#* † . script. › that’s a line i’m not falling for again !

[c-e-d-dreamer]

A/N: Nesta has had many metamorphosises within the series, but one of my favorites is her relationship with her sister and how that has changed, especially Feyre. And when Noah dropped Stick Season and I heard Orange Juice, I just knew that it was Nesta and Feyre's song. This is short but hopefully sweet. Hope everyone enjoys! cc:@nestaarcheronweek

Read on AO3

The streets of Velaris are strangely quiet this time of evening, most of the residents either wrapped up in their homes or holed up in one of the local taverns for the night. The street lamps and building windows all flicker with golden fae lights, only adding to the ambiance. The first snow of the season falls in soft swirls, catching in Nesta’s hair and eyelashes and further adding to the quiet peace. Even her footfalls don’t make a sound against the snow dusted cobblestones as she walks.

The wrought iron fence that surrounds the River House comes into view, ivy twisting around the metal and up the stone of the home. Just the sight has Nesta’s heart pressing up into her throat, memories breaking free from their cage in the back of her mind and threatening to overwhelm her again. Her skin crawls at being back here again, standing in this place again.

For a moment, the snow melts away around her. For a moment, it’s green grass and flowers. For a moment, raucous laughter floats through open windows and billowing curtains. For a moment, it’s six months ago.

Shaking her head against the cloud of memories, Nesta unfolds the piece of parchment in her hands again, reading the slanting, looping script of her youngest sister.

Come over, please? The party’s gone slower

With a soft sigh, Nesta folds the parchment again, slipping it back inside the pocket of her dress. She swallows down the emotions welling in her chest and pushes through the front gate, following the footpath up the steps and to the front door.

She barely has to knock once before the door is pulled open, Feyre standing on the other side. She’s dressed comfortably with a soft looking sweater and leggings, golden brown hair the same shade as Nesta’s own tumbling down along her shoulders and spine. Though the sleeves hang long, Nesta can still spy paint flecks stuck to the skin of her fingers, can still spy the short nails that are indicative of the habit that still clings to her youngest sister from when they were girls.

“Nesta,” Feyre breathes, offering a small, friendly smile. “I’m so glad you could visit.”

Feyre steps back, gesturing with her arm for Nesta to step inside. Already, Nesta’s eyes start to flit around, noting everything that’s changed. Everything that hasn’t. Her eyes linger on the portraits in golden frames lining the large staircase, lining the hall that leads to the large living room beyond.

“There’s orange juice in the kitchen,” Feyre continues, drawing Nesta’s attention back to her and leading her down a different hall. “We bought it for Nyx, but it’s yours if you want it. I know you got sober.”

“Six months,” Nesta offers, following Feyre into the large kitchen. “On the dot.”

Feyre’s steps pause, and she turns to smile over her shoulder. “That’s great, Nesta.”

She continues deeper into the kitchen and toward the ice box, pulling the door open. Her hands hesitate, and while her back is turned, Nesta recognizes the way Feyre’s fingers curl and twitch, the way her shoulders stiffen. It’s clear that her sister is frowning at whatever she sees, more likely what she doesn’t see.

“Just tea is fine.”

“Right,” Feyre breathes, letting the door fall shut again. “Tea.”

Feyre turns her attention to the cabinets, rummaging to get the kettle full and placed over the flame. The clink of dishes, the shuffle of tea leaves, it all fills the space between them, breaking up the underlying tension threatening to bubble up and stifle them both. With a soft sigh through her nose, Nesta lets her gaze drift back toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the faces and voices she hasn’t encountered since she moved away from the city. They float down the hall and into the kitchen like ghosts on the breeze.

The whole city is like a ghost town, roots and branches twisting like limbs reaching toward her. Shadows creeping out from every corner and alleyway. Nesta feels as much as a stranger in Velaris now as she did six months ago. As much a stranger as she felt in her skin. As much a stranger as she felt in this family.

And if she closes her eyes, Nesta can still see that hillside she passed when she arrived. She can see the white stone, glistening as brightly as the snow that swirled around it. Can see the monument that rises like a beacon, like a ghost all its own.

“I saw father’s grave earlier,” Nesta comments, her voice quiet.

Feyre nearly drops the teacups in her hands, but steadies herself and she sets them down on the counter in front of Nesta. “Elain had the monument built. She tends to the flowers around it every week.”

Nesta hums, taking a sip of her tea. It burns almost as much as the anger flaring through her veins. Almost. No matter the time that’s passed, it still fills her like a raging sea, still scorches like those silver flames she’s tried to swallow down. There’s no escaping it some days. No way to stop it from pulling her and drowning her through her silent screams.

“You know,” Feyre begins, sliding the tip of her finger along the rim of her teacup. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long.”

“Velaris isn’t my home,” Nesta reminds her, dropping her gaze to the swirling liquid of her tea so she won’t see the expression she’s sure will take over her youngest sister’s face. “Besides, we both know I’m third in the lineup to your lord and savior of a High Lord.”

“That’s not fair, Nesta.”

“It doesn’t matter anyways.”

Feyre sighs, a sound that Nesta knows well, one that tells her that her sister clearly disagrees but is swallowing down her argument. “I didn’t think to ask you where you ended up after you left… or why you left in the first place.”

She says the last part quietly, her voice trailing off, and guilt roils through Nesta’s gut and cloys up her throat. But she refuses to let its roots twist around her ribs, refuses to let it settle. Because she still remembers how it felt six months ago. She still remembers every cut, every bruise, every open wound that festered beneath her skin. Every ache that weighed down her soul. She still remembers the way her heart felt changed until it was little more than an unwelcome intruder in her chest.

“After the war… after the Cauldron, really, everything changed,” Nesta explains, finally raising her gaze back to Feyre’s.

“I know that everything was difficult for you…”

“No, you don’t understand. The world had changed. My life had changed. My heart and my very soul had changed, and yet you hadn’t changed at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange that after everything that happened, you just went ahead and carried on? You came back here and celebrated as if nothing had happened. Everything had changed irrecoverably for me, and for you, it was just another day.”

“Nesta–”

“Did you know that the last time I drank, I was right here in front of your house? That I passed out right there in your lawn?”

Feyre’s entire face shifts with the admission, pain spilling through her blue eyes. “You–I didn’t know.”

“Gods, I must look like crow to you now compared to everything you have. Just pulling you down.”

Nesta pushes her half finished tea away from her, moving to step back and head toward the door, but fingers curl around her forearm, holding her in place. Feyre’s expression is pleading, but there’s understanding flickering beneath it as well. It’s the sort of look only a sister can give. One who shared the teeth and the claws. One who can recognize and see through any mask or bullshit.

A mirror in the truest sense.

“It wasn’t your fault, what happened to father,” Feyre tells her quietly.

Emotions clog up Nesta’s throat until she fears she won’t be able to breathe. But she doesn’t dare break away from Feyre’s eyes, doesn’t dare pull away from her sister’s grip.

“You didn’t put those bones in the ground.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

#nestaweek2024 #nesta archeron #feyre archeron #acotar #archeron sisters #my fic #Spotify

[tropes-and-tales]

Not Real Just Yet

Day 14:  Breeding Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Breeding kink; the appearance of dub-con but with clear consent discussed; smut (PiV, unprotected); 18+ only. Again, this is a breeding KINK with an element of dub-con (but consensual), so if that isn't your thing, pass on this one.

Word Count:  1513

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person! It was also not edited in any way!

It’s not real. 

It’s not real just yet because Bob is active duty, often deployed for long stretches.

It’s not real just yet because you’re in a PhD program that requires long, long hours:  as you TA for undergrad classes, as you pore over old archived papers buried in colleges across the U.S., as you spend late nights on your thesis.

It’s not real just yet because you and Bob are sometimes just ships passing in the night, and you both hate it, but you’re both committed to each other and see this current pain as paying off in the near future.

It’s not real just yet because Bob, modern though he is, has old-fashioned ideas.  He wants to put a ring on your finger first, wants to carry you over the threshold of a shared home, wants to settle into a nice stretch of married life as a couple before adding to your family.

It’s not real just yet.  It’s just a fun way of playing around in the bedroom, and it’s more about the power dynamics of the breeding kink.  You have an implant, so the risk is minimal, but it’s still fun to pretend.

Bob, the back seater who often feels powerless:  he gets to take the dominant role. 

You, the harried student who often feels like there’s too much piled on your shoulders:  you get to take the submissive role.

-----

It’s not real just yet, but it sure as hell feels real.  Bob is finally home from a tour around the South Pacific, and you’ve finally turned in pages to your thesis advisor.  You each have the luxury of time, for once, and you turn your respective life frustrations on each other in the best possible way.

It’s easy to forget it’s not real when Bob slides inside you, the wet silky heat of your pussy and not a single barrier to stop him from feeling every sensation.  The delicious slickness of your arousal, the molten warmth, the way you bear down when he’s buried in you and whispers in your ear.  He whispers the filthiest things he’s ever said in bed with anyone, and sometimes he’s embarrassed in the morning when he remembers it, but the embarrassment never lingers—because he loves you, because he feels safe to explore this side of himself with you.

I’m gonna breed you, sweetheart.

Just take it.  Good girl, take it.

Gonna look so good, full of my baby.

Gonna make you a mommy. 

Take all of it.

Taking me so good.  Can’t wait to see your belly all round with our baby.

Just lie back and take it like a good girl.

He fucks you slowly, deep, purposeful thrusts that he punctuates with his dirty talk.  He knows it’s not real, but it’s so easy to fall into the fantasy, especially when you whimper at his words, when you cling to his shoulders and whine out your answering script.

Wait, Bobby…wait…

Maybe we shouldn’t…

It’s all a game, of course.  It toes the line of dubious consent but Bob knows it’s all consensual because you never utter the safe word and neither does he.  And sometimes he thinks maybe it’s sick, maybe it’s twisted, and maybe no one else would understand it, but when he voices those concerns to you, you always allay them.  You always cup his face and tell him that what the two of you do in the privacy of your bedroom is your business and no one else’s.

“Besides,” you told him once.  “You have no idea what your pals in Top Gun are into when it comes to kinks.  I bet Bagman is a foot fetish weirdo.”

So he pushes those doubts aside because fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing he’s done, exploring all the weird and surprising twists within his own sexuality and yours.

Your first orgasm is always the strongest—maybe because you pretend to fight it, pretend you don’t want this.  Bob notices all of your little tells:  the way your fingertips dig into the blades of his shoulders until he knows he’ll have dusty little bruises there in the morning.  The way your arousal absolutely soaks his pistoning cock, soaks the thatch of rough curls at the base of him.  The way you whine out no, please, as if your body is betraying you, and isn’t that part of the fantasy too:  that he fucks you so well that you can’t fight off the orgasm he works from you?

“Good girl,” he whispers against your temple.  “Good girl, coming for me.”  He slows his thrusting, savors the spasms of your aftershocks, allows you to recover. 

“Please Bobby,” you breathe out.  “It’s too risky—”

He closes his eyes and kisses your temple, feels the sweat making your hair damp.  “You think too much,” he murmurs.  He shifts his head, nips at your earlobe before he whispers in your ear, “just take it like a good girl.”

“Bobby—”

“You’re going to look so fucking hot, swollen with my baby.”  He says that staring into your eyes, which are wide in mock-fear, part of the game, but he can see how wide your pupils are too, your eyes damned near black, and it’s a reassuring reminder that yes, you are into this game too, you’re enjoying it as much as him.  And sure enough, there’s the answering clench in your pussy, the way you unconsciously bear down on him as he starts to resume his slow, firm rhythm of fucking you.

And now that you’ve come once, he takes it up a notch, ratchets the moment higher.  He gets an arm under your knee and hoists your leg up and out, spreads you out more for him to bury himself in you.  It grants him that extra bit of depth into your pussy, and each time he hilts his cock in you, it draws out a low groan from you, a throaty growl that makes the coil of tension in his gut tighten.

Here is usually where the game falters just a bit.  Bob’s never had this with any other girlfriend before; sex was always a fraught, anxious thing for him.  He always worried about his performance in bed.  Most of his girlfriends before you usually laid in bed like a starfish, limp and unresponsive, and it took Bob a long time to realize that it was them, not him, that was the problem.

But sex with you is always good.  Sometimes fun and playful, sometimes intimate and soulful.  Sometimes, like now, it’s both of you working through your own personal demons—him and his feelings of inadequacy, you and your feelings of overwhelm—but doing it together.  Exploring shadowy sides of yourselves in a perfectly safe, perfectly loving way.

How could he not want to put that ring on your finger, carry you over that threshold?  Bob could travel the world for the rest of his life and never find anyone half as suited to him as you.

And now, your second orgasm approaches.  Now your hands shift from clutching at his shoulders.  Your palms lay flat on his chest and you push lightly against him, the climax of your game timed to the climax you’ll share with him.

“Bobby, please,” you pant out.  “It’s not s-safe.  Pull…pull out—”

But he doesn’t because it’s part of the game, and a beat later, when you arch underneath him, when your eyes flutter shut and you wail out his name, he pushes into you and stills.  He feels his own tension snap, and he comes with a pained fuck, baby, take it, and it’s absolutely perfect:  the way your pussy ripples against his cock, how it pulls the thick ropes of his cum deeper into the confines of your body.

Here is where the game falls apart.  Or, rather, it ends.  Sex is a release for both of you, but since you are generally more stressed and wound-up than Bob, you have the habit of giggling directly afterwards.  Which might make a lesser man wither, but the tic charms Bob, and now he chuckles along with you.

“Oof,” you breathe out once the laughing passes.  You wrap an arm around his neck and pull him down to you.  “That was great.”

Bob is still half hard, so he shifts his weight carefully to avoid slipping out of you.  He leans his weight on one forearm and gazes down at you with a smile.  He brushes gentle kisses across your warm face.  “I missed you.”

You smile up at him.  “I missed you too.  I’m glad you’re home.”

Home.  Right now, it’s just a crummy little apartment near campus, but as Bob settles closer to you, he can already picture the future with you:  a better apartment or maybe even a house somewhere.  You with your PhD, him with his military career.  Each of you with rings on your fingers, vows made and received, maybe a dog adopted from a shelter.

And maybe, after that, you can play at your mutual kink for real.

#bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd x reader #top gun maverick #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

[mikeysw1fey]

i trust you

pairing: jenna ortega x female reader

warnings: bitch jenna for a min there, sad reader, happy ending (yay)

Humming along to the music in the kitchen whilst Jenna’s being Jenna and re reading her scripts on the couch is perfection.

I cook dinner, her favourite of course and she works, a perfect combo. We’re at peace, both existing in one another’s space whilst doing our own things.

But the peace didn’t last.

“Baby, do you wanna eat dinner at the table?” I ask finally plating the food and grabbing the cutlery as Jenna doesn’t reply.

“Jen?” I frown looking over my shoulder at the woman who sighs and glances up from her paper. “Look I’m busy ok? Can you please just eat and I don’t know go be loud in the other room?”

She doesn’t mean to be rude I don’t think. I mean she’s not a rude person. But that comment hurt.

“Oh uh, yeah. Sorry.” I reply, taken aback by her harsh sentence. Jenna doesn’t even reply, her eyes trained on the sheets of paper scattered before her.

Biting my lip, I debate my next move. Hesitantly I grab her dinner, walking over and placing it down in front of her, just beside the paper pile. “Here’s your dinner.” I try to smile, maybe lighten the mood.

“Are you kidding me.” She groans and throws the script in her hand on the table, the script edge managing to fall against the gravy that had dropped down the side of the plate.

“Fuck, do you see what you’ve done?” She snaps, her eyes raging as she stands up and glares at me. I don’t reply, backing away slightly. “Jenna I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” My voice seems to go in one ear and out the other as she breathes heavily as if trying not to yell.

“I have to have this done by monday. It’s fucking saturday and I have like two out of three hundred lines memorised. Can you go sit your annoying ass down somewhere else and stop fucking with my work.” She rages, hands clenched at her sides as she stalks up to me, finger poking me hard in the chest.

My eyes tear up while the rest of my body shuts down, the situation becoming much like ones I had purposely blocked from my memories.

Jenna’s exasperated groan snaps me back to reality as I rush out the living room heading straight towards the bathroom and locking the door with a snap before dropping to the floor.

Stifled sobs fall from my mouth as I shake my head, embarrassed at the stupidity of my breakdown. With shaking hands I paw at my eyes trying to stop the tears from flowing.

“Baby? Are you in there?” Jenna’s voice is soft, a contrast to her voice merely minutes ago as she calls through the bathroom door.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna have a shower.” I choke on my words slightly, failing my attempt to sound as if her actions hadn’t bothered me. “Baby, please, I know your not having a shower. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. Can you open the door?” Jenna’s voice is strained and I can almost hear the tears forming in her own eyes.

My fingers ghost over the lock of the door debating whether to open it or not as Jenna’s voice continues to beg. Using my hands to wipe the rest of my tears I switch the lock, the door swinging open almost instantly.

Jenna’s face looks exhausted, dark bags hang under her eyes, even more visible as a few tears stream down her cheeks. “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to yell or hurt you, I’m so overworked and I know that’s not an excuse but it just killed me today.” She steps forwards causing me to step back, her face falling as she notices my movements.

I shrug not looking her in the eye, my hands beginning to shake once again. Jenna stammers slightly, unsure of what to say before inhaling deeply. “Can I touch you?” She whispers, her hands outstretched towards me.

I glance up at her, eyes watering slightly. “Jenna…” I trail off not moving forward to take her hand and not stepping away from her either. Her brown eyes widen as her head shakes vigorously. “Are you going to leave? Please don’t leave. Baby, I swear to you I’ll never lay my hands on you again, I swear on my life. I- I can sleep on the couch if you want or I’ll go to my parents or something-“ She gestures incoherently, tears falling down her face as she begs.

Silence fills the bathroom for a minute, my heart shattering at the sight of her pleading figure. “I’m not going anywhere but you hurt me Jenna.” I sigh staring at the tiled floor. Her black socks fall into my view as she gently reaches for my hands, a slight glimmer of hope appearing in her eyes as I don’t attempt to pull away. “I know I did baby. And I’ll always hold that guilt but I can promise you that it won’t happen again no matter how overworked I am.” She whispers whilst rubbing her thumb over the back of my hand.

“I trust you.” I reply after a moment of silence finally looking into her eyes.

Her smile widens as her hands move to my cheeks, gently wiping away the tears that settle there. “I love you so much, I’m so sorry baby.” Her whispers are soft as she apologises once again.

I nod, my own hands falling on her face as mirror her actions. “Stop crying.” I chuckle as her tears continue to flow. Jenna laughs with me. “I’m sorry.” She half sobs half chuckles causing my eyes to roll playfully. “If you say that again I swear.” I lean forward to kiss her lips, her eyes fluttering closed at the contact.

“Come on bedroom time.” Jenna nods as I pull away and direct her to our room.

“You need to sleep, actually, we both need to sleep.” I order firmly, gently pushing her off me and onto the bed.

Pulling back the sheets, I lay down, Jenna moving on top of me as she begins to kiss my chest. “I poked you. I’ll never do that again. I swear on my life baby.” She whispers gazing up at me as my hand finds comfort in her dark brown locks. “I trust you.” I whisper in reply which causes her to smile slightly before moving her head back to rest just under my chin.

“I love you.” She sighs tightening the grip on my waist. I nod, grazing her back with my nails. “I know you do baby, and I love you too.”

#wlw post #lesbian #jenna ortega #jenna x reader #jenna ortega x reader #fluff #angst #scream

[matts-k1tten]

Heyy could you do some matt x actress gf headcannons? Thankyouuu

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐠𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

☆ ☆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

• would definitely bring you lunch everyday on set.

• wake you up every morning and push you to get up then insist on driving you to work like he’s your mom.

• “You got this baby!” or “That’s my girl!”

• He knows how passionate you are about your acting career and takes every role you get seriously and cheers you on when you ace a scene.

• would be bts on the set everyday and won’t care if he had to get up early with you he wants to support you no matter what.

• “You don’t have to come with me Matt.” “Yeah well you can’t get rid of me even if you tried.”

• He would give you tips and recommendations for hard scenes or lines to play like “Just read it over and over again repeat it to me, and you’ll get it in no time.”

• He’d help you practice scenes in your trailer.

• He would massage you whenever you’re feeling sore.

• Try to cheer you up whenever you’re not in a good mood on set and tell the manager to give you a second so you could calm down.

• “What the fuck is this scene?” You hand Matt the script. “Why are you asking me? You wanted this role!”

• Matt would take pictures every second he can and hang them on the wall or post them on social media.

• He would watch every movie/show you’re in and still be amazed about how “good” you are. “Woah, you’re so good at acting.” “Matt…I was moping a floor.”

• When he couldn’t make it to set he’d text you constantly and check up whenever he could.

• Would help advertise your movie

• Make friends with everyone on set or talk about them with you.

• “Oh my god, Cate this girl that’s set with me. Is so annoying!” “I agree.” (he doesn’t even know her)

• He would honestly be scared when the director is yelling at you and would try not to interfere with him/her.

• “You should start acting with me!” “Nah, that’s not my thing. If I did I’d steal your shine.”

• Matt would fall asleep in your trailer when you guys had to get up really early.

• He would surprise you with gifts on set just because you’re “so hard working”.

• Matt would laugh at your costumes but tell you it looks good while laughing.

• “Stop laughing fuck face.” “Sorry! I don’t mean it! It still looks good though!” “Then come over here and put it on.” Matt stops laughing.

• Whenever you’re mad about messing up a scene again and again Matt would try to help you.

• “Cut-“ “FUCK!” “It’s okay baby you got this, that was just unlucky. You got the next one!”

———————————————

a/n: guys this is actually so cute i’m shocked I made this. anyway if this doesn’t match ur req then im sorry but hope u guys enjoy!

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo angst #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo headcanon #chris sturniolo headcanon #nic #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #fanfic #sports #soundcloud #headcanon

[jiminrings]

478 phase 3 sneak peek

There’s not one exact emotion that runs through you because the longer that Jungkook looks at you, ecstatic, while you’re weighing what he’s just said like a bag of bricks — you feel even more conflicted.

Your husband wrings his hands together, nervously smiling at you as if he’s asking for permission, but the both of you know that his mind’s already set. He thinks the opportunity of producing a short film that’s been drafted by his friend is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, eager to take off even if he’s had no experience at all in the industry.

“I don’t know, baby. It’s just been so long since I got this excited and alive, y’know? It’s a nice change of pace and I get to do something nice-…”

“Isn’t being with your daughter nice?” you ask abruptly, unable to mask the conflict that’s been brewing in your mind ever since Jungkook pulled you aside to talk. You feel hesitant; disconnected even from wrapping your head around his wording.

Even convincing yourself that you’re just spent from working sunrise to sundown doesn’t work. No matter how hard you try, Jungkook’s tone remains as is.

“Y/N,” he sighs, lips in a tight line as he screws his eyes shut. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything, Jungkook,” you grit, crossing your arms in defense. You feel guarded more than ever, not because you’re the one whom he’s pertaining to, but because your Hwayoung is involved and you won’t sit around for it. “It’s just that when you put it like that, it sounds like taking care of Hwayoung is a chore.”

You used to be sure awhile ago that you were seeing double because in between memorizing scripts and going from schedule to schedule without any time to rest in between, you’ve been worried sick because Jungkook hadn’t texted you the whole day. You were shocked enough to come home to your daughter playing by herself downstairs (with Miso watching her the whole time), even more-so when you saw Jungkook engrossed in a highly-enthusiastic phone call.

Jungkook sighs as if talking to you completely exhausts him, pinching his nosebridge before muttering under his breath. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“Excuse me?” you blink in surprise, tilting your head in sheer confusion. You’re about to shrug it off but he does that thing again, the one where he almost rolls his eyes at you but realizes it at the last minute.

“Nothing.”

“Say that again, Jungkook.”

“My god,” Jungkook groans, throwing his head back. He runs his hands through his hair frustratedly, sucking in a rushed breath. He looks straight at you when he gives his grievance. “I’m just saying! Why do you get to live out your dream but I don’t?”

“This is my job,” you bite back instantly, the second it took for you to digest his words being enough time for him to groan again. “If it were up to me, do you think I’d work six days a week? Do you not know how much it kills me to stay away from my family?”

You’re at a loss for words, the tiny bit of insecurity you have being dug up once again. You feel guilty because you actually don’t — you know to yourself that you still dedicate so much of yourself to Jungkook and Hwayoung even if you work full-time.

Jungkook chokes up a laugh in front of your face.

“Then quit your dream if you’re so miserable.”

Your jaw clenches quickly in annoyance, unable to retain the disbelief that builds up in your chest. “My dream is my job! It’s why we’re living this life in the first place, Jungkook! Your dream is this project that was pitched to you like what, two weeks ago?”

“Can I not live my life the way that I want to?” he asks exaggeratedly, eyes wide in defense. “Why am I only your husband and why am I only Hwayoung’s dad? Why can’t I go to the US a-and try things out? Why can’t I be free from all this even for just a while?”

Your mouth falls apart at that, your moment of shock simultaneously being Jungkook’s instance for guilty. He wants to reel it in right then and there, but the small part of his pride grows to hold him back.

“Do we hold you back that much?” you whisper, the headache that has been building in your head since this morning shrinking to the size of Jungkook’s words. “What are you getting so angry for? I’m not saying no. I’m asking you why you’re so hellbent on suddenly leaving to do this.”

A large part of you, if not all, feels more disappointed than angry. Hwayoung has not and should never be an afterthought for the both of you yet Jungkook brings her up with you like mere variables.

You can grasp the fact that being a parent is a full-time job like yours yet what you can’t get a hold of is your husband’s apprehension; his sudden need of pursuing something beyond your family.

“Because I’m scared, Y/N,”  Jungkook whispers, exhaling heavily. “I’m scared that this is all what life could ever be for me.”

It’s only when you’re completely silent that he comes back to the severity of his words, the tension that’s been building up in him breaking the moment that you break eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry for being your wife.”

“Baby, that’s not-…” Jungkook tries to correct himself, hot on your heels as you get up from your seat on the couch. You’re not even speeding up yet he catches you just as urgently, the hold he has on your arm doing little to put you at ease.

“And I’m sorry for making you a dad.”

“Y/N, sweetheart, I’m-…”

“You should do this project if you really want to,” you quip, back still turned to him as you enter the bedroom. Jungkook noticeably stops in his tracks, the furrow in his brows fading because you’ve put him on whiplash.

“What?”

“You’ve held down the fort while I was out being the breadwinner. It’ll be nice for you to do your own thing,” you smile tightly, eager to sleep on the whole thing just so you don’t stay hung-up for too long.

“What about Hwayoung? What about your film? They want it to be an entry for the Academy, right?” he asks in concern, different from the worry he had awhile ago when he thought you were against him leaving.

You nod, easily shrugging despite the weight on your shoulders. “I’m her mom, of course. She’s gonna come first. And for the film, I think I can still do it. I’ll juggle them both if I have to.”

Jungkook nods, eyes set on the floor. He didn’t think this far at all.

“Do you want to hire a nanny? I know a friend.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t trust nannies.”

There’s an overwhelming silence that engulfs the both of you, the white noise machine in your nightstand unable to fill it completely. Jungkook looks at the ceiling while you look at Hwayoung who’s sprawled in the middle of your bed, clutching Miso like a teddy bear — she already fell asleep waiting for the both of you.

“I didn’t mean what I said awhile ago, I’m sorry. It came out the wrong way,” Jungkook apologizes after some time, hand darting out to hold yours while you only hover above your vanity, taking off all of your jewelry except for your wedding ring.

“When do you leave?” you ask, still unable to meet his gaze.

“Next week,” he clears his throat. “When do you start filming?”

You nod, coming into terms that Jungkook would leave no matter what you say. “Next week.”

You’re arranging the covers when your husband tries to hold you again, voice strained and rushed. “Y/N, I really am sorry. I love being your-…”

“Shh,” you interrupt, pursing your lips. “Hwayoung’s sleeping.”

.

.

.

to get ahead of questions: yes, 478 phase three will also be posted on tumblr!! the only difference would be the posting dates :)

i... will be keeping my mouth shut for the time-being!! spoiler alert: This Sneak Peek is Not all there is to phase three i am so so so sorry there Will be more!!!!!! for patrons who've already read all the sneak peeks and sent me spoiler asks, i'll be answering soon dw!!

wanna read two more sneak peeks + exclusive content + early access?? subscribe to my patreon :D

#sneak peek

[freedomfireflies]

hi bestie, can i request smth where harry is filming dwd and olivia keeps trying to get at harry and hit on him but he denies her every time and one day where reader comes to set she and harry are both in harry’s trailer but olivia doesn’t know reader is there so she tries hitting on harry again and starts saying rlly inappropriate things and reader hears and puts her in her place and says that if she ever talks to harry in a way other than a precessional way she’ll expose her or something? idk if that made sense haha and harry gets all happy and is like you are my lord and savior 😭 can you make reader a really bad bitch 😭😭 💕

Hi! Yes, so, I’m changing things a bit because I’m personally not a super big fan of bringing Olivia herself into this kind of stuff but I’m absolutely keeping the premise!! Just changing the antagonist to someone fictional instead! Obviously you can still picture her if you’d like but I hope this will be okay and that whoever asked will still enjoy 😭💞

“‘I know exactly where you can stick that can of tuna, Jack-ass.’”

Harry smirks, eyes peering over the top of his script at you. “The line is, ‘Hi, honey, welcome home.’”

“Oh. Weird. I must have gotten a different script cause mine definitely says the other thing,” you reply innocently, batting your eyelashes as he exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah, see…right there. Jack. Ass.”

“Oh, it does, does it?”

“It does. Strange, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Very.”

You bite at your lip to refrain from grinning as you return your eyes to the page. “Okay, well…I think you’re good for tomorrow’s scene. I mean, it’s kind of all about her, anyway, so…no one will really be paying attention to you.”

“Gee, thanks,” he snorts as he straightens up on the small couch, tossing the script to the side.

“Hey, am I wrong?” You blink. “Hello. Florence fucking Pugh is in the same frame, I guarantee you nobody is looking at you.”

“Oh, well, I’m flattered,” he retorts, hand coming up to his chest in faux appreciation. “No, really. Give me another compliment. I think I’m blushing.”

Your eyes roll playfully as you gingerly chuck a water bottle at him. It flies across the tiny trailer and whacks him in the stomach as he flinches, laughing as it falls into his lap. “Hysterical. Truly,” you bite back. “Been a movie star for five minutes and think you’re the shit.”

He tosses his arms along the back of the couch, settling in a bit further as he nods at you. “S’been at least ten minutes, love.”

“Right, and to this day, iCarly is still your best work.”

“…you know what, I’m not even gonna argue with you on that one. I really did shine.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Sucked the shit out of that water bottle.”

“You really did.”

“Oscar-worthy, I’d say.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

He eyes you from his spot, sensing your teasing tone, and before you can clock his sneaky intentions, he’s lifting the water bottle into the air, twisting off the cap, and flinging the water at you.

You gasp as the water effectively drenches your hair, face, and chest. You attempt to shield yourself by throwing your arms up, but it’s too late, and Harry lets out a deep, guttural laugh. 

“Oh, you dick,” you squeal, immediately standing as you throw him a peeved look. “See, this is why I don’t take you home to my mother.”

He’s wearing a shit-eating grin as he watches you scramble to the bathroom. “Oops.”

“Oops my ass.” You attempt to wring some of the water out of your hair as you glance at your reflection in the tiny mirror. “I can’t go out there and let Chris Pine see me like this!”

Another laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I love him and I have mascara dripping down my face,” you huff, swiping a knuckle under your eye. “Oh, God, this is bad. Okay, gimme five, I gotta reset.”

“Babe,” he calls with another chuckle. “You look fine—”

“Bite me!” you retort quickly before slamming the door shut. “Shit! Where’s my setting powder?”

You hear him snort to himself from the other side but soon turn your attention back to the canvas that he so elegantly ruined.

It had taken you twenty minutes to get the eyeliner wing this sharp.

You frown as you get to work, and for the next couple of minutes, your focus remains on your own reflection as you hear Harry humming to himself on the couch.

And then…the humming stops.

“Hey…?”

“Hey, so sorry to bother you. I just wanted to check in before you leave, make sure you’re doing all right with the revisions.”

You pause, leaning a bit closer to the door as a second voice enters the trailer.

“Oh…yeah. Went over it this afternoon. I like it, it sounds good. I think it’ll be really impactful.”

“Oh, good. Good, yeah. Yeah, I’m really looking forward to watching you and Florence bring it to life. I’ve said it before, but we really are just so lucky to have you both on board.”

You finally recognize the voice, placing it to the face of the film’s director, Angela. And now that your curiosity is satisfied, you return to your task as the conversation continues to slip underneath the door.

“Hey, it’s all thanks to your vision,” Harry is humbly responding. “I just feel lucky to be a part of it.”

A bit of silence as you swipe your lipstick along your bottom lip before you hear the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs and into the trailer.

“You’re such a doll. No, really, that’s such a kind to say,” Angela gushes. “You know…this whole casting process was really just…it was so stressful there for a minute but after I saw your audition tape, I just knew you’d be our Jack.”

“Listen, I’m just glad it worked out the way it did. It’s kind of nice to dip my toe into this side of the industry and I’ve got a lot of really great mentors to help me along.”

“Oh, absolutely. I mean, we just have such a fantastic cast. You’re in great hands.”

A beat.

“And, you know, I’ve said this before but…if you ever need anything at all, you just need to let me know,” Angela says. “You’re my top priority, and I want to make sure you feel taken care of.”

“Thanks, that’s really—”

Suddenly, it goes quiet. Far too quiet and for a moment, you wonder if they’ve left the trailer altogether.

You step out of the bathroom and glance both ways, just to check and make sure he didn’t leave you behind.

But instead of an empty trailer, you find Harry.

And Angela.

And her tongue.

Down his throat.

Your eyebrows just about fly off your forehead as you clear your throat and call, “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

Terrified, and a bit pale, Harry leans back and catches your eye, expression frazzled like a deer caught in headlights.

Angela, however, is a bit slower to remove herself from his body, finally stepping back with a bit of a wounded smile. “Oh, my gosh…I’m so sorry. This…this isn’t how I wanted you to find out, I—”

“Find what out?” you ask just as Harry says, “I’m sorry, what?”

She quickly looks between you both, palm hovering over her mouth as if stunned. “Oh! I’m…I’m sorry, I thought you told her.”

“Told me what?” you repeat, stepping closer, and looking to Harry.

Poor thing looks like he’s about to keel over.

“About…our…arrangement,” she answers shyly, and your eyes narrow.

Harry blinks. “We…what? What arrangement, I—”

“Oh. That arrangement. Got it,” you cut in, nodding as you finally put the pieces together.

Both Harry and Angela turn to look at you, surprised. 

“Yeah,” you agree, taking another step as you meet her eye. “Yeah, no. Florence told me about this thing you do where you try to fuck your actors and exploit them for fame. Oh, and how your entire marriage is a sham, and you’re trying to get out of it by pretending you were the innocent, bad-ass feminist just trying to do her job when you were blackmailed into sleeping with your costar.”

She swallows as Harry’s jaw nearly drops.

“Oh, she also told me that if I were to find you…arranging yourself on my man, then I should remind you of section 15, paragraph 3 of the contract you signed,” you add, arms crossing over your chest. “Does that…ring any bells?”

Her cheeks flush. “Look, I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’m sure,” you hum. “But you did, and now you’re done. Thank you so much for stopping by. Buh-bye now.”

And with that, you gesture toward the door. 

A rather petrified Angela stands to her feet, knees a bit wobbly as she makes her way for the exit.

And just before she can close the door, you call, “Oh, and just a little tip…when you see the officers? Don’t run.”

The door slams shut before you have the chance to see her expression but something tells you…it was everything.

Now, you turn to Harry, still glued to the small sofa. “Anything you have to say for yourself?”

He straightens up, nearly tripping over his tongue as he begins to explain, “I promise, I don’t know what happened, she just put her hand on my thigh and suddenly it was, like, all the way up my thigh, and her mouth was like…right there, and I didn’t know what to do, and I wasn’t sure what was even happening, or if it was part of the script or something, and I—”

You close the gap between you and take his face between your palms. “Harry?”

He winds down to a stop. “…yeah?”

You grin. “I love you.”

Utter relief floods his features as he sighs and melts back into the cushions. “I love you, too. Thank you, by the way. Ironically, she tasted like canned tuna.”

You laugh as you flop down beside him, whacking at his chest on the way down. “Ew. Poor Nick.”

“Right? iCarly would never do this to me.”

For a moment, you can only chuckle, and despite the rather interesting turn of events…you can’t deny your joy.

“No,” you agree with a grin. “No, she would not.”

~ Full Masterlist

~ Other Harry Blurbs

#harry #harry styles #harry Edward styles #harry styles fan #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles request #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #blurb #request

[last-starry-sky]

innocent!reader x graves - part 3!!!!

(original idea inspired by this post by the lovely @shotmrmiller - part 1 here - part 2 here)

NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS - MDNI: (slut shaming, a lil bit of body horror-ish stuff, pov switches, lots of pet names (as per usual lol), dub-con if you squint (reader is a bit drunk so ymmv), fingering, look me in the eyes and tell me graves isn’t the type of guy to pack heat 24/7, i’m really leaning into how much of a virgin reader is so buckle in, no hard smut (again, sorry lmao))  

You were standing around the kitchen island with your mother. It was your usual morning ritual, but this morning was different somehow. You just couldn’t place it. Things seemed . . . weird. Off. Just a little to the left of normal. Like how the sun felt a too bright, blasting in the front windows like a floodlight, far too bright for the early morning.

You squinted at the bleached out white walls and shiny tile floor as your mom was cradled your face in her hands. They were cold. Your cheeks were cold. You shuddered in her grasp, peeling her off you as you stepped back. Your foot hit the leg of a stool behind you. You plopped down, falling right into the cushioned seat.  

“How was it sweetie? You have fun?” she said picking up her coffee cup with a smile so wide you wondered if it was hurting her. 

Her voice is unbearably high-pitched and sweet; like cold syrup pouring in your ear. It took you a moment to realize you had heard those words before, that this was not a dream.

It's a memory. 

Oh yeah, you realized, this was the morning after you went on your first date. You felt the stupid smile you had walked in with return to your face. Your first date with Phil.  

The thought of him warmed your brain. His hand in yours as he led you to the front door. How he’d let you doze off in his car on the way home. How warm and protected you felt laying against him by the bonfire. The memory was comforting, creating a mix of pleasant feelings in your chest.

“Yeah mom,” you replied automatically, “had a lot of fun.” It was the exact answer you had given her that morning. 

Her hands clenched around her steaming coffee cup, knuckles white.

“Tell. me. how. it. went.” She said punctuating every word, smile gone taught; practically carved into her cheeks. 

Weird, a rouge blip of a thought came to your mind. Those were the right words . . . but her voice, the way she said them. It was far too terse. This was not how you remem- 

“Really good,” you responded on queue, still dreamy and automatic. It was like you were on a track, all of the lines already set and all you had to do was say them as they came, no matter the parts of your conscious brain screamed at you that something was wrong. You have to stop. You have to stop now.

“That’s good!” she said flipping back into her overly-happy demeanor so fast it gave you whiplash. “He seems like such a nice man. Your dad just wouldn’t stop talking about him after you left!”

That was . . . normal. You still felt weird, squirming in your seat and looking at your hands just to look at anything but her. Maybe if you kept going everything would go back to norm-

“He is nice,” you said before you could stop yourself. “So nice. I’m glad you both like him, too. We want-”

She interrupted you.

"Oh, but I don’t, honey.”  

“What?” you gasped off script, cracking away whatever part of the memory had it’s tenuous hold on you. This isn’t how this went. You remember this morning. You remember what she said. You know-

“You heard me. Whore,” she said, smile dripping off her face. Her words were like a black hole. Void of emotion and sucking you in with a terror like oblivion as the unreal brightness of the room turned dimmer and dimmer behind her.

Your mouth fell open. You tried to do something, anything: turn around, backpedal, run, but you couldn’t. Of course you couldn’t. You never can run away in a dream. You were forced to watch your mother’s face swirl off into the cheery kitchen around her as her voice turned acrid and shrill.

“Don’t play dumb with me you little slut.” Her eyes falling inward into black pits that shone back at you. Mirrors into your own guilty soul. “I know what you do when you’re alone in your room. I can hear you. And now, even that’s not enough? Look at you. I spent all that time, raising you right, taking you to church, putting the fear of God in you, and still you ended up like this. What would your father think if he saw you now? Letting a stranger touch his daughter, in public no less!”

“Mom!” you managed to gasp out, cheeks burning. How did she know? How did she find out?

“Don’t mother me!” her squaking, multitudinous voice called out, echoing around the little kitchen as a pit twisted deeper and deeper in your gut. 

“You think you’re still my little girl? Look at where you’ve done. What you’re planning to do.” You felt like God himself was there shaming you. The cup shattered in her hand, spraying blue ceramic in slow motion. “I sure hope you enjoy your night with him because you’ve made your own bed now.”  

-

The truck sways, bouncing up and down and then left to right, waking you suddenly from your soft, childlike sleep. You hear Phil mumble a quiet ‘sonofabitch’ above you as he corrected the truck with his left hand while squeezing your waist protectively with his right. You’re still right where you’re supposed to be: cuddled safely into his chest.

You crack open your eyes a slit. The cab is dark, interrupted only by the irregular pass of streetlights that flooded the cab suddenly with light only to plunge it back into inky, silent dark a second later. 

You can feel his bicep flex, tensing to hold you close, behind your head. When he’s got the truck back safely in his lane, his muscles in his arm relax. He sighs into your hair and you feel his hand move back down to your thigh, the rough skin of his fingers slowly stroked at the exposed skin south of your skirt. You sigh softly, shivering at his touch, burying your face in his shirt as you stretch yourself in his lap. 

His hand stops when you move, turning to look down at you. It lays there, warm and strong, on your thigh.

“I wake y’up, sweets?” he asked, his breath rustling your hair.

You squirmed in his lap as you shook your head, stretching your neck and wiping at your eyes. His hand tensed on your leg. 

“What happened back there?” you asked sleepily. The alcohol had made your tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth. You could still taste strawberries when you swallowed. 

“Ah. Oh that? Just a . . . just a log in the road,” he said with a pause and a shrug. 

He patted your thigh once before reaching up to take the wheel with both hands. He let out a soft groan as he canted his hips, shuffling your body on top of him as he readjusted himself in his seat. His eyes were focused straight down the road. It made you sad to lose his touch but you understood. Out the windshield you could see the road he was driving you down, if only what was illuminated by the headlights. Pine trees thickly lined both sides of the unfamiliar two lane road, interrupted only by the odd set of mailboxes that signaled a line of houses down hidden dirt roads. Everything was dark green and black. No stars. No moon. You didn’t know he lived so far out in the country, but then again, you had never been brave enough to ask. 

“You okay?” you asked quietly, still not quite woken up. You wrapped your arm around his ribs, relaxing into him, stealing his warmth.

“Yeah,” he said moving his left hand, letting it drip down the steering wheel until it just barely hung off the bottom. “Musta been a raccoon or somethin’ in the road. Got distracted.” 

He let go of the steering wheel, bringing his hand to grip your thigh where his other hand had been just a few minutes ago, right on the hem of your skirt. His thumb swiped back and forth, gently tracing from the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh to the top of your leg. The motion sent tingles racing to your core. You moved your leg a fraction of an inch to relieve the pressure but had to bite back a moan. Oh no, you thought tipping your head against his chest. You could feel how wet you still were. 

“Saw it too late ‘n had to swerve,” he added as an afterthought. You wondered if he had taken his eyes off the road to watch you now; if he could see you with your eyes closed, lip caught in your teeth, blissed out and squirming against his leg. 

He spread his fingers, pressing his warm palm flat to your leg, as he brushed up under your dress. You let your head loll back against his bicep behind you, unable to to keep your next moan from escaping.

“Now I got you distractin’ me,” he said with a hiss into your hair, sliding his hand up further. His fingers brushed at the edge of your panties. You squirmed under him as he danced ever so close to where you wanted him. Needed him.

“Phil,” you sighed. 

You were just about to crack, to grab his hand with your own and make him touch you, when he stopped, resuming his absent stroking. 

“Hold on jus’ a little bit longer, darlin’,” he said with a squeeze to your upper thigh. “Last turn’s comin’ up.”

He slowed down fractionally, taking a wide left turn that swayed the whole truck, the driver’s side wheels falling down into the slope of the ditch before pulling back onto the road. You bounced in his lap as the truck transitioned from the rough, but still somewhat maintained, concrete country road, to dirt and gravel. The trees lined the narrow road even closer than before, choking out the light from the increasingly rare streetlights. 

He took his free hand out from your dress, nudged in between your legs and his pants and adjusted himself. He closed his eyes for but a moment and groaned as he palmed his cock. It made you blush, you weren’t exactly used to men acting like this around you, but it also made you wickedly excited. He was like this because of you. You had made this strong, older man, a soldier, race you home on a dark rainy road just so he could get his hands on you. 

He put his hand chastely on your waist for a moment, flexing his fingers into your skin. It was as if he was weighing his choices. When you sighed into his touch he let out a held in groan. His choice was made. He skimmed his hand down your body to the press of your legs. When he got to the edge of your dress, he slid his hand under, bunching it against his sleeve as he sought out his prize.

It was the tip of his middle finger that first grazed your pussy. It made you jump, his touch punching out a gasp even through the cloth of your panties. He kept going, pushing his whole hand to palm at your warm, aching core. He ground the bottom of his palm against you, fingers stroked at your weeping hole, earning a pitiful whine into his chest. The brute, indirect pressure was making your legs shake.

You grabbed at his arm, looking up at him with pleading eyes. His eyes stayed stubbornly on the road. “Phil . . . please,” you begged. “Please-”

He cut you off by twisting his hand, curling his fingers under the waistband of your underwear to stroke at your silken folds in a single, fluid motion. You clenched, nails digging into his arm as you squeaked out a silent Ah as your eyes flew shut. 

The truck slowed to a crawl, headlights swaying back and forth, illuminating the same frame of unfamiliar road and dark, foreboding trees, as he concentrated on slipping his fingers through your untouched pussy. His ability to drive completely shot. You were lost too in the overload of new sensations. Your wetness covered his fingers, dulling the rough texture of his skin. He used his strength to press almost too hard as he made a circuit through your labia, up to your clit, finally swirling down and around your hole. You’d never had someone else touch you there, and even your own “experiments”, alone and frustrated in your bed, hadn’t yielded very much pleasure. But this, the tingling, shooting pleasure coiling tight in your core that had you open-mouth panting. This could be something.

He took his remaining hand off the steering wheel to wrap both his arms around you, leaving his whole body flexed on to the brake like a vice. He pressed his face into your hair as he rolled his hips against you with a moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he said with a flick of his fingers across your clit that made you flinch. He was completely blissed out - his voice rough and heady. The combination made you shiver against him. “Fuck. We can’t-” he said tipping your jaw up, forcing you to face him again as a blush crept over your cheeks, “-can’t do this here.” He pressed an open mouthed kiss against your lips before pulling back, his nose sliding against yours. “Open your mouth for me now, babydoll,” he said taking his hand away from your pussy to peel your bottom lip open with his thumb, your own slick painting your jaw. 

-

Somehow, someway, he did manage to pull his brain out of his cock and drive that last stretch of road to his house. As much as he had wanted to throw his plans to the wind and just fuck you in the truck he reminded himself that this was your first time. He needed to make it good for you. 

No high school specials tonight. That wouldn’t make you stay. 

He let himself indulge in one more sleepy, dazed kiss before he mechanically went through the motions to shut off the car. Slide the clutch into park, unbuckle, radio off, lights off, turn the key in the ignition. He had to move you off his lap to get out first before he could scoop you back up into his arms to bring you inside. When he leaned in to pull you out he saw his jacket crumpled into the corner of the passenger seat. You nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, almost ready to fall asleep again. A corner of your bright purse stuck out. It was tangled inside his jacket, almost completely hidden. He hugged you tight to his chest as you shivered from the misting rain. Your phone was probably in there too. 

Shame, he thought as he slammed the door shut with his free hand, you’ll probably be looking for that in the morning. 

He didn’t set you down until he got to the front door, not that you protested. Your useless heels would have sunk into the mud of the lawn anyway. It was still cold night despite the weather clearing. He liked feeling of you shivering against his side in the dark as he unlocked his front door. It wasn’t longer than a moment before he had the deadbolt and door unlocked, shooing you inside ahead of him. 

You ambled in, tipsy and disoriented, in the dark, heels clacking in an unsteady gait across the wood floor. He listened with amusement as you made your way around his unfamiliar home with only the sparse outside light to guide you. Sometimes he forgot how dark it could get out here in the country. 

He stopped at the dinner table, taking his time, unloading his usual carry: wallet from his left pocket, phone from his right. Each made a light clink against his keys as he tossed them onto the table. He reached around his back and unclipped his holster from inside his slacks. His clip followed shortly. They both made a weighty thunk on the table. He rubbed at the sore spot the grip had worn into his back, suppressing a groan. It didn’t help that his holster had slid to the middle of his back, making him adjust the way he sat the whole drive home with you wriggling in his lap. 

Once his watch was off his wrist and his shoes kicked behind him, he walked silently back to the door and locked the deadbolt. The sharp CLACK of the metal had always been comforting, but now, it was exciting. A sign that everything was ready. That you were safe now. Finally. he thought with a sly smile creeping across his face. Locked inside his home (could be yours too, in a heartbeat, if you asked). With no one around for miles to bother you. Right were you were always meant to be, darling.

The only safer place you could be is wrapped in his arms, and he planned to remedy that problem as soon as he found you. 

It didn’t take much of a hunt to find you. You’d made a light thump as you found the end of the couch with your hip in the living room and had decided it was as good a place as any to lean against. He had to give you credit, you had hauled yourself up onto the arm of the sofa all by yourself. It was almost cute to watch you struggle to keep your balance as you reached down for your ankle straps, little frustrated noises falling from your lips. 

He was quiet in his socks. He could tell you hadn’t heard him when you jumped as his hand touched your knee. He laughed at it as he slid up your thigh boldly.

“Phil . . .” you said grabbing his belt, looking up with pleading eyes.  

“Need help, baby?” he teased, trailing his hand back down to hook under your knee. You let out a gasp, crumpling his shirt at his waist as your fingers clamped suddenly together. He held your hips with his other hand, hiking your leg up to his hip, allowing him to smoothly slot himself in between your legs. 

This was going so fucking well. 

It took a little bit of fiddling in the dark, but he managed to unclasp your left heel, letting it fall with a loud THUNK against the floor. It didn’t help that there was not another sound in the house beside your rasping breaths. You were such a cute little thing like this: holding on for dear life, whining into his chest, barely able to breathe already. He smoothed his hand up your leg until it met his other hand at your waist. He couldn’t help but give you a little squeeze. You yelped, head shooting up out of his chest to lay your pleading eyes on him.

He pressed his advantage immediately. He chuckled and leaned down to peck a gentle, toying kiss on your lips. His hand was already moving down to your remaining shoe as he pulled away, a small, disappointed oh falling from your lips. This time, he wouldn’t let you hide. He moved his hand from your waist to the small of your back, rough fingers catching on the smooth, clingy fabric of your dress. You were red cheeked and panting, a small ah all the noise you could make, when he pressed you forward, forcing you flush against his front. Only an inch of needy, heated space separated his cock from your barely-clothed pussy and, good fucking God, did he need it. 

Need it. Need it. Fucking need-ed-it.

Your ankle in his hand, he deftly popped your hip open. He tilted forward that last, cloying centimeter to feel you. His eyes fell shut as he pressed to you with a groan. You were so warm. He could feel it through his pants. You let out a shamefully high-pitched whine in return. He felt his trapped cock jump in his pants. He was throbbing and, fuck, so were you. He couldn’t feel it yet, but he knew you were wet. How could you not be? All that excitement in the car had to have your pussy working overtime. 

Your second heel fell to the floor. 

“Phil . . .” you whined in the silence that followed, pawing at his sides and back. His dress shirt made soft swishing noises under your nails. It was almost like music. 

He chanced looking down at you. Fuck did you look gorgeous. Your skin shimmered in the dark with sweat. The first thing that caught his eye was your breasts pushed against his ribs, that little silver cross hidden safely away, swallowed entirely by your chest. Your eyes were huge, with pupils blown wide and glassy with tears as you looked up at him. You were chewing on your bottom lip again, the irritation making it all the more red and kissable. The more blissed out and needy he made you, the more irresistible you became. 

A perfect, vicious circle. A positive feedback loop.

He let go of your ankle to place his hand on your cheek. You were beyond flush, more like burning. When he felt you fold your leg around his hip of your own volition he couldn’t help but feel satisfied. He rutted forward into you. It was a rough pleasure that did almost nothing for both of you, but it was something. A tease in this slow, slow dance he had been leading you on, a preview of what was to come, maybe even a reward for holding on this long, for doing so so well.

“Doin’ okay, sweets?” he asked, petting your burning cheek with his thumb. 

You nodded with a bat of your lashes. You straightened your back suddenly to make yourself taller when you saw him leaning down to kiss you. You were still so excited, enthusiastic. 

Trusting. 

He let all the chains come off. Long gone were the quick, chaste pecks at your front door. The ones that drew you into him. A delicate summer moth hypnotized by a porch light, never to escape. Even the “real” kisses he’d had with you outside the restaurant and in the truck were blown away. He held your jaw open with an iron grip while he forced his tongue in your mouth. He was sloppy, aggressive, taking what he wanted. He would only momentarily break away to nip at your open, panting lips, before diving back in. It amazed him how submissive you were. You weren’t fighting him in any way, just let him control everything while you let out an occasional moan or whine. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to figure out why that was. 

You’d never been kissed like this before. How could you have an opinion on how you liked it when you’d never- Fuck, he forgot. How could he forget? You’d never done anything before. He’s got a little virgin in his hands, whining and squirming, practically begging for it. 

Hmm, he thought. Could he really . . . could he make you beg for it?

He squeezed the side of your thigh as he rolled another thrust against you, groaning against your lips. You yelped at the pain of his fingers biting into your skin, but it dissolved into another high-pitched whine. Fuck, could listen to that all night. Your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him close. 

“Phil,” you sighed as he rolled his hands up your thighs, dragging your dress up with it. “Phil please.”

Oh fuck, he thought. She’s really going to do it.

“Please what, darlin’?” he asked hoarsely, resting his forehead against yours, watching you squirm as he tried to pull your dress out from under you.

“Please . . .” you trailed off shyly, trying to make him stop by pawing at his hands. Not that you could.

“Gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he said voice drawn gruff and dry. 

He balled the stretchy fabric of your dress in his fists and pulled. It resisted, pulling ever so slowly from where it was trapped under you. The sound itself was delicious tension. More music to his ears. It was a long, soft noise as the knit stretched to it's limit in the quiet of the room. You tried to turn your head away, to hide your pants and whines, but he prevented it by shoving his face into your neck. He kissed and nipped at your neck until, without fanfare, your skirt popped out from under you.  

You slammed a hand to his chest before he could make another move. This time, he obeyed you. 

“Phil!” you plead, red faced from embarrassment, “Can we . . . can we not- um can we go . . . ” You caught your breath for another couple moments, wiggling your knees on either side of his waist, before turning to him. “Can we do this in your bed . . . please?” 

He hauled you up by your thighs, throwing you up onto his chest without another word. You scrambled to throw your arms around his neck as he backed away from the couch. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into the side of your head.

#mw2 #graves/reader #graves x reader #cod fanfic #starry writes #call of duty #cod mw2 #here i am once again blue-balling my audience by delaying the smut for another chapter :) #sorry this took a fucking month i was outta my groove #also. just lookit me using dividers and shit like a real author

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silver Lining 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

Part of the Silverfox AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You lay under the covers, hiding. From the world, from the man on the other side of those walls, from yourself. You just want this to be over with. You want to go home and be alone.

You roll over and sink down beneath the flannel and heavy quilt. They smell like laundry detergent. Not a bad smell, just strong. You’re not crying, you won’t let yourself get that far again. You just can’t stop thinking.

Mr. Rogers face imprints in your mind. You just see his face every time you blink. You feel his grip on your, moving you, using you. You whimper as a flash of his office replaces the dim bedroom around you.

You sit up, ready to scream. GO AWAY!

As scalding as the memories you tried so hard to forget is the embarrassment of your outburst. You though you and Bucky were coming to an accord. That you were getting along but he just had to keep pushing and pushing, needling at the sore spot until you came unraveled. You can only blame him so much. You’re responsible for your own behaviour.

You hear the stairs creak and you hug the blankets as you listen. His footfalls come down the hallways and you see his shadow beneath the door. He stops there and you brace yourself for his knock. It doesn’t come. He continues down the hall and clears his throat loudly.

Hinges softly whine and his voice startles you, “hey, yeah it’s me. You get home okay?”

The door shuts out his next words as it clicks sharply. You can hear his muffled tones but you can’t make out the words. He must be on the phone with someone. You think you know who.

You sit up and drag yourself over to the window. You look out at the lazily drifts of snows. It’s slowed but what’s fallen is deep and treacherous. It’s like a scene out of a fantasy show.

You huff and back away from the window. You’re not getting anywhere. You cross your arms and plod around the room, restless as your stomach swims with your dinner and the craft beer. You’ve never been one for alcohol.

You won't sleep like this but you don't know how to go out and face him. Every time you think you've found peace, it crumbles into another petty argument. You don't think you've ever fought so vehemently with anyone. No one's ever pushed your buttons so easily.

His low tones continue to roll through the air as you walk in circles, lost in anxiety. You just have to wait out this storm. After the last blow up, you doubt he'll want to hold you to your promise. He has the script, he can figure it out.

His door opens again. He's silent as you hear his advance outside the room. He stops again, this time he knocks. You stop in place and hesitate.

"Hey, if you're awake..." he says.

You march to the door and open it an inch, peeking out at him, "a-awake."

"Right, uh," he seems almost surprised by your abrupt response, "I just wanted to apologize. Again. I know I keep doing this but I swear I'm trying not to."

"Mm," you purse your lips and nod, "y-yeah..."

"So we can just focus on the podcast. I still wanted to show you the studio... if you're not too tired."

You stare at him. It would be a good distraction, even with him. You can't just hide away. This is his house.

"S-sounds good," you let the door fall open.

His throat bobs and he exhales, "great."

He turns, beckoning you with jab of his finger ahead. You follow him. He's being nice at least. As nice as you can hope for.

He leads you down the stairs and stops in the kitcheb to grab a flashlight from a drawer. The house is getting darker by the minute. He points you to a door across from kitchen.

He opens it and holds it open, waiting for you to descend first. You take the steps on at a time, your hand firmly on the railing. You turn the corner and come to even ground, looking around at the spacious basement as he flashes the beam around, guiding your gaze.

The walls are cover in black-grey sound proofing and a desk is set up with a monitor and microphone, another table with various equipment atop it just on the other side. There's a clear booth build around the desk, likely to keep the sound concentrated in one area. He steps down behind you and you sidle out of his way.

"I've done some sound tests. I think it works pretty good but it's hard with just one person," he explains, "wouldn't mind having a second set of ears..."

He shoves a hand in his pocket as he paces, his other hand moving with his words.

"R-really? Even a-after... earl-earlier?" You ask meekly.

"It's been a stressful day. We can just let it go," he shrugs. "We were getting along, weren't we?"

"Y-yeah," you agree.

"So let's go back to that," he says, "forget everything else. In the morning, the plows will clear all the mess away and I'll take you home but tonight you're going to have to put up with me."

"G-guess I can t-try," you utter as you bring your hands up and rub them together.

"Cold?" He wonders.

You nod. Down here, you can see your breath. He backs up, "let's go. Powers gonna stay out for a while. You're welcome to sleep by the fire for the night. This place is frigid."

"Um, m-maybe," you step past him as he points you upstairs. He trails you, the light glaring around your figure and casting a shadow ahead of you.

"Well, you can at least finish your beer," he insists, "I'll crack a second and see if it doesn't mellow me out."

You nod as you get to the top and move out of his way, "th-thanks."

"Well, you know, I do listen. You were right... about my manners. I'm working on it... trying not to be stubborn old man.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #silver lining #silverfox #au #series #marvel #mcu #avengers #captain america

[nights-at-crystarium]

Fragments - episodes 36-40 author notes

You can find similar breakdown posts on older episodes in my pinned!

I didn’t need to spend so much screentime on Titania fight, yet it was a fun personal challenge. I’d never written/drawn a cohesive fight scene before. The scripted ingame instances don’t leave much room for imagination, I wanted to stay away from the fourth wall, and make up a more immersive scene. How do you even make it look mildly interesting? You’d think, well, characters will just flail at each other until one of them dies, right?

So yeah the biggest challenge was creating the ebb and flow. What affects Vivi’s actions? Why wouldn’t he just murder Titania like any other opponent, and be done with it? I threw in a generous amount of inner pov (that I previously used very sparingly) and some silly tricks. The stakes are high, yes, it’s a Lightwarden vs WoD encounter, but Titania still retains their playful personality above all else. Vivi's here just to do his job, but he also knows that he's dealing with a fae.

The msq makes Titania stand out among other wardens, I capitalized on that and hc’d that they’re important to Feo Ul, and, by proxy, to Vivi. That instantly provided some emotional stakes, and an answer to why he doesn’t rush to kill them out of the door.

Vivi enters the castle in episode 35, and mostly runs in circles, analyzing his enemy, and even falls victim to illusions. This could’ve been it for him, but I daresay it worried none of us because we’re just at the beginning of a story about this guy, he’s THE guy in this universe not for no reason, he’ll manage.

No deep meaning behind "grasshopper", I just thought it's a bizarrely precise descriptor of both Vivi's long legs and dragoon jumps, and it fits the natural theme of the fight.

Vivi didn’t go in unprepared.

This line will be relevant again in like, 5-7 years from now :’>

More under the cut~

He always, always doubts everything, especially when it comes to his level of power. Self-nerfing. A light (heh) case of an impostor syndrome.

Everyone loved the bonk for meme reasons, Vivi simply bought himself some time to cast.

The Rainbow Sparkles of Believing in Yourself! And of something else, perhaps. I’m planting quite a bit of stuff for future, this one should take a mere year or so to pay off.

I hope this pose’s enough of a hint that you shouldn't be taking episode 37 too seriously.

Yes, he used his spear to ~cast~. And took a sailormoon pose. This's his, monoclass dragoon’s, interpretation of what the caster magic’s probably like.

Offscreen, Titania comes to their senses and shrills “so you wanna play rough?!”, Vivi ignores them, concerned with only one thing: did he succeed? How did the test of his custom spell go?

It only worked out because the both of them are idiots.

I like to emphasize that Fragments isn’t about retelling the msq, or big epic battles, but here, where I actually put my heart into it, I feel like I managed to pull off at least one epic beat you’d typically see in an action-focused comic. Super proud of this panel ;w;

This’s a standard panel divider I’ve used multiple times before, but it couldn’t be more visually appropriate here :3c

So, to recap. Vivi asks Titania if they miss the night sky. They do. Vivi brings the night sky to them, and lo, something actually happens. I illustrated this “something” as one of their eyes getting sort of cleansed here. This story suddenly takes a mahou shoujo (shounen, heh) turn, I appreciate that it may cause some eyebrows to raise, but I think it’s okay to take creative liberties like this in a story themed around identity, agency, and believing in yourself. If Titania’s so strong as to retain a tiny bit of their old self, to cohesively partake in a simple convo, then why can’t they return, even if for a brief moment, given the proper assistance.

An appropriate reaction to the wild bs that’s going on. Imagine inventing the tale of WoD in the First, only to witness THIS.

As about Vivi, he can save a soul when he genuinely cares for it. We haven’t seen him do this before. He does it for Feo Ul explicitly, implicitly as a self-reflection. He’s projecting so hard after realizing that Titania looks like him. He wishes for them what he'd wish for himself: to rest, to be treated with care and consideration. They don't only look like him, they're also unfree, tortured by something. Empathy or not, this’s the kindest fight Vivi’s ever fought.

I’m iffy about the canon talents that come with the Echo. You can understand any sentient creature, okay. What happens when you speak, does the other party feel the difference between that soulspeak and their native tongue? Does it feel off? Does it offend? I incorporated my own misgivings into Vivi’s thoughts about his Echo. He doesn't use soulspeak here out of respect and concern that Titania might not react well to it, throwing the entire plan out of the window. Thus he memorized quite a bit of fae words before the fight. This’s his way to mark himself as one of their people, or at least to show that he truly cares.

STAY TUNED FOR EPISODE 41

Vivien Doubter Rell. Also yay first nod!

Embracing his new duty, and possibly giving Titania the hug they deserve.

Look HE’S OKAY. For now. I just thought the hiccup would be a cute way to acknowledge the terrible power he’s just absorbed. The canon cutscene moves on unblinking, but here’s different.

Bracing himself for confrontation. Things might go awry. Or might not. Vivi doesn't know. Worst case scenario: this’s the end of his sweet lil friendship with Feo Ul. Do they like him, or a Titania-lookalike in him?

“Oh bugger...” big pets come with big responsibilities, my dear Feo Ul.

Just to reinforce his fae-ness.

Vivi had full control in this fight. Analyzed the enemy, successfully tested some crazy tricks, managed to have a heart-to-heart that resulted in getting a permission to kill Titania not with violence, but with mercy. So much could’ve gone wrong, but just didn’t. Vivi’s used to this, even if he constantly doubts everything, this’s how it always goes. He’s being flung at tasks with abysmal odds, somehow he emerges victorious.

I just like this panel so much okay.

This arc may feel slow, but it gives depth to Vivi and Feo Ul's relationship, and seeing them together in later episodes will spark even more joy.

Even after a warm moment they’d just shared, Vivi’s still wary. I broke out an analysis of what external influence, pressure to change means to him, please read this post if you missed it. YEAH TAGS AS WELL.

His expression here is an attempt to downplay the anxiety and swing the odds in his favor. What if Feo Ul insists and throws a tantrum? What if he has to become Titania right now, and there’s no way around this? Let’s make puppy eyes just incase, maybe that helps.

One more personal fav panel. There’s SO MUCH in this look. They’re on a threshold, about to become something else on Vivi’s behalf. Because they love him so much. They’ve instantly become friends because they don’t want anything from each other, just the company. Feo Ul’s such a breath of fresh air for Vivi, a new hope in a new world, where he’s (comparatively) a nobody, where people still have the potential to love him for who he is as a person. This’s why our crimson pixie gets so much screentime.

Vivi really said XD

The next few episodes wrap up the Il Mheg arc, and focus on good vibes and celebration. ShB follows a rollercoaster formula where it makes you smile at something nice and sweet only to whack you in the face right after, and I’m trying to do the same :3c

As always, thanks for reading~

#ffxiv #feo ul #vivien rell #ffxiv: fragments #fragment ii: new world old friend #fragments talk

[jackles010378]

Dancing in the Rain

(Jensen Ackles x You)

Jensen messed up, now he has to find a way to win you back.

Warnings - smidge of angst, plenty of fluff 🥰

The rain came down in torrents, drenching the streets of Vancouver. Y/N huddled under her umbrella, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Jensen Ackles, the charming actor she had admired from afar had just messed up big time.

They had met at a charity event, and sparks had flown instantly. Jensen’s smile had been like sunshine breaking through the clouds, and Y/N had felt herself falling. Their relationship blossomed with each passing day.

But, after a few months of dating, he’d said something thoughtless, something that had cut deep. And now, here they were, standing on opposite sides of the street, rain pouring down, their eyes locked in a silent battle.

Jensen had never been good with words. He was used to scripts and lines, but when it came to matters of the heart, he stumbled. He watched Y/N from across the street, her wet hair clinging to her face, her eyes stormy, the rain water mixing with her tears. He knew he had to fix this.

He crossed the street, his shoes splashing in puddles. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. It was stupid, and I regret it.”

She looked at him, her expression guarded. “You hurt me,” she whispered. “I thought you were different.”

Jensen took a step closer, the rain soaking through his shirt. “I am different,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone like you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N’s heart wavered slightly. She had seen glimpses of vulnerability in Jensen’s eyes, and she wondered if he was sincere. But she couldn’t let herself be hurt again. “What are you going to do about it?” she challenged.

Jensen’s eyes sparkled. “I’m going to win you back,” he declared. “Starting now.”

And so, the grand gesture began. Jensen showed up at her doorstep with a bouquet of sunflowers, their bright yellow petals a stark contrast to the gray sky.

He took her to their favorite coffee shop, where they’d had their first awkward conversation. He even sang her a song, his voice raw and unpolished, but full of emotion. Y/n thought Jensen had gone to get them another drink, but instead she heard his voice echoing throughout the quaint coffee shop.

As she looked up to find where he was, she locked eyes with him standing on a small stage guitar resting on his thigh, "y/n, I know I messed up, but please believe me when I say I would do anything for you. Even get up and sing in front of these nice people".

Y/n's eyes widened as everyone turned to look at her, her cheeks glowing brighter than the sun. He started to strum the guitar and began to sing ........

How far will you go

You should know

You'll be on my mind

Said you were leavin'

But never said when you'd be comin' back home and

I can't wait another day

Cause you know

I'd go to the end of the world for you

If only

You return to me

Ride with me

Round the lakeside

Got a raincoat and a veil

It's been so long since you went away

Took all of your lovin' and left me with nothin' and

When you go

What a shame

Cause you know

I'd go to the end of the world for you

If only

You return to me

Oh, and maybe I deserved it

To be left this way

I'm not sure

How I was so blind

All I know is that if you return it

And kept it here to stay

I'd lose my mind

I'd lose my mind

Cause you know

I'd go to the end of the world for you

To the end of the world for you.....

The crowd in the coffee shop applauded as Jensen finished singing. He made his way back over to you and sat opposite you once again. "I meant it y/n, I'd go to the end of the world for you". You looked over to Jensen with tears in your eyes "I know you would. But you really hurt me Jay".

Jensen looked out the window of the coffee shop and noticed something that pulled at a memory. Something you had told him when you first met. An idea popped into his head. He held his hand out to you which you gracefully accepted. "Do you trust me y/n?" He asked staring down at you, with a pleading look in his eyes. You nodded and let him guide you out of the coffee shop.

Jensen led Y/N to an empty park, the rain starting to fall. He twirled her around, their laughter echoing in the misty air. They danced until they were both breathless, raindrops clinging to their eyelashes.

“I love you,” Jensen said, his voice cracking. “I love your passion, your kindness, your stubbornness. I love everything about you, I also remember you said you have always wanted to dance in the rain".

Y/N’s heart swelled. She kissed him, raindrops mixing with tears again. “I love you too,” she whispered. “But no more messing up, okay?”

Jensen nodded, pulling her close. “No more,” he promised. “Just us, dancing in the rain.”

And so, they danced as the rain fell down on them, showing their love was and will be stronger than any storm.

TAGLIST: @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @nescavaneck @angelbabyyy99

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #jackles #supernatural #jensen ross ackles #spn cast #deanwinchtser #jensen ackles gifs #soldier boy #beau arlen #jensen ackles x female!reader #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fluff #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles fic #Spotify

[juniperskye]

Until I Found You

***Potential spoilers of The Rookie***

Pairing: John Nolan x Fem Reader

Sneak Peek: After his breakup with Bailey, John is convinced he will never fall in love again…that is until he found you. (This is taking place pre TO Nolan) Reader owns a Café (food truck).

Fluff/Angst

Word count: 2851

Warnings: Reader has kind of spooky vibes, no use of y/n, Implied age gap, mention of food and eating (no explicit details), brief mention of crime (no explicit details), mention of past relationships, mention of unhealthy relationships, mention of getting ready for a date (details are feminine leaning – shaving, makeup, nails, hairstyling), developing strong feelings quickly, one teeny tiny kiss.

Not edited - please be kind.

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

After his breakup with Bailey, John was convinced he wouldn’t find love again. How would it be fair for him to have had love with Sarah, Lucy, Jessica, Grace, Bailey and for him to expect it again. His love with each of those women differed from one another, but they all had played a very important role in his life. For the last few months John had really just been going through the motions; sleep, work, eat, repeat.

Today had been a particularly slow day on the job for John, very unusual for the LAPD. He had been riding alone today which was honestly making the day drag on even more so. He was counting down the minutes until lunch – at least then he would get to socialize with his fellow officers.

Two speeding tickets, one robbery and a stolen car later, it was finally time for lunch. Heading to their usual spot, John notices that there is a new food truck parked, black with orange script on the side spelling out “Hallowed Grounds” alongside little white painted bats. John’s eyes were drawn to this truck not because it is new, or that the line was at least fifteen people long, but because of the beautiful person running the window.

It was Lucy who had ultimately broken John out of the trance he was in.

“Hey, you okay? You were spaced out there for a second.” Lucy questioned.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m okay. What’s with the new truck?” John wanted to see how much Lucy knew without giving away the attraction he was feeling towards this stranger.

“Oh! It is all over social media, Hallowed Grounds, it is mostly coffee, but the pastries are to die for! I mean literally that is their slogan!” Lucy laughed.

“The line is pretty long, so it must be good. Should we check it out?”

“Sounds good to me!”

With that, John and Lucy made their way to the line. Lucy was talking John’s ear off about some new social media drama, but honestly John wasn’t listening, he was far too distracted by your beauty and the honey sweet tone of your voice. You had this way about you that was breathtaking, moving with grace and just so patient and kind to all the patrons who had been waiting in line. They were finally nearing the front of the line, and John had realized he hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“Hi there! What can I get for you?” You smiled at him.

“Hi, can I get a medium caramel latte and a lemon blueberry scone?” Lucy ordered with no hesitation.

“Of course! And for you?” You looked expectantly at John.

“I um, can I just get a black coffee and, no that’s all.” John stuttered.

Lucy looked over at him confused as she paid, and they walked over to stand near the pickup window. John took note of you disappearing from the window and a young man taking your place.

“Okay, I know that we did not just stand in that long line just for you to order a black coffee. What is up with you?” Lucy questioned John. “OH MY GOD! You think she’s cute, don’t you?”

“Okay, hush! I’d rather not scare the girl off before I even get a chance to talk to her.”

“Okay sorry! I’m just happy for you. You’ve been sulking ever since you and Bailey broke things off.”

“I have not been sulking…okay maybe I have. But I really thought she was it for me.”

“John and Lucy?” You called.

They made their way up to the window to pick up their orders.

“Alright Lucy, a caramel latte and a lemon blueberry scone, and for John a black coffee and a chocolate croissant.” I hope you guys have a wonderful day and stay safe!”

“Oh, I didn’t…” John started.

“Thank you so much, you have a wonderful day too!” Lucy cut John off and began to drag him away from the truck.

The two of them went to sit at a table with Tim, Aaron and Nyla for the rest of their lunch. They were all hoping it wouldn’t be cut short by a call coming in.

“Alright Nolan!” Aaron exclaimed as John sat down.

“What? What did I do?”

“The bag. The barista gave you her number!”

John turned the bag around and sure enough your name and phone number had been neatly printed along with a little heart. John looked at Tim, then Nyla and finally to Lucy. He hadn’t been expecting you to give him your number, especially not after he had made a complete fool of himself in front of you just moments before.

Just as Lucy was about to encourage him to text you, a call came ringing in over the radios. Everyone was quick to get up and head to their respective shops. John heard Tim and Lucy radio that they were responding, and that Nyla and Aaron were acting as backup. He figured they had it covered, and he would continue to patrol, but not before adding you into his contacts.

Three days.

It was three days before John had gathered the courage to text you. He hadn’t seen you either, since he’d worked through lunch one of the days, had a pretty big drug bust on the second day, and was assigned to the front desk on the third day. Today though, he had the day off and now was his time to text you and see if you would want to go on a date with him.

John: Hey, this is John. From the other day.

You: Hi! I was beginning to think that maybe I was too forward.

John: Oh, no, not at all! I’m sorry, things have just been really busy with work. I finally have a day off.

You: Okay, good! I’m sorry work has been keeping you busy. Hopefully you’ve been able to stay safe.

John: I have. Nothing too out of the ordinary this week. How have you been?

You: I’ve been good! I have been testing some new recipes and trying to figure out what to swap in for the fall season.

You: Speaking of which…would you like to be a taste tester for me? I could really use a customer’s perspective!

John: I would love to! By the way, that croissant was incredible. I was actually texting you to ask you to dinner.

You: Yeah, dinner and then we can go back to mine to try these desserts?

You: Wow that was also very forward…I’m not usually like this by the way!

John: No worries. I won’t read into it I promise. So tonight, can I pick you up at 7?

You: 7 is perfect, see you then John!

After confirming your plans with John, you kicked it into high gear. It was 10:07 a.m. and you had a lot to do before you’d be ready to go. You really needed to get your nails done, you needed to finish the 6 different pastries you’d been working on, and you’d really need to shower before you could get ready.

After doing some quick math in your head, you figured that you would have just enough time to get everything done provided you shower while some things were baking in the oven. With that, you place the pre-cut cookie dough into the freezer (these would be easy enough to pull out and bake later when you and John go back), you placed the muffins and two different loaves of bread in the oven. That just left the cake that you were actively frosting and the pie that was cooling. Once the cake was thoroughly iced, you threw the dishes in the dishwasher and headed towards the shower, not without checking your timer to make sure you’d have ample time.

You were sure to go through all the steps of what you’d consider a full shower, washing and conditioning your hair, washing your body with your best smelling body wash, and shaving essentially every inch of your body. You weren’t anticipating that anything would happen tonight, but you wanted to be prepared nonetheless and you’d make sure at the very least that you smelled good.

After drying off and throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, you made way for the kitchen just in time to pull out the muffins and the bread. You set them out on the cooling rack, turned the oven off and then you headed to your favorite nail salon. They were able to get you in right away seeing as it was 12:00 p.m. on a Thursday.

Your nail appointment ended at about 1:30 p.m., which gave you enough time to head over and check on your staff and the truck. Upon arrival you noticed there were a few police cruisers parked along the curb. You knew John was off today, but you still found yourself scanning the crowd for him.  

“He’s not here.” Your staff, Ezra, had called over to you.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You tried to hide your blush, embarrassed about getting caught looking for John. Ezra was the one who had encouraged you to give him your number in the first place, having seen how smitten you were with John when you’d met him the other day. Ezra and you had been friends for years, he could read you better than anyone.

“Mmhmm, sure thing. It was a different group this time around. What are you up to? Aren’t you supposed to be off testing new pastries?” Ezra questioned you.

“I was doing exactly that when John texted me and asked me out! I went and got my nails done and figured I would stop by and see how things were going before I went back home and got ready for my date.”

“OH MY GOD! See I told you that if you gave him your number, he’d ask you out. There were definite vibes the other day, he was so enamored by you that he forgot to look at the menu!” Ezra gushed.

“Okay, fine. You were right. I’m kind of nervous, he’s taking me to dinner, then we’re going back to my place so he can taste the new desserts and give me his opinions on them.”

“Girl, you are going to be fine! He seems nice and you are an amazing person, no reason to be nervous. Plus, what have you got to lose?” Ezra had always been your voice of reason in times of need.

“Okay, yeah. I should probably get going then so I can get ready.”

“Okay babe, have a great night! OH and you should wear the outfit you wore to our opening party, it screams you and its hot!”

“Oh, that was a good outfit, I don’t know where he’s taking me yet, but it should be dressy enough.”

You said your goodbyes to Ezra and made your way back home. It was nearing 3:30 p.m. and you knew you should probably start getting ready. You grabbed a glass of water and then got to styling your hair. You curled your hair and applied some natural looking makeup and went to get dressed. To pair with the faux leather skirt and starry mesh top, you slid on some black tights, comfy socks and your Doc Martens. Looking over at your alarm clock you see 6:45p.m. glowing red and you decide to switch to a smaller purse in the time you have left before your date…your usual everyday tote bag not exactly matching this outfit choice. You’d opted for a small leather handbag, with gold accents, it matched your outfit perfectly and was better suited for the occasion. As soon as you organized everything into the purse a knock sounded at the door. You took a deep breath then walked to answer it.

“Hi!” You greeted John as you opened the door.

“Wow, you look incredible.” John was awestruck, you had such a different style than the women he had previously dated, but he was really loving it. You were so confident in your own skin, and you just had this glow about you.

“Thank you, you look very handsome.”

“Shall we?” John gestured to his truck.

You nodded and the two of you walked around to the passenger side. John opened the door for you then offered his hand to assist you into the truck.

“Such a gentleman.”

John blushed at the compliment, he tried to shake it off as he started the truck and pulled out of your driveway. You made small talk on your way to the restaurant, which ended up being a very nice steakhouse.

John parked and looked over to you, he made note of the way you were inspecting the sign, and immediately panicked.

“I probably should have asked and made sure you weren’t a vegetarian!”

“I’m not! I love a good steak; my dad is a self-proclaimed grill master!” You laughed.

John laughed with you and let out a sigh of relief. He once again opened your door for you and reached to help you out of the truck. He was so different form the men you had dated before, so polite and caring. He listened to what you had to say and even asked you questions to learn more about you. It was so refreshing to be around someone like him. Truth is, you had dated some pretty terrible people in the past and that was the main reason you were single now. You’d decided to take a break from dating and focus on yourself and your career, which is how you’d gotten to the point of owning a very successful food truck. You had explained to John that your end goal is to have a brick-and-mortar location of Hallowed Grounds that was a café/bookstore. You wanted to create a cozy space for people to hangout while they enjoyed good food.

John just sat and smiled, he loved how you lit up when you spoke about it. Seeing you so passionate about something was honestly inspiring. He hadn’t expected the feelings for you to be so immediate, so strong, just crashing to the surface as the night went on. John could feel himself growing concerned about whether or not you were feeling as strongly for him as he was for you. The two of you had just clicked and it was so effortless.

What John didn’t know is you were currently battling the same demons. Was it really possible to be this comfortable with someone after such a short time?

Dinner had passed far too quickly for either of your likings, you were honestly just glad that you had already planned to continue this evening. You weren’t ready to say goodnight to John just yet. As John drove you back to your place, he took a risk by reaching for your hand to hold, you were quick to slide your hand into his and you couldn’t help but blush. John couldn’t believe how soft your hand was and it made him think about how rough his must be from his years as a contractor, he shook the thought away as you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

You made it back to your place relatively quickly and John once again made sure to assist you on the passenger side, only this time instead of offering you his hand, he was a little bolder. He’d placed his hands on your waist and slowly helped you out of the truck. You stood there, chest to chest, your breath hitching from the proximity. Your gazes danced over one another’s face, shifting from eyes to lips back to eyes, silently asking for permission. When you slightly tilted your head, John understood and reached his right hand up to cup your jaw as he brought you in for a kiss. The kiss lasted for what felt like forever but ended far too soon. You wanted to exist in this moment infinitely.

You and John held hands once again as you staggered to the door. You made quick work of the lock and invited him in, guiding him to the kitchen.

“You ready to try some desserts?” You asked.

“Absolutely!” John replied.

You blushed, realizing the double entendre and moved to get all the desserts plated up. You explained to John that you’d need to throw the cookies in the oven, but they only took about 10 minutes to cook. He nodded and asked if you needed any help with anything, which you declined and encouraged him to relax.

John watched as you worked in the kitchen, this had been your element and it was like a well-choreographed dance, the way you moved. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, picturing the two of you like this, years down the road. He knew that you had only just met, but after tonight he couldn’t deny the connection. He realized he had been wrong when he said he would never fall in love again. That was true, until he met you.

#the rookie #john nolan #tim bradford #lucy chen #nyla harper #aaron thorsen #wade grey #angela lopez #wesley evers #john nolan x reader #john nolan x y/n #john nolan x you #the rookie fic #the rookie fanfic #the rookie fandom #tim bradford x reader #john x reader #john x y/n #john x you #the rookie one shot #john nolan one shot #john nolan fanfic #jackson west

[lovelynim]

Take 9, recording!

ALIEN STAGE/Actors!AU - Ivan x Till

A/N: Really, really self-indulgent fic because I NEEDED to get some fluff after the damage Round 6 did to me. Also, I added a little hc that TIll is an experience actor while Ivan is still a newbie, etc, etc, you know the drill

Also, tagging @blobbirobbi, @norieoncrack and @vash-yuu because you three gave me the boost to do it this afternoon. Also tagging @tiredleekaz because i feel you'll like this (hopefully)

Summary: Round 6's recording site. Stage scene. Take... 9, sigh. Lights, camera... action!

Word count: 1305 words.

“Alright, let’s do it, guys!” The director shouted and the rest of the team promptly took their places. The camera pointed towards Till and Ivan as the studio was quickly engulfed by silence.

“Here we go… ‘Cure’, stage scene, take 9. Action,” the director commanded and the first beats of the song began to play right after. The spotlight turned to Till and, so, it began.

“Allow me, to the tip of your fingers. Allow me, to the ends of your feet.”

Ivan quietly hummed the song along while the cameras tilted around the other man, capturing the crowd’s motion in the background while Till’s voice took all the room in the studio. Ivan knew the team was tired and probably beginning to feel a little frustrated after a couple of mistakes, but he couldn’t help but enjoy every moment of it.

“Dissolve me in your gaze. I don’t want to let you go.”

‘Damn, he looks so cool right now’, Ivan thought as a smirk took place in his lips. The song went on and Ivan knew he had to focus. This was supposed to be a dramatic, emotional, tragic scene. He couldn’t be booping to the song they spent hours recording. Focus, Ivan, focus!

As Till continued to sing, Ivan decided it was a good time to rehearsal his lines. Maybe this would put him back in the right mood for this scene and, after all, he didn’t want to start the 10th take because he made the same mistake from 4 takes ago.

“Let me drown in you, until these falling stars are buried in the blur of time!”

Wait, was he at that part already?

Ivan opened his eyes and looked at the other guy with a slightly shocked expression. Gulping, he clenched his hands as he heard the piano keys starting to play in the background again. Time to shine, Ivan.

With heavy steps, Ivan walked towards his microphone. The camera was tilting right above him and it was a bit hard to keep a straight face, but he had to!

“Even if your cold words carve scars beneath my eyes.”

Carefully and gently, Ivan took his hands up and wrapped his fingers around the microphone. Holding it tightly, one word after the other left his lips and, as scripted, he was singing.

“May they linger on your tongue. You can break me apart.”

Narrowed eyes stared back at the camera in front of him. To the ones looking from the outside, Ivan seemed like the most confident actor in history, literally living up to his character. But on the inside, he couldn’t help but feel some nervousness stirring up. What if he sang the wrong line? What if he looked ugly on the recording? What if his voice cracked?!

No, it wasn’t time to think about those things. He managed to look at Till with the corner of his eyes and, even when he was idling, the sorrowful, tired look continued to stick to his face. So professional!

“Sick of those nights to come, to be engulfed by silence in your gaze where I’m seen. Consume me! Yes, me, oh oh!! ~”

Ivan would only be sure once they were done recording this scene, but he was almost 100% he nailed this part. He could feel his vocal chords slightly tiring, but nowhere near enough to make him stop.

And above anything else, the most important scene of this episode was coming up. The kiss.

“To this everlasting moment.”

“Face to face we dance.”

Ivan let out a small sigh as his last line was sung. Just as the words left his lips, the pages of the script started playing inside his head. ‘With a decisive move, you throw your microphone aside and walk to him’, he remembered the director explaining, detailing how it should be done.

“With our story lost in forever’s embrace!! ~”

Ivan felt literally chills running up his back when his eyes met Till’s. As a newbie actor, starring with someone as experienced as him was always an emotional rollercoaster, full of surprising moments that he would treasure forever. But not now. Now, he needed to focus.

Gently reaching for the other guy’s cheek, Ivan moved his hand to the back of Till’s head and pulled him into a kiss.

Part of himself questioned if he was supposed to enjoy recording this part over and over as much as he was doing, but knowing how annoyed the rest of the studio’s staff was at his mistakes, he would never voice such thoughts.

The instrumental played along with the flashing lights above them. Ivan only remembered the instructions that he should make the kiss last while Till would try to shove him away, but the director never said how, so there shouldn’t be much harm in improvising a little, right?

Ivan wrapped his free hand around Till’s slim torso, resting his fingers just below the other’s ribcage. Till pressed both hands against his chest, trying to push him away like the script told him to, but Ivan knew this wasn’t the lead to let him go, so he pulled the other man for another kiss.

However, there was something off. 

He was told that, yes, Till was going to try to break their kiss and free himself, but it shouldn’t be… this effective, Ivan thought. Deciding that it would be better to just play along, Ivan moved his hand down to Till’s neck while the other pressed a little harder against his side, hoping this would be enough to keep him still to the end of the scene.

But with barely seconds before the time for the score to pop up above their heads and show his character’s demise, Ivan noticed that Till… was laughing?

“Pfft- d-duhuhude!” TIll giggled, elbowing his arm in another attempt to free himself from his embrace. “Q-quit tihihickling, ahaha!”

“H-huh?” Ivan blinked, looking down to the little space between their bodies and taking a few seconds to realize what the other guy meant. “Wait, you mean this?”

“GyAHah, y-yes! Thahat, d-don’t dohohoh it! I’m tihihicklish there!” Till laughed, throwing his head back (and maybe trusting a little too much in Ivan’s strength to hold him in place).

A fuzzy, warm feeling spread over Ivan’s chest as he heard those words. What a wonderful discovery! How could he not notice this before?! “Ahah, sorry… I mean, I didn’t expect this or this to be enough to tickle you, Till, ~” Ivan teased, carelessly spidering his fingers against Till’s side and ribs.

Before he realized, there were them again: fooling in the middle of the set. Till laughing, desperately trying to escape his hug while the only worry inside Ivan’s mind was to find where else his senior would be ticklish.

“Ivan! C’mohohon!” Till laughed while the lights of the studio turned back on, illuminating the whole scene again as this take was already beyond salvation. “I cahahan’t breheheathe!”

“Oh? But you are-”

“Guys!” The director protested, making the duo stop in the middle of the scene with a surprised look on their faces. Right, they were recording. And with people around them. A lot of people. “Sigh, let’s take a break, yeah? Five minutes, everybody.”

Despite the feeling of animosity towards them that seemed to spread across the rest of the staff, Ivan couldn’t stop himself from smiling and, much to his delight, the same seemed to go for Till.

“S-sorry, ahah, this one is my fault,” Till giggled as he got back into his own feet, rubbing his side where Ivan just tickled him. “Try to just, hmm… Hold my face?”

“Got it, I will keep that in mind,” Ivan hummed happily while walking off the stage by TIll’s side. Well, guess they couldn’t do much but wait for the next take now, right?

#alien stage #alien stage tickling #ivan #till #ivantill #lee!till #ticklish!till #ler!ivan #tickle fic #alien stage au

[fdelopera]

Antisemites are going mask-off. And we Jews see you.

So some shit for brains antisemite sent me this message the other day. This is one of several antisemitic Anons I've gotten recently, but this one is the most blatant.

My first response was to taunt them. I thought of writing something like this:

"Hey, you fucking loser, you forgot the part of your Nazi script where you try to deny that the Holocaust happened. Lame ass motherfucker, you can't even get your own lies right. Next time you try harassing a Jew online, at least try to tow the Nazi party line, you white supremacist. Also, you fucking COWARD, how dare you come to my inbox on Anonymous. If you’re going to tell me you wish I would die in a Nazi gas chamber, at least have the common courtesy to tell me your username so I know who I am blocking."

But then, I thought: No. That's not how to respond. Because that's not what this is about.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Making fun of a stupid a Nazi by telling them that they forgot to deny the Holocaust when they decided to harass me for being a Jew — that is gallows humor of the darkest kind. But a morbidly glib zinger of a reply doesn’t actually address the real issue here.

The real issue is that a lot of you with antisemitic tendencies have been going completely mask-off the last few weeks, and you have been diving headfirst into Jew-hatred.

You are finally feeling liberated to speak the Jew-hating words that you have been dying to say.

You have been practically champing at the bit to tell a Jew that you wished there would be another Holocaust so you could get rid of all those millions of "bad Jews" that you don’t like, and now you feel liberated to scream those words from the rooftops.

Over the last few weeks, we Jews have been watching you, some of you that we considered to be friends, and we’ve seen many of you turn on us and spit out the most vile, hateful things about us.

And we know exactly what you will be doing when the next Nazi craze spreads like wildfire from country to country, throughout cities and towns.

You like to claim that you would have been punching Nazis in the face during World War II. You like to claim that you would have protected us. Some of you even like to claim that you would have sheltered us, like the heroes who hid Anne Frank.

But we know better.

No. That’s all just romantic bullshit that some of you like to tell yourselves to make yourselves feel important.

In reality, you would have been deciding who is a "good Jew" and who is a "bad Jew." You would have been deciding who you should rat out to the police for a reward. You wouldn’t be protecting us! You would be saying, "I really don't like that Jew. I’m going to go tell the Gestapo about them." Or worse, you would be saying, "Oh, that Jew over there, they’re just an animal. They’re barely human. The Nazis can kill them, I don’t care."

Most of the people who turned against their Jewish neighbors in Nazi occupied Europe weren't monstrous, inhuman beasts. Most of them were people, just like you, who had been conditioned to hate Jews by nearly two thousand years of Christian antisemitism coupled with a targeted campaign of white supremacist propaganda. This widespread antisemitism allowed the Nazis to transform an irrational and enculturated feeling of distrust towards Jews into a feeling of intense hatred, where gentiles demonized Jewish people and blamed "those Jews" for all the bad things that were happening in the world.

And the white supremacists are doing it again. And YOU are falling for their trap. Again!

Don't you get it? This is the oldest trick in the book! Periods of antisemitic violence usually erupt every 70-100 years or so, after most of the Jewish elders who hold the living memory of the last genocide have all passed away. And the Holocaust was 80 years ago. And here we are. Again.

And just like the Christians in Europe who turned on their Jewish neighbors, you are starting to turn on us.

You buy into antisemitic conspiracy theories, just like the white supremacists do.

You stand in the streets, screaming "gas the Jews" and "die Jews die."

You sound like the Proud Boys. You sound like Nazis. Do you even hear yourselves???

You pretend that all Jews are all a monolith and a hive mind, and you try to convince yourselves that we are all a proxy for the fucking Israeli government, which the vast majority of Jews fucking despise. If we could, trust me, most of us would strangle Netanyahu with our bare hands.

You celebrate Jewish deaths because you have convinced yourselves that killing a random Jewish civilian is "just the same" as killing Netanyahu, because you have manipulated yourselves into believing that all Jews are the Israeli government.

And you don't see how fucking STUPID that is!!

Jewish people are no more the Israeli government than YOU are YOUR government.

A people are NOT their government.

According to Tumblr statistics, nearly half of you reading this will be from the US. Shall I blame YOU personally for the actions of the US government? Of course fucking not! And you'd better fucking not blame random Jews for Netanyahu!

And some of you Jew-haters, in pretending that Jews are all a monolith and a hive mind, even say vile, antisemitic shit like, "Looks like the Jews are becoming the Nazis."

You choose those words carefully, twisting the Shoah, our greatest tragedy, into a knife. You try to weaponize the slaughter of our people against us. You try to reduce the 6 million of us who were murdered into a white supremacist meme.

YOU SOUND LIKE THE FUCKERS AT A TRUMP RALLY, FOR FUCKS SAKE. DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELVES???

And you do that to dehumanize us. You do that to feel morally superior. You do that to feel less uncomfortable when you laugh at our deaths.

But we know that WE are not becoming Nazis. But YOU are. The reason you say that shit about us is because YOU are projecting YOUR insecurities onto us.

Because you know that you are slowly, insidiously being coopted by the Nazi ideology of David Duke and Richard Spencer.

And perhaps somewhere deep down, you feel uneasy about it. So you accuse Jews of being a monolith, a hive mind, and then you say stupid antisemitic shit like, "Maybe the Jews are the Nazis after all."

And you say that to yourselves so that you can turn off your empathy and celebrate as you watch us die.

What a disgusting way to try to absolve yourselves of YOUR guilt.

And we Jews are watching you. We’re watching you very carefully. And when the dust settles, you will have found that we have vanished from your life.

Very soon, you won’t see us again.

And no, that won't be because we'll be walking into the gas chambers, as much as you'd like us to, like some historical movie about the Holocaust that you watched when you were a child but turned off halfway through because you just didn't care.

NEVER AGAIN MEANS NEVER AGAIN.

As much as we know that you ENJOY watching our deaths (sanitized, of course, with a blur filter over the video so that you don’t have to feel too guilty about watching us being tortured and murdered), that’s not the reason you won’t be seeing us again.

The reason you won’t be seeing us again is because we will be walking out of YOUR life.

You have lost us as friends, and you might not even know it yet.

We are gone from your life, because we know that we can’t trust you.

We know that when the Nazis come to our community and march down the street hoisting their swastikas and doing their Sieg Heils (I've seen it with my own eyes) … when the Nazis harass us Jews in the street (I've seen it with my own eyes) … when the Nazis SHOOT US DEAD (it happened at a synagogue a block away from my synagogue, and many of those who saw it will never open their eyes again) — we know you won’t help us.

You will shove us into the line of fire.

And we know that you’ll absolve your conscience, so you won’t feel too bad about our deaths. You’ll tell yourselves, “It’s okay. Why should I have protected that one? That one was a bad Jew.”

We Jews see you. We see your hypocrisy on full display.

And we are telling you this:

If you see Jewish civilians being tortured and murdered, no matter what country they are from, and your first response is to CELEBRATE … if your first response is to post memes that say shit like, "The Jews fucked around and found out" … if your first response is to say that mass murdering Jews is "brutal but justified" … if your first response is to behave like a Q-Anon believer or a MAGA-hat wearing Republican and treat all Jews like we're a monolith, a hive mind…

When THAT is your response to seeing a tragedy unfolding, you are a FAILED ally, and a FAILED advocate.

You are an antisemite.

But mostly, you are just a really horrible, shitty person.

And we don’t want you in our life.

#jumblr #judaism #jewish #jewblr #a message to the next person who sends antisemitic bullshit to my inbox - at least don't be a fucking coward about it! #sending anon harassment like this is the most chickenshit thing you can do #and no i won't be turning off anon so that if there are more cowards who want to send anon messages i'll be able to block them #oh and as always i'll be monitoring the comments and if anyone posts antisemitic bullshit here i will be reporting and blocking you #antisemitism tw #holocaust tw #shoah tw #nazi tw

[jujutsukatsuki]

Ghostface!Bakugou! <3

This was a script I found through a porn audio and I just had to use it to write smut 💀💀💀 I did change some things so it’s not a copy paste but it follows the same formula!

18+ || Minors and Ageless blogs DNI

Warnings: Dubcon, ghostface kink, knife usage, blood, little bit of yandere!bakugou, voyeurism, phone sex, stalking

Blood curdling screams come from your tv as you watch Halloween. You hug the pillow that sits on your lap as you watch someone get killed. It was the night before Halloween.

The sudden ringing of the home phone your parents insisted on having startled you. You were currently house sitting for them while they took a vacation. A glance to the caller ID shows unknown. You choose to ignore it, thinking if it was important they’d call again or leave a voice mail.

Ring. Ring. You look. Still the same thing. You decide to answer it, thinking maybe it is actually important.

“Hello?” You hum into the phone. A deep gruff voice breathes down the line.

“Guess who.” Your blood runs cold. You had someone stalking you for the last few months. Leaving you random calls, notes at your door, flowers on your coffee table. In the last week, they had seemingly disappeared which you took as they finally got bored and left you alone.

“Aw did the pretty baby think I left her alone? That’s real cute. Miss me?”

You immediately hang up the phone and close your eyes, hoping that when you open them, this will be a dream.

The phone rings and you answer it again, knowing he won’t stop.

“Baby, that’s not very nice of you.”

“Leave me alone.” You can feel the tears brewing in your eyes.

“Those shorts you got on are cute, sweetheart. Looks real good on you.”

You look at the pajama shorts you have on. Your brain isn’t comprehending that he’s watching you. Fear is kicking in and nothing makes sense.

“W-what..” you swallow thickly as you shift uncomfortably on the couch.

“What do I want from you? I wanna talk to you for a bit.” His voice is calm, cool, collected. Everything you aren’t.

“I’m.. I’m gonna call the police. My boyfriend is pro hero.” Your voice shakes as the stalker laughs again. The pro hero boyfriend isn’t exactly a lie. You had been going on a couple dates with Dynamite, but you two weren’t boyfriend girlfriend level.

“Call’em. You know that they can’t trace my calls, princess.” He hums softly, you can hear the sinister grin in his voice.

“Saw you watching Halloween. Such a classic. Do you always like killers in white masks with big knives?” You swallow again as you realize he’s watching you. You just don’t know from where. The words get trapped in your throat as he exposes a secret kink of yours.

“Baby, talk. I want to hear your pretty voice.”

“Are.. are you going to kill me?” A tear falls down your cheek. He laughs again, this time in disbelief.

“Kill you? Aw princess, I’m not gonna kill you. I want to play with you.” You chew on your bottom lip as his voice takes a darker route as he speaks again.

“I know you watch those slasher moves cause you wanna be a whore and get fucked by them. Why don’t I come out and show you what’s it’s like to get fucked?”

You feel sick as your cunt clenches around nothing. Your stomach churns but youre not sure if it’s fear or being turned on. Maybe both.

“Can you handle me baby? Huh? Want my sharp knife to your neck?” Your thighs squeeze together as another tear falls, your teeth dig deeper into your bottom lip.

“You liked that! You sick fuck!” He laughs like a man gone mad. Your cheeks feel warm as he laughs as you, his laugh makes the tight feeling in your abdomen grow tighter.

“Did I make my baby girl blush? That’s cute.” He chuckles again.

“Hmm. I want you to take those pretty shorts off. Lemme see what’s under them.” You’re hesitant as your thumbs hook into your waistband, phone pinned between your shoulder and ear.

His tone turns to one of anger.

“Do it or I’ll come in there and gut you!” You let out a small whimper, you’re sure there’s a wet spot on your panties. You take your shorts off and kick them somewhere. He hums softly with approval.

“Now, spread your legs, show me how wet you are.”

You do as he asks, panties are sticking to you with how wet you are. You can hear his breathing catch in his throat as he sees how the white of your panties has turned slightly see through.

“Good girl. God, you’re soaked, aren't ya? Is that all for me?” You nod along with his words, waiting for his next command.

“Say it.” He grins

“I’m so wet for you daddy.” You whisper into the receiver.

“Now get rid of that shirt. I know you don't have on a bra underneath.” You set the phone down with it on speaker and pull your shirt off, nipples getting hard from the cold air.

“So pretty. Now, rub that pretty clit for me. Over your panties.”

You listen to his orders and whine as you put a bit of pressure against your clit through your wet panties. With slow movements you start to rub tight circles.

“God. Gonna make me come out and wrap my hand around your throat.” You let out a moan at his words, free hand brushing against your throat.

“Oh you liked that? Fuck, you really are a freak.” He laughs, you buck your hips against your fingers as his laugh sends a jolt to your cunt.

There’s a sound of rustling on the other end before you hear it. His deep, gravely moan as his hand is wrapped around his cock. Tip leaking pre cum as his gloved hand glides up and down his cock.

He chokes back a moan and talks with a clenched jaw.

“I can't wait to fill you up with my cock. I'm gonna rearrange your guts. Is that what you want, you little slut?” You nod and whimper as you speed up your movements on your clit.

“I knew you would. Shove those panties aside. I wanna see that pussy. Don't stop rubbing yourself.”

You push your panties to the side, cold air against your pussy that’s sticky with arousal. You start to rub your clit again, whining and bucking your hips into your hand.

“Are ya close, sweetheart?” His voice is taunting, you can hear the sinister grin again.

“Y-yes!” You whimper. His laughs and for a moment you’re confused.

“I'm close too. But not in the way you think. Hang up and turn around.” He hangs up on you, you suddenly feel it. The ominous presence behind you. Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you slowly turn behind you, eyes gliding up the dark robe before you see the white screaming ghost mask behind you.

“Boo!” He laughs, his voice is slightly muffled through the fabric of the mask, but he sounds the same in person as he did moments ago on the house phone.

The silver knife catches your eye as he pulls it out. He presses it to your collarbone. You can feel the blade press into your skin.

He leans down and whispers in your ear

“Don't move. You wouldn't want to slip and get cut, would you?” You shake your head, slowly rubbing your clit

“Are you scared?” You nod

“Do you like being scared?” You hesitantly nod, cheeks turning pink. His free hand slides down your body, ghosting over your nipples and then your stomach before he’s rubbing your clit for you.

“How about when I rub your pussy while my knife is pressed into you?”

He can hear the gulp as you swallow and nod. You gasp and whine as the knife pricks your skin.

“Aw, am I hurting you, pretty girl? Your blood looks so nice, I just can't help myself.” He chuckles as he mocks you, you can’t help how wet you are at this point.

“I think you need a matching one right here on your other collarbone. What do you think?” He switches the blade to his other hand and uses the other to rub your clit. The black glove feels cold against your cunt.

You still haven’t answered his question. He gets annoyed and smacks your pussy causing you to yelp and let a few tears loose.

“Look at that blood running down your tits. That's perfect. Don't move. Smile for me.” He hums as the blood reaches the valley between your tits. The knife gets set next to you on the couch as he holds out a camera and takes photos of you.

“Bend over the couch.” He orders and pulls back from you. You move quickly to bend over the arm of the couch.

“Good girl. I got somethin for ya.” He pulls out his cock and let’s it rest against your ass. He’s huge. The idea of him stretching you out is driving you crazy, your pussy is dripping. He smears pre cum on your skin, making you sticky.

“Do you think you can take all of this in that tight little pussy?” You whimper and nod as you wiggle your hips. He drags his cock over your ass and down to your clit before going back up to your cunt.

“What was that? You want me to fuck you?” He pushes the tip of his cock in before pulling it out.

“Beg for it.” He grins from behind the mask as you’re dumb with horniness and he hasn’t even put his cock in you.

You beg him and whine for his cock. He teases you a few more times before he lines up his cock and slams into you in one fluid motion. The grunt that leaves his mouth makes you want to cum already.

The smugness in his tone is evident as he pulls out to just the tip before slamming his his back into your ass

“Look at that, I fit all the way in.” You moan and claw at the couch as he starts to thrust in and out of you.

Yeah, you like that, baby? Tell me you like it. Tell me you like being fucked by your stalker. I wanna hear it. Tell me you don’t want anyone else’s cock, ever!” He grabs your hair in his free hand and pulls your back to his chest.

You do try and tell him what he wants to hear but you’re so fucked out already, everything blurs together.

“You're such a whore. Taking my cock so good.” He looks down to the creamy white ring that’s forming at the base of his cock.

“You gonna cum, doll?” You nod as tears fall down your face.

“Huh? I asked you a question!” He wraps his hand tight around your neck, you can feel the airflow cut off and make your brain dizzy.

“Scream, you little slut!” He scolds, you scream as you squirt all over his cock and sob. His hips stutter as he holds your hips down on his cock. A gasp leaves your mouth as you’re now full of his cum.

“Damn, that really did it for you, huh? You're a dirty girl for cumming from being choked half to death.” He chuckles and pulls out. You whimper as some cum is leaking out. He grabs his camera and takes a photo before taking another one of him shoving his gloved fingers into you to shove his cum in you.

You slowly turn to face him before reaching for the mask. He grabs your wrist before he lets go. You take it off revealing Katsuki. You smile as the scene is completed now. You stroke his cheek gently, bits of his blonde hair is matted to his forehead

“You okay princess?” He asks as he kisses your palm. You nod.

This took about a week of planning. After your third date with katsuki, you told him about the little ghost face fantasy you had and let him do what he wanted.

“Did so good. Can’t believe you let me breed you.” He hummed and put a hand on your stomach.

“Wanna shower.” You yawn softly.

“Okay babe.” He picks you up and carried you to the shower.

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #Bakugou katsuki x reader #Bakugo katsuki x reader #Bakugou x reader smut #Bakugo x reader smut #katsuki bakugo x reader smut #katsuki bakugou x reader smut #katsuki x reader smut #bakugou katsuki x reader smut #bakugo katsuki x reader smut #my hero academia x reader smut #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader smut #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia x reader smut #bnha x reader #bnha x reader smut

[festivalsofmargot]

Gall of a Gryffindor {Sebastian Sallow x GN!Gryffindor!Reader}

Introduction: This one was actually a request!

“Can you write something with a Gryffindor reader? I always see for the other houses but havent seen anything specifically with gryffindor. Something among the lines of a gryffindor he can finally tolerate witty banter like that” - from cloudroomblog

Heads up, I went a bit off script from the game so some dialogue might be different and things may seem a little out of order. So sit back, relax, and have fun with it. 😉

Word Count: ~ 2,900

Warnings: Kissing

Author’s Note: I’m definitely open to requests if anyone wants to throw them my way but no pressure haha. They just might take a while since I only like to work on one story at a time and really let myself head cannon, blasting music to throw myself into it.

Songs (if interested):

So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings - Squirrel Flower Cover

Dark Red - Steve Lacy

When I’m Small - Phantogram

Black Out Days - Phantogram

The castle was endless. You knew you were in for a challenge finding your classes with how large it was, but at that point it was ridiculous. You were convinced new rooms were being added every day to throw you off, which probably was happening if you thought about it.

As you were walking one way, you thought back on the directions you were given, and promptly turned on your heel to go the other way. But then you thought back again and realized you probably weren’t in the right area to begin with. You summoned your field guide and scrambled to look at your map, finger tracing the page to find some sort of route. The look on your face clearly gave away you had no idea where you were going and Sebastian Sallow rolled his eyes at you from afar.

“It would be a Gryffindor who was the late bloomer.” Sebastian cracked and laughed along with some fellow Slytherin students, not caring if you heard, maybe even hoping you heard. He glanced back at you and saw you were no longer fumbling with your field guide, but instead you were looking right at him. You didn’t seem bothered, quite the opposite actually. You were smirking at him like you were amused by the joke too. 

You looked him up and down through your lashes, gave a little hum, and went back on your way. He stopped laughing and swallowed thickly in his throat. He snapped his attention back to his friends and tried join back in on the laughter, but all that came out was a nervous chuckle. He glanced back over his shoulder and watched your form walk away. What was that?

-

He found the two of you had charms class together, and couldn’t help but stare as you walked in. Your hustling around the castle had made your cheeks flushed and given your uniform a disheveled look, robes falling off one shoulder slightly. Observing your state and thinking back on how you looked at him earlier made him shift uneasily in his seat.

Natty had called you over and you went to sit by her side. When you sat down, you gave her a thankful smile and then your eyes roamed to take in the classroom. Your gaze landed on Sebastian and his eyes darted away in hopes you didn’t catch him staring.

I’m just a little curious about you is all, nothing to get your hopes up over. He imagined himself telling you if you had caught him staring. 

Professor Ronen had the class go outside for that day’s accio lesson, putting you on the spot. In your first introduction to the Summoner’s Court board, you furrowed your brows together, fully focused on getting the spell right. Sebastian felt a little flame catch fire in his stomach. You make a cute face when you focus, big deal. He cleared his throat, having felt it suddenly go dry, and kicked at the grass at his feet.

Then Professor Ronen called up Natty to play you in an official game of Summoner’s Court. The way you laughed with her and seemed to have so much fun effortlessly had him rubbing the back of his neck. As the class went on and you were getting invested in the game, you loosened your tie and unbuttoned the top of your shirt a little, revealing a bit of your collar bone. Sebastian’s eyes glazed over, his thoughts taking him somewhere he shouldn’t be going in the middle of class. Oh no. He made himself think of Madam Scribner and that seemed to bring him back. Alright, that’s it. He needed to avoid you at all costs.

-

“Hello Sebastian.” 

Sebastian glanced up from his book to see you smiling at him sweetly, maybe even a little mischievously.

“Hello.” He eyed you with suspicion and tossed his book to the side, the two of you had never spoken outside of class before. Why were you coming up to him then?

“I heard a rumor that you like to go to the restricted section of the library.” You lifted a questioning brow, taking a step closer to him.

He shifted his gaze away from you. “That so?” What was going on with him? A Gryffindor was not making him nervous like this.

“Oh yes. And I was hoping, if it was true, you could take me next time you went.” You took another step towards him, causing him to take a step back and hit his back against the wall. He was trapped. He tried to play off the awkward position as if he had wanted to lean against the wall, folding his arms and looking down to the floor.

“Say it was true... You’d really be okay with breaking the rules? Being a Gryffindor and all.”

“Well, this could be life or death. So, maybe I can break the rules just a little.” And people called him a flirt.

A thrill shot through Sebastian and he finally met your gaze again. You were giving him a look of you in or out? It made him panic slightly, this aura you carried of showing interest yet still having one foot out the door.

“Meet me outside the library tonight. And tell no one.”

You raised your eyebrows slightly at him, then gave a small nod of your head and left without saying anything more. Sebastian released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He hated that he felt a bit exhilarated at the thought of impressing you.

-

Teaching you the disillusionment spell and getting the key to the restricted section went a lot smoother than he thought. It was as if you didn’t need him there at all. He could have told you everything you needed to know and you would have handled it yourself. But in the end, it was best he came along so he could browse the restricted section some more himself.

“What kind of book are you looking for any way?” He asked as the two of you walked along the shelves. Free to talk without having to whisper now that you were passed the prefects, Madam Scribner, and some monitoring ghosts.

“I’ll know it when I see it.” Was all you said, brows furrowed as you carefully looked at each book you passed.

He rolled his eyes at your cryptic answer and went back to inspecting the books himself. Though, the act was actually making him more agitated. He hadn’t realized how often he had been down there until he found he wasn’t stumbling across anything new.

Sighing and looking away from the books, he glanced over to you. There you went, making that face you always did when you were focusing. He thought back to the day he first saw it. Then he started to think about how you loosened your tie and unbuttoned your shirt. His eyes dipped subtly to your chest then, noticing you did the same to your uniform that night too.

“I’m not having any luck here, Sebastian. Is there any more to the restricted section?”

Sebastian darted his eyes away and made it seem like he was thinking intently about your question. Just as he had composed himself and was about to answer, the giant set of armor near the two of you fell apart and crashed to the floor. And out came Peeves.

“Who have we here? Sebastian Sallow and his new little friend, out exploring where they shouldn’t be. Naughty Naughty, you’ll get caughty.” He taunted.

“Peeves, don’t you -” Sebastian warned, but Peeves flew off in the direction of Madam Scribner anyway.

“I’m going to tell! I’m going to tell!” The poltergeist sang.

Sebastian growled. “Blasted Peeves! I got to go stop him or at least get to the librarian with a good excuse for all of this.”

You grabbed his wrist before he could leave. “How do I know you won’t go to the librarian and blame it all on me?”

The feel of your hand was hot on his wrist. “Why would I do that?”

You let go of him and crossed your arms. “Are you telling me you’d take the fall? How very, dare I say, Gryffindor of you that would be.”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself. I like having friends who are in my debt. Now go, good luck in your search.” Casting the disillusionment spell on himself, he was off, the feel of your hand still lingering on his wrist.

-

With one more detention added to his record and a brand new fifth-year now in his debt, Sebastian laid sleepless in his bed that night, his thoughts swirling with you. There was something about you that, though he couldn’t put his finger on it, drew him in like no other. 

Merlin’s sake, you were a Gryffindor. That was usually enough to make him annoyed with someone already. But now? Not only was he tolerating a Gryffindor, he was aching to be with said Gryffindor at all times it seemed. He found himself eager to impress you, standing up a bit straighter whenever you entered the room, and disappointed whenever you weren’t around.

Alright, he’d admit it to himself at least. He seemed to have developed a crush on you. But he didn’t let himself freak out about it too much. Crushes were flimsy, maybe all he needed to do was get you out of his system. After all, the two of you had barely interacted with each other. He might have just put you on a pedestal in his head and needed to bring you back down. But how would he do that? Maybe he could take you on a date without letting you know it was a date? He’d have to disguise your outing as something unromantic. 

Crossed Wands popped into his head. That would be perfect! You had held your own in Defense Against the Dark Arts so it wouldn’t be a shock to invite you. Though he was taking it easy on you, he felt you knew what you were doing with a wand. He could partner up with you for a few rounds, and then who knows? Maybe you’d stumble a bit and embarrass yourself so badly he’d have no choice but to lose his crush on you. He at least hoped you’d knock yourself down a peg or two in his mind.

It was settled then. He’d invite you after class the next day. It was a great plan.

-

Bringing you to Crossed Wands was a horrible plan, and had backfired on him spectacularly. You were a natural duelist, and on top of that the two of you were a dueling dream team. The way you seemed to make it look like a dance made his neck and ears burn with blushes. At one point you had asked if you could compete in a few rounds by yourself, taking on all your opponents with ease. And down he went, falling even more under that spell you seemed to cast on him so effortlessly.

At end of that day’s Crossed Wands session, you ran up to Sebastian and thanked him profusely for inviting you. Your cheeks were flushed and you were glistening in sweat. He felt like he was being tortured.

“Don’t mention it.” His voice was strained. “You’re a natural, it seems.”

It was as if you were on some sort of dueling high. “I’m so eager to learn more spells for this. Do you think you could teach me anything? The faculty is taking their time with me, and I don’t think I can bare to wait.”

He had never seen you so excitable and passionate. He always thought you were coolheaded about things from what he’d seen. Yet, it was only making you more endearing to him.

“I might be able to show you a thing or two.” He tried to avoid eye contact and began thinking about his quick escape out of there. He needed to get away from you fast.

“Sebastian, this was amazing. Glad you weren’t too ashamed to fight alongside a Gryffindor.” You jested. “I think I made you look rather good today, no?”

“Right... Sorry I tease you so much about being a Gryffindor.”

“It’s alright. Maybe I like getting teased by good looking Slytherin boys.” You gave him a quick wink.

Sebastian almost choked. Did he hear you correctly? He tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling hot all of a sudden. “Pardon?”

“Oh relax, I’m just messing with you.” You laughed and playfully pushed him. As you began to walk away, you called back to him, “And don’t forget, I still owe you for the library.”

“How could I forget?” He replied just loud enough for himself to hear. He rubbed at his forehead, annoyed at how the day ended up for him.

-

What in Merlin’s name was he doing? He had become so eager to be alone with you under the guise of “showing you new spells”, that he invited you to the undercroft. Ominis would kill him if he found out. But he couldn’t think of a better place. And watching you make that face when you focused helped put the thought of an angry Ominis to the back of his mind.

“You’re getting it. Seems you got the wand movement down. And don’t forget, the incantation is ‘Confringo’.”

“Confringo!” You recited, and a blast of fire left your wand, setting the nearest candle fixture ablaze. “Ah! Look at that!”

Seeing you master confringo so easily and your excitement over it flustered Sebastian. Then to make things worse, you ran up and threw your arms around him. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you, Sebastian!” Pulling away slightly, you beamed up at him, “This is exactly the kind of spell I want to learn.”

He could only stare back at you. The air felt so thick, he couldn’t speak. Without thinking, he pressed his lips to yours. You were initially taken by surprise. But it didn’t take long for you to register what was happening and start kissing him back.

His arms wrapped around you tighter, hands slowly moving up your back. You opened your mouth slightly, wanting more of him, and he took that opportunity to bite at your bottom lip. The act made you feel light headed in the best way, and you were relieved Sebastian had such a strong and sturdy hold on you.

He walked the two of you back until you were up against one of the pillars in the undercroft, pressing his body more against yours. You could only continue holding him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he held you securely in place. He turned his attention to your neck and you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your lips.

“What's gotten into you?” You asked breathlessly, yet a pleased smile graced your lips.

He pulled away, breathless himself, and couldn’t pull his gaze away from your mouth. “I-I wanted to kiss you is all.” Still holding you in his arms, he leaned in for more and you met him eagerly. His hands moved to your hips where his thumbs began rubbing in small circles. Being with someone like this was uncharted territory for the both of you, but it was thrilling all the same.

One of your hands moved down to grab his tie and pull him closer, the feel of it excited him. His eyes shot wide open realizing where this could lead and he had to pull away. “We have to stop.” He placed his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What? Why?” You asked as you went after his lips with yours.

He kissed you back briefly, allowing himself to enjoy how soft your lips were just a little longer. But the feeling of his insides constricting reminded him why he needed to pull away again. Be a gentleman, Sallow. It was inappropriate, too soon, and in the undercroft of all places? This couldn’t happen.

He let you go completely and walked a few feet away, rubbing his hand down his face. He glanced back at you as you were straightening out your uniform and he had to look away again. He couldn’t help but relish in the fact that he was the one that caused you to become so disheveled.

“Well, now what do we do?” You asked.

Still unable to look your way, he gave a breathy laugh. “Would you like to go to The Three Broomsticks for a butter beer with me this weekend?”

“You mean on a date?” This was the most unconfident he had ever heard your voice.

“Yes.” He answered, finally able to look at you again. “A date.”

“I would love to.” The two of you stared at each other, smiling sheepishly as if he wasn’t just kissing you senseless against the pillar. Grinning and looking down at your shoes, it hit you. “Oh no, I have to go.” You began speed walking to leave the undercroft. “I promised Poppy I would help her with something.” 

Sebastian wanted to reach out and stop you but he made himself let you go. Before you were out of sight you looked back at him with a soft smile. “Three Broomsticks, don’t forget.” And then you were gone.

He let out a chuckle. “How could I forget?”

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