; the fingertips of your right hand graze the length of his silver braid. You breathe him in, leather and smoke and greatness, and wonder if it’s for the last time.

“Aemond…” The words snag in your throat. I can’t lose you. I can’t do this without you. I love you, I love you, I’ll never love anyone but you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, laying two fingers against your lips. “Tell me when I see you again.”

“I will,” you swear.

He leads Vhagar—colossal hooves thudding, tail swishing eagerly—out of the stables. Sir Criston Cole is waiting there. He won’t be going with them. He is pledged to Alicent’s service…and he and a small contingent of guards will be the only protection left at Westminster Palace. “Aemond, remember your training—”

Aemond seizes him, pulls him in close, nods to you. “Criston, you stay with her. She is the priority, she carries the heir. If the city falls, Mother can seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. Nico and Kunigunde can seek sanctuary, and I believe it would be honored. But Daemon will not spare Aegon’s wife and child. He will kill her if he gets the chance, but he will make her suffer first. So you stay with her.” He shakes him. “Do you understand me? You stay with her.”

Criston looks terrified. “I understand.”

“Good.” Aemond releases the knight. Alicent and Kunigunde appear, dashing out of the castle just in time to say goodbye. Alicent clings to Aemond, whispering to him, no more able to protect him now than she was years ago when his eye was cut from his skull. He replies in words you can’t decipher. When they finally break apart, Alicent’s face is wet with tears.

“Husband,” Kunigunde says stiffly.

“Wife.” You look away as he kisses her, swift and formal. Even that you cannot bear to witness.

And then they gallop away—Aegon, Daeron, Aemond, a retinue of loyalist noblemen—vanishing into the horizon where the sun is sinking towards the west, away from the Continent, away from every part of the earth that is known to you.

It’s the first week of June, and your belly has just begun to show. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You tell yourself that you’ll love it—if it’s ever born, that is, if it survives—with equal power whether it’s a son or a daughter. But you’ve begun to dream of a little boy: quick feet, a shock of white-blond hair, large blue eyes the same turbulent blue as Aegon’s. He never has a name, but he’s yours. He’s a living heir. He’s your ultimate redemption. But more than that—much, much more—he is the family you have wished for since long before you knew the name of the man who would become your husband.

You spend your days scribbling letters and sewing tunics and trousers for the Greens’ soldiers. There have been skirmishes but no full-scale battles yet. Aemond writes to you, although he is vague and impersonal; the risk of interception is far too great. You write to him about the plants that bloom, about the weather, about the books you are reading, about Midnight. Daeron sends the occasional letter to you too, and he pens ten pages at a time to Nico, who sits in the gardens reading them over and over again until her tears ruin the ink and his sentences become illegible, and then she cries even harder. But you never receive a single word from Aegon.

With Sir Criston’s instruction, you fashioned a belt and scabbard to carry your sword around in. The first time the Duke of Hightower saw it, he raised his eyebrows and then acquiesced without further comment. Perhaps now he finally sees the utility in you having some way to defend yourself should the occasion arise. You practice your sparring in the courtyard with Sir Criston, who can never quite shake his embarrassment about training with a woman, and a pregnant one at that. His swings are pitifully harmless, your skills unremarkable next to his or Aemond’s; but they’re better than nothing. They’re far more than Nico or Alicent or Kunigunde have.

When Nico spots you walking through the halls—one hand on your belly, the other on the hilt of your sword—she bursts out laughing. Sir Criston trots dutifully along beside you, as he always does. “Now you really do look like Boudicca,” Nico says.

“You must stop comparing me to a conquered queen who died by suicide. It’ll turn into a curse.”

“I’m always saying the wrong things. If I had the capacity to curse people, I think we’d know it by now.” Then she gasps, intrigued. “Do you think I could curse the Blacks? If I really, really tried? You don’t look like Boudicca at all. You look like Saint George arriving to slay the dragon, and that’s Rhaenyra and Daemon, an evil beast not fit for the rules of our world. I wish for this series of events to come to pass most zealously.”

“Nico, that sounds an awful lot like witchcraft.”

“Oh.”

“Which is punishable by death, as you know.”

“Well…perhaps you’ll be kind enough not to tell the Duke of Hightower.”

“Bad news! That’s where I’m headed right now. You’ll be in the afterlife by sunset.”

She smiles. “Where are you actually going?”

“To the chapel. It’s my turn to pray with the queen.” You, Nico, and Kunigunde alternate accompanying Alicent; she spends a good part of each day there imploring God to spare her sons on the battlefield. You don’t especially look forward to this ritual. It’s not that you don’t believe in God; but you find action a more natural path to work his will into existence.

“Queen dowager, you mean,” Nico reminds you. “She’s not the queen anymore.”

You are, according to the Greens anyway. It’s a title that doesn’t yet feel real. “Where are you going?”

“To practice my dancing,” Nico says with a wink. “I’m getting married in two months.” Nothing can convince her otherwise. Maybe she thinks it would be tempting fate to doubt it.

You walk outside into the warm, sunlit morning. Bees circle lazily among kaleidoscopic flowers; birds whistle and call to each other. Daylight chases the strip of shadow around the face of the sundials in the palace gardens. Your shoes click on the cobblestones. The hem of your gown flutters in the golden, roomy breeze. When you reach the chapel, Sir Criston lingers just outside the door to give you and Alicent privacy as you pray. Surely no harm can come to you in God’s house. You step inside—blinking, your eyes adjusting to the low multicolored light—and see Alicent in a pew near the front. It’s not until you’ve already sat down beside her that you realize it isn’t Aemond’s mother at all. It’s his wife.

A stunned little gulp pulses in your throat. You try—badly, you’re sure—to clear the dismayed shock from your face. You spend plenty of time with Kunigunde, of course, but only ever in mixed company. You are never alone with her. You don’t want to be. You’re under the impression that she feels the same way.

“Uh, good morning, princess,” you say, rather awkwardly.

Kunigunde doesn’t reply. She gazes at the wooden cross on the altar as if she’s completely unaware of your arrival. The pigments of the stained glass windows fracture across her skin: emerald, sapphire, amethyst, ruby. Her dress is a dim orange, midway between the flag of her homeland and your own. By now everyone knows she isn’t carrying Aemond’s child, but not even the Duke of Hightower can fault her too much for that. Only one night of supposed wedded bliss is hardly a fair chance to conceive.

You stand, making your escape. “Well, I’ll leave you to your prayers—”

“Does it bother you?” Kunigunde asks, her voice perfectly level. “Does it ever strike you as ironic?”

“What do you mean?” you reply; but the dread is already swelling in your gut like an infection.

“Begging God to save another woman’s husband. The one you’re in love with.”

You glance at the chapel door, willing Alicent to appear, willing Sir Criston to interrupt. You truly have nothing to say in your own defense. You know it’s indefensible; that’s what makes it such an excruciating fucking burden.

“And he loves you too,” Kunigunde says. Her face, harrowingly exquisite and hollow and hateful, turns to you. “I’ve scavenged through every corner of his rooms since he’s been gone. He hung your tapestry on his wall. He struck up a correspondence with your brother and purchased Midnight for you. And the poems. The poems. Hundreds of them, in drawers, in trunks, under his mattress, everywhere. And they’re all about you.”

You look to the door again, desperate. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“They’re dated,” she hisses, like she’s stabbing a blade through the gristle between your ribs. “I’m not stupid. They begin the same month you married Aegon. Almost two years ago. And they’re all about you. So clearly about you. Your hair, your eyes, your voice, your wit, your tenacity, your sorrow, your body, how goddamn badly he wants you.”

What can I say? What the hell is there for me to say? You touch your ivy leaf necklace self-consciously. You wear it every day without fail. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“I tried to destroy them. To feed them to the fire. But they were too beautiful to burn.” Her hand skims across her cheek, and only now do you realize she’s weeping. “I did not choose my marriage any more than you chose yours. But I have a responsibility to make it successful, to bear its fruit. I have no intention of returning to my homeland a disgrace. My father and brother would blame me. Aemond’s honor is legendary.” She squeezes her eyes shut, flinching. And then the stoic lines of her face collapse and tears pour down her face unimpeded. “Oh God. What am I supposed to do with a husband who won’t lie with me? Who won’t give me a son?”

“But you are determined to stay the course? To protect Aemond?” And his horrible, traitorous secret?

“Yes.”

“Princess…can I ask you something?”

“I suppose. I don’t see what good performative decency can do us now.”

“Why? Why are you still loyal to him?”

She collects herself somewhat. “Men show courage on the battlefield. Women show it in bed. We endure the unimaginable there. Conquest, childbirth, abandonment.”

You stare at her, a little fascinated, a little appalled. “Then I won’t interfere.”

“He’s not mine if you have to give him to me.”

“I’m not capable of giving him to you. I don’t own him. Nobody does.”

Before she can reply, Sir Criston erupts through the chapel door. “Princess!” he shouts, signaling for you to follow him. He’s not so good at remembering that you’re technically the queen now either. “Back to the palace! Now, right now!”

“What? Why?”

“Now!” Criston commands, and half-drags you there, Kunigunde flying on his heels.

Westminster Palace is crawling with bawling women and frantic men. Servants sprint to cower behind curtains and inside closets without any thought for their duties. Your ladies are quaking, hysterical. Nico comes barreling out of a hallway. “What’s going on—?”

“Daemon,” Sir Criston says breathlessly. “He’s here.”

You whirl to him. “What?” And then you hear the commotion just outside the palace walls: the clanging of blades, rallying cries, horse hooves, shrieks.

You run into the Great Hall, Sir Criston, Nico, and Kunigunde close behind you. Alicent and the Duke of Hightower are both there, squeezing together to peer down on the castle entranceway through a window.

“Oh God,” Alicent moans. “Oh God, God help us…”

You look through the glass, murky with Alicent’s handprints. Below you see Daemon leading a small group of soldiers, only ten to fifteen men.

Small enough to slip by the Greens’ armies unnoticed. Small enough that Aemond doesn’t know.

Daemon is on Caraxes and in full armor, terrifying, already wearing blood on his face. His head falls back and he gazes up at you. His eyes find yours through the glass and he grins like a wolf baring its teeth. Jace and Luke are among the soldiers with him. And—you observe with no surprise at all—so is Baela.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sir Criston says. “He can’t take the city with numbers like that. Our guards alone will be a challenge for him. Word will travel and within hours reinforcements will arrive from the nearest encampments. The Southern nobles will rush to our aid. He has nothing to gain from this, he’ll be forced out of London within a day.”

“Oh, Jesus,” the Duke of Hightower exhales in sudden understanding.

“What, Father?” Alicent says, clutching his arm.

“What?” Nico echoes urgently.

“He’s not coming to take the city.” The Duke of Hightower turns towards you, horror rising in his pale eyes like the dead at the Rapture. “He’s coming to take Aegon’s wife.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

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orange-demons-deactivated2024 · 2 months

Text

Pervert

NSFW Bosch w. x gn! reader

18+ only! minors + ageless blogs dni

Bosch has a bit too much fun with your shirt

Yeah! More Bosch content for the freaks. Also, Bosch seems to be mean in this fic because it takes place at the beginning of the sf6.

“Fuck. You're such a pain in the ass” Bosch palms himself through his pants with his cock twitching uncomfortably. Each drag of his palm against his groin set his nerves haywire, making his hips thrust up even more.

Earlier when he emptied the contents of his duffle bag on his bed, there was an extra piece of clothing he hadn't seen before. Frowning in confusion, Bosch picked the shirt up and turned it over in his hands as he tried to recall where it had come from.

Then, it dawned on him. You took your shirt off mid-lesson complaining how stuffy the room was before throwing it in a random corner. It must've landed near his bag and he unknowingly swiped it up mistaking it as his.

He guess he’ll return it to you the next time he sees you.

What a pain.

He undoes his belt to let his hard cock free.

Using your shirt Bosch inhaled your scent, hips bucking into his hand as he imagines his tongue against your skin.

"Why do you have to be so damn good at everything?"

He closed his eyes and imagined your body during today’s lesson.

Coach wasted no time assigning partners for attack drills, and to no one's surprise, you were paired together once more.

Bosch braced himself against your impacts, his mitts absorbing the force of your strikes. With each blow, he felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, fueling his energy to match your intensity. So when you pushed against him, he pushed back.

"Always acting like… you’re better than everyone else." He throws his head back, letting out quiet moans as he continues his movements.

His mind wandered to your exposed skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. It didn’t help how fragile you looked heavily breathing, when you gazed at him through tired eyes. Bosch could feel his heartbeat quicken.

We’re you the type to rake your fingers down his back during missionary or are you the type to bite on his pillow case as he takes you from behind?

He spits on his free hand, acting as a lube for long strokes at the base of his cock. He was so horny and he could feel himself throbbing, he wanted nothing more than to bury his cock inside you.

I hate you.

Bosch can feel himself leaking, he was about to burst any second. He felt the sweat trickling down his back.

He hates seeing your dumb grin every time he tackles you to the ground. He hates how careless you are when walking through a crime-riddled city. He hates how easily you can process difficult moves that took him months to perfect.

And he especially hates the way you made him feel.

With a frustrated groan, Bosch flung an arm over his eyes and fisted his cock furiously.

The room was already sweltering, and he could feel beads of sweat dripping down his brow. Bosch is a hundred percent sure his neighbors can hear his labored moans through the walls, but he doesn't care. He just wants this feeling out of his system.

He grips your shirt and buries his nose in the fabric once more, mumbling your name under his breath.

His cock twitches and a familiar sense builds up in his stomach.

Pervert.

Bosch moans from the immense pleasure and anger he is feeling at that moment.

As he clenched his jaw, spurts of cum lands all over his hand and stomach.

Bosch groaned as he peeled his eyes open, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Blurred eyes tried to focus on his hands and the sticky residue that covered his clothes. He could see that his load started to seep into the sheets.

Soaking the fabric and leaving a wet stain behind.

“Damn.” Bosch muttered under his breath, running a hand through his tousled hair. Now he has to wash your shirt since it’s covered with his sweat and semen.

But if he’s gonna wash it anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to put it off a little longer as he uses it for a couple more rounds.

#street fighter x reader #bosch x reader #bosch waraya #bosch waraya x reader #sf x reader #sf6 x reader #street fighter borsh #nsft #smut #bosch waraya smut #bosch waraya x reader smut #sf6 smut #sf6 x reader smut #sf smut #street fighter smut #street fighter #street fighter bosch waraya

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kiraman · 4 months

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I. PROLOGUE The faraway nearby

Since first thing that morning everything was spoiling her mood, making her broody and angry. Everything. It annoyed her that she had overslept, squashed into a hard mattress on the floor; stiff and numb from the cold, even with a woolen blanket thrown over her. She had not slept at all last night, vexed by the sharp stench of an airless, stuffy cabin, the sea air dripping through the slats bloated with its own salt. The area below decks was deeply unpleasant. Dozens of men sleeping on rows of hammocks with the smallest amount of space between them – 14 to 16 inches of space allowed for each hammock. There was little ventilation at all and the whole place smelled rank, a combination of poorly washed clothes, old food, sour ale and sweat; she had laid under her thin sheets, wakeful and restless, and when dawn had broken blue and purple over the ocean, she had somehow dozed off; when next she had arisen, everyone was already awake, bustling about the ship, the air throbbing with their laughter.

Mizu was annoyed by the cold, congealed salt beef and dry biscuits she was served for breakfast by a man who tore away from his rum to toss the plate her way with a malevolent sneer which made her hand curl into a fist. She was annoyed by the sly looks of contempt thrown her way as she quickly wolfed down her meal over the deck, refusing to gift her attention to anyone around her, watching the spumes of the white-capped waves lashing the side of the ship as it slashed the seas, instead. She was annoyed. Cold. Stiff. Her muscles knotted against the strain of disuse. She ached for her sword, wishing, fiercely, that she could train, longing for the mountains and the cliffs, but here, where the eye met nothing but the endless skies and open horizon, she could only sit cross-legged on the deck and mediate the hours away, her mind frantic and furious even in complete and absolute silence, plagued by the same image over and over again: her blade in her hand, rippling in the air, tearing into warm flesh, offering death: the wind whipping against her cheek, muscles tensing; a sharp, shallow breath choking in her throat; exhaling. The killing sword making a hissing silver arc, slashing the air with its promise; her pulse pounding in her veins; she moves, suddenly, quiet, like the wind; like lightning flaming the sky. A man’s head topples off his shoulders and a fountain of blood sprays the earth. Red. Red and black with death. Relief. A void. Fragmentary ecstasy, something incomplete and then, a hunger for more, more, more. In her mind, she opens her eyes, and breathes. Afterwards, she sits small and submissive to the greater order; she is not yet done. Something more is needed. In her mind, her mouth fills with blood. She gasps.

She shut her eyes against the glare of the sun.

The horizon had already grown red, sunlight streaming in a narrow band above the waves. The warm, spring weather and cheerful, vibrant chatter filling the air around her, did not improve her mood. She still did not enjoy being here. She still glared and grunted at every glance and question thrown her way, as she had done since first her foot had set upon the ship. She did not speak their tongue and did not mean to entertain them with her otherness; her strangeness; they were to her, as strange and alien as she to them, and she did not wish for their company. When anger and discomfort had sat with her too long, the tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs, Mizu made her way down to the lower decks and stood near the railing of the quarterdeck, stiff, motionless, her left hand unmoving and heavy at her side, the other one on the hilt of the dagger she now carried beneath layers of cloths, a dead thing, sleeping, yet always, half-alert, tensing; one eye peeled open, laying in wait, like a snare. Her fingers coiled around the silver pommel. Her mouth pinched. She leaned out over the ocean and breathed in the fresh salt air, filling her chest with it. The splash of seawater sprayed her cheeks. She sighed, and for a moment, forgot her anger.

❛ — oi, you there! do not lean out. About-turn and scram! ❜ A huge-bellied, broad-shouldered grotesquely tall man with a tangled gray beard and pockmarks on his cheeks strode over, and snapped something that made no sense to her, without taking the stick he was chewing, either from hunger or to kill time, from his mouth. Mizu, violently torn from her moment of peace, turned around slowly and icily gazed at him through her glasses, her face veiled in the shadows cast by the wide brim of her hat. ❛ — you deaf or somethin' you heel? Scram! back to your deck. ❜ he spat out his stick and rubbed his beard where the drying sweat irritated him. Mizu blinked. The first thing that came to her mind was that he stank. His skin was blotched and scratched from his broken nails, and there were stains all over the front of his pants. They stood there, under the heat of the sun for a moment, sweat beading at the back of her neck, slowly, and then, he spat again, like an overbloated frog chasing flies, she thought, like a pig, scuffing in the mud; he moved to grab at her, and in the blink of an eye, her hand shot out and caught him by the wrist, violently shoving him away. He blinked with the shock of it, evidently not expecting to be refused; he thinks me less than him; he thinks me beneath him, somehow; she realized, only with mild surprise that the sneer now summoned upon her lips did not betray. This pile of dung, thinks me inferior. Mizu stepped towards him forcefully, her eyes flashing like mirrors in the sun, and he immediately backed away, the narrow line of his mouth (chapped and bitten by the cruel winds) puffed out into a disdainful sneer that she suddenly craved to wipe right off his face with such fervor, it took every last bit of her willpower not to cut him open right then and there, her hand shaking with the effort of holding back. He hacked, saliva trickling from his clenched teeth and barked something at her again, feigning bravery, taking another step towards her once she halted her step to near motionlessness, eyes narrowed to slits, watching his every movement; he made to shove her towards the stairs leading to the other deck but Mizu did not badge under his shoving; he clawed at the front of her haori, but she whipped away and intercepted a blow that would have caught her by the throat, ferociously sank her nails into his wrist and held his shuddering arm at bay, and smashed her other fist into the man’s belly. He gasped, surprised and blinked, and she quickly shoved him away with a flick of her wrist, then kicked out viciously; he whirled, dumbfounded, and Mizu closed in on him, ready to grab at his throat, but the sudden sound of bells and metal beating on metal tore the air. Discordant. Piercing. His eyes went to the decks bellow, and he hissed something vicious between those yellowed, rotten teeth, and with a grunt, walked away and back to whatever hole he had crawled out of.

Mizu sneered disgustedly. Her blood was boiling, anger clawing at her veins, that hunger, that thirst left unsatiated, like barbed arrows tearing her open; a wound festering, like a fever deep inside of her. She hated him. She hated this ship; their stench and filthiness; their arrogance and detestable manners. More than that, she was shamed; shamed to share their blood; shamed that they, too, looked at her like she was no more than mud stuck to their heels: unclean; unwanted; strange.

Gritting her teeth, she turned around and stood near the railing, trying very hard not to let her rage explode into a fever that she would never be able to abate.

At dusk it had been feeding time again and the cooks began passing steaming cups of gruel and water which to Mizu, stank and seemed brackish. This was the first time she had actually bothered to come down to the kitchens for dinner, but her stomach ached and her mouth felt dry. She was still silently bristling, but at least the lining up for food and water had been unusually calm. Bowing her thanks, she gathered her cups and went to sit near the slats and beams that made up tiny windows at the side of the ship. She picked at her plate without much jest, feeling strange eyes boring into the back of her neck, but not turning around to meet them.

Then the apelike man —unshaven, filthy, stinking still, worse than he had that morning, dripping in sweat and with a fresh bruise upon his pockmarked cheek—chopped in violently, kicked at the table where she had sat, and took her ration right out of her hand while the others sat in stunned silence to see what would happen. The world around her seemed to ripple and come to a screeching halt. Molten darkness fell over her, piercing and violent, like invisible pinchers squeezing her throat.

Slowly, too slowly, like sand flowing through an hourglass, she pushed her chair back, then stood up and with languid, stiff movements removed her hat and glasses and neatly set them down where her meal had been. The air in the room seemed to thicken. Rain suddenly began to lash the windows, trickling down the glass and filling the room with its cries. A sudden gush of movement, and her hand was at his throat, choking the air right out of him; a sigh filled the room, gasps and flashes of lightning; a furious chill rushing through the world around her; harsh, muffled voices from somewhere far away and the sound of her steps as she landed blow after blow, moving like a serpent, noiselessly, lightly, disarming him with no more than a blow and a violent strike against his jaw which cracked under the heel of her palm. He reeled, howling with rage, and Mizu landed on her feet, perfectly controlled, face hard and cold, devoid of any flushes of effort.

He came at her blindly, slow, like a fish thrashing about on the banks of a dried up river, and she leapt, backing away, laughing; her voice dark and violent, came rushing like a river, flooding the cabin, and as he stood to limp away and in shame, she kicked out viciously, sending him tumbling onto the floors. Then, there were lights through the blackness that had draped itself over her like a burial shroud, and strange voices, calling her out of the depths of her rage.

Slowly, too slowly, she straightened her cape and carefully put on her glasses again, clearing her throat. She put the chair back at the table, and was about to gather her hat and leave the kitchens, when, in the corner, Mizu saw to her amazement that one of the men was offering the cup of gruel and the water that she had presumed lost. Blinking, she took it and thanked the man curtly. He nodded in understanding, and with a faint, parting shake of her head, Mizu walked away.

She did not see him again. She would not see him for quite some time.

Not until much later, after they had made port at Batavia and something darker had come calling her name, desperate, frantic, dogging her every footstep. She never looked behind her out of fear. Out of terror of what she would see following her in her own shadow...

#blue eye samurai #mizu blue eye samurai #bes mizu #u know what! its happening. im gonna write about her journey to london. look out for her adventures folks they r coming bc s2 is SO far #mizu #my child making friends (huh...) everywhere she goes #stay tuned for part 2. she's gonna meet a very Special Lady on this boat & that's a spoiler. Hideous Acts will be committed.#this doesn't end until you die.#my writing #my writing.#writing tag.

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pinkcherryblossom18 · 8 months

Text

By The Stream

Finan/Reader

Summary: Battles leave scars on the brain as much as the flesh but those who hold all you see dear make the battles within worth every second that you spend with him.

TW: Descriptions of battle and sex, allusion to rape, PTSD, paranoia, angst and fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

The sound of the nearby river is one that is familiar. It’s one that you welcome openly and with eyes closed to capture all that it is. Silence. Fresh air. Peace. It’s all something that you have been away from so long that it no longer feels right but the need to embrace it is strong and relentless.

Here you are no longer subjected to the sounds of metal against metal. The squelch of blood under your feet and the memory of watching as your sword cut through flesh and chain, blood coating you in thick layers bound by sweat, mud and, sometimes, tears. The feeling of bruises against your skin, the ugly purples and blacks that fade into grotesque yellows that make you wince as you look at them. Scratches and cuts that bleed in streams of crimson and sting as water from a tattered and rough cloth touch them with the utmost care by the loving and rough hands of Finan. Not that it matters, it still hurts.

Then there are the gashes, the pools of blood that make you think that it was time. Phantom hands of the gods would wrap around you and drag you to Valhalla. It hasn’t happened yet, soon but not yet. It’s coming, for you and Finan. For Sihtric and Uthred and Osferth. It hovers all five of you with black hands holding a scythe and praying for the day that a sword or seax gets too close or too much blood is drawn and it can sweep down and take what it believes is due.

It doesn’t help when everyone looks like an enemy. With ones hands sometimes gripping too tight on knives during dinner and the sound of metal being sharpened is enough for your hand to go to your side, searching for your blade.

It’s not there, why should it be? You’re home, with your lover and friends. In a place that feels more like home than what your last one did. No longer was fighting an everyday routine, no longer was it a necessity to get by with a singular piece of bread for the entire day. You didn’t even have to fight anymore and it was a mystery to all of those around you of why you did.

The rush? The way that it calmed something down in your blood? That small feeling of control? How the adrenaline kept you moving hours afterward and the sex that came after battles when you or Finan weren’t entirely hurt?

You knew it wasn’t the pain. Not the screaming nightmares that had you drawing blood from yourself and fighting Finan as he tried to wake you up. It wasn’t the sobbing and choking crying that took you after and leaving your throat raw and hoarse, not being able to use it after hours of waking up and calming down. The nightmares leaving you unconsolable and still hitting the thick arms of a man that holds all that you know is truly dear, trying to get away from someone who you loved with all your heart because of the pure perceivance of him as a threat made you dangerous toward him.

There’s a rock near the edge of the river. It’s big and flat under the half shade of a tree and the burning force of the sun being on it throughout the day. It makes for a good napping spot while the sun goes down and it’s almost time to eat. You have slept here more than once, only to wake up in your bed with Finan curled around you. His arms wrapped around your waist, beard tucked into your neck and moving with every breath that tickles to the point of you giggling and trying to move away from him.

That’s when he pulls you back to him and then you end up in a different position. With nightmares of old behind you with every moan that comes out of your mouth and every thrust that leaves you wanting more. With your hands buried in his hair and Finan's rough voice whispering sweet nothings and praises in your ear that drive you closer to a precipice that only feels like the feasts that you hoped to welcome in Valhalla or the Heaven the Finan and Osferth believe in. It all led you into the wanting of more. More pleasure. More of the numbness that distraction provides you. More of the rough and teasing Irishman that makes you sure that everything is worth it.

The pain. The rawness of your throat after nightmares. The scars that are both physical and mental. The stares of both pity and disgust from those that look upon you.

It’s all worth it. Every bit as he holds you close and consoles you and touches you in ways that you didn’t know you could be touched. Softly, intimately with no expectations and no wantings of desire that would push him to do unspeakable things if you declined. Touch isn’t the pain that you knew once before him, the way that you still know it to be from those across the battlefield that clash swords with you and spit words that build ire and insecurity in your very being.

Your back hits the hot and simultaneously cool rock and you sigh out in relief as the pain from your shoulders start to dissipate slowly. It’s a perfection that is rarely graspable, the warmth of the sun on your face and the way that your shoulders finally relax from months of tension. Finan had offered you a massage but once his hands made you let out the briefest of moans, the massage was over and a different kind of pleasure took place.

You breathe out and close your eyes, basking everything in. Letting the sun melt your brain and thoughts. A small smile graces your face, peace. That is what you feel and it is as glorious as it is unsettling.

The sound of a twig snapping makes you jump and your hand goes down to your waist, finding nothing but the fabric of your dress and a void that your scabbard makes when you don’t wear it. Then, your shoulders square, getting ready to attack but the sight of familiar boots and that damn smile of Finan’s makes you sigh. Then you chuckle at the fright he gave you, matching the grin on his own face before turning around and laying back down, trying to find the same spot as before.

You hear him walk closer but don’t pay attention to him. Closing your eyes at the moment he stands right next to the rock. “Having fun?” He asks. You can picture how he looks and the feel of his rough calloused hand that takes a likeness to your own makes you look at him.

A sigh comes from you, a pout replacing your grin but it still threatens to come through with twitches to the sides of your mouth that make you want to laugh. “I was but a certain Irishman ruined it,” you grumbled out.

Finan fakes offense and puts a hand to his heart that makes your grin pop out, bigger than before. “I didn’t ruin it.” He moves so that he is now hovering over you, face close to yours and noses being so close that you can almost feel it. “If anything you did by not inviting me.”

You shrug and move your head but he only follows, staying close. The way it should always be, you think. “You didn’t get the invitation?” You huff in mock disappointment, ignoring the fingers that find your side, resisting to laugh at the feeling. “Oh well, it seems you can’t join this celebration.” You pat his cheek and he grabs it to keep it there. “Next time then, love,” you say but you move anyway, letting him join you.

He lays down beside you and wraps around an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his body. Finan had done this before you two admitted anything, not that you truly needed to. You didn’t think that this was something that needed to be admitted as it was so clear from the moment you two had met on that beach. “What are you thinking about,” he whispers and you look up at him, finding his eyes closed and relaxed.

“The noises of the forest are too much for me to think,” you tease and he smiles. The action comes easy to him and you when before it seemed almost impossible to do such an easy task.

He nods and his hand starts to run up and down your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “That’s good.” His eyes open and look down at you with that glint in his eyes that show nothing more than adoration to the greatest extent. It’s almost pure as it is dirty. A sin, this is what those of his kind would say, those Christans that look down at you as nothing less than scum. Those who hate your blood but wish more than anything to watch you bleed. “Can I crash this celebration?” He asks.

You pretend to think. “It’s going to cost you,” you tell him as you move up, placing your lips only inches from his jaw.

He raises an eyebrow, amused and willing to play into this game that has two winners than the ones that you both are used to playing. “Yeah?” He leans down as well, ghosting over your lips with a smirk that shows just exactly what he wants. “How much?” You purse your lips, already knowing what payment can suffice his welcome interruption. He chuckles. “Well that, I can pay generously,” he says, capturing your lips searingly.

If this was a sin, then you never wanted to know the light again if the darkness felt like this.

#finan x reader #finan smut #the last kingdom #finan

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