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sweetadonisbutbetter · 20 days

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Hellooo. Could I have scenarios of soft Adam? Anything is fine, just possible moments where he’s being soft for reader? Maybe it’s late at night or something? Or maybe it’s early in the morning and he doesn’t wanna get up? Just some prompts just so I’m not being too vague

Thank you!

I DID NOT FORGET MY ADAM PEOPLE- getting other fandom works in there teehee these are so cute tysm for ur request!! apologies if its short 💞💞 also tan/brown adam ftw!!!!! 💯💯💯

Fade into you | Adam x GN! Reader

Relationship: Romantic Warnings: None!

It was a common thing to have lazy mornings with your husband. Especially if he had to do something later in the day, he would spend most of his morning cuddling up next to you while you attempt to push him off. Not that it ever worked, and he always showed up late to his events anyway.

“What’s five more minutes? Not like they will miss me.”

“Baby, they are hosting your party.”

“Ahh who needs that when I have you?” Was what he always said before sinking further into your chest.

It seemed that today was no different. You awoke to a weight on your chest and hands under your shirt. Already knowing who it is, you place a hand on your husband's hair and comb through it with your fingers. He hums, giving your sides a squeeze for a moment. You tug on it slightly, making him groan and you laugh a little.

“Is there anything on the agenda today?” You ask him, just as you do every morning. He says nothing, just humming as his hands move under you to your back. You giggle at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your soft spots, hoping Adam doesn’t take advantage of his weight on you. To your relief, he doesn’t, just fully holding you. He shifts a bit, getting comfortable between your legs before once again resting fully on you. You tug at his hair once again, a way of asking him to answer.

“No.” He gruffs, putting his face further into your neck.

“No? Are you sure? If I call Lute, she would tell me the same thing?” He smacks his teeth and bites back.

“There is no need to call danger tits. There is nothing happening today.” You pull your hands up in mock defeat.

“Sorry. You normally lie about these things.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Honey, you literally missed a meeting with Sera and Emily once because you would rather be in bed than do anything else.” You coo, combing his hair again. You feel him take a deep breath as he removes his head from your neck, now looking at you.

“Try being dead for all of humanity.” You roll your eyes and boop at his nose.

“While I may not have been dead for as long as you and Eve have old man, I am still pretty old compared to the newer saints.”

“Winners.”

“No. That is a dumb name. I will never be called or call the others winners.” You argue.

“No? Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You affirm, before feeling Adam attack your sides, tickling you. You shriek in shock before devolving into laughter. You try to escape, however it proves futile as Adam is on top of you.

“What are we called?” He asked, still tickling you. Through your peals of laughter, you shout out,

“SAINTS!” Adam mimics an incorrect buzzer sound as he starts to now get at your tickle spots faster. With the feeling of tears gathering in your eyes, your cheeks and tummy hurting, you can’t help but give in to his stupid demands. “F-Fine! We are c-called winners- STOP AH-”

He stops at your hasty white flag, a smug smirk on his face. Catching your breath, you look at your husband. His brown hair was a mess, just as it always was. His tan skin looked wonderful in the heaven light that peaked through your window. It seemed that he was also admiring you, as his smirk began to soften into a small smile, a look of utter fondness and love in his eyes. You wonder if you had a similar look on your face. Rather than ponder it any longer, you pull Adam down by his shirt for a kiss. He lets out a gasp at the suddenness of your grab before sinking into the kiss. Your hands fly to his face as his hands go down to your sides, lightly passing the tickle spots he has abused previously. You giggle a little into the kiss, before pushing his face away.

“I seriously hope you had nothing important today. You don’t have a choice now but to stay with me.”

“Babe, I would stay with you for eternity.” He says, his voice soft, the voice he reserved for you and you alone. You smile and pull him into another kiss.

loll i was going to joke that this was the one year Adam forgot the extermination.

#hazbin hotel x reader #Hazbin Hotel Adam x reader #adam x reader #☾adoniswrites #anon ask #anon request

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mitsvriii · 2 months

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imagine being Aventurine's lucky charm

“Blow”, Aventurine commanded as he held out his gloved palm in front of your red-coated lips, his other hand being a rest for his chin as he glanced at you from the corner of his eyes.

A stream of air left your mouth as it hit the die, a smirk of satisfaction graced Aventurine’s face as he gave you a wink behind his pink-tinted sunglasses. A hum of satisfaction left his mouth before he gave his hand a shake, throwing the die on the table.

A laugh of pride escaped from his mouth as the gawked expressions of the other people at the table glanced from you to him, back and forth, back and forth. You could only put on a practiced smile before Aventurine pulled you by your wrist.

A gasp escaped you as Aventurine positioned you in his lap, a hand going to your back, middle finger tapping into the small of your back; curse your dress for having a back window.

“What are you doing?” you as with a sharp whisper, scarlet slowly but surely crawling on your face as you turned your head to look at him.

“Shh, doll”, Aventurine only cooed out, a hand patting your thigh, “I’m on a winning streak.” You could practically feel the sharp stares poking into your back but you just closed your eyes and tried to relax.

Aeons was this going to be a long night.

notes: gonna be fr i have played poker but it’s been a HOT minute so pardon me if the dice thing is incorrect, the thoughts won 🧍, dumbi if you read this sorry if it seems similar to yours i swear i didnt mean it to 😭 , reader wears lipstick and a dress so it's more on the fem! reader side but anybody can wear lipstick and dresses so

#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #hsr x reader #hsr drabbles

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incorrectetncanonandfanonquotes · 1 month

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Safiya, in the cell: Trapped. Caught like a rat in a trap. I can't sleep. These dark, dank walls are closing in. I call to you, the spirits of the cell, save me! Save me! How long has it been? The days turn to months... Rosanna: .... Veronica, standing outside: it’s been eight minutes, do you want some booze?

#source: a series of unfortunate events #cw alcohol #rosanna pansino #veronica escape the night #safiya nygaard #incorrect escape the night quotes #incorrect etn quotes #incorrect etn #incorrect escape the night #incorrect quotes #escape the night #youtube #joey graceffa

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sytoran · 1 year

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𝐒𝐘𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

howdy, thanks for dropping by :)

✦ this blog is intended for sapphics, men dni

✦ what i write: sub!marvel women x dom!reader

✦ most works contain smut. 18+ only. blank/ageless blogs who interact will be blocked

✦ hate anons/asks that make me uncomfortable will be blocked

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

#sytoran speaks - for when i answer inbox asks, or post rambles.

#sytoran's fic recs - for other writers' fanfics i reblog.

#sytoran's incorrect quotes - for my unfunny marvel quotes.

read this tutorial if you want to read my fics with 'mature' community labels! | my AO3

requests: closed | taglists are discontinued

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

4k followers celebration

the christmas chronicles

kinktober 2023 masterlist

2k followers celebration

valentines' special 2023

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅

SERIES:

pretty in pink

Adopting a hybrid bunny girl becomes one of the best decisions you've ever made in your life. Despite the blurred lines that form in your relationship, you wouldn't trade anything in the world for your sweet angel that is Wanda Maximoff.

the excellence of misfortune

Moving into Westview to escape the demons that chase you, there you meet Wanda Maximoff, a married woman who's looking for the same kind of escapism. Where one seeks order and the other seeks thrill, maybe you can show each other a little neighbourly support, and perhaps, find the excellence of misfortune.

ONESHOTS:

spooky scary skeletons the one where you're ghostface and wanda maximoff is your next victim.

nsfw alphabet your sex life with your girlfriend, told through snapshots of the alphabet.

the pirate and the mermaid in the midst of a voyage, a notorious pirate stumbles upon a pretty little mermaid.

arabella as a writer, your love for wanda transcends the boundaries of words.

medicine after a particularly taxing work day, there's no better stress relief than your cute little bunny sleeping half-naked in your bed.

doctor's orders barbie!wanda hasn’t got a clue about how her newly-human body works. thankfully, you happen to be the best gynecologist in town.

babysitter duty | pt.2 the mom of the kids you babysit is extremely hot.

kick a ball, score a hot mom wanda's sons have soccer practice, while she spends some time with their young and ridiculously good-looking coach in the equipment closet.

extra credit the one where professor maximoff promises you extra credit if you make her squirt, and you're a fast learner.

taunt the several times wanda scrunches her nose at you.

god, you're insatiable a formal work party gone wrong when wanda's co-workers get a little too close to you.

giddyup in which you wake up to your girlfriend riding on your abs.

boudoir photography the finals assignment where your top student submits her nudes.

heat waves omegaverse - the one where an omega wanda in heat goes to the bar to find some relief, and meets the alpha bartender.

study break in which straight A student wanda maximoff studies with the school's jock and jerk, you.

rockin' around the christmas tree in which "rockin'" is a euphemism for sex.

'tis the season to be horny making gingerbread houses with your horny girlfriend.

last christmas | pt.2 the one where you reunite with your toxic ex on christmas.

i'm (c)reaming of a white christmas when they said 'white christmas', you thought it meant being covered in snow, certainly not...... this.

all i want for christmas is you (to fuck me] the only thing on wanda's wishlist is you.

slow hands | pt.2 college au where you had always thought wanda was out of your league, until that night at tony stark's party.

DRABBLES:

babygirl wanda

more babygirl wanda

babygirl model wanda

𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐅𝐅

SERIES:

home is where the heart is

In which your married life with Natasha Romanoff is depicted through this comedy-drama series. With your dream job, three kids, and a plethora of friends, each day is blissful but all the more chaotic and unpredictable. (And ultimately, very horny.)

my divine goddess

After saving a mystical cat from a deathly experience, you're hauled into the world of Gods and Goddesses with one wish to get whatever it is you desire. Turns out, all you crave is the Goddess of Lust, Natasha Romanoff. Steamy entanglements turn into love-filled confessions, but the two of you were star-crossed from the very start.

ONESHOTS:

mile high club on a plane ride to dubai for a romantic getaway, natasha takes matters into her own hands, and your cock into her own mouth. (oops?)

arsonist's lullabye natasha gets more attached than expected after a one-night-stand with the college's infamous player.

mechanic jacks and jacked mechanics natasha's car breaks down in the dead of the night, and an unbelievably sexy mechanic shows up to fix her right up.

let me fuck your tits? your wife thinks you've been acting a little off lately, but it comes down to the 'hard' truth that you just wanna fuck her tits.

i wanna be yours despite your countless pleads for natasha to stay away during the full moon, she decides to brave the beast... and gets a lot more than what she bargained for.

widow's web natasha's mission to retrieve a thumbdrive file by seducing a high-ranking executive goes a little too smoothly, and she doesn't notice you're not all you seem to be.

break the rules when visiting the strip club downtown with your co-workers, you catch the eye of none other than the 'black widow'.

obsession, possesion! your roomate's an innocent little thing, the prettiest girl on campus, whose boobs you're a little too obsessed with.

office hours | pt.2 natasha romanoff is your new secretary, and she's ready to help you with your every need.

DRABBLES:

natasha plays a prank

━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 fics

ONESHOTS:

if god forbid (Peggy Carter x Gn!Reader) you're eating your wife out under her office desk as she speaks to - or at least, attempts to speak to - her military soldiers.

the super soldier theory (Wandanat x Amab!Reader) being a supersoldier had its perks, like getting to fuck the black widow and scarlet witch on a mission.

DRABBLES:

subby!agatha

possesive wandanat

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undiscovered-horizon · 11 months

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"Apple tree" - Kaz Brekker x Reader

[nudity]

SUMMARY: No one recognizes the melody Kaz sometimes hums to himself while lost in thought. Neither does anyone know where he disappears for entire nights or why he seems happier when he returns.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.5k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

In those rare moments when Kaz is too focused on something to pay attention to the material world, a soft hum would escape his lips as though the tune could finally wriggle out of his cluttered mind and dance along the cold winds of Ketterdam. Set free, at last!

Jesper once asked him about the melody but Kaz only gave him a puzzled look as though he wasn’t aware of his own habit. Knowing that they can’t possibly force anything from their hard-headed boss, the Crows began making bets among themselves:

‘Probably just a barkeep’s song he can’t get out of his head.’

‘Some kind of a meditation technique.’

‘Maybe it’s a song from his neighbourhood?’

‘Lullaby his mother sang to him!’

But all of their guesses were equally good. Although, a more accurate expression would be ‘equally incorrect’. As months turned into years, the mystery remained, while the nosy rogues still aren’t any closer to solving it. What’s worse, they are beginning to run out of ideas.

Arguing about the melody in hushed voices, they never see him leave - only notice his sudden absence. This part of the enigma, however, is well-known to them: Kaz will reappear in the late morning the next day, a lot more patient and relaxed than he was the night before. Where could he possibly vanish to, they wondered.

Kaz hears himself quietly sigh in relief when your quiet voice reaches his ears. The longed-for sound comes from the hall, growing louder as you walk into your bedroom. Sitting on your bed with his back against the wall, he has a perfect view of your silhouette rounding the corner and entering the room. An uncomfortable tightness presses down on Kaz’s chest, the very same sensation he felt that fateful day when your eyes met. Despite all this time, he hasn’t yet gotten used to the sight: you emerge from the hall as though you were just breathed into life, with the softness of something oblivious to the terror of the surrounding world. He likes that thought, no matter how naive it is - that he can both have you all to himself and protect you from what he is.

“Near my garden bloomed an apple tree,” you sing to yourself. “Bloomed in white, it had red apples.”

There’s something in your voice that he can’t quite put a finger on - a sense of longing, melancholy, as though the song becomes a coded message when it brushes past your lips; like there’s a heartache you haven’t yet shared with him. He sometimes wonders how many tears you’ve cried when he wasn’t looking but the thought makes him too angry to entertain it for more than a handful of seconds.

The lack of attention you give Kaz is quite deceptive. You’re standing right in the middle of the room, undressing a little too temptingly for it to be an accident. There’s no shame or shyness left in you - after all, he’s seen all of it before, many times. His eyes burn your skin in the same way a ray of sunshine feels against cold cheeks in the middle of winter. You bask in it, the desire that still burns after all those years, even if he doesn’t quite realize it.

“Who will pick them for me when my Johnny is cross?”

A horse’s neighing diverts Kaz’s attention from you to the cracked-open window. It’s like a robbery - the smallest gap can be an entrance. Or an exit, for that matter. Although your voice is hushed, audible only to him and yourself, Kaz begins to feel envious at the notion that the night breeze could possibly carry this sweet tune to undeserving ears. Perhaps it is childish of him to think that he could have exclusive ownership of you and this little song, to finally have something he can call his own.

“He’s angry but I don’t know why. Used to visit me but I don’t know why.”

His gaze returns to you, watching closely as you sit at the vanity. The oil lamp beside you lights up only half of your face, making you appear somewhat elusive, a bird of paradise that shall escape the moment you loosen your grip around its wings. You’re taking off your jewelery, putting it away to assorted boxes with utmost attention and care. Kaz can relate to this, in a way - years ago, when your romance was only buds about to bloom, he warned you that you should find another man, someone who can give you the lavish lifestyle you deserve and intimacy you certainly want. But you were more than unwilling to listen and that was, perhaps, your last mistake as the moment you gave yourself to him, Kaz was going to fight tooth and nail to keep the status quo. He is a crow, after all - a greedy collector of treasures.

“He visited me all spring, asking mother when I would grow.”

For the first time this evening, your gaze deliberately meets his. You’re still sitting at the vanity, sideways to Kaz, and you have to look over your shoulder to see his face. In that moment, there is something so divine about you, he begins to doubt his senses. His mind relates to various frescos and paintings of the Saints he has seen. Those same pieces of exquisite artistry bring thousands of people to their knees, bowing in front of faces as gentle as yours. Their hearts suddenly rejoicing in the presence of merciful, watchful eyes that only know love and care. No Saint has ever watched over him, so perhaps it is only natural that he should start praying to you. Epiphany, after all, is not an artifact of pews, old pages and litanies - it is the moment you see yourself through the eyes of your lover, only to realize that not an ounce of your soul could ever be unlovable.

That look in your eyes - he both hates it and yearns for it. It’s like you’re staring at something worth admiring. Kaz always thinks he sees there a note of mercy; a look of compassion and understanding given to a wounded animal that tries to remain threatening. Maybe you have fallen into a trap he didn’t even know he had set.

A few minutes pass by when you and Kaz simply watch each other. The silence is filled with nothing and everything at once - unspoken promises, words of poetry and grandeur that would only attract malice if said in Ketterdam.

“Something’s on your mind,” he breaks the comfortable quietness.

“You should get some rest, love.”

Kaz has a burning suspicion that you know very well what you’re doing to him with your small, albeit still groundbreaking, confessions of adoration. The closer he grew to you, to more of those affirmations he began to notice. Mostly, they aren’t straightforward but like snowdrops in February, they are apparent to those looking for them and by the Saints, does Kaz Brekker look for the confirmation of your love, never quite satiated. In words of care, ‘go to sleep’ or ‘eat something’, he’s learned to find intimacy beyond spoken language.

“I didn’t come here for rest,” Kaz informs. No one in their right mind would choose sleep over the presence of something too divine to be considered only human.

A wide smile creeps onto your face. How is he supposed to remain ‘the Bastard’ when you’re looking at him like that?

“Then what for?” you coax.

He cocks his head, staring at you with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Perhaps I just enjoy the view.”

“Oh my, did you just give me a compliment?” Jokingly, you put a hand on your chest. A giggle escapes your lips.

“Would that be so awful?”

You stand up from the vanity, making your way towards him. His watchful gaze never leaves you, painting Kaz something of a predator - waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. Climbing into your bed, you lay beside him.

“So awful I’d stay up all night thinking about it,” you say in a hushed tone.

Ever since he’s gotten comfortable with that, the motion of laying his head against your chest feels so natural to Kaz that he can hardly believe he has lived most of his life without doing so. Your muffled heartbeat rings in his ears and he unknowingly takes a deep, slow breath - you’re right here with him. Most importantly, you’re okay and that’s enough for him to put his thoughts at rest. Your hand brushes through his hair. To Kaz, intimacy feels perfectly strange.

In a voice barely louder than the calm rhythm of your heart, you finish the song that has bewitched Kaz about as much as you have:

“He visited me all summer and I kissed him for that. He visited me all autumn and I put apples in his pockets.”

When his consciousness dances along the line of sleep and wake, he feels your warm lips softly kissing his forehead. Maybe he has been wrong all along and it was you who had trapped him. Not that he has any desire to break free, of course.

#kaz brekker fanfiction #kaz brekker #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows fanfic #six of crows x reader #six of crows imagine #six of crows fanfiction #six of crows #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction #kaz brekker x you #six of crows x you #shadow and bone x you #Spotify

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b33zlebubz · 4 months

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RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER ONE - school, life, and a punch to the face TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC) MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

If hell is real, you’re pretty sure you’re dead.

Time drags on; seconds feeling more like hours and hours feeling like an eternity—punctuated only by the shriek of the occasional bell. It’s a familiar limbo you’ve grown to tune out in favor of your daydreaming, interrupted only by the end of a period or the sound of your name being called from across the room. Your pencil taps idly against the desk with the beat of your heel against the floor. Untied shoelaces pull taught under your feet when you shift to lean forwards, squinting at the equations scribbled across the whiteboard by a wrinkled, dark hand. Numbers and letters swirl together.

Mrs. Hall. An elderly, frail, equally as tired woman—worn down by decades of bullshit brought on by stubborn, unmotivated students much like the kids behind you, whispering and snickering in a way that made your eye twitch with deep irritation. Still, you’re not much better, your mind lost in thought staring at rain that pounds against the ground of upstate Texas until the sound of your name stirs you from the depths of your own brain. When you look up, confused, Mrs. Hall stares back at you with an expecting stare—and a few students are turned around to stare at you.

You’re also pretty sure if hell is real—it's the American Public School System.

“Uh…”

“The three X’s in number five,” Mrs. Hall taps the equation on the board with the marker. “On the homework.”

“Right. Sorry,” your tired eyes flicker down to the chicken scratch on the paper in front of you, scanning the crumpled paper for the answer you hastily scribbled down earlier that day. “Three, square root of two, and negative one?”

“Incorrect.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching at your neck as you try and fail not to notice when one of the boys behind you stops whispering mid-sentence and stares daggers into the back of your neck. Shit. Fuck.

That’s the last time you do someone else’s algebra homework. Math, in all its forms, was your academic Achilles heel.

The rest of fourth period escapes you. After what feels like a lifetime and a half of talking and scribbling on your paper, the bell rings out across the classroom. Like Pavlov’s dogs—the students instinctually rush to life—shoving chairs and throwing backpacks over their shoulders, eager to get on with the day.

You're quick to sweep your things into your backpack and high-tail it towards the door of the classroom before a certain boy behind you can notice you've left already.

Mrs. Hall says your first name again. You stop in your tracks, not missing how your fellow student sends you an angry look as he strides past to leave—crumpling the homework you did for him the night before to add to the effect. He must be telepathic, because you swear you can hear his voice without him even saying anything.

"You're dead."

Your feet shuffle towards the door, "can't talk, gonna be late—"

"I'll write you a pass."

"I have lunch next, though."

"No you don't." Mrs. Hall scoffs, shooting you an unamused look from over her rectangular glasses. "You think I don't know your schedule by now?"

You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the next, "worth a try."

"Sit," she gestures beside her.

You hesitate, almost arguing further, but you sigh instead. Getting lectured actually sounded much better than whatever hell waited for you out in the hallway the second you walked outside. You let your backpack fall from your shoulders as you drag it over with you to collapse into the chair beside your teacher's desk. Your eyes flicker up to where her frail hands card through some papers.

"You graduate in two months, dear." She reminds you, as if you haven't been scratching the tallied days into a spare notebook like you're on death row. "Your test scores are average but all the homework seems to be…lacking. If you even do it at all."

Average. A word that's been thrown around a lot regarding your name, which you intended to stick with. Average meant nobody would stick their nose in your business—that you could blend in with the crowd and avoid any and all weird glances and low whispers. You made the mistake of showing off once, to snap back at your dickhead classmate; only to end up doing his bidding for the rest of the semester.

You figure Mrs. Hall won't take very well to being told that the reason you aren't completing your homework is because you're too busy doing Ben Davis's under the threat that he won't smash your face against the lockers again. Broken noses are a special level of hell, but it still isn't as low as the torture that is highschool.

"Maybe I joined some sports," you quip sarcastically. "Don't have as much time as I used to."

She only deadpans at you.

You stare innocently back at her. If you play dumb enough, maybe she'll finally give up.

"I'm not attacking you. Just worried. If you need some extra time because—" she lowers her voice and the bracelets around her tiny wrist jingle as she waves it about, "---because of your family life, or anything…I'm willing to give it to you."

Your brow lowers, annoyance beginning to nip at your nerves as you sit up a little straighter.

Pity. You've long grown tired of it. You weren't some fragile orphan—no. You were an adult who, in two months, would finally be free from the clutches of your frustrated social worker and the slew of whatever excited, naive couples the system dumped you on. People have been tip-toeing around you your whole life, and it never fails to make your fists clench.

"My grades are average, you said," you say, stern—poking the score on one of your tests with a pointer finger. "I don't need help."

"I don't doubt you don't need help, sweetheart. But you're a smart kid. Really smart, if you put the effort in. I'm just saying if you ever need any extra—"

"I'm fine. If you really wanna help, you won't make me late to my next class."

Mrs. Hall seems to freeze, stunned at the bite her otherwise quiet student seems to bear. The clock ticks above your head, the rain pitters against the window outside and, for a moment, shame floods your senses; but it fades as the seconds pass and that concerned look on her face deepens.

You're the first to look away, picking up your pack and turning for the door. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hall."

"Wait."

You stop, tossing your head back with a sigh. "What?"

"Tie your shoes, sweetheart," she says, her voice kind as she turns away to tap your stack of tests on the desk. "You'll trip walking around like that."

You only frown and duck out the door.

The rest of the school day passes in a familiar haze. You space out throughout two of your classes, goof off for the rest, and get your shit handed to you the second school is out. Ben takes the time to lecture you as well after he levels you in one punch—and you sit rubbing your jaw, bored, as he goes on and on about how you did that shit on purpose and next time, you're fucking dead.

He needed a perfect score to pass the class. In a low moment of pain, you promised it to him despite the fact that your algebra skills had much to be desired. Still, with a little bit of extra effort—you managed to make it through most of the second semester without a black eye.

You're the one that always bleeds; but a part of you finds it funny how he always finds a way to talk himself into angry tears, storming off somewhere distant while kids scramble to get out of his way to avoid the same fate as you.

And, as always, you pick yourself up, wipe the blood from your face onto the sleeve of your jacket—and walk away.

Because that's all you can do.

The rain settles deep in your clothes as you make your way home, music loud in your earbuds. It's silent and gray, as it has been all week, and your thoughts are mere static as you drag your feet back to your front doorstep. Your bed is calling for you after such a shitty day and the bruise forming on your left eye is just making the blankets seem all the more welcoming.

You barely notice how your door is already unlocked when you enter.

Inside, the house is just as silent and empty as the rest of your street. Rain drips to the floor in a steady rhythm as you pad across the living room of the house, dropping your backpack to the floor. Muscle memory leads you to the bathroom—where things are, as usual, spotless.

You've seen plenty of bad homes and residencies during your time in the system. Most of them blurred together in a long string of things you wished to forget; either by the caretakers' fault or your own. This house, though, was high on your list of favorites. Your folks were never around, and if they were, they were asleep. When you weren't working; you usually had the house to yourself.

"Fuck," You breathe, prodding at the swelling flesh around your eye. You run some water over it and the irritation dulls slightly as dried blood turns the water pink. Excuses run rampant through your mind as you scramble for a way to explain the injury---because you're pretty sure they won't believe you if you said you tripped again.

That's when you catch movement from your doorway. Shuffling.

You whip around just as the movement disappears, and suddenly the quiet house turns eerily silent. Your eyes lock on the doorway as the sink continues to run and water continues to drip from your clothes.

Nothing.

You turn the sink off.

Your brow furrows, eyes locked on the cracked door of your bathroom as your hand grabs hold of the first weapon you can get your hands on—a shower curtain rod. One foot after the other, you peak around the corner.

Again, nothing.

Out of some itch of paranoia—or just completely on coincidence—you happen to turn your head to the wall next to you. Instead of an empty corridor like you expected, you're met with a face.

A face that immediately lunges at you the second your eyes widen.

You stumble to the side with a yell just for the individual to grab your arm, and the curtain rod falls to the floor with a clatter. You struggle as he yanks you to the side and around the corner and, before you have the chance to react, cold metal is pressed to your back.

"Don't fuckin' move," a voice hisses in your ear, and you stiffen.

You wheeze, struggling against his hold, "who–"

"Your gardian fucking angel," he sneers, shifting to clap a hand over your mouth. You thrash again—but it's useless. The gun presses painfully into your side. "I said don't move."

A thump echoes through the room, and suddenly you see why.

You fight to keep your breathing under control as you stay firm against your captor's geared chest, still as a statue. Your heart slams against your ribs and your ears as you listen to each heavy footstep against the floor, and your eyes widen whenever a second soldier creeps down your hallway. Standard camo and green clothes shuffling as he walks.

You catch the long muzzle of a rifle over the soldier's shoulder, and suddenly you find yourself leaning into the gun pressed into your back. The hand on your mouth tightens, silently shifting you away from the door.

The shifting of gear and the click of the rifle echo in the silent house as your nails dig into the skin of your captor's wrist. You watch a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitch near your face as the sound of your first name echoes through the hall, sing-song and taunting.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Think. Think. Think.

“If y’know what’s best for ya’…” A thick Scottish accent taunts from down the hall as he nudges the curtain rod with his foot, causing it to scrape against the wood floors. “You’ll quit puttin’ up a fight and show yourself.”

You glance over to meet your captor’s gaze. A flicker of anger crosses his eyes, nose wrinkling into a scowl. He has a scar across his cheek.

Then, suddenly, he shifts, pulling you further away from the doorway. His grip on your shoulder is deathly tight as it digs into your clothes. He lifts his finger from the trigger of his gun only to bring it to his lips in a silent command to stay quiet, stay with me.

Panic burns bright and all-encompassing through your veins. For whatever reason—all your body will let you do is shake and listen.

He ducks around the corner, pulling you with him. You have to force your feet to move.

The Scottish soldier stops just at the end of the hall, hulking frame and what must be at least thirty pounds of gear making him a jarring sight against the flowered wallpaper of your foster home. He must have an earpiece of some kind; because you hear him whisper every so often as he sweeps the hallways.

"They're here," he mutters. "Little fuck's just good at hiding."

It's tiny and muffled, but in the deathly silence of the house you can make out two voices in his earpiece that reply to him. One female, the other male. You can't decipher what they say but their responses make him growl in frustration.

"C'mon, we don't got all day…"

Tense, your captor shoves you along to another room. He signals something down the hall, where you spot more movement in the house. More soldiers—these ones dressed in similar, dark garb to the man who still presses a gun to your side. They have bigger weapons, concealing helmets.

Startled, you trip over your shoelaces.

Your captor scrambles to grab you before you clatter to the floor. He curses just as the Scottish soldier whips around, gun pointed and ready.

There's a solid two seconds of complete silence. Your gaze meets with the Scott and his eyes widen. Then, he spots the other man with a gun pointed at you.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

You scramble to your feet and bolt. The Scott is the first to grab you, and he's met with teeth deep in his arm. He yells out as you kick free, gagging on the metallic substance that floods your mouth.

There's shouting. Movement. Gunfire lights up your house with noise and lights as you wipe your mouth, stumble, and fly down the stairs in a blind dash for your front door.

Instead, you run directly into something solid—Landing you flat on your ass. Again.

Panting, panicking, your eyes rake up dark figure; past two giant boots, a geared chest, and hands that clench a rifle in their grip to meet a masked face and bored eyes. You scramble backwards against the wall with a yelp. The sound of yelling, gunfire, and heavy footsteps flood the rest of the house as the masked man's eyes widen at you. You stare at each other; you, sizing him up and him, confused.

"Graves?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Commander! We lost the kid!"

"Does anyone have a visual??"

"L.T.!"

The skull-faced man finally leaps into action at the sound of what must be his rank—because he's suddenly moving faster than you can realize more soldiers are flooding around the corner. In a flurry of practiced movement, he grabs them.

You yell out as he knees one of the men and shoots the other. Blood splatters across the walls and your clothes. Then, he fires twice more at the soldier unconscious on the ground—and the house goes quiet other than your pounding heartbeat.

The towering man before you shifts, and the floorboards creak under his feet. He rolls his shoulders and let's out a breath as he stands, slowly, up to his full height. He turns, and the same blood that splatters across the walls runs in tiny rivulets across the skull of his mask. His voice thick and low when he speaks.

"You broken?"

Your shaking hands lower from your ears as your eyes then rake across the corpses at his feet, but it's no use. Through the ringing in your ears, your racing mind is unable to put together what he says for a few minutes. It's even more impossible to tear your eyes away from the blood splattered against the patterned wallpaper.

You swallow and shake your head.

"Good." Nonchalant, he lowers his gun and shouts down the hall.

"Johnny, you with me?"

"Over here, L.T.," grunts the Scottish voice from down the hall. "That little shit Graves—"

"Let 'em go. We'll deal with 'em later. We got what we needed."

Johnny curses in response, but mutters a begrudging "copy" as he saunters over—nursing the clear bite mark in his arm.

Then, the Lieutenant's eyes shift in your direction. His hand twitches, almost reaching out to you, and you pull your legs closer to your chest against the wall. Blood soaks your untied laces. You clamp a hand over your mouth as you will your breathing to settle. It doesn't.

He freezes. Then, to your relief, he turns away and presses a finger to his ear.

"Bravo 0-7 to Actual; five shadows have been compromised on the property. Looks like the Shadows got the word the same time we did. Could be others, too. Things got bloody, but…" The lieutenant's eyes meet yours again as he speaks. Through the bloodied skull mask, his gaze holds a calm resolve that's probably supposed to be comforting, but it only makes your skin prickle.

"...we got the kid."

It's quiet, but you can hear static before someone speaks on the other end of the communication device.

"Copy that, Bravo. We'll clean up the mess," A female voice replies. "Bring 'em home safe, boys."

"Roger that."

#kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty reader insert #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

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fayeriess · 4 months

Text

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ THE MOTHER ROAD ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: the night of your bedding ceremony leaves you destroyed in more ways than one.

warnings: 18+ ( minors please do not interact ), a bit of angst, slight dub!con, a little smut if you squint, loss of virginity, p in v, bedding ceremony ( witnesses ), not proof-read

a/n: first installment of 'birth of violence' as well as first ever work for hotd. i’ve been lingering in the background and slowly dipping my toes in the fandom again so bear with me if anything seems incorrect here. house baratheon is mentioned a couple of times. not sure if this was really going in the dub!con direction but the warning is there nonetheless :)

You were used to the cold; the iciness that frosted the ground in thick layers during the colder seasons, seeping through furs and weaving itself between the joints. It numbs, comforts, and soothes — leaving frostbitten fingers, and an empty stomach coiled tightly in knots.

The sensation was no stranger; on the contrary, it was someone you knew all too well in all the forms it had come to you.

Goddess flesh in the shape of cracking bones, and skin peeling from slain muscle, an aura of deceitfulness to follow. She haunted when lashes fluttered shut, skin between brows creasing in concentration in an attempt to rid of the horrors constantly plaguing states of unconsciousness – creeping in the dark corners, hidden by glistening torchlight.

But, when she revealed herself, instead of waning, she grew; bubbling beneath the surface, tingling your spine so that it raised gooseflesh. At times, a dim glimmer of hope shone in the cavity of your chest, protected from the harsh realities this plane of existence had to offer.

The world burns at your feet, yet you remain unignited.

Even now, as you lay unclothed atop white linens, tears pricking your eyes, jaw tight, and body shaking with utmost humiliation, she loomed. You had wished she shielded you instead; from the unity of this marriage for allegiance, from the high lords and ladies that had crowded behind the curtains of your bedding chamber.

But hadn’t she helped you? Hadn’t she made you senseless to this . . . robbery to come out victorious once your duty had been fulfilled? Once the stain of your snatched virtue decorated the sheets?

It was a thought that flitted across the crevices of your mind, eyes clouded with fear, hazed from Dornish crimson wine consumed during the wedding ceremony — your wedding ceremony. Oh, how you wished so desperately then that you were back near the southeastern shores — embroidering with your septa — the woman who had taught you how to be a lady ever since your bones ached from growing.

Once a child, now a woman. Once a child, now a woman. Your lips parted to utter those words to yourself silently, hands grasping at the crinkled sheets beneath you.

“Will them away.”

Snapping your head between your clenched legs, you swallow, taking in the figure before you. “I’m sorry?”

Blinking rapidly, you sunk lower into the mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole before you could get on with this act with the man whom you were forced to call husband. Such a strange title for someone you had come to know only through whispers across Storm’s End alone; hushed whispers seeping through hands that hadn’t been cupped around ears tight enough.

He moves slowly, long limbs splayed out on either side of you, violet eye locked to your face as his head dips. “No one else is here.” He whispers, lips a breath away from yours. “Just me and you, ābrazȳrys.”

You can’t help the small, shaky sigh that escapes your once-closed mouth as slivers of bright tendrils tickle your face, raising the hairs on your arms. Not trusting the constant thump that sounded throughout your ears, you nodded stiffly, the bile of earlier devoured supper threatening to surface in your esophagus.

With a rigid spine, you inched backward, head cushioned by the mass of pillows piling the expanse of the bed. A sudden pressure made itself known behind your eyes, a rush of tears awaiting to embarrass you further than what you had already endured tonight.

His reassuring words caressed your skin, albeit doing little to quell the sickness, sloshing the digesting wine inside you. Aemond Targaryen was a man who was capable of many things, but you did not believe that genuine kindness was one of them. Nor would you ever.

As a young girl, you had read stories that would’ve gotten you clapped upside the head if they were ever discovered in the confines of your chambers—inked writings of erotic experiences littering parchment front to back.

You had always been a greedy reader, opting to take in as much as you could learn between pages rather than by the hands of those around you. When you turned into a woman-grown — gone was your stubbornness — your fight dissipated the more you learned to clamp down on your loose tongue, drawing a copper taste onto your tastebuds despite yourself.

It was one of the reasons why you had found yourself in King's Landing, why the hands of a kinslayer were skimming the curvature of your waist, fingertips dancing on the bare flesh below your ribcage soon after.

He was dousing you with his shared sin. This was not the way you wished to be loved.

The muscles in your stomach involuntarily clench at his touch, hands stiff and straight at your sides now, fingers wriggling together as a means to distract yourself; shaking when he flicks his thumb over your nipple.

You’re forced to snap your eyes in his direction, lashes clustered, wet with tears that left trails in their wake.

It didn’t matter one bit if you looked as pathetic as you felt. You had come to that conclusion long ago; the minute he had showed up to the Stormlands asking your father for your hand in marriage.

Borros Baratheon had always thought of you as a spare — with your older sister — Cassandra being the most favored out of the six of his kin. So it was astonishing when a dragon took a sudden interest in the likes of a stag.

How delicate. How . . . fiendish.

His voice was a whisper among many in the fluid of your skull, lips pressed against the shell of your heated ear. “Are you well?”

The question had the one-eyed prince pursing his lips, he reprimanded himself for his slick tongue. It was obvious you were naught but petrified.

He was going to defile you, and it would be something he would find no pleasure in; of that he was certain.

The sniffle you gave along with a curt nod of your head was enough, as his slender fingers had suddenly appeared at your cheek, wiping away at stray saltwater littering the apples of your warm cheeks.

Your chest expanded, wide enough that you were now chest-to-chest with him. Aemond wasn’t as stocky as the men you were usually surrounded by; naught more than tall, arms not packed with muscles of hard labor, but moreover bone with subtle definition you could easily learn to appreciate if the circumstances were different.

The sensation of his heart pounding against your sternum only intensified when said hand disappeared between your bodies to palm at his throbbing cock, guiding it against your slick folds.

If you weren’t choking on your self-pity, you’d find a way to resist with your words rather than slap your clammy palm against his bicep, the uneven ridges of your nails digging into the flesh. Aemond winced slightly at your tell, eyebrows furrowing at your wide eyes.

“‘M scared.” Words lower than the quietest of whispers reached his ears, something he’d will himself to etch between the tissue of his brain with thick twine.

Aemond Targaryen found immense joy when he’d spot trepidation contorting the features of those he deemed beneath him — which was most — if truths were being brought under the scorching sun. But, this time his stomach could only roll over in knots at your helplessness; something all too familiar to him.

He had experienced it on the Street of Silk back when he was ten-and-three with Aegon hot on heels. His first time had been with a whore, a woman far much older than he. Desperately struggling to place his mind elsewhere, Aemond ultimately failed the task and found himself hunched over in a nearby alley soon after.

He could still feel the crack of the outer foundation of the brothel as he dug his fingers into its dirt-ridden cracks — heaving, inhaling — a cycle of panic forcing itself down his throat. When Aegon had found him, he had clapped a hand on his back and laughed madly, lips smacking together as they clipped away at the rest of innocence within the younger.

Perhaps that was why the small fragment in his heart that cradled a place for his dear older brother was black with rot.

In his hesitation, it seemed you had already succumbed to your fate as your nose crinkled, a rapid nod of the head to follow. “Please.”

Your approval was broken and utterly defeated as you looked. It made his blood run cold; the dragon fire that had given him his birthright cooling.

“I-“ With the sentence long forgotten in his throat, Aemond’s lips had curled in a deep frown, as you stared at him.

Your eyes were blurry with another onslaught of tears, hands raising to frantically wipe at them with your palms, digging the heels of them as far as they could go to remove any trace of your weeping.

He was sure that if you had dug them any deeper, they would have disappeared into the depths of your sockets

Although you were certain that those standing behind the thin linen sheet had held no sense of sorrow for your fate, a part of you wished at least one person had. That before you had grabbed his length and eased it inside of you, someone had yanked back the only means of privacy you had and gotten you out of there.

Alas, you had no savior. Not your four other sisters, nor your cunt lord of a father whose last words to you were to be a good wife. Not even Alicent, who had seemed to have the lowest of tolerances for a frail girl like you bringing forth heirs. New grandsons, and granddaughters for her to dote over.

“They will be as delicate as their mother.” She complimented, a small bite to her spoken words. You were smart enough to know it was backhanded, as she thought you weak, feeble the minute her warm, motherly hands had grasped your shaking ones.

A gasp had left you at the sudden intrusion, the slight pinch of your body being practically split in half causing your lids to screw shut.

Aemond gently pushed at your hand still circling his cock, leaving you with no option other than to ball it tightly at your side. With a slow buck of his hips, he inches forward, hoping to make a home in your cunt, and you clench around him involuntarily: breathe warm and hot as he lets his eye flutter shut.

The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all your years on this plane of existence, and it causes a shudder to wrack your entire being so violently, that you can’t help the sob that escapes you. It mixes in the thick air, heating the flesh of your cheeks even further, bringing the blood in your veins to boil over.

Something is stirring deep within the pits of your belly, twisting – shaping itself as tightly as it can before it can be unwound, foreign but not as uninviting as you had expected it to be.

It was much more pleasant. So much so, that as Aemond continued his steady, agonizingly slow thrusts, you found that your toes would curl slightly, ridges of teeth indenting the plump flesh of your bottom lip, and content sighs leaving your lungs in quiet intervals.

The pad of a thumb brushes against your tear-stricken face, slowly easing its way down to your jaw before coming to a stop at the fullness of your mouth.

A skip of silence simmering in slight hesitancy does nothing to stop the rapidness of your heart; the way it palpated when a ‘May I kiss you?’ came out of his parted lips.

Was he asking your consent to ease his conscience due to snatching you away from your home? Or was he asking because it was the last thing you’d be able to give your opinion upon?

It was a fickle thought. One that you quickly realized you were overanalyzing when his knuckle curved to lift your head.

“Yes.”

And so his lips pressed against yours with fervor, as if he’d been deprived of touch his entire life. There was warmth swirling around your tongue when he had delved into the warmth wetness that made up your mouth, all the while jutting his hips forward.

Aemond’s breath is caught by your mouth as he sighs, peppering kisses down your chin, and over your throat soon after.

There’s no trace of confidence within you the second your hands weave through his long tresses, tugging slightly as his tongue follows the trail his mouth had made.

He stills near your collarbone and hums, sending a shiver pinching down the expanse of your back, legs rubbing against his hips.

“Is this what you want?”

The frost is back, starting at the tips of your fingers this time as they stop near the base of his neck, shaking from the suddenness of his question.

Is this what you wanted? To submit yourself to a role within Kings Landing in the Red Keep as a princess? A woman to hang over her husband's arm, the stronghold of this alliance between House Baratheon and House Targaryen.

You were supposed to be the epitome of strength.

So strong is what you would be.

Even if it shaped you into something you could no longer recognize.

“I’m sure.”

And for a second your words rang true.

Just for now.

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen angst #house of the dragon aemond

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