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#and looking at it from the ERs point of view

lonicera-caprifolium · 8 months

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Body-swap theory!!

okay, just putting this all together for ease of access, since it's been spread out across several posts now--

The day after it aired I watched the ending like actually 30 times and I became fully 99.999999% certain they switched places. I was initially thinking during the kiss, cuz of how the camera angle changes, but after watching an additional 20 times a few days later, I'm personally leaning much more towards them stopping time in the instance after "no nightingales".

Before the kiss, Aziraphale is saying "nice" things about the Metatron, but his face and voice keep switching to broadcasting distress, and they make it a point to show in ep 1 that Crowley can read him just from tone of voice

As they're pulling away after the kiss, they lock eyes and "Aziraphale's" expression shifts in the teeniest tiniest way, like a confirmation glance, before they shift back (and Michael Sheen is a master, so no chance it's not on purpose)

---(Like really, go back and watch how Aziraphale's expression shifts literally *a second* before "I forgive you" cuz the change is SO minute, but entirely different emotionally.)

Also the way he moves his jaw right after he pulls his hand away from his lips, is a bit from MS's Crowley (you can see it in the very last two seconds of this vid- link)

Aziraphale's hands -stay by his sides- after that, he doesn't clasp them at all, and it's particularly noticeable while he's walking to the elevator with Metatron. The way he walks is very stiff and precise, similar to after the swap in S1.

We don't see the underside of Crowley's jacket collar after the kiss, at any point (it is for sure red at the beginning of the ep, you can see it right before he changes in Heaven)

The Bentley drives away SLOWLY, which is how Aziraphale drives, and we're specifically shown that it only plays other music for Aziraphale

the seats in the Bentley are black as it drives away. They're usually brown, and the only other time they're shown to be black is when Aziraphale drives (@picturesque-about-it broke down the times so you can see-link)

---extra pic for anyone saying it's "cuz Aziraphale is lighter"-- the seats are still brown behind Crowley when he wears white

there's people wearing yellow in -every- part of the scene showing the Bentley both before and while it drives away! (link for pics/credit)

Aziraphale's smile in the elevator looks more like MS's Crowley. It's very similar to the trial during S1, but also (link)

This also explains why they're on opposite sides than they're usually shown while the end credits roll

Extra points--

many good points made by other folks here, about cues and snakes in beehives and swap motifs throughout the season-- link

The clock! Someone mentioned how the scene is so quiet you can hear it ticking, so I watched the ending a further 50 times to double check----I need to preface this by stating, I don't think this is a working clock, mainly cuz the hands aren't 100% where they should be between the minutes and the hours, like -a person- moved them to that time manually

When they're talking, the clock is at approximately 9:25 (?, again the hour hand isn't precisely set), then they walk across the room, and kiss, and immediately after that the clock is set about 15-ish minutes later (link to timestamps)

thanks to these bts shots, we can see that the clock on the opposite side of the room registers the SAME time difference before and after the kiss (link)

the first time Aziraphale looks "towards the window", I'm petty sure he actually looks further back towards the clock, *focuses on it* as Metatron walks up to him, and then spends the ENTIRE REST OF THE EXCHANGE blocking the Metatron's view of the clock

we're shown earlier in the season that Crowley can localize his time-stopping to a certain extent, like when he stopped the doctor and the rest of the room kept going, so it is possible he only stopped everything -outside- of the bookshop

---I KNOW Neil said it's a continuity error, but he also fully said "No" about there being a season 2 just days before they announced it was already written and in production, so. Take him at his word if that's what you wanna do.

---also I DID go back and look it over, and the clock IS consistently specifically set the entire rest of the episode as far as I can see. From the shots when you have a clear view of the clock, the angels and demons enter the shop at around 6, Maggie and Nina leave at around 7, the Metatron comes in at 8-ish, Aziraphale comes back in at that approximately 9:25

(insight from someone who works in production- link)

the music right before the kiss scene is the same leitmotif (Life After Death) used when they originally started formulating the swap in season 1! (link)

the movie Stairway to Heaven (1946) is featured as a poster in both the opening credits and in Maggie's shop (link)

the climax of the film has one of the leads willing to "take the place" of the other in heaven

(they also used a time-stopping mechanic, and the chess book Gabriel tests gravity with also plays a key role in the film)

and one last mention, extra food for thought--- the season's focus on their trusting one another, their history of performing "death (and heaven/hell) defying" feats together, and how they always get the trick right when it truly counts the most

that's what I've got so far!

If I'm right, they're apart now, but are actually more together then ever, and I find that terribly exciting. (And if I'm wrong, that's okay too! I'm just here to have fun.)

I'm not particularly concerned with very specific reasoning (that's for season 3 to tell us!), but I do think this theory is extra fun cuz pretty much any of the others could be the "why" driving it.

I'm not trying to convince anyone, or put down any of the other theories, so if you're not feeling it, that's okay! I'm just sharing what clues I'm seeing, so you can check if you see them too. 💕

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens s2 spoilers #Good omens s2 body-swap theory #long post #a snake in a beehive but this time -properly- disguised #there's a lot of little things and possibilities that make sense too #but this is just the main points I can see from things that are actually shown or featured #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley

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moondirti · 1 month

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Your ghostsoap x preg!reader!!??? I'm in love I need more of this. You have more thoughts for that universe? I just fell in love with your writing.

Let me camp in this corner of your blog, I'm friendly and don't bite (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~

they're all i've been able to think about all day. of course i have more to say <3 if you're curious, anon is referring to this, which should be read before this part.

tags: DARK FIC. manipulation. vehicle tampering. planned abduction. pregnant fem!reader. established ghostsoap – who are not the fathers but would definitely like to be. mentions of somnophilia

Delusional as they might be, it's hard to justify something as egregious as blunt-force kidnapping. Though it briefly occurs to Simon – to pluck you from the parking lot and drive off the hour after they decide to keep you – the logistics don't iron out. Of chief concern, you're six months pregnant. What they'd typically use for POW's thus become's inconsiderable for you; Johnny's the wiz, but even he knows the effects chloroform can have on a foetus. The alternative isn't any better, either – his partner just balks at the idea of tying you up and throwing you in the trunk. (She'll never git ower it, Si. Dae ye want her tae hate us?)

So, things unfold in a far subtler manner.

They go home that night they first meet you. Can't coordinate without resting on it, they rationalise, without scoping their place to assure it's suitable for their soon-to-be-mother. They tuck away the knives laying on random countertops, air out the quilts gifted to them by Johnny's ma in an attempt to make their room cozier. And when they sleep, they dream of you tucked in between them, knocked out, sex-drunk. Dressed in nothing but a shirt, cunt bared for either of them to toy with throughout the night.

Hours upon hours later, well into noon the next day, Simon wakes to find his boy rutting into his thigh, still somewhat comatose, and sneaks a rough hand into his boxers to tug the tension out of the poor thing. They only get up as the fissures of dusk begin to spread across the sky, loading their car with a toolbox and making the drive back to The Dahlia, staking out in the parking lot as they wait for you to arrive for your shift.

(Johnny had deployed the old charm as you brought out their food in two baggies last night, disguising the trap with a lilting laugh as he audibly wondered why you picked up such a late shift.

You’d only shrugged and said you preferred to work nights.)

Sure enough, you pull up in a beat-up Kia at 2200, fussing with your bag as you stumble to the back entrance of the roadhouse.

"Forgot to lock it." He mutters, following your form until it disappears from view. Johnny only frowns, tightening his fingers over his thumb. A little nervous tick.

"Should we be doin' this?"

"And what is this?" Simon turns to appraise the scotsman, larger hand enveloping his, calloused fingertips smoothing over scarred knuckles. "Y'think they'd be kinder to 'er? The type of scum we know grace this earth? It's a wonder she made i' this far, Johnny."

He isn't convinced.

"Look a' me." Blue eyes widen to meet his, dark as their owner battles intuitions that have always been straighter than the Ghosts'. "Wanna give 'er a good life, yeah?"

"Aye. The best."

"Would she be so convinced?" But he knows the answer. They both saw the way you withdrew after being hit on, losing the effusiveness you initially greeted them with. Avoidant. Classic case of hyper-competency, perhaps the very reason you put up with such shitty circumstances to begin with. A stubborn knot they'll have to undo themselves.

And Johnny likes the challenge.

"Lass's got something tae prove." Moments pass in silence. Then: "Ah’ll get th' wire."

"Atta' boy."

They only enter the establishment an hour before the end of your shift. It’s 0600 and space is sleepy. At a point that had escaped their notice, someone had made the choice to shut the overhead fluorescents, and so all that functions to illuminate the dinette is the pale dawn outside. Johnny finds he prefers it like this, grumbling a tired endorsement, before branching off in search of the bathroom, hand rubbing the sore column of his throat.

The softening mass in his pants jumps once Simon catches sight of you, balancing two trays in one hand as you wipe down the serving hatch. He doesn’t need to say anything. You catch the dark blur of him in the corner of your eye, shuffling into a booth, where he occupies an entire side with the mere spread of his legs.

“Hello again. Just you today?” You’re twirling your pen, cradling your belly, and he notes the perpetual shadow cast under your eyes. Poor pet.

He shakes his head, then cocks it toward the loo. “Think he’ll have a go at the toastie today.”

“Good choice. Hard to fuck up.” You give him a tired smile. “And for you?”

“M’good.”

“You sure? Look like you’ve been on the road again, and-" You pause, the water of your eyes rippling as you appraise his mask. Something seems to click just then, because you nod and tuck your notepad away. “I’ll ask again at the end. Maybe you’ll want something to-go.”

In the end, they do take something to go.

Not as greasy as the toastie Johnny spends the hour tearing into, glossing the pads of his fingers with oil. Nor as sour as the coffee he sipped on last night, burnt and way past freshness, just like you’d warned them about. But a much, much sweeter keepsake. Something that’ll sate them for much longer.

You’ve already clocked out once they leave The Dahlia, faces grim but as innocent as they can possibly muster. Sure enough, you’re out standing by your car, wiping tears with the back of your hand. They’re close enough that they can catch snippets of your conversation on the phone (No, I don’t– and It is old but never–).

They wait until you grow desperate, hiccuping – Don’t have that kind of money. Please – before intervening.

“Hey. What’s the matter, hen?” Johnny approaches first, concern no faux thing, smoothing a hand down your arm. What Simon said earlier comes back around (Wanna give 'er a good life?) and his chest tightens at the sheer despair he sees etched across your face. You shouldn’t be this stressed about anything this far along, should have someone taking care of you.

He, they, can be that for you. Could give you everything you ask for and more.

“M-my car. I-I don’t– I don’t know what’s wr-wrong with it, and–”

“Shhh, issalright. Not starting, eh?”

“No. And I have to- to get home before… before–”

Simon steps in, crowding you against the side of your car. You don’t have it in you to look for the red flags; the glances they throw one another, the subtle crinkle in the masked one’s eyes as he smiles. No, you don’t– can’t consider it dangerous. Not when these two wonderfully kind men, who tipped you 100% of their bill both times they came in, are one of your only means of getting help.

“Where do you live? We’ll drive ya if it’s on our way.” A lie. They’ll drive you regardless, and you won’t be taken home.

“Oh- no. That’s okay, really. I’ll just a-ask my boss if I can get a sub on my pay, and–”

Johnny smooths a finger across your cheek.

“Nonsense, hen. It’ll be a skoosh.”

next part

#༄dee answers #ive got a massive headache this is probably the worst thing ive ever written #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader x Johnny ‘soap’ mactavish #johnny ‘soap’ mactavish #simon ‘ghost’ riley #ghostsoap #ghoap #x reader #ghost #soap #cod #call of duty #simon riley #john mactavish #x female reader

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norrisleclercf1 · 27 days

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OKAY BUT LISTEN A REQUEST IDEA!

Mafia! Jenson x wife where both take Logan under their wing. And when the wife reader gets hurt both Logan and Jenson grow overprotective because that's their wife and "mother".

A/N: Logie is Jenson's baby don't get me started

"Logan, would you like breakfast?" Knocking on the door you hear movement and it's thrown open the young American was exhausted and had a huge bandage on his side from last nights run.

"Do I have to eat?" He grumbles, and you sigh reaching out and smoothing his hair down. "You do darling, that way you can take your antibiotics," Logan sighs and shuffles back into his room and grabs a shirt, sliding it on carefully.

"Is he angry?" Logan asks, knowing the only reason he got injured was because he had messed up. "No baby, he's annoyed, but not at you. You're a rookie, the others should've looked after you a bit better, that's all." You comfort him and stay behind just a little in case he wobbles back and falls.

"Morning," Logan flinches hearing the anger in Jenson's tone, your eyes cast over and glare, your husband catching your glare and puts the newspaper down and clears his throat. "Are you okay buddy?" Logan sighs sitting down, his stitches itched, burned, and he wanted to cry. He let Jenson down.

"My stitches itch," He grumbles, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "It's your body healing itself, normal for wounds to itch." You explain licking your hand and fixing Logan's hair which has him grumbling but says nothing. Jenson snatches Logan's plate and the boy goes to argue but stops when he sees Jenson was plating food for him.

"Maybe you should move in here with us, hmm?" You ask, sitting down next to Jenson. "I had his stuff packed and already placed on our floor, it's being unpacked as we speak." Logan blushes and nods, knowing there was no point in arguing. "Thank you," You smile and pass Logan his meds which he happily takes.

Year later

"Boysssss! I'm going to the farmer market, do you want anything?" You yell, loud enough for them to hear you from the kitchen. You hear steps and then running down the stairs. "Think you could get me oranges?" You smile as Logan comes into view.

He's taken up training and eating better, having grown taller and wider as he worked on his muscles to become better and stronger for the team. "Of course, darling, does your dad want anything?" Logan had taken to calling you and Jenson, mom and dad about 5 months ago. "No, he says just the usual." You nod and walk past, Logan leaning over as you kiss his cheek.

"Alright, be back," "In an hour, we know. Just be careful Mom." Logan smiles and runs back up the stairs to join Jenson in watching some race. Shaking your head you head out and make the walk to the market.

Jenson hated when you walked, considering who he was, and how people knew your face, and knew they could go after you to get to him. Smiling at some of the locals you head to some of your favorite stands. "Good morning Mrs. Button, hows that sweet boy of yours?" A sweet older lady named Mrs. Watts, loved Logan as he'd come out here and help you and sometimes stick around and help her with her stand.

"Oh he's good, you know always a gentleman." You smile and picking up some fresh oranges, turning you don't see them coming until some teens run into you, which has you falling and hitting your head.

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

"Where's my mom?" You sigh as does the ER doctor bandaging up your wrist. "Logan!" You call gently, not wanting to raise your voice, since you have a pretty good concussion. "Mom!" Logan sighs, and pushes the doctor gently and hugs you, taking a deep breath. Jenson skids in and stops seeing you and moves gathering both you and Logan into his arms.

"What the hell happened, who did this to you?" Jenson asks, you giggle seeing as he was ready to start a war. "it was just those stupid kids, they didn't see me and ran into me on their skateboards. Fell and hit my head, sprained my wrist." You explain and Jenson sighs but you can still see he was antsy.

"She really is okay, Mr. Button. You and your son don't have to worry," The doctor tries to explain but Logan refuses to move from your side, lying his head on your shoulder. "Should've gone with you today," Logan whispers and you smile, kissing the crown of his hair. "I'm okay, really you two." Jenson sighs and moves again, hugging you both.

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angelfic · 9 months

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Heyyy

I don't know if your still doing this but if you are, I would LOVE a Mattheo Riddle, mutual pining, prompt 1. Love you so much.

ask and you shall receive😚💌

mattheo riddle x reader + mutual pining + “who did this to you?”

➺ part of my 2k milestone writing game

The castle is silent when you make your way to the Astronomy tower. Over the last week, you’ve figured out the best possible route to get there after curfew without bumping into Peeves or the Baron while avoiding any particularly loud portraits.

Ever since Hermione started pacing around the dorm while knitting, the Muffliato charm has been rendered useless and the clicking of the needles has driven you crazy. Combined with Fred and George’s experiments in the common room until early hours of the morning, the Astronomy tower is the only place you can get a moment’s peace.

Your footsteps into the tower become hesitant though, when you spot a wisp of smoke coming from behind one of the pillars. After taking a few tentative steps further, you realise with a jolt that it’s none other than Mattheo Riddle sat there, cigarette loosely held between his fingers. You recognise him from the barely visible angle pretty quickly, owing to the fact you’ve found yourself staring at him from afar more times than you’d care to admit.

He doesn’t turn around, flicking at his cigarette and when you shuffle, making a noise, he lets his head fall back to rest against the pillar. “Enzo, if you’re here to pester me again, you can fuck off.”

“Er, not Lorenzo,” you reply, voice quiet in the echoing tower. Mattheo sits up straight immediately, twisting around to look at you with wide eyes. “Sorry…”

“It’s fine,” he says quickly, giving you a hint of a smile. He nods over to a spot near him. “You can come sit if you want.”

You contemplate politely refusing since you probably won’t get any work done with Mattheo right in front of you, but another glance at him has your feet moving of their own accord.

Once he comes into full view, you notice in the moonlight that Mattheo’s nose shows the remnants of dried blood, there’s a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone and his knuckles are split open. It isn’t an unusual sight and you’ve often seen him around the castle either in the middle of a fight or with cuts and bruises as a result of one, yet you still find yourself staring.

Mattheo raises an eyebrow and smirks, despite the cut on his lip. “What, have I got something on my face?”

You blink, silent for a couple beats before clearing your throat. “Who, uhm, who did… this… to you?”

He shrugs, bringing the cigarette back to his lips to inhale. “Some Ravenclaw prick this morning.”

“How come you haven’t healed yourself?” you ask, tilting your head in curiosity. “You normally do by this point.”

Mattheo’s lips quirk up in sort of a pleased smile, his eyes crinkling. “You pay attention to me, do you?”

“No, I- It’s just,” you stammer, fiddling with the corner of your planner and avoiding his gaze. You most definitely do pay attention to him, but you’d much rather jump off the Astronomy tower than admit to it. “You’re always getting into fights. It’s kind of hard not to.”

It isn’t clear if he believes you or not, since his face still displays an unwavering smile, but he nods slowly before answering your previous question. “Enzo usually does it. The healing spells.”

You consider this and hesitate for a few seconds, biting your bottom lip in nervous habit before abruptly standing up and walking over to the Slytherin. Plopping down next to him, you take your wand out of your pocket, which he eyes warily.

“I know some healing spells,” you explain. Raising your eyebrows in question, you point your wand at his face and wait for his consent, which he gives in the form of a nod. Starting with his lip, you mutter “Episkey.” The cut seals itself up, so you do the same with his knuckles before using ‘Tergeo’ to siphon off the dried blood around his hands and nose.

“Back to looking flawless?” he asks with a cheeky grin and you choke out a laugh, surprised at how relaxed he’s being with you. Mattheo isn’t as brooding as the rest of his friends, but he certainly isn’t all sunshine and giggles with people he isn’t close with. And it’s not like the two of you have ever conversed before, so you’re a little more than puzzled. Not that you’re complaining. “What’s had you so exhausted this week?”

“Hermione’s been staying up knitting and I can’t sleep through it like the others,” you sigh, moving back to sit against the pillar like Mattheo is. This is your first night coming to the Astronomy Tower though, so you furrow your brows and turn to Mattheo to tell him exactly that. “How do you-”

“You’ve been nodding off at breakfast,” he says, matter-of-fact. You don’t know how to respond, opening your mouth but not having anything to say. Mattheo notices your loss for words and swallows, suddenly sheepish. The tips of his ears have turned a light pink and he shuffles, making your shoulders touch slightly. “I pay attention to you too.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, heart about to burst out of your chest. You look down to where his hand is on the floor next to yours and in a brave move, you move your own so your pinkies are touching.

Mattheo is silent when he interlocks your fingers, meeting your eyes. His smile reappears, one that feels reserved for you. You’ve never seen him look more gentle before, and when he finally reaches over to kiss you in the quiet, moonlit tower surrounded by the stars, you begin wishing you’d started losing sleep weeks ago.

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x fem reader #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo riddle fanfiction #mattheo riddle scenarios #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle imagines #mattheo riddle x y/n

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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

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Dinner and Dessert

my entry for @glitterypirateduck 's soap it up challenge! i wrote this with mafia!soap in mind, but there's nothing au specific used in this short one shot, so it can be read with mw2 Johnny in mind as well!

soap x fem!nurse!reader | slight mentions of minor injuries, reader is a little grumpy, lots of banter, kissing, and suggestive content.

prompts used: was this your plan the entire time? | who did this to you? | you're so hot when you're mad

all you wanted to do was relax after a long shift in the ER, but when you get to your boyfriends apartment, you learn you have yet another boo boo to take care of.

By the time you arrived at Johnny’s apartment, your brain was so fried you attempted to use your badge to unlock the door rather than the spare key he had given you back when you first started seeing each other. Really, it was his fault you had made such a stupid mistake. Had he not been so adamant about you coming straight over to his apartment for a surprise you could have showered and changed after your long shift. A small rest would have done you some good after everything, and probably would have cleared your head, too. Instead, you were in the same scrubs you had worn for the last twelve hours, and your feet were so numb they made you grumpy beyond belief.

With a heavy sigh, you reached into your bag and yanked out your key ring before hunting down the one for Johnny’s apartment where you fumbled it into the lock. Though you were already tired from your long day, a new wave of exhaustion hit you the moment you stepped into the apartment. In the area Johnny had designated as the living room of his studio apartment, he had several snacks, drinks, and a stack of pirated movie CD’s laid out on the coffee table in what you assumed was his idea of a date night.

However, it wasn’t the snacks that concerned you, but more of the busted eyebrow and swollen lip that plagued his face. His eyes lit up as bright as ever when he smiled at you, though it was terribly lopsided, and he gestured two bloodied hands at the stash of food he had piled up for the two of you that night.

“Was this your plan the entire time?” you sighed as you dropped your bag next to the door. “Lure me here with the promise of food just so I could take care of you?”

Johnny grinned as you began to march across the apartment, and not even the bruise blooming on his cheek could diminish just how brightly it shined. “For the record, I invited you over before all of,” he paused to gesture to his face, “this happened.”

“Likely story,” you muttered.

Once you were close enough to him, you rested your hand against Johnny’s chest before you gave him a firm push backwards. The man toppled onto the couch with a grunt and slight wince, proving to you his wounds ran deeper than they appeared. Still, Johnny looked up at you with bright eyes as a smirk settled on his busted lip while you settled yourself on his lap.

“I thought we were going to save this part until after the movie,” he teased while his hands pawed at your hips.

“Shut up,” you grumbled half seriously.

Once more he winced as you grabbed his jaw and tilted his head at different angles to get a better view of the damage done. There was no visible damage to his lip, yet the swelling was still considerable so you hypothesized he had bit into the inside of his cheek at some point during the fight. Likely as a reaction to getting punched. The bruise on his cheek was faint yet still growing, and the skin by his eyebrow had been torn. Dark scabs closed up the wound, and it didn’t look deep or long enough to need any sort of bandage, yet it would more than likely scar.

“Who did this to you?” you asked while your hand still tilted his head side to side. “Actually, nevermind. I don’t think I want to know what trouble you and Riley get into when I’m not around.”

Eventually you relinquished your grip on his jaw with a huff. Between taking care of patients all day in the ER and then coming home to your boyfriend a bruised mess, you were exhausted. But you had to admit, the way those blue eyes of his stared at you adoringly was almost enough to wash away the grime and fatigue that plagued you.

“What, not gonna kiss it better?” Johnny prompted. His hands still rested heavy and firm on your hips, and you relished the way his skin felt against yours as his thumbs slipped underneath your shirt to rub against your waist.

“You’re such a baby,” you huffed.

Johnny put his pearly whites on display once more with a large grin. “You’re so hot when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you scoffed.

“Then kiss me.”

The truth was, no matter how long of a day it was or how grumpy you pretended to be, you could never truly get mad at Johnny. Even if he was the world’s biggest idiot sometimes. He was too pure, too kind, and looked at you like any loyal dog would. So you melted into his touch as you leaned into him, lips pressed softly against his while you took care to avoid the swelling of his wound. It wasn’t long before he deepened the kiss with a grunt, likely in pain from putting too much pressure on the wound in his mouth, and you pulled away before he could hurt himself further.

“Better?” you asked.

“Much,” he confirmed. That’s when his hands began to wander. Scraped knuckles brushed against the fabric of your scrubs as his fingers dipped underneath the waistband of your pants with a slight tug. He didn’t go far, but his intent was obvious. “What about you? Any aches or pains I can kiss away?”

For the first time that night he pulled a chuckle out of you. The deep tone of his voice was soft and ignited something burning in your stomach that sent embers curling up your spine. You tilted your head to the side as if you thought heavily about his proposition, but really your answer fought to escape your throat.

“Dinner first,” you finally concluded, “and then you can have dessert.”

Satisfied with your response, Johnny slipped his fingers out of your waistband where they slapped against your skin with a quick snap. Hands still firmly on your hips, he leaned forward and gave you a quick kiss where you could feel his grin mold against your skin.

“Yes ma’am.”

#soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #mafia!soap #mafia!johnny #mafia!141 #soapitup #f!reader

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perotovar · 3 months

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baby, i'm-a want you — (prologue) "session zero"

gif by me

pairing: javier peña/shane morrissey (just this time. main pairing is still javi/joel) rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 1.6k content: unprotected p in a, one (1) use of the word "daddy" (this is gay porn what do you expect), shane being the biggest goth twink, javier being a good dom, swearing, smoking dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily ♥)

summary: javier peña has been doing this a long time. he's really good at his job. joel miller? not so much. he started doing this to get some extra cash to support his daughters. what happens when they're supposed to do a scene together? aka, the au where most of the ppcu boys are gay porn stars~

series masterlist

Javier Peña was good at his job.

“Fuck, harder–”

Really good.

He got millions of views on his page every month, and made enough to be comfortable as well as spend a little extra if he wanted to. He also got to have sex as frequently as he wanted because of that. He wasn’t bound to a schedule, but he filmed often just because he liked to.

“J-Javi, I’m gonna come, please.” The cute young thing below him moaned weakly and turned back to Javier, looking up at him with the biggest and wettest eyes. That would probably be the thumbnail of the video.

“Yeah?” He grunted, a smirk plastered on his lips. He lifted a hand and landed a hard slap against the young man’s right cheek, the left one gripped tightly in Javier’s free hand. The young man – Shane – whimpered and trembled below him, arching his back to fuck himself on Javier’s cock. “Mmm, si lo eres,” Javier hummed, rubbing Shane’s tattooed side comfortingly. He landed another loud slap against Shane’s tender flesh and watched the skin ripple with heat in his eyes. (Yes, you are.)

Javier made it a point to take care of whoever he was doing a scene with. Especially if they were pretty green. This was only Shane’s second ever official one, after a scene where he gave Din a blowjob. He leaned over Shane’s clammy skin, pressing chest to back and tangled his fingers into Shane’s sweaty, dyed black locks. “You doin’ okay?” When he asked, the hairs above his lip tickled Shane’s ear a little. His voice was soft enough that the mics or cameras wouldn’t pick up on it. He kept up the pace of his hips, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the mostly-empty “bedroom”.

Shane bit his lip, eyebrows downturned in pleasure and nodded as subtly as he could. He let out a weak grunt, a single tear falling from one of his eyes. “J-Javi–! There!”

Javier grinned and kissed along Shane's shoulder blades before he gripped the younger man’s hips tightly and started slamming into him, angling directly where Shane needed him most. Shane’s head hung heavily between his arms as he put most of his weight on his elbows. The chains and earrings he wore clanged against each other with every rhythmic beat of Javier’s hips, making him moan and whine louder.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” Javier grunted, pressing a large hand to Shane’s lower back to keep him steady. “C’mon.”

Pre-cum dripped onto the sheets from Shane’s throbbing cock as it swung between his legs, lightly slapping against his lower tummy. Shane let out one last pathetic whimper before he stilled and came hard, thick ropes hitting the sheets and head thrown back, mouth open in an obscene O. Perhaps a little overdone, but Javier didn’t think the young man was faking anything. He’ll get there.

Shane’s entire body trembled as he looked back at Javier. “I-inside,” he panted. “Please.”

“Yeah? You want me to fill you up, pretty boy?” Javier grinned, hips still moving rhythmically.

Shane’s cock twitched in overstimulation, but he nodded anyway, whining weakly.

Javier knew his own body better than anything in the world, so he knew that it would only take a few more strokes and he’d be finished. “C’mere,” he grunted, gripping onto Shane’s torso to heave him up onto his knees so he could press Shane’s back to his front. Shane wailed as Javier sped up the beat of his hips, now only focused on getting what Max, the director, called “the money shot”. Even if he’d done this a hundred times, it always felt good, and a depraved little part of him loved seeing himself stake a claim over his scene partner.

Javier let out a punched out breath, grunting as his hips stilled, then moved in a slight staccato, pumping Shane’s ass full of his cum. “Fuck,” he groaned, rolling his hips in slow waves until the last drop left his cock. Shane let out a weak sob as a final, pitiful spurt of his own cum landed on the sheets in front of them. Javier hummed and gently laid Shane down on his side away from the mess, and slowly turned him onto his stomach a little.

One of the camera men got closer to zoom in on Javier’s cum trickling out of Shane’s cute little hole, Javier’s big hands spreading his cheeks. “Good boy,” Javier hummed happily, teasingly prodding at the top of Shane’s puffy, used rim. Shane giggled shyly as he looked back at Javier, a blush high on his cheeks. His eyeliner and mascara was completely ruined, faint tracks running down his cheeks.

“Thank you, daddy,” Shane recited shyly, biting his lip.

“And, cut! Very good, boys.” Max’s booming voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Javier’s shoulders deflated a little, a tired smile crossing his features. “You alright, kid?” He asked, voice rough.

Shane smiled and nodded up at him, that deep blush still present. “Y-yeah. You’re amazing, Javier.”

Javier snorted and held a hand out for him as he stood from the bed. Slowly, Shane crawled off the bed, the cum trickling down the back of his thighs. Javier took him by the hand over to the small rack of robes and handed him one. “Thank you. You weren’t so bad yourself. They’re gonna love that face of yours,” he winked, nudging Shane’s chin with the knuckle on his index finger.

Shane smiled shyly and nodded, eyes downcast. “You’ve got a scene with Joel tomorrow, right?”

Joel. He was an interesting one. Javier had done a scene with him before and it went… really well. It’s one of Javier’s most viewed videos on his page. Javier doesn’t get a chance to bottom very often, and if he does, it’s usually with Pero or Dave. But after Joel… Well, he had to take a couple days off after that one. He didn’t get to talk to Joel much after their scene, but he seemed to… change once Max called cut. He wasn’t quite so… intense. While filming, Joel seemed to shift into a completely different person; he was all grunts and furrowed brows and some of the filthiest dirty talk Javier had ever heard. It was one of the first times Javier actually felt… submissive. Small, but not in a bad way. Like Joel would take care of him. Javier may play the part of the aloof, dominant top, but he likes being held sometimes too. The idea of getting to do that again was attractive to him, but more than that, he wanted to see if he could get a chance to properly talk to Joel. He seemed almost as new as Shane, but showcased it in a completely different way.

Javier cleared his throat and nodded, tying his own robe around his waist. “I do,” he hummed, turning toward one of the assistants, a young red headed girl whose name he couldn’t place at the moment, and motioned for a cigarette. She nodded and took off toward where he left his things.

Shane sighed dreamily, “I wanna do a scene with him.”

Javier smirked and laughed lowly. “Maybe get some more under your belt and you will. Think he’d like you,” he winked.

“Your cigarettes, Javi,” the assistant – Amy, that was her name – said, tapping the yellow pack against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he nodded once toward her, hitting the bottom of the pack against his hand a few times before turning it around and doing the same thing there. He pulled one out and lit it after he stuck the butt in his mouth. Lighting up, he sucked in the smoke and exhaled, his mind clearing already.

“I feel like I should be flattered,” Shane giggled, sipping on some water as he sat, one leg draped over the other. “Needing a cigarette after our scene. How very 70s of you.”

Javier rolled his eyes, but smirked, roughing up the kid’s hair playfully. “Yeah, yeah. You were good.”

“Javi, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Javier turned to Max Phillips, the director and owner of the website, and nodded. “Course,” he mumbled, the cigarette hanging from between his lips. “What’s up?”

Max pulled Javier to a secluded room, which made Javier raise a brow. Max waved him off and smiled. “Just wanted to tell you that the last scene you did? With Marcus? Just hit 2 mill last night.”

“Shit, really? People must really like the FBI/DEA storyline,” he hummed, part amused, part sarcastic.

“Yeah, so we’re thinking of doing a second part. Like a followup, where–”

“When?”

“How’s tomorrow?”

Javier frowned. This is the part of his job where he got to pull rank a little. He didn’t normally, but he really wanted to do that scene with Joel. He wasn’t going to miss his chance to pick Joel’s brain a little.

“What about Monday? I’ve got a scene with Joel tomorrow.”

Max exhaled, like he knew it was coming, and rested his hands on his hips, popping a knee dramatically. “You sure?”

Javier nodded. “‘M sure. I know my job, Max. And I haven’t done a scene with Joel in a while,” He paused. “You can’t argue with the numbers my last one with him pulled.” He knew exactly which buttons to push with Max. His relationship with his boss was fine, but Max could be a real douchebag at times. Javier wasn’t afraid of him or anything, but he also didn’t want to get reprimanded at best, or lose his job at worst.

Max chewed on his bottom lip for a minute. “Fuck,” he sighed. “Alright, fine. Still wanna do the one with Marcus?”

Javier nodded, a triumphant little smile on his face. “Course. He’s got a pretty cock.”

“Very true. Alright, go get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Javier nodded, sucking another drag off his cigarette. His stomach grumbled and he groaned. Maybe he’ll get Chinese tonight.

#javier peña #shane dio morrissey #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #javier pena smut #dio morrissey #dio morrissey fanfiction #dio morrissey fic #narcos au #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #oaksfics

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month

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I don’t know if you’ve already covered this, but I had a question to ask about the VDC in Book 5. To clarify, I understand that RSA needed to win for thematic and character arc purposes, and that in-lore it was an audience vote not a professional one. The story beats line up. But the choice of cutesy and childlike RSA performance over the more refined and professional NRC performance still doesn’t quite click with me. Is there some kind of cultural difference that didn’t translate to explain why one performance was supposed to be understood as preferred over the other? Even if it was an audience vote, the standards should be higher just by virtue of this being a big name competition for teenagers held at a prestigious school.

Very quickly, I want to add a couple other points that help to explain why RSA won over NRC! Book 6 opens early on with Vil noting that NRC was not able to perform as well as they wanted to since they had just come out of a difficult battle against his OB form. (Because of this, he accepts responsibility for their loss.) Thus, the NRC performance may not have actually been as "refined", "professional", or as polished as we imagine it to be.

Additionally, it’s stated in book 5 that RSA’s song choice had universal appeal whereas NRC’s did not. We see this effect on the production crew when Neige and the Seven Dwarves do their practice run; their performance has a refreshing and soothing effect on what appears to be an older audience (as it plays to their nostalgia); we must consider this when evaluating RSA and NRC. For example, I know that I really disliked NRC's performance (sue me/j) because it sounded very oppressive and therefore unrelatable to me. The lyrics are literally about how NRC will dominate their opponents and win 😭 Sure, the music and lyrics for Neige's song aren't complex, but they're at the very least accessible and easy to follow along with. (That's not to say that I prefer RSA's performance though; I'm just explaining why someone might not find NRC's performance appealing.)

Lastly! We as players are looking at the two song + dance numbers from an omniscient perspective. We need to consider our own biases when judging, and accept that it may differ from the characters in-universe view things. Maybe you prefer NRC’s performance. That’s fair! But how much of that is informed by your personal music preferences? And how much of that comes from your attachment to the NRC characters, since you’ve followed their stories up until this point? As Rook points out in book 5, he’s aware of how hard NRC has worked to get here… but he’s also aware of Neige’s hardships too (er, in terms of his lifestyle; ie living with the dwarves and doing chores, etc.). Consider then, would you honestly not have a bias for RSA had Twisted Wonderland’s story centered on them instead of NRC?

It’s also worth noting that how things are seen in Twisted Wonderland may reflect its own unique culture rather than how we in the real world may perceive it. Maybe the people of Twisted Wonderland just prefer a cute, nostalgic performance. This may not necessarily correlate with west or east at all and that has always been a possibility! (While TWST does take inspirations from the real world, it’s not a 1:1 with the real world.)

dkhlbaiyfadvfoad Okay, NOW onto the actual question being pitched!

When you look at media from different countries, there are some stark differences in how the same information is presented. One example is like... any Gordon Ramsay show yes, I am using him as an example. Compare the American cut and the British cuts; there are much more loud sound effects, dramatic music, yelling, and cussing in the American cuts. The British cuts, by comparison, are notably quieter and contemplative, with hardly any cursing. Another example! Looking at variety shows from the east vs the west, they're quite different as well. Eastern variety shows tend to be "cute", usually using various cute sound effects or edits which make the guests appear more bashful (like drawing blush over their cheeks or something). We don't see this in western TV shows, which are louder and more boisterous. I've noticed a similar trend in the music industries of the east vs the west as well, where eastern stars tend to emphasize their youthfulness and playfulness and western stars try to be more "mature" and grown-up. These are just my personal observations and may not reflect reality, especially seeing as I am not involved in music-oriented spaces.

I asked friends and personal contacts in both eastern and western pop music fandom spaces for their own insights (which is also in no way representative of both fandoms, but at least this gives us other perspectives for consideration). To summarize, most of them replied that they did not think cultural differences account for this situation, since equating a preference for a "cute" aesthetic is not the same as RSA performing what is basically a nursery rhyme. There's no real-world equivalent for that (at least none that they can think of), and I agree with all of this. There’s really no point in trying to compare the two.

I remember lots of Japanese fans being upset at NRC’s loss too (when book 5’s ending was first put out), so the impression I got was they didn’t prefer the performance of RSA over NRC either. It was not just the international fandom that was disappointed. I don’t believe TWST ever intentionally set out to present “Everyone Yahoo!” as the “superior” song and dance number, or as the performance we’re supposed to like more than the other. It was very much framed as something pathetic and unlikely to win in most of the eyes of the NRC characters. They make fun of RSA’s clumsiness and claim it’ll be easy to win over them. The player most likely is supposed to think this way too—until Vil, the one with an eye for showbiz, realizes his loss. Why? Because it doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is how this clumsy performance will resonate with the common person.

What I think it ultimately comes down to is emotional appeal to the audience, which is more of a personal/individual level thing than a cultural thing. The competition is decided by audience vote. The average person honestly does not care about quality or standards. No one is giving them rules to evaluate by, no one is going to tell them off for not having strict standards. They will pick based on what they like best or whatever makes them feel good. And what will make anyone feel food, regardless of age, sex, race, education, socioeconomic status, etc.? Something cozy and familiar, thoughts of simpler times… Nostalgia.

Something else to think about is what a powerful motivator emotions can be. There are irl idol competition shows that are high stakes and decided by audience vote just like VDC/SDC… and people will still vote for their favorites even if they gave a technically bad performance. This is because fans are so emotionally invested in and attached to the performer. It doesn’t matter how “bad” they are, the performer/performance makes the audience member feel impassioned, and they will then act according to those intense feelings. Think about what you’re like when you’re in a terrible mood vs a good one. You act completely differently, right?

I hope that perspective helps! 🙏 I tried to be as thorough as I could be in this response, but please let me know if I misspoke or maybe missed a point.

P.S. I happen to be responding to this ask after TWST showed us the NRC Tribe’s dance performance in a MMD video. I wonder if this only made the “NRC should have own” crowd double down on that opinion since now we’re seeing just what their performance looks like 🤔 (though we don’t have a complete MMD video of Neige’s group to directly compare, just this which shows part of the dance and not in the same clumsy way that Neige and co. perform it).

#twisted wonderland #twst #Neige LeBlanche #Vil Schoenheit #Rook Hunt #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #book 6 spoilers #book 5 spoilers #notes from the writing raven #question #Seven Dwarves #Gordon Ramsay

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

OH GOD YOUR REQS R OPEN, i would rlly like to request something, could you write an one shot of price with a little daugther reader? just like, him coming home and spending some time with his little girl, she tells him about her school, he tells her some funny stories that happened while he was at work, he cooks her favorite meal, just a big fluff, i love this man more than anything and i just need some paternal love LMAO, feel totally free to deny! do everything in your time and remember to take good care of urself!

Memories of Youth

Pairing: Father!John Price x F!Daughter!Reader

Synopsis: It was hard being away from his little girl, but warm mornings spent in each other's company were blessings - even if they were far and few in between. It didn't matter the form.

Word Count: 4.5k (short and sweet)

Warnings: Angst (just a little cuz I can't help myself), a lotta fluff, banter, just good platonic/paternal relationship in general, etc.

A/N: Didn't specify if the reader was adopted or blood-related, so that's really up to you! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He got the call at the halfway point of crossing the English Channel, Northern France behind him and Southern England just on the horizon line as the sun began to spread its orange glow over the waves. Sitting high above the water in a slick black Heli, John Price’s hand snaps to his side pocket, fingers deftly peeling back the layers as the overwhelming sound of helicopter blades shakes the hull.

The rest of Task Force 141 watch with varying interest, only Gaz taking notice of the sudden frown that mars his Captain’s face; the furrowed brow, and the spark of concern in his eyes. A call was unusual. The Sargeant tries not to intrude, but can’t help the way his body lightly shifts so he can have a better view.

John doesn't bother to look at the contact when he takes the device out, rapidly pressing the answer button and slotting the phone at his ear, tilting his head so his opposite rests at the junction of his shoulder. It only stops a fraction of the noise, even so, it would have to do for now. But with how his ears were already straining to find a sound over the line, he may not need to force out the jarring racket after all.

Inside his chest, John’s heart is racing – confusion laces his mind. This was abnormal.

I told her only to call if it was an emergency. What could she have gotten herself into now? I said to stay out of trouble…

“Where are you?!” The Brit has to shout down the line, his familiar deep accent loud and guttural.

His mind flies through every possibility. An intruder had broken into the house, you had broken your arm falling down the stairs again, or a fire had broken out in the kitchen. Fuck…he was too far away to help if anything bad had happened. John’s jaw clenches, eyes looking out over the water as the bucket hat on his head flops in the wind. It was only a product of his job that made him think like that; years of intuition and thinking on the fly leading to his mind making up the worst scenarios.

Especially when you called on a secure line when he told you it was only appropriate for life-and-death situations. Especially when it was his little girl.

I told ‘er about the Pistol in my office, yeah? The Captain asks himself with a steel-like resolve. And gave her Laswell’s number?

John’s fingers tighten over the phone when he hears your breath over the line, a shuffling of clothes, and a deep exhale.

“Sunshine!” He tries again, sitting up straighter as his pulse gets faster. Why isn’t she answering me? “Where are you right–”

“We don’t have anything for breakfast.” Your voice is heavy with sleep; fatigue drowning the syllables and holding them under the very waves that rage under John only separated by thin sheets of metal.

The Brit stops. His body freezes, and as the tense minutes go by his panic falls away and leaves a thick stain of annoyance resting behind his eyelids. Of course. John brings two fingers to his nose bridge, digging into the skin until tiny crescent moons are left behind; he has to take a deep breath before answering, but his tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

“...Breakfast…?”

“Yeah, Old Man, you need me to spell it for you? B-R-E-A-K-F-A–”

“Enough!” John barks stiffly and has to hold back his anger as you laugh from the other side. Ever the jokester – did you not realize how serious this was? How fast your father’s heart was racing with adrenaline?

Fuck, he had just about been ready to radio the cockpit and force the pilots to fly faster.

Across the way, Ghost locks eyes with the man, and with a tilt of his head and a loud call he asks, “That the Mutt?”

The Captain’s eyes slip back into a firm blank slate.

“Affirm.” John tilts the phone away from his mouth, ignoring your sarcastic comments to catch his sanity for a moment and respond to his Lieutenant.

Simon blinks as Johnny perks up at his side, looking in from the view in favor of the Captain with newfound interest. A bright smile forms over his scruffy cheeks

“She all good?” The skeletal man asks, and Gaz smirks lazily tapping his fingers over his knee, immediately noticing your shenanigans and the way the Cap was so worked up.

But anyone would be when they had a daughter thousands of miles away.

John simply nods once with an exasperated expression to Ghost. MacTavish snorts out a laugh, knowing the context of the situation without having to think hard.

“Is that Uncle Simon?” You ask, and with a scratch at his beard, your father hums in confirmation, letting the sound of your voice put him more at ease. She’s just fine. “Tell him I want him to come over and play Mario Cart with Gaz, Johnny, and me again! He wiped the floor with ‘em last time!”

There’s a clinking of pots and pans as you move throughout the house.

“Sweetheart,” Your father grumbles, sighing through the call. His voice takes on the authoritative tone that works for both soldiers and teenagers – but it rarely works on you, despite that fact. Took after your dad too much, is what John would say. Never listened until it was absolutely necessary. “What did I tell you about callin’ this phone when I’m away from the house?”

He hears your scoff and raises a warning eyebrow, though you can’t see it. You know your dad enough to know he’s doing it despite being separated. It was pretty common.

“Not to, unless it’s an emergency…But I’d say food is a big enough reason, y’know? Unless you want me to eat the leftover cake for breakfast – which I haven’t thrown out as a possibility yet, honestly.”

“You’re not eatin’ bloody cake for breakfast. You’ll get sick.” Gaz snickers, turning his face away to hide the amusement at the comment.

It hadn’t been a surprise that the Captain’s daughter was such a familiar creature – they saw traits reflected every time the two were together. Everyone had expected her to take after her old man in nearly everything, and when she had they had bumped fists and prayed for the brown-bearded man. But it was funny nonetheless, considering they got along better than most fathers and daughters; practically reading each other's minds when everyone was playing poker. Johnny was still pretty ticked off about that – he’s a good deal deep into the sweets debt he owes you because Price helps you win. But where they really shined was with the shared deadpan attitudes, bottom-of-the-barrel sarcasm, and knowing how to command a room without even trying. Safe to assume that the rest of the team would do anything for you.

“Will not.” You grumble in retaliation, and John’s lips threaten to tilt into a grumpy smile when he hears you put the cake plate back into the counter.

Letting the tension fall from his shoulders, the brown-haired man takes a glance outside, watching the waves go bright orange as they lap and writhe like great sea serpents.

“How long have you been up, eh? The sun’s barely risen. Thought Sunday was when you always slept in?”

There’s a pause in what John believed were fingers digging through a cupboard, and he narrows his eyes in confusion as the silence grows long. He frowns when you speak again, words so quiet he has to place a hand over his other ear to hear properly. Having half a mind to go and tell the pilots to hurry up and go faster so he can just talk to his little girl in person, he refrains, knowing that’s not how this works. But something was wrong – it had been laced in your previous words, as tiny and unnoticeable as it may have been. Only a father would notice it.

“You said you were gonna be home last night. I stayed up.” It takes a moment of halted breathing before John’s eyes widen, blues full of realization.

Oh.

…Damn it. He lets out the tense breath of air from his lips, shifting in his seat as the gear around his body weighs him down. His gun digs into his chest.

He hadn't seen you for over a week – leaving you in the care of a close and trusted neighbor, Mrs. Lilly, just as he always had when he needed to leave for work on short notice. But seeing as you were older now, it became apparent that, with your learned independence, staying at the house by yourself was alright as long as you checked in with the neighbor every morning and night. You had been waiting for him to come home. All alone. In the dark.

Fucken’ hell, John thinks in a deep layer of guilt as wrinkles overtake his forehead, I did tell her I’d be back yesterday. I forgot to call and tell ‘er. Shit! He didn’t want to imagine the stress that had been put on your shoulders. God, what’ve I done?

Not checking in was something he had never missed before – he always told you when he was about to come back. What had gone wrong this time? How had something that important just slipped his mind? Sure the Op had been tedious, but he was trained to handle it. It was no excuse.

“Sweetheart,” John starts and then pauses the soft and gentle endearment, knowing that an apology didn’t fit into what you were looking for. You didn’t want an ‘I’m sorry’ right now, you wanted your father. Flattening his lips into a line, he continues, wishing he was with you more than ever so he can press a kiss to your forehead. “...I should be back before 1200. How about when I get back I’ll cook you up somethin’ myself, yeah? Or we can go to that Cafe you like down on Newman Street and I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“...When do you have to go back?” You don’t answer his question, and yours makes his heart hurt.

John clears his throat.

“None of that, now. We’ll talk more when I get back, Darling, alright?” You don’t respond, but he hears you sigh and quietly scoff under your breath. “Alright?” He tries again, head tilting forward and eyebrows rising as if you could see him. Maybe you could.

“Fine. But you better make me pancakes. I don’t care if it’ll be noon.”

“Pancakes it is.” The Captain looks up in time to see Johnny mouthing words to him, and with a blank face and stiff lip, your father mutters with a grunt, “Johnny says ‘hello.’”

Your shocked snort makes him feel better, but a layer of guilt still stays. You were awake all night waiting for him, and he never showed up. Did you sleep on the couch? Damnit, he hoped you didn’t…but in his rattling chest knew you had. He found you like that every time he came back from a long stay away. Huddled under blankets, no pillow under your head. Sometimes you steal one of his shirts and hold it like a stuffed bear to your chest, shoving your face into it.

How could I forget to fucken’ call her?

Your voice takes him out of his growing self-resentment.

“Tell him to watch his back – I’m getting better at Rainbow Road. Soon enough I’ll be able to beat him in a 1V1!” John can’t help the slow chuckle that bounces in his throat, mind, for the moment, at ease as long as you continue to speak to him.

“I’ll be sure to pass it along. But, eh,” The Brit makes sure he speaks slowly, letting you hear every syllable of his next words. “Promise me you’ll stay at the house until I get there. No goin’ out with friends, yeah? You know how I worry.” John ignores the teasing look from Gaz and peeks out again to see how close they were to the mainland with narrowed lids. “‘Specially when I’m not there.”

Getting back to the Base wasn’t the problem, it was the damn reports coming in that would wring his neck before he could get out the door. But he’d push it off for however long he could; call in favors from Laswell to get him more time with his little girl so he can fix his mistake. As a dad, the only thing that counted was seeing his daughter after a seemingly unending Op that he didn’t want to relive. The hardest part wasn’t the blood or the guts – it was being away from you. Nothing would ever change that, even if he was the one on the ground gritting his teeth at the bite of a bullet.

“Scout’s honor, Old Man.” The happiness in your voice makes him smile to himself.

“Stop calling me that, Muppet.” John grumbles affectionately, rolling his eyes, “I’ll give you a call when back I’m in town, Sunshine. Make sure the door’s locked–”

“--Locked, the windows too, plus, if someone knocks on the door I need to look through the peephole and if I don’t recognize them don’t open it…Am I missing anything?”

“Mind yourself, now you’re just being cheeky, you are.” John teases, scoffing, but proud that you remembered his rules. It made all of this just a bit more manageable.

“Who do you think I got it from?” You laugh, but it tapers off sullenly, “Just…get home safe, okay, Dad?”

John’s beard pulls back into a soft close-lipped grin, eyes crinkling as his heart warms. He so desperately wanted to ruffle your hair.

“Of course, Hun. But, eh, take a nap. It’s still early, and I know you’ve got schoolwork to do later. You sound like you’re about to keel over where you stand.” You scoff before agreeing with a muttered grumble, most likely already stumbling to the living room couch, and then the line goes silent and is replaced once more by the whirring of the helicopter blades.

The man peels back the phone and pockets it, hand unconsciously brushing his breast pouch where a picture of the two of you always sits. It was a baby picture, with your little form held in his grip delicately; looking down at you with soft eyes and an easy smile on his lips that always formed when he was with you. From under a soft blanket, your tiny hand reaches out to try and brush his stubbily cheek.

It never failed to bring him ease when he realized the photo was there. A reminder that if everything else in his life went horribly wrong, you would still be looking up at him with those eyes of yours. At the very least, he had managed to do one thing right.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a good kid.” Gaz calls at him, and John spares him a glance out of the side of his eye with a raised brow.

“I know she is. I’m the one who raised her.”

—

You remember eating a piece of toast before you made your way over to the couch, throwing your phone to the coffee table haphazardly before tossing yourself onto the cushions. Still in your pajamas, you can’t find it in you to go and grab the homework in your backpack this early. The sun had only just risen, and the bags under your eyes reminded you how late you stayed up last night.

But your father had never shown up.

Frantic was too light a word to describe the feeling you had when your eyelids had peeled back to the empty living room and the TV still playing. It had been second nature to snatch your phone and call the secure line – half of you had said it was better to call Laswell, just in case, but your adolescent brain had wanted nothing more than to hear your father’s voice.

He would make it better. But you needed to hear his voice.

Dad, you remembered pleading to yourself as the sound of the dial tone echoed in your ear, please answer the phone. Please. Answer the fucking phone.

Your heart was pounding; hands shaking. He never just didn’t show up when he said he was going to. Never. Your dad was punctual – always on time no matter what – and he had ingrained the same sentiment in you as well.

When his deep voice finally bounced in your eardrums you nearly started to cry, missing the first hurried and concern-filled inquiry of where you were. Hearing his voice put you at ease, and after a week of missing your father’s strong presence and his warm hugs, it was hard not to take a shaky inhale when he seemed so close.

You just wanted him home; you wanted him to make you pancakes and help you with your schoolwork. You wanted him to read a book to you on this couch like you were a toddler again while his old record player was on in the background.

It was childish, getting so worked up about it, but your dad meant the world to you. Not having him here felt wrong.

Sighing, you rub at your eyes and revel in the darkness before letting out a strained yawn, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and pulling it over your body. It didn’t take long before your eyes were flickering shut, a calm quiet settling over the house as cars passed by outside in the street. You pull the blanket closer and breathe, inhaling pine needles and ash.

You don’t know how long you were there, twitching in your sleep before the scent woke you up – it makes your nose scrunch, eyelids blinking away fuzz. There was a pillow under your head, the blanket wrapped tight around your neck to keep out the London chill, and a clanking of pans in the kitchen. Scraping spatula over cast iron, you knew, the sizzling of batter.

The haze of that in-between state, sleep and consciousness fighting in the back of your skull and under your hairline, stays even as you try to force it away. It was like a wave – it constantly pulled you under when you thought you were getting to the surface. Your eyes would blink open and closed; comforted back into sleep by the deep humming, the waver of an old record player. Feet over hardwood and the smell of fresh pancakes.

Dad’s home.

A delirious smile slides over your sleep-hot face. That was why you were so content. This was what home sounded and smelled like.

Dad’s home. You repeat it once more, nuzzling farther into your father's travel pillow he brings to and from Base. Pine needles. Ash. Cigar smoke.

Dad’s home! Your eyes snap open wildly, your body shooting up from the cushions as the blanket falls to the floor. Angling your head to the separated kitchen, you swipe the drool from your mouth with a heavy hand and listen.

Your dreams had tricked you before, but no. Not this time.

He was humming along to some old tune under his breath that mirrored the record player behind the couch; the antique turned low so it wouldn’t wake you. Blinking in shock, your mouth morphs into a rich smile instantaneously.

Throwing yourself off the couch, your feet slam to the floor, rushing and almost tripping over the blanket on the floor as your body slants forward. Giggling, you push on, righting yourself with no second thought other than welcoming your dad home the same as you always did. Zipping around the corner, a shadow is already turning your way, a plate of pancakes ready to be put on the table and devoured.

“Dad!” You yell loudly and launch yourself at him, hearing his chest let out a grunt and his hands splay around you so he won’t drop breakfast food all over the floor.

A velvety chuckle is wrung from his body, and his free digits go to rest heavily on your head as you shove yourself into his hold. Gripping his shirt tight between your fingers, you try not to cry when that scent that had been fading from the house comes back tenfold. Your eyes burn, but you only let one tear out when your dad’s finger begins stroking your hair just like he did when you were little.

You had been so worried.

“There’s my girl,” His voice whispers out, “I’m here, Sunshine. Easy now.”

“I thought you died,” You can’t help the helpless gasp that rips from you. Your father’s hand freezes; body going rigid around your smaller, desperately grasping frame. The atmosphere of the room flips. Digging into the fabric of his shirt the full flood of tears finally comes forward. “W-when I woke up and you weren’t here I… I thought you were never coming back home, and that I would have to go and live with the neighbors and I’d have to bury you in the cemetery. I don’t-don’t wanna have to put you in the ground.” You’re rambling, but you can’t stop the words. “I don’t want you to leave me alone, Dad. Please don’t leave me alone.”

At some point, the plate of pancakes had been tossed to the counter without care for if the porcelain cracked from the force, and both of your father's arms hand scooped you into his hold effortlessly. Your breath was hiccuping violently, tears making his shirt wet and sticking to his skin.

But John didn’t care.

He wrapped his arms around you and curled his body in, taking you into a hold so warm and tight you couldn’t leave it even if you tried.

What’ve I done? The man feels his lips tense, blinking down at your shaking body with guilt as you sob. Oh, my Little Girl, I’m so sorry. What’ve I done to you?

Had he never noticed the toll that this job was taking on you? John asked himself this in disgust as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head, whispering words into your hair under his shaky breath. He hated when you cried because of him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love, alright? Look at me.” You don’t move your bruising grip, face still held away from sight as you gasp down frantic breaths. John’s voice gets firmer, “Sweetheart, I need you to look at me, yeah?”

Your tight fingers stutter, and your head barely shifts to the side, one red eye peeking up as he looks down at you with all the love he can muster without looking incredibly broken. He never wanted to see you cry again but knew that would be an impossible feat to accomplish – but he’d do his damndest to try.

“There she is.” John’s hand goes to your cheek, brushing away the saltwater with a calloused thumb as you sniffle. “Just keep those eyes on me, Little One.”

“...M’ not little anymore.” You grumble out, your cheeks heating even as your pulse slows as you focus on your dad's eyes. So soft the edges were nearly liquid; water that held your attention as they lapped across your form.

“To me, you’ll always be little. Can’t change that I’m afraid.” The man grunts out, tilting his head down at you and letting his eyes travel from concern to comfort. But that doesn’t change the present.

“I’m so sorry, Love,” Your father mutters, eyes flickering away from yours in guilt so rarely shown to others. He always prided himself on being strong, you knew, bearing the brunt of the weight. Apologies weren’t often verbally said until it truly mattered. “I should have called you. That’s all on me, that is. Bloody stupid to forget about, knowin’ how you wait up for me.”

Your lips thin to mimic your dad's, brows pulling close. But in your chest, your heart couldn’t be larger. You didn’t hold it against him, but you wished he could be here more often; not put himself in dangerous situations. Knowing as little as you did about your dad's actual job, you still knew it wasn’t entirely safe.

Maybe the two of you protected each other from the things unseen.

Your chest aches.

“...You’re funny lookin’ when you have to apologize. Like a kicked bear.” Pulling back your lips, a tiny smile lighting your face, and you look up at your dad with a sniffle in your nose.

His visage snaps to yours, eyebrows going high on his head in surprise, and hooded blue eyes widening. It takes a moment, but a smirk pushes back his beard when he sees the tears have stopped falling.

“Yeah?” John asks you, a grumble reverberating in his chest, “Now, y’know, that is just bloody rude, Sunshine. Thought I raised you better…And after I made you pancakes.”

Laughing, you pull back, stomach rumbling and nose twitching at the prospect of the nearly forgotten food. Slithering past your father, you snatch the plate and fork before rushing into the living room. Jumping on the couch you begin to cut into the carbs, piling pieces into your mouth and smiling at the taste. No one else could make them as your dad could.

The Brit comes not seconds later, a cup of tea held in his hand before he sits down next to you with a groan, stretching out and laying his socked feet on the coffee table next to your tossed phone from hours earlier. You giggle, suddenly leaning to his large frame and hearing him grunt in retaliation.

“Tell me a funny story,” You demand, listening to him sip his drink in the mid-morning glow that spreads outside the house and leaks in through the opened curtains. Birds sing outside, heard from the street.

Your dad hums, his beard tickling your scalp as he leans into you in turn, making you chuckle before he nuzzles against you kissing your head; leading to a larger exclamation of glee before you elbow his gut.

He laughs and answers with a smile in his voice.

“Hm, did I tell you ‘bout the time Gaz fell out of the Heli?”

You laugh, eating the rest of the pancake remnants; feeling incredibly happy and warm. There were many memories you loved of your dad and his recounting of stories fit many of them. He always kept out the gory bits – promising himself that he would never lead you down that path no matter what – and always opted for the many downright hilarious situations the rest of the 141 always seemed to get into.

“Yes, but tell me again. It’s funny, especially when you describe his face afterward! Like he–”

“Like he had shit his pants and didn’t want to tell me,” John chuckles, eyes squinted, looking down at you as you snuggle into his side. He wraps an arm over your shoulders, taking your empty plate with one hand and putting it on the side table before pulling you close and making sure his tea won’t spill. He feels your tiny, bird-like, heartbeat on his ribcage and knows that nothing could ever take you away from him. You would always be his little girl. “Yeah, Love, I remember that one. Now, let me start from the beginning…”

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upon-a-starry-night · 2 months

Text

Number Neighbors Pt.23

Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Natasha Masterlist Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: When you catch sight of the newest trend going around you know you’re all but bound to at least try it, it was harmless anyway. What could possibly stem from something so little?

----

You were right that your coworker had wanted to introduce you to the group of people she’d been having a conversation with, but in their defense, they were incredibly friendly and hilarious. You felt good when they all asked for your number so you could keep in contact.

This is exactly what you’d been hoping for when you decided to come, although you’ve already gotten more than you bargained for. Your gaze drifted over to the bar for the thousandth time that night. The redhead had long left to go socialize with the other party go-ers but you’d been replaying your interaction over and over.

It was far from the kind of interaction you’d expected to have with her, and once your heart had finally had time to calm down you realized that you forgot to thank her for saving your life.

But she wanted to see you again. She told you to find her. You still had the chance.

The room was beginning to get a bit stuffy and warm and you weren’t sure whether it was from the bodies or the alcohol, probably both. Either way, it made you crave fresh air so the second there was a break in the conversation you excused yourself. Your friend tossed you a concerned glance but you shook your head with a smile, assuring her that you were just needing some air.

The cool night air was a refreshing welcome compared to inside and you were glad to see you were the only one out there.

You leaned against the wall and let the sounds of busy nighttime New York wash over you. The non-stop honking of cars and loud exclamations of drunk bar hoppers were a constant you were long familiar with. It was baseless noise for some but for you it was familiar.

The view from the balcony was by far the best you’d ever experienced as well. Avengers Tower was one of the tallest buildings in New York and you could see why people were desperate to be invited. You’d pay good money just to see your city from this spot every night.

You're caught up in your silent admiration when a figure appears next to you, taking up the wall space as they copy your body language and lean against the cool material with their arms crossed.

You look up at the figure, surprised to see Natasha’s soft smile peering down at you. She told you to find her later and yet here she was finding you. You hadn’t even heard her come outside.

You smile back at her, glad that the two of you got another chance to talk, this time in a more private location. You honestly weren’t sure if you were going to be able to see her again, it was nearing 1 AM and the party guests who hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Tony yet were stubbornly determined to meet him despite their obvious exhaustion.

Even you were on the verge of slumping onto a very expensive couch and taking a nap but that didn’t seem very socially acceptable right now. But your energy has been fully renewed just by Nat’s presence. Nobody could ever say Nat didn’t have a superpower ever again.

Despite your exhaustion, Natasha doesn’t even look fazed despite having to make drinks and network all night.

“You do this whole party thing too often don’t you?”

She smirks at you, a look you’re much more familiar with than the soft smile she was giving you a second ago.

“You have no idea” There’s an uproar of laughter from inside, coming from the crowd surrounding Stark, and Nat rolls her eyes as if proving her point.

A chill runs through your body when a strong breeze catches the wind. There were pros and cons to being up this high. It makes you remember when you were younger, everything was so tall compared to you. You used to have a fear of heights. You wondered if Natasha had a fear of heights when she was young. If she’s ever had a fear of anything or if she was always as fearless as the first time you saw her, defending the world from aliens.

The memory brings a soft smile to your face as you stare out at the city in silence. It was a shock to both you and your therapist when you’d smiled at the memory. Everything else from that day had been- awful. Months of sessions and breathing exercises and crying and you hadn’t been able to genuinely smile until you remembered her.

You supposed it was the way she carried herself, like nothing could touch her. Not even aliens. You’d laughed at that and your therapist stared at you wide-eyed like you were in the middle of a mental breakdown. She told you it had been a while since she’d heard someone laugh in her sessions- the world was so quiet for weeks after that terrifying day. You were too- until her.

Natasha Romanoff was your guiding light. For a while, she might’ve even been your obsession but the more mainstream the Avengers became the more you realized you just admired her as a woman. You were nothing like the fans who followed her every move- you just wanted a chance to thank her. And now you have it.

Turning to her, the hundreds of versions of thank yous that you’d written ran through your head and then filtered away just as you opened your mouth to speak. Nothing seemed grand enough to express how grateful you were, but maybe you didn’t need grand, maybe she didn’t need grand. Maybe all she needed was something simple- woman to woman.

“You know uhm- I actually kind of owe you my life” Her attention turns back on you, her head tilting as she gives you her full attention.

“Oh?”

You nod, swallowing your nerves as you try to talk about a situation you’ve only ever talked about with your therapist.

“Yeah, you probably don’t remember because it was super crazy and I don’t even think you saw me honestly but you saved me from an alien a few years ago and wow that’s crazy to say out loud-” You stopped your rambling and resisted the urge to bite your thumb, she was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t read. It gave you the chance to admire her up close.

You’d seen her in person and on the news but she was different up close. Despite her intimidating persona she almost seemed…softer. You noticed the little freckles that dotted her face, the way her hair brushed her shoulders elegantly, the way she chewed the side of her lip lightly. Who knew the famous black widow had a nervous tick? You internally shook your head- you had to stop idolizing her and regard her as the person she was.

You let understanding wash over you as you began to take in the tiredness behind her eyes, the way her shoulders never fully relaxed, the way her posture and movements were so perfectly practiced. It must be exhausting to always appear like the strongest woman in the room. Was she ever able to be vulnerable? Did she ever take a break?

Shaking your head, you let out a small chuckle “ -actually it doesn’t really matter what happened. I just wanted to say Thank you, for what you did all those years ago. You saved so many lives on that day but you saved me for months afterwards.” This is the longest amount of time you’ve held eye contact with anyone and you resist the urge to look away when you feel tears start to form. “ I hope you know how incredible you are”

She sucks in a sharp breath and looks away from you, her gaze going to the ever-dwindling party inside. You worry for a second that you’ve said something you shouldn’t have, or unintentionally reminded her of a painful memory but after a while her gaze turns back to you.

She’s looking at you with that same look from earlier, her eyes shining with recognition and what you can now pinpoint as admiration. Natasha Romanoff admires you.

“Y/n-” Your phone rings and you scramble to answer it, giving Nat an apologetic look that she dismisses with an understanding shake of her head. Eager to get back to whatever Nat was about to tell you your finger quickly swipes over the answer call button.

“Hello?”

“Y/n! Where are you? You’re missing this great story-” Your friend seems significantly drunker than when you left her and you wonder what she got herself into in the short while you were away. You should probably go back and join her but…

“I’m on the balcony, remember?”

“Oh..” You can practically feel her pout. “ That’s so funny I could’ve sworn I saw Natasha Romanoff go out there- Hey! Is she with you? Oh my god, she totally is! Are you hanging out? Did you tell her about your big fat crush-” You swiftly end the call.

You seriously hope Natasha didn’t hear that and that she can’t see the blush currently taking over your whole face but the sight of her smirking at you is definitely not a good sign.

You’re absolutely mortified.

“You didn’t hear anything” You accusingly point at her and she raises her hands in a mock surrender. It’s the first time you’ve seen her surrender to anyone and you’re afraid of what it does to your insides.

Whatever she was going to say to you seems to have gone, the moment sufficiently ended you figure it’s probably best if you head back to your friend and stop her from drinking more free alcohol and potentially spilling your embarrassing work stories.

Nat seems to sense your plan to leave as she straightens up and you preen at the fact that she’d been comfortable enough to relax a bit in your presence.

Smile still prominent, you rub your arm from the cold as you prepare to say goodbye to someone you’re not sure you’ll ever get the chance to talk like this with again.

“Well- It was nice getting to talk with you but I should probably get going” Nat looks like she wants to say something, her jaw ticks, and her eyes take in your face but when her eyes catch your injured shoulder she stops herself. “ Also thank you for that drink it was unfairly good and I’ll probably never have another like it”

That gets her to laugh and you find yourself chuckling with her. A car honks in the distance and the party's still going on like nothing has happened but for you, everything has changed. This moment will be ingrained in your memory forever.

You make a move to leave but the sound of your name makes you turn back to her, a questioning look on your face.

“You know you can always call me” The statement catches you off guard. You know the Avengers hotline is always open but they were usually busy dealing with prank calls and petty crimes. You weren’t sure they’d believe you if you called and told them Natasha Romanoff said you could call her and ask her to make you another drink.

The humor of the situation has you returning the gesture with your own proposition “Same to you. If you need anyone to talk to or just someone to give you compliments” She chuckles and you’re sure she gets that you’re joking but she still tilts her head in a tease

“I don’t have your number”

You let yourself indulge in the joke, seeing no harm in making your friend wait a minute longer “You have my name, I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding it”

A sort of mirth sparkled in her eyes as she spoke her next sentence “Well I’m no FBI agent” It feels like an inside joke and you're trying to pinpoint where you remember it from but after a few seconds you shake it off and blame it on the alcohol.

You laugh and give her a wave as you make your way to the door back inside. Just as your fingers grip the handle Natasha’s voice calls out to you one more time

“Take care of yourself, Y/n.”

You smile at her as you open the door “You too, Nat.”

It’s odd how a few minutes of interaction will make the taste of her name feel so familiar

Later when you're home warm in your pj’s and settling into bed, your phone pings with a notification and you open it to see a text from Nat-

Nat🔪:

I'm guessing from your lack of texts

that you’re having a good night?

You smile as you type out your response, excited to tell her all of the details in the morning

Y/n🍦:

The Best❤

Pt.24

A/n: Nat seems to have hesitated- what do you think she was going to tell Y/n? ~ Starry

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jobean12-blog · 7 months

Text

Temptations

Pairing: Javier Peña x reader

Word Count: 1,854

Summary: Javi's always busy with work and despite his warnings you can't stay away...you miss him too much.

Author's Note: This is for my Kinktober and one of my favorite kinks- choking...the focus is mostly on the absolute sexiness of this man and his hands in general because clearly I can't stop myself! This is also my first time writing for Javi and I want to thank my sweet love @flordeamatista ❤️❤️for checking it over and making sure I stayed true to the character. Thank you all so much for reading, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics Thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: sassy and flirty reader, Javi is a bit d-om-ish and pos-sess-iv-e, o-ra-l, f-in-g-er-in-g, ma-s-tu-r-ba-tio-n, softness too, a c-u-rs-e or three, light c-ho-k-in-g, c-o-c-k w-ar-m-in-g

Kinktober Masterlist

Joel Miller Masterlist (Pedro)

“Javi.”

He looks up from his drink, continuing to twirl the small glass between his fingers.

“Someone here to see you,” Steve says, giving nothing away.

“Who?” Javi asks, his eyes narrowing.

Steve just raises his eyebrows and cocks his head before walking off, leaving Javi’s office door open.

Javi mutters a curse under his breath before he lifts the drink to his lips and finishes it in one quick sip. He almost chokes on it a second later when you push the door open and saunter in.

“Surprised to see me?” you ask demurely as you slowly shut the door and lock it.

“Angel,” he growls out in warning. “What are you doing here?”

You feign a pout and toy with the tie of your jacket. “Aren’t you happy?”

He abruptly stands from his desk, his chair flying backward and banging into the wall.

You barely have time to react before he’s standing over you, one long finger pointed in your face and his eyes dark.

“I thought I told you not to come here.”

You stand your ground, raising your chin ever so slightly and meeting his gaze. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

You meant it to come out more powerfully, a strong statement, but instead it’s whiny and petulant.

“It’s not safe,” Javi says as he steps closer. “You know what I’m dealing with.”

You reach up to grab the ends of his loose tie, teasingly pulling on the fabric to bring him even closer.

“I made sure no one saw me,” you explain. “Even parked the car far away.”

He stares at you, unmoving, and you close the distance between you, pressing your body to his.

“What do you want?” he asks, placing his hands on his hips even as they twitch to touch you.

“You.”

“Angel.”

You hold his stare in challenge but he doesn’t relent and steps back to put some distance between you.

“Fine,” you huff. “I’ll leave.”

You turn on your heel and start for the door but before you grab the doorknob he has you in his arms, pressed back to the door with his knee between your legs.

A smile starts to curl your lips and he takes your chin between his fingers.

“You never listen, do you.”

It’s not a question, just a simple statement of the truth and your smile grows.

“And you work too hard,” you state, batting your lashes.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk as he dips his head, brushing his nose along your throat.

“Since you’re here…” he murmurs.

He drags himself away, leaving you panting against the door.

“Take your coat off. Get comfortable.”

With that he turns toward his desk and falls back into the chair.

You stay plastered to the door, carefully sliding the ties of your coat between your fingers.

“Javi,” you sing. “I didn’t come here to watch you work.”

He looks up just as you pull the ties free, the sides of the coat falling open to reveal your mostly bare skin.

“Fuck,” he growls, letting his eyes sweep over you. “You’ve been walking around the office like that this whole time?”

You wave a dismissive hand and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, casually throwing it over the file cabinet.

“Fuck,” he repeats as he gets an unobstructed view of your lingerie set.

“You said that already,” you tease, not moving from the door.

With a wide spread of his legs he leans back in the chair and crooks his finger at you.

Each step you take is slow and calculated, the sway of your hips enticing in every way. You can already see the tightness in his pants and when you reach him and sit on the edge of the desk, you let your eyes drop between his legs.

The pen in his hand creaks under the pressure of his grip as you wait, dragging your gaze up his chest to meet his eyes.

He leans forward, invading your space and reaches up to trace his fingers over the fluttering pulse in your neck. You tilt your head, granting him better access and he smooths his fingers lower, tracing your collarbone.

Goosebumps rise against his touch and you let out a soft sigh.

His hands slide lower, along the swell of your breasts, then he grabs your legs, forcing them to spread open, knees laid back against the edge of his desk.

“Don’t you dare fucking move,” he says as he stands, slowly sliding his loose tie from his neck.

Your breath hitches but you remain still.

With careful movements he takes each of your wrists in his hand and pulls your arms behind your back, settling your hands just above your ass. You feel him wrap his tie around your wrists and secure it tightly.

When he meets your eyes again he raises a questioning brow. You know he’s checking to make sure you’re comfortable but you can’t resist sassing him anyway.

“Sure you don’t want to use your cuffs?”

He sits back onto the chair with a muttered curse then leans in, inhaling against the skin of your thigh before nuzzling his nose along the silk between your legs.

“This pretty pussy of yours is all I want…to eat, to fuck, to own.”

You moan out his name and your hips roll.

“And when I tell you to do something…,” he whispers, knowing you’re desperate for his mouth, “I expect you to listen.”

He runs his thumb over the flimsy fabric, relishing in the slickness as your panties grow wetter.

“Javi,” you whine. “Stop teasing.”

“You think I should give you what you want?” he asks, his soft kisses along your inner thighs making them shake.

“You just said my pussy is all you want…”

Your cheekiness makes his eyes flash with intense heat and he rips your panties down your legs, leaving them hanging off one heeled foot. He kisses his way back up your leg, nibbling your thigh and drawing a groan of impatience from your throat.

His hot breath blows over your pussy and you rock your hips in a desperate attempt for more.

He teases you still, his feather light kisses just out of reach.

“Please,” you cry out, even as your expression is one of pained frustration.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

“Please Javi,” you moan.

His tongue licks a long line through your folds and he immediately closes his lips around your clit, fluttering his tongue over and over.

“Yes Javi, just like that,” you say with a breathy exhale.

He savors all he can before sliding two fingers inside you and watching as you take them, the evidence of how much you love it glistening on his skin.

“So perfect Angel.”

You beg for more and he slides his free hand up to cup the base of your neck, putting enough pressure to let you know you’re his in every way. Your eyes squeeze shut and you choke out his name.

As his tongue works over your clit and he applies just the right amount of pressure to your throat, your walls start to swell and clench around his fingers.

He pulls away and presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing gently until you open your eyes to look at him.

“Tell me Angel. Who do you belong to? Tell me as you come all over my fingers.”

You whisper, your voice nearly raw from your pleading cries. “You…I belong to you Javi.”

He presses his lips to your clit once more and your back arches hard, your breath catching as shudders take over your muscles and your pussy tightens around his fingers.

With softening strokes and lazy kisses he draws out your pleasure and tenderly squeezes your throat.

“Then you better not forget it.”

Stay just like that,” he commands as he withdraws his fingers and stands.

He starts to unbuckle his belt, the leather hanging open as he begins to work on his pants. When his cock is free he swipes his fingers through your soaked pussy, gathering your orgasm and rubbing the sticky slickness along his length.

His free hand finds your throat again and he holds you in place, forced to watch and nothing more.

You struggle against the binds on your wrists, needing to be free as your eyes track his every move.

“Javi. Please. Let me touch you.”

His large hand moves up and down his cock in smooth strokes, pumping hard and fast, the tip bumping your clit and edging you toward overstimulation. Every time you flinch from the touch his smirk grows and his grip on your neck tightens.

“No touching. Not yet,” he rasps.

His thighs shake, tight with impending release. “I’m going to mark you Angel.”

“That’s so hot,” you whimper. “Come on me Javi.”

Your teeth are digging so hard into your bottom lip it’s painful and with three more strokes he grunts, his cum splashing across your pussy and lower stomach.

Spent, he releases your neck as he folds over you, kissing your lips and freeing your wrists. He looks between your bodies, taking in the sight of you covered in his release.

“Fuck Angel, you look perfect.”

Keeping your eyes on him, you dip your finger into the puddle then lift it to your lips, sliding it into your mouth and moaning at the flavor. His cock spasms at the sight before he meets your gaze, his expression sated but still full of burning heat.

Taking some tissues he quickly cleans you up before he sits back in his chair and pats his thigh. You slide off the desk into his arms.

“Aren’t you happy I came to visit?” you whisper into his neck.

He gives you a satisfied hum and wraps you up, gently running his fingers along your throat before his lips find yours again. His kiss is delicate and slow and your hands brush along his chest until you find the open collar of his shirt, dipping your fingers inside to touch his warm skin.

Your hands move higher, over his shoulders to caress his neck and face and you brush the hair from his sweaty forehead before scraping your fingers over his scalp. He murmurs your name, kissing you harder when you shift in his lap and straddle his waist.

“Angel,” he growls as he starts to harden beneath you. “Are you planning on distracting me from work for the rest of the day?”

You smile against his mouth with a roll of your hips, placing soft kisses along his jaw and down his neck, teasing any inch of his skin you can find.

And without an answer you reach between your bodies and take him in your hand, guiding him slowly inside you.

“FUCK,” he hisses, pulsing and throbbing and stretching you out so good.

His fingers dig into your skin before his hands wander over your body, caressing every curve.

“I won’t stop you from working Javi,” you hum as you get comfortable and lay your head along his shoulder, kissing just below his ear. “Go right ahead.”

@hiddles-rose @blackwidownat2814 @littleseasiren @lorilane33 @pedritosdarling

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #Javier peña x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x y/n #javier pena #javier pena narcos #javier pena imagine #javier pena x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #narcos

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trick-or-fucking-treat · 5 months

Note

Hello! I hope you are doing great! But I was just wondering if I may request head-cannons for Bo Sinclair with a fem s/o who is like the cliche innocent good girl (loves wearing bows and ribbons, frilly cute dresses, Mary janes…) I feel like this would be an interesting dynamic with Bo (that he would absolutely EAT UP because that man is insane and you can’t tell he wouldn’t love the idea of “corrupting” someone or even like protecting the reader and shielding her from the world…) If not, that’s fine! But thank you and have a great day!

Bo Sinclair with innocent girly-girl (fem) S/O

Masterlist

When you strolled into town one day, Bo did not think you were real

I mean, pink… frilly dresses… ribbons!

Bo doesn’t leave town much so he can’t say for sure, but he didn’t think there were girls who actually dressed like that

He also didn’t think you’d be his type

And yet…

Bo and Vincent had killed all your friends, as per usual, but you hadn’t been there to witness it

You were such a sweetheart when Bo found you and you asked where your friends were

He couldn’t tell you

Instead, he told you they left without you

You were devastated, but Bo thought he’d done good(ish) by protecting you from a worse evil

He kept you around for while under the pretence that your friends might come back looking for you

Eventually the truth came out about Bo, his brothers, and the town

But by this point you’d already fallen hard and fast for Bo

You were everything Bo never knew he needed, and just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen

“Aww doll that’s damn sweet of ya! But there’s no need to bring beers to the garage, i’s all dirty in ‘ere and your dress is all pretty!”

He thought you deserved better than a ruthless killer like himself, but wants to keep you for himself nonetheless

He was shocked when you agreed to stay but did not complain

Would never admit it but loves playing with your hair, especially after you teach him how to plait it and tie the ribbons all pretty

Never lets you around new victims visitors

Doesn’t want you getting attached or upset, and doesn’t want you near all the gory happenings

(Won’t admit it, but he also doesn’t want to see you disappointed in him because he still thinks he doesn’t deserve you - doesn’t want you thinking that leaving him is a better option, either)

Kind of treats you like glass sometimes - never wants to distress you or be harsh with you and gets apologetic real quick if he’s snappy

“God, ‘m sorry baby I didn’t mean t’ snap at ya!”

“Lester better not’ve told you about the trouble last night! I swear to God I’ll kill him!” - “Bo! It’s fine! We were just chatting!” - “Doesn’t matter! You don’t need to hear all that nonsense!”

It’s nice, but you know he’s holding back

After he gets more comfortable with the relationship he’s a little less gentle

Still an absolute sweetheart and never intentionally upsets you, but he enjoys teasing you and lets you see the real him a little more

“Be careful there doll.. I don’t know anyone else who would describe me as a sweetheart. Wouldn’t want ya to see their point of view now would we?”

He’s testing your boundaries a little to see if opening up is going to scare you off

You can see the playful and often hopeful glint in his eyes though and know he would never hurt you

(P.s. sex with Bo started out so gentle and loving, but you knew he wanted to ruin you - corruption kink in full force once you finally let him)

(Wouldn’t do anything you don’t like though, any sign you’re not enjoying yourself and he’s stopping and making it up to you)

Eventually comes to face the fact that you’ve made him a better person - he’s still a psycho and a killer, but he never thought he could love and care for another person like he loves you

A/N: thanks for the request! So so sorry it took so long! Lmk if there’s anything else you’d like added, and feel free to request!

#slasher #slashers #slashers x reader #bo sinclair x reader headcanons #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax #horror

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dango-milk · 1 year

Text

to make them love me (and make it seem effortless)

pairings: aemond x fem! Targaryen! reader / original female character

word count: 15,046

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: TARGCEST, age gap, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth, swearing (aemond has a potty mouth)

additional notes: we interrupt your regular genshin x reader viewing by bringing you this (big) little thing I wrote for aemond targaryen. he had me in a chokehold until I finally relented and. this is it.

expect a couple more works on this pathetic little meow meow and an eventual update to an ode to heartbreak!

read this work on ao3

“I don’t understand,” Aemond says in disbelief, pushing his helmet’s visor out of his face as he attempts to decipher the contents of the note. “How could I have not been informed of this earlier?”

Ormund shrugs. “Perhaps the tourney masters thought it best to rearrange the lists. More signed up for the games than they thought.”

“Their poor planning does not justify an inconvenience on my part,” Aemond scoffs. “I am a Prince of the realm. I should be placed higher up on the lists.”

“Never mind that, cousin,” Ormund attempts to console him. “It is your first tourney, after all—”

“—and yet it is one we all look forward to seeing.”

The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.

“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”

“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”

“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”

At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”

“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”

“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”

Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”

He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”

“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”

“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”

“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.

Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”

“Have you?” Aemond retorts.

“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”

The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.

“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.

Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”

Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.

Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”

Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”

Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”

Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”

“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.

A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.

The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.

It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.

Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.

“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.

You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”

“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”

You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.

Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”

Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.

You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!

“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.

Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.

“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.

Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.

“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”

You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.

Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”

“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.

“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”

It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.

He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.

“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”

“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”

A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”

Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.

You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.

But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.

He does not see you.

Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.

“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”

“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”

Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.

“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.

“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.

As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.

“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”

“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”

“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”

“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”

Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.

The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”

Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.

“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”

“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”

A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.

Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”

“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).

Alicent frowns. “What?”

“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”

“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”

Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.

He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.

"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."

Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—

"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."

One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.

It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."

"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.

"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."

The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.

He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.

In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.

Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.

Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.

Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?

Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.

Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.

He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.

A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”

Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.

The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.

He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”

“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”

Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”

“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”

“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”

You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.

Being with you was enough.

That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.

“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”

He nods in understanding.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”

You duck your head.

Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.

You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”

You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”

Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.

“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”

Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”

You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”

You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”

Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”

He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.

You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?

What did he think his words meant?

You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.

Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.

He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.

But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.

In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).

Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.

So, he turns to his last resort.

Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”

Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”

“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”

“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”

Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…

Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.

Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.

The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.

That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.

But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.

But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.

When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.

After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.

Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.

“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.

“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.

“You marry her, then.”

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.

Aegon scoffs. “If only.”

“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future Queen.”

Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.

A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.

But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.

And then it happens.

A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—

He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.

“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.

It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.

At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.

Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.

His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.

He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.

And he waits.

When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.

“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”

“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”

Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”

“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”

You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.

But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.

When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”

Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”

“The second time…out of fear?”

“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”

“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.

“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”

“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”

“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”

“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.

“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”

You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.

“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”

For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.

“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”

Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”

“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”

He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.

To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”

You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”

He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.

He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”

“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”

The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.

Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.

The right is not freely given.

He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.

It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.

He begins walking.

“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”

Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.

Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.

He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—

Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…

But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.

What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.

When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.

But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.

"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.

He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.

"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."

"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.

Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.

He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.

Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.

Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.

"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.

"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."

Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"

You frown. "You don’t understand."

"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."

"Aemond.”

"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"

"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."

He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."

"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."

His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."

"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."

"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."

"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."

It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.

Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.

"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"

The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.

He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.

When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.

He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.

The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.

When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.

The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).

Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.

His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.

"Dragon!"

Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…

A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.

Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.

"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.

However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.

Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.

"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."

"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."

Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."

You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.

He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.

What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?

Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.

Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.

You look like you're about to burst into laughter.

"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.

As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.

"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.

Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.

But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.

Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.

To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.

Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.

It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.

No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.

Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.

Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.

But Aemond has a better idea.

Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.

“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.

The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”

“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.

To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.

The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.

Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.

Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.

“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.

“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”

You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.

He holds up a hand. “Please.”

“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.

“Then allow me.”

Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”

Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”

His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.

The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.

“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”

A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”

“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.

“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”

He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”

His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”

You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”

“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”

“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”

“Why do you refuse to marry?”

Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.

“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”

“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”

You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”

“I’m smart. Try me.”

You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.

“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”

“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”

You elect not to respond to that.

Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”

“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”

Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?

Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.

“May I?” you whisper.

He was never one to refuse you.

He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.

He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.

He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.

"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."

"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."

"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."

"Then why are you here?"

Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.

But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…

Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.

“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.

You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”

“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”

Your reaction is what he expects it to be.

You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.

“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”

“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“…Father’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”

“Can you prove that he isn’t?”

All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”

“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”

He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.

He hates that, even with one eye, he does.

You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.

And your face just falls.

You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”

Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.

He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.

When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.

Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.

He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.

He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.

None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.

It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.

But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.

“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”

Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.

“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”

Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.

“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.

“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—

“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”

Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.

“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.

You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”

Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…

Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”

Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.

Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.

You raise your eyebrows.

And Borros bursts into laughter.

Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.

“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”

“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.

And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.

“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”

“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.

Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.

Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.

“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”

“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”

“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.

Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.

You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.

When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.

“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”

“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.

Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”

Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”

Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”

Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.

Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.

The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.

The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.

The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”

Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…

Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…

“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…

A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.

Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…

You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.

The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.

You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.

“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”

You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”

“How will I—”

“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”

“But you—”

“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”

You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”

The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.

“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.

“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”

“But—”

“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.

Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.

Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.

You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.

You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.

A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.

You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.

“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”

Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.

Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.

But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.

“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.

“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.

Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.

“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”

“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”

“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”

“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”

“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”

“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”

“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.

“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”

You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.

“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”

Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.

“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”

“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”

Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.

“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”

You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”

The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.

The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.

You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.

“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”

He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”

“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”

He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.

You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.

Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.

And you feel Aemond’s lips on yours.

#🍡—dango-works #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x ofc #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x targaryen!reader

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writing-for-marvel · 11 months

Text

Fight or Flight Response

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 3 | Series Masterlist | PART 5 > >

Summary: Bucky says he wants to take things slow.

Warnings: strictly 18+ only, smut, unprotected vaginal sex, possessive sex, creampie, spanking, choking, semi public sex, implied oral (fem), implied cum eating, jealousy, a little angst, set within an emergency room, soft fluff

Word count: 3.8k

A/N: this part was inspired by one of @crazyunsexycool’s reblog comments - I hope I did it justice my lovely Val 💙 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

“That must bother you.” Wanda comments as you return to the ER from your late lunch break together.

You sneak a glance out of the corner of your eye at where Bucky is standing at the entrance to the ER, his signature cheeky smile curving at the corners of his mouth, leaning against the door with all his weight on one strong arm as he chats up a red haired surgical intern.

That same cheeky smile he beamed when you first met him and which is clearly not reserved just for you.

Fuck yes it bothers you.

Bitter envy bubbles in your stomach seeing him simply smiling at another woman. But it’s the implication of that flirty smile that makes your stomach flip altogether.

“What do you mean?” You enquire lightly, trying to play dumb and ignore the tight jealousy clenching at the front of your chest, but your question only prompts Wanda to roll her eyes.

“Your man flirting with Dot over there as if the whole hospital isn’t talking about the two of you being together.” Her outward frustration is nothing compared to the seething spite consuming you, though you focus on not letting that show through your indifferent facade.

Wanda isn’t wrong about the entire hospital knowing Bucky had taken the ‘new emergency medicine resident’ out on not just a second date, but a third, and a fourth as well. And she would know, being the perpetrator of most of those rumours herself.

You had received aggrieved glares from doctors, nurses, anaesthesiologists, and pharmacists alike - all seemingly envious that Bucky Barnes had chosen you to try out dating for the first time. Though, they really had no reason to be.

“He’s not my man.” You try to argue, but Wanda simply stares at you, head slightly cocked, as if to say don’t try to make a fool out of me. “He wants to take things slow.” You reiterate his words to prove your point. If the way he is currently flirting with Dot in full view of anyone in the ER is any indication, as much as you might want him to be, Bucky Barnes is far from being your man.

“He wasn’t taking things slow when you guys fucked in your car at that drive-in movie the other night.” She points out with a sly smile as your cheeks heat at the memory of your fourth date, her eyes drifting to look behind you where they were no doubt landing on Bucky and his amorous intentions, allowing you a moment to compose yourself.

“We’re not exclusive, I wouldn’t even say we’re technically dating - he’s allowed to flirt with and fuck whoever he wants.” Your words come out harsher than you were intending, but Wanda’s expression instead softens, sensing your overeagerness to convince her as more proof of your earnest feelings.

The thought of Bucky hooking up with someone else while you are pining for him every second you are apart makes your stomach churn. Every playful laugh, passionate kiss and sinful touch you share feels special, intimately private - the high possibility that he’s replicating those experiences with others plunges a scalpel right into the centre of your chest.

“Girl, you've got it bad. You need to talk with him about how you feel and what you want out of your ‘relationship’ before he ends up breaking your heart.” She advises, and your shoulders slump, realising she's right. Though, you’re sure it’s already too late to prevent your heart from breaking if he doesn’t feel the same way.

You nod in response, but the prospect of actually having that conversation with Bucky fills your stomach with dread and lurching anxiety. What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if he laughs at you and tells you he’s only ever viewed your connection as something casual? That he’s only in it for the sex while he consumes your train of thought from the moment you wake until you close your eyes at night, only to then appear in your dreams as well.

You can feel your pulse racing at just contemplating exposing your heart to him in that manner.

Taking another glance back at where the two had been standing, you find Bucky nowhere to be seen. Dot, however, is talking to one of her fellow surgical interns in light blue scrubs with what you perceive to be a glum expression.

Though it feels wicked to receive pleasure from someone else's apparent misfortune, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought that perhaps Bucky rejected her advances.

Maybe there is cause for hope after all.

As if on cue, your pager goes off, indicating a new emergency case. You flash Wanda a quick smile before rushing over to the trauma bays, trying your best to push thoughts of Bucky, and his many potential suitors, from your mind.

* * *

After a long shift, and an even longer night alone at home, where you attempted, and failed, at rerouting your thoughts from Bucky and if he was currently with another woman, you find yourself back in the emergency room coming to the end of a gruelling week, yawning as you’re filling out paperwork.

“Big night last night, huh?” You hear a familiar voice from beside you, though in a much more casual tone than is typically directed at you. You turn to see the radiant smile of your direct superior, emergency medicine attending Dr Thor Odinson.

From the moment he was introduced as your attending, there had always been an unspoken pull between the two of you - he was certainly attractive, with a brilliant smile, sparkling eyes and a natural charisma with his patients that definitely added to his allure.

It also helped that he always gazed at you with a captivation that made your cheeks warm and assigned you the most interesting cases.

You chuckle at his inference. You only wished you were yawning from a long night spent with that someone in particular, but that only reminds you he could have been spending all those hours since you’ve seen him last with someone else.

“You have no idea, it was a night of such indulgence… in my medical textbooks. I’ve started studying for my boards.” He lets out a hearty laugh at your explanation, in your opinion a little over exaggerated for the light banter it was intended as.

“I could come over to your place, help you study. I passed my boards only two rounds ago, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He smiles flirtatiously, and though the sight is alluring, it doesn’t stir the same butterflies and desire that Bucky's signature smirk does in your stomach.

For a second you consider perhaps Thor is exactly the type of person you need to take your mind off Bucky - they’re similar in their confident persona and flirty nature, but different enough where it feels like you wouldn’t be going out with a complete replica of the man you can’t get your mind off. Where Bucky is mysterious, Thor is bubbly and convivial.

And though you can hear Wanda’s voice in the back of your mind encouraging that sexual profligacy, you can’t bring yourself to actually covet being with anyone other than your enigmatic paramedic.

Lord, you really do have it bad for him. It’s like an illness.

“I’m sure you do.” You laugh, trying to keep the tone of conversation light and casual. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m seeing someone.” You’re sure Bucky wouldn’t classify your connection the same way, but hearing a proposition from another man has been confirmation enough for you that you don’t want to be seeing anyone else.

Your heart belongs to Bucky Barnes, even if his heart doesn’t belong to you.

“Barnes… I know.” Thor places a large, sturdy hand to the small of your back as he leans in and whispers warm words against your ear. “I’m still interested. Barnes won’t be in it for the long haul like I would be. Give it some thought.”

What you don’t realise at the time is much like how you watched Bucky flirt with Dot the day before, Bucky is currently observing your interaction with Thor from across the ER. Far enough away where he can’t hear you turning Thor down, but fully aware and incensed that Thor’s hand lingers on your back and what he believes to be a flirty exchange being whispered intimately into your ear.

As cute as you think Thor is, you already know he doesn’t have the same effect on you that Bucky does. And though he may be right in that Bucky isn’t committed to you long term, you’re prepared to open your heart to that vulnerability for the rapture he provides when you’re together.

You turn around, heading for your locker to complete your shift when a smile overtakes your features, noticing Bucky striding towards you. You don’t even have the chance to say his name in greeting before his large hands cup your face, his lips crashing onto yours and abruptly he’s ardently kissing you in front of everyone in the emergency room.

You're taken aback by the sudden intensity of his kiss, but as his warm lips move against yours, you can't help but sense your body responding. His fierce hands trail down your back, pulling you flush against his body, and you feel a hardening bulge in his pants pressing against you. You moan softly into his mouth as his tongue swipes along your bottom lip, feeling overwhelming wetness pooling between your legs.

In the back of your mind, you're aware of the judgmental stares from nurses and doctors working in the ER, and the fact that this is highly unprofessional, but you're too caught up in the passion and Bucky’s public display of downright possessiveness to give a damn.

He pulls back slightly, pupils blown with desire and brimming with something of greed mixed with lust, and without speaking a single word, or sparing a glance to those who had been watching on, he grabs your hand securely and pulls you further into the hospital, towards the surgical wing and into the closest on-call room.

The door shuts with a thud and before you can even register that Bucky’s nimble hands have snibbed the lock behind you, he has you pressed up against the door with his fingers digging possessively into your hips.

He kisses you again, hot and demanding, claiming you as his own. No doubt everyone who saw him kiss you in the centre of the ER knows exactly what’s going on behind closed doors of the on-call room.

“You. Are. Mine.” Bucky asserts between feral, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, pushing your white coat from your shoulders so it lands in a heap on the floor and sneaking his hands past the elastic of your scrubs. You’re positive you’ll be covering a hickey with concealer before your shift tomorrow.

The possessive gleam in his eyes when he looks at you while running a finger through your already wet folds makes your stomach flip. You whimper as his cold hands make contact with your warm centre, but the pleasure which tingles up your spine and tightens a knot at the bottom of your belly as he circles your clit makes you forget all about the momentary discomfort.

“No one’s allowed to touch you besides me.” Bucky instructs, slipping one thick finger into your pussy, curling it to graze that spongy spot inside your walls which has you keening. His pace is agonisingly slow, and though Bucky's hands are large, one finger isn’t enough for you to feel full and satiated by him.

You’re positive he knows this, however, and is purposely tormenting you. In this moment all you are craving is more of his touch, more of his kiss, more of him. And that’s exactly what he wants you pining for.

Little does he know, you’re always yearning for him.

“He’s not allowed to touch you.” Bucky growls, adding another finger without warning, using his thumb to draw small circles over your clit while simultaneously scissoring his fingers inside you. Your head falls back, hitting the wall behind you as a moan trickles from your lips.

Bucky’s other hand slips below the hem of your shirt, finding its way to the small of your back, where Thor had touched you through multiple layers of material. His hand on your bare skin elicits goosebumps over your lower back, a reaction you suspect Thor could never pull from you.

Before you can reach your release on his fingers alone, he pulls them out of you, a whimper cascading from your lips as he leaves you feeling empty. While your lips are parted, he prompts you to clean up the arousal coating his fingers with your tongue, tasting the sweet evidence of his effect on you.

He rids you both of your uniforms and underwear, and although you are desperate to be filled by his cock, you know it’s in Bucky’s nature to tease - if you tell him you need him, he’ll just make you wait that much longer to be satisfied.

But Bucky’s clearly not in a teasing mood, nor in a patient one, for when you are both completely naked, he turns you around, steadying yourself against a wall and, nudging your legs apart with his thigh and without hesitation, he thrusts every veiny inch fervently into you until he is fully sheathed, not giving you a moment to adjust as he sets a brutal pace, pounding into you.

You bite down on your bottom lip but it doesn’t stop a guttural moan rumbling up from your chest from the burn of his sudden intrusion.

“You. Are. Mine.” He punctuates each word with a stinging slap to your ass, which only turns you on even more, your flooding wetness evident in the salacious squelch accompanying each of Bucky’s punishing thrusts.

“Say it.” Bucky demands, hips rhythmically meeting your own, pounding into you harder and deeper with every plunge.

When you don’t answer him, your mind short circuiting from the overwhelming pleasure flooding through your entire body like a tsunami, Bucky hooks his forearm around your neck, pulling you back into his chest with a strength where you can feel him all around you, but not tight enough where you can’t breathe altogether.

“Say. It.” He repeats in a severe tone next to your ear which causes a shiver to run down your spine as Bucky flexes his bicep, tightening his hold on you slightly, warning you to obey him.

“I’m yours.” You say breathlessly, hands gripping onto his muscular arm for support as each thrust knocks the air from your lungs, hitting just the right spot inside you which blurs your vision and makes your thighs quiver. “All yours Bucky.”

You feel your body weaken as he pushes you ever closer to falling off the cliff of bliss, Bucky’s strong hold on you the only reason you can remain standing upright rather than your legs giving out completely.

“Bucky, I’m…” You can’t find the words to finish your sentence, instead a wanton sob bubbles up in your throat confirming that you're teetering on the edge of coming undone.

“There’s my good little slut, cum on my cock. My cock.” He removes his arm from caging you to him and moves it down towards where your bodies meet, rubbing tight circles on your clit resulting in your legs shaking uncontrollably as pure ecstasy overtakes your body.

Bucky continues his furious attack on your clit, continuing to pump in and out of you at his rapid pace as you ride out your high. You can’t make out the praise he’s whispering into your ear, everything sounds like a distant hum as euphoria fires in every synapse of your body.

Once he senses you've come down from your orgasm, Bucky’s large hands find your hips, manhandling you as he essentially throws you onto the bed in the small on-call room. Lining the tip of his dick up with your entrance, he enters you again, his pistoning movements erratic as he chases his own high, wrapping his hand around your throat.

“This pussy is mine.” Bucky’s thrusts become sloppy, but he’s mesmerised by the little whimpers falling from your open lips and the bounce of your tits at the continued drive of his cock. His grip on your throat tightens and you know he’s close.

“Fill me up Bucky. Fill your pussy.” You permit, and you can immediately see the surprise flicker in his gorgeous eyes. Finishing inside you isn’t something you’ve done together yet. Cumming on your tits, in your mouth, on your stomach, sure. But always pulling out.

Granting permission for him to cum inside you seems to push him over the edge, Bucky groans as he stills, all the muscles in his beefy body tensing as he spills deep inside you. He smiles down at you, releasing his hold on your throat before leaning down and placing a devoted kiss to your lips.

Bucky pulls out of you slowly, hypnotised by the sight of how both of your releases mix and drip from your core. He collapses beside you, fondness suspended in his steel blue eyes that could so easily deceive you into believing you mean so much more to him than just a casual fuck.

Reaching over the ample space between you, Bucky pulls you all the way into him, arms remaining around your middle and for a moment all you can feel are your slowing hearts beating in time with each other.

You look up at him to find he’s already gazing down at you, prompting a smile to curve at the corner of your lips. The four dates with this man have been the best four dates of your life, but he’s already expressed wanting to take things slow, so you refrain from expressing the notion aloud.

Sensing unsaid words between you, Bucky opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re mine.” He reiterates sternly. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. I don’t want him even looking at you.” You know he’s referring to Thor, and as giddy as it makes you knowing how extremely jealous he’s reacted to Thor simply flirting with you, part of you is piqued knowing he’s ordering this of you when he’s fucking other women.

You’d gladly give yourself just to Bucky Barnes, but you’re not foolishly going to be exclusive with him if he’s not doing the same for you.

“You can’t say that if you’re fucking other people, Bucky. That’s a sexist double standard and I-”

“You think I’m sleeping with other people?” He asks, bewilderment furrowing between his brows as if the notion of having sex with anyone other than you was out of the realm of all possibility. The sight makes your stomach knot with hope and promise, his words suggesting he hadn’t been with anyone else since going on dates with you. “Darling, you are the only woman I’m seeing, fucking, damn talking to. I’m not even thinking about anyone other than you.”

But there is one nagging doubt pricking at the optimism inflating in your chest from his earnestness.

“Don’t lie to me Bucky, I saw you flirting with Dot yesterday.”

A quick look of surprise flashes over his features when these words leave your lips, as if he hadn’t realised you witnessed their interaction, but mostly his eyes show a wounded soul behind them, making you nervous you’ve misinterpreted the entire situation.

“I’m not lying, darling. Sure, she approached me and we harmlessly flirted for maybe a minute tops, but as soon as she even mentioned wanting to see me outside of work I told her no.” Your mind works in overdrive trying to process all his words and the connotations of them, putting down the buoyant feeling in your chest from being in a post orgasmic haze rather than the expectation that Bucky is all yours.

“You told her no?” Even though he clearly stated his rejection of Dot, you need to hear it again for it to fully sink in.

“Why would I want to go out with her, when I have you?” You normally hate when people answer a question with another question, but the implication that you are the only person he wants makes your heart flutter.

You want to believe him. You so badly want to believe him. But past experience has taught you not to trust men when they tell you there’s no one else. That’s almost always a lie.

“I’ll be yours if you’ll be mine.” You pose, fully expecting Bucky to turn down the offer when it involves a commitment from him. He wants to take things slow, you’ve only been on four dates, ruling out seeing other women altogether would surely be a turn off for a player like him.

“I’m already yours.”

You swear your heart stops. Everyone outside of this small on-call room fades into non-existence for the moment when Bucky earnestly meets your eyes.

The pivotal difference between someone claiming you as theirs compared to professing themselves as yours hits you square in the chest.

This time, you kiss him, passionate and desperate even though you've just satisfied each other, your hands tugging at his long hair which you’ve already learnt he enjoys. You move to pull away, your mind set on finally taking his thick, heavy cock in your mouth, but instead his strong arms position you gently against the pillows, caging you underneath his strapping body.

“We’re gonna fuck so often in here they’ll put our names on the door.” Bucky comments with his signature smirk before kissing you again, slow and sensual this time, taking the opportunity to explore your mouth as his hands do the same with your body.

He starts kissing down your naked form before settling between your thighs, somehow already knowing the exact parts of yourself you’re most insecure about and paying those particular attention. The care and affection he’s showing a stark contrast to his roughness earlier, but the intimacy makes you feel special. That you’re the only one who’s seen this soft, romantic side of him.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter that his flirty smirk isn’t reserved just for you when it’s moments like this only you get to experience with him.

You’re the person Bucky Barnes wants. Not Dot the surgical intern, not one of the other numerous doctors in the ER or any of the other hospital staff. You.

Maybe it’s dangerous allowing your heart to believe you truly are the one to change fuckboy Bucky Barnes, but all doubtful thoughts evaporate from your mind when his mouth starts sucking on your already puffy and sensitive clit.

You can let yourself fall, just a little. There’s no harm in that, right?

Part 5 > >

Be added to the series taglist here

He’s Hazardous To My Health [Paramedic!Bucky Barnes] Taglist: @lavenderpenumbra @crazyunsexycool @eralen @buckbuckyoongs @blackwidownat2814 @roschele @crayongirl-linz @ozwriterchick @desert-fern @misshale21 @chalesleclerc164 @rookthorne @janineb86 @emmabarnes @scarletbich @fallenlilangel99 @princezzjasmine @mdrovert @thebuckybarnesvault @doasyoudesireandlive @solitarioslilium @iamfandomwasted @tanyaspartak @netflixxgoddess @pop-rocks-818 @dumdidditydumdoo @missvelvetsstuff @marvelhoeland @thesadcatto-queen @kayden666 @amiimar @razor-blayde @katheryn1 @safew0rd @kentokaze @thewackywriter @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @badasswlthafatass @Vickie5446 @loveoldmenlikelana @00cmh @pointless-girl @honeyglee @nerdxacid @moonymagician @ashhsage @prettylittlepluviophile @otomefromtheheart @sjsmith56 @mandijo17 @lokidokieokie @oceansandblackhearts @rebeccapineapple @soorwellystan @excusememrbarnes @lofaewrites @snapcapquartet @wishingwell-2 @unaxv

#em writes #Bucky Barnes #Bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky fanfiction #bucky fanfic #paramedic!bucky barnes #Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan characters

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boxboxlewis · 6 months

Note

prompt: drunk, bored alex bossily trying to convince sober george to make out with him. george knowing if this happens, he will reveal Everything (disastrous; the thing he wants most in the word; will ruin their friendship), so he tries to distract alex with napoleon's correspondence.

Alex was buzzed enough that the hotel room had started to swirl around him in a gentle anticlockwise spiral. He was starfished on his back on the queen-sized bed, feet hanging off the end, and the gravity holding him in place felt heavier than usual but also friendly, as if it wanted him to be happy and comfortable.

“George,” he said, except it came out too long, stretched and languid. Geoooooooorge. He cleared his throat and tried again. “George. Look, mate, this is important.”

“No it’s not.”

Alex ignored this. “I really think we should. Like, I think it’s a good idea. Ojbec—objectively.”

There was no reply, so Alex lifted his head up off the pillow. It took more effort than usual, due to the gravity thing, but he got a good view of George hunched over at the weirdly small hotel desk, staring at his tablet, not looking at Alex at all.

“Are you looking at porn?”

“No, I’m not looking at—fuck’s sake, Alex! I’m reading my emails. Mostly, I’m ignoring you.”

This was hurtful. “Why?” Alex asked, hurt. He carefully lowered his head back down.

“Because you’re totally off your tits and you keep asking me to make out with you,” George said. “And I know you don’t actually want to and you’re only saying it because you’re depressed that you got P17, because you’re insanely competitive even when you’re driving a Roomba. So. I’m doing the decent thing and not responding.”

“The FW45 is not a Roomba!” Alex said, and then, after a pause for thought, “Roombas can sense walls.”

“Right, yeah, that’s the relevant point here,” George said. “C’mon Alex, why are you even going on about this? You’re straight.”

George made the word “straight” sound vaguely insulting, which was, Alex thought, interesting. He was too drunk to work out why, but perhaps that could be a project for his sober, more brain-forward self. In the meantime, he tried to wrestle his thoughts into order so he could answer the question George had asked. Why was he going on about this? Well, George was very pretty, for one thing. Pretty face, pretty body. “You have eyelashes like a camel,” he said, and laughed at the despairing groan George let out. “What, you do! Also, I’m bored, and there’s no one else here.” That sounded wrong, and wasn’t really what Alex meant, but he didn’t know how to fix it. “I don’t mean—there’s loads of people at this Grand Prix, obviously. But like. In my hotel room, it’s only us.”

There was a brittle little silence from George, during which the room continued gently spinning. Eventually George said, “Thanks Alex, but somehow I’m going to have to turn down this incredibly flattering offer.”

“Hey, c’mon, wait—”

“Move over or I’ll sit on you.” George sounded impatient and grumpy, like maybe the emails he’d been reading had upset him. Alex did as he was told, and carefully rolled himself over to one side of the bed. He felt the mattress dip as George sat next to him. “Right,” George said. “As you’re clearly bored, and a menace, I’m going to entertain you. All right?”

“Entertain me… with your mouth?” Alex asked, hopeful.

George exhaled loudly. “Yeah, close, Alex. No, even better than that. I’m going to read to you from the correspondence of Napoleon Buonaparte.”

“Napoleon? The short git with the hat? ‘Able was I ere I saw Elba,’ that guy?” Alex got a bit tongue-twisted on the palindrome, but who wouldn’t.

“The very one, mate. I’ve been reading his writings for inspiration on the track.”

That was objectively insane, of course, but also somehow the most charming thing Alex had ever heard. He could feel fondness fountaining out of his chest so strongly he was surprised the billowing golden splashes of it weren’t actually visible. “Fucking hell,” he said. “George, I like you so much.”

“I—what?”

“That’s why we should make out,” Alex explained. “Because… because when two people like each very much, that’s what they should do.” He turned over so he could see the effect this line of argument was having on George.

George looked mildly concussed. “Alex, are you having me on?”

“No!” Alex felt indignant at the idea. “Georgie, I wouldn’t, about this. You know I wouldn’t.”

When George swallowed Alex could see the motion in the beautiful tanned line of his neck. “Right,” he said. “Well then. I’m not going to make out with you now, you’re absolutely munted, but. Ask me again in the morning, Alex.”

Alex nodded, and let his eyes drift shut. “Brilliant,” he said. “Will do.”

thank you to sarah for the best prompt game in the business, and to @onadarklingplain for reading this over and helping me figure out the ending!

#galex #my fic #gr63 #aa23 #why is george stone cold sober while alex is hammered? OBJECTION #beyond the scope of this ficlet! but lets say he's on abx or something #for my successionheads the napoleon thing is making me think about george/conor parallels lol

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hiro-doodlez · 7 months

Text

LIST OF ENGLISH ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS (the random letters that people use sometimes)!! FEEL FREE TO USE AS A REF (reference) SHEET!! In alphabetical too!!

Tone indicators at the bottom!

GENERAL:

AFK- away from keyboard

AKA- also known as

ASAP- as soon as possible

ASL- American Sign Language

B4- before

BC- because

BF- boyfriend

BFF- best friends forever

BTW- By the way

BTS- Behind the scenes/back to school / that one band

BRB- be right back

CW: content warning

Cya- see ya

DM- direct message

DW- dont worry

EZPZ- easy peasy

FB- Facebook

FW: flash warning

FAQ- frequently asked questions

FYI- for your information

GF- girl friend

GG- good game

GJ- Good job

GL- good luck

Gnite- good night

GTFO- get the fuck out

GTG- got to go

Gud- good

H8- hate

HBD- happy birthday

Hella- really

HMU- Hit me up

HW- Homework

IDK- I don't know

IDC- I don't care

IG- I guess / instagram

IK- I know

IKR- I know right

K- okay

Lmao- laughing my ass off

Kewl- cool

Kk- okay

Lol- laugh out loud

ILY- I love you

ILYSM- I love you so much

IMO- in my opinion

IRL- in real life

IYKYK- if you know you know

JFC- Jesus fucking chrkst

Jk- just kidding

L8R- later

LMAO- laughing my ass off

LMK-let me know

LOL- laughing out loud

Mkay- mm okay

NE- Any

NE1- anyone

NGL- not gonna lie

NM- Nothing much

NP: no problem

NSFW- not safe for work

NVM- nevermind

NW- no worries

Obv- obviously

OFC- of course

OMW- on my way

OP- original post(er)

OTP- one true pairing

Ova- over

Pic- picture

Pls-please

Plz-please

POV: point of view

Ppl- people

Prolly- probably

QOTD- quote of the day

R- are

RB- reblog

Ref- reference

Rly- really

RN- right now

RP- role play

RPG-role playing game

RT- retweet

Sec- second

SH- self harm

SMH- shaking my head

SMP- survival multiplayer server (Minecraft) / social media platform (?)

S.O- significant other

Sui- suicide

Sus- suspicious

STFU- shut the fuck up

T- testosterone

TBA- to be announced

TBF- to be fair

TBH- to be honest

TF- the fuck

Thnks- thanks

Thx- thanks

TLDR- too long didn't read (usually a summary)

TMRW- tomorrow

TOS- terms of service

TTYL-talk to you later

TW: trigger warning

Vid- video

WTF- what the fuck

WYD- what are you doing?

YOLO- You only live once

YT- YouTube

YW- you're welcome

—————

If the one youre looking for isnt here, either i forgot or its a fandom! Id suggest looking it up if youre confused!

Extra note: if you see 8 in one of the acronyms, then it usually is used as an “ate” sound. So h8= ate, gr8= great ect.

—————

TONE INDICATORS:

/aff- affectionate

/c- copypasta

/cb- clickbait (?)

/f- fake

/gen- genuine

/genq- genuine question

/half joking

/ij- inside joke

/j- joking

/lyr- lyrics

/lh- light hearted

/lu- little upset

/neg- negative

/nf- not forced

/nm- not mad

/npa- not passive aggresive

/nsrs- not serious

/p- platonic

/pa- passive aggresive

/pos- positive

/q- quote

/r- romantic

/ref

/s- sarcastic

/srs- serious

/t- teasing

/th- threat

I HOPE THIS HELPS!! and if i forgot to add one feel free to send an ask ^^

#hiro.txt #abbreviations #english help #tone indicators

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