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hela-avenger · 1 year

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p&w: you, me and the avengers make three

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1824

Summary: pranks are all fun and games until someone gets hurt... and your hit list has quite a few names to cross.

(alternative title: all is fair in love and war)

A/N: I've finally got to it! Hope to write a few more short extras before finally commencing the sequel of poison & wine.

poison & wine masterlist

You didn’t put two and two together until it became blatantly obvious that your friends had initiated a prank war that revolved around you.

It started slowly and so casually that you chalked it off as your friends just really missing you. The first few days back to the compound, specifically the mornings, were taken up by Nat and Wanda who insisted on daily brunches or long coffee runs to catch up on all the gossip surrounding your trip to Asgard and your sudden relationship with Loki.

The remainder of the day was for the boys as Steve and Bucky took up a lot of your time reminiscing on the old days and hoping to outdrink you when they noticed you could keep up with them.

With this schedule thrust upon you, your nights were the only moments you had to spend with Loki and even then you both were quick to fall asleep, missing a chance to actually spend time together.

It wasn’t until you slept in one day enjoying Loki’s company for once that the pieces finally came together.

Nat and Wanda were quick to ambush you into going out for lunch and when you explained that you would like to spend a day with your boyfriend did they double down. If that wasn’t hint enough, you were quickly surrounded by Steve and Bucky who insisted on taking you out on a trip to DC to visit the local museums.

“What is going on?” you questioned them but the moment those words came out of your mouth did they quickly make themselves scarce.

The final nail on the coffin was when you returned to Loki only to find him fending off his own brother.

“No, Thor,” he exclaimed. “I do not want to spar with you nor do I wish to venture out on the filthy streets of New York to visit Central Park. There is no amount of groveling that will convince me. I’m quite tired of these adventures you keep trying to convince me of so make haste and leave my sight before you find a dagger pierced to your side.”

Thor throws his hands in surrender as he backs out of Loki’s room. You’re quick to stop his exit though much to Loki’s discontent.

“Actually Thor, stay,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes at the god. “I have some questions that are in need of answers.”

You watch Thor visibly swallow as you direct him to the couch.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Thor answers too quickly. “I just wish to spend time with my brother, that’s all.”

“Right,” you whisper. You take a moment to gather your thoughts and let the silence in the room grow. Thor glances at the door and Loki starts to catch on.

“Darling, what is this about?”

“Nothing,” you wave him off as you settle on a course of action. “Old age must be getting to me because I just had some silly thoughts, that’s all.”

You turn to Thor and smile.

“You’re free to leave, Thor. Sorry to keep you.”

Thor’s relief is instant as he jumps up from the couch and heads for the doors. The moment his hand reaches for the handle is when you decide to strike.

“Oh and Thor?” you call out. “Tell Nat and the rest of them better luck next time because revenge is coming and it’s coming for each and every one of you.”

Thor is quick to retract his hand and turns back to face you with complete and utter fear. Loki is amused at the sight but surprised to see you rendering his brother in such a state.

“My love, an explanation please?” Loki speaks as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“It seems like my friends and your brother have been scheming behind our backs,” you explain. “But I might be inclined to offer mercy if an apology is made.”

“Apologies, my lady,” Thor quickly exhales, dropping down to one knee and crossing his arm across his chest. “My deepest and most sincere apologies.”

“Apology accepted, Thor,” you laugh out. “You may rise.”

“As much as I enjoy your groveling, brother,” Loki states with a grin. “What scares you so much about my darling little pet? I’ve never seen you so regretful after pulling pranks on me.”

“Well, I know what to expect of you, Loki,” Thor answers. “Daggers and magic and humiliation in front of many, many people but as for your better half…”

Thor trails off unsure of how to explain it.

“He simply doesn’t know what to expect,” you answer. “Perhaps I’ll leave all of you on edge never knowing when I’ll enact my revenge and when enough time has passed and all has been forgotten, in a moment of pure peace and serenity, I’ll strike everyone with the things they fear the most and likely cause such life-altering trauma that they potentially never heal from.”

Thor looks at you in pure horror.

“Or maybe I’ll place laxatives in your food,” you add with a wave of your hand. “It’s really hard to decide which one to do.”

Thor can’t help the shiver of fear that runs down his body.

“I spoke too soon. You might be the better half in this scenario, brother,” Thor whispers. “You two are really made for each other.”

Loki can’t help but laugh at his brother’s expense as he presses a kiss on the curve of your neck before letting go of your waist.

“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” Loki comments. “It’s nice not to be on the receiving end of your wrath, darling.”

You plop down on your couch as you try to plan every detail of your upcoming vengeance. The growing silence is evident and Loki takes notice of the glint of fire in your eyes.

“What exactly are you planning?”

“It’s war, Loki,” you answer. “All is fair in love and war.”

The cork flies perfectly across the kitchen and you are quick to carry the overflowing champagne bottle to the sink. Nat and Wanda can’t help but laugh as you scramble for the pitcher of orange juice and top it off.

“We really are sorry,” Wanda apologizes. “It really was a harmless prank.”

“I’m not really sorry,” Nat remarks. “You come back from this mysterious trip in Asgard, disappear, and when you do eventually make your way back to us, you come back with a boyfriend and it’s Loki of all people.”

“Careful Nat,” you smirk as you fill their champagne flutes. “You sound bitter.”

She rolls her eyes, “I enjoy my independence thank you very much.”

“I know I’ve kept certain things a mystery and that will remain that way for some time, but I am sorry for most things that you said Natasha, but not all.”

“Apology accepted,” Wanda answers.

“Close enough,” Nat shrugs. “Apology accepted.”

“Good, now please eat up,” you tell them as you motion to the plates in front of them. “I went through the greatest trouble of making breakfast.”

You hide your smirk as you drink your mimosa watching as they both take bites from their breakfast burrito. There’s a distinct crunch which captures them by surprise. They chew through it and eventually swallow.

“This is really good,” Wanda answers with a tight smile noticing now the smirk on your face. “What-uh-exactly is in it?”

“Egg, chorizo, avocado, some cheese...”

“But there’s a crunch,” Wanda states. “What’s the crunch?”

“Oh, that might be something I thought we should try out,” you explain as you turn towards one of the pan on the stove. “I had it when I was traveling in Thailand and it is so environmentally friendly.”

“You didn’t,” Natasha exclaims, spitting out the second bite she just took.

“See for yourself,” you say as you lift the lid revealing the crispy scorpions and spiders.

Wanda is quick to scream and gag while Natasha’s face goes stone cold. They’re quick to abandon their plates as they run towards the nearest bathroom.

You refill your glass of mimosa as Loki comes strolling into the kitchen.

“Well everything seems to have gone as planned.”

“Oh yes,” you answer as you pick up one of the discarded breakfast burritos and take a bite of your own. “If only they knew, I filled these with tortilla chips and not insects.”

Loki laughs and presses a kiss on your temple.

“So devious, darling,” he whispers. “So very devious.”

After your successful prank to Nat and Wanda, an obstacle arose in trying to catch the super boys off guard. They knew they were next and their paranoia knew no bounds. Part of you was tempted to leave them in suspense for an immeasurable amount of time but you had a plan and you weren’t going to let it go to waste.

So if Steve and Bucky weren’t going to come to you, then the solution would be to take the war to them. It was convenient in the end as the training room was just the place you wanted them to be in.

You watched as they spared against each other. With Bucky’s metal arm, Steve had no other choice but to have his shield to even the odds. They were so focused with one another that you slipped into the room with Tony’s control pad.

“Hi boys,” you greet them as you cut the music. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Steve and Bucky look at you warily.

“Come on, don’t look at me like that!”

“We’ve apologized,” Steve states as he tucks his shield onto his back. “Whatever you’re planning, knock it off.”

“I never accepted your apology,” you point out to him. “So no I will not.”

“Doll, we really meant no harm,” Bucky insisted.

“Well, maybe I do.”

You’re quick to send a command on the control pad and watch as Bucky and Steve fly towards the wall. They groan as they make contact before you press the release causing them to slump to the ground.

“What in the hell was that?” Bucky mutters as he rolls his metal arm.

“Magnetic field,” you answer simply. “A very strong one to handle the both of you.”

“How did you even get that programmed?”

“Oh, I outsourced this part of my plan,” you explain. “Tony hated his honeymoon being disrupted but was very game into fucking with both of you.”

“Ok, ok, we get it now,” Steve surrenders. “You are not to be messed with.”

“I’m glad you learned your lesson,” you acknowledge. “But just to make sure…”

You press another command and send it through watching as Steve and Bucky are sent flying to the ceiling before you turn it off. They don’t get a chance to get up as your second command has them stuck on the floor. Bucky tries to wretch his arm off while Steve tries to wiggle his shield off his back.

You watch for a few seconds more before you turn off the command for good.

“Apology accepted boys.”

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#loki x reader #loki x ofc #loki x oc #loki x original female character #avengers au #poison & wine extra #p&w #loki fanfiction #loki fic #loki #prince loki #loki of asgard #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson #poison & wine

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florelia12 · 2 years

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Updated Untamable!

#i had to rewrite this chapter because i didn’t like how it wasn’t as creepy as I wanted it to be #its frustrating when evil people don’t look so evil once you write them #i can’t wait for the chapter after the next one tho #because im finally getting what ive wanted ever since i saw dark bloom #also if anyone is even reading this far into my tags #ive started outlining a bridgerton AU for florelia #and wrote the first two chapters #anddd #started rewriting poison and wine with a few tweaks #so many fanfics going on at the same time and its because i finally have an ipad #my laptop broke like a year ago so ive been using my brother’s #but i have my own finally!!#so i hope to have more chapters out soon i rly do #also i got covid last week and it helped that i was doing absolutely nth at home #covid sucks btw #anyways #enjoy haha

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kneelingshadowsalome · 7 months

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

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qpidkitea · 4 months

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TRANQUILITY

FARLEIGH START X FEM! READER

PRÉCIS: AU where Oliver is caught before he fully takes over Saltburn, Felix is still dead, and obviously Farleigh is completely torn and in need of comfort at the loss of his best friend and cousin, takes place after the curtain scene

WARNING: Angsty, cursing, mentions of death, cheek kisses, descriptions of a dead body, so much crying, comfort.

Nothing could've prepared you for today. Nothing could've prepared you for the horrified scream of Elspeth that's still ringing in your ears after the finding of Felix's dead body. His face was blue and swollen, a white, foamy, dried substance cascading down his cheek. His wings from his costume were bent and dirtied as he lay face down on the floor. The police discovered Oliver and his schemes almost immediately. They found the discarded powdered poison laying just a few yards away from the crime scene in the maze. His fingerprints were all over it.

Lunch was unbearable. After watching Oliver being pulled away from the mansion in handcuffs, everyone, especially Farleigh, was excused, his previous claims of drug use dismissed. Silent tears streamed down almost everyone's faces. Venetia almost looked dead. She was surely high on some type of pills, her mascara horribly smudged on her pale face. You wanted to help her, but you feared that if you touched her, she would crumble under your touch completely. Farleigh was shaking horribly, trembling with the effort of trying to keep his breakdown at bay, but tears still found their way down his face.

You sat silently beside Farleigh, holding and squeezing his hand underneath the table, staring down at the soon-to-be cold Shepards Pie on the table in front of you. Elspeth clears her throat, and you look up. She smiles at you, lifting her wineglass and taking an almost dangerous gulp of wine. She sets down the glass, the sound of it being painfully loud because of the quietness of the entire place, the only other sounds being small sniffles, and the sound of Jame's fork and knife cutting into his meal.

"Y/N darling?" Elspeth's voice startles you, sucking you out of the silence of your own head.

"Yes?" You didn't know what she could've possibly asked you at the moment. Your thoughts bounced off the walls of your head, wondering if she would ask you anything about Oliver. Maybe a question about if you noticed any of this behavior at school, or while he lived here..

"Did you enjoy the party?" Farleigh chuckles slightly, squeezing your hand impossibly tight. He shook his head in utter disbelief at her question.

Before you could answer, Duncan enters the room quietly, leaning down next to Sir James, who looks completely unfazed but yet mortified. Duncan then whispers in James' ear, something about closing the curtains in case the coroner passes the window of the room that you all sat in.

"Yes. Thank you. Close them."

Duncan closes the curtains smoothly, the room becoming an almost evil looking red as they close. There was one area left of the room that still shun with the beautiful light of the morning, and you can't help but think how the day would be perfect for laying in the tall grass fields underneath the warm sun, ignoring the cold breeze that would pass you. Duncan takes a few steps to close the last curtain, only to struggle horribly. Something must've been caught. His efforts became more aggressive, especially after noticing the coroner walking closer to the window. Sir James became more aggravated at each tug of the curtain.

"Duncan, just get them closed, for Christ's sake!" Sir James yells and angrily lets his fists slam against the table, and it makes everyone in the room jump.

"Yes, I am trying, sir. I can’t-" Duncan gives the curtain a final yank, and the room is plunged into the same red darkness. As if on cue, the sound of the gurney that held Felix's body rolled on the gravel, complete with the ambulance doors shutting harshly. That seemed to be Farleigh's final straw. He stands up abruptly, still holding your hand, which yanks your arm, forcing you to stand up with him. As Farleigh walks away, you walk with him quietly, ignoring the protested yells of Sir James. He walks quickly, still shaking, with tears flowing down his face.

Even though Farleigh was walking incredibly fast, it seems the walk was longer than usual, his long legs working overtime as he walks the enormous expanse of the mansion.

"Farleigh... slow down please'm gonna fall-" You were tripping on your own two feet, whisking down hallways and turning the curves of the wall way too fast to even register you were turning them.

"Shut up"

You weren't trying to submit to him, nor show your weakness, but you knew he was frustrated, so you shut your mouth. Farleigh loved the feeling of control, especially after feeling like he had none recently. As you reach Farleigh's room, you immediately noticed the white powder spread across in a thin line across the brown wooden desk in his room. You take your hand away from his, pushing the door closed gently. As the door closes behind you, Farleigh breaks down, not even making it to his bed before his knees give out. Sobbing quietly with his back turned and his arm and head resting on the edge of the messy, unmade bed, his body jumping with every try to catch his breath.

You walk quickly to him, crouching down next to him, not worried about your skirt riding up, not around him. Rubbing your hand up and down his back, you gave him a minute to let it all out, to let all the tears out that couldn't be let out in the somewhat hostile situation of lunch.

"Farleigh..." Before you knew it, five minutes passed, and it seemed as if Farleigh's cries weren't faltering, still crying and sniffing at the intensity that he was when he started.

"Farleigh, darling please, breathe for me." He breathe's in wildly, his breath was so shaky, you thought that if he tried to breathe in properly, his lungs would explode. He finally lifts his head up, his face extremely red from crying and the lack of a proper breath. You cup his wet face in your hands, rubbing your thumbs across his cheeks, drying them as you do.

Instead of words, you do. You breathe in deeply, and Farleigh mocks you shakily, but he still does. You hold your breath for a minute before exhaling. With each inhale you take, he mirrors your breath again, and again, and again, until he returns to normal breathing.

You pull the wreck of a boy into a tight hug. He doesn't hug you back, but you don't mind. Pulling back, you kiss his cheeks and then his forehead, which seems to calm him down all together. A hiccup is heard coming from him and you can't help but giggle. The poor boy cried too hard to the point of hiccups.

"Thank you" Farleigh looks into your eyes as he says this, words sounding strange from the swelling of his sinuses and vocal cords. He looks down at his lap, sighing harshly before leaning his head against his bed, feeling his neck dampen from his own tears that stained the sheets.

"Here, let me get you a cold cloth." You stand up, traveling down the hall to the cold bathroom. It was a chilly day at Saltburn. You open the small closet next to the door, opening it to reveal a stack of purple, white, and beige washcloths. You grab a purple one and walk to the sink. As you turn on the sink, you run your fingers underneath the cold water, your fingers going numb as the water turns colder. You place the rag under the running water, letting it completely soak, the color of the cloth becoming a deep purple.

You turn off the water and squeeze the rag of the remaining water, unfolding it and letting it swing in the air, letting the chilly air make the rag colder. As you walk back down the hall, you were happy to hear silence. Happy to hear that Farleigh hadn't cried again. You walk into the doorway and see Farleigh still where you left him, with his head leaning back on the bed. You sit down next to him on your knees. The hardwood floors hurt, but it was all worth it for your sweet boy.

Placing a cool wet rag on his hot face felt like heaven for Farleigh. He sighed deeply as you pressed the rag to his face. You couldn't see his face, but you could tell he was smiling. His face cooled down quickly, and he soon exhaled harshly because of restricted air flow coming through his covered face. He was okay. And you were glad he was okay.

"What the fuck would I do without you?" His words come out muffled, nasally, and strained, but you still heard him. You pull the rag off his face and gently kiss his cheek for the third time.

"Probably suffer"

#farleigh start #saltburn #archie madekwe #farleigh start x reader #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie #felix catton #oliver quick #farleigh start x fem reader #farleigh start x you #farleigh imagine #saltburn imagine #farleigh x reader

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gremlingottoosilly · 3 months

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The Horror and The Wild (yan!Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader) COD Fantasy AU

You decided to visit Konig's harem. Turns out, they like you as much as the emperor himself. Tags and TWs: Dub-con, aphrodisiacs, power imbalance, breeding kink, size difference, age difference(Konig in his forties, Reader in her twenties), medieval/fantasy AU, Konig is a pervert AND an evil dictator

Word count: 3274 AO3

Your husband has a harem. It didn’t bother you as much as you thought it would – he is the emperor, after all. You’d be more concerned and surprised if he didn’t have an army of perfect women lust all over him – catering to his every whim, to every last one of his perverted desires. You read about kings having harems in books – you think that the king of your country had at least a dozen mistresses, although none of them were an official part of the court. Empire is a bit different in its customs – every territory in its big hold wanted to give the sole ruler their greatest treasure, so the politics could be ensured through maidenhood of their daughters. — Little empress is so shy…is this her first time with an angel?

A woman – you think her name was Stiletto, or something equally sharp – was holding you tightly, her breasts against yours, her hips straddling yours in hold that didn’t make you feel unpleasant. If anything, you loved it. Reminded you of the sessions you shared with the Princess. Something that had to be hidden far, far away. — I would r…I think we should discuss, ah, the further fate of the… She holds you close, her lips on your neck. You whimper, looking back only to see König in a relaxed pose, drinking something – you don’t think it was wine, way too golden for anything like this – out of the transparent, beautifully sculpted goblet. For some foolish reason, none of the women in his harem were particularly interested in him – but you counted at least four who already proposed to make your night better.

It made you feel ecstatic.

It made you feel shy. You came to the forbidden part of the palace, the one that almost no one is visiting – with the goal to drag at least a few of the servants by their hair, thinking that it would just ensure that you won’t be poisoned later. You came here expecting to be assassinated by some lovestruck princess – but you were kissed, held, and touched by many of them. Your legs already spread wide enough to reveal the edges of the thin laces of your undergarments, your emperor enjoying the show as the women of his harem made a blubbering mess out of you.

— Are my women not treating you well enough, little princess?

— Y…your Highness, this is… You whimper, feeling a soft hand on your breast. König was there too – his palm enveloping your chin, gently tilting it so he could kiss you, your face hidden by the fabric of his hood slowly lowering over you. His kisses are softer now, much warmer than they were before – maybe, finally stealing your virtue prompted him to be softer. Maybe, he knew you wouldn’t be running away or trying to kill yourself anymore – so he was able to share with you the softness he previously kept hidden. Maybe, he was always soft and you just never got to see it – but now you can’t help but stare at his softness, taking in every last inch of it. You feel like a fool, honestly.

There are beautiful women touching you, whispering sweet nothing to you. There is a beautiful man who is devoted to you completely – who burned down an entire castle and took your country just so he would be able to marry you. Yes, with all of these people – powerful, beautiful, angels and gods walking on this sinful earth, you still felt like a servant. Dirt under their boots – the indoctrination of your class is making it impossible to think of yourself as someone who is worthy of even the tiniest bit of praise.

You think about your princess – if she is alive or not. If she remembers your sacrifice or curses you for it. The news of your wedding should have spread far and wide, even with the little notice that König gave to the bordering kingdoms – and you wonder what would her reaction be. You are getting too far ahead of yourself, after all, You should know your place by now, all things considered.

König and the girls – you think one of them was the duchess, send here as a peace offering only to be held up in the lower harem, with the Emperor only seeing her for one time and then retreating back to his chambers – only let go of your when you started sniffling, an action so freakingly ugly for an empress. You should never show your true emotions – you knew this even from your years with the princess, with other servants being as cruel as devils while she wasn’t looking. Perhaps, you still haven’t outgrown this mentality.

— What’s wrong, meine Liebe?

— You’re disturbing the Empress, your highness.

— I am her husband!

— Maybe, this is why she is disturbed. Are you ignoring her needs too, Your Majesty?

— I will nit be ridiculed by my…

— Oh, but please, do proceed, our lord. The princess is crying already.

— You scared her!

— Maybe, she didn’t want to be married. You could send her to harem and make her like us… — And to have you, vile creatures, fuck her till she passes out? — At least we could show you pleasure. Maybe, she’s on edge because Your Highness was…

— I won’t be talking to you about it!

— Ah, but the Empresses’s distress is evident already, our lord. Do we need to cast a potion for your…

You feel their hands on you again, soft touches mixing with rough fingers caressing your face – your cheeks, your lips, passing into your mouth and making you suck for the tiniest bit of a second, leaving right when you started to feel uncomfortable. You feel loved, so thoroughly, by him and by them – and you don’t feel like you deserve to be.

You can’t find a real reason to talk to them – so you do your best to shut up, biting your lips that were smeared with makeup so thoroughly. You felt awful, you felt horrible, you felt like you were going to freaking burst because, by gods, there are so many people around you who deserve to be treated as kindly as possible, who deserve to be treated like equals – and yet, you still feel like a servant. Like a bought pet who was dragged to the house where no one wanted to see you and to hold you – and yet, there are so many people, longing to just… You sigh, curling up in a corner. Distasteful display from an empress – but you could worry about assassins and court intrigues the other day. You don’t have the strength to play in the games of these vile women anyway. Not that you would be able to even if you’d want.

— Meine Liebe, please, you must protect your dignity over those…

— I’m sorry.

— What?

Hands are gripping you tighter, suffocating. You shouldn’t mistake their devotion for kindness, their affection for liability. No matter your cries and pleads, they won’t let you go – and even the girls who looked the kindest, the ones who already got your dresses collected and your hair in elaborate constructions, with their soft hands running up and down your breasts, your hips, your rear – were nothing more but a pack of people who used to get what they wanted. And you shouldn’t think that your opinion would matter – but you could close your eyes and think about your country. Close your eyes and try to enjoy it if only for a little while.

— I’m not…not fitting as a queen.

One of the girls plummets on your lap, her hair spreading across the floor. You start to pet her out of pure instinct – and you can feel König’s hand in your hair, doing the same. Somehow, the tiniest act made you feel even more like a pet and less like a person with power. Maybe, because you never had power to begin with.

— Of course not. You’re an empress, not a… You gulp, worry still in your mind. You are surrounded by people who should look up at you – and yet, you feel like a pet, brought to them for amusement. Then it strikes you – then it falls down to your shoulders, heavier than the crown you never wanted to wear.

A consort empress – no power, no influence, just smile and wave to your people in a pathetic attempt to remind them that you exist. You exist, you exist, for their amusement, for your husband’s amusement, to make the crowd wild with promises of heirs, to make everyone forget what exactly you are doing here. That your job as an empress is to sit back and look pretty, hoping that it would be enough. That it needs to be enough.

— Am I? Seems more like a toy for everyone.

They laugh – they smile and push their hands on you again, surrounding you with swirls of touches and gentle pushes. Back and forth, back and forth. You feel like a fool falling for something as silly as this – being consumed by lust of not just your husband, but also the women who, by all means, are supposed to take you in and leave nothing behind. You were supposed to swirl around in cort intrigues, not in… A hand moves down your stomach, fluttering just above your labia. Dancing on the gentle skin, caressing in a tingling motion – you moan and spread your legs depsite yourself, despite the feeling of apathy slowly growing in your bones. Your body got so used to constant pleasure, it makes you crave it like the last whore in the whole empire. You aren’t sure who is touching you – but you know that König is nearby, his hand tilting your head to the side, so he could look. Enjoy the view – god, you must look like such a mess right now… — The consort is a toy for the whole Empire, Schatzen. You knew this when you agreed to marry me.

— You never asked my hand properly, Your Highness.

— Why would I need to, if I could just chop it off and bring it with me?

You gulp, thinking again – gods, your choice in marriage is as horrible as the legends say. Especially since there are no legends of him yet – his rise to power is too fast and too early – and since you never had a choice on the matter anyway. Since there is no way you could have escaped this.

— Would you like it, then? To kill me for spare parts?

He laughs, and the others followsuit. You feel weird – you don’t understand them, their reactions, you feel like your head is going to burst from all the emotions being contained deep inside. You take a deep breathe and think. Trying desperately not to seem insane. — This would be a waste of a perfectly fine princess.

— She’s an empress now, your highness.

— Oh, but she will be a princess to us, ja? They giggle – and you feel dragged to the other room, finally alone. Not as much as you linked to be – König is still there, his hands are keeping you in place firmly. Fingers playing with the edges of your outfit, you feel somewhat sated and drained already. Your maidenhood throbs between your legs, soaked and warm from the touches and nice words of the women of his harem – and you feel weird, knowing that he allowed this infidelity to happen on his watch. At least you knew he never touched a single one of these women, although they were gifted to him. At least you know that he is ready to throw you in for the wolves in order to satisfy you while he is away doing everything an evil ruler should.

He lets you sit on a chair, pulling you in his lap – an intimate position, the outline of his cock is poking at the outline of your rear even through the skirts of the dress you wore. He pushes his face in the crook of your neck and you feel the tingling sensation of his tongue outlining your skin. You don’t want him to make you even warmer, to play with you more than all of his harem did – but it’s a welcomed distraction. You still feel like an imposter who never deserved to even be here in the first place…

— You do realize that you not being a princess doesn’t matter, right, Schatzi?

He cocks your head to the side, making you look at him wide-eyed, surprised. You are pressed against his chest, your face dangerously close to his – you want to get as far away from him as possible, but he whispers in your neck like it’s a gospel. You’re inclined to listen.

You don’t answer – you just let him keep going because, in the end, this is what a good empress is supposed to do, you think. Sit tight and listen and listen and use all of the space in your head to get into theirs. You feel like a fool even trying to attempt this, but…you never listened to the stories about your husband before he came into your life – and now you’re fabulously undereducated on the matters of his life.

König’s hands are going up, into your cleavage – almost ripping your corset open and not caring for how expensive it was. He has a terrible habit of running every pretty thing he buys for you – and you bite your tongue as to no scold him for leaving your breasts out, the diamonds and ripped seams on full display. You feel like a fool, knowing just how inappropriate he is with you. And how you allow him to do it.

— I would never accept that stuck-up royal of yours as mine. As a part of the harem, maybe. To forget about her bloody existence.

You bite your lips, a scowl escaping your expression. You don’t want to act like this, but she was still your princess – whenever she is now, if not dead and forgotten even by her own people.

— Don’t…don’t speak of Her Majesty like this.

— What a loyal servant you are, meine Liebe. Why not put that loyalty to me?

— Do you also need help with wearing your own clothes and warming your jewels?

— Maybe. If I get to feel your hands on me each time you do it.

You feel your cheeks burning. Your teeth are clenching, your hands and gripping your skirt, almost ripping the delicate material to shreds. Oh no – you’re getting used to a rich life, not even caring for your own clothes and how expensive it would be to replace them. König kisses your forehead, laughing, and your entire face and neck are burning now – the expression of his affection always makes you embarrassed, even if this is, by far, the most innocent thing he did to you. Much more pure than…no, if you’d start thinking about it, the space between your thighs would be wet again – and you already established just how sinful it would be.

— You are making it look like I have to worry about every maid who swings her skirt around you.

— Hm. I don’t think that my maids are half as cute as you.

— So you went to steal maids from other countries?

He chuckles, holding your chin in an iron grasp. You can’t turn away and save your graces when he is taking his mask down, smiling like a cat who got the cream. Perhaps, he is just like a cat – a ginger one, arrogant and smug, with rare stubble grazing over your sensitive skin as he plants a sloppy kiss on your lips. He is hungry, devouring you with each stroke of his tongue – the literature made you think that those kinds of embraces should be gentle, slow. You know better now, of course.

— I knew I needed a wife. People won’t take lightly to their emperor being more and more involved with dark powers – I thought that maybe, having a people-pleasing empress would make a difference.

He pinches your nipples until they are nice and firm, almost bruising your soft breasts in his hands. He is trying to handle them gently, but he is unable to contain his excitement – and you feel your lower parts clenching around nothing, moisture collecting in your undergarments. König isn’t soft when he is handling you like this, the overwhelming pleasure is risking to make itself known to everyone – by gods, you are tired of always getting handled like this. Like just an afterthought in his perverted desires…but, perhaps, you are just that.

— It was stupid. I sent the first letter, then the second…and this entitled brat didn’t even bother to answer. I knew she wouldn’t – but it still stings.

You remember the letters. Remember the annoyed voice of your princess, as she told you to handle them – burn them, toss them away, rip them to shreds, and feed them to the birds passing by. Everyone knew that the emperor already had a harem, and your princess didn’t want to be a part of it – besides, the king already established no connections to the empire, even as it was creeping to his doorstep.

You also remember writing the answers. Polite ones, short ones – the types that wouldn’t involve you in a political ploy. Leaving the emperor without an answer would be even worse than proclaiming war – wounding a man’s pride is something, that your princess knew how to do well, and also a thing that you knew how to take care of. Always the one to clean up her messes.

— I knew it wasn’t her writing those answers. But I remember how they felt, in my hands. The smells of whatever fragrance you put, ja?

You also remember accidentally cutting yourself while writing one of the answers – ink mixing with blood on expensive paper, made you think twice instead of changing the paper piece to a new one. Perhaps, if you were truly smarter than that, you’d just toss it away. Unfortunately for you and the kingdom, you didn’t want to waste expensive, fragrant paper.

— So…you’re saying that…

— It’s your fault, Meine Liebe, really. I fell in love with you since the first word you have written for me. So why would you cry in front of me and my harem like that?

— You’re lowering yourself like this. Being on my level…not something fit for an emperor.

He laughs, his fingers returning to gently squeeze your nipples together – and then go high, to push your face in place again. König plants another kiss on your lips and dips, his tongue playing over one of your swollen nipples. You don’t want to think about how much your body will change when his seed is going to take – but you know it won’t be long, with how often he pushes himself between your legs, filling you up until you can’t walk anymore.

— You know nothing about me, do you, Schatz?

— Thought you wanted it that way.

— Public won’t take nice to a ruler like me. Not a drop of royal blood.

You don’t think you knew the stories about him. The rumors, maybe – calling him the bastard king, the one that killed the previous ruler of his country in a soldier’s uprising. It’s all being taken down now, with all the old rich families either getting wiped out or signing their loyalty to the new emperor. The books are being burned and written anew.

— We’re both servants, little princess. And I would never someone born into this uptight fucking family.

Hm. A bastard emperor and a fake princess.

You really were made for each other.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #call of duty #cod x you #emperor!konig #konig cod #konig x you #cod konig #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere x you

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greycaelum · 6 months

Note

Ok im gonna drop this here for u to write it whenever u want,cause its been hunting me

Royalty au where gojo and reader are living happily,that is until someone poisons his queen when they're having dinner together.

She drinks the wine,and suddenly falls to the ground while throwing up blood and blood running from her eyes. Shoko manages to save her and geto holds gojo back so he doesnt do anything stupid. But when his queen wakes up she's really weak so shoko tells gojo about a flower that'll heal her up,so gojo leaves in order to search for it.

But when he's back,geto leads him to the flower garden the queen loves and he finds her among the flowers,a little better and seeing her not on deadbed has him running toward her,lifting her up and spinning while both of them laugh and kiss

Happy ending

Scribbles & Doodles—Lotus Tears

—Elven Emperor Gojo Satoru X Human Empress Reader

𑁍 Synopsis:

His azure orbs stare as you reach to cup his cheeks with a slight understanding frown painting your brows. It doesn't help that you are wearing the other pair of purple robes. It made his belly warm, and his chest swelled with pride. You are pairing... He was the only one who could wear the purple robes since he was born, a lone star, but not anymore. And that was enough to make his heart skip a beat. "Will you be back for dinner?" Your tone carried hope and joy into his day. He doesn't understand why he has to part with you every day... He heaved a sigh hoping the day turns to dusk soon so he can hold you again to his heart's content. "For you, always, My Flower."

𑁍 Genre: historical fantasy, elves/faes, dark magic if you squint, interracial marriage

𑁍 WC/CW/TW: (4.3k)— poison, mad Satoru, elven traditions and cultures, fluff, angst, comfort, implication of major character death, mating bonds, talks of rebirth

𑁍 ✒️☕: Hi to the person who sent this ask. Pardon the very long wait, but I loved writing this one, I just need to say your ask is one of my fave ideas for elf Satoru so I tweaked some things, fantasy tropes are my favorite to write to escape canon~ Grey,

At night when you lay in their bed, your head atop his chest, he cannot sleep a wink for he has forever to spare and only a lifetime with you in his arms. For such a fragile flower, even a man who has grown bleak and untouched over the long passage of time, Satoru cannot help but stroke your head gently, scaring the pixies who would try to sneak in to soak with his mate's presence. He doesn't know if it's a good thing or bad that his mate is loved by the small faes. But one thing is for sure, he doesn't delight that they are trying to pry you awake from his arms. It's no secret he doesn't like sharing... especially when it's about you.

For a human to become the Empress of the High Courts is an unheard thing. Improbable would be the word. And you do not need to know what methods Satoru used to make this happen. Because you already knew that behind his delicate beauty, lies the prickly thorns that wield the absolute power over nature. There is a reason why he was able to rule undisputedly in the indifferent flow of nature over the passage of time.

When he married you, he knew he would uproot the earth and supplant it again and again to give whatever you desired. He is the supreme ruler and Emperor of the High Courts and would only sheath his indifference in the presence of his Empress. He has broken down the millennial walls covering his heart and found himself enthralled by the maiden who never feared the Dark Woods. She found beauty in the mystery of the borders, and he found solace in her presence. She has grown to be his beloved Flower.

Fortunately for you, even as a born human, you have adapted to the faes far quicker. Learning their language and making up for your lack of magic, you learned diplomacy. It was not easy to learn such an intricate affair, but fortune has smiled upon you, with Satoru, who has boundless knowledge of the matter to be your tutor.

"Is this adequate enough?" Satoru hopefully looked at you in the mirror and the craft he had finished for a satisfactory answer.

"Satoru, we are not going to any gathering, are we?" You chuckled as you sat in front of the golden mirror while Satoru stood behind, holding an ivory comb in his hand as he carefully brushed your silky tresses. Small flowers adorned your hair like trinkets as he wove them skillfully into a braid. At this point, your handmaidens have lost their job, with your mate attending to almost everything you need unless he is away for the court.

"At least let me do this before I leave for my duties." He brought the tip of your hair to his lips, kissing it as he stared at you, a longing look on his face. This prompt you to turn the chair and face the elven emperor.

"Will you be back for dinner?" Your tone carried hope and joy into his day.

He doesn't understand why he has to part with you every day... He heaved a sigh hoping the day turns to dusk soon so he can hold you again to his heart's content.

"For you, always, My Flower." Satoru tilted your chin and pressed a kiss on your forehead. "I do not wish to leave." He grumbled and connected your forehead, staring right into your eyes.

Your soft chuckle fluttered through his ears as you reached to cup his cheeks and stare into his eyes. A sense of tranquility floated in your orbs bringing his heart into a puddle of cotton.

"I will wait for you at dinner, Satoru. So the earlier you finish the earlier we see each other. Alright?"

"Alright, as you wish." Satoru sighed and kissed the tip of your nose. "The things you make me do..."

He never thought he would one day sit under the shade of foliage with his Empress on his lap, reading through some parchments while he pilfered some wildflowers to braid her hair. Or to walk while gently pulling the reins of his equine, leading the elk through safe passages whilst you ride on the back. Things he never imagined and things he never thought he would do. But the second you came it all seemed natural for him to indulge you in every way possible.

You are like a brittle glass flower to him that he cannot help but wrap you in the most flawless silks and softest ermine furs. You evoke in him a firm sense of fierce protectiveness.

So imagine the horror and derangement inside him when you were still smiling and talking with him at the dinner table but suddenly blood flowed down your nose, followed by a series of coughs drawing blood from your throat as you dropped to the floor, desperately gasping for air.

If it wasn't for his friend Suguru, a Dragon Lord who he has grown with, who happened to visit the very same day only to pin him down in his rampage of killing the perpetrators hiding in the imperial kitchen staff, perhaps one-fourth of the castle must've already been slaughtered.

All he could see was red. The burning flames consuming the imperial castle and the wilting forest mirrored the despair in his heart. He couldn't hear that his people were wailing for him. All he could ever see was his mate dying each second from the potent poison coursing in her bloodstream.

"Don't touch her!"

He snarled with pure frenzy when Shoko tried to reach out to your unmoving body in his arms.

"Satoru, Shoko is only going to heal her. Your mate needs help." Suguru tried to reason with the livid, elven emperor cradling the unmoving body of his bleeding empress. "She would not do anything to her, only help her."

Suguru could see how unfocused and distraught the dark blue eyes of his friend were, so far from his usual calm and regal sense. Satoru's eyes were bloodshot red. Thankfully, he didn't move when Shoko reached out again to heal his mate.

A faint color of life returned to your face, but you were still as pale as alabaster, still unconscious. The fire consuming the woods slowly died down... A slight sense of sanity returned to Satoru, who held you close, ready to hide you from the world if not for Shoko's words.

"She's in moratorium state... I've only managed to stabilize her body and freeze the poison to stop it from spreading further. Right now, we need to find an antidote... Or else she will only have seven days to live. For now, let's take the Empress to a safe place." Shoko pinched the bridge of her nose as she looked back to the fire slowly dying down, leaving shared trees and ashes. "And fix the chaos you have ignited, Your Majesty, the Emperor."

There are, but severely few times he let his emotions overcome him. He could count it in his hand. But ever since that sight of your throwing up blood, Satoru experienced a myriad of emotions he thought he was never capable of.

Fear... Despair... Uselessness... and most of all heartbreak...

You don't know how many millions of times his soul has shattered in every second he held your cold hand whilst he channeled all healing spell he knows into your body as you sleep on the cradle of the sacred tree cushioned by wildflowers and vines dangling down the archaic branches of the colossal wood. It seems you're merely asleep, but it feels like it's been forever since he last saw your eyes. The reality is that day by day, you are losing your life while all he can do is sit here, rooted in place, too afraid that if he steps away, he might not see you again.

"Your Majesty..." Shoko came forward. The Emperor has been sitting here for three days straight beside his dying mate in silence holding her hand, unmoving, and would attack anyone who dares to step one foot closer to the lying Empress. The court matters have been neglected, with only the elders holding the court together in his absence. The woodlands are closely related to the essence of the Emperor. The depression of his heart manifested in the woods, which gradually lost the green leaves and were replaced by withered branches...

"I have found a possible cure for the Empress."

Shoko had never felt strong empathy, but she did feel a bit of ache for her friend when he raised his head at her, almost pleading with his bloodshot eyes.

"Speak."

"Do you remember the Sacred Tombs of Tvar?"

The sacred burial grounds of the late Empresses. It's deep-seated in the heart of the Mountain of Hanging Tombs, guarded by the mythical beasts his forefathers have created to protect the resting place of the late Imperial Rulers.

"What about it?" Satoru has only been there once when his Imperial Father has taken him to visit his late Mother. It's a mystical mountain filled with ancient elements, from the creatures to the plants, that can only be heard in folklore.

"For high faes like us, the poison the Empress has induced was nothing serious. But to humans, it is lethal." Shoko sighed. "The spell I cast was only a valve to keep the poison at bay until we can find an antidote. On the seventh day, when the sun rises, the spell will cease to exist, and the poison will corrode her bo—"

"Tell me, what should I do? Anything Shoko. I would kill if I had to." The bones on his knuckles protruded with his clenched fists. The Emperor cut her off. He would not hear her say such ominous words about his mate's life.

He would uproot the earth to find anything that can cure you. Anything.

"Killing might be going too far, but it's not impossible." Shoko took out from her robe a parchment containing a sketch of what seemed like a flower and handed it to her Emperor. She never slept over the three days in a desperate search for any cure. "There's a flower that can only be seen in the Sacred Tombs of Tvar that may be able to save the Empress. As we all know, only the direct descendant of the Imperial Family can enter the Mountain of Hanging Tombs."

The Mountain of Hanging Tombs is as ominous as the name implies. It's a mountain range covered with black mist and ferocious mythical animals and exotic plants. It's not that only the direct descendants of the Imperial Elven Bloodline can enter the mountains, but the lower beasts residing on the foot of the mountains refrain from attacking an imperial descendant since they are born from the first Emperor's blood as well. No ordinary fae can survive these mythical beasts, and could only result in death. Thus, it has become known not to venture deep into the mountains.

Satoru, however, wasted no time to cross the valleys leading to the burial grounds. He needs to find that flower.

Lotus Tears...

It is said that the flower can heal any illness. However, it's impossible to scour for the elusive flower, which roots deep only in the burial grounds of the Empresses and leave unscathed from the toxic plants and mythical animals on top of the Mountain of Hanging Tombs that will attack him at any given second.

"Why do you always put the flower on my left ear? I'm not yet married." You asked him during one of the days he stayed longer to watch over you as you searched for some wild, beautiful flowers in the woods.

Satoru stared at the magenta lilacs he conjured from his hands and tucked them into your left ear.

"You look beautiful in any shade of purple..." It matches the color of his robe.

You pursed your lips and huffed clearly not satisfied by his vague answer.

"You didn't answer my question, Satoru."

He chuckled at your angry face, bopping your nose, making you annoyed as you tried to punch him clumsily. The little girl still has the same pout even as she bloomed into a prim and proper lady. It was too adorable even to be called 'angry.' He jumps down the tree and walks up to you, bringing the tip of your hair to his lips for a soft parting salutation.

"Next time... I will tell you, My Precious Flower." With that, he took you to the borders of the human village and the dark woods, as your Mother was already looking for you. He watches you run into the light while slowly walking back into the shadows.

Maybe... He should have never forced this fate on you. You may have called on him in desperation to flee from the humans chasing after you, but he, being the one who knew better, should have returned you to your realm rather than letting his selfishness devour him and claim you as his mate. If he had done so, then you wouldn't have met this predicament.

You wouldn't have been lying in your blood, cold like a corpse...

"Where is she?" Satoru's heart felt like it was dying when he saw that your body was gone from the bed of the sacred tree. "Where is my mate?! Shoko!"

Did he lose you? Did he come too late?

He stared at the blue lotus he so carefully dug out of the perilous mountain despite the throbbing pain on his shoulders after a chimera managed to bite him before he could slay it.

No, you cannot leave him like this... Oxygen left his lungs, and his feet staggered, unable to support the weight of heaven, crushing his soul. His vision is going black, not like this. He barely got to dote on you. Barely got to drown you with the love he has secretly hidden all these years. No, no, no. Satoru's throat ran dry. He wants to scream as if the tearing of his heart wasn't enough to shout his despair.

The forest closely linked to his essence slowly wilted as if joining their Emperor in his mourning. The leaves slowly dried up. The flowers closed, and the vines started shrinking to twigs. His sorrow is mirrored by nature.

His mind went black, his heart slowly crumbled in every passing second that his eyes could not see you. Why did the gods despise him to tear apart the only joy he has ever touched for what seems like an eternity?

"Satoru!" Suguru found him in haste after the forest slowly grew darker and darker.

Who knew that his apathetic friend could have this vast amount of emotions to turn the lush evergreen forest into a barren land? Suguru wasted no time to drag what seemed to be a lifeless Satoru into a maze-like garden.

Shoko was there. She immediately snatched the mystical lotus from the Emperor. Satoru could care. All things pale in comparison to his mate... All things. He dropped to his knees, holding onto your hand.

"Y-Y/n?" Satoru's throat was parched as he saw your sleeping body, with the wilting grass around, as if you were truly taken away into the underworld... This was your favorite garden... All flowers in here, he has grown with his own hands. Not it seems like he has planted those flowers only to send you off to the afterlife. "No, you can't do this to me, My Flower... I would lose my mind." He muttered like a madman, bringing your cold hands to rub against his cheeks, desperately searching for any signs of warmth but finding nothing...

Suguru tried to pry him away from your frail body, but his malevolence met those who tried to separate you from him until the Dragon Lord had no choice but to use all means to knock Satoru out...

The last thing he saw was your sleeping face as he desperately begged his eyes not to close... He needs to see you, to be beside you... to hold you...

"Satoru...?" You were both sitting under the shade of a magnolia tree with his head on your lap, eyes closed from the glaring sun, meanwhile, you intertwined his lustrous hair into a loose braid, tucking little flowers in your masterpiece.

"Hmm?" It was one of the days when he had enough time to traverse the hills with you and meet other fae tribes so you may have time away from the Imperial Courts.

"Promise me that if the memories we have together start to hurt... you will forget me."

His eyes opened in a split second, and he looked back with furrowed brows only to meet your small smile.

"That is nonsense. I would never wish to forget you. You are my mate." Satoru sat straight and took your hand in his. "What led you to this ominous thought, My Flower? Do not think of such things, we are bonded for eternity."

You gently shake your head.

"You're an elf... I'm a human. Our life span runs differently. Some day... You will have to remember me longer than you have held me..." The bitterness of your eyes was quickly concealed as you closed them. "That's simply the order of nature..."

Satoru was tongue-tied... He cannot face that reality yet... Not yet... If ever the Lady of Light is listening to him, he prays that the sun and moon slow down... Forever never seems to be enough...

Forever will never be enough...

"Satoru...?"

He wishes never to wake up. If you're not in the world he opens his eyes to, he may as well live in this fantasy. He has lived such a long time in solitude. So even if it's just a fragment of imagination or make-believe, he would choose that sweet lie rather than face the cold reality you're gone...

"Satoru..."

Your voice... It's sweeter than the sirens and softer than the small faes singing with the birds in early dawn...

A soft touch brushed off the fringes on his temples, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun. Unable to bear the brightness, his eyes opened and looked up to the blue sky...

Slowly, his blurry eyes met your worried ones as you tucked your hair behind your ear while staring at him with his head laying on your lap.

"You're finally awake... Thank goodness!" You sighed and smiled. "Welcome home, Satoru..."

Your hair... It's not the same color as it was... It shone a bright silver like his under the sunlight, which only the imperial descendants can inherit... But he knew it was you... His soul tells him so.

"Y-Y/n?" He reaches out to touch your cheeks that have grown prominent... more elf-like... "This isn't a dream?"

Your sweet chuckle filled his ears as your warm palms held his and pressed it to your cheeks, kissing his wrist.

"I must've worried you so... I'm sorry, but I'm fine now... because of you."

You're really warm... So warm, you melted the millennial thorny wall he built around his heart. Your palms are so dainty compared to him, but they have always been able to soothe him more than anything else.

"You... You look like me..." Satoru slowly sat up as he took in your features. "My Flower... you look like a fae..." Satoru is a bit confused about the sudden transformation. You look just as you are, but the silver hair, pointy ears, and sharper features...

"It must've been because of the flower's healing attributes," Shoko explained, taking a step forward to assess the changes on you, who indeed looks like an elf now.

"Explain, Shoko." Satoru looked at the woman as he was adamant about answers.

"The flowers had healing attributes; it's just a speculation, but aside from healing, we all know that lotus also signifies rebirth. The flower may have deemed it necessary to change the human blood running in the Empress's veins into elven blood for her to heal from the poison fully... As for the silver hair, I can only think that since the Lotus Tears came from the sacred buriel grounds of the late Empresses, it must have absorbed most of their remaining energy and passed it on to the Empress through the flower's healing attributes..."

"Does that mean my Mate is now an elf?" Satoru cannot believe how these events have turned out for you and him. He took your hand and studied your features... You are still you, but indeed, there swirls a more mystical air around you, and only a faint scent of human blood is left lingering in you.

"The Empress is not yet fully an elf at the moment, but I am sure before the fortnight ends, her transformation will be complete, and she will truly be a full-fledged fae, like us." Shoko nodded.

You stared at Satoru... The once wilting forest which you woke up to slowly regained life.

For a man so stoic, he is an open book... You can't help but chuckle as the smaller faes slowly creep out of their homes and rejoice at the blossoming life enveloping the woods again. Shoko and Suguru have left, leaving you and your mate some privacy in the garden.

"I..." Satoru cannot confess enough what he had done out of rage and sorrow when he thought you were gone.

"I know..." You shake your head telling him to speak no more as you took him in your arms... This time, you could feel him ever closer, hear his thoughts louder, and see him clearer. Everything he has done and he has said, you knew and felt in each passing second... But no words were uttered, as you can feel the remorse coursing in his being. What he needs the most is your embrace...

Nature can renew itself as long as it is given care and time...

The trees are once again full of luscious foliage, the grass is back to its evergreen hue, and the different faes have returned to their homes and gone through their duties as usual. Satoru is somehow a bit busier with the court matters, while you, the Empress, needed a little more recuperation before you come back to your court duties.

"Your Majesty... We always knew you smelled sweet even before you became like us."

The smaller sprites sat on your finger as they flapped around you, more drawn than ever. It seems that your new form has made you more captivating to their instincts, just like how they are drawn to the presence of their Emperor.

"Really? Though, I know you just want more sugary treats." You played with their cheeks until they perked up and bowed to someone. "See you tomorrow, Your Majesty!"

You didn't have to guess who made the little sprites flee in haste.

You turned around, and sure enough, you were swept off your feet as a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the ground. His sweet sandalwood scent filled your senses, soothing your racing heart.

"I missed you, My Flower... What did my mate get for me?" Satoru looked at the basket you're holding, filled with several flowers from the garden he built for you.

"It's nothing much... It's too loose to be called a crown." You showed him the crown you clumsily made with some lilacs. But Satoru guided your hand to put it on his head, indulging you with anything. You have now fully turned into an elf. Bright silver hair, lucid eyes, and the sweet scent of jasmine and orchid around you with the purple robes that only the Imperial Rulers can wear. Anyone who sees you will immediately recognize you as an Imperial Fae and their Empress.

"I would take anything you offer me, Y/n." Satoru softly kissed her forehead... his lips slowly kissed his way down your nose until he found your lips. "Can I ask for a kiss?"

"What if I say my kisses are not offered?" You raised a brow.

Satoru merely shrugged it off with a smirk.

"I'm pretty sure you can make exceptions for your husband, no?" Satoru chuckled. "Can I have my kiss now?"

Your sweet smile and soft giggle drowned in as he captured your lips for a gentle but passionate kiss.

If the lotus has tears, he will shed it only and only for you...

—GreyCaelum

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME

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All rights and credits of the Jujutsu Kaisen character(s) mentioned images(s) and songs(s) used, belongs to their respective owner(s)

General Taglist: @ice-icebaby @aeanya @tender-rosiey @lexiene @nevermoresworld @loml-riri @pelicanpizza @emichou-chan

641 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath.

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended.

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?”

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned.

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.”

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements.

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.”

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach.

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply.

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway.

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after.

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet.

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff.

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are.

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?”

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy.

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately.

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

#f1 #leclsrc1000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

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whorediaries-09 · 5 months

Text

abditory;

"forgive us now for what we've done."

☆ EVENTS ☆

'tis the damn season (closed)

you can meet me at the hotel; (closed) [kinkotober masterlist]

put your life out on the line" (closed)

got the wine for you; (closed) [false god (masterlist)]

maybe it's a blessing in disguise; (open)

✧ ONE-SHOTS ✧

Peppers Sirius Black X Reader. Fuck buddies to lovers. Modern AU!. 18+ content

Delicate Sirius Black X Reader. Friends to lovers. TW- Self harm, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff.

Night We Met Sirius Black X Reader Set During Order of The Phoenix. Mention of major character death(s).

New Year's Day Sirius Black X Reader Set during Order of The Phoenix. Fluff and low humor.

Cardigan; Sirius Black X Reader. Hurt/Comfort.

Sure Thing; Sirius Black X Shy!Reader Fluff.

Oh Children; Sirius Black X Reader Angst.

Million Dollar Man; Sirius Black x Camgirl!reader 18+ content, drinking.

Daylight Flowerist!Sirius Black X Barista!reader Fluff.

Consume; Dark!Sirius Black X Muggle!reader. 18+ content, cemeteries, dark themes.

Born to die Cult!leader Sirius Black X Reader. Mentions of murder, gore, dark themes.

Afterglow; Felix Catton x Reader Hurt/Comfort.

Dancing with our hands tied; Sirius Black X Reader. Hurt/Comfort, injuries, blood. (potential part two)

Maneater; Neighbor!James Potter X Reader 18+ content, stalker behavior, darkish themes.

She just hit my heart; James Potter X Reader Fluff.

Don't blame me; Priest!Remus Lupin X Reader Alludes to sex, dark themes.

ψ SERIES ψ

The Seven Lives; Please read chapter warnings on top of each chapter. Status- On going.

⨴MOODBOARDS⨵

Poison Ivy From my fall event (close)

Heartbeat; From 'the seven lives' series.

§ ASKED AND ANSWERED §

Call It What You Want Sirius Black X Reader. Post Azkaban Sirius. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Touch sensitivity.

Indentation in the shape of you Sirius Black X Reader. Post Azkaban Sirius. Fluff, bad humor.

Now I'm Covered in You Sirius Black X Reader. Post Azkaban Sirius. 18+ Content. From my fall event (close)

Trying To Keep The Water Warm James Potter X Reader. Professor James AU! Fluff. From my fall event (close)

Dark Red James Potter X Reader Set during the Marauders era. 18+ content.

Womanizer Sirius Black x Reader Set During the Marauders era. Angst, 18+ content, drinking, hints at sexual assault.

Meddle About; West Coast; FDad!James Potter X Reader. 18+ content, mentions of alcohol, age gap.

Maroon Sirius Black X Reader ex to lovers, drinking, alludes to sexual assault, hurt/comfort.

The great war; Sirius Black X Reader ex to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort. Part two to Maroon.

Do I wanna know? Rockstar!Sirius Black X Reader. 18+ content.

Dusk till dawn Sirius Black X Lestrange!Reader Hurt/Comfort, dialogue heavy.

Smoke on my clothes; Rockstar!Sirius Black X Popstar!Reader Fluff, 18+ content, use of y/n.

Into You; Ron Weasley X Reader 18+ content, porn without plot.

Wherever I go; Remus Lupin X Reader. Making out, suggestive, fluff.

Blue Jeans; Professor!Harry Potter X Reader 18+ content.

Getaway car; Sirius Black X Desi!Reader 18+ content, sexual tension, substances.

I think he knows; Ron Weasley X Reader 18+ content, mentions of war, fluff.

Gorgeous; James Potter X Reader 18+ content.

House of balloons/glass table girls; Sirius Black X Reader 18+ content.

You're in love Policeman!James Potter X Baker!Reader Fluff.

❁ ODE TO FANFICTION ❁

Hall of morals;

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xuzuitengenx · 7 months

Text

CORPSE BRIDE AU : Getou Suguru x Male Reader

Emily : M!Reader

Victor : Geto

Victoria : Gojo

A/N : SINCE ITS HALLOWEEN SEASON, I THOUGHT TO MAKE THISSS— ALSO I CHANGED THE ENDING A BIT BUT IT ENDS THE SAME AS THE MOVIE!!

"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty for I will be your wine." Geto lifts the cup, making eye contact with the man before him, M/N.

"Now you." The skeleton gestured to M/N.

Smiling softly at the black hair man, he spoke his vows.

"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.." M/N picking up a bottle of poison instead of a cup.

"Your cup will never empty.." Before M/N continued further, he pours the liquid into the cup that Geto was holding.

"For I will be–" M/N stops, seeing a familiar white hair man named Gojo Satoru who was watching the ceremony that involved his fiancée.

Stunned, M/N's eyes still remained on Gojo, repeating the last sentence once more until he draws the sentence out again.

"Go on." The skeleton urged as Geto held a slight confused look.

"Your cup...will never empty.." M/N looked at Geto as his eyes moved back to Gojo.

"For I will be..." M/N held hesitation, eyes snapped back to Geto.

"–For I will be your wine." Geto finishes for M/N as he lifts the cup to his lips until M/N places his hand on top of the cup, pushing it away which made Geto look at him in more confusion.

Whispers began at the action M/N just took.

"I can't.." M/N whispers to Geto.

"What's wrong?" Geto asks, going to look behind him as M/N has been looking there. M/N's hands prevented him on doing so as he held Geto's warm cheeks, moving his head back towards M/N.

"This is wrong...I was a groom. My dreams were taken from me.."

Geto listens as he watches a tear fell and roll down M/N's cheek.

"Now...Now I stolen them from someone else.." M/N took a breath, looking at Geto with a soft gaze.

"I love you Geto, but you're not mine.."

Geto looks at M/N as his eyebrows rose. M/N removed his hands off of Geto's cheeks and gestured his one skeleton hand out to Gojo.

Geto followed where M/N's hand was gesturing to and saw Gojo there.

"Satoru.." Geto whispers his name in shock as Gojo began walking to Geto, wearing his tux like the other two men.

Gojo laid his hand on top of M/N's and M/N grabbing Geto's and he entwined the couple's hands together.

The right couple looks at each other with smiles. M/N looks at them before he starts to walk away.

"Wait, I made a promise.." Geto says, walking towards M/N. M/N turns to Geto.

"You kept your promise. You set me free.." M/N lifts his hand that had the wedding ring that Geto accidentally proposed to M/N with and takes it off.

Holding the ring, M/N used his other hand to grab Geto's once more, placing the golden ring in his palm and making Geto's hand close.

"Now I can do the same for you.." M/N smiles, admiring Geto's beautiful features one last time before walking away from Geto forever.

Leaving Gojo and Geto to live their happy lives together.

#x male reader #male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #seme male reader #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru x geto suguru #gojo satoru #geto x male reader #geto suguru x male reader #m reader #corpse bride #corpse bride au #satosugu #angst #jjk #jjk x male reader #halloween

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polarspaz · 2 months

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Carrion AU Updated Tidbits

So here's a HUGE info dump for the AU, and some minor adjustments to the lore.

-When Tim was a child, he was severely neglected by his parents. They had no interest in him and let the nannies do all of the care taking, and sadly, Tim was fine with that, until he started getting sick.

The nannies that took care of him were suddenly gone, and his parents became obsessed with him eating all of his food, especially dinner, but the more he ate, the worst he got, and Tim wasn't an idiot.

He knew the food was the real reason he was becoming so ill, so when his parents left the house, he studied. He researched poisons, searched through the house for information and clues, and finally found the truth.

The insurance plan filed under his name, the threatening letters from the mob, and even the bottle of poison his parents were using to coat his meals, all pointed to one single truth. His parents were going to kill him. They needed money from the insurance company to pay off the mob and his death would give them just that.

A few night's later, Tim secretly watched his mother make dinner and saw her pour a deadly amount of poison into his meal. Tim's tiny heart hammered against his chest, and one resounding thought echoed in his 7 year old mind, I don't want to die.

So he crept past his mother and towards the wine glasses, pulled out a small vile and dumped it's contents into both drinks. He then went to the dinning table and sat down quietly, his hands shaking the entire time.

Five minutes later and he was still there, trembling. Both his of parents were dead on the floor.

-----

Gotham is divided into two parts, The Gilded Square, and the Chaos Circle. The Gilded Square is the upper center part of Gotham, where Batman and the police force have complete control. This is were the majority of citizens live and where Wayne Tower and Manor are located.

The Chaos Circle covers the entire area outside the Gilded Square and encompasses most of Gotham. Here, there is no law, criminals run wild and their numbers are immense. The worst felons from all over the country are sent here, and psychopaths like the Joker rule the streets.

-Batman does not like killing, but he will do it if he has to. The sheer amount of chaos he has to fight against has brought him to this point. Still, it's a last resort option, and he still won't use guns.

-The rest of the Batfamily try to follow this rule but there are times when it's broken. Jason likes to use guns and has no problem with offing more people than necessary. Dick gets extremely violent when he finds hurt kids. Damian meanwhile thinks torture should be implemented into their cause. Stephanie likes shoving fireworks into unethical places, like eyeballs, and then there's Tim.

-Tim, who likes to make drugs that cause people to claw into their skin so they can dig out the spiders hiding inside their veins. To say Bruce has his hands full in this AU, is an understatement.

#carrionau #dc comics #tidbits

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hela-avenger · 1 year

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it’s not you, it’s me- final

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1765

Summary: Natasha won’t quit trying to set you up so you decide to play fire with fire. Hence making a deal with an insufferable prince who interestingly enough is willing to fake being in love with you for the rest of the night. Of course when dealing with the God of Lies things are never as they seem. Fake-Dating AU. p&w AU.

A/N: Every time I think I’m going to have time to write and post something on a scheduled manner something always comes up to ruin that. So sorry for leaving y’all hanging and I’m just gonna stop making false promises.

P.S. I’m tagging the p&w people so if you’ll like to be taken off pls do let me know!

General tags are open!

it’s not you, it’s me masterlist & poison & wine masterlist

Bucky almost seems the same with the exception in the way he carries himself. Once confident and jovial, he’s become more quiet and humble. Someone who would rather spend his time in the outskirts of a party than in the middle of it all.

It explains why you hadn’t seen him until now. He waited for everyone to be gone before coming down.

“You really haven’t changed,” Bucky states once you receive your drinks. He motions for you to take a seat at the bar and so you do. “You look exactly the same as the first time I met you.”

“I’m pretty sure I was covered in mud and grime when we first met,” you recall. “So I would consider this an upgrade.”

“Right,” Bucky lets out a short laugh. “But still, it’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Steve was relieved when he saw me again. It helped him to have some piece of his life back even though everything was turned inside out and upside down for him. I assume it’s the same for you after… well, after what you’ve been through.”

Bucky goes silent and stares into his drink solemnly.

“We don’t have to talk about that,” you offer up to him. “I’ve heard enough and you don’t need to relive any of those details. I’m just happy that chapter of your life is over.”

“Cheers to that,” Bucky mutters, clinking his glass with yours before taking a drink. “So, onto livelier topics, how about, uh, we talk about you?”

“Please don’t tell me you want to know my true age.”

“That is actually the only thing I wanted to know,” Bucky jokes. “Rude? I know, but I just…”

You shove him but Bucky doesn’t move an inch.

“I’m older than you and that’s all you need to know.”

“Ok,” Bucky nods. “And you’re… Steve said half-human, half-Asgardian?”

“Yes,” you answer. “A demi-god to make it simpler.”

Bucky takes a second to register the information.

“Huh, after all I’ve been through I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around that.”

“Yeah, being in the presence of a God tends to render people speechless.”

“No, it’s not that exactly. It’s more about the fact that I was dating one that’s blowing my mind.”

“Well, dating seems like a reach…”

“Please don’t ruin this for me,” Bucky interrupts, causing you to laugh at the growing blush on his cheeks. “This is the peak of my existence. Nothing I ever do or have done will outshine this moment in our history. A rascal of a boy from Brooklyn having dated the daughter of Aphrodite herself.”

“Ever the flirt, Barnes,” you giggle. “ I never really stood a chance against you.”

There’s a silence that follows. It’s comfortable at first, but you both inevitably look away. As if you both realize how easy it was to fall back into old ways but how unfamiliar the motions felt now.

Bucky’s hand reaches for yours and you go still. You hadn’t realized you had been fidgeting with the half-empty glass.

“We might look the same but we’re completely different now, huh?”

There is a sudden wave of grief that lapses over you. It takes you by surprise seeing as he’s still right next to you. You feel the warmth of his hand and watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. He’s not gone, but you lost him all the same.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize to him. “It seems like the passing of time has indeed taken another victim.”

“I know,” he whispers as he lets your hand go. “I’m just an echo of the man I was back then.”

“It’s not you,” you sigh. “It’s me.”

You half-smile at him and lean into the palm of your hand.

“I’ve always kept you at a distance. For your sake, but mainly for mine. I… I can admit now that I was selfish with you. I was lonely and afraid of my mortality and I needed a way out of that and it was you. You are…”

There is a knot in your throat but you fight through it

“You are a light, Bucky. In the darkness I was in, you were the light at the end of that very long tunnel. That hasn’t changed and it will never change. So thank you for sharing that glow with me in the time I needed it the most.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever been told in my entire life,” Bucky answers breathlessly. “Always know how to punch the air out of my lungs.”

“It’s the truth,” you tell him.

“I sense a but coming though…”

“No, there is just an apology left to say because I am sorry that we can’t pick up where we left off. At the moment you need some light of your own, I can't be that for you.”

Bucky smiles in response, “I never expected us to return where we left off. I have too much baggage and I’m sure you’ve moved on from me a long time ago.”

“I-” you stammer out. “I mean-”

You don’t know why your gaze shifts toward the balcony and you go silent when you realize that it's empty now.

Where did Loki go?

You can’t help but search for him and find him speaking to his brother before making his way out.

“Buck, I’m sorry, but I have to go…”

Bucky is quick to notice where you focus has gone to and simply smiles once again.

“Go,” he tells you. “You should go.”

“Thank you. I’ll explain everything later,” you promise him as you get out of your seat.

“I prefer you didn’t,” he jokes. “But seriously, go. I’ll tell everyone you had to leave.”

You whisper your gratitude again before slipping away from the room. You don’t miss the smirk Natasha gives you as you run down the hallway. You watch as the elevator doors are closing and shout for Loki to hold them.

He doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter though as you manage to slip through the closing elevator doors.

“Well that’s awfully rude of you,” you say as you try to catch your breath. “No wonder people think you’re unapproachable.”

Loki just glares at you, “What are you doing?”

“Chasing after you if it isn’t obvious,” you answer. “You left without saying goodbye to me.”

“I didn’t realize I had to.”

His demeanor is cold and you wonder how you manage to fall back onto square one.

“I wish you had,” you tell him. “Save me from running after you in these heels.”

Loki’s scowl doesn’t soften, instead he breathes out of his nose loudly.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “You were clearly enjoying your time with the soldier. Why are you here with me now?”

“Because you-” you whisper trying to figure out why your mouth has suddenly turned dry. “Because we…”

You don’t know how to put what you’re feeling into words. It was as if you were being pulled into a riptide. Just being pulled and dragged in all different directions. This was all so new to you. Staying instead of running away.

“Because I don’t want this night to end,” you answer. “So I thought we could um- go get dinner maybe?”

“Dinner?” Loki asks in surprise.

“Yeah, dinner,” you repeat. “I know this taco truck two blocks away.”

“Tacos?”

“Loki, why are you repeating everything I say?”

“Because I’m trying to make sense of what’s happening.”

The doors to the elevator open and Loki sighs before moving to leave. You’re quick to block him.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m trying to talk to you and you’re shutting me down so I’m really doubting what I’m actually doing right now because I really thought we had something going but maybe I read everything wrong. Oh God, now I’m mortified.”

You step away and allow Loki his much desired departure.

He takes a step forward and stops right in front of you. You’re afraid to look up but you can feel his gaze settled on you.

The elevator doors close again and he’s quick to push the lobby button.

“Tacos, you said?”

“Yeah,” you whisper when you finally muster the courage to look up at him. The scowl is gone and his face has softened once more. “Yeah and maybe we could um… we can talk about Asgard.”

“Just Asgard?” he repeats with a grin.

“Yeah, Asgard,” you answered with a laugh. “We can talk about Asgard and more of our childhood traumas and…”

“Can I just kiss you now?”

“Yes, please.”

Loki’s delicate as he pulls your face up and presses his lips on yours. The tension that was all over your body disappears as you realize this was exactly what you were looking for. You melt into him and he’s quick to hold you upright as his lips continue to dance upon yours.

He pulls away too soon for your liking but he doesn’t go too far. You feel his nose bump against yours. His warm breath fanning over your face.

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper. “Kiss me again.”

Loki just sighs as he tucks some loose strands away.

“Just let me admire you,” he answers. “I thought I would never get to have you like this.”

He laughs quietly.

“I was trying to be selfless, you know.”

“You were?” you ask surprised.

“I saw you with… Bucky and I couldn’t intrude in your happiness.”

“He’s just a friend,” you explain to him. “I am happy to see him but it’s a different kind of happiness.”

“And what do you feel about me?”

The elevator doors open and you can’t help but step out onto the lobby. Loki’s quick to follow after you, pulling off his coat with the intent of placing it over your shoulders before you step outside.

“I can tell you more about my feelings on the way to the taco truck,” you tell him. “Or maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Loki asks as he catches up to you. His coat is placed on your shoulders before he opens the door.

“Maybe I can show you.”

You’re quick to push up on your toes and place a chaste kiss on his lips before grabbing his hand and leading him down the road.

“So about that trip to Asgard,” you begin. “How soon can we go?”

“We could go now if you desire.”

“Later,” you tell him as you look up at the distant stars. “I wanna stay here a little longer.”

it’s not you, it’s me: @marvelgirlonamarvelworld @nickkie1129 @theinfinitenerd @lucywrites02 @nerdyshaddowhunter @10velyhaos @the-bilkush @lilliansstuff @dark-night-sky-99 @marygoddessofmischief

poison & wine: @damalseer @just-the-hiddles @jessiejunebug @nonsensicalobsessions @smollest-soybean @assassinoftheworld @doyoufeelikeayounggod @i-dont-know-eiither @day-dreaming-fox @bn-studies @devilbat @victor-criss-bish @musicconversedance @baby-bunnyxn @marvelloonie @queenmuahaha @accio-boys @eternalqueensworld @rogerrhqpsody @justnerdystuffs @hanoi15 @oneprolificqueen @fandomrelative @nikki419ninja @onedollarduck @ephemeraljade @captainmarvelnerd @thegirlbeyondtheuniverse @ddaeing @leftperfectionmoon @lmfaohader

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fortheloveoffanfic · 9 months

Text

Daylight

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Author's note: Sort of AU; Grace is alive and runs the children's home herself. Do I make this a thing or nah? Summary: Tommy's affair with a school teacher employed at his wife's charity venture reaches a cross roads. Masterlists Warnings: Angst, infidelity

Sometimes, the shame of what they’ve been doing feels like punishment enough. The ache in her chest when she looks in the mirror, the pinch in her soul when she catches the lingering scent of him on her sheets and the bruises that she’s earned from trying to scrub his touch off her skin in the bath- it feels cruel enough to make her stop.

But she hasn’t.

Because when he shows up at her door, or she picks up the telephone and its his voice on the other end, her guilt melts, only to be replaced with pride and something that’s akin to a pleasant flutter in her chest. When Thomas touches her, the rest of the world fades away and for an hour or two, they’re in a realm of their own, where the poison tastes like wine and sin feels like the closest thing they’ll ever get to heaven. Perhaps it is.

What if the warmth of his embrace and the feel of his mouth on her neck is the closest she’ll ever be to paradise and the sound of his voice rasping sweet nothing and empty promises in her ear is the only and truest happiness she’ll ever get?

What if it starts and ends with Thomas? Heaven, hell and everything in between.

At times, Y/n can swear he feels the same. When the room goes dead silent while he’s getting dressed or he takes care to not speak her name when they’re on the phone speaks volumes to the guilt he harbors. And even if it shouldn’t, and she doesn’t understand how, it gives Y/n some comfort that he feels the same too. At least its something else they share, something that transcends the weight of his body on hers; a burden that binds them.

The burden she feels privileged to bear; at least Thomas chose her, his eyes search the room for hers and he seeks her out in private moments. She’s special to him, at least, Y/n hopes she is.

She has to be, else she’s just another mistress, lurking in the shadows and lurking in the background of another woman’s marriage.

“What’re you thinkin’ about, eh?” The tips of Thomas’ fingers trail up and down her spine as she traces the tattoo on his chest.

“Huh?” Having lapsed into deep thought, Y/n missed half his question.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” He repeats, “You’ve been….lost in your head all evening,” he raises his hand a little to thread his fingers through her hair.

“Oh,” Y/n elicits softly, “I’ve just been….” She knits her brows as doubt creeps in; what if she is just a mistress? What if Thomas is just waiting for the next best thing to catch his eye before he moves on from her? If Grace, the woman who he’d been entrapped with from the minute they met couldn’t keep him on the straight and narrow, then she can’t be much more than a good Friday evening.

“Do you think….” She hesitates before continuing, wondering if she even wants the truth. “Do you think….you ever might stay one day?”

Thomas hums in contemplation, “Grace might take Charles to Ireland to see her family next month, maybe I could-”

“I don’t mean like that,” Y/n rolls over and out of his embrace, tucking the worn duvet under her chin in a manner that feels almost childish.

Sighing heavily, Thomas reaches to give her hip a squeeze before shuffling closer, “Oh come on,” he chides lightly, “Don’t be like that sweetheart,” he plants a chaste kiss on her cheek.

Blinking away a wave of moisture that prods at her eyes, Y/n huffs, “Be like what?” She retorts defensively.

Exhaling again, Thomas skirts around her question, “Let's not ruin our afternoon, yeah? Why don’t we open the bottle’a wine I brought? Its one you like,” he offers, hoping the problem is one he can solve with expensive liquor.

“I don’t want wine,” she spats bitterly.

“Then what do you want, eh?” Thomas gives her hip soothing rub and she clutches the fabric tighter, “Tell me and you’ll have it. Fuckin’ anythin’.”

“I just told you want I want,” Y/n huffs, shifting so she can settle on her back. Lifting her hand, she reaches to touch his face. Slowly, she drags the back of her fingers up the side of his face, caressing his sharp cheekbone, the tip of his ear and then the side of his head. “Why don’t you ever stay?” She asks softly, searching his eyes.

“Its complicated, you kn-”

“Its been complicated,” Y/n rolls her glassy eyes and sniffles. “I love you,” she professes in a hushed, pitiful tone, “But I hate this,” Y/n admits just as Thomas lifts his hand so the tips of his fingers graze her cheek. When he doesn’t respond with anything more than icy blue eyes searching hers, she continues, “It feels like we’re trying to outrun something,” she looks past him, to the plain ceiling above.

Thomas doesn’t return the profession of her affections, he never has and Y/n often thinks she’ll never hear those words from his lips. But in the absence of them, she’s interpreted every minuscule action- and inaction- to mean that he does love her. The tenderness of his touch, his forehead pressed to hers after they kiss and his arm curled around her shoulders pulling her close.

Knitting his brows, Thomas regards her curiously, “What do you mean?” His thumb traces her jaw and he searches her eyes, “We’re good, everything’s alright,” it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than he is her.

Swallowing thickly, Y/n shakes her head, “Its not,” she sits up, taking handfuls of the sheets up with her to guard her modesty and Thomas shifts to slide an arm across her back and tuck her into his side, “I see it in your face all the time. That guilt; You don’t want to do this to…” Y/n can’t even bring herself to say Grace’s name, “Her.”

He doesn’t offer an immediate response, which is enough to tell Y/n that she’s right. “Its complicated,” Thomas eventually repeats.

Licking her lips, Y/n scoffs, “Is it complicated or is everything alright?” Sniffling, she turns her face towards the wall to her left, pale yellow flowers decorating light pink paper, the orange glow of the evening sun making it seem a bit brighter than it usually is.

He’s going to leave soon, like he usually does. She doesn’t even know why she even bothered asking him to stay when she’d known the answer before it came.

“Why’re you changing your mind on me, eh?” He gives her shoulder a squeeze, “What we have is good. You get what you what, I get what I want; it works.”

His words cut deep; they make whatever it is they have between them seem so transactional. His certainty scares her too; is that what's always been to him? Money and sex?

Y/n has never been a prostitute, before Thomas she held herself in high esteem; she’s a school teacher at his wife’s orphanage, she doesn’t give herself up to just any man, especially not married ones- but he’d walked into that place one morning and her whole world had been turned on his head. He roused a flutter in her stomach that she’d never felt before and his crude charm was unlike anything she’d ever come across. She’d known he was married even then, she knew whose husband Thomas was, but Y/n couldn’t resist his offer to dance at the orphanage’s annual Christmas party or his flirtations when he’d led her to a vacant balcony.

“I like you,” he’d said, lips close to hers and fingers curled under her chin.

He liked her. She liked him too.

“Have you ever been to London?” She hadn’t, but she should’ve said no, “I have a place there, a club. Lots’a rich fuckers,” he’d chuckled and she’s smiled, “But fuckin’ good champagne. I’d like to take you.”

Y/n should have said no, she sometimes wonders what would have happened if she had.

Would someone else have come along after? Would Thomas have persisted in his pursuit?

“Not anymore,” Y/n shakes her head, “Not for me,” sniffling, shrugs off his arm and reaches for her slip, which hangs off an iron bedpost. Suddenly embarrassed to be naked around him and burning with the desire to cover up, she tugs on the silk garment and pulls in down her thighs as she shuffles out of bed.

As she stands, Thomas reaches for her hand before Y/n can walk away, “What can I do, eh? Mm?” His calloused thumb caresses the back of her hand as he gazes up at her with wide, desperate eyes, “Why don’t we go away for a weekend? London, the country- whatever you want.”

Licking her lips, Y/n glances down at their joined hands, “Will you go home after?” The question ushers in a period of tense silence and Thomas averts his gaze for a moment.

“Y/n,” he breathes her name and just for a moment, she thinks Thomas is going to give her the answer she’s hoping for- or at least, a worthwhile lie. But when he doesn't, a lone tear slips past tangled lashes and warms its way down her cheek. “You know its not that easy for me.”

“Well this isn’t easy for me either, you know,” Y/n wretches her hand away and hastily swipes at her face, “Next time your bored of your life,” she shakes her head and by then the tears are falling, unchecked, “You should stay home,” her voice breaks and her throat burns.

Gathering the sheets around his hips, Thomas rises from the bed to follow Y/n as she heads towards the door of the adjoining bathroom, “Sweetheart, think about this, eh,” he tries to reason placatingly, “You don’t want to do this.”

She really doesn’t.

“Doesn’t matter,” Y/n swallows thickly, pausing as she reaches for the knob, “Please….just go.”

When Thomas reaches for her arm, she lets him, almost forgetting herself and submitting to his comfort. “Neither of us want that,” he offers quietly, “Please don’t do this to me,” he pleads.

His desperation seems so genuine that Y/n briefly considers back-tracking. Briefly. But she can’t keep living like that; in the shadows, like a crime. She cannot stand to be just another thing that he needs to atone for; another regret on his ever-growing list.

And she’s starting to hate that he’s even made her one in the first place.

“Just go!” In a fit of unbridled anger, she snatches her arm away and then pushes at his chest when Thomas tries to get closer, “Just go and leave me alone!” She snarls, “Go back to your fucking wife,” a sob punctuate her words and Y/n bends her head as she cries, “And leave me alone.”

“Is that what you want, eh?" He swallows harshly, "For me to leave you the fuck alone? So you can....fuck!” She knows he can come up with a million insults that'll hurt as much as a serrated blade hacking away at her heart, but Thomas spares her and she can only hope because deep down, she does mean more to him than a good shag. In the absence of razor sharp words, Thomas’ jaw tightens and his gaze hardens, matching her fury.

It takes a handful of seconds before she finds the resolve to answer, but when she does, she lifts her head and squares her shoulders, “Yes.”

Mirroring her defiance, Thomas’ grip on the sheet around his hips tightens until his knuckles are white, “Fine.”

For a solid minute, they linger there, her back to the bathroom door and Thomas in the middle of the bedroom. She can’t tell whether or not he’s hurt, he’s always been good at protecting his feelings- she’s never known anymore about him that he’s wanted her to.

And yet, Y/n thinks she’s as close to him as anyone could be.

But no more.

“Y/n-” The minute her name leaves his lips, Y/n turns abruptly and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door so harshly behind herself that the frame rattles. Lurching forward, she drops to her knees and turns on the hot water and still gripping the glass knob with one hand, she holds onto the lip of the porcelain tub with the other as her loud wails join the sound of falling water.

At least she doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore.

#cillian murphy #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #cillian murphy x reader #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders #fanfic #daylight

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two-white-butterflies · 3 months

Text

house of the dragons masterlist

Daemon Targaryen

We Raise Our Cups to Them - Daemon gifts you a necklace.

The Last Dragon - You thought that you were the last dragon. That was until you met him.

You Taste Like Wine - The story of how Daemon gained his thorns. (Tyrell!Reader) ➺ pt.2

A Little Life - Short drabble on Daemon and your son.

Wanton Desires - Daemon speaks to his wife while you give him head.

Orange and Tangerines - You and Daemon visit a brothel.

Ingenue - Daemon falls in love with a wolf. ➺ part two. (Stark!Reader)

in the land of gods and monsters - You were the Queen, but you loved the prince. (Tyrell!Reader)

A Heaven I Can’t Reach - You were left by the Rogue Prince. You find out that you are pregnant, and he returns.

The Prince of Flea-Bottom - (Hightower!Reader)

Ghost of You - Your soul consumes Daemon with avarice.

Fuck the Rich. Fucks the Rich. - Threesome with Harwin.

Maroon - It is the night of your wedding, and instead of making love. You both decide on playing chess.

Anti-Hero - You are the first-daughter of Viserys and Aemma, as she realizes what war is about to begin. She marries her uncle.

Midnight Rain - You used to be Daemon Targaryen’s fiancee, until he is forced to marry Laena Velaryon. You fall in love with Aemond. years later, Daemon returns.

Labyrinth - The reader is the daughter of Viserys and Alicent. Daemon almost gets the entire court high with weed brownies. The reader spreads a malicious rumor about Daemon.

Poison From the Same Vine - (Hightower!Reader)

Bigger than the Whole Sky - You become a glorified hostage for the Blacks. Your husband refuses to show his love. (Hightower!Reader)

The Smallest Coffins are the Heaviest - Daemon comforts you after a miscarriage.

Arms Length - Daemon swears to corrupt you. ➺ part two ➺ part three

Mob Wife - mafia au

White Sword - angst with smut.

The Sun Rises from the West - angst poc!reader

i’m a m*therfucking starboy - you meet the infamous prince of dragonstone. [enemies to lovers trope]

fence - he’s your dad’s best friend.

therese ➺milk matches her underwear ➺horses, cars and cowboys do - in where, your private life becomes public. [secret relationship trope]

two white butterflies ➺ how to disappear ➺ miss american pie - daemon begins dating a singer who hates the spotlight.

i shouldn’t cry - prince daemon in love with a rich girl.

false god - you are forced to choose between family and ambition.

Fresh Out The Slammer - daemon targaryen always found himself running to you after his failed marriages.

good riddance - daemon is forced to choose between love and duty.

Viserys I and Aemond Targaryen

His Real Ambition - being a matriarch to a family was has hard, watching the love of your life marry someone else is harder.

in the land of gods and monsters - You were the Queen, but you loved the prince. (Tyrell!Reader)

Midnight Rain - You used to be Daemon Targaryen’s fiancee, until he is forced to marry Laena Velaryon. You fall in love with Aemond. years later, Daemon returns.

The Alcott - You are Rhaenyra’s oldest daughter. You meet your uncle in Winterfell, and you heart feels like jumping off your chest.

Peaches - your stepson’s swimming instructor can’t stop staring at your ass. introducing, jealous aemond. | mafia au

Let the light in - you fall for your father’s right hand man | mafia au

This is me trying - a late night phone call after your team falls short on the podium. aemond comforts you, and provides you some comforting. some phone loving.

Fucking in my BMW Sedan - exactly what the title states.

I want your heart - vampire aemond

the winner takes it all - you are engaged to another. (angst)

my way, back home - aemond wants to have a big family.

A Man Who Knows - (angst)

Hands of Gold - Aemond meets an older woman. (smut)

Thranduil as Aemond's Dad - (headcanon)

Aemond Reacting to You Wanting to Break Up with him - (headcanon)

you’re losing me - after a gruesome breakup with jace - his billionaire uncle offers you a proposal that you can’t resist. [fake dating trope]

illicit affairs - it was forbidden to date a man like him. but still, you choose to fall. [cheating trope]

cats and dogs - you meet him in the animal shelter.

emma falls in love - fake dating trope for taylor swift tickets.

Rhaenyra, Helaena and Aegon Targaryen

me and the devil - rhaenyra targaryen seduces otto hightower.

exotic flower - rhaenyra garden date.

don’t you - you meet your ex-girlfriend in a party while wrapped around the arm of your brand new fling. a fight begins. messy sex.

Wanting Was Enough - Aegon falls for his father's caretaker.

extended masterlist

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #daemon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfic

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huramuna · 5 months

Text

wine red, tears gold - chapter 1.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 4.6k

aegon wasn't as badly injured from Rook's Rest like in canon in this AU, he has a few burn scars near his torso but wasn't crippled / bedridden.

this is for my 100 followers poll. it was supposed to be a oneshot but will be a mini series in 3 or 4 parts. this is my first time writing aegon and it will also be somewhat of a character study.

thank you for 100 followers and everyone who participated in the poll. love <3 thank you @randomdragonfires for beta reading, mwah mwah.

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn

its been so long - the living tombstone • nobody - mitski

chapter specific warnings: awkward sex, p in v, virginity loss

Every day felt like a new restraint, a new button added to the collar choking around Aegon’s neck. He had done it– he had freed the realm of the false queen, his half-sister– and lost almost everything to do so. When did it end? When did he get to relax and run the realm as he saw fit, since they so intended to have them at the helm. He wore the conqueror’s crown, wielded his sword and bore his name and yet he couldn’t do as the conqueror actually did. Rule. He felt more like a dog than a dragon these days; but that was just a pattern in his life. They wanted him when they needed him and he was to shoulder their burdens as eldest son.

His grandsire kept breathing down his neck to secure another wife, another heir, another alliance brokered with another pompous house.

“Listen to me, Aegon,” Otto began, his fingers laced together as he sat at his desk. He had summoned Aegon to the Tower of the Hand– he was summoning the King, rather than the King summoning him. Somehow, his council had let Otto weasel his way back into the position of Hand, Aegon’s mother in tears, pleading for it. There wasn’t anyone else fit for the job since Criston had died– and he was never really fit for it anyhow. “We must move quickly to provide you with a new wife. The realm won’t remain stable if we tarry in producing an heir for the throne.”

Aegon sat in the seat across from him, feeling more like a child than a King. He twisted the signet ring on his pinky finger. “It’s too soon. It would be an insult to Helaena.” he replied, not looking up at Otto. Helaena had only passed a few moons earlier and the wound was still fresh for all of them. Aegon never loved her like a wife– how could he, they were too different, too young– but he cared deeply for her as his sister and the mother of his children. Even thinking about taking another wife this soon felt like a betrayal. He would be like his father then.

A small huff and a rustling of papers was heard– Aegon was still too distracted by his signet ring, the thin light filtering through the half drawn blinds, causing a small glint off of the bronzed metal. He didn’t want to look up to see the expression on his grandsire’s face, he knew it was one of disappointment. Aegon couldn’t remember the last time that someone hadn’t looked at him with contempt, disappointment, melancholy.

“You must understand. You have a duty to the realm–”

“Fucking duty– don’t speak to me of it. I’ve done my duty for enough lifetimes. I let you put me on the throne and usurp my sister and look where that’s gotten us? Everyone is fucking dead, Otto. Jaehaerys, Maelor, Helaena, Aemond,” he paused for a moment, lifting his head up to meet the Hand’s gaze head on, “Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey– do I need to proceed? The majority of our bloodline is wiped out because of you and your ambition.”

Otto snorted, standing up from his desk slowly. He grabbed a decanter of wine, pouring them both a goblet. “You misunderstand. Everything I’ve done has been… for our family’s legacy– for the realm,” he placed the glass stopped back into the carafe, “Don’t you dare act as if I am not hurting for the loss of family– but war is war, boy. People die. It is unfortunate that… the ones close to us did. But we can’t live with our head in the clouds any longer, there is a realm to run and the crown comes with responsibilities. A wife and heir are one of those paramount responsibilities.”

“I have an heir. I still have one remaining child– Jaehaera is my heir. I deem it.” he spoke quickly, staring at the goblet of wine. He had reduced his intake of alcohol since the war ended– but the need for it was always there, always aching. He suddenly felt parched. Giving Otto a haughty stare, he took a sip from the glass, feeling his muscles instantly relax.

“Don’t be daft– have you so quickly forgotten what happened when the King last named a female heir?”

“It wasn’t that Rhaenyra was a woman, Otto. People would’ve learned to adjust if…” Aegon took another sip, clearing his throat, “If she hadn’t been infatuated with her freak of an uncle, you would’ve been able to control her easier, hm? It's always been you and mother behind the crown these past two decades– not me, nor my father.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Otto griped back, gripping his glass, “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about. Rhaenyra–” he stopped, taking a breath, “Rhaenyra is dead. They’re all dead, you’re right. But there is still the whole of the Seven Kingdoms requiring a leader, especially now. A leader with a united front with a queen and babe. I won’t argue further on this matter.”

Aegon acquiesced. He would rather deal with Otto’s venomous viper tongue talking him into things he didn’t want to do now instead of his mother visiting him hours later in hysterics– he couldn’t bear it. Alicent was more of a mess now than ever. “Fine. I leave this in your very capable hands,” he stood up, swiping the whole jug of wine, “At least find me a pretty one.”

–

She was plain, unbelievably plain. Long, curled brown hair desperately in need of a trim, a poorly tailored dress that needed to be more fitted at the waist, stature too small and unremarkable to stand up to anyone of importance. Oh, and picked cuticles, the spots of red eking out from her nail beds. Mayhaps she and his mother would get along just jolly, then. She was to be his prospective wife and bear him more heirs. He wanted to shove it back in the council’s face and say he has an heir, his only living child, Jaehaera. Melancholy and withdrawn as she was, she was his heir.

The council disagreed, allowing Borros Baratheon to shove his last unwed daughter at him like a piece of meat that no one wanted.

Her eyes wafted up to glance at him, every move of hers uncertain, cautious. She was so deathly aware of each minute gesture, her posture having to be adjusted to straighten every few minutes.

Lyanna Baratheon wasn’t of prominent knowledge and reputation like her sisters, aptly named ‘the Four Storms’ – she didn’t remind Aegon at all of a stag or a doe, but rather something more diminutive and easily killed, like a prey animal. Mayhaps a rabbit– it would be an apt description, as she had giant eyes, brown –almost black– in their hue, a shiny glaze over them as she stared at the ground. Every so often, their eyes would meet, brown to violet, and she would look apt as Aegon thought she was.

A rabbit begging for its life.

Borros Baratheon stood beside her, murmuring something into her ear. He was a boorish oaf of a man who couldn’t even read– Aegon wasn’t the brightest star in the sky when it came to matters of literature, that’d always been his brother’s realm, but atleast he could fucking read. He thought it quite hysterical that his house sigil was that of a Stag when Lord Borros reminded him more of a boar. Mayhaps he should change it.

As he continued to whisper to his daughter, her expression went from sordid to panicked, then back to sordid. She wasn’t very good at masking her emotions– she would need to learn if she were to survive at the Keep. The tips of her fingers twitched slightly and she was obviously holding herself back from tearing into her nail beds.

“Lord Borros,” Aegon broke the tension, “Perhaps I should show your daughter around the gardens while you speak with my grandsire. We have the most beautiful gardens here and I’d imagine that Storm’s End wouldn’t have something quite as grand,” he glazed over Borros’ blank stare, “due to the storms, of course.”

Lord Baratheon adjusted his doublet, which was far too small for him— did the Stormlands not have a proper fucking tailor? — and nodded, “Yes, that would be amicable. It would do some good to familiarize yourself with one another before the wedding in a week’s time.”

Aegon’s throat felt parched. He knew that they were speeding things along but he didn’t anticipate it to be this fast. Grabbing a bottle of wine from a nearby servant, he descended back to Lyanna, intent on whisking her away as quickly as possible. Not because he found her particularly interesting, rather the opposite, but he needed an excuse to get out of the room. The insistent thrum of his pulse in his neck was all too loud. His arm looped under Lyanna’s, “Come, my lady,” he hummed, trying to seem like he was somewhat collected and kingly and not on the edge of chugging the entire carafe of wine and smashing it over the next poor fucker’s head. “To the gardens.”

He practically strung along the poor girl, who hurriedly agreed and tried her best to keep up. “Y-yes, your grace,” she mewled, her feet tapping on the ground at irregular rhythms as she hung onto Aegon’s arm, bouncing against the stone walkway toward the gardens, “King’s Landing is… very beautiful, my king– your subject must be very pleased.”

As they descended the cobbled steps down to the garden, Aegon eyed her warily, “Did your father tell you to say that?”

“N-no, not exactly–”

“He did. Anyone with half of a brain and a working nose knows that this accursed city smells of shit. You shouldn’t lie, my lady. You’re quite bad at it,” he took a small breath as he looked at her expression– the poor thing was on the verge of tears. “You will get better in time,” he continued with a slightly softer tone, “This Keep is full of great liars and you don’t seem… too much like your father. I am sure you will pick up quickly. How old are you?”

“Nineteen, your grace.”

Aegon resisted giving a derisive snort, instead uncorking the wine bottle and tossing the stopper into the grass, “You’re quite young, then,” he took a swig, feeling the bitter tasting liquid coat his mouth, “All the better for heirs. Or so I’m sure that we’ve both been told.”

In truth, some would consider her a bit late in age to be married– but Aegon didn’t care as long as he wasn’t robbing the cradle like his father did to his mother, or Daemon to Rhaenyra. He was twenty-six himself and tried to remember what he was like when he was nineteen; he couldn’t exactly pinpoint an exact memory. It was mostly a blur.

“I am… hopeful to provide you with many healthy heirs, my king,” she replied, her words sounding rehearsed. She is as poor of an actress as she is a liar, then. She paused for a moment, looking at her hands, “I… do not wish to replace the late queen, her grace, Helaena– I merely wish to fulfill my duty to the realm and my family– I am terribly… sorry to hear about Helaena, my king. As well as your prince brothers. War is a terrible thing.”

Aegon blinked profusely a few times. Her words after her pause sounded genuine– mayhaps she is capable of thinking for herself. She seemed… softhearted, even if a bit naive. He regarded the bottle in his hand for a moment, swishing it around. No one had really apologized to him for his losses– the enumerable amount of them he’s gone through these past few years. They all bowed their heads and wouldn’t meet his gaze, as if their blood was all on his hands. Mayhaps it was. He swallowed, his mouth pursed in a thin line, “... War is indeed a terrible thing, my lady.”

They walked for a few hours around the garden, talking about various things. Aegon still found her quite boring and uninteresting to look at– she wasn’t ugly by any means, and could be considered pretty, but she was just so terribly plain that it bored him to tears. Her speech was all faux and he tried to eek out any genuineness to her words through different subjects– all to no avail. It seemed the sore subject of Aegon’s family was the only thing to break her from her carefully crafted script.

Eventually, they parted ways– for the better, he thought. She was a fine match, a fine age, a fine vessel for his seed to produce a royal heir and whatever other innocuous thing his grandsire needed from him.

What a terribly dreadful life he’s let himself sink into.

That night, he drained two bottles of Dornish Red, falling much into the same state of mind he had when he was nineteen. Wandering to the Street of Silk, he whored and drank himself into a state of sloven mania.

In the midst of his drunken ramblings, he wondered if he could ever find someone who would truly love him or if his opportunity had already passed.

–

The wedding followed in the timeline that Borros and Otto had set– as quickly as possible. The council dipped into the coffers to make it happen, it was to be an extravagant event, a new beginning for the realm. Artisans, fine bakers and cooks were all hired to make the wedding a facet, stringing up red, green, yellow and black banners, making dozens of delicate pastries and even cooking six turduckens to line the tables.

It was all lavish and opulent– and Lyanna could not feel more out of place. The past week at the Keep had been a whirlwind of planning, gown fittings, flower picking. Her sisters were there in attendance, speaking up more than she on what to pick. It was fine with her, as she couldn’t bring herself to care for it. The gaudiness of it all made her feel ill.

She had only met with Aegon the one time, the first time. Lyanna felt she made a terrible impression— she was so nervous that day that she’d vomited twice that morning, all while her father screamed at her to get it right, to say exactly as he told her to. For the most part, she had done just that— played the perfect little puppet for him and said all those empty words that meant nothing.

She was meant to see Aegon at least three more times before the wedding, as there were a few dinners arranged between their two families. He had been absent for all, his mother citing that he was unable to attend for various reasons but nothing overtly specific.

Alicent Hightower was a nice lady— she was warm to Lyanna, talking to her at the dinners when no one else had bothered. She was the person who Lyanna felt most comfortable with in the Keep and was grateful that she was to be her good-mother. Alicent was a bit frayed at the ends from the loss of her other children; she was haunted, her eyes constantly red-rimmed and murmuring prayers under her breath.

The morning of the wedding, Lyanna was summoned to Alicent’s solar to get ready.

She knocked on the door, “Your grace— it’s Lyanna.”

“Come in, my dear,” she called out, a maid opening the door to let her in. “How are you feeling this morn?” Alicent was perched on the settee when Lyanna came in, and immediately rushed over to her, taking the young girl’s hands in hers.

“Quite nervous,” Lyanna responded, her hands quivering ever so slightly, even under the warm touch of Alicent. “May I speak plainly, your grace?”

“Of course,” she ushered Lyanna to the loveseat and had the maid pour them both tea, then promptly shooed her out. “It’s just us now, speak your mind, sweetling.”

“I-I am afraid that… Aegon will not like me. I fear I didn’t make a good first impression— he seemed quite bored of me.”

Alicent took a sip of her tea, giving a small sigh. “I will do you the favor of not sugarcoating words and speak plainly like you have done with me. Aegon will not like you,” she pursed her lips into a thin line, twisting the signet ring on her finger, “Aegon is a creature of debauchery and sin— and you are a good, pious girl. You are like oil and water.” her brown eyes met Lyanna’s, her expression softening. The two women had a fast camaraderie, praying together each morning in the Sept. “You… may not love him, or even like him— but there is a duty upon you to fulfill. It is a burden we carry as women, my dear. We are always behest to the men in our lives,” she stopped, her eyes glazing over with a far-away look, “I don’t mean to be discouraging. You are a… good hearted young woman and I believe you can channel that into something positive as the Queen.”

Lyanna felt her stomach quivering at Alicent’s words, her skin flushing. “I… appreciate your plain speech, your grace. I just… do not wish to displease him.”

Alicent’s mouth twitched at each end as if she were mulling something over. “It will be hard to please him, my dear. You are nothing like the women that usually please him,” she wiped a hand down her face, “You remind me so much of myself, Lyanna. Pushed into something you are… ill-suited for. You’re a sweet and kindhearted girl and I don’t wish for you to tear yourself apart on the inside and feel as if you’re not good enough for him– you are, you are too good for him, too pure, too-” Alicent took a measured breath, “You are not what he wants and you never will be, my dear. It will do you well to know that now rather than years later. There is always someone else in their eyes– women like you and I do what we can. I pray you will find things that keep you happy.”

Lyanna picked up her tea cup with trembling hands, taking a sip. There seemed to be more to Alicent’s words than them just being about Aegon– but she didn’t want to push it. Dipping her head, she thanked her good-mother-to-be once more.

–

“Wake up, wake up!” a voice boomed, rousing Aegon from his haze as a carafe of cold water was poured on him. The girl latched to his cock like a leech let out a shrill scream and scrambled away.

“Fucking hell– who the fuck?” Aegon slurred, blinking profusely half a dozen times before his vision came into focus. It was one of the Kingsguard, one more behest to his grandsire than him– and his grandsire, Otto, who had the now empty container of water in hand.

“Wake up, you ingrate,” Otto growled, grabbing his grandson by his collar, hoisting him up onto his feet, smacking his cheek gently. “Your wedding is in two hours and you’re passed out in a whorehouse. You’re the king, for the Seven’s sake– I thought you left this debauchery behind, atleast have your whores at the keep instead of being in these pits of sin.”

“You can put a number of different hats on a bear, you know,” Aegon slumped against the wall, “Many kinds of hats; a hood, a felted dante, a linen coif, a cowl, a straw hat, a jester’s garb– heh, that’d be quite funny–”

“Is there a point to your drunken babbling, Aegon?”

“Yes, ah– you can put many types of hats on a bear and change its look but at the end of the day, its still just a fucking bear,” he straightened out his stained tunic, “Point being– you can stick a crown on my head, put a sword in my hand and put me through a war to keep me on that fucking throne but guess what, grandsire, I am still just a bear at the end of the day.”

Otto stared at him, brow furrowed. “You aren’t a bear, you’re a dragon and a king, so act like it. You are getting married in two hours and you look like a sloven mess. You’re lucky that Borros is as blind for power and recognition as he is or he would take his daughter back to Storm’s End and you’ll be stuck with the next best choice.”

“That boring rube of a girl was my best choice? I must be fucked, then, either way.”

Otto and his Kingsguard dog dragged Aegon back to the keep, and observed while maids scrubbed him clean, red and raw. He was put in a nicely fit green suit, his House cloak strapped to his shoulders. It was a whirlwind of events that led up to the doors of the Sept being opened and Aegon ushered in.

His stomach churned and he felt sixteen again, forced to wed his sister. He remembered being hardly conscious throughout the ceremony, fumbling over his cloak and practically smothering Helaena in it.

He looked down the aisle at Lyanna, who was dressed in a pale yellow dress with long, flowing sleeves. She had a high collar with black lining and antler embroidery all over the garment. It was actually well fitted this time, likely thanks to his mother, and it turned out she actually had a figure, with plush hips and a well-endowed chest. Her brown hair was half up, half down with an assortment of intricate braids– it reminded him of how Rhaenyra used to wear her hair and he wondered who thought to style it like that, and he wondered if he was the only one who noticed.

As he walked down the aisle, he saw his mother in the front row– she was crying, thumbing a pendant in the shape of a Seven Pointed Star.

The ceremony was a blur to him, as he put the cloak over her shoulders and sealed their union with a kiss– a chaste one. She tasted like lavender tea. As he pulled back, he noticed that her eyes were rimmed with tears, and he felt the familiar sting of tears in his own eyes.

The feast was much the same, as he drank himself into a numbing stupor. He only had one moment of clarity, as some of the rowdy guests began to poke and prod at Lyanna, talking about the bedding ceremony. She looked visibly uncomfortable, picking at her nail beds under the table. Something about the sight of her discomfort and pain stirred something in Aegon that he couldn’t name– maybe he was feeling sentimental from the alcohol, but a surge of possessiveness flowed through him. He wasn’t known to be possessive, much the opposite in fact. But the egregious actions of these men pawing at his wife– their fucking queen, mind them– making disgusting insinuations. If she were a whore, it’d be different– but she was so… innocent, so coerced in all of this just as he was, it felt wrong.

Aegon snapped, slamming his cup down, “There won’t be any fucking bedding ceremony,” he growled, “My wife and I will be retiring to our chambers– alone. And if… any one of you lays another paw on her, you will lose it.”

Lyanna stared at Aegon, those huge brown eyes wide. Her lips were parted slightly as he once again strung her along the halls to his– no, their– chambers. She was shaking.

Once in their chambers, he let go of her, uncorking another bottle of wine and taking a swig. “I presume you think that this is where I will fuck you, hm? Stick my prick in you and make an heir and we will all live happily ever after like a child’s storybook.”

Lyanna stared down at her feet. “It… it would be… the duty of husband and wife to consummate–”

“Fuck duty! I’m not going to fuck some weepy eyed maiden because my old fuck grandsire said so. I don’t have need of you in that way.”

Her hands were trembling as she unlaced the back of her dress, her movements autonomous– she was doing what she thought she should be doing in this situation. She began to undress, slipping her gown off and leaving her in her silken shift, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. The sight of her body, soft, stirred something within him for a moment, like a spark trying to ignite kindling.

“We don’t have to do this, Lyanna,” he murmured, using her name for the first time. He put down the wine bottle. “We can wait.”

“N-no! Please, I want to– please,” Lyanna whispered, practically pleading for it, as if she wanted to get it over with. “Please.”

Aegon rubbed a hand down his face. “Get on the bed then. Lie on your stomach.”

She did as she was told, laying flat on the bed on her stomach. She clutched some pillows as a lifeline.

He knew he should warm her up, he knew that they should want to touch one another, he should want to see her face– but he didn’t. He couldn’t bear to look at her face, or touch her for longer than was necessary. He barely shimmied down his trousers before he began poking at her entrance with a half-hard cock, partially trying to give her a moment to get used to the sensations, and partially trying to find where he was supposed to stick it– he knew, of course, he’d fucked his way through King’s Landing and then some, but he hadn’t fucked many maidens, and especially not when he was blind drunk.

Eventually, he hit home and slid into her, his movements slow at first. He could hear her whimpers and knew they weren’t of pleasure. It reminded him of his wedding night with Helaena where they’d both cried– all the memories of that night came flooding back, causing him to falter.

Lyanna looked back at him, her eyes puffy and red, “I-Is it over?”

Aegon swallowed sharply, cringing as he stared at her. The moment of arousal he had– purely from stimulation alone– was gone now, his half-hard erection deflating completely. “Fuck– yes, it’s over.” he didn’t have the heart to tell her that it in fact had hardly started before it was over– and not in the good way. He pulled out of her, taking in a deep breath as he walked to the water basin and soaked a cloth with warm water, offering it to her. “Wipe yourself– it will help with the… pain… and blood.”

She took the cloth, wiping away the remnants of their half-fulfilled consummation. “I-I’m… sorry,” Lyanna whispered, sniffling, “I know I am not what you want.”

His mouth was pulled into a thin line as he turned away. “You’re right. You aren’t.”

They fell into bed next to each other and Aegon’s mind was swimming as he tried to sleep. He didn’t know what he wanted. He never wanted any of this– he just wanted to be a kid again with no responsibilities, with all of his siblings, even Rhaenyra– he would’ve… he would’ve been nicer to all of them, he wouldn’t of picked on Aemond, he would’ve gotten to know Rhaenyra better, he would’ve played with Helaena’s bugs, he would’ve taught Daeron all of the secrets of the castle. He would’ve told his grandsire to fuck off when they were to crown him and had Sunfyre char him to a crisp and given the crown to Rhaenyra.

He would’ve been loved then.

He just wanted to be loved.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon ii targaryen angst #aegon ii targaryen fluff #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #my writing #wine red tears gold

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