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luveline · 16 hours

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HI MLLLL! I absolutely loved your fainting fic with James! Can you write like a part a part 2 or like a follow up where reader starts realizing that James isn’t as bad as she thought and she falls for him as he takes care of her bc he’s really worried? I love them sm 🥹

James takes care of you when you faint

James is acting weirder than usual… sort of… nice? fem, 1.2k

The days after you faint are just as hot, but you come into work. You can’t afford to miss it, and it’s not as though you’ll make the same mistake twice.

The memory of what happened is hazy at the start. James had just opened the window, the breeze that filtered in cooling your hot skin. You’d felt sick, you’d tried to stand, and your head had gone blank.

You woke with your face in James’ hand. You can remember it if you think about it enough, his head tilted down toward you, the sunshine on his skin, his soft smile. He’d felt like a different person.

You’d felt different.

“Can you send me that information from the lab, please?”

You glance away from your computer, eyes tired. “Sorry?”

“For the, uh, Mr. Nguyen?” James asks. “You didn’t send them to me. I can’t do them if you don’t send them.”

“Right.” You blink away the phantom of his hand on your cheek. “Okay.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

That’s all he asks. Every day since you passed out, at various times and in various ways. Are you okay? Are you alright? Is it too hot in here? Do you want to swap desks with me? That last one had been a little patronising. You’d told him to leave you alone. Your desk is right next to the radiator in winter, it’s prime real estate, and you’re not giving it up just because you got a bit hot.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, turning back to your computer to open outlook. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you not talking to me.”

“Funny.”

You drag and drop the paperwork for the tests he’d wanted. It’s easy to render an invoice but you hate doing it because it involves a lot of talking back and forth with clients. James, on the other hand, loves to talk.

“There, sent it,” you say.

“Thank you.”

Awkward. You pretend to be busier than you are for a few minutes, stealing company time without remorse. James types up an email beside you, the click of his keys quick and loud in your ears.

Remus pops a pen lid across the way, scribbling onto a post it note that he sticks on his monitor. You know what time it is from the sounds alone. A half a minute later, Sirius slinks up from the front of the office to wrap his arm around Remus’ shoulders, sing-songing, “You’re coming with me, handsome.”

“Are you coming?” Remus asks James.

There’s a lapse of quiet. You stare at your computer, aware of a silent conversation, but not privy to its content. “I think I’ll stay,” James says eventually.

“Okie dokie. Y/N, do you want to come, lovely?” Remus asks. “It’s not too hot.”

“I’m fine,” you say, “thanks. Thank you.”

You don’t feel like yourself since you fainted. You’d hoped it would go away once you had a better night’s sleep, flooded your system with cold water and good food, but you can’t kick it. You have no energy, no want to do more than turn up for work and go home again, and you know what it is that’s making you feel this way, but you can’t admit it to yourself. It crops up in your mind unbidden and you push it back down.

“Sirius never used to act like that.”

“What?”

“Sirius. He was never like that when we were growing up. Love makes him pathetic.”

Love is a tender touch. Sirius had laid his arm over Remus’ shoulder without any hug or kiss, but it was as loving as either. To touch someone like they need a kind hand.

Like James had held your face. His arm behind your back as he led you to the break room.

“Do you wanna come with me?” James asks.

You hold in a second confused, What? He’s standing now, you hadn’t noticed him moving, his water bottle in hand as he pushes his chair back under the desk.

“Don’t wanna leave you here and have you smash your head in when there’s no one around. Imagine the clean up.”

You get up on impulse. You grab your drink, and the back of your chair, and you stand there wondering if you’re about to be dizzy again. Your chest feels tight, but that weight of unconsciousness doesn’t come.

“Hey,” James says. “Seriously, are you okay? You’re not like you today.”

There’s a softness in his voice you can’t believe. “Can I eat lunch with you?”

You wish that you said it to avoid the question. James wrinkles his nose, your heart drops into the pit of your stomach, but then he says, “I just invited you first.”

“I… have to get my stuff from the fridge.”

“Me too.”

You walk slowly, worried it’s a joke, another stupid joke, but James comes up behind you and his hand graces your shoulder with the barest pressure. You can smell something sweet and warm on him, like jojoba oil. Maybe argan. “Sure you’re okay? You look peaky. Is it the heat?” he murmurs.

“It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

“You can’t answer anything, can you?” James laughs with a vocal fry that goes straight to your chest. “I could ask you how many fingers you’d have and you’d tell me you have two hands.”

James walks with you to the kitchen, where you gather your food and warm it in the microwave. He leads you to the break room, and makes sure to choose a table with enough space for you, even while people he’s friendly with beckon him forward. They look at you with unashamed curiosity, but James pretends not to notice so you do too.

You’re expecting a joke. Aw, look, we’re finally on a date. Or Wow, you know how to use a spoon, I had no idea you were so dexterous.

“Did you see they’re making a new movie about those aliens? The ones who can hear you everywhere you go?”

You squeeze your spoon. “Uh, no, I didn’t see it.”

“It looks awesome. I’ll show you the trailer on my computer after lunch, it looks just as good as the first two. That actress, the one with the really nice eyes is in it.”

You have no idea who he means. James talks to you like a friend. He offers you some of his papris and he passes you a napkin from his pocket when you get food on your hands. James Potter might actually be a really nice guy. All it took was for you to garner his pity for him to show it. How pathetic you must seem to need it.

“How do you feel now?” he asks as you clip the lid back onto your Tupperware. “You look better. Do you feel better?”

“I’m fine, James.”

“You frown so much I can’t tell.” He butts his knee against yours. “Alright, batten the hatches, I’m gonna carry you back to your desk.”

“Why?” you ask in a rush.

“Can’t fall if you don’t walk.”

“James, don’t try it. I’m serious.”

“You don’t sound serious. You sound like you want me to carry you.”

“I’ll report you to Human Resources.”

“For what? Being helpful?”

“Harassment.”

“Fine, but I’m not gonna catch you this time.”

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

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lis-likes-fics · 3 days

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Shijetra Nyke, Mandia

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader Word Count: 5.9k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, technically dubcon bc coercion, fingering, implied age gap (she's laena's little sister), multiple orgasms, p in v sex, breeding kink, sort of cheating, mentions of death and war, swearing, technically reader is black but she can be read as any race, High Valyrian, Daemon is not a good person... A/N: Hey, everyone! Was trying to hold off on this one but I decided to just post it anyway. Super excited for HOTD S2 to come out in June. I promise there are ideas for Aemond but writing sucks so much ass so it's just taking a while to get to it. Thank you so much and happy reading!

The seas are steady tonight. As the moon glints off its gentle waves, the water seems to mourn as you do. It was hard to find sleep. You came all the way out here to watch the crashing waves, in hopes of finding some solace in the sea, but even it does not seem to have the strength to roar tonight.

Your nightgown blows in the soft winds of the night as you watch the ocean.

The rustling of sand pulls a sigh from you, and you grit your teeth as you turn away from the man coming to stand next to you. You don't have to look at him to know who it is. You could tell him anywhere.

“I wish to be alone,” you whisper.

Daemon clasps his hands in front of himself as he looks out at the sea. “That is understandable, my lady.”

“And, yet, you are still here.” You look up at him, your features hard as you glare.

His voice is soft. You're not quite sure it fits him. The non-confrontation in his voice feels strange.

“I thought you might need company,” he says, examining your face as he does. For a moment, you think he can see the ghosts of the dried tears you've shed. “It has been a tiring day, after all.”

You huff, turning away again. Looking at him for too long makes your skin crawl. “I have not want of company.”

He hums. “I said ‘need’, not want.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, I have no need for your company.”

He seems unphased by your hostility. “Even so…” he looks down at you, the look in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine, “you shall have it.” You stare at him, wanting to step back but not wanting to give him that satisfaction. He turns his body to face yours, craning his head down to watch you better.

He lowers his voice to a whisper as he leans in, as if there were thousands of people here and the secret he is to bestow upon you is too dangerous to say aloud. “It is in times like these, I hear, times where we are most vulnerable, that a bit of presence does one good.”

Despite your urge to stay planted in your sandy spot, you take a small step back without breaking your feigned confidence. “Very well, then,” you say. “You may go and fetch someone else to give me presence. I do not need yours.”

He almost seems amused, though he dies it well. He leans his head back a slight. “You despise me so, yet I have done nothing.”

You let out a breathy scoff, turning away from him and toward your humorless response. “Well, that's the whole of it, isn't it?” You shake your head, your frustration piquing once more. “You've done nothing.”

He hums. “I don't think I understand.”

You look at him, and he can see the anger simmering in your gaze. “Don't you?” You step closer to him, invading his space as he does yours, daring to play his game. “Where were you when my sister left her birthing bed? Where were you when she left the walls of the castle to give herself to her dragon's breath?” Your voice broke as the pain threatened to tear apart your anger. “Where were you when she ordered Vaghar to take her life?”

He almost rolls his eyes at your accusations. “I tried to stop her.”

“But you didn't try hard enough,” you seethe. “Or she would be standing next to me.”

He steps closer, taking the control back. His voice is still quiet, though his level tone is twinged with annoyance. “Laena had her own spirit,” he insists. “She did as she liked well enough. I see not why I should have blame for her own decisions.” His near lack of regard fuels you. “And besides, she would have died anyway. The maesters told me so.”

You shove him back, and your rage is flared by the knowledge that he only moves because he allows you to move him.

“She was everything to me!” Your uneven breaths have your chest heaving as your voice echoes across the water. “Not only my sister, my blood—she was my protector.” You sigh shakily, angrily wiping away the tears welling in your eyes. Your voice softens, though not because you want it to. “Now she is gone.”

He remains silent for a moment, letting it sit until it's no longer comfortable. He tilts his head, still standing so close. “And yet, I am not to blame.”

You roll your eyes, unable to look him in the eyes anymore as you look past his head. “Do you even care?”

“Of course I care,” he insists. “She was my lady wife, after all.”

You raise a brow. “Yet you do not mourn.”

He shrugs a shoulder, entirely unconvincing. “Everyone mourns differently.”

You nod. “And you mourn by shedding no tears and strutting through the castle halls?”

Daemon hums. “You must forgive me if I have offended you, my lady.”

You stare up at him, unblinking as your rage and grief continues to give you the strength to look in his eyes and speak your truth. “You have, and I don't.”

A huge part of that strength crumbles when he steps so close to you that you're forced to step back. You falter, a momentarily fear in your eyes at the predatory gaze in his own. His eyes seem to examine you, taking in each and every little curve of your body every crease in your dress. You try not to shrink under his scrutinization.

His voice is so soft, and your flesh crawls with the sound of it. “What do you need from me?”

You have no choice but to break eye contact. It's too much, too close. You swallow thickly, your voice quieting to a low request, rather than the command you had wanted. “I need nothing from you but for you to remove yourself from my presence. Hastily.”

He stands completely still for a while, his eyes just as fixed on your face. When he moves, it almost startles you. His hand reaches up to touch your face, his fingertips brushing your cheek. You're quick to swat him away with a harsh swipe of your hand, taking a step back. “Do not touch me.”

He says nothing, and the silence is unbearable. He just…watches you. His gaze is intense, focused, terrifying. He stands there, still as a statue for the longest time, before making another attempt for your face. You're just as quick as the first, if not quicker with your flickering frustrations.

“I said don't–”

He grabs your face, not caring this time for gentleness as his dull nails dig into the flesh of your jaw and hold you, pulling you close and keeping there, no matter how much you fight him. Your heart pounds against your ribs, beating so heavily that you think it'll stop any moment now. The fear that washes over you is both a searing chill and a molten burn. “Get off of me!”

Leaning in close, he shakes his head. “Shh, “ he bids. “Hush, little river.”

You hate that. Your family calls you that on occasion because you're the youngest of the Velaryon siblings, Laena especially. It's meant to be kind, for rivers are the waters that feed the sea, but when Daemon says it, you feel so small. You feel so insignificant. He taunts you with it.

“Don't call me that,” you hiss. “Get off of me!” You try to push him away, but as you suspect, he doesn't budge. But his next words make you freeze in your spot.

“You are just as beautiful as her,” he says, tilting his head as he stares. “Your sweet sister.”

You're stunned into silence, into stillness. You stare wide-eyed at him, holding your breath as the sound of the waves slowly beginning to build and the sound of your own heart beating away in your chest fill your ears.

You blink, confusion and shock coloring your face. “What?”

He tilts his head. “I wanted you, you know,” he whispers, his words lingering in the tiny space between you. You can hardly breathe, but you can't look away with his iron grip on your face. “When I married your big sister, I wanted it to be you I would bed that night… I only settled for her.”

Your shaking breath became loud as you tried to remove his hand from you, grasping his wrist with all your strength in an effort to pull him away, to no avail. “Daemon. Don't do this–”

“Now that she has taken her leave of us, bless her…” the slightest smirk slips onto his lips, “I am free to pursue my true desires.”

You shake your head, “Daemon–”

You turn your head just in time to avoid his kiss as his lips press against your cheek. Your squirm, squeezing your eyes shut as frightened tears spring to your eyes. Daemon chuckles darkly, taking a slip of your flesh between his teeth in a nip.

You have no control when he turns your head for you. His lips press hungrily into yours, forcing his lust down your throat whether you want it or not. Your protest comes out as a whimper, and it fuels his fire as his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against his body.

You push against him, struggling to get any traction to shove him away. You reach around to grab his hand at your waist, pulling at his pinkie until you've bent it too far for him to continue holding you. He pulls away, pride shining in his face as he smirks. You push him, but this time he doesn't move.

“Get your fucking hands off me before I call for Arlaryx!” Your command is sharp, but he doesn't seem all that phased by it. You honestly hadn't expected him to be.

He inclines his head back, sneering. “And bring her against my war-grown beast?” He stalks forward, invading your space again, no matter how far you stumble back. “You know your dear thing would not stand a chance.”

The thought of your precious creature in the jaws of Daemon's monstrous demon makes your blood run cold. He's right. She would not be enough against Caraxes.

You shake your head. Your voice is weak. “Please.”

He sighs contently, his smile curling into something especially evil. “I like you begging,” he purrs. “So small and sweet you are, when you do not spit venom.”

A deep snarl just barely resounds over the waves picking up about the sea. As you look over your shoulder, you both take in the sight of Arlaryx, her scales almost as blue as sapphires, a color that blends with the deep seas.

Her towering figure stalks out onto the beach, smoke billowing from her nose as she watches the both of you. Another snarl rumbles in her chest.

The faint sound of another snarl, one much different from her own, is heard seemingly in the back of your mind. But you know you did not imagine it. By the smirk on Daemon's face, you know you have not imagined it.

He bends down, his lips by your ear as he whispers. “Do you want to do this, little river?”

You stare at her, your eyes watering at the haunting images of her torn apart on the sand. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you know she feels it because she begins to snarl again. Her claws dig into the sand, her long tail swishes the water when she takes another step forward.

You steady your breath, opening your mouth and hesitating for a moment. You clear your throat, speaking as level as you can manage.

“Dohaeris, Alarlyx,” you command, swallowing roughly. “Dohaeris. Nyke sȳz.”

The beast makes no move to leave, and you sigh heavily. Curse her and her loyalties. They will get her killed.

You steel your voice, trying to sound stronger than you feel. She will not listen to you if you sound weak. “Lyrkiri,” you insist. The smoke diminishes, becoming thinner and thinner until it has stopped. “Sōvēs, Arlaryx, sōvēs.”

She lifts a heavy claw, easing slightly like she'll actually listen.

Then Daemon wraps an arm around your midsection, pulling your body against his as he presses a kiss to your forehead. You wince, squirming in his grasp.

Arlaryx’s mind seems to be made up. She crouches again, advancing slowly once more as her snarls become louder. Smoke arises once again from her nostrils as she opens her mouth, the burning heart of her rage billowing inside of her.

You both know it's just a threat. She would not put you in such danger, but Daemon's crimes against you have officially enraged her.

But Caraxes’ distant croaks and growls fill your head, and you can't stand it. You nearly shout, sounding almost as desperate as you feel as you drop your voice and command her.

“Dohaeris, Arlaryx,” you bellow. “Dohaeris se sōvēs.”

Her warning snarls are replaced with a sort of whining sound as she takes a hesitant step back. She grunts, and you watch the smoke dissipate. Unfurling her great wings, she takes flight as she disappears into the night. Caraxes’ sounds have ceased. You sigh, almost relieved until Daemon's teeth nip at your ear. Anxiety fills you once more.

“That one is just as stubborn as you.” He kisses your cheek, his tongue darting out to taste the skin. He inhales your scent, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Shutting your eyes, you let out a shaky breath. “Just get this over with.”

Anticipation swirls in your belly, the prospect of his hands on you, his mouth, his…

But he just laughs at you, pulling away from your body and leaving you cold. You turn, surprise on your face as you try to figure out why he'd suddenly pulled away from you. Is he so fickle in his interests that he should let you go before having his way?

You have half a mind to run.

“Ȳdra daor gaomagon bona.” Don't do that. He remains close, his predatory gaze follows you. “Nyke gīmigon jaelā nyke, riña. Tepagon isse, byka qelbar.” I know you want me, girl. Give in, little river.

You clench your jaw, balling your hands into fists as you step closer. “Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon ao,” you spit. I don't want you.

He chuckles, leaning in until your faces are inches apart. “Pirtra.” Lies.

He takes a step forward, continuing this back and forth dance—you step, he steps, forward and back, left and right. Then he begins to circle you as you stand there, feeling as small as he probably views you.

“You think I don't notice when your eyes follow me down the hall?” he asks, and the question makes your blood run cold. “You think I don't see you peeking over your cup at dinner?” He stops behind you, pressing his chest to your back and whispering in your ear, his lips caressing the shell. “You crave my touch so deeply, it makes you look pathetic.”

His arms snake around your waist as he pulls you close. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his hand teasing you, reaching down, down, down.

“I hear you.” Your breath hitches. “At night when you touch yourself to my name.” The smallest breath slips from your lips when his hand cups your heat, his finger teasing your clit over your gown.

“Does it feel good?” His voice is a purr in your ear. “Imagining my fingers plunging inside of you? Wishing it was my teeth sunk into your flesh and not your own nails digging into your skin?”

Your legs tremble, his words resonating in your bones. You shake your head, taking a breath for courage as you object.

“You are not mine,” you whisper, your voice weak. You break out of his hold, turning to watch him as you try to recollect your wavering dignity. “Dead or alive, you are my sister's. I will not sully her memory this way.”

“Oh, come off it.” He comes closer. “Either way, your sister is dead. Why deny yourself pleasure for the memory of a dead sister?”

You slap him. His head whips to the side as your hand inspires a large red blush over his cheek. His fingers brush his skin, a large crooked grin taking his face as he slowly turns to look at you.

You take a small step back, anxiety creeping into you at the way he watches you, like prey being stalked by a cruel beast. He says nothing as he stands there. He begins to walk forward.

And you run.

Sand kicks into the air as you bolt away, your breath loud in your ears and your heart heavy in your chest. Tears spring to your ears as the exertion, the cold thrill of his hunt encourages your escape.

You don't get far. He's faster than you, and his strength is far superior to yours as he wraps his arms around you and lifts you from the ground. You kick your feet, trying to break free from his hold. But it's of no use. You shout over the crashing waves of the tides, waves that have picked up since Daemon arrived. Like they mourn with you, they fight for you, too.

He wrestles you to the ground, flipping you onto your back as he pins your arms down by your head. He looms over you, positioning himself between your legs and ignoring your fight like you're nothing against him. And perhaps you are.

“Go ahead,” he grins, spurred on by your struggle. “Pretend you despise me. Perhaps, now, you do.” He leans in close, whispering in your ear. “But we are all the way out here, with no one to hear your screams but the sea.”

Your fight diminishes, the reality of his words sinking in. You look at him, your eyes wide and struck with adrenaline-coated tears. His gaze is dark, his smile even darker. He shifts one of your arms to the other, grasping both your wrists in one of his big hands as the other strokes your side, dipping beneath your thin gown to touch your bare skin beneath. You shudder at the feeling, anxiety pooling in your belly at the knowledge that you can do nothing to fight him.

“Will you lose breath screaming or cumming?”

Your voice is weak and broken. It's barely a whisper when you speak. “Please.”

He shushes you, his lips so close to yours. You can almost feel it, the heat of his kiss as he would devour you.

And then he does. He presses his lips roughly against yours, his tongue slipping past them to taste you. He grips your side, his dull nail digging into your flesh. You can't help the whine you let out into his mouth, regretting the way you seek him out, especially after he pulls away. And he smiles triumphantly, knowing he has you right where he wants you.

“Don't worry, little river.” A quiet gasp erupts from your chest when his hand cups your bare cunt, his fingers rubbing against your folds before he parts them to plunge his finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open, sharp breaths teetering in and out at the way he touches you, at the way you clench around his finger like you'll die if he pulls away now.

“I'll give you what you've been craving all these years.”

He moves like fire. His hand is insistent as his finger plunges in and out of your wet heat, pulling more and more arousal from your already damp folds. You clench your jaw, stifling your moans as he forces the pleasure down your throat.

When he thrusts another finger inside of you, you moan at the stretch, your eyes rolling back at the way he curls them inside of you. You grab his arm, gripping it tight, though you're not sure if you're trying to stop him or not.

He moves quickly. You don't have time to catch up with the harsh thrusts of his fingers, so you lay back and take it as the pleasure explodes all over your body.

It feels so good. His fingers reach deeper, faster, too. The feeling of someone else's fingers inside of you instead of your own is so foreign. Your frantic breath makes you light-headed, and you can hardly keep your thoughts straight.

“I know it's exhausting,” he mumbles as his palm slaps against your clit, “fighting me.”

But you must fight. For your sister, who meant so much to you. You must fight against this man who let her die. Who would you be if you allowed yourself to succumb to your late sister's husband? She practically raised you, and this is how you repay her?

But here you are. She died hardly two days ago, and you were laying on the sand with Daemon's fingers in your cunt.

Being in this position is surreal. Because he was right, you had been craving this moment for years, wanting so deeply to feel Daemon's passion on your skin. His lips brush your cheek, and he murmurs into your ear. “You'll feel better when you let go.”

Your breath hitches. “Daemon.”

“That's it,” he smirks, feeling you leaning into him. “Close your eyes and give in to me, little river.”

Your eyes flutter shut. The pace of his hand, the feeling of his fingers thrusting so deeply, the pleasure scours your body until you feel yourself reaching your limit.

“Ȳdra daor keligon, Daemon,” you sigh, your voice high with bliss as you pull your hands away from his grasp. “Nyke jorrāelagon ziry.” Don't stop. I need it.

“Qilōni?” Who?

“Ao!” You! You moan, rolling your hips into his hand as he continues to coax your release from you. Your head is spinning, and you've long since left reason behind. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” you beg. I need you.

You turn your head to lay your eyes upon the sea, the pleasure within you swelling like the waves crashing against the shore. “Shijetra nyke, mandia.”

Forgive me, sister.

Your lips part and your back arches off the sand as you come undone. Your moans echo off the waters, becoming all the worse when Daemon's teeth nip the flesh of your neck.

It feels amazing, freeing almost. His hand continues to work out through your pleasure, even when it all fades into oversensitivity. He lets go of you, pulling away from your body and staring down at you. You watch through hooded eyes as he examines his hand, watching the way your arousal glistens off his fingers in the moonlight. He looks at you as he licks his fingers clean.

The scene is so erotic, the way he groans at the taste of you on his tongue. “Such a magnificent treat you are,” he hums. He bends down and takes your lips against his own, his tongue licking into your mouth as you taste yourself on him.

You watch as his hand reaches for his belt, and you can't help the way your legs close at the thought of him revealing himself to you. He reaches a hand out, gripping your knee and pushing your legs apart again. “Do not move.”

You do as you're told, waiting with bated breath as he unlatches his belt and sets himself free. You gasp silently at the sight of him, long and solid and flushed pink at the tip. When your eyes lock with his, he looks quite proud of himself.

Daemon turns you on your belly, positioning you as he wants you, with your face shoved into the sand and your hips in the air. His harsh hands grope your body, your ass, your waist, your thighs. You groan, your hips jerking when his thumbs spread your folds apart.

“You're fucking dripping,” he says, a dark smirk in his words as he runs a finger between them.

“Kostilus,” you whisper, taking handfuls of sand to try to control yourself. You were in too deep. Your desire for him has turned to a desperate need embedding itself in the pit of your stomach. Please.

He chuckles, “Say it again.”

You have no mind to refuse him. You've long since lost your dignity, and you've betrayed your sister like you never thought you would. It's too late for you. Why deny yourself pleasure over broken promises?

“Kostilus, Daemon,” you whine, shuddering at the way his hand strokes down your spine. “Nyke jaelagon ao.” I want you.

He puts you out of your misery with a harsh thrust into your needy cunt. You moan, your heavy breaths blowing sand into the air. “Ondoso se gods…” By the gods…

A long groan rumbles in his chest as he closes his eyes, relishing in the feel of your tight pussy. “Fuck,” he curses as he bottoms out. “You are a virgin.” He grips your hips, burying himself so deep that you feel like you can't breathe. “With all your supposed virtue, I thought you were pretending you weren't a dirty whore.”

As he grips you tight, Daemon doesn't take you, he fucks you. He holds you, digs his nails in your flesh. He thrusts his cock in and out of your tight hole, fast and rough and with the recklessness of a starving man devouring his food. The ocean rages. You're not sure if it's a reflection of your betrayal or your need. The sea is strange in that way, it's versatility.

You wish you could disappear into the dark waters, break away from this beast of a man and let the sea consume you. At least then you'd be at peace with yours, part of the waters of your bloodline.

But here are you, consumed by fire as you ignore the burn of the sand scratching your skin. It's a molten kind of pleasure, the kind that oozes out of you in lingering bliss and deep desires. You're slick with arousal, which makes it easier for him to glide in and out of you. His relentless pace smacks against you, the sound of it echoes through the air with the heavy heat of his passion.

Your position is so compromising. Anyone could happen across you. Anyone could walk the shoreline and find you being fucked into the sand by your sister's husband.

Your rationale falls short because the fear of it is nowhere near as strong as it should be. If the lords of Pentos saw you, they would surely gossip. Word would spread through the city, and that word would spread all the way across the sea. Everyone would know, your nieces, your brother, your mother and father. They would reject, disown you. They would strip you of Velaryon, you would be just another Waters bastard of Driftmark.

You could say he made you. You could tell them he threw you to the sand and took you as he pleased, ravaged you as though you were nothing but meat. But Corlys would go to war over you. To have your honor destroyed in such a way, it would be a war of sea against fire, a war full of bloodshed and hatred.

The idea has you running cold, but the chill doesn't last long with the way Daemon's hips thrust into you, full of his own fire.

“What I wouldn't give to spend every moment snug in this virgin cunt,” he grunts, reaching forward as he flattens his hand against the back of your skull. He twists your hair around his fingers and pulls, keeping you secure in his grip. You go limp at the feeling, the weakness seeping into your bones.

“Perhaps I should breed you,” he sighs with a laugh. “I'll fill you full of my seed, maybe even keep you as my broodmare. I'll keep you round with my children, always ready for me to fuck as I please. Is that what you want, little river?”

So truly blinded by your pleasure, you have no choice but to agree. You lean into the way he makes you feel, letting your troubles melt away, your concerns and your hesitations a thing of the past. They will do you no good now.

“Yes,” you gasp, allowing yourself to be ravaged. “Yes, Daemon, I want that.”

The triumphant look in his eyes shines at the way you give in so completely. Empowered by your submission, his thrusts become more merciless. He grunts and groans behind you, tugging on your hair and holding you still as you return the passion.

All of the sudden, he pulls out of you, leaving you cold and shaking. A stray whine seeps off your tongue, but you have no time to let it linger before he’s flipping you onto your back. He throws your legs onto his shoulder and shoves himself back inside of you in just a couple fluid motions. His ruthless thrusts have you nearly crying for him. The blunt head of his cock reaches so deeply like this, punching against that spongy part inside of you as stars swirl in your vision.

“It feels so good,” you moan, though you’re sure your words are nearly incoherent. It feeds Daemon’s ego either way, encouraging a rougher fuck as he gives you what you want, gives himself what he’s been craving all along. He was right. You do feel as good as he thought, better even. You’re so tight, so inexperienced and untouched that all of his cruel pleasure wrecks your body in your sensitivity.

“You can get louder, can’t you?” he asks, bending down to fold you in half for a different angle.

Your head falls back against the sand. You must look a mess, covered in tiny grainy crystals, hair all over the place. But it doesn’t matter. That’s probably what he wants. Your hands reach up to touch his face, pulling him close as he continues to fuck into you. His thrusts are shorter, harder now. You’re running out of breath quickly, struggling to keep up.

“Fuck, don’t stop!” The breathy wail feels almost like it was forced from your lungs. As he reaches his hand down to touch your clit, you’re done for and you know it. “Oh, Daemon, please.”

He’s intent on making you cum, and with the skill he’s acquired throughout his years, you know he’ll be successful. He’s already got you crying his name.

“Are you going to cum on my cock, girl?” he questions, his breath heavy and his hair messy upon his head. “I know you want to, you’re squeezing me so tight.” You cant your hips up into his own, seeking out your sweet release as he hangs it over your head. “Tell me who you want.”

Your eyes, blurry with tears, watch him hazily. “You.”

He tuts. “You can do better than that. If you want to cum, you will tell me who you want to breed this tight little hole of yours.”

You have no mind to refuse him—you have no mind to do anything but follow where the pleasure takes you. With shallow breaths, you blink pleasure tears from your eyes. “I want you, Daemon. Please, I want you to cum in me and make me your whore.”

He doesn’t know if you could have said it any better. Making harsh circles over your clit, he fucks you with all the strength he’s got. You feel like he’ll bruise you with how brutal he’s being. You feel a tightening coil in your belly, one that just clenches and clenches and clenches with every circle on the sensitive pearl he attacks.

“Cum for me, little river,” he commands, leaving you and your body no room to refuse him as he pulls it out of you. “Cum all over my cock and scream my name like the perfect whore that you are.”

And you obey. It’s like a lever being pulled. One moment you’re teetering on the edge, the next you're arching your back and feeling pleasure consuming your body in a fire that makes you shiver. He doesn’t stop fucking you. If anything, the way you tighten around him only makes his thrusts shorter and his grinding rougher. You’re dizzy and your moans are high and pathetic.

He doesn’t stop attacking your clit. You’re so sensitive, once the pleasure wanes and the movements sting, you squirm away from him, but he doesn’t care. He holds you in place and commands you as though you were one of the dragon beasts he meant to train. He wraps his free hand around your throat, leaning down to bite and suck at your neck. “Dohaeris,” he hisses, his tone sharp and quiet but full of so much of a threat that you bear through the discomfort until it twists in your gut into the dizzying sensation of overstimulated pleasure again.

His name falls from your lips like a chant. The sound of it continues to spur him on, his thumb becoming faster as he searches for that same release for himself. “Please, Daemon,” you whimper, “please cum inside of me. I need you to cum inside of me, please.”

You tip him over the edge. With a growl, he shoves his cock as far as he can go, far enough that it hurts when he buries himself so deep. Grinding into you, his hot release fills you to the brim. Encouraged by the adrenaline, his ruthless thumb carries on until you’re cumming with him.

Your sounds mix in the air, his grunts, your moans, the squelching sound of his cock thrusting into your clenching cunt. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he praises, his voice rough with the effects of his release.

With two more thrusts, as rough as he can make them—just for the fun of it—he pulls out of you. You whine, laying limply on the sand. He watches you, smiling at the way you seem to struggle to stay conscious.

He considers just leaving you there to recuperate on your own.

Daemon adjusts himself, stuffing his cock back into his trousers and fixing his belt. He stares at your cunt all the while, using his fingers to shove his cum back inside of you every time it begins to leak out.

He sits you up, fixing your gown and pulling your face to sit inches from his own. “Iksā ñuhon,” he mutters into your ear, his words clear. “Daorys kostagon renigon ao sir.” You shudder at his claim, your eyes fluttering shut as he whispers to you. You are mine. No one can touch you now.

”Do you understand me?” he asks, and you know you cannot refuse.

Not that you ever want to.

You nod slowly, looking up at him as you accept your fate. “Kessa, Daemon.”

He hums. “Good.” Staring at your lips, he leans in and kisses you. He kisses you with force and power, using a kind of domination that was quite unnecessary—given the fact that he’d already taken your virginity and, quite possibly, bred you with his children. There’s a hint of something in the background, however, a hunger, a desperation that seeps into your skin and makes you feel warm.

Under the cruelty is a gentleness that is entirely foreign to you. You chalk it up to imagination as he pulls away, pinching your cheek. “Come with me,” he orders. “I am not done with you yet, my little river.”

Shijetra nyke, mandia.

Ice and Fire taglist: @divinearchangel @alexxavicry @katsukis1wife @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lover-of-books-and-tea @avalyaaa Tag yourself here...

#daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #fanfic #fanfiction #female reader #reader insert

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neptunescore · 21 hours

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Most of the drivers are more concerned about padding their own pockets. Lando is probably the worst on the grid though. He has a lot of influence and acts like he keeps it real and doesn’t care bc he tells it like it is and isn’t afraid. He’s a total faker. He never speaks up and only repeats what his PR team tell him to say. Nothing seems genuine or real about him. Not only that but Lando travels the world and has fans from all over and doesn’t even care to look at a map and be made aware of what part of the world he’s in. He charges obscene amounts for his shitty merchandise when he knows his fans aren’t making that kind of money. He also accepts money when he does stream on twitch. He has no shame. At the Miami GP he goes and says people should respect a guy who has a known reputation for being an incredibly racist and misogynistic. His fan girls don’t care though bc they all think they have a shot with him and think he’s cute.

Lando no backbone Norris, yeah put that on a shirt.

I used to be a fan of his but over the years I’ve been finding him more and more annoying.

Anon, in the most gentle way, while I do agree with some things here, I feel like there are so many other things ur getting angry at him for, for no reason.

Like yes, I am INCREDIBLEY angry/ irritated abt the stuff he said abt trump, and his unawareness/ ignorance of the boycott, as well as (and this for all the drivers, EXCEPT LEWIS HAMILTON THE GOAT), his inability to post/ talk abt the genocide happening in Palestine.

However, U saying there's nothing 'genuine' abt him, and talking abt how he doesn't know 'which part of the world he's in', is just way too much. Like we've never met him, we dont know him personally, so we can't really say anything when it comes to him being 'genuine' or not. Also, come one getting mad at him for not knowing where countries are is a bit to much, like ofc everyone is free to dislike a driver just bc, but don't hate on him for smthng so lame😭.

U also talk abt how 'he made his merch too expensive for fans', anon, merch - in general - has ALWAYS been expensive, like go look at the rbr, mercedes, ferrari, ANY OF THE TEAMS' merch. Go look at TAYLOR SWIFTS merch, at OSCAR'S merch, at DANIEL'S Enchante stuff. Obv, we'd all like if the stuff was less pricey, but u can't just get mad at one person and not get mad at the others for the same thing.

'He accepts money when he streams on twitch,' I feel like u don't get how his fans VOLUNTARILY give that money, like no lando does not demand them for it, or tell them he'll hate them if they don't give him anything, he's NEVER said he wants them to donate😭. And me personally, if someone was giving me money willingly and happily, I wouldn't refuse it ( its hard out here😔✋🏽) no matter if I was rich or not.

Anyway to end this, I just wanna say that I don't like lando either😭, it's not that he sucks, or that I think he's 'overrrated' I just don't personally vibe with him. (He gives me like 17 yr old f boy energy vibes). But that doesn't mean I'll create reasons to hate him, or like be one of those weirdos who go and talk shit in his comments. I just don't follow him, and when he DOES do smthng wrong, I call him out for it, like I would do for every other driver.

And whoever likes him, can like him. Its their choice, as long as they can admit when he does smthn wrong.

(THIS IS ALL ABT OFF-TRACK, on-track I say you must bcm the biggest haters against drivers u dont like bc if not then WHERES THE PASSIONN😤😤. stop the hate as soon as the race ends tho😭🙏🏽)

#lando norris #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #nep's inbox🪐

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bluemoonbabes · 2 years

Text

Beauty

A Debris AU fic. Charlie’s Angels & James Bond fusion. Content warning for violence (not graphic).

It was a beautiful day to commit a crime, Bryan decided to himself, as he loaded his gun with a full magazine. The early spring sun was soon to dip beneath the horizon, casting a golden glow upon the streets of London, shadows filling what spaces it left empty to carve the city into twilight. Usually, Bryan preferred the dry heat of his Texas home, the dreary English weather too wet for his liking, however, he could admit that a metropolis at sunset was breathtakingly beautiful. How unfortunate he'd spend it inside rather than sitting atop some hill, basking in the luxury of romanticism.

"Hey!" Anson called to him, snapping Bryan from his reverie. "You ready?"

Bryan gave a simple nod, remaining dutifully silent. No voice meant one less way to identify him, one more safety measure to protect anything left from his time as a civilian.

“Move it, then," Anson commanded.

Bryan didn't quite like Anson Ash. He was too cocky for his own good yet, at the same time, he was unnervingly patient. It was a risky kind of personality that left Anson to either underestimate his opponents or to watch them like a hawk, Bryan unable to tell which and when. However, Influx paid him very well so Bryan wasn't about to seek out a complaint form.

Instead, he just followed behind the man as they crept out of the tenebrous, worn brick alleyways and out into the open, trailing along a desolate street to a building several dozen floors tall. Few windows remained lit, most of its staff having resigned for the night, leaving them with less to worry about. They entered through the back doors, the two witless guards disarmed with a simple choke-out, soon unconscious on the floor.

They split into two teams then, one headed to the power generator in the lower level while the other stood, waiting in the staff room near the security guard station. Next to him, Anson leaned in, tilting the screen of his phone in Bryan’s direction to reveal a little red dot on a digital map of the building complex.

”Looks like he marked it,” Anson said, “It’s on level twelve, in laboratory on the south side. They’re about to start testing so we need to hurry.”

Just as Anson went quiet, the lights above their head flickered off, casting them into darkness even as the emergency lighting kicked in. A grin curled onto Anson’s face, a look that turned unnervingly theatrical in the harsh, scattered red luminescence of the alarm lights.

”Move out,” He commanded.

Trailed by operatives veiled in black tactical gear, Bryan and Anson proceeded down the hallways of the facility side-by-side, guns braced in front of them. What personnel they came across ended up either disarmed or dead, the scientists of the facility soon learning to stay back. The security guards, however, weren’t as sharp as they tried to block their path, leaving Bryan and his team no other choice but to remove them from the situation.

The twelfth floor of the facility was quiet as they came to it, the hairs on the back of Bryan’s neck rising by instinct, a prod to remain vigilant. His eyes swept across the halls, zeroing in on a small laboratory just up ahead to their right, one dim light running off of emergency power the only key to activity. Silhouettes dipped in and out of its glow, draped by the shadow of lab coats as they moved about with a sense of franticness.

Anson was the first through the laboratory’s doors, forcefully kicking them open, panache toying with his tenor. His gun was aimed at the first body he came across, shouting above the click of shoes and machinery as Bryan and the rest of their team followed behind.

”Everybody to the floor! Hands above your heads! Get down now!”

The three scientists in the room startled, panic flashing across their faces. A man in the front was the first to comply, just about a head shorter than Bryan, his graying beard cut short and kept neat. His hands flew above his head as he followed the gun pointing him down, kneeling near the side of the room as the other two scientists were soon coerced into joining him. Bryan glanced at the first man’s name tag. George Jones.

”Where is it?” Anson demanded, the barrel of his gun pointed towards a woman with black hair partially pulled back. Bryan glanced at her name tag. April Han.

Even with a gun in her face, April’s expression remained steady, eyes carefully watching the man in front of her as her chin tilted upward in quiet defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was a moment where Anson paused, seemingly determining his reaction, until the moment diffused as he chuckled softly.

”Mr. Hodak,” Anson said, “If you will.”

At the use of his alias, Bryan stepped in and dug his fingers behind April’s hair clip at the back of her head. He tugged it backward, her head careening with it, pain flickering across her face as the corners of her mouth twitched. Anson leaned in close, his breath fluttering against her fawn colored cheeks, the tip of his gun kissing her neck.

”Do you know now?” Anson whispered.

April murmured something, her words breathy and whispered, drawing Anson closer.

”Come again?” He promoted.

”Go fuck yourself,” April hissed.

She spat in his face, Anson flinching backward as his face scrunched with irritation and disgust, wiping the spit from his cheek with a flick. Then his hand reeled back swiftly, swiping forward to strike her across the face, a small whimper falling from April’s mouth as the slap rang in the empty laboratory. Still, she was quick to recover, glowering back at Anson.

”Finola Jones took it. She’s headed toward the north stairwell.”

The sudden words of George Jones, cascading past his lips before Anson could strike again, drew their gazes towards him. April, however, turned to him in horror.

”George, what are you doing?” She asked, voice wavering.

”Saving our lives,” George countered assuredly.

Bryan could only tilt his head in curiosity, intrigued by the shared surnames of George and Finola. He doubted it was coincidence, though if they really were related, then this occurrence certainly didn’t bode well for the good fortune of their relationship. Bryan couldn’t imagine himself comfortable with holding someone close that would only give up his safety so easily.

”Mr. Hodak,” Anson called.

He didn’t need to say anymore, Bryan already moving before he could finish his words. He released April from his hold, straightening the lapels of his mahogany suit as he proceeded out of the laboratories.

The halls were dark, the last light of the sun nowhere near enough to provide any kind of sight, only the vivid red gleam of emergency alarms providing weak visibility. Bryan moved quickly, eyes steadily sweeping across his surroundings to catch any glimpses of a form, yet his footsteps were mindfully quiet, nothing but the mind-numbing blare of alarms echoing throughout the halls.

He rounded the corner to find the door to the north stairwell, an ‘EXIT’ sign glimmering above it, but had yet to find the escaped scientist. Determining her to be in the stairwell, Bryan pushed open the door and peered downward. However, he saw no movement below nor above him, heard not even the thumping of frantic steps. She couldn’t have made it out of the building yet, the timing didn’t -

Bryan cried out as glass shattered across his head, splintering into a thousand different pieces. Hands yanked at his jacket, twirling him around out of the stairwell as a fierce kick to his gut forced him to stumble backward. He fiddled for his gun, pulling it from his belt only for his attacker’s grip to meet him, wrestling it downward as they fought for control. He tried to hook his leg around hers, but she was swifter than him, kneeing Bryan hard in the crotch and using his moment of recoil to remove the magazine from his gun.

She was sprinting through the stairwell door the moment after, a dark protective case in one hand and the magazine to his gun in the other. Bryan chased after her, catching her by the wrist just before she could make it down the stairs, prompting her to drop the case in that hand. She kicked it away before he could snatch it, using the magazine to prod him beneath the ribs just a heartbeat later. He grabbed that wrist too, kneeing her in the stomach and moving with the momentum of her wince, hands grabbing her biceps as he pinned her against the wall.

The Debris case lay at her feet, within less an arms length of himself, and yet, as Bryan’s eyes met hers, he froze. Graced with a soft bronze blush, freckles dusted across high cheek bones and a round nose like a splattering stars, she was beautiful, black curls pulled loosely behind her head. Her eyes, however, were what had him enraptured, caught by their blazing brown, a fire of defiance and passion and bravery sparkling in their depths.

His breath caught in his throat.

Finola Jones, however, only lifted her chin, determination written across her face. “Influx will never get the Debris.”

With a fierce kick, Finola sent the Debris case over the edge of the landing they stood on, clanking as it toppled down several flights below them.

Shit. Why did he let his guard down?

Bryan released her as he watched it fall, sprinting down the stairs to nab it first. However, just as he got to the second landing between the two flights, Finola jumped him from behind, an arm curling around his neck. He yelped by instinct, grabbing her arm and spinning around to slam her against the wall. Her grip fell away, allowing him to leap towards the second flight of stairs, but something sharp caught him at the thigh and he stumbled.

Finola twirled him around to face her, pushing him back against the wall with his wrist pinned behind him, a pocket knife to his throat. But then, even with the advantage in her hand, Finola hesitated.

”I don’t want to hurt you,” She said, fighting to catch her breath, “But Influx cannot have this Debris. Not in any iteration.”

There was sincerity in her voice, honesty in her words as she tried to almost plea with him. She really didn’t want to hurt him, something that pulled at Bryan’s heart. Even though he fought against her, aiming to steal something in her possession, she didn’t want to have to hurt him. Why? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he was loosing his will to fight too.

With her grip on his arm loosened, Bryan gently twisted out of her hands. He lowered the knife aimed at his throat, Finola willingly following his movements as he stepped forward, pinning her against the stairwell railings with a hand at either side of her body. She slipped the knife back into her pocket, her own hands finding his biceps as their eyes locked.

Bryan should ask which Debris they’re fighting over, ask what it does and why she’s so determined to keep it specifically out of Influx’s hold, the organization having told him nothing. However, he found himself quelled into silence by Finola’s shimmering, wide-eyed gaze watching him with intrigued curiosity rather than any kind of fear. No one ever looked at him like that - like he was a human being, a life worth inquisitiveness.

Finola’s voice was a whisper when she spoke. “What do you see?”

In any other situation, Bryan would’ve stayed quiet, dutifully protecting his identity. However, in this moment, enraptured by the woman in his arms, he was completely defenseless.

”Beauty.”

Gunshots ricocheted around them, clanking against the metal railing as Bryan moved by instinct to cover Finola. He pushed her aside, prompting her into a sprint down the stairs as the infuriated voice of Anson Ash echoed through the stairwell.

”Stop her!”

At the rage in his voice, Bryan shot after Finola. He needed that Debris if he wanted to get paid, but above that, he needed to get to Finola first if he wanted her to live. Bryan might have to hurt her if she fights, but Anson would certainly kill her without a thought to it.

“Team A,” Anson called over their earpieces, “POI coming down north stairwell. Catch her at the bottom!”

Bryan’s heart skipped a beat with that order, prompting him faster down the stairs, closing in on Finola. However, as he tried to grab for her, she twisted out of the way of his grasp, swinging herself over the railing and onto the stairs below. She leapt down that last flight, breaking out into the hallway as a cry of pain soon followed.

Bryan sprinted through the door to see Finola caught by three of his team, stuck in the hallway as one held a gun to her head and another had her arms pinned behind her back. Fury flamed in his gut at the sight of Finola forcibly brought to her knees, face twisted in discomfort. Bryan stormed forward, knocking the gun away as if he was scolding a child, and prying her from the other’s grip. He handled her gently, touch soft as he brought her to his feet, grip weak as he clasped a hand around her arm.

She watched him inquisitively, the fear and fury in her eyes pacified as he took hold of her. She was trying to figure out why he was protecting her, and truthfully, so was Bryan. All he knew was that there was kindness in her eyes, more compassionate in her heart than all of his colleagues combined, and he couldn’t let that die. People were like her were the whole reason he learned how to fight - how to protect people.

”We’ve got the Debris,” Anson said, his voice bellowing in Bryan’s hears as it snapped from his daze, “Let’s go! Move it!”

As their teams rejoined and filed towards the exit, Bryan glanced back at Finola. There was a glisten in her eyes, dread and dismay at Influx taking the Debris, something that had him uneasy. There was an urge beneath it all to soothe her distress, but his team was almost out the door, the wail of police sirens closing in.

His grip fell from Finola’s arm only for her to catch his hand, squeezing it gently as his eyes found hers by instinct.

”Please,” She begged, her voice so soft and desperate, “You have to get that Debris back. They’re just going to hurt people with it.”

In that moment, Bryan quite nearly agreed, enthralled by her glistening eyes. However, he caught himself, and instead pried his hand out of hers. Her gaze dimmed under the weight of despair, a look that had his heart clenching, his hand brushing gently against her cheek. She leaned into his touch, the softest he had ever been in a long time.

And then he left, leaving Finola in the darkness even as his instinct begged him to stay.

#rest will be on ao3 for those interested #just wanted to post this here bc its been a bit #tempted to art again but i always end up disappointed so idk #yes this is a multi-chapter work #this is just the first chapter #inspired after binge watching James Bond and Charlie’s Angels #debris nbc #finola jones #bryan beneventi #anson ash #brinola #blue’s smexy writing #fanfiction #full work name is dangers of ideation btw

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