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kpopnstarwars · 27 days

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Within the Storms of Giedi Prime: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: the long awaited part two of upon the sands of the arena is hereeee

tw: 18+, smut (more than last time hehehe), p in v, swearing, Feels™, death, assassination, use of the Voice (not on feyd), less violence but still violence, i lack faith in my sequel writing abilities, blowjobs, SUB FEYDDDD, also DOM FEYDDD, sex Outside, lightning and thunder (it says storms in the title what do you expect)

wc: 4.2k

part 1

Giedi Prime is a miserable planet.

It’s evident in the choking, black smog from the factories in the dense air fused with the anguished cries of overworked slaves and the distant rumble of the still active volcanos. You’re near the Harkonnen’s palace grounds - you’re heading towards them, actually, and the promise of a… pleasant night; to your left, you can just about glimpse the looming silhouette of the great arena, squatting like a hulking beast on the horizon, waiting to swallow any poor soul that gets too close to its gaping maw.

Tonight, roiling storm clouds reign the sky, sending sheets of furious rain pounding down upon anyone who dares to be out at this hour - including you. Harsh bolts of lightning spear down, hurtling towards the ground like incensed, condensed moonlight and casting freakish shadows.

Moonlight: the colour of Feyd’s skin. If it weren’t for him, you’d already be off this sorry planet - alas, you must stay a little longer, your body already a little warm at the memory of his skilled fingers and scorching gaze. You haven’t been back since the encounter with the na-Baron in the arena months ago, and you can’t help but feel the sting of doubt in your chest, wondering if he’ll still want a second time, or if you’ll sneak into his room only to find yourself replaced by a concubine.

Not that you occupy significance to him anyway, you remind yourself. Feyd-Rautha could not replace you, because there would be nothing to replace, just ashes of a once bright fire.

Irked by the weakness of your own mind, you pull the hood of your cloak lower over your face, tightening it across your shoulders. The hem is sullied by browning blood: you disposed of your quarry just this morning, and delivered the decapitated head during the early afternoon.

Conveniently, the Bene Gesserit have left you alone for now, most likely tangled in the politics regarding the Kwisatz Haderach while trying to predict the next movement of Jessica Atreides - word is that she has burrowed her way deeper into the desert, surrounding herself and her son with the more fanatic of the Fremen as she bides her time, ready for her next strike.

It means that you’ve been granted enough time to establish yourself as a bounty hunter. For a highly trained Bene Gesserit, the work is easy, and earns you coin a plenty while keeping you on the move and as in shape as assassinating sloppy idiots attempting to run from debt and petty disagreements can.

Slipping through the palace’s perimeter proves easy enough. You use the Voice on a few guards, preferring it to cutting their throats: instructing them to keep quiet and forget you passed by causes much less of a commotion. The scaling of the ramparts that make up the circumference of the inner palace is the most challenging, due to the stone being slick with moss and rain - your fingers dig into the cracks between the weathered blocks of stone, the wind snapping and tugging at your cloak, fiercer now that you’re higher up.

There’s a narrow battlement ringing one side of Feyd’s room. You land on it silently, padding over to the window sill; curtains made of heavy black fabric layered on a dark, wispy privacy layer shroud most of your view of him. His pale skin is almost luminescent under the jagged flashes of lightning bathing his quarters, the blanket having slipped half off him during the night. He lies with his bare back facing you, although it’s hardly a vulnerability - you doubt anyone would be able to creep up on him easily enough to bury a knife into his exposed back without him tearing their throat out first.

Apart from you - hopefully.

Carefully, you ease the window open. A frigid gust of air rushes in as you climb through, and you witness the exact moment that Feyd awakens and becomes aware of your presence; imperceptibly, the muscles in his back ripple before he settles again - you posticipate the feel of them under your palms, hard, lean, perfect for sinking your nails into.

A thrill rushes through you at the sight of him, a sort of wondrous feeling, keen as a knife and just as cutting. You want him all over you, you want him to consume you until all you can remember is him and his smouldering eyes and sensuous touch.

Shrugging off your cloak, you let it pool to the floor around your feet before toeing off your shoes too; breath caught in your throat, you steal over to his bedside, your hand ghosting over the solid curve of his shoulder blade before you grip his shoulder, turning him so his back is flat against the mattress and straddling him in one fluid motion.

The cold kiss of metal meets your neck.

You almost moan at the look on his face. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wild, frenzied almost, glittering with the same danger as before. Running your hands up his hard, sculpted chest, you smirk down at him, watching as ever so slowly, his gelid gaze defrosts with recognition, the ice giving way to those all encompassing flames, flames that you surrender to unequivocally.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ you murmur, fingers circling his wrist.

Feyd blinks, watching you as if he’s going to eat you as always. Slowly, the hand not wielding the knife roams waywardly down your spine, grabs a harsh fistful of your ass and lingers before gliding upwards and settling on your waist. He huffs, an abrupt, amused sound, but you don’t miss the way he greedily drinks up your figure with his eyes.

‘I thought I scared you away, little witch. Presumably, it was not too much for you?’

‘For me?’ You muse. ‘We’ll see.’

Knocking the blade from his hand, you ignore the screeching noise it makes as it skitters across the stone floor, instead enjoying the subtle inhale, loaded with expectancy, that Feyd takes as you lean in close to him. You hover above him for a prolonged moment, arms boxing him in, before he lurches upwards, connecting your lips with his.

A growl sounds at the back of his throat when he tastes you, licking into your mouth as his fingers press at the small of your back, bringing your lower body to meet his. Rolling his hips against yours, he tangles his fingers in your hair; you feel giddy with the feel of him against you, solid and warm and wanting, so real beneath you, so fucking insatiable.

You can’t get enough of him.

Slowly, you pull away, ablaze with the ravening craving in his eyes. The muscles in his well shaped chest flex as he tips his face up, following your lips, and you smile disarmingly at him, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his trousers and pulling them down.

Taking his chin in your palm, you tilt his head so you can look him in the eyes before swiping your thumb over his lower lip, savouring the way he’s putty in your hands: a man destined to be the Baron of one of the most influential, powerful Houses in the Imperium, a lethal, strikingly skilled warrior, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, humbled by your touch.

‘Let me taste you,’ you breathe - it’s almost a command.

‘Please,’ he chokes out, imploring you with his eyes.

Laughing, you press a hand to his sternum and push. He sinks back into the mattress, compliant, and you trail your lips down his neck and sternum, leaving hickeys in your wake. You're seized by the need to make him shake and beg and cry; you want to devour him.

Dragging your nails cruelly down his thighs, branding him with livid red scratches, you tilt your head to the side, a smile playing upon your lips as you listen to the groan that leaves him, the pricks of pain setting him alight with longing. There’s a devout look in his eyes - a fervent, zealous sort of lust that stirs within you with the impulse to make him forget his own name.

Curling your fingers around his hard length and giving him a few pumps, you watch him under your lashes, something akin to a power rush spinning your head around and around. Feyd is wonderfully sensitive, and a sneer pulls at your lips when his fingers scramble for purchase, fisting in his silky sheets as you press a chaste, loitering kiss to his cock head - a pearl of jet precum sits at the apex of it, dark against its rosy, delicate flush.

Dipping your hand into your pants, you collect your slick on your fingers and use it to jerk him - when you glance up, his pupils are blown wide; lips parted, he stares at you, transfixed.

Eyes locked on his, you take him in your mouth: his thighs tighten, every muscle taut as you run your tongue along the veins wrapped around the underside of his cock. His head tips back, displaying the strong lines of his neck as you hollow your cheeks, rubbing your thighs together to ease the increasing ache between them. Jaw slack, you gag when he hits the back of your throat, and he growls at the sight of your hungry eyes growing watery.

You toy with him, teasing him with your tongue and grazing your teeth lightly over his length until he’s gasping your name; the way the syllables leave his tongue is almost pleading, his chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, his thighs shuddering, wracked with tremors.

It’s evident that he’s close, the voracity in his eyes so hot that it melts your bones, sending heat pooling in your core - you’re going to let him wreck your cunt after this; ruin you for any other man. Trembling, his pale fingers hover near your head, splaying over the expanse of your shoulder, his eyes fucking begging for permission, so you pull off him, laughing as his hips jolt forward at the loss, his cock twitching when your fingertips graze his balls.

‘Go on, Feyd,’ you coax. ‘Do as you wish.’

A tender, honeyed noise rips from low in his chest, almost a whimper, a sound you know no one has extracted from him before. It’s the only warning before he fists his hand in your hair, hips bucking as he fucks into your mouth, his eyes rolling back as you gag around him, the debased moan that escapes you sending vibrations down his cock.

You almost black out when he comes down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the lack of air reaching your lungs or the sweet pain of Feyd’s hand yanking at your hair, but you’re sure that you’ve never taken so much pleasure in someone else’s release. Slowly, you sit up, moving to lie beside Feyd, and he smiles dumbly at you, maybe a little fucked out as he leans in to kiss you, sighing as he tastes his own come on your tongue.

‘I could spend hours exploring you, my little witch,’ he says, pressing his lips to your jaw.

Feyd flips you over with only an echo of ferocity from your previous fight, disrobing you and gripping your thighs, spreading them. Your hands find his shoulders, his back, your fingers resting in the dips of muscle there, trailing down the length of his spine as his own find your slick, yearning cunt.

Outside, the storm blows harder, rain pounding down upon the planet’s surface in sheets, lightning lancing through the thick billows of clouds; it is during one of these strikes that you glimpse that Feyd’s eyes are not as dark as they seem, but the colour of glaciers and blue fire. Within them, just beneath the keenness of his electric gaze, lurks something else - something that makes you hesitate. He senses it immediately, fingers pausing their movement, so you fit your lips to his.

You kiss him to avoid the emotions roiling in his stormy eyes.

He responds immediately, and you easily dismiss the thoughts clouding your mind; he barely knows you, there’s no room for the feelings you just saw in his gaze. You seek his body, not his soul, and it is the same both ways.

‘Fuck me,’ you mumble against his lips.

All coherent sentences leave your mind when he flips you over again, this time with your stomach pressed to his bedsheets as he kneels on the mattress behind you.

‘Ass up, my little witch,’ he commands.

Something within you goes molten at the sound of his voice. You can feel his gaze straying all over your skin, greedy, so you tuck your knees beneath you and arch your back, biting down on your lower lip as his palm presses against your lower vertebrae. He chuckles; it warms your bones.

‘You’re so filthy, little witch, displaying yourself for me.’

Bolts of ecstasy shoot through you as Feyd slides his cock head through your folds, his broad hands gripping your hips so tightly that you’ll be left with bruises. Your breath is punched from your lungs when he sinks himself inside you, balls deep, white hot pleasure rocketing down your spine - it tears a wretched cry from you, more so when he starts a brutal, near sadistic pace, the angle destroying you with vicious bliss.

The drag of his searing, velvet cock on your walls makes your toes curl. You think your body might shatter into a million pieces, the way he plucks the euphoria from it so agonisingly, so beautifully. One of his hands finds its way between your thighs, his thumb rolling endlessly over your clit; you find yourself teetering on the edge, suspended there a moment before you fall.

The way your cunt convulses around his cock as you come doesn’t stop Feyd. Unforgiving, he ploughs into you, his fingers still working on your clit, not breaking his rhythm even as you writhe beneath him, trying to jerk your hips away from his to no avail. It’s too much, the pleasure melting delectably into pain and still he can’t stop, won’t stop, his low snarl a warning in your ear as he pins you to the mattress with a hand between your shoulder blades, leaving you helpless to do nothing but take him.

Tears well up in your eyes, soaking into the sheets beneath you as he rails into you, his fingers speeding up on your clit until you’re begging him, tremors shooting through you from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His grip on your hips is unrelenting, and you sob as his pace increases, the savage friction sending you over again.

For the second time, you come hard around him, pussy clenching and fluttering, ragged cries wracking your body. This time, you bring Feyd with you, the sound he makes sharp and almost pained. He pulls out, and you mewl at the sharp tug of friction, panting as he comes on your back and ass, claiming you with his dark seed.

Breathless, he sits back on his heels as you straighten your legs until you lie full stretch, revelling in the post orgasmic rapture. Dimly, you hear his footsteps on the stone floor, but you pay them no mind, instead letting your eyelids droop as you rest your chin in the crook of your elbow.

Gentle hands encircle your ankles, carefully opening your legs. A second later, you feel a warm cloth at the apex of your thighs, and you whine, flinching away from the overstimulation. You hear Feyd’s chuckle, and the comforting sweep of his thumb against your skin as he cleans you up, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses on your back as he does; barely a moment after, the mattress dips, and strong arms pull you into a warm chest.

‘How are you, my little witch?’

You hum in response, not wanting to use words. Something niggles at your brain, even through the haze of pleasure. It’s got to do with the na-Baron’s gentleness after he fucks you; it unsettles you, the sweetness of him, and now these words, as if you’re a lover, and not… whatever this is.

One of his wide palms runs up and down your ribs, and you shove those thoughts to the side, instead enjoying his touch, the way your body fits into his, his chest pressed against your front as he traces patterns on your skin with his deft fingers; his lips brushing the nape of your neck, leaving soft kisses there. You find yourself curling away from him a little - his hands on you make something deep in your chest stir to life, something that shouldn’t be there. It’s -

A blinding flash of lightning, followed by the deep, throaty growl of thunder illuminates the room. You’re facing the door: in the crack between its solid masonry and the floor, you glimpse a shadow.

Hastily, you turn, one hand meeting Feyd’s chest, fingers falling into the dip his collarbone makes as you search his eyes, urgent. He stares back at you, not quite guarded, but not quite open any more, and you’re filled with the urge to protect.

‘Give me your knife,’ you hiss.

He sits up halfway. ‘What’s - ’

You push him back down, glaring at his resistance. You can sense the change in the air, hear the subtle scrape of someone’s boot across the stone floor and the swish of clothing behind the door - or maybe it’s just the building storm outside, the escalating charge in the sky as another bolt of lightning is generated.

‘Feyd. Give me your knife.’

Eyes quizzical, he produces it from somewhere behind him, handing it to you hilt first. It’s just in time, because the door swings open, a masked figure silhouetted there. You whirl around, covering Feyd’s body with your own.

They’re holding a knife.

It doesn’t take you a moment longer to send your knife hurtling towards them. The blade seethes through the air before embedding itself with a thunk into the assassin’s shoulder, and as they drop to the floor, you’re up in another second, poised in case there’s another. A flash of movement catches your eye - the dropped knife, retrieved and held in blood soaked fingers.

‘Stand down,’ you snap.

The Voice echoes through the room, and you pluck the knife out of the now frozen assassin’s grasp and slit his throat. Turning, you see the glimmer of amusement and awe in Feyd’s eyes; assassination attempts probably occur often, an estranged Bene Gesserit using the Voice in his room less so.

‘So many people seem eager to sneak into my bed chamber tonight,’ he remarks. ‘Although I must admit I preferred the first one.’

You laugh, collecting your clothes off the floor. ‘I’m glad.’

As you pull on your trousers, followed closely by your shirt, Feyd gets up, and you’re struck by the slow manner in which he approaches you, so much like the way he prowled towards you in the arena, but this time his eyes concerningly soft, his deadly, killing machine of a body marked with hickeys and love bites.

‘Why do you always rush to leave so fast, my little witch?’

‘I - I have places to be,’ you stammer.

He tilts his head. ‘At this hour of the night?’

‘...Yes.’

Feyd takes one step closer, close enough to kiss. ‘What are you afraid of?’

You back towards the window. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he warns. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

Shaking your head, panic rising in your throat, you turn, the glass chilly on your fingers as you open the window. Feyd catches your other hand, but you whirl around and lash out, a blow to the face followed by a blow to the legs, and he staggers backwards, giving you enough time to slip out of the window and onto the battlements.

Outside, the storm has whipped up, the howling wind tearing at your hood and blowing it off, the rain immediately pouring down to soak your hair, sting your eyes, wet your face. You need to run, you need to get away from him, but the weak part of you - the part that you fear - slows your strides, tugging at you as if it’s tied to Feyd somehow.

He catches up to you easily enough.

Of course he does, he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and he is inexplicably bound to your soul in a way you cannot describe, in a way that terrifies you, shakes you to your very core. He catches your with a hand around your upper arm and presses you to his chest, your treacherous body reacting to him the way it always has as he stares down at you with those burning, icy eyes, droplets of rain running in rivulets down the moonlight planes of his chest.

Unease tears through you. You see it in his eyes, that he feels it too, and you dread the way it does not disquiet him. Your soul feels like it’s slowly rending in two - you need to get away from him, from the unguarded way he regards you, dedication clear in his unwavering gaze, but all the same, you need to remain with his arms trapping you to him, in the bewildering magnetism of his psyche.

‘Tell me what you fear, my little witch.’

You answer through clenched teeth. ‘I am not yours.’

‘You evade my question.’

You stare at Feyd, confounded. This man before you is the same man that you duelled in the arena, yet he is different; there is a certainty in his eyes, an acceptance that you yourself flee from. You’re drawn to him, even as the instincts that have kept your hollow heart intact all these years squall for you to break loose - and yet you fear that too, the evasion, because you know that if you run now, a part of you will be lost, snapped under the tension.

‘What do you - ’

You cut Feyd off. ‘Do you know what I fear, Harkonnen? I fear the look in your eyes, because it’s not just desire any more. You do not seek me in order that I inflict pain and pleasure alike upon you, you seek something else. I fear the look in your eyes because it is the same feeling that rises traitorously in my chest when I look at you, and it terrifies me.’

He’s silent.

You grab his shoulder. ‘Tell me you feel nothing, Feyd. Tell me you crave me for the thrill of adrenaline and the feel of my body - tell me and do not lie.’

His eyes bore into yours. ‘I cannot.’

‘Exactly.’

You wrest yourself from his grasp, turning and striding down the battlements. A strange feeling overtakes you, a prickle behind your eyes and a lump in your throat, an aching tug at your heart which you stalwartly ignore. It is over - you’re done. He made it harder than it ever had to be, but you’re going now.

He grabs your hand. ‘You cannot either, my little witch.’

Struggling, you snarl at him, clawing at your chest, but he pins you to the wall, his eyes aflame, searing, calling to something in you that rises up to meet him. This time, it is too strong; you cannot push it down, a part of you not even wanting to. You can feel Feyd all over you, your senses overwhelmed by him, by the way he presses his forehead to yours, forcing you to meet his gaze.

‘You do not have to fear it,’ he whispers. ‘Just let go. You’re holding on too tight.’

He dips his head, claiming your lips. You give in, yield to it, let it wash over you and carry you away on its blissful waves, your heart swelling in your chest at the way he touches you, tenderly, as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon; this is not Feyd, but this is him, irrefutably so.

You think this might be love.

It is a wild, white hot blade in your heart that twists, beauteous, enthralling. You believed that it would weaken you, shackle you, but you blaze with the glorious flare of it, the kiss of Feyd’s hips against yours stoking it further. Truly, it is magnificent.

In the only way you know how, you show him. It’s cataclysmic, the way you’re pulled to him like a comet caught in a planet’s gravity, streaking towards him, fated to collide, your hands roving over him, his over you, the taste of rain blooming on your tongue as you bite down on his shoulder, muffling a moan as he ekes sweet, tender pleasure from you. Your head tips back against the stone, eyes raised to the weeping sky, your lips parted as he fills you with his cock.

Feyd looks at you as if you are a goddess. He worships you, cradles you in his arms, anchoring you, grounding you. You do not know where he ends and you begin, nor do you want to know; you wish for your souls to meld, you wish for the two of you to be alone in the universe, unbothered by time or fate or anything.

‘You are mine, little witch,’ he intones against your rain soaked skin. ‘I am yours.’

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cataclysmic-cathexis · 7 months

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The Usher siblings' colour coding, seen in their clothes and especially prominent during their final scenes are a reference to the Poe story "The Masque of the Red Death" (which is the name and plot of Prospero's episode).

In the story, Prince Prospero has sealed off his castle while a horrible plague called the Red Death sweeps across the land. To entertain himself and his court, he holds a masquerade. The masquerade is held in a succession of rooms, each with a stained glass window of a different colour, and the room is then decorated to match that colour.

These windows were of stained glass whose colour varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood colour.

Each of the Usher siblings' palette, and the camera filters for their deaths, has a colour corresponding to the ballrooms in the story - I think Camille is a combination of blue and white, since she's more of a light blue, plus her white hair.

I see what you did there Mr Flanagan

#mike flanagan #the fall of the house of usher #tfothou #edgar allan poe #the raven #nevermore #someone has probably mentioned this already #but i haven't seen it

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soulofapatrick · 5 months

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Whispers in the Storm - Sanji x Female Reader

Summary: You wake from getting injured, wanting no-one but Sanji

Words: 2k

Warnings: none

Y/N’s POV

I wake with a jolt, a sharp pang slicing through my side. Groggy. From sleep, I wince and shift, trying to find a comfortable position. But there’s no escaping the persistent ache that throbs across my entire left side. I tentatively touch the source of the pain and recoil at the tenderness. A massive bruise spans the expanse of my left side when I lift the shirt I’m in, seeping discomfort with every moment. I’m a galaxy of deep blues, purples, reds, greens and oranges.

Confusion clouds my thoughts; I can’t remember how I got this injury. The events leading up to this moment remain shrouded in a foggy haze. I’m guessing we fought Arlong, it was probably during that. I wouldn’t be surprised as I remember Nami crying, Luffy placing his trusty hat on her head and then nothing. My mind races, attempting to piece together fragmented memories that elude me.

Pushing through the discomfort, I stagger to my feet, crying out in pain that leaves me temporarily breathless. The sound has Nami and Robin stirring from their bunks, glancing at each other before shifting their gazes towards me. Nami’s concerned gaze meets mine, her eyes widening at the sight of my injuries, as if only seeing them for the first time now. Without a word, she rushes over to me, slipping an arm around me to steady my very unsteady form. Her touch is gentle, though every movement sends a fresh wave of pain rippling through me.

“Where do you need to go?” She doesn’t try to tell me to rest, knowing I’m not going to, her voice soothing, a contrast to the turmoil of pain coursing through me.

“Sanji.” I manage to whisper, the name escaping my lips almost instinctively, just wanting my best friend right now. Despite the agony of moment, there’s an inexplicable comfort in knowing he might be able to help, his care a balm for the turmoil within me.

With a single nod, Nami supports most of my weight as we navigate the ship’s corridors. Each step feels like traversing a minefield, my breath hitching with every jarring movement and tears prickle my eyes. The bruises paint an intricate canvas of agony, the hues of pain etches into my skin, a mosaic of suffering that extends from my left armpit to my left knee.

The journey feels endless, every inch an ordeal as we finally reach Sanji’s quarters. Nami gently knocks on the door before there’s shuffling on the other side and then it swings open, revealing a very sleepy Sanji.

He looks so good and even through the pain I can’t deny it that I am head over heels for him. He’s standing in the doorway in only a pair of loose fitting trousers that are desperately clinging to his sharp hips, hanging dangerously low and flashing some of his v-line. He’s shirtless, pale skin for all to see and abs all I can stare at until Nami and Sanji snap me out of it.

Sanji's sleep-ridden expression fades instantly, replaced by a deep concern that's mirrored in his stormy grey eyes. They widen with distress at the sight of my battered state, and without a second thought, he steps forward, taking me gently from Nami's support.

“Thank you, Nami.” He murmurs gratefully, his attention solely focused on me. With careful guidance, he helps me settle on the edge of his bed, his movements gentle as he ensures I’m comfortable. The room is bathed in a soft glow as he switches on the light, illuminating the galaxy of bruises that paint my skin.

Kneeling in fronton me, Sanji’s brows furrow in worry, his hands hovering hesitantly over the colourful expanse of injuries on my thighs that he can see. His touch is feather-light, as if afraid to cause any more discomfort, “Oh Mouse,” his voice is soft, filled with genuine concern, the nickname he has for me a warmth in my cheeks, “How far does it..?” He trails off, as if scared to know.

Sanji's eyes widen as I remove my shirt, wincing the whole way, revealing the full extent of the bruise. But instead of any hint of intrusion or averted gaze, his reaction catches me off guard. There's a mix of emotions swirling in his eyes—concern, a tinge of anguish, and a depth of care that goes beyond what I expected. His gaze doesn't linger on my body, instead, it's fixated on the mosaic of colours that mar my skin.

“Oh Mouse,” He utters again, “I’m so sorry.” He whispers, voice thick with emotion, his fingers trembling slightly as he reaches out to touch the tender expanse of bruises. His touch is feather-light, cool against my burning skin. A gasp escaping me at the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. In that moment, his usual suave demeanour fades, replaced by a raw vulnerability that tugs at my heartstrings. Without a word, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the bruised skin of my stomach. It’s a gentle and intimate touch, filled with a depth of care that sends shivers down my spine.

My hand instinctively moves, carding through his fluffy blond hair, a silent reassurance that his presence alone is a soothing balm amidst the pain. His lips linger for a moment longer, a gesture that speaks volumes, conveying a sense of comfort and empathy that words fail to capture.

As he pulls away, his gaze meets mine, a silent understanding passing between us, that unspoken bond enough for him to know what I need. Climbing to his feet, he moves with purpose, rummaging through a chest of belongings until he finds an old tee-shirt form his days at the Barite restaurant ship. The shirt carries a faint scent of the sea and memories of his past, a comforting familiarity in the midst of chaos.

With a gentle care, he helps me slide into the soft fabric, its oversized fit providing a sense of comfort and warmth. Tenderly, he assists me in laying down on my right side, ensuring I’m as comfortable as possible. His actions speaking volumes, a silent promise of being there through the night, offering solace and support in this moment of vulnerability.

As I settle on the bed, he joins me without hesitation, mirroring my position so we’re facing each other. His presence beside me feels like a sanctuary, a haven of comfort amidst the storm of pain. His gaze lingers, a silent reassurance that I’m not alone in this and he reaches out, caressing my cheek gently, a gesture so intimate I feel my cheeks heat up.

“What happened with Arlong?” The words escape my lips, tinged with curiosity and an undertone of confusion about the events still.

Sanji’s expression shifts, a flicker of surprise knitting his brows together again, “You don’t remember?” His voice carries a hint of concern, registering my confusion with a palpable worry.

I shake my head, frustration and unease bubbling within as the foggy tendrils of memory refuse to weave into a coherent narrative, “It’s all a blur.” I confess, the frustration now seeping into my tone.

His eyes widen slightly, a mix of disbelief and concern etched across his features, “You… you saved Zoro.” The gravity of his revelation hung heavy in the air, momentarily stunning me with its weight.

“I did?" My voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief that danced on the edges of the fragmented memories I desperately tried to grasp.

“Yeah, you shoved Zoro out of the way and took the blow yourself,” There’s a rare mixture of admiration and worry in his voice as he recounts the events, “You were thrown into one of the funfair stalls. You were unconscious until now.” Snji fills in the gaps with a gentleness that belies the gravity of his words, his concern palpable in every syllable.

The realisation washed over me in a tumultuous wave, a blend of awe and disbelief that swirled within. Despite the haze that clouded my memory, a sense of pride swelled—a pride that stemmed from the knowledge that I had instinctively acted to protect a fellow crewmate. Yet, the hollow spaces in my recollection left an unsettling feeling, a disorientation in not being able to piece together the entirety of the sequence.

“I was so worried.” He admits, voice barely above a whisper, a tremor of concern evident in his whisper, and I grip the wrist of the hand that has be continuously caressing my cheek, stilling it to press a gentle kiss to his palm.

Our eyes meet again, his stormy grey gaze locking with mine in a moment that feels suspended in time. The hand that had rested on my cheek moves to gently grip my chin, a tender yet hesitant gesture. He leans in, his lips hovering close to mine, a vulnerability creeping into his nervous actions which is very un-Sanji-like.

“Stop me if I’ve misread this.” His words linger in the charged air between us, a plea for consent, for assurance that his actions and feelings aren’t one sided.

Without hesitation, I close the remaining gap, letting his uncertainty with a softness that brides the unspoken gap. Our lips brush in a tentative yet tender kiss, a silent affirmation that speaks volumes, quieting his nervous ramblings.

The moment our lips meet, its as if a surge of warmth envelopes us, an electric current coursing through the connection. His lips are soft against mine, a gentle touch that holds a world of tenderness. There’s a subtle sweetness to the taste, a mixture of salt from the sea air and a faint hint of the tea he brewed tirelessly in the kitchen.

As our kiss deepens, a sense of familiarity washes over me, as if this moment has been waiting months to unfold. His breath mingles with mine, a rhythm that feels strangely synchronised, each exhale carrying the weight of worries and uncertainties that had haunted the edges of my consciousness.

In Sanji’s tender embrace, there’s an unspoken language—his touch conveying a yearning for reassurance, a desire to meet halfway, while mine echoes an affirmation of understanding and reciprocation. The intimacy of the kiss speaks of shared emotions, a quiet proclamation of trust and affection that transcends the chaos of our surroundings.

The closeness, the warmth of his presence, the way his fingers trace gentle paths along my side—it all stirs a whirlwind of emotions within me. It isn’t just the softness of his lips or the taste of salt and familiarity; it’s the way he makes me feel—safe; understood, and cared for in a way that goes beyond words.

As our lips part, Sanji’s grey eyes meet mine, filled with an intensity that speaks volumes, carrying an ocean of emotions within their depths. There’s a softness in his gaze, a tenderness that seems to overflow with an unspoken declaring of affection.

“Fuck, I have to say it, I was so scared I was going to lose you,” he chokes out, “I love you," the words escape him in a gentle whisper, sincere and heartfelt, before he leans in to brush another soft kiss against my lips. It's a fleeting yet tender affirmation of his feelings, a gesture that speaks louder than words.

The kiss lingers for a moment, a silent reassurance of mutual emotions before Sanji breaks away, his expression soft yet determined. "We should try to get some sleep," he suggests, his voice carrying a tone of care and consideration.

His suggestion hangs in the air, a gentle invitation to rest, to seek solace in the quietude of slumber amidst the chaos that had engulfed us. With a soft nod, I acknowledge his words, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment settle within me—the residual echoes of his declaration of love resonating within the quiet moments that followed.

“I love you too Sanji.”

One Piece Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

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darlingofvalyria · 8 months

Text

❝I never asked you to, you bumbling oaf.❞

[ Between advices and jealous-fraught fights, nestles your heart in red satin and ivory touch. Or, your marriage so far with the firstborn son of the King. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,901 ] | Aegon Targaryen II x Wife!Reader

contains— fluff & smutty - nsfw: oral (f receiving), p & v sex, creampie, breeding kink(?), - soft shit if aegon got to at least have a bit more agency lmao - jealousy - sorta angsty in the beginning but eh - your house is unnamed but you're a bad bitch - no use of y/n - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— it wasn't going to be a full smut, but aegon happened so here we are. comment, reblog & like at will, mwa!

Fraught might be a marriage arranged— cost and effect, weighed by titles and expectations of such matches made, emotion of either future spouse the least they weigh when they make their decisions — but you had grown to adore your husband.

You had been warned, of course. Gossip and small-minded chatter followed the firstborn son of the King. That despite the regality of Targaryen roots and colouring, he was a whoremonger, an addled-drunk, a monstrous caveat shrouded in dark green silk and iron.

You were called a victim, a damsel in distress meant to be saved before you had even met him. And yet not a single one of them batted an eye, much less offered a hand to rescue you from such turmoil. More than prepared to send you off. Others, of course, wishing for a prince to be married to their house, spit their scorn and irony.

The day you met him was a hot day. The sun basked the Crownlands with an almost venomous hatred, and it did not help your anticipation. Nor the long and arduous travel that turned the carriage into a hotbox meant to cook.

Your rear had ached in pain, almost as painful as your pinched cheeks that your grandmother had twisted unto your skin before you got out to meet the Queen, the Hand, and your betrothed, reminding you that a Princess Consort must always look her best, must appeal to her husband at all times "but must not be whorish! And sit straight, by the Seven, girl! Remember to exit gracefully! Like a swan, not a duck! Yes, there is a difference! Scamper your sarcasm!"— your gown was heavy, cinched tight and thick in beautiful fabric and small pearls and sapphires.

You had smiled prettily, bowed perfectly, and when you finally faced your betrothed, he was barely able to stand, pale as a sheet, and suffering from his cups the night before, sweat weeping on his brow.

It had sent a strike down your spine, irritation and anger spinning beneath pearly teeth. You bite down any word before they escape, forcing you to a perfect posture and a sharpened edge to your smile.

Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name, had taken a step back, almost subconsciously, as fear flashed in his darling blue eyes.

Your good brother, having found out of this first interaction, had not stopped teasing your husband for the next few moons. Your good sister, you were told much later, had hummed wistfully, fingers dancing between rings as if she knew much more than anyone else, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.

The memory makes you laugh now, warming your cold fingers against your first winter storm in Kings Landing. Snow torrents in whirlwinds and spikes, filling the Godswood in flurries and icicles.

Your Lady In Waiting, Emma Redwyne with her pretty Tully red hair and curled lashes that you had always found envy in, bows in greeting. You don't acknowledge her, which you recognise as nothing but pettiness, but you can't bring yourself to stop. You continue to stare forward, hand outstretched in the flurry of snow, when she awkwardly speaks.

"The prince is in your bedchambers, my princess."

You hum in acknowledgement, but no more. She shifts.

"He says he will not leave lest it is you who tells him so."

You turn to her, churlish in your expression of irritation and she winces, tucking her chin once more in false reverence before you sigh. The Lady Redwyne had been a friend once, an acquaintance really. Your grandmother had warned you that though you should have a good relationship with your ladies, it was best to keep them at an arm's length.

"Vipers and greed make stock in the centrefold of power, my dearest," she murmured, gnarled hands twinning your hair, a colour close to her own when she had been your age. You had been told you looked just like her, a gem in her era, her hand sought after by lords and princes alike before your grandsire made a weighty proposal to her house. "No matter what friendship you can build, all of it is but fat clouds and sandcastles. Pretty as they are, easily destructible by the next gust of wind."

"But they would be my ladies." The idea that the women closest to you should be kept with a good eye brought a weight to your chest. Trust is a hard thing to grasp in this place, you were fast learning.

You grandmother tutted, her hands cupping your chin, tilting upward until the same eyes met. One aged and knowing, another young and soon will understand the weight of life. Of the coat she bore with her husband's house in front of the Sept.

"Just watch and see, my sweet. Your future husband is a prince. They will try their damnedest. But you should not lose, for you are his wedded consort."

Now, your eyes linger on the cut of Lady Redwyne's gown. Far too revealing for the coldest touch of the year. The rogue in her cheeks, in her lips. There is a new necklace nestled on her bosom, no doubt an insistent gift from her father.

You wonder if your husband had stirred at the sight of her full visage. That if you had not been upset with him as it it, and have not abandoned your marriage quarters for three moons now, his fingers would have danced across her pale collarbones, fingering the dropped ruby at the centre of her throat. Pressing a light kiss on the gem.

The fornicated memory brings nausea and anger, but you are not new to your role, much less the greed of others, even those closest to you, so you strangled it with will.

If Aegon had dared to mock you anew while you were both in cold waters, he has been too aware now of your anger and what it means for him.

You look back at the peek of red leaves still attached to the tree, almost a stubborn refusal to move with the order of the gods, and you smile despite yourself.

"... My princess?"

Your annoyance spikes.

"And if I tell you to tell him that I will sleep in another chamber, mayhaps upturn a chamber meant for guests, will he then rot forever in my bedchamber?" You turn to her, eyebrow arched. "Will he not be accosted for leaving his duties undone? Must I treat him as a babe throwing a tantrum? Soothe him?" You step toward her. She flinches, a bird wanting to take flight but knows better than to move without her mistress' orders. "Or have you already tried so, to soothe the prince, and have been told to scram, to fetch me, for you are not his wife?"

Her eyes flutter, chest heaving. "My Princess, please—"

"Enough," you say primly, gathering your skirts. "Come to my chambers before dinner but no earlier. The only reason I haven't sent you back to the Reach is by grace and no more."

"My princess." She bows again and you don't miss the clenched jaw as you leave in a flutter of your bloodred gown and arched chin.

You have only just turned a corner when you hear a voice, soft and silky, familiar for many moons now.

"That was harsh of you, good sister."

You pause and spin, letting out a small laugh at the appearance of your good brother. Tall and princely in visage, he inclines his head in greeting while you bow.

"You are mistaken, my prince."

"Hm?"

You smirk. "That was kindness on my part."

He hums, fighting off a smile. Or what you think is a smile. Prince Aemond is still a mystery to you, but he is polite and you find yourself in good ease with your good brother. Unlike your husband, he wears his duty like armour and wield it like a sword. More than once, you are made to imagine what it would be like to have been married to him instead of your husband, and you blanche at the thought.

Though there is complications and evergreen misunderstanding with your husband at most turns, you cannot find yourself happy to the idea of being married to the One-Eyed Prince. There is nothing to say of his scarred appearance— as it does nothing but exemplify his gifted wielding of the sword, but being so honour and duty bound as you, it would be a cool, crisp marriage wheeled on routine and silent understandings.

A monotonous life might be a mercy to most, a dream to some even, but it brings hives to your skin at the mere idea.

Silent dinners and polite conversations are one thing. A marriage built on everything but... it would unsettle and madden your soul.

He offers his arm. "May I escort you to your chambers and my sad sack of a brother?"

You temper your giggle, taking his elbow. "I would be delighted."

Quiet pinches both of your measured footsteps, but you revel in its serenity. Maegor's Holdfast is stone and steel in the winters, fewer bodies lingering in corridors and corners to stave off into rooms with heat, but the rest that do are about, bow at your persons.

"I see you are adjusting well," he finally says. You turn, eyebrow arched. "As a princess consort of the realm."

"Was I so unprepared in my earlier moons?"

"In a way. Helaena says you are still comely and kind, despite being married to my brother."

"I am satisfied in my marriage, Prince Aemond," you say, unable to stop your raised hackles and need to defend your husband. "My duty to the realm is not strained in the least, and I... care for him."

He gives you a long look but you refuse his stare. He hums again, and whatever topic is breached is dropped. The quiet follows up until the doors of your chambers where he stops.

"Thank you for escorting me, my prince. I know your duties occupy your time."

"A duty of mine is to ensure my good sister is in safe hands." He gives a beckoning bow, notching an eyebrow at the door. "And I wish you ever happiness with your marriage to my brother, the Seven knows your duty is harder than mine."

Before you can retort, he is gone, and you are left with a sigh before you push through.

Though a prince, there is nothing princely of Aegon's sprawl on your bed. His gold, silver spun hair like a halo akimbo his face. Warmth emanates from the fire while he plays with his fingers atop his stomach.

"I thought you will ignore me once more, my wife," he speaks to the air, face still straight to the ceiling.

As you close the doors, a nod to your sworn shield, your straightened shoulders hunch as you relax. An unladylike snort breaking through the quiet. You don't see it, but Aegon smiles at the sound, a pang hitting his chest at the sound of comfort that he misses so.

"These are my chambers, husband," you say. "Unless you are meaning to kick me out of the Keep in total, I think my appearance in my own is not a totally shocking thought."

You sit beside him but do not lay down, giving him a good look as he stares up at you with a vacant expression. He is sober, in a way that there is a glassy sheen to his mullish blue eyes the colour of lightning and thunderstorms. His pallour is pale and his clothes are rumpled, but there is no near stench of wine or woman.

In fact he smells like Aegon on his good days; dragon and grime at the edges, soot and wind.

"I have not been to the Silk Street since we have been married," he says as if reading your thoughts. "I have not, and will refuse, to stray from our marital chambers." He gives you a poke. Like a child. "Unlike you."

You know he is telling the truth. He made the vow to you on your marriage bed, hands intertwined, fresh purple blooms appearing on your throat as he bore crescent shaped moons on his back.

You had to wear high-necked collars for two weeks. In the summers. It was impossibly awful, but the memory of your first night is one you cherish. What you go back to when tempers flare and sadness beckons in corners.

He had spent that first night worshipping you, ensuring you are more than sated before he had taken his own pleasure.

"But women who want you need not be whores to tempt you to their beds," you finish softly, unable to stop yourself as you take one of his hands to your lap, spinning the silver ring he keeps on his last finger.

"My wife, dearest to my heart." Your eyes flutter close at the endearments. It was a running joke to both of you, a joke that evolved with sincerity and... well, you hoped was love.

"I had tea with your grandmother, wife."

You looked up from your lunch, lips thinning at the joke and excitement nestled in giggles he was holding back. "Oh no. I knew I should have sent her back home the minute our vows were over."

He laughed then, taking the unoccupied seat across from you as he pressed his lips to your head. It made your heart flutter, even more so as he plucked a berry from your tart and offered it to your lips. He looked with insistence so you ate it. He pressed a thumb to your bottom lip before pressing a soft kiss to his own lips. You tried not to furiously blush.

"What has she told you?"

"Many a topic." He laughed again at your groan. Aegon had found himself enamoured with you as days past. Learning how you act less primly and more comfortable in his presence had brought him a good sense of happiness. Something he thought he lost forever. And he found, the happier he made you, the stronger the happiness in himself grew. It was an addicting feeling.

"But the prime idea were endearments."

"Endearments?"

"That a husband and wife with a pretty marriage such as ours, as we are royals, must show hope and perpetual peace for the people."

You frowned. "And... endearments give perpetual peace to the people how?"

"A show of the stability of our marriage. Of fondness. So now, I shall call you my dearly beloved heart."

You made a strange, strangling sound that had your husband giggling in surprise. "Pardon me, my prince. I—"

"Your precious honey bee."

"... Excuse me?"

"Babycakes?"

"Are you ill?"

"The darling of your eye, then."

You blinked. "Pardon?"

"What you call me," he teased.

"I refuse."

"You refuse?"

"Yes." You fought your own smile. "You are not the darling of my eye, and calling you thus, will make me a liar."

The pinched expression of jealousy made you bite your lip. "And who is, pray tell, the darling of your eye?"

"My grandmother."

You pressed your lips together. Aegon blinked in shocked. Then the both of you burst out in hard laughters, holding your chests and stomachs.

"We shall find an endearment for your beloved husband then," he announced after he had gasped for breath, dabbing the tears collected from his eyes. His smile enchanted you, wide and beautiful, upturned with a gaze as if he was beheld by the most darling of creatures. The urge to skip over him, drape yourself on his lap, and kiss him silly was an urge you pushed down.

"The... babe to my wondrous bosom?"

"Aegon!"

"So in counsel? That is not a definite no."

"My love?" he calls now, bringing your shared hands to his lips. "Lay down with me."

Before you can retort, he pulls you down to him until your warmth is shared, burning in a single flame. A sigh leaves your mouth, and the sound urges him to pull you impossibly closer.

"Women may find themselves in our bed, but unless they are you, they are nothing," he says after a minute. You tense up and he rubs your back. "I have made a vow."

"I will not hate you if you do. Anger is sordid, but I know my role. I know that is common practice for husbands, and as Princess Consort—"

He pulls you to him, your chest pressed against his as he held your face in his hands. His eyes are sad but his gaze is firm. "Your role as my wife does not mean you stay silent in your anger. Fight me. Make as much ruckus as you want. Tell Sunfyre to burn me to a crisp. You know as much High Valyiran as I at this point."

You laugh, forehead falling on his chest as you feel the burn in your eyes as tears escaped you. "I am no dragonrider."

A laughter rumbles his chest. "Could have fooled me," he teased.

"What?"

When you look up, he is smirking. "You've ridden me before."

"Aegon!"

He noses your jaw, kissing the edge of your chin. "The lemon of your tart, you mean."

"No, I do not." A sigh leaves you as his kisses turn into suckles, his hands holding you steady, rubbing circles against your skin.

"I think... I am fully forgiven now? For you have slept far away from me—" You yelp as he bites your ear, "— for too long a time. And for spending more time with my brother than you have of me in a while. Truly unfair punishment."

"He has only escorted me."

He flips you both, unlacing the front of your bodice with adept fingers while he leaves a trail of bites at every exposed skin. "While I wait by your chambers like a lovesick fool?"

"I never asked you too, you bumbling oaf."

He huffs a laugh, ripping down the front of your dress as you shriek, eyes meeting your own with a dark glint, before his hot mouth envelops your pert nipple. You keen.

"I am still a-angry with you," you sigh, running your fingers through his silver locks. When your body adjusts, seeking to pleasure the warmth between your thighs, he moves lower as if he can read your mind, read your wants, and when you make a roll of your hips right against his tenting manhood, his groan vibrates against your breast to your ribcages.

"I understand." He leans back on his hunches, smile sweet, before he shuffles around and underneath your dress, past your small clothes, and takes a slow swipe of his finger against your warm, wet folds. Your hips buck, a gasp leaving your throat, and he breathlessly laughs.

"Your beloved honey bee would like to taste the nectar between your thighs that you have so graciously held against me for so long."

You groan, suppressing a shiver as he holds your thighs steady with his own laughter. "The urge to kick you is strong, my husband. Enough to risk the Lord Hand's ire. And your mother's."

He groans, stilling in the midst of pushing your skirts up, he pops his head back toward you. "Please, owner my beating heart. The fire to my dragon. The lemon cake to my tea—

"— that one is your least creative one so far —"

"— Let us not speak of my mother, gods forbid, my grandsire, while I am between your legs. For the good of the realm."

"The good of the realm?" You scoff. Then yelp as he bites your thigh, soothing it with a lap of his tongue.

"Yes, my sweet, the good of the realm." He pops back to you, hair askew, eyes devilish, as he grins. "It is common knowledge that heirs are for the good of the realm. And I cannot bring you pleasure if you keep mentioning people I'd rather not imagine while doing so. And your pleasure, from what your grandmother had told me from our many afternoon teas, my sweetest, golden love, is important for my heirs."

Your giggles turn breathless when he disappears beneath your skirts once more. "I surrender then... apple of my tarts."

The sound of his giggles underneath your skirts soon grow muted against the sound of your pleasure. The thing about Aegon, is that pleasure is meant to be savoured. So as he slowly tears through your own clothes while he makes you reach your peak once, twice, thrice— your skin drenched in sweat, rose blush bloomed your face and neck, arms weakened and thighs unable to hold steady — you turn to your husband, the haze of your orgasm clouding any rational thought as you beheld him, still fully clothed with your juices on his face, a proud smirk twisted on his lips.

"Are you okay, beloved?" He rests a hand on your face and you nuzzle against him. "Shall I call for a bath now?"

"Later," you pronounce breathlessly. "If you do not find yourself inside me in the next second, I shall curse you for evermore."

He laughs, giving you a languid kiss before he steps back and strips.

He does not make a show of it, as harried and hard for you (no catching of his pleasure against the bed could ever compare to thrusting inside of you), and you watch his weeping cock with an unbashed hunger of your own, as he pumps it a few times, eyes staring at your visage as you widen your legs, holding your thighs to give him a sweet view.

He groans. "What Silken Street whore could be compared to my wife so willing? What lady would be enough?"

"I swear to the Seven, if you do not end your blasted soliloquy—"

His laughter rings, body covering your own before he slides in your warm, wet cunny. Blasphemy spills his tongue as a softened sigh leaves you. Though he is not lengthy, his girth stretches, thrilling the nerves up to your throat. The ease is given by your wetness, but he is slow, making sure you felt every ridge and vein until you cry softly at your abused pearl rubbing against his body.

"I will not last," he half spits, jaw clenched. "I will have to- I'm sorry but—"

"Do it," you whisper, locking your ankles on his ass as much strength as your legs can allow. "Pound me into the matress."

"Fuck," is the last thing he says before he follows your orders, each hit against your cervix building your own peak. "Pretty wife, darling pearl, the sexiest— fucking—" spills and spits between groans and cries, chasing his high brings your own.

"A-aeg, I—"

He kisses your mouth, effectively shutting you up as he slides a hand between your sweaty bodies, finding your pearl and circling hard. As soon as you're cumming to the high heavens, tightening and twitching, a garbled scream out of your throat— he slams once, twice, as his own high entangles your own, a punctuated moan breaking out of his throat.

His seed spurts, floods, before his cock turns flaccid inside you, and you feel warm and full underneath him.

He presses his forehead against your collarbone. "Maybe we should fight more oft, nectar of my obsession."

"Sure," you say. "I will spend more time with Aemond then."

He punctures a groan as you giggle.

#aegon ii fanfiction #aegon ii fluff #aegon targaryen ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #hotd fluff #hotd fanfiction #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aegon targaryen ii fluff #aegon targaryen ii

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sytoran · 10 months

Text

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 | 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐧𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐭.𝟒

The inevitable occurs and Natasha ends things with you. Now, separated by galaxies and worlds, there’s no chance of ever being connected again, not by a long shot. Until now.

pairing: goddess!natasha x dom!human!reader

note: reader has a penis. this is the fourth chapter of the goddess!nat universe!! i am sorry this took so long, but i was taking my time to not stress myself out too much. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

word count: 2.7k

series m.list | main m.list | join the taglist | AO3

Previously…

The inevitable occurs and Natasha ends things with you. Now, separated by galaxies and worlds, there’s no chance of ever being connected again, not by a long shot. Until now.

Now, one month later…

Music thrums in your bloodstream, your head spinning. The flashing fluorescent lights blind your vision at sporadic intervals and you feel like you’re floating above the ground.

“Another,” you rasp to the dark-haired bartender, slamming down an empty shot glass. “Keep ‘em comin’.” Your eyes dart around the close-bodied pack in the middle of the bar, drunken whoops and cheers sounding as girls press against each other.

The whiskey burns in your throat as the DJ picks up the beat. Inside the hazy mess of purple-shrouded figures in the crowd, only one catches your eye. She’s into the music, trailing her hands over her body and swinging her hips in time to the music. The people around her can’t touch her bubble.

Before your clouded brain registers a fraction of your stupid actions, you down the next shot and walk up to her.

You’re not completely stupid, though. You’ve made an effort to dress nice, a cream-coloured collared shirt. Natasha said you looked amazing in those. You’ve put on your new rings. The ones that you bought with Natasha’s money. You’ve been hitting the gym, lifting weights and working your muscles. To take your mind off Natasha fucking Romanoff.

It doesn’t work, though. It never works.

“Hey,” you say to the dancing woman. Her eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering, like Natasha when she slept in your embrace. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t seem to hear you, despite your relatively close proximity, perhaps because the music is too obnoxiously loud. Or at least, that’s what you think before the woman is beckoning you closer with a finger. Bossy. Just like Natasha.

You take another step towards her, then another step. She guides your hands to her waist, then with the drop of a beat, she spins around and presses herself flush against you, ass grinding up and down against your crotch area.

The arousal hits you, and a low growl catches in your throat. Seductive, just like Natasha, because she was the Goddess of–

You haul yourself out of that spiral before it can take you on an unwanted trip down memory lane. You needed to forget. And the gorgeous woman putting herself up for grabs in front of you seemed like a very good distraction.

You splay your right hand over her thinly-clothed stomach, hearing her little gasp at your warmth and requited boldness, while your left-hand works its way through her hair and tugs on it. Her reaction is exactly as desired, a low hum of desire like music to your ears, and the way she’s eagerly grinding on your growing bulge is certainly not something you’d complain about.

“Wanna step outside for a little bit?” You ask lowly, dipping your head down to drag your teeth lightly along her ear.

—

“Oh, fuck! Please!”

Her moans bounce off the walls of the dingy alleyway, as you thrust into her. You let her arms wrap around the back of your neck, her grasp tightening with each of your ministrations. Sandwiched between your body and the brick wall was her writhing figure, squirming as your hands supported her up.

The two of you hadn’t even made it two blocks away from the bar, to her apartment which was not too far away – the result of unbridled, alcohol-induced lust was a dimly-shrouded alleyway with two bodies desperately seeking warmth for one night.

Even as you had your cock inside her, feeling how wet she was for you, it didn’t feel right.

The noises she made were too high-pitched, too grating on the ears. Natasha’s ones had sounded heaps better; with the smoky husk that grew more breathless as she called out your name.

Even as she had her hands wrapped around your back, it felt wrong.

Her nails were too short and she was gripping at the fabric on the back of your shirt, tugging at all the angles that made it uncomfortable. Natasha had been so much more different, digging crescent-shaped imprints into the back of your neck that hurt so good.

Nevertheless, you tried your best to make the experience enjoyable. You swear you fucking tried.

“Let me,” you whispered into her ear, taking her hands off your back and placing them above her head. “Y-yeah, please,” she whined in response, but you barely heard her.

You stepped closer to the wall, pushing yourself farther inside her. Distracting yourself by using your free hand to grope at her breasts through the fabric, then running your palms over her hardened nipples.

Fuck, even her breasts couldn’t compare to Natasha’s.

Tears prickled at the back of your eyes, burned like gasoline, because what the fuck had you done to deserve this? Lose the ‘love of your life’ one night, get shit-faced the next day, and end up with your cock inside some woman whose name you didn’t even know.

Even as you sloppily thrust into her, try to forget, try to forget, it can’t work. It won’t fuckin’ work. It would never work, because no one could ever be Natasha.

God, she had taken you on the biggest thrill of your goddamned life, then stopped the rollercoaster while you were suspended midair.

And there you were, hanging above the world with no safety net, and you were oh so lonely.

“Oh please, more,” the woman cries, moving her hips to chase her high, her hands on your clothes again. What the fuck? “Daddy!” she shrieks, once, at a certain deeper thrust, and you pull out faster than you ever have before.

The vision of you and Natasha on that beach in Malibu flashes before your eyes like a movie screen, and the light reflects of your empty eyes.

“Has the Goddess of Lust never called anyone daddy?” you had asked, trying to make sense of her seemingly unorthodox shame at using that title on you.

“It’s complicated,” Natasha had replied, squirming under your inspective gaze. She had trailed her hand down to your cock again, but you had denied her of that pleasure. “We’re not done here, sweetheart.”

“Fine,” Natasha had grumbled, adorably pouty. “That’s the first time I've ever called it out, like, in the heat of the moment. I'm always the one doing the seduction and the flirting, so I call my partner that if I think they'd be into it. It's never been… spontaneous, I guess."

“Oh,” you replied then, softly, trailing her rib with a gentle finger. “I think I quite like it.”

Fuck, you didn’t ‘quite like it’ anymore. You hated it, fucking hated it, hated you ever got attached to anything like that. Malibu seems like a distant fantasy, the grains of sand on the beach falling through your fingers like those in an hourglass.

What could’ve happened if you and Natasha had more time? If she hadn’t broken it off? Would you have married her? Could you two have been truly happy?

“No, please, I was so close,” the woman from the bar whines, clinging onto you, suffocating you. You took a step back, eyes wide, feeling like you were in a state of psychedelia.

The woman’s hair wasn’t the right shade of brown. Her green eyes looked like fool’s gold compared to Natasha’s kaleidoscopic ones. She was wrong, so wrong.

“I can’t,” you breathe, feeling your heart thudding against the cages of your chest, screaming to be let out. Your chest heaves with desperation, eyes wide and flitting. You pull up your pants, button your shirt shakily. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry.”

Everything was wrong. You weren’t okay. You just needed Natasha, you just needed her.

“What?” the woman responds, stepping away from you, looking at you like you were some lost animal. Maybe you were, trembling in the cold night air, pathetic and pitiable. At the knowledge that you weren’t joking, she lets out a half-assed scoff.

“Fuckin’ loser,” she calls out in contempt, her sharp voice echoing in the alleyway as she stalks away, and you slide down the wall with a wracking sob.

Natasha wasn't just different from any other woman you could be with — she was other-wordly, metaphorically and physically, and no one would ever be able to come close.

You sit there, crying into your hands, wondering how much of a fool you probably looked like.

Natasha had chewed you up and then spat you out, leaving you on the graffitied path of a dingy alleyway: A disfigured shape of the person you once were, just waiting to be crushed once more.

—

The Goddess of Lust sits upon her throne, a falsified smile on her breathtaking face. Her eyelids flutter in practiced motion, so innocently charming. She twirls a strand of hair between her fingers, just like she was taught.

“So, you’ll agree to this deal?” she asks, especially softly, making her voice a little more husky than it naturally was.

The men before her all nodded desperately, prey to her thrall like lambs to the slaughter. Fuck, men across the universe had one thing in common and that was their unbridled horniness. “Of course, Goddess, as long as you, uh, give us a little bonus.” A bold one added, not even trying to hide the sexual innuendo.

Natasha wanted to rip someone apart, but all she did was sweetly plaster a smile across her delicate features and nod in faux bashfulness.

She tunes out the mindless drivel of business in the works and plans to be carried out for the betterment of her kingdom. It was worse than watching paint dry.

Suddenly, a jolt of nausea hit her and she jerked in her throne.

“Is something the matter, Goddess Natasha?”

The Goddess of Lust swallows harshly, her stomach lurching with each passing second. “I- uh, I think I need some rest, that’s all,” she says, forcing a smile through gritted teeth.

“But we’re not done discussing the-”

Natasha scoffs, ignoring the searing pain to spit out her next words with venom. “I suggest you make your way out of my palace before I ensure you never step foot into my kingdom again.”

At that, the man who had been speaking to her turned flushed with irritation but bit back his words. He shook his head at the rest, leaving resolutely with his ego bruised.

The moment the men were out of her sight, Natasha teleported to the bathroom in her master bedroom and positively threw up in the toilet bowl, tears in her eyes. Was this the consequence of her actions? To suck up to shitty men and feel like a pile of shit?

Come to think of it, Natasha hadn’t felt this sick only until the two of you had been split apart a month ago. On some days, she would not stop throwing up, or her toes would grow numb, or she would get that sour, metallic taste in her mouth that made her want to throw up all over again.

It was downright ridiculous. The only types of people with these urges were women from Earth who were preg-

Oh no.

Natasha sinks down onto the cold marble of her bathroom floor, hand gripping at the side of the gold bathtub. She feels sick, all over.

Oh, hell fuckin’ no.

There was no way. There was just simply no way that this was happening right now. Because she had lost you. The mere thought of being tied to you in that sort of way was out of the question.

With another snap of her fingers, Natasha materializes in front of Stephen Strange’s castle. She probably looked ridiculous, tears staining her face while in a fancy dress, showing up on the doorstep of a friend she hadn’t seen in ages.

Strange was the God of Time, but it was more than well-known he had been a miracle surgeon, a lifetime ago. When the door opened, Natasha’s tears were welling up, and immediately the dark-haired man stepped aside to let her in.

“What’s the matter, Nat?” he asked softly. The Goddess sniffs, ragged breaths shaking her whole body. “I have a little medical issue.” she replies despondently.

“Why didn’t you go to Helen? You know she’s the Goddess of Health,” Strange says, stepping back slowly, then turning around and gesturing for Natasha to follow. As he begins walking up the steps, he continues. “Or Shuri, for that matter. Goddess of Geniuses. There’s no better bet than her, am I right?”

As they enter a room with medical equipment, Natasha sighs. “This is a special case. Something that I don’t want to make public, even if it is confirmed to be true.”

“Oh,” the God says thoughtfully. “I’ll do my best, in that case.” He moves to grab a device from the table, but

“I’m sorry, Stephen. It’s just…… I don’t want all that. Can you just…… you know,” she asks, trying to force a lopsided smile onto her face, to ease the growing tension.

The God looks taken aback for a moment, before putting down the device and nodding in agreement. He closes his eyes, and gradually a golden light encases the room, warm and inviting.

Sparks fly, swirling from the walls before they encircle Natasha. Glowing brightly, swimming with power.

There are two heartbeats, one is hers and one is Strange’s, both strong and steady. But there is also a third one, with weaker and slower thuds.

Strange waves his hand and opens his eyes. The lights fade into nothingness. There is a moment after that, when Natasha locks eyes with him, that the galaxy hangs on its axis and everything becomes nothing.

“Natasha… you’re pregnant.”

—

Stumbling into your apartment with your head spinning, you unbutton your shirt and shrug it off, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of your home.

You had far too many drinks than what was considered acceptable, and it was 3.47 am. At least, that’s what the numbers on your phone told you. Maybe it was 7.43 am. Ah, you wouldn’t fuckin’ know. You couldn’t read the numbers with your dizzied vision.

Rubbing at your nose and then sniffing loudly, you almost trip over the leg of a strewn chair as you reach for the light switch. Right, the chair you had thrown across the living room when you had a breakdown that morning. Well, yesterday morning.

You cough out, hands gripping the wall for support, and your throat is too fucking raw and your eyes well up for the umpteenth time. “I’m pathetic,” you whisper to no one in particular. Your shaking hands finally find the light switch and you flick it on.

“At least you’re self-aware. Because you look like shit.”

You leap backwards at the sound before you, cursing as you knock into the chair again and fall over.

The lights flickering on reveal a man dressed in a dark green robe, a horn-shaped gold ornament on his head. He looks at you with a sadistic smirk playing on his lips, eating a slice of — was that your fucking leftover pizza?

“Who- who are you,” you breathe out, absolutely convinced you were just hallucinating. This felt oddly reminiscent of the time Carol had scared you in your office, except this man made your stomach churn in the worst ways possible.

He dusted off his clothes of the pizza crumbs, stepping up to you slowly, and you hate how your heart pounds in absolute fear. The man leans down to meet you at eye level, his black curls falling as his lips curve upwards.

“I am Loki, and I am burdened with glorious purpose. Some call me the fallen angel, or the devil’s incarnate, but I have and always will be a god,” he says, and the way he carried himself with such calculated ease and unnerving confidence had you frozen in place.

“Y/N L/N, today I grace you with my presence to strike a deal.” He continues, straightening up again to start pacing the room.

“And what makes you think you can do anything for me?” you ask, in disbelief, almost laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. Your grin fades away at the seriousness behind Loki’s deceiving eyes.

He stops and turns around, locking eyes with you. Your heart rises. No.

“I can make you a God.”

taglist: @natashamaximoff69 @ohsugar-honey-iced-tea @fayhar @bibliophilicbi @screechcat @rowanyaboats @nahnahnahwhat @the-night-owl-blr @nemowevoli @wannabe-fic-reader @natsxwife @wandsmxmff @enanna-h @jemilyswhor3 @manyfandomsfanvergent @jlsammy23 @spongebobs-tie1 @kiyozoe6778 @lovebelt05 @girllcver @godsfavouritelesbiann @natashaswife4125 @ezay @forthelesbians @wlwfanfictionss @forthelesbians @cowxpoke @supaheroine @saqua14 @olsensnpm @33_mrvl @gay4ols3n @knellyc30 @eatkobi @stitch26gp @cqllarbqne @lovelyy-moonlight @diannaswhore @wandaromanoff69 @shuriri4life @inluvwithfictionalwomen @Cooldogs02

@jedi-athen-orion @alyciaddict @blackqueensforeva @lovelyy-moonlight @gingerninja1993 @yourfavdummy @iliketigolbitties @scarlttolsn @blackbirdv98 @mxxnligxt @riomiyawakisstuff @alex4424 @0DeadandCold0 @mr.romanoff @mandy-asimp @idontwannabehereatm @daenerys713 @xxsekhmet @marvel_simp @maowlxslay @lizbugwanda @peggycarter3 @flositaa @dooblekhay @aliherrerasz @theo-021 @hopelesslyfalleninlove @secretbackrooms @natasha10273 @justyourwritter69 @theo-221b @wandaromanoff69 @eatkobi @lovelyy-moonlight @morganismspam23 @unexpected-character @rdfgfv @natsxwife @romanoffkink @wandascandy @cd-4848 @mmmmokdok @bisexualbritish @marvelonmymind @jareguiromanoff @benizaa @reereeineedtopee @p1ut0smoon @marvelwomen-simp @traveler-at-heart @slashermeslashers @yourlovergorl

did anyone notice loki was first mentioned in chapter 2?? i was foreshadowing or at least i tried to LMAO

series m.list | main m.list | join the taglist | AO3

#natasha romanoff x reader smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #goddess natasha #natasha x y/n #bottom natasha romanoff #sub natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff #x reader #top reader #dom reader #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff angst #gxg smut #wlw smut #marvel smut #natasha romanoff x reader angst

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 8 months

Note

TWST boys with a Diana! Reader?

The reader's a really and I mean REALLY popular and a captivating woman from Siodonna, many rumours were spreading of a beauty from Siodonna yet the TWST boys decided to ignore the rumours, taking them as only bluffs until they met the reader performing in the streets for the poor children. The boys quickly fell head over heels for they're kind nature, and alluring looks. The way those crystal like (Colour) eyes gaze into theirs sending their hearts pounding again their chest. Being lucky enough to marry the woman of their dreams was a big accomplishment but they're happiness was short lived when they found out the risk of the reader dying during childbirth, the TWST boys being selfish asked her to choose them over the child yet the reader didn't have the heart to do so and decided to give her life for the child, only doing as much as witnessing how they're child grew as a wandering spirit and visiting them in their dreams to interact with they're child. How would the guys react when their child(or children) mentioning they're mother's name when they've actually never met or heard of her?? <3

- M. Draconia ; V. Schoenheit ; R. Rosehearts ; L. Kingscholar ; I. Shroud ; L. Vanrouge

"I'm sorry for not choosing you, but I couldn't bare giving it up ( sacrificing an innocent life) either..."

- (Name)

SORRY IT'S BAD, I'M RUSHING THIS 😭😭

Mentioning Your Name | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Its an average day your child casually mentions some advice you gave. It takes them off guard and the problem with lovers as in love as they are suffering from your loss–this can be received very differently:

Malleus Draconia

“What did you say?”

“I said (Y/n) told me I should try harder to talk to you because your socially immature.”

“....when…when did they say this?”

“In my dream last night, I asked how I was supposed to get you to smile at me and they told me to be ins-st-i-dent?”

He remembers what you said to comfort him before the birth

And honestly if it hadn’t been for that and this child having your smile

He would’ve smited him long ago

But to hear that you’re still here in some capacity

He smiles more

Speaking into the quiet of the room

Practically serenading your lingering spirit

“Thats…just like them…”

Vil Schoenheit

“Wearing those two patterns is a travesty, we won’t be doing plaid with polka-dots–”

“Noooo! B-but I said I would!”

“...To who?”

“To (Y/n) of course I was telling them all about how I’d wear them-”

“Wait wait what did you say?”

He doesn’t believe that you’re meeting in their dreams

Its more than likely one of his close friends slipped up while babysitting

And now they’ve taken the name of their mother for some imaginary friend

Needless to say he’ll get to the bottom of this

Even if it takes a forceful kind of truth serum

“(Y/n)...my half is dead…so whoever they’re speaking to is something else.”

Riddle Rosehearts

“My RULE IS ABSOLUTE TO YOUR ROOM!”

“(Y/n) would hate you so much!?”

“H-how do y-you–!”

“They said I should be free! That I should be allowed to play with others!”

“Where?! Where did you hear that?!”

He thought that he wouldn’t need to be hurt again

But here you were showing up in your child’s dreams

But since you’ve left him…what do you words mean now

“You’re not appearing to me and you aren’t here to parent…therefore you’re words barely scrape the height of a suggestion.”

Leona Kingscholar

“(Y/n) doesn’t think I’m weak!”

“WHAT?!”

“THEY said I’m plenty strong and that you don’t know everything!”

He’ll continue to lock the child away

Scratching at his post some interloper as he thinks about what his child has said

“Even across the grave you’re fighting me…can’t do much from where I’m at now can I?”

Idia Shroud

“Papa I made my own drone…”

“Mmmm.”

“Uhm and uh (Y/n) says that you should maybe look at me when I show you mystuff so…”

“...”

Is floored

Since your departure he’s been torn with hating this child and eliminating anyone who interacts with them

So consumed with grief he shuts himself in his workshop and watches his child relentlessly

He knows them well in fact he’s sure he loves them

but he can’t stand to speak to them without wanting to cry

So this is all the more painful to him and in his desire to reach out he might end up inventing something meant to capture your wandering spirit

“Just you wait (Y/n), I’ll have you soon.”

Lilia Vanrouge

“Just trust Papa on this you stay inside, my little bat.”

“(Y/n) says you should let me outside more.”

“Oh yeah they really–said…that?”

“Yeah! And that you need to properly comb out my hair you can’t leave it a tangled mess.”

“Hahaha yeah.”

He believes in ghosts, well he knows they exist

So he believes thats what that is about

And if thats the case than maybe if he suggests somethings for your kid to recite

Maybe he can still reach out to you

“Hey! Hey! Maybe the next time you see them can you tell her how much Daddy loves her?”

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pengujoon · 7 months

Text

WEIGHT OF AN ABSENCE

cont. gojo x reader, angst, no comfort. husband!au, intentional lowercase.

a/n. i can’t handle ch 236. my brain came up with the worst possible outcome from this and here is the result. expect the worst.

in a quiet town, where the sun painted the sky in hues of gold and azure, you went about your day like any other. the world moved on, but your heart remained burdened by the weight of an absence that could never be filled.

as you strolled through the market, you found yourself at a florist's stall. your fingers grazed over vibrant blooms, carefully selecting a bouquet of white lilies and blue hydrangeas. the florist glanced at you, her keen eyes catching the glimmer of a ring on the your finger.

"oh, is this for your husband?" the florist asked, her voice soft with curiosity.

a faint smile played on your lips, but it didn't reach your eyes. "yes," you replied quietly, a hint of sadness lingering in your gaze.

you continued your shopping, picking up a pack of sweets that you knew he loved. the sun kissed your shoulders as you walked, your steps graceful in a beautiful blue sundress that seemed to echo the colour of the ocean.

with your purchases in hand, you called for a taxi, and it whisked you away to a tranquil graveyard nestled by the mountains, overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean.

as you stood before a simple gravestone, you whispered his name, "satoru."

setting the flowers and sweets down carefully, you knelt beside the grave, your fingertips tracing the letters carved into the stone, still fresh and vivid. the world seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in memories of laughter and shared moments.

but then, as if a dam had burst within you, tears began to fall. you broke down, your sobs a symphony of grief and longing.

you couldn't forget that fateful day, the memories of rushing to him, cradling his lifeless form, and weeping uncontrollably. it was as if time had blurred into a nightmare, leaving you with fragmented images and a heart heavy with sorrow.

the details of what had transpired remained shrouded in mystery, but the painful truth remained — you held your husband's lifeless body in your arms, while the world around you spiralled into disarray.

"he left too suddenly," you whispered between sobs, as if trying to convey your heartache to the one who could no longer hear you. the pain was still raw, the void he left behind an ache that wouldn't subside.

in that solitary moment, with the sound of the ocean waves in the distance, you poured your heart out to the gravestone, missing him more than words could ever express. the world moved on around you, but your love for him remained as constant as the tides, forever washing against the shores of your soul.

sorry... i feel really bad now so im writing a comfort fic brb.

here's the comfort fic as promised.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru #jjk #jjk fics #jjk ch 236 #penguwrites #jjk imagines #husband!au

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bitter69uk · 7 months

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"I'm like heroin. I have to dole myself out carefully. I don't want people to overload." Angelyne

"If you’re looking for celebrities, the easiest one to find is Angelyne. She started her career by erecting giant billboards of herself in Hollywood (corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue), New York and London, displaying nothing but her likeness and a phone number. Dialing excitedly, I was thrilled that no one answered the first time – the ultimate in Hollywood attitude. Looking like a fifties glamour girl gone berserk, Angelyne drives around town in a hot-pink Corvette, wearing a matching revealing outfit, blowing kisses to anyone who looks her way. She cheerfully responds to all comments, from “We love you, Angelyne!” to “Yo! Sit on my face!” Although she’s making a record, she’s currently famous for absolutely nothing."

/ John Waters from his book of essays Crackpot: The Obsessions of John Waters (1983) /

Born on this day 73 years ago: eternal grasping starlet, kitsch icon, pop culture oddity, cult figure and enthusiast of the colour pink Angelyne (née Ronia Tamar Goldberg, 2 October 1950. The berserk billboard diva’s origins were always shrouded in mystery until an explosive Hollywood Reporter exposé in 2017). Forget Marina Abramović – the most committed performance artist of the past four decades has been Angelyne.

#angelyne #starlet #kitsch #pink #john waters #lobotomy room #bad taste #shock value #pink corvette #camp

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starshipsofstarlord · 1 month

Text

not yet corpses. still, we rot.

summary. you were surviving after the prison fell, whilst you felt lost deep inside of yourself. without daryl, and the others that you had lost and yet to find, everything only seemed to get worse. and all was proven when the claimers interrupted your futile attempts of avoiding nightmares

warnings. death, gore, violence, angst, fluff, smut, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of s.a, mentions of death

notes. i changed the specification of the timeline a tiny bit, i moved the timeline of the smut into a flash back as in my head y/n and daryl would be too on guard to fuck after all that trauma. i hope you enjoy my attempt at writing your request, i’d love to know your thoughts 🖤

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The crickets sung as aspiring performers in the midst of the fire’s crackling, you were cold, tired and hungry, and all that you wanted to hear was the epiphany of silence. Each limb in your body ached sourly from the endless trekking that you had participated within, the chance to close your eyes and rest sounded spectacular.

But you refrained from succumbing to a fuelling slumber, for you would only be haunted by the reality of the situation that you had no home, and members of your found family were lost to the land that crawled with ravenous walkers… or dead.

The warmth provided from the flames was greatly appreciated by your bumpy flesh, and you stared distantly into the licking of sunset coloured mirage of the makeshift campfire. It dried the whites of your eyes to an irritating texture, however it was better than facing the truth behind the pitiful glances that the three survivors that you had structured the prison alongside donated in your direction.

You weren’t looking for sorrowful attention, you just wanted to find as many of your group as you could, selfishly Daryl more than others. The plain silver band on your finger glinted from the source of radiating and manmade light, flickering your memory back to you and Daryl tying the knot in a place that you had hoped would remain secure.

If it wasn’t for the Governor and his manipulated army, then it would have. You were glad they had their fates, or at least you assumed they all had considering the destruction that had been waged in the graveyard like grounds. There were countless lives that you had ensured were ended as you did your best to ensure that they would regret their life ruining choices.

The clouds grew agitatedly darker within the midnight sky above you, and to the dismay of your body’s survivalist needs, your shoulders shrunk from the bitter air as Rick extinguished the source of warmth. As you idly sat by, remaining in your shroud of speechless presence, Rick escorted Carl to the immobile vehicle, allowing him to sleep on the backseats for extra protection from the horrors that could possibly creep up on you in the night.

Michonne moved closer to you, placing her hand which rarely not held her executing samurai on your jacket clothed bicep, the moment was tender considering that she was doing her utmost to comfort you. “He’s out there,” she spoke with confidence, believing each word that left her mouth. “He’s a survivor, and he knows what he’s doing out there.”

“We were all survivors.” It was a statement, one that caused you great misery to say. “But in the end nobody survives, we’re all going to die one day, and some of the people out there are worse than the walkers. There’s no saying what has happened to the others… to Daryl…” You shook your head, trailing off into a weight of what one would describe as tranquility.

For you however, it was a reminder that in your future everything would be mute. The outbreak would demolish the remaining population of every single species, tainting them with transformative virus until the new and ‘improved’, infinite flock of homo sapiens lay ruin and feast to anything that breathed. The world now belonged to the dead, they were suitably adapted to the unforgiving nature of the world.

Their past minds had been erased, the concepts of a once modern life vanquished as society was. There was nought memories of waiting in endless queues in supermarkets, or eating a buttered bucket of popcorn in a movie theatre. All that corrupted the simple minds of the corpses was necessity to devour anything that they envisioned as food - your mindsets were now of similar values in that slim respect.

Just thinking of your mouth being bitterly tainted with a murderous wash of irony blood revolted you; it was something that you would never swallow, literally. Ripping into human flesh with your very teeth was a repulsive reminder that one bite, or a death without a deadly pressure to the brain, would turn you into one of those monsters. You had to remain alert, despite your body’s almost hypnotic drowsiness to fall asleep.

At least Rick and Michonne had each other, even if they did not acknowledge the true depth of their reciprocated support. You could tell that through their reunion something had changed within their dynamic, and you missed the deep likeness of companionship that you had shared with Daryl. Often times than not, you and the southern blooded archer would be among the seemingly endless forestation that surrounded the safe homestead of the prison, tracking and hunting critters that could surpass as an edible hors d'oeuvres.

There would be bashful conversations drifting between the two of you, whether that be a suave competition of whom could catch the most lustre of nut harbouring squirrels, or- well, in simpler terms, a concoction of unholy words that would prevail when he was erratically buried inside of your cunt. You’d go at it like rabbits in prosperous heat whilst present in the woods; the prison had no privilege of privacy since the residents of Woodbury had adjoined with the residing numbers.

And that was the thing you missed the absolute most, having your man close, in any which way. That cramped bunk within your sheet concealed cell was something you’d die for currently, you adored being pressed up against Daryl’s chest, listening to his tame heart beat, as you fell tentatively asleep.

Watch was more exhausting than it appeared, with a traipse dignifying each of your steps, you rubbed your heavy eyelids, hoping to excuse the tiredness that was overwhelming your body. In your dominant hand you used your shotgun as a walking cane, forcing yourself to return to your cell that you missed dearly. It was better than falling into a shrouding slumber in the middle of the hall; that almost sounded tempting, considering you wouldn’t have to move any further through the large prison, but you had more reason than a cot to sleep on calling your name.

And you saw it as you achingly slid past the hanging drape of a sheet that allowed some privacy in the individual cell that you always returned to and housed your random array of nicknacks that you had picked up on runs into permanently closed stores. Daryl’s body was strewn across the thin mattress, his hand laid across his face covering his depth-full eyes, as his chest rose and fell in an irregular accordance - he was still conscious, unable to doze off into plentiful rest.

Your lips tugged in an endearing smile that he couldn’t see, and you couldn’t resist from creeping closer. That was all you required, to be close to him. There were only a handful of steps remaining until you got to your desired destination, and without so much of a thought, you persevered. “Hey.” The tone that radiated from you was weak, throughout the daytime, your schedule had been filled with condemning tasks which were necessary to keep the smooth run of the prison a constant. Whilst you were doing your maintenance, there had been a not so big, yet not so small, hoard of walkers appear from over the horizon.

Michonne had joined you with handling their swift executions, but your shoulders ached from the striking violence, and the dragging of water caskets; the council, of which you were a part of, had decided to move them out of the sun so their contents would be of a hydrating temperature.

“Ya okay sunshine?” Daryl rolled around so that he was on his side, and sat up on the edge of the bed with a crouching back so that he could view your approach of him. You came to stand between his legs, enjoying the sensation of his hands running around your hips, their warmth filling you with comfort. To lull into the atmosphere which was turning sensual, your fingers coiled in his hair, running through the locks that had grown over the months.

His nose ran softly up your stomach, as he buried his face into your form, having reciprocated your yearning for his company. With a smooth drag from his strong arms, you fell delightedly into his lap, your faces meeting in a staring match as he brushed the side of your face with his hand. “Love ya, so fuckin’ much, my stunnin’ girl.” He mumbled, leading your lips to his in a slow and meaningful collision. The moment was tender, doused in every word that you were too exhausted to say aloud. You were communicating via your actions, discarding the apparel that concealed your bottom halves, giving you the opportunity to slide your cunt down on his erect cock.

You felt blissfully full, the qualms that had bent you to their will through the day slipping instantaneously away. The cupping of your palms positioned themselves on his exposed shoulders, and you ground your hips together, feeling his tip prod deep within you. Daryl shuffled back, kicking his legs out as he wrapped his arms around your frame, treating you so delicately as he fucked you from below. His lips cascaded along every inch of skin that your tank left bare, expressing his adoration for you with his lips and the little circles he drew along your hips. He could never get enough of being close to you, since the first time the two of you had shared together, he had gained more confidence with his role in the sexual situations you shared.

The breaths that huffed past your lips in attempts of being quiet were addictive to his ears, he was desperate to get an audible sound to fester out of you, but the pleasured expression that was imposed on your face was enough; he knew that he was making you feel amazing, and in these lovemaking events, that was all that mattered to him. He groaned at the thought of being somewhere private, where you could make a sound without disturbing anybody, or risking walkers stumbling upon you.

You were close, Daryl could feel it, your walls clenched uncontrollably around his length, which drove him wild, and cautiously he bucked his hips upwards a little faster, careful not to cause the bed to squeak to badly as there were people sleeping in both cells either side your own. He sat further up, his back straighter so that he could brush his teeth gently along your jaw, driving you wild as your hands drove beneath the sleeveless sides of his shirt, caressing his scarred flesh with tentativeness.

You were snapped out of your daydream in the omnipotent dark as you felt the scuffing of crinkling leaves, and before you could adjust into defensive action, there was a cold metal muzzle pressed into your muzzle, by a man with silver locks and a denim vest suited to his greedy physique. Without a doubt, these were the same men that had traipsed upon the house that you and Rick had been inhabiting whilst Michonne and Carl were strolling the streets.

They were claimers to objects they valued as things that their greed thirsted for, and you shuddered a breath as the man threatening your life steadied his grotesque arm upon your shoulder all the whilst he opened his mouth to converse impolitely. “Maybe we’ll keep this one alive, she’s a looker.” It felt as though he was bragging about the possibility to his hungry followers that you could be his property.

He recognised Rick that was for sure. You’d been a witness to the man that had taken it upon himself to cozy his fat ass on the toilet, and the way in which his throat was denied oxygen to passage through it. You and Rick had been huddled under the bed that dipped from their pocket heavy weights as you had ran to awaken him as you were certain you’d heard something before they bustled into the once home to a stranger that was no doubt long dead. And in your escape, you had put a deadly pressure on the invader’s throat… until he permanently passed out.

To exasperate your distaste for his misogynistic idea, you spat upon the ground, your nostrils flaring as you dared to spin your head back so that his gun was resting upon your forehead. If he was going to shoot, he might as well make it quick, considering you didn’t intend to be alive if they had the intentions of taking sick advantage of your body.

As you prepared to retort an insult that foully would cause further trouble for you and your friends, they momentarily became distracted but still alert as a figure slunk onto the clearing. You had to allow your vision to focus, and when it did, you were shocked in the best possible way. It was Daryl, and he was certainly alive. He seemed to be acquainted with this pack of scavengers, and you realised that the ordeal in which he had went through was the only way in which he could have survived.

He didn’t liken association with low lives that threatened those he cared about, however he hadn’t seen their full nature until now. Daryl felt at a crossroads as he took complete acknowledgment of the weapon that was frozen against your skull; he couldn’t be rash, they were a lousy, impulsive group, and he was lit with elation in every cell of his body to see that you were still breathing.

“Jus’ hold up.” His gentle footsteps were slowly approaching in a careful regard as his voice strained with caution. He couldn’t help but eye Joe up - he had a gun to your damn head! If he pulled that trigger… he wouldn’t allow that bullet to be released. You were far too great a risk to have on the line, he had to settle this, like a man. Rick was squinting up at him, determining the reason for the unsurprising reaction the claimers had given his presence.

“One of these two is the one that killed Lou so we got nothing to talk about.” The rugged, richly certain statement fled from one of the thieving men, as he had his long barrel raised, Rick being the focus on the end of his gun that had most likely been stolen in the crossfires of their apocalyptic journey. Anything was loot to them, even with their rules, they were scoundrels no doubt before the end of the world had began, and they would leave it no different. But Daryl wasn’t willingly going to allow them to either kill or claim you, your worth was insanely precious, and he wouldn’t allow all you had been through to be for nothing.

“The thing about nowadays is we got nothin’ but time.” Joe said from behind you, realising that finally, Daryl had proven himself despite the cautionary warnings and delivered punishments that the archer had bore witness to, but he was just to be a loss to them if he didn’t get behind the way, then he would just be an obstacle in the way. “Say your piece Daryl.” This was his final chance, but he had been given an opportunity. Joe liked to think of himself as an understanding man, there was always a reason as to why a swine didn’t want to roll in the mud; his gaze noticed that your eyes didn’t deter away from the redneck that was new to his ranks. There was an expression that he didn’t recognise upon upon your face, but he was willing to use it for his own purposes if it came to such a crossroads.

“These people…” Daryl cast his eyes momentarily at you again, as though he was pleading for you to remain still and allow him to be the peacemaker. And you subtly nodded, brows drawing together as you concentrated on the group members who had taken up space in your surroundings. “You gon let em go. These are good people.” He was attempting to find some humanity in this man who was leaning like a shadow over you, if there was any. It was the same careful traipse of dialogue that he would use with Merle when he was being inconsiderate before the outbreak, it hardly worked, his brother would laugh and call him a pussy, but Daryl had learned how to use his heart.

It was there to love, and whilst it still felt new, to be loved. These were his people, you were his person, and it was his responsibility to save you. He had tried to protect Beth, and whilst she had gotten out of that mortuary house with her life in tact despite the wave of walkers that had invaded through the front door, she still had to be alive. And so did the others, wherever in the country they were, no one was weak, each of you had your own strengths and that would get you somewhere. It had to.

“Now I-I-I think Lou would disagree with yer on that.” The grey haired man stuttered, and you weren’t sure whether it was due to the lack of respect he felt from Daryl whom he had taken in as one of his own - a stray, or if he felt inferior. You supposed it was the latter, there was a continual pattern with each man that fought for power that you had noticed after your encounters. They feared any soul opposing them, it made them appear frail and insecure, just like the Governor had been with the instances involving Andrea and Michonne. “I’ll of course have to speak for him an’ all because your friends here strangled him in a bathroom.”

Guilt overflowed like a faucet in your throat; you didn’t regret killing ‘Lou’. Rick had been your supporting witness, but there were no longer court trials condemned to determine the punishments for living, instead those that thought they were in control of the passers-by that they encountered - and to them, what fit every crime was death. There was now nought reason for you to brood in your squalor, you could see Daryl’s face, and if that was the last image that you had earned before the end of your life, you were glad. Though you were stubborn to go out fighting, otherwise your entire life after the prison; the tears, the passiveness, and the little amount of blood that had spilt from you would all have been for nothing.

“You want blood, I get it.” Daryl read them, Joe had already killed one of his own men, he wouldn’t hesitate when it came to a found family of strangers. They weren’t good people, they were miscreants that had given him the choice to either join them on their sin induced travelling, or die. And he had been broken, lost and alone, there had been no other choice if he had the intent of surviving in order to drains you. With disregard, he threw his arms in a stance, disarming himself as his crossbow flew out of his hands, falling on the ground, showcasing that he had an offer that Joe would not justify with a refusal “Take it from me man. Come on.”

Your heart swelled, Daryl was putting his own life on the line so that he could save you and your friends. A glaze of emotion was cast over your eyes, as you tried to slow your heartbeat, if you panicked, none of you would get out of this. “This man and woman killed our friend. You say their good people.” It was ironic, if you weren’t so shocked you would have stifled a laugh. These people weren’t friends, there weren’t any tears for their dear Lou, no, they craved any excuse to take and take and take. The revenge they were stubborn with pursuing was only a reason to get their hands bloody, and feel powerful as they got further away from the concept of being a human. “Now that right there i-i-is a lie. It’s a lie!”

Daryl couldn’t bargain through this, they were set in stone when it came to their perception of inflicting both emotional and physical pain. With disappointed defeat, his arms flopped haplessly at his sides, as he continued to stand straight. He had to get through to them! They could budge just a little, he just had to encourage them, make them believe that letting you live was the wrong thing to do. “C’mo-” Before he could continue his pleads to be the centre of violent attention, one of the lowlife claimers wretched their foot into his stomach, causing him to wheeze uncontrollably from the harsh impact.

At the sight alone of him getting hurt, it was on instinct that you prepared to swerve into action. You had to stop this, you had to save him. Your hands scratched against the golden leaves that were all over the ground as you tried to scramble up on your feet, attempting to prevent further bruising or blood withdrawal from Daryl’s body, however a sharp pain flew through your scalp. Joe had grabbed you, maintaining you as his hostage as his fingers weaved aggressively through your hair, forcing you to jut your chin out from the painful discomfort.

“Teach him fellas.” His tone was strong as he beckoned his orders, his deep, soulless eyes twitching from the agitation that had pent up within him. “Teach him all the way.” He ensured that they were aware of what he wanted, and the rest of the claimers were gratified to comply with his protocol of brutality, shoving Daryl up against the frozen vehicle, the clash of his body against it being audible from where you knelt. They threw punch after hateful punch, and Daryl struggled to maintain his stance against them; it was two against one.

“C’mere boy.” The words were growled out through the open car door, as Carl was dragged away from the hiding space. He couldn’t escape, and the claimers were getting the best of your group, and they were in afraid to draw blood. A knife was held firmly against the boy’s throat, and your eyes bulged from the petrifying suspense. Tears slipped from Carl’s blue eyes that had witnessed far too much for his age, and Rick began to panic. Lori had lost her life when she was birthing Judith, who now was also somewhere in the unknown, probably dead. He wouldn’t fail as a father a second time and allow his remaining child to die. “You leave him be!” Rick bellowed, which only made the sick men chuckle at his despair as they held him down from writhing towards an escape to rescue his son.

“Listen it was me! It was just me!” The words shrieked from your lips, as you felt a pool of despair puddle in your eyes. This was all because of you, perhaps if you hadn’t panicked within the moment of entrapment, and you hadn’t forlorn Lou to whichever afterlife lay after the present, then the claimers would have spared you, envisioning you as stragglers that had done no harm. There was a debt to be paid; a score that Joe felt he had to settle, and it was all because of your pathological actions. If anyone had to own up and pay the cost of taking the life of their adjoined associate, it should be you.

They wanted a permanent justice of a life, and you were happy enough to allow them to take it, as long as you were deemed the victim. That said however, if there was a route away from a pledged sentence, you would take it so that your entire family, including you would be spared. You just had to wait for the opportunity to present itself, and then there would be no hesitation on your part. “See now that’s right.” Joe’s words saturated your spine with a discerning flavour of fright, as he pushed the threatening metal harsher against the shell of your brain.

Rick’s eyes drifted in a frantic debauch between his sobbing son, who was thrashing under the weight of the gruesome man who conveyed him as nothing more than an activity; he’d enjoy watching him die; and you, whom was rigid from head to toe. His mind tried its damndest to calculate a way to save you both, you’d become like a sister to him despite the arrogance that you’d greeted him with back at the Atlanta camp, blaming him dreadfully for Merle’s captivity on that rooftop, rather than Merle and his big, loud and agonising mouth that tended to land him in a swarm of trouble. You had always been on Daryl’s side, but now you shared a connection after the fleeting experiences that had doubtlessly backed you against a wall.

“That’s not some damn lie. Look we can settle this, we’re reasonable men.” Joe reasoned with self interest and vengeance, his stone irises scouring languidly down your tense body from above, a little impressed that a woman had managed to withdraw the life of one of his boisterous comrades. His breath heaved down on you, making your skin crawl with distaste. And so he continued, making you all the more seasoned with spite. “First we’re gonna beat Daryl to death. Then your friend next to you. Then the other girl. Then the boy. And then we shoot you and then we’ll be square.” His maniacal laugh retorted in an echo, as his words truly sunk in. There had been enough devastation, and you viewed each of those you cared for with compassion.

Carl was writhing across the golden leaves that appeared gray beneath the silver moon, leaking from his tear ducts with agonising fear. Rick was stern with his demanding pleas that did nothing but resort humour into the audience that had you at gun point. Michonne was wide eyes and prepared for any intrusion that could occur, silently realising that you would be the culprit to begin a ravenous fight. And Daryl, god Daryl was swinging his arm back as much as he was able, losing against the two men that had the delight of using him as a punching bag. You couldn’t wait any longer, no one was on their way to save you, there was no other choice but try again, planning on a physical tactic this time.

“Let them go.” You hissed dangerously thro the your teeth, flickering your eyes around one last time, managing to make eye contact with Michonne, the gun against her braided head remind you that it was now or never. Joe felt hilarity from your demand, and you repeated it in an increased volume, distracting him with the sound of your voice before you threw your head back, whacking the man behind you with a mind numbing force. The bang of a bullet stirred a hazy cast across your field of vision, spiring a high pitched scream of white noise in your ears, but it was worth it. Joe had stumbled aback, the impact having arose a newfound course of adrenaline to fluster through your pumping veins.

With the rush that jolted you into a spiralling spree of sudden action, you span around, standing upon your two feet as you threw a heavy punch to your enemy’s tired face, a concerned look transpiring upon Rick’s face, as Daryl failed with unfortunate consequences to prevail in his hand to hand combat hustle. In return, you had earned a blow to the face, the force of Joe’s fist causing you to be upon the floor once again. “Oh it’s gonna be so much worse now.” To support his promise, his foot met with your ribs, causing a holler and a pained gasp to escape you; there would no doubt be a bruise left if you survived this assault.

Another slap brandished your face with a stinging hue, as you stumbled up, staggering slightly as you did your best to focus on winning this physical battle. “Come on, get up! Come on, let’s see whatcha got.” He was teasing you, drowning you with anger from the mockery he betrothed you with, as a red line ran pleasantly from his nose. “C’mere!” He growled, prompting you for more, and to see his blood spill was a divine gift, even as he breathed disgustedly against you as he grabbed you by the waist, holding you in front of his body. “What the hell you gonna do now slut?”

There was no possibility of escaping his grip with your form alone, he was a sturdy man, albeit an evil one, but he had you in his monstrous clutch. Your brain racked with a free flow of a matching immoral high ground, and thus you thought of the walkers, and how they took life. Your noggin tossed back in a flurry of monstrosity, your teeth gnashing until they pried formlessly upon his throat, the flesh running between each porcelain tooth as you found purchase in the skin, tugging with animosity, until the torn fragment of his body was pulled away, blood spattering in a revolted spray from your mouth.

The claimer gradually fell, pausing his team from their desolate nature of commanding death as their leader met his end, laying in a lifeless pile on the ground. Michonne and Rick pursued their captor’s, sweeping their lives away in a more sophisticated fashion than you had, and Daryl gained the upper hand from your repulsive distraction. As Rick fled from where he had knelt, he sprinted to pursue Carl’s release, as you remained still, shocked with your own tactile second nature. Your face was half covered in blood, like you were a young child whom had gotten into their mother’s makeup bag, but that wasn’t the reality. You shook, astounded with trauma.

Arms coiled around you, as Daryl held your crimson chin in his hand, looking lovingly at you despite the circumstances that had lead to your freedom. “Sunshine.” The term was distinctly ironic, but the cigarette husk that adorned his throat remained full of love. Since the outbreak you had all had to complete extensive steps to remain breathing, and your breath stuttered as you wanted nothing more than to bury your face in your archer’s chest, but he held your head up, as he dragged the red rag from his pocket, swiping across the stain that made the rag even redder. As you looked around yourself, you saw past the massacre and felt relief.

This was home; these people, especially the one right in front of you. His hand stroked roughly against your cheek as a long, heartfelt peck was planted upon your forehead. He had found you, in this sick world that had all of you lost. You smiled at him, resting your forehead against his as you shared a harmonious breath. “I’m just happy your alive Dixie.” You tried to uplift the mood, as did Rick and Michonne, as they fussed with care over Carl. Daryl couldn’t care less for the state that you were displayed in, he pulled you closer, unable to resist your lips. You shared a kiss, it was passionate and filled with circumstantial desperation, your hands pulled at his neck as you tried to get his face closer.

You could only move on from this happening, there was no dwelling. There was no guilt bore in your chest, those that tried ripping you apart deserved a worse fate, and you had only been fair since considering the consequences they had imposed on forcing you to experience. The Governor was the same, and so would the next foolish soul that failed the lengths that you would all go through to protect each other. You felt sick from the vehemence that had concurred from your body, but you had found more pieces of your familial puzzle, and you had every intention of finding the rest.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

Text

Dirty Work 18

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: happy weekend.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“How do you like it?” Luciana asks as she spins you to face the mirror.

Your eyes round at your own reflection. You can’t help but lean forward to get a better look at yourself. You never had a haircut like this. Nothing more than the discount trims that were often worse than not just growing it out or your at-home hack job.

“Wow,” is all you can utter.

“I hope that’s a good wow,” she chimes.

“Uh, yes, yes,” you sit back and tear your eyes from the mirror. “Thank you, it’s–”

“Oh, aren’t you so lovely!” Frigga interrupts as her heels click across the salon, “oh, it’s so wonderful. Look at you!”

Before you can react, the chair’s turning again. Frigga sweeps your hands away from under the cape and pulls you to your feet. Luciana moves to undo the long black shroud and swipes it away from your body, littering more hair onto the floor.

“Just a moment,” Luciana girds and brushes the stray bits from the back of your shirt, “there we are.”

“I must say, darling, you are even more stunning than I thought,” she keeps a hold of your right hand, “oh, Eliana, El!” She tweets across the salon, “what about makeup? Hm? Nothing too heavy, maybe a lip and some mascara–”

The platinum blond chuckles, endeared by her demanding client. You see where Laufeyson inherited that; the way the command rather than ask. You could never.

“I’ll take the little fawn,” Eliana agrees, “I have just the thing in mind.” She approaches on her long slender legs, “she has perfect colouring.”

You can’t help but preen at the compliments. You’re not used to them yet, you doubt them. These women are all so put together and gorgeous, surely they’re just being nice. You’re so much the opposite, your like a novelty; a doll for them to dress up.

“Sit,” Eliana points to another chair, “just relax, honey, I’ll take care of you.”

Frigga lets you go and you obey. You climb up into the chair and gasp as the back reclines. Eliana starts by swabbing your face with a cool liquid then pats it dry. Next, she applies a fragrant moisturizer. Her touch is relaxing but strange. You’re not used to anyone touching you.

You close your eyes as she sets to her work. She explains that she’s applying some liner and how to get a little wing at the end. She says you should keep it thin and subtly, then has you check your first eye in the mirror.

“You see, a nice brown, or grey is all you need, black is so harsh,” she shows you the pencil she used.

“Oh, thanks,” you murmur.

“Let’s even that out,” she nudges you back again and you appease her.

As she draws on your other eyelid, you hear a subtle buzz, followed by Frigga’s shrill greeting. She apologises to someone unseen before she carries on her call, heels tapping further and further away. You can hardly focus between her, Eliana’s directions, and the chatter all around you.

“Mmhmm, yes we were thinking of the Garden…” Frigga trails off as the door rings then swiftly blocks out her conversation.

“Mascara, look up,” Eliana directs, again, you obey. There’s nothing else you can do.

As nice as it all is, the hair, the makeup, and all her lovely plans, you can’t help but be embarrassed. Frigga, and Mr. Laufeyson, know you can’t afford all this. It doesn’t feel as much like kindness as it does condescension. As if they are the blessed elite giving you, a noone, with all their privileges.

It’s not a kind gesture, but a statement. You’re so far below them, you don’t even know what you don’t have. If you are to be anywhere near them, you have to fit their mold.

🧹

After the salon, Frigga drags you down the shopping strip. You shy away from the gleaming windows and the faceless mannequins in their luxurious outfits. You couldn’t wear any of it. It wouldn’t look right. Anyone would know in an instant that you don’t belong.

Inside the first shop, you make yourself as small as you can, crossing one arm to cling to the other, folding your shoulders in. You’re frightened of brushing against anything or knocking over that hand display with all the jewelry on it. As you pass a mirror, you nearly trip. You forget for a moment that it’s you staring back.

You shake your head and back away. You don’t like that feeling. You don’t recognize yourself. Even if you never really loved the girl looking back, she was familiar.

“Darling,” Frigga gives you a start as she nears, “how about this? Hm? It’s absolutely adorable.”

She holds up a purple dress; almost like an overall but more refined with three buttons along the right side. She has a plain white blouse behind it. It’s lovely but you don’t know if you like the length. You don’t think you’ve worn a skirt since grade school.

“Oh, it’s… nice.”

“Come on, try it on,” she pleads, “it would look so good on you, darling. With your figure.”

You gulp and blink, looking down at yourself. What figure? The boxy button-up and straight-legged tweed don’t betray much of that. Your body is your body; it’s just there.

“I’ll try,” you relent. It wouldn’t be polite to say no.

“Alright, you take this to a dressing room and I’ll find some shoes,” she shoves the hangers at you, “excuse me,” she turns and waves to the associate who greeted you on entry, “yes, please, she needs a room.”

The woman with ginger curls approaches and you hand over your, or rather, Frigga’s picks. Her name tag reminds you of her introduction; Celia. She guides you into the back to a large room lined with curtained stalls. She takes you to one and hangs the clothing within. You thank her quietly and turn to stare at the lilac fabric.

You sigh and pull the curtain shut. You strip away reluctantly. It’s all so surreal, you don’t want to believe it. You’re wary of the unusual good luck, the unearned generosity. Why would Mr. Laufeyson agree to this? And why would Frigga want to spend time with you, a maid wearing a title beyond her means?

“Darling, are you ready?” Frigga calls through as her heels tap out her arrival.

“Almost,” you call back, shimmying into the purple overall as you try not to rumble the sleeves of the blouse.

You refuse to look at yourself before you face the curtain and brace yourself. You step out as Frigga waits patiently, sitting on one of the leather poufs with a pair of white loafer flats in her lap, little silver bows clasped by the toe.

“Oh my,” she gasps as she rises, “oh darling, that’s… that becomes you. Oh,” she nears and hands you the shoes, “put these on then. Let’s see the whole look.”

Like most things in life, you let her bowl you over. You just go along with what you’re told. You go through the motions numbly, waiting for it to be over.

You bend to slip into the shoes one at a time. Once you stand, she ushers you around to face the mirror. She squeezes your shoulders before playing with your hair, setting you straights as she stands behind you.

“Look at you, darling,” she purrs.

You falter as you see the woman staring back at you. That’s you! You can hardly see yourself under it all. You press your hands to the skirt, wishing for a few more inches, and squeak the soles on the floor as you shift awkwardly in the stiff leather.

“This is it. It suits you so well. Sharp collars, cinched here,” she touches your waist, “I think we have a good start.”

“Um, thanks, but er…”

“You can wear that out. It’s a lovely outfit for lunch,” she insists, “but I’m thinking a few boucle jackets, some matching skirts, a splash of pastel,” she rambles on dreamily, “pearls, of course, maybe some rose gold…”

Your brow pinches over your nose. You don’t know what to do. You can’t say no and even if you were brave enough to, you don’t think she’d hear you. She’s like her son, that way. She only sees what she wants and there’s no denying her.

“Oh, thank you so much for humouring me,” she drawls, “you know, ever since the divorce, I’ve been terribly lonely.” You’re startled by her sudden shift. You blink at her, “my own daughter was never one for the shops, at least, not with me but Sif… she… well, c’est la vie.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Why? Oh, don’t apologise, it is me who should,” she laughs at herself as she leads you back into the shop room, “to you and your own mother. I have accosted her daughter!”

You nod and seal your lips. You feel the pluck in your chest. You distract yourself with a nearby dress; it’s beige and boring.

“I hate to overstep but Loki did mention your father is sick. I’m certain it can’t be easy,” she hums, “it never is. You and your mother–”

“My mother…” you pipe up, voice cracking. You shake off the wave of dizziness and sigh, “my mother is dead.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she touches her chest, “dear me, I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have–”

“I’m not upset. I never knew her,” you shrug and move on to a more colourful dress. “Just me and dad.”

“Well, it’s nice you have each other,” she says.

“Yeah,” you agree dully.

She’s quiet as she browses beside you, sifting through hangers. Tension ripples between you. Neither of you know what to say.

“How about this?” She holds up a satin blouse in a dainty shade of rose, “it would compliment your complexion.”

“Um, sure,” you let the thickness in the air slake away, “I… I’m not picky.”

“Oh, darling, you are too agreeable,” she teases, “you best not let my son play on that. He could always hear a no or two, yes?”

You nod, uncertain what she means. He’s your boss, you don’t tell him no. He doesn’t ask for your input. He just says and you do. That’s why you’re here. He needed a toy to give his mother, and you’re playing along.

🧹

The restaurant is just as resplendent and upscale as the shops. You try to keep stride with Frigga as she struts up to the open doors, a hostess standing behind a podium just outside as the sunlight beams down in a mid-afternoon haze. She smiles at the elder blonde as she greets her with enthusiasm.

“Good afternoon, we were hoping for a table outside,” Frigga declares.

“For two?” The hostess asks as she looks down at the tablet in front of her.

“A bigger table, please, we have someone joining us,” she answers.

“Great, we can fit you in,” the woman assures and waves you through the small gate of the patio.

She takes you to a table near the colourful flower beds and offers the drink menu. Frigga thanks her and sits as you mimic her. You do your best not to fidget despite the persistent displacement zinging through your nerves. She browses the menu and taps her groomed fingernail on the table.

“Is it too early for Zinfandel?” She wonders.

“Oh, I don’t… know,” you put your own menu down, content with a glass of cranberry juice.

“Or perhaps a white?”

You shrug. You don’t drink. You never have and never really thought of trying it. You rub your cheek and look around, squirming at the other diners in their carefree conversations. What are you doing here?

A new server approaches and takes your orders. Frigga gets her wine and you murmur your request for a glass of juice. You hand over the menus and she checks her slender golden watch.

“Mm, I did say two,” she tuts and takes out her phone.

It’s almost amusing to see someone disappointed in Mr. Laufeyson. To be on the other side of the table. You’re not the one rushing to meet a deadline for once. You twiddle your hands in your lap and peer around at the din.

A table of women sit with cocktails and green salads, gabbing loudly. They are probably your age. Friends. Something you never had. Probably never will.

“Mother,” a voice proclaims across the patio and you wince. It’s familiar but not the timbre you expected. Maybe it’s a coincidence.

“There you are,” Frigga stands and you turn to look over your shoulder at the burly blond. Oh.

You rise too, not wanting to seem rude. Thor hugs his mother and kisses the top of her head, “I was caught behind an accident,” he explains, “oh,” he faces you, “and who… it is the little maid!” He takes you by the shoulders and you flinch as he bends to kiss your cheek, “you remember me, yes?”

You can only nod as you wriggle out of his grip. You resist the urge to wipe your cheek.

“Maid! Do not call her that,” Frigga chides as she sits.

You lower yourself back to your seat. Thor drags out the chair next to you and you try not to show your discomfort. He is almost too wide for the seat as his thigh presses to yours.

“I never got a name, you know? Brother hides everything away,” he sniffs, “so forgive me,” he leans as he tries to look you in the face, “a proper introduction is in order; I am Thor, you recall, hm?”

You nod again and eke out your name. He offers his large hand and you hesitate to take it. You won’t be rude though. His grip swallows your hand up, tight and unyielding. When he finally releases you, you let out a slow breath and stare at the table.

“Speaking of,” Frigga remarks, “he is late.”

“Not surprising, he can hardly be bothered to leave his cave,” Thor scoffs, “what a nice colour.”

He touches the button on your dress and you squeeze your legs together, trying to sidle away without being obvious.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Oh, we had a wonderful day shopping,” Frigga supplies, “she’s so sweet.”

“Ah, yes, I’m certain father will be happy to hear you had a spree,” Thor chortles.

“What he doesn’t know…” Frigga giggles.

The server returns and sets down the stemmed glass of dark wine and your juice. Thor orders rye as you lean forward to sip, the tangy flavour tautens your cheeks. You feel your chair shift and sit back, only to meet the curl of his fingers on the back rest. He doesn’t draw away, his leg splaying wider to touch yours again.

“So we are waiting on him?” Thor challenges and slaps his stomach with his other hand, “I’m starving.”

“We’ll give him another ten,” Frigga girds, “perhaps he is also stuck in traffic.”

“Not to worry,” Thor booms, “we can have fun without him, eh. Probably more.”

“Oh, don’t,” Frigga reproaches, “this is supposed to be a nice family meal, you will not start with him again.”

“It wasn’t me. He’s the one who stormed out–”

“Enough,” she interjects, “we are moving past it.”

“I’ve moved on,” Thor insists, “mother, really, I am not the one who keeps picking fights.”

“Mmm,” Frigga purses her lips, “nor do you discourage them.”

“Me?” Thor feigns innocence, his fingertips brushing the back of your collar, “I only said hello and he went out of his mind.”

“Um,” you sit forward, knocking the table slightly, “er, I… is there a bathroom?”

“Oh, yes, darling,” Frigga turns to you as if only then recalling your presence, “just through the front door to the right.”

“Thank you,” you stand, “sorry, uh, excuse me.”

You turn and scurry off, clutching the sides of the dress to keep it from riding up. Once you get inside, you roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the sensation of his touch. You reach back to tug at your collar.

It’s peculiar to think, but you hope Mr. Laufeyson gets there soon.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #dirty work #series #avengers #mcu #marvel #thor #au #maid au

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dearbraus · 5 months

Text

Covered in the Colour of You ࿐

— Armin Arlert

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, cisfem reader (use of girl as reference to the reader), reader's hair gets combed through, reader wears a nightgown, post-canon exploration of characters and setting, reader is mentally ill (so is Armin), hunger as a metaphor for desire, love as consumption, love confessions, first times (Armin is a virgin, Reader is not), first kisses, sex on a table, some foreplay, unprotected sex, creampies, ambiguous ending, angst, hurt/some comfort, childhood friends to lovers. ⊹ Run time. 10k ⊹ Note. I don't know how we got here but I'm glad we did. This was meant to be a cute comfort fic to deal with the ending of Attack on Titan but it became so much more, I hope you enjoy.

❝A surprise visit from your childhood friend, Armin Arlert forces you to confront the feelings you've been harbouring for over a decade..❞

The Jägerist’s cries are deafening, they bounce off the clay brick walls of the surrounding houses and slither through your shuttered window panes. Every Tuesday and Thursday, the newly minted Paradis military regiment convenes in the small town square within the rebuilt city of Shiganshina. It took them just under a month to replace the fallen with green boys and girls who were just buzzing at the idea of honouring Eren Jäger and avenging his death. Once Paradis managed to secure the resources– if there were any left– you were certain that the military would erect a bronze statue of Paradis’ “saviour”. For now, they’d bother napping babies and the elderly folk who milled about the area to soak in some of the sun’s sweet warmth.

Today they seemed to be reminding those who’d spare an ear to listen, that traitors would soon shore and with them came treasonous falsehoods. If not for Queen Historia who still harbours some morsel of affection for her old comrades, they’d be as good as dead the moment their ship docked. Word spread quickly, how you weren’t sure, but like wildfire the claim that Armin Arlert had been the one to kill Eren Jäger scorched the plains and further sowed the seeds of instability amongst the population.

The irony of such a ludicrous statement was not lost on you. Armin Arlert couldn’t kill Eren Jäger, they were best friends and all of Shiganshina knew there could not be one without the other. You had known the two almost as long as they had known each other. Shiganshina wasn’t so big in those days, Grisha Jäger was the only doctor and Armin’s father was something of a handyman. They were who you called upon when something was amiss and you’d thank them with a warm meal or something sweet. That was what you did in those days, you showed kindness wherever you could. They were so simple, those days when the walls kept secrets and our minds were shrouded with ignorant bliss. Some mornings when you woke before the sun had yet risen, you wished Paradis could have remained tucked safely beneath the blanket King Fritz had pulled over the island.

What little sense of communal affection remained dwindled with calls to action that erupted from the square.

This morning, the sense of longing that had settled between your lungs weighed heavily as you listened to the shouting. You wished the clock would turn back and the next time you woke, you’d be ten years old and the house you lived in would be your home. It was sort of a sick joke, to be given the keys to the house built upon the rubble of your family's home. Floch handed you the keys as if he had done you this great personal service when it had been Eren, Armin, Mikasa, and their friends who had dug through the wreckage to salvage the home they too had lost. Vagrancy was tiring and what little money you had to your name after years of working for meagre wages that just barely covered your expenses, maybe you should have been grateful to at least collect a few pieces of your life before even if they jagged and misshapen. Something was better than nothing, wasn’t it?

It had to be.

There needed to be some reason for you to keep going. Lately, there didn’t seem to be any. Everything felt wrong. The once-cobbled streets were made of smooth even stone that allowed you to bounce around the city with ease, it reminded you of the capital. As a child, you often felt jealous that Wall Sina was home to such niceties while you were made to trip over protruding stones and wade through mud puddles in the wet months. Now though, you’d give anything for a semblance of a distant past that would make Shiganshina home once more. But as you lingered around your old haunts, searching for familiar faces and memories that would ease the pain in your chest, all you’d find was something new and foreign that left you feeling disappointed.

Turning over onto your side you curled inwards, a soft sigh passing your lips as you willed your mind to banish the longing that gnawed at you. The cool breeze that glides through your window leaves goosebumps on the bits of flesh that aren’t being swaddled by your thin white blanket. All the battle cries seemed to have simmered down as the sun inched closer toward the middle of the sky. You might be able to catch the morning market before they pack up their wares for the day if you leave now. Your icebox was pathetically empty, with only a head of rapidly wilting lettuce and milk to occupy the space. Sitting upward with a yawn, you cast a glance toward your dresser. Your clothes hang sloppily over the side of the open drawers. You should probably tidy things up before the hour grows too late.

The sleek, mousy brown floorboards that make up the second story of your house do not creak as you pad across the room—your chest aches, though you’ve grown desensitised to the familiar feeling. Your house used to creak and groan when the wind blew too roughly, and the walls were thin enough that you’d wake to the sound of your mother humming as she prepared breakfast for your family. You tried not to dwell too hard, if anything you should have been relieved. An unexpected storm wouldn’t dare to blow the roof off your house now.

Plucking the soft, brown wool knit cardigan off the lip of your cracked door you slipped the fabric over your body. Your delicate muslin nightgown did little to keep the morning chill away. It did even less to preserve any ounce of modesty. Your bare feet slapped against the stairs as you headed downward, and a soft knock sounded at your door. Pulling your cardigan closer to your body you sighed. It must have been Mrs. Bergmann from next door coming to check on you, make sure you left your house this week, let in some fresh air– function as any other human would, that sort of stuff. She had been widowed long ago, her only son had been one of the many scouts to give his life for a free Paradis. There wasn’t much for her to do aside from checking in on her neighbours. She was a wife, a mother– it was in her nature to nurture all the little lost souls she came across.

“I’m coming Mrs. Bergmann,” You called, your voice echoing around the empty space that would have been your living room, “You don’t need to call in Werner to bust down the door just yet!”

Forcing a smile to your lips, you prepared yourself to open the door. Mrs. Bergmann was well-meaning on the best of days, if a little nosey on the worst. It was better to have someone than no one at all, you remind yourself, pushing back the urge to blanche and roll your eyes at the urgency of her knocking. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you hope your hair wasn’t too gnarly after all the tossing and turning you did last night. The door opens with a soft click as you twist the knob open.

Shock blows through you as you blink at the person on the other side. Your eyes frantically open and close, trying to make sense of who stood before you but as your synapses fired off round after round, searching for something, they found nothing.

“Armin?” You timidly ask, your throat twists up and grows dry.

The syllables on your tongue felt wrong. Maybe, the muscles had just forgotten how his name tasted. As a child, his name rolled off your tongue sweetly and constantly. Back then, there had been too many emotions packed inside your small body, you could never make sense of them, all you knew was that they all led back to the man in front of you. Your cheeks warmed at the reminder of the crush you used to harbour, of how you’d write your name and his, silently calling yourself Mrs. Arlert as if she hadn’t already existed in the form of his mother.

Armin’s cheeks grow round with the shy smile he wears, “Hi,” he says. The remnants of his boyhood live in the soft curve of his jaw and the cherub-like softness of his rosy complexion.

“Hi,” you breathlessly whispered as you searched for any other lingering signs of familiarity.

“May I come in?” he asks, his nervous hands smooth imaginary wrinkles in his sage green tie. The breath is selfishly stolen from your lungs by the greedy, monster who lived inside of you. They swallowed back the traces of your youth, you hoped it was enough to placate them because as long as your breath was hitched, no words could come forth.

Armin’s blue eyes curiously peered back at you from beneath his pale blonde lashes. He was still quite pretty, but the edge of maturity that marred his features made your heart flutter in a way it never had. The desperate longing that clawed at your rib cage slowed, pawing instead as its interests morphed into something more amorous. You would have beaten it down if you could, shame prickles your skin as you clear your throat.

“Of course,” you stutter, opening the door to make room for him to enter, “You’ll have to excuse my appearance, I wasn’t expecting any guests this morning.”

His smile is polite, “What about Mrs. Bergmann?” He inquires, his eyes darting around to drink in the interior of your house. It looked just like the one he was raised in but it had been twelve years since he stepped foot in one. The scouts lived in barracks that were carved out of long-since abandoned castles, “You seemed to be expecting her.”

“Ah, not exactly,” you muttered, offering him a seat at your dining table, “She’s just the only visitor I have as of late … So, what brings you by?”

Armin declines the seat, instead pulling out the chair opposite of him for you. You thank him with a small bow of your head. His knuckles brush against your shoulders as he slides his fingertips along the edge of your chair before swinging around to the other side. In a world of boys, Armin Arlert was a gentleman, as he always had been, even at the age of ten when boys took to tugging girls' pigtails for attention. His grandfather would be proud of the young man he’s become. You think Mr. Arlert would have been proud even if all Armin did was survive.

The warm yellow sunlight filters through the windows and turns Armin’s hair a shade of bleach blonde. His skin is tanned, his cheeks rosy. He looks healthy, he’s a bit taller too. His hair was different too now that you took a moment to look at it, only slightly so. The shaved undercut reminded you of the short, stoic captain whose charge Armin was in for years.

Insecurity stirred in your belly. You thought of what you might look like to him being so dishevelled in nothing but a nightgown and cardigan. Unkempt, that is how you must have appeared to him. The bike in your stomach burns at the back of your throat as you cross your legs and tuck as much of your body beneath the table as you can.

“I just wanted to see you,” he says, resting his linked hands on the table, “It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

It’s been over four years, the bitter overly insecure voice in your head hisses, “It has, but you’ve been busy, saving the world and all,” you say instead, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, “Honestly I must confess, I'm a bit surprised, I thought you and the other ambassadors would be meeting with the Queen.”

What you truly mean to say dangles in the air. Armin can feel it, he shifts in his seat— why wasn’t he with someone more important? How did he manage to sneak past the Jägerists predatory gaze? He shouldn’t have been here. The anguish that wrought the shores of Paradis couldn’t be fixed with a measly conversation but surely, it was a start so, why was he here with you?

“She met our boat at the harbour to ensure our safe passage into the city,” he explains, picking at his fingers, “We’re still trying to coordinate with the army but they’ve agreed to allow free reign of Shiganshina so long as we remain unarmed.”

“It would be rather counterintuitive for peace ambassadors to bear arms.”

Armin lets out a small chuckle, smiling a bit to himself.

“But, they’ve already proved their incompetence in thinking trained soldiers need weapons to fight,” you muttered, casting your eyes away from him, “I … My apologies, I shouldn't speak ill of your comrades.”

“They’ve dissolved the Scout Regiment, I’m no longer a soldier and they are not my comrades,” Armin swiftly replies.

He fiddles with his tie again, flattening out the fabric with scar-riddled hands. The last time you saw him, his skin was surprisingly unmarred. Old scars you could have sworn imprinted his skin ceased to exist, something to do with his newfound titan ability, that’s what Eren said when he rolled up his sleeves to expose his own blemish-free body. It seemed unnatural then, for the pieces of personal history to be erased but Armin felt alien enough without you reminding him of how much he had changed.

“Yes, but-”

“How are you doing?” He interrupts, and an apologetic look swims within the depths of his baby blue eyes. His time in the military was a touchy subject, which was to be expected but it didn’t wash away the burn of curiosity that ribbed at your bones, “When I last wrote to Mikasa, she said she hadn’t seen you in some time in spite of being neighbours.”

Pursing your lips, you sigh, “I’m doing well Armin,” it’s a bald-faced lie but the two of you have become so estranged, Armin couldn’t know you the way he once did, not when so much time has washed the imprints you’ve pressed upon each other as it brought in the tide, “How are you?”

“That’s not an answer,” Armin frowns, the dip of his lips making his cheeks round in a way that reminds you that he is only twenty-two, “I haven’t seen you in four years, I … I want to know what your life is like.”

Reaching over the table, Armin takes your hand in his. If he notices the irritated and oozing flesh around your cuticles, he keeps it well hidden. Smoothing his thumb over your knuckles, Armin settles his eyes on yours, taking in the two little lines that have been carved into your skin from how often you furrow your brows. There was no “correct” way to tell someone that you spent most of your afternoons curled up in bed, lying listlessly as you listened to the sounds of the bustling street below. Armin had a penchant for worrying, he’d worry about your well-being when there were far more important issues for him to focus on.

“It’s not so different from before.”

Armin was unconvinced. Eight years ago, after the Scout Regiment took control of the central government, a bit of money was sent your way in addition to your rebuilt childhood home. Though they wouldn’t say it, you believed that Eren, Armin, and Mikasa felt guilty for abandoning you the moment they turned twelve thus becoming eligible to enrol in the Cadet Corps. You had no interest in joining the Scouts, Military Police, or the Garrison but Eren was determined and wherever Eren went so too did Mikasa and Armin. With no family and no friends, you had to fend for yourself. It wasn’t so bad. A woman, you could hardly remember her name now, paid you to care for her youngest child while she and her husband worked, and their older children attended school. She gave you room and board, fed you three square meals, and gave you “hand-me-downs” to wear.

In the chaos of Trost being breeched you became separated and weeks later learned that the family perished. You used what little money you managed to save to pay for board in an inn near Jinae where you worked as a stable hand until your childhood friends and their comrades came bearing gifts. You’d need to find work soon. Now that you were of age, you were sure to find a cushy job as a barmaid at the local tavern.

“You think it is?” You asked, biting on your bottom lip.

Armin nods. His grip tightens and he mutters a low, “Sorry” when you wince from how he accidentally squishes your fingers beneath his.

Shrugging your shoulders you think back to the before much like you did most days, “Paradis is being run by lunatics who worship a dead man,” you blanche, your chest preemptively tightening from your nerves, “That’s not so different to before when this shitty little island was run by lunatics who worshipped the walls.”

Except now, people actually paid mind to the chirping loons. They had access to weapons that could wipe out what was left of humanity and certainly were unafraid to use them. Crossing them would be a very stupid and very dangerous mistake. Bravery was what this island prided itself on, now the most one could muster was a contempt-filled glower that was sent in passing.

“That’s not …” Armin’s voice trailed off. There was that look of guilt again.

“I know.”

Lacing your fingers between his, you squeeze Armin’s hand.

“It’s not your fault, Armin,” you assure, your mouth twisting up into a strange smile. The muscles in your face seemed to ache as though you were contorting your expression, “You know that, right?”

He nods his head, and strands of his pale blonde hair fall against his forehead as he does, “I know,” he whispers with conviction though his hand trembles in yours. You remain unconvinced, guilt rolls off his shoulders in sickening waves.

“It’s not Eren’s fault either.”

You’re unsure why you say it. It was Eren’s fault. It was his name and his image that they fought for. Whatever politics happened behind closed doors did not matter, not when he died knowing that those men and women idolised him and would wage wars in his name. One spoiled fruit rotted away the entire crop and now Paradis was ready to cosign its doom, picking on the weakened and the damned as if this island had not once been just the same.

“Thank you,” Armin mouths, his voice barely audible as he clears his throat and replaces his expression with a friendly smile.

“I guess the trains are different,” you blurt, looking for a way to steer the sinking ship that was this conversation, “I’ll never get used to them, they’re so loud and dark inside.”

“Glad to know our hard work is being appreciated.”

You lift the corners of your lips to smile at him, “It is, the horses are very grateful to no longer be worked to the bone by merchants transporting goods from Maria to Sheena,” you say, nearly forgetting that there no longer was an interior or exterior to name, “Life here is still simple, Armin, there isn’t much to update you on.”

“Still-”

“We can’t all be heroes,” you jest, nudging his foot beneath the table, “So, tell me what is life like for you?”

Armin withdraws his hands from yours, “It’s all I talk about, I don’t want to talk about it with you,” he explains, swallowing thickly, “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.”

Rising from your seat you round the corner of the small table to press the palm of your hand between his shoulder blades. The gesture is meant to be comforting but you feel awkward, like you shouldn’t be touching him like this though your body craved the knowledge of what his skin would like against yours. The tips of your fingers graze the edge of his crisp collar, you hastily jerk back, eyes narrowing to inspect the fabric for any unwanted crinkles you may have caused.

“I’ve been such a bad host,” you mutter, “My mother would be so disappointed that I haven’t asked you if you’d like anything to drink.”

“Tea if you have any, please.”

You nod again, you still have some dried chamomile that Mrs.Bergmann gave to you when you confessed to her that you struggled to sleep some days. The tea didn’t help but it was the thought that counted. Goosebumps trailed up the length of your bare legs and you cursed yourself for not excusing yourself to dress before you sat down with Armin. The early spring air wouldn’t warm until the late afternoon most days.

Armin’s gaze is heavy. He watches you flutter about your kitchen with keen intent. His eyes slither up your body in a methodical manner. You’re unsure if he’s leering the way men unabashedly do when they’re three pints in or if he’s searching for any indication that something might be amiss. You hope it’s the latter. It should be the latter, you didn’t feel uncomfortable and Armin wasn’t one to steal eyefuls of others.

“Do you still like it with milk and honey?” you ask, though you’ve already reached into the icebox in search of the milk you knew was in there. Hopefully, it hasn't yet spoiled.

You flinched when you rose to your full height. Armin had materialised behind you. The jug nearly drops from your hand but Armin is quick to wrap his fingers around the handle, overtop of your hand. He guides the jug to the counter and reaches an arm around you to take the teapot off the heat before it can release a shrill squeal.

Pressing your hand to your chest, you murmur a breathless, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Armin chirps.

His eyes bore into yours, he’s inspecting you once more. Whatever he’s in search of, you’re certain he isn’t going to find it. The girl that he once knew was not the same woman that stood before him, nor was he the same boy even if his eyes twinkled just the same. That was growing up. Your stomach grumbled, licking its chops as the wanting returned. Your eyes trickled down Armin’s face until they settled on his cupid's bow. His lips were full and a dusted pink colour. They were nice, you remember wondering what they’d feel like against yours if it’d hurt to kiss him after he’d bitten his lips raw with stress.

The sharp edge of the counter digs into the plush flesh of your hips as you press your body against it. Hunger is as frightening as it is all consuming. You are hungry. Are you hungry for him? You’ve craved and yearned for places and their people, but never their bodies. The one time you allowed a man in your bed it’d been out of curiosity and some twisted need to feel something, anything other than the dull twinge of melancholy that sprouted from the roots it planted in your heart.

Armin placed his hand on your chest where your heart was. The heat of his palm melted through the thin fabric of your nightgown, causing you to instinctively shiver, “Your heart is racing,” he comments, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, “I didn’t startle you, did I?”

“No.”

“How is Annie?” You nervously ask, searching for a way to stifle the deluded desire that coursed through your veins, “Last I heard from Hitch, she had been freed from her crystal and joined you. That must have been exciting, being able to speak to her after so many years.”

His face crinkles up into a confused expression, “Annie is fine, they’re all fine. Connie and Jean are excited to see their mothers,” he replies slightly, cocking his head to the side, “Why do you ask?”

You shrug your shoulders. Armin doesn’t remove his hand. Your heart skips a beat, you’re sure he feels it.

“Was just curious I guess, since I heard you had feelings for her.”

“Annie and I are friends, nothing more,” his nose crinkles, he seems to want to ask where you hear such a ludicrous rumour but doesn’t. When he wasn’t with the scouts, he was with her crystal, talking as if one day she might answer back.

“Oh.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Armin counters, his long pale lashes fluttering against his cheek as he blinks, “You’ve always been … quite the catch.”

His voice trails off, he regrets his wording. He didn’t want to liken you to fish or cattle but of all the vast information stored in his brain, there seemed to be nothing on complimenting women. Not that he’s done much of that in his lifetime. There’s never been a need to. Armin wants to compliment you, to tell you how he really feels but it gets clogged in his throat as he struggles to get a read on you.

Shaking your head, you avert your gaze.

It’s not for a lack of trying or wanting. None of the relationships you pursued ever felt right. Their hands didn’t fit within yours the way they were supposed to. Your body was hallowed out in the middle but they couldn’t fill you up. It wasn’t their fault. You’d accept that you were broken, someone who simply wasn’t meant to be loved. It was easy. Until now, when the one person your heart still clung to stood here and dangled himself like a carrot.

“Good, you’re too good for anyone on this island,” his proclamation makes your skin itch. Even if what he said were true, you would have to settle for someone on this island eventually, lest you spend the rest of your life as alone as you are now, “You deserve someone who’s good enough for you.”

You nearly laugh, though he makes this statement with such earnestness that you’re almost inclined to believe him. Almost.

“Who then?”

Looking into his eyes made your lungs ache. There was nowhere to escape with how he pinned you in place with his gaze.

“Who’s good enough for me?” You ask, your nails digging into the wood counter as you curl your fists around the lip of it, “You?”

Armin rolls his eyes and the sight alone shocks you, “No, I could never be good enough for you,” a laugh springs forth, crackling past your lips before you’re able to stop it, “Is something funny?”

His cheeks turn red with embarrassment but there's nowhere for him to hide either.

“No … Yes, actually,” you sigh, expelling all the air from your lungs as you muster up the resolve to be truthful, “I have loved for as long as I can remember and I have wanted you even before I even knew what love truly was.”

Your fingers coil around his wrist, intent on wrenching his hand away from your chest but the look in his eyes stops you. Sadness and self-loathing meet in the bright blue pools of his irises. You were born six months before he was but he’s always seemed years ahead of you. There was a certain kind of wisdom that surrounded him, you weren’t sure why. Now though, whatever maturity that shrouded Armin vanished and all that lay beneath was a newborn fawn that teetered on legs far too long for him.

Your nails dig into the cuff of his jacket, crinkling the pristine fabric, “There is not a day that goes by where I haven’t thought of you.”

“I’m no good for you either,” he says with a wet laugh. His eyes shone with welled up tears that had no business blurring his gaze.

“Because you’ve killed people?” You ask, your brows furrowing as you frown, “There are many people who have done worse for less. At least you had a reason.”

“I could never be the man that you need me to be.”

“Not even for an afternoon?” You had always known his future held more than your own, even before he became humanity's saviour. He’d make his peace with Paradis and leave, maybe he’d come back years from now, or maybe he’d plant his roots elsewhere.

His hand trembles as he shakes his head, “No.”

Pressing his forehead against yours, he releases a shaky exhale. You bite back the urge to ask him once more why he was here. You were never that close as children, you were close in a way that all of Shiganshina was but never anything more than, at least nothing that would have meant this unannounced visit was appropriate.

“Why?”

“You should live a quiet life,” Armin whispers, his lips nearly grazing yours as they move to form each syllable, “A happy life, after all you’ve been through, you deserve it.”

Your eyes flutter shut, “And you don’t?” It’s a stupid question, really, if he believed he did this conversation wouldn’t be happening, “You’ve been through far more than I, you’ve lost so much more.”

“I have even more to atone for.”

His bottom lip quivers as he presses the weight of his body into you. He’s heavier than you could have imagined, and his body is harder too. Somewhere between now and then his lithe frame melded into lean muscle and it serves as another reminder of how much time has passed, how little you two knew of each other now. Trailing your fingertips over his shoulder, you slide your arm around him, pulling him into an embrace. Armin shudders in your hold, a meek whimper slipping past his lips as he crushes his body into yours. Your nails press into the sliver of skin that peeks over the lip of his collar.

It's the nape of his neck.

When titans were simply the monsters that hid beneath your bed and plagued your dreams, it was common knowledge that the way to snuff them out was through the nape. It felt oddly vulnerable for your hand to roam over the smooth expanse of skin, though even as a titan shifter it was no weak spot, it may well have been with the way his body shook in your arms.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to live or to love,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, “You get to love now, you get to be loved. Armin, you’re allowed to have things and to want things even after all that has happened.”

Armin sniffles, pressing his nose in your hair. The scent of the lavender soap you’ve used for as long as you could remember still clings to your hair. You wonder if he remembers if that is why he burrows his face deeper until the tip of his nose and his lips brush against the skin of your neck.

Wanting was hard.

So little felt tangible and on the off chance it was, it remained just out of reach. Like a tease, that brushed your fingertips as you outstretched your arm before pulling away or a glimpse of the sun before an array of clouds moved in from across the sky. You couldn’t remember the last time you wanted something. Whatever it was you felt for Armin simmered lowly on a back burner until now, longing did not serve survival. Still, you wanted him but not in the way magpies coveted shiny trinkets but in the way the stars longed for the moon. It was a constant, all consuming yearning that made your stomach twist inward at the strange sensation.

“I don’t even …” Armin trails off, his voice wet with emotion, “I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to desire something.”

Leaning back, Armin allows enough space for him to look at your face. His cheeks are pink, blotchy, and shiny with half dried tears that pooled atop the apples of his cheeks. Cupping your face with the palm of your hand, he smiles sadly at you.

“But, all I have wanted for years was to know what it is like to kiss you.”

Your body burns, not with embarrassment but something else.

“Is that all?” You ask.

The corners of Armin’s mouth twitch upward, “Maybe not but I let go of those dreams long ago.”

“You kept this one, why?”

“Wishful thinking, maybe or … ?” Armin says, scrunching his brows together as he trails off, “You’ve always been here, you’ve been a constant in this ever changing world so I suppose I hoped there’d be a day where I could …”

“Kiss me?”

Armin bashfully nods, biting his lip a bit.

The shiny metal kettle of water grows cold in the length of time you and Armin spend silently staring at each other. He assesses you, slowly, looking for any signs that your affection for him remained buried in the past. You spoke in the past tense, and your words were too easily misconstrued. Your hands slip to cup the underside of his jaw. All this waiting, all this thinking was maddening when you knew exactly what you wanted. His face replaced those of all the men you kissed, his body manifested in the throngs of taverns like an apparition to taunt you. You wanted to kiss him more than you wanted anything else in this world.

His skin was warm to the touch, you’re sure yours is too. You feel warm like you’ve been dipped in melted candle wax. A bit of stubble tickles the palm of your hands and it makes you giggle. His hair is so fair, you didn’t even notice. Armin’s shoulders tense as you lean in, insecurity claws at your throat but you’ve already taken the leap. You were too far gone now to change your mind. Gently grazing your lips across his, you give Armin a chance to back away but he only leans in closer, his calloused thumbs bite into the soft edge of your jawline as he instinctively squeezes you.

Armin’s lips are slightly chapped and scabbed over in a way that tells you he still nervously chews them when he’s worried. He’s inexperienced, that you were expecting, not that you were particularly tactful with how you clumsily melded your mouth against his. Though, he didn’t seem to mind as he eagerly attempted to mimic each movement. The thread of want that coiled around your stomach roared, begging for your attention as pulled away.

The small noise of disappointment that gathers in the back of Armin’s throat does not fall deaf upon your ears. But, you feel ravenous. If you didn’t slither away now, you’d consume him, bones and all, before he’d even had the chance to register that you sunk your teeth into his sternum. You feel ravenous. It makes your skin itch. Your fingers twitched, they desperately wished to burrow themselves into his flesh to feel how his heart thrummed for you.

Through lidded eyes, Armin peers at you, “Just like I thought,” he says, his cheeks somehow deepening in colour.

“What do you mean?”

“One kiss and I’m gone,” he explains but that doesn’t smooth the confused furrow from between your brows, “I want more, I don’t know how I’m meant to live on knowing what it’s like to kiss and never being able to again.”

Your nose scrunches as you frown, “Say who?”

“Pardon?”

“Who said that I’d never kiss you again?” You ask, smoothing your thumb along the length of his stubbly jaw, “Because, I never said that.”

“I just thought-”

Looping your arms around his neck you sigh, “Stop thinking so much,” you whine, allowing yourself to relish in the knowledge that he too wanted more, “Sometimes things are far simpler than you make them out to be.”

Armin bashfully dips his chin for a moment, his heat filled gaze cast away which offers you some reprieve. Only for a short moment, though. He faces you once more in an instant. You can see it swimming in the pools of his irises, the want, the hunger. It’s something you never imagined to be reflected back to you, least of all from Armin. It thrills you all the same, your skin prickling with electricity that crackles to life when he reaches for your hips.

It’s gentlemanly, how he rests his hands respectively over your body with a feather light touch that may flee should you move too quickly. You want more though, you wish he’d take claim to you the way you the way your cunt ached for.

“Are they?”

You nod, fearing your voice would somehow betray you.

He too nods, far more thoughtful than you were, “You know, I loved you too, never had any doubts of what it was,” he muses, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows, “It never faded either even when I lost and confused about what came next.”

His admission makes you bristle, your ears perking up in search of any misspoken syllables that may have deluded you. There were none. There was no mistaking what Armin had confessed. It doesn’t feel real. You’d pinch yourself if Armin’s watchful gaze was pointed anywhere but you. That alone was proof enough that this was very real, Armin just confessed his love for you.

“And you?” Armin asks.

“Huh?”

Your heart pounds, screaming over the sound of Armin’s voice. You suck in a shaky breath and will your heart to calm down. In all your years of wanting, of yearning, you never imagined what it would be like to have your feelings reciprocated. You assumed neither of you would live long enough for anything to come to fruition. But you could hope now, right?

“Did your feelings for me ever fade?”

“No … no, never,” admitting out loud that you pined after a boy for nearly two decades would have made you feel pathetic if it wasn’t Armin who pulled the truth from where it coiled around your ribs, “Even if I wanted them too, they never would. You’re it for me, you’re the only person I was made to love.”

You didn’t fancy yourself a dreamer. At least, not after everything was said and done. There wasn’t much to dream up, but if you were to dream or indulge you’d tell him that there could never be anyone else because your souls were tied together. It was a terribly selfish thought but it was true enough that you felt inexplicably tied to Armin. Even if this day passed and you never saw him again, your heart would remain his until you both returned to earth.

Armin kisses you before you’re able to backpedal on any of your words, almost shyly, but still eager enough that his need rolls off his body in waves and crashes into you. His nails press through the thin material of your nightgown to nip at your hips. You’re reminded of just how strong he has become in all your years apart when you feel his muscles ripple through his forearms.

“Armin,” you sharply whisper between the desperate press of his mouth to yours, “I want you.”

It’s an unfinished thought. There are too many words that could come next and not enough actions to convey what it is you want. Threading your fingers through carefully styled hair, you tug at the strands. Armin keens into your mouth, one of his hands shooting out to grasp the edge of the counter you were pressed against. Having braced himself, he’s careful not to put too much of his weight onto you as his body melts into yours.

“I’m right here,” he says, with a slight laugh.

Resting your forehead against his, you sigh, “I want you,” you repeat, untangling your fingers from his hair to fiddle with the top button of his shirt. You flick it open, slowly testing the waters. There’s a sparse patch of flaxen hair that leads your gaze past his collarbones, “I want to be close to you, close with you…”

Your whisper, wanton words did little to clarify what you meant, Armin’s confused stare was fixed on your swollen, kiss bitten lips. Popping open another button, you glare at his tie. It constricts the fabric of his shirt from spilling open any further. Pulling the tongue of the tie out from where it’s neatly tucked in his waistband, you tug on it until you’re nose to nose. You swallow thickly, your gaze trailing down the expanse of his neck. The muscles strained beneath the skin as he nervously clenched his jaw.

“Oh … Oh.”

The red in his cheeks deepened. He looked a bit like a tomato but it was rather endearing.

“...Yeah?”

He nods a bit too quickly, “Yeah,” he agrees, biting his bottom lip, “I want this, I want this with you.”

Tentatively, Armin rests his hands on your shoulder and thumbs at the worn wool of your well loved cardigan. The fabric is slowly peeling away from your body, slipping down your biceps to pool in the crook of your elbows. Your heart flutters, it’s a strange sensation and for a moment you wonder if it’s healthy. It can’t be, not with how your stomach lurches alongside your heart. Unfurling your fists from his tie, you straighten your arms and allow your cardigan to unceremoniously fall to the floor.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your fingers skimming the delicate neckline of your nightgown. You weren’t yet so overcome with lust that you forgot yourself or Armin’s apparent lack of experience.

His hands replace yours, “Yes,” his skin is clammy but so is yours, the sheen of nervous sweat that gathers along your jugular feels disgusting when laid overtop of goosebumps but you can’t will either away, “You’re special to me … there isn’t anyone else I would want to do this with.”

“You’re not just saying this because you want to die with no regrets?”

You cringe at the crippling edge of insecurity that creeps over you, mentally slapping your hand in shame. Bad! You silently scold. You wouldn’t blame him if he did. In spite of all that happened, the future was never promised, you both knew that much. There was no shame in wanting to taste all life had to offer just in case. It was human nature.

“I’m going to live a very long life,” Armin says with a confident smile. Such sureness would usually make you roll your eyes in annoyance but Armin doesn’t say it to be boastful– even if he had, he’d have earned it– he says it matter of fact, he will live a long life in spite of everything, “And so are you, there’s no need to think in half measures filled with worries because we’re going to live long beautiful lives filled with everything we could ever want.”

It’s a pretty picture he paints but you can’t help but whisper, “We are?”

Smoothing his calloused thumbs along the column of your throat, Armin exhales, “Yes, we are,” you almost believe him, his optimism was just that convincing, “I’ll make sure of it.”

Armin tugs on the loop that keeps your nightgown tied closed, not minding that the two of you still stand in your kitchenette and it’s his first time. He gently guides the thin cotton fabric open to expose your chest but doesn’t move to pull the cloth from your body. In turn, you push his jacket off his shoulders and toss it to the floor with your cardigan. He unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall open to reveal his lithe abdomen.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, walking backwards at your behest, “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

His brows shoot into his hairline when he bumps into the edge of your table, “I never pegged you to be such a flatterer, Mister Arlert,” you tease, pushing his chest until he takes the hint to hop onto the tabletop, “You tell all the girls that?”

It’s easy to wear a smile and play the part of a bashful lovestruck young lady. It’s only half a performance. There were parts of you that have long since been buried amongst the past lives you lived. They seemed to come back to you with each puff of breath that passed your lips. You slip in and out of you were and you could become. It’s frightening and thrilling. You like the rush you get when he smiles back at you. It’s megawatt bright and wide enough to take up most of his face. You wonder if he feels it too, the pieces that come together like a puzzle. He must, that’s why he smiles and allows himself to indulge in the perilous depths of wanting that lap at your bellies.

“No,” he playfully rolls his eyes, his fingers splaying out as he presses his palms flat against the table, “Only you. It’s only ever been you.”

Your stomach somersaults, you could get used to the feeling, the flirting, being desired earnestly.

You’ve been desired before but those men didn’t desire you, but rather the idea of you, your house, even your cunt, but never really you. They never filled you with empty promises, their intentions quite clear from the first shared mug of ale. It never bothered you before but now it does. You wish you didn’t fall for their promise of something good when the real thing was so much better now that you had it in your grasp.

The tip of his shoe just barely grazes the floor as he swings his leg back and forth, stepping into the space between his spread legs, you graze your fingertip along the length of his thigh. The metal of his belt glints in the warm morning light. You should probably bring him upstairs, to your bedroom. You worry if you do, you’ll lose the nerves that have steeled over to service the aching monster in your belly. Tomorrow he might think you crass, perhaps he would even sooner when the haze of desire faded and he was left with the weight of his indulgence.

“May I?

“Yes, please,” Armin breathes, shuddering a bit when you place your hand on the buckle.

His hips twitch upward, seeking the warm touch of your hand. Daring to cast your gaze downward, you rake your eyes over his growing bulge. His belt clinks open and you suck in a nervous breath. You’re about to ask if you can unbutton his dress pants when he whispers another small plea, his breath heavy.

A few strands of hair slip over the edge of your shoulder, Armin tucks them behind your ear with a pleased smile. His cock springs forth when you pull the waistband of his underwear downward. The wispy trail of hair that disappears beneath his shirt is a shade darker, but just as fine as the hair on his head. Your mouth waters at the sight of his rosy tip, precum oozes when you gently squeeze the base of his cock. Slowly pumping your hand up and down his length, you glance at Armin.

His bottom lip is squished between his teeth, hiding the sweet little sounds that travel up his throat. You strain your ears to listen, your eyes boring into his. He blinks but holds your gaze. He frees his bottom lip and allows his jaw to hang open when he realises that you’re listening to his sounds. Armin doesn’t have to be quiet, he can loudly indulge in his pleasures so he does. Softly moaning your name with a goofy, lovestruck expression on his face even as he jerks his hips up to match your rhythm.

“Does that feel good?” you ask, internally cringing as you wrack your brain for something to say. You wonder if you should stay silent, but words may be more comforting.

Armin’s head bobs as he nods a bit too quickly, “Yes,” he moans as he digs his nails into the splintered wood of your table.

He uses his other hand to curl his fingers around your wrist, the one that wasn’t languidly working his cock. Armin squeezes your wrist too roughly like he forgets himself and his own strength, your brows crinkle in pain but it’s easily masked as a look of concentration. You don’t mind though, the pain reminds you that you’re alive, that this was real and not just the machinations of an overactive imagination. Armin shudders when you use your thumb to spread some of the precum gathered along the head of his cock down the shaft, allowing your hand to slide more smoothly.

Your name is sweet on his tongue, the syllables roll off it in a way that makes you think it belongs there. Like Armin was meant to say your name like this for the rest of eternity.

“I want to touch you too,” he pants, between wanton whimpers. The smooth silver of skin that he clings to isn’t enough, “I want you to feel good too.”

It’s difficult to say no to Armin when he asks so sweetly, “Okay,” you say, bringing your linked hands up to your mouth to press a kiss to the back of his hand, “Lay back for me, okay?”

Armin does as you ask without question like a dutiful dog obeys its owner. You hitch your legs over the edge of the table and settle atop of his thighs. Hiking the hem of your nightgown upward, you guide Armin’s hand between your legs to where your bare, wet pussy clenches in anticipation. Your cunt aches with need and your chest squeezes at the slight brush of his calloused fingers across your folds.

“Touch me here.”

“Like this?” he asks, curling his fingers to rub against your throbbing clit, a shiver rolls through your spine.

Cupping your hand over his, you encourage him to make a few small circles, “Mhm, just like that,” you shudder, your breath halting when the table creaks beneath your shared weight, “It feels good, Armin.”

Seeming satisfied with himself and the way his name melted past your lips, he replicates your movement. You feel feverish with need as the urge to burrow yourself within his sternum consumes you. It melds with the pinpricks of pleasure that dance inside your belly as your muscles tense. It’s a terrible fate– to be ensnared by Armin Arlert. You don’t believe his promises, no matter how saccharine. It’s devilish for him to touch you, you’ve decided. Like with your kisses, how were you meant to go on without Armin ever touching you like this again? But, you’ve learned to manage your expectations. Dreams were called dreams because they were never meant to be anything more than something to wish on as a child. Even if he did still love you, there was too much distance between what became of your life and what became of his.

Pleasure burns your belly. It singes your insecurities but doesn’t snuff them out in their entirety. It’s just enough to chase them away and leave nothing but bliss in their wake. Your head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Your chest heaves with haggard breaths, and your nightgown slips open to reveal the supple skin of your chest and your breasts to Armin. His gaze is respectful as he drinks in the sight. He moans to himself and marvels, it’s quite endearing. You like it, you don’t feel dirty or ashamed for your wanton ways, how could you when Armin drinks you in like you’re a perfectly crafted mountainside that has been crafted just for his admiration?

“Armin,” you sigh, “I need you inside of me.”

Wrapping your fingers around his cock, you slide the head between your dripping folds. Armin’s body wracks and his shoulders shake as he quivers with need. He moans your name once more, and you commit the sound to memory, for those cold and lonely nights that never seem to end. Your shoulders tense when you press the tip to your hole. It’s been a while, the stretch burns a bit. But, it’s nice. Your eyes roll back into your head and you curse under your breath.

Armin slopes his hand around the nape of your neck, “Can I kiss you?” he all but moans, “I want to kiss you again.”

His rosy cheeks grow round when he offers you a bashful smile. You kiss him, your tongue and teeth clicking against one another as you sloppily move your mouth alongside his. You’ve never been much of a multitasker. It’s hard to focus on much else aside from the mind numbing pleasure that distracts you. He hasn’t stopped rolling your clit between his fingers and as he swallows up your moans with desperate, fevered kisses, you wonder if he’s enjoying how much of a mess he’s made of you.

Your heart throbs in a funny sort of manner when you sink all the way down the length of his cock. The feeling of fullness spreads to the tips of your fingers all the way down to your toes. You hate how complete you feel, the fact that a small part of you wishes you could bottle the utter feeling of contentedness that warms you. The hunger and longing that lives inside of you never felt satiated, not once in the decade since it burrowed behind your lungs. Now though, they purr happily like a fat cat who’s had its fair share of the cream.

The taste of salt dabbles on your tongue, “Why are you crying?” Armin asks, his voice laced with concern, “Is something wrong, does it hurt?”

Swiping your fingers across the top of your cheekbones you confirm that those are your tears and not his. They spill past your lash line and there is nothing you can do to stop them. You don’t feel sad, even with the mess in your head you know that much. You sputter for a moment, desperately searching his face for an answer but nothing comes.

“I’m just so happy,” you say though you’re unsure where those words come from but they flow freely before you can stop them just like your tears, “I like being this close to you, I want to stay this close to you.”

Forever.

That’s the word that should complete your sentence. You keep it clutched to your chest where it’ll remain safe so long as you’re vigilant.

You knock your hips forward to silence whatever endeared sentiment Armin is about to form. His brows press together in concentration. He’s nearing his end, you can feel it in the way he throbs inside of you. Your tears are gently wiped by rough hands, you hardly register them. It’s difficult to focus on much as he plays with your clit and dutifully matches each flick of your hips. He’s a quick learner, he always has been. You wonder if he’s storing your reactions and sounds for later so that if there was a next time, he’d do exactly what you’d like without instruction. The end nears for you too, it lingers amongst the obnoxious groans from your table as you rock your hips. The sounds of skin bare slapping marry your shared, debauched whines. They’ll haunt your walls tomorrow and the next.

They haunt you right now.

You didn’t think you were capable of feeling so serene, but you do. You’re untouchable as you chase your release. It lays in the palm of Armin’s hands. You’ll eat straight from them if you have to. The coil in your stomach tightens for a moment and your breathing becomes staggered. Armin is no better, he sputters small half breaths between needy whines of your name. His forehead rests on your shoulder, and his sweat dabbled hair sticks to you. Strands of your hair cling to the nape of your neck too. The cool breeze that slithers across your house makes your heated skin break out with goosebumps. It doesn’t bother you though, nothing could bother you now.

“I love you,” Armin whispers into your skin as he cums, holding your body close to his.

A few more tears well up as your orgasm washes through you. Your thighs shake and you struggle to bring your arms around his torso. His tight embrace makes up for it as they lay limply by your side. Your flush skin is peppered with affectionate kisses and his nose is nuzzled into the crook of your neck. You feel loved, you haven’t felt it in a while but it felt similar to this. The earnest way he embraces you without a second thought is imbued with love. Lifting your tired arms, you curl them around his body. Your nails dig into the hardened flesh of his back. They leave a few crescent moons to join the myriad of battle scars and freckles that have returned to him.

‘“I love you too.”

You wish you could say it was true for the moment but it’s not. It was true because you did love him, you loved him in a way you weren’t sure you were capable of loving anyone else. If Ymir the Founder had left her people with anyone before erasing herself and her titan kin from existence, you think it might have been eternal love. The kind that wasn’t possible of fading, even when you didn’t understand why.

Hours pass and you find yourself in your bed once more, on the edge of waking and sleep you register the lack of sunlight. You don’t remember exactly how you made your way upstairs but you do remember two strong arms holding you close as you allowed slumber to cradle your tired mind in its embrace. The other side of the bed is still warm, but your blanket is tucked snugly beneath your chin.

There’s a letter on your bedside table and a glass of water. You make out the letters of your name and the promise of return but you choose not to read any further. Laying in silence you wonder if she’s still out there, your creator, the founder. If she was, you hoped she would listen to your pleas. You were strong, but you weren’t strong enough to spend the rest of your life waiting on a lost life whose remains had long since returned to the dirt and earth.

You prayed that the Jägerist’s stupidity would fall deaf to Queen Historia’s ears and that when you awoke next, there’d still be a head of blond hair next to you with long pretty eyelashes and rosy cheeks that told all his secrets.

He was too far entangled in your rib cage. You were far too comfortably curled around his aorta. Armin may be able to withstand it but you weren’t. After all this time, you really hoped you could be happy. Even with all the strangeness that came from estrangement, you felt more alive with Armin than you had in all the years of living in Shiganshina. It was a shell of its former self, with the ghosts of yesterday's past filling all the nooks and crannies. You too easily allowed yourself to become one of them, the ghosts but you didn’t half to be a ghost, you could want things just the same as Armin could.

And you wanted him to come back to you so the two of you could experience that future he was talking about.

Mr. Arlert did not raise a liar or a man who’d break promises. Your chances were good. You could be happy. All the lost parts of you could return and maybe you’d feel whole again, and maybe you’d welcome the warmth of the sun on your skin the same way you welcomed Armin back into your life.

You deserved some ounce of happiness too.

#armin arlert x reader #armin arlert smut #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #aot smut #armin x reader #armin smut #armin x you

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vhstown · 4 months

Text

henna hearts

— pavitr prabhakar x gn!reader

summary: You never realised how long mehndi would take to do. Pavitr's got all the time in the world for you, though.

content/warnings: fluff, slight hurt/comfort, ambiguous relationship, briefly edited, henna/mehndi maybe used interchangeably

word count: 1.1k

a/n: he's not Real guys he's not (mitski starts playing)

“You're tickling me…!”

“Just how am I tickling you?”

Though you held your laugh behind pursed lips, a snort escaped from the boy in front of you — the boy who was so desperately trying to finish your mehndi before it got too dark for you to go home.

“Pavi, seriously, we're not gonna finish if you keep doing that.” You tried to frown, but your face was stuck in the ache of a grin. He probably felt the same.

“I'm just trying to keep your arm straight!”

“It is straight!”

“It won't be when I have to do the other side.” You gave him a dubious look, and he seemed to mirror it.

“You're doing my whole arm?”

“I wanted to, but…”

“But what?”

Pavitr's gave you one of those unreadable smiles which you could never tell were teasing or not, looking at you through the dark tousled curls that shrouded his face. Without much thought, you reached out carefully, brushing away his hair with the very tips of your fingers.

His irises caught the colour of the decorative lights around his room, and the way his expression softened made it seem like he was looking at you with all the tenderness in the world. It was hard to look away, and you felt your heart squeeze with embarrassment as a quiet laugh escaped his lips.

“But what…?” you asked again, hoping your voice didn’t sound weird.

“You’ll probably have to stay if I do.”

“Ah…” You nodded, as if it’d hide your disappointment. “Well, you know I can't, so…”

“I know.” He gently lifted your hand again to straighten it out, the tip of the tube grazing your skin with a coolness as faint as an exhale. As he worked on a flower in the middle of your forearm, you noticed his own hands were stained. Pavitr didn't seem to mind, or mention it at all, so you decided to let him focus.

There was a silence between you two, all except for the muffled clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, where his aunt was cooking. Well, you called her auntie too; in fact, you'd never gotten so close to anyone as you did Pavitr and Maya Auntie. A part of you hoped it went both ways.

“How'd you learn to do this anyway?” Your question made him lift his head slightly. “Auntie said you’re even better than her at it.”

A quiet chuckle left him, and he finished the flower off with a small circle in the centre. “My cousins at home taught me. They always begged to practice on me anyway.”

“Really?” The image amused you: a bunch of young girls drawing all over a younger and scrawnier Pavitr’s arms ruthlessly with mehndi while he begrudgingly sat still.

“Yep, and then I started doing it for them before Diwali, birthdays… Nothing big, just simple designs.”

You looked down at your arms, decorated beautifully with intricate designs that just somehow connected together. Whenever you thought he was done, he added more flowers and swirls and patterns, and suddenly it felt like the design would be incomplete without it. He was doing it from the top of his head too; if only you could understand how. All you had to do was sit and wait, and take care not to smudge it. Maya Auntie even suggested that you should avoid doing the dishes at home, so the colour would stay longer. Fat chance, you thought, watching how quickly your arm was being embellished.

“And you call this simple?” you muttered, almost shaking your head.

“Anything’s simple when it's for you, right…?”

Suddenly, he winced, but not at you. Pavitr’s hand hesitantly moved away from the part he was just working on, and there was just the tiniest smudge running across one of the petals. Your lips pressed together out of reflex, but you quickly regretted it when you saw the flash of worry across Pavitr’s face. The brightness seemed to leave his eyes; your reaction was the real mistake.

“Wait, I'll fix it,” he said quickly, reaching to wipe it away with the corner of his shirt.

“Hey, no no no.” You moved your hand away, furrowing your brows at him. “Why ruin your shirt?”

“It would wash out,” he replied sheepishly.

“Not for a while.” Shaking your head, you tried to keep yourself calm. Why’d you have to do that? “It's okay, it's just a little smear.”

Pavitr frowned. It was only slightly, but you felt your stomach twist in guilt. All you wanted nothing more than to touch his cheek, reassure him; not without messing up his face, you couldn't. He really wanted to get it perfect.

“You could just get a tissue from the kitchen, or something,” you suggested.

“It’ll dry by then.”

“No it won't, Pavi.”

You tilted your head down at him, trying to get him to meet your eyes. His fingers tightened around your arm, but he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’ll figure it out, okay? It'll still look pretty…”

“Hey, it's fine, it does look pretty—” The words caught in your throat as he reached up with his free hand, his fingertips brushing your face.

“…What is it?” you managed to mumble out, surprised by his sudden touch. His palm moved to cup your face, hand warm. When he opened his mouth, his voice was just warm.

“Could you stay? Just a little longer — it'll be worth it, I promise.”

There were a lot of things you wanted to say to Pavitr, as he waited for your response, but “no” wasn't one of them.

“Okay.” You tried smiling, feeling his palm against the soft of your cheek. “I'll trust you. Just don't tickle me."

There was a slight light-heartedness to your words, and he mirrored your smile. His was always slightly boyish and a little crooked, but somehow managed to hold the entire world in it.

“Thank you, chellam,” he murmured, touch lingering for just a moment before he dropped his hand. You’d never heard him call you that before.

“…What did you just say?”

“Beta!”

Auntie's voice rang out from the kitchen before he could answer, and you caught the playful glint return to his eyes as he turned to shout back.

“I'm almost done!” You raised an eyebrow at him as he turned to look at you again. “Huh?”

“Chellam?” you repeated, noticing the way his eyes, and his smile, widened when you said it.

“En chellam,” he replied, giving your cheek a soft pinch. You couldn’t hold back your snicker this time.

With your heartbeat in your ears, and flirting now in the equation, you knew Pavitr was far from “almost done” with your menhdi. He still had the rest of your arm to do, and a little mistake to fix, but it was okay, you thought. He’d figure it out — for you.

🪀🔭🕸️

@phoenixinthefiles @qiupachups

hey 😊 i don't have anything to say ok bye

oh wait nevermind i do "en chellam" means like... "my darling" in tamil i believe but is not necessarily romantic it's just a casual term of endearment (correct me if im wrong im a coconut)

find my atsv masterlist here !!!

#pavitr prabhakar x reader #pavitr prabhakar x you #pavitr x reader #pavitr x you #spiderman india #pavitr prabhakar #atsv pavitr #atsv #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderverse x reader #spiderverse x you #atsv x you #atsv x reader #atsv fanfic #vhstown

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in-a-mountain-pool · 10 months

Text

Blossoming Over You

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

pronouns: She/her (afab)

rating: Explicit/18+

warnings: NSFW/Minors DNI, 69 position, smut

word count: 4500+

summary: Aemond and his new bride, Lady Y/N Baratheon, steal a moment together alone at their Wedding dinner.

author’s note: The people have spoken! After my poll to celebrate gaining 69 followers (which is now a lovely 100 followers!) there you have it, an Aemond x Reader 69 smut fic. You’re welcome. As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are not a requirement, but always love to come home to. Thanks again to @bottlesandbarricades and @ewanmitchellcrumbs for your lovely encouragement and commentary in my google doc!

Masterlist

The Great Hall was shrouded in the shades of your family's colours, with deep reds and blacks against the golden yellows of the House Baratheon. Not a plate was empty, nor a glass unfilled as the great households of Westeros came together to celebrate the wedding of Prince Aemond Targaryen and his Lady Y/N.

The betrothal had been a long one, starting at the very beginning of the Dance of Dragons on that fateful night at Storm’s End, and after a year of near unending grief and loss, your love was the salve to heal the deep wounds left behind. The Greens had triumphed over your betrothed’s half-sister only 6 months prior, and now was the time to march onward into a time of peace.

The Queen Mother, Alicent Hightower, watched on from afar, taking in the merry celebrations. All of her children were prospering, thank The Seven, and hopefully soon the realm once more. Prince Aemond and his bride had been missing from the party for quite some time, slipping out just after the speeches had ended and their guests had flocked to the dance floor. In amongst the beautiful patterns created by dancers in dresses of the finest silks, she’d watched as he’d lovingly sought her hand and pulled her away to his chambers.

Later that night, out of the corner of her eye, Alicent sees them return hurriedly through a servant's side door. Y/N was hastily straightening her dress and the priceless jewels hung around her neck, her youngest son rose-pink in the face, his usually perfectly tied hair uncharacteristically mussed and knotted. His mother could hardly contain the hearty chuckle that escapes her mouth as she notes the way he scans the room nervously to see if anyone had noticed their absence… Like it hadn’t been the talk of the Red Keep that the young Prince had hardly been able to keep his hands off his little bride since the end of the war. They were head over heels, and after all of the tragedy that had befallen them, no one could find it in their hearts to judge them for it. It was a match made by the Seven indeed.

It was clear in the way that Aemond would gaze at her when they would dine together, the tender way he would cradle and protect her on dragonback, and the way that no matter how beaten and bloodied he had been during the war, he had never so much as raised his voice at her.

Aemond had always been a gentle soul as a child and this shone brightly whenever he was around his betrothed. Whilst her son had never said the words outright to her, not in plain, it was clear to all that there was a deep love between them. A love that would no doubt last the rest of their days. They’d proven it to the Realm already, before wedding bands and great feasts had even been necessary.

Alicent feels a soft nudge on her arm as Helaena leans over to pass her a goblet of wine, raising her eyebrow playfully to gesture at the couple. Her heart swelled as she watched his new wife reach over to brush back the unruly loose strands of his hair from his face, adjusting the strap of his now rather wonky eyepatch with a care that spoke a thousand words.

He never let anyone touch him, especially not his face. But with her, it was different.

An affectionate smile grazes Aemond’s face when Y/N’s hand lingers upon him to stroke at his scarred cheek, his ringed fingers coming up to enclose themselves around her own, bringing her palm to his lips for a sweet kiss.

The Queen laid her hand softly on the top of her Daughters, leaning back into her chair and sighing as the heavy cares of the last year washed away. She knew that when all was said and done, after all of the blood, the horrors and regrets, brighter times were here for her son, and she knew in her heart that they would be here to stay.

By the Gods, would the speeches drag on much longer!?

The week before their wedding had been the longest week in all of recorded time. She was sure of it. There had scarcely been any time to see her betrothed alone, what with all of the wedding planning and the countless rehearsal dinners at the insistence of the King. Aegon had proclaimed that he’d wanted everything to be perfect for his little brother, though Aemond had known better that it was because he’d used your wedding as a convenient excuse for a week filled with feasting and drunken festivities.

You’re sitting politely, half-way through listening to Ser Tyland Lannister’s slurred speech, telling tall tales of his supposed ‘great friendship’ and comradery with the Prince, when you feel a soft warmth spreading upon your thigh. Aemond’s hand had slipped under the table to squeeze at the soft flesh of your inner thigh, stroking small circles and with his thumb.

“I don’t know what’s worse, this speech, or those ice sculptures.” Aemond whispers, his lips tickling the shell of your ear through your hair.

You try not to snort laughing as you take in the look of pure contempt on your husband's face as his gaze falls upon the already dripping ice carvings of Vhagar and the Baratheon Stag, towering above the crowd at the centre of the Great Hall.

To Alicent’s and the Iron Bank’s dismay, Aegon had been adamant that the wedding would be one the greatest celebrations the Realm had ever seen, not only to honour the bravery of his dear brother during the war, but as a show of power over the scattered remains of the Blacks. And ice sculptures in the height of summer in King's Landing to him had seemed positively lavish.

“My darling, are you surprised? Lest you forget, there is a statue of you in the Dragonpit as tall as Brandon’s Wall.” You murmur to him, tongue-in-cheek and drinking your wine to hide your coquettish grin.

“It is simply his way of showing you that he loves you. Aegon is ever so proud.”

Aemond coughs slightly to mask his mirth, squeezing your thigh once more before purring into your ear.

“I, on the other hand, have several ways that I plan to show you my affection tonight... ” His thumb creeps inward, rising further towards your centre through the layers of your wedding dress.

“That is, if Tyland Lannister ever stops to draw breath.”

Your heart races, as you try as hard as you can to focus on the great tapestry at the end of the room opposite you, another exuberant commission of Aegon’s, detailing your husband’s victory over his Uncle at the God’s Eye earlier that year. You bite at your plush bottom lip as Aemond’s hand moves to cup at your sex, a dark chuckle leaving his throat as the hand gripping your goblet wobbles, almost spilling your wine down your front.

“Sweetling, please, it’s rude not to listen.” He drawls, his nose nuzzling at your temple, breathing you in.

When your new Mother-in-law looks over to you with a small furrow in her brow, mouthing to see if you are okay, you shoot a tight smile her way, and a swift kick to her son’s foot under the table. This only serves to make him chuckle even more, his large hand sliding down to squeeze at your knee lovingly, before returning back to the table to take your hand in his.

“... there has not been a finer warrior in all of the Seven Kingdoms, since Aegon the Conqueror himself. To Prince Aemond, and his bride, Lady Y/N Baratheon. May you live long and happy lives, free from war, and with love in abundance!” Slurred Tyland, raising his tankard of ale into the air.

The room exploded into cheers and hear, hears, the band starting to play once more. The sound of rich strings and flutes fill the air as your guests flood onto the dance floor. Aemond’s chair scoots closer to yours, his thigh pressed hotly against yours. He hastily grabs a plate and starts collecting an assortment of your favourite nibbles and treats for you, before placing it down and leaning over to whisper into your ear.

“You will need a full stomach. Take what you like now and we can take the rest with us.”

You look up in quiet surprise, gently biting into a small lemon cake he’d had made for you specially.

“Aemond- but it’s not the bedding ceremony for another three hours. There are speeches to be made, dances to be had-”

Aemond stares Y/N down with an unmistakable gleam of lust in his eye and a playful smirk on his lips. “I’m not talking about that. That will not take place for hours yet… But did you really think I could wait that long before I tasted you again my love?”

He surveys the room, watching the great houses of the realm eating, drinking and dancing, before he stands up suddenly, lacing his hand with yours and pulling you up to his side.

“I’d love to stay and chat with our guests, but I find myself completely enraptured by you… Y/N, come.” Aemond murmurs into your hair.

He walks you forward towards the servants entrance door with a serious look on his face as you slip behind an old tapestry on the wall and into the depths of the castle. You’d used this passage countless times before, the last time when you’d had to make a quick escape after Aemond had brought you to completion upon the steps of the Iron Throne. Aemond knew a lot about the architecture of the old castle, and by the God’s had he made good use of it during your betrothal.

Within a few moments you’re there in his bed chambers, slamming the door behind you and locking the latch, something that had quickly become second nature after Aegon had walked in on you both one too many times before.

Finally. This was the first moment you’d been alone all week, free from prying eyes watching or judging. No more interruptions.

He places the small plate of food on his bedside table, and strides towards you, grabbing your face and devouring your mouth with his lips and tongue. His large hand splays itself on your small waist. A deep sigh escapes your lips as he hikes up the many layers of your wedding dress, cupping at your ass desperately through your smallclothes.

“Aem- Aemond, take care, my dress… we can’t get too carried away-”

“I don’t give a shit about your dress.” He says panting between kisses, backing you up towards the chaise lounge beside the fireplace. “I can’t help myself. I need you. I want you.”

Aemond grabs you by your hips, lifting you to lay you down upon soft pillows with an indisputable urgency, pressing his weight upon you and attacking your neck with fervent kisses and small bites.

“Ah! There’s no time… Please don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, my love.”

With a growl he pushes up your skirts to your waist and hooks his finger into the soaked crotch of your smallclothes, pulling them down to your ankles. “Oh we will finish… just not in the way you might expect.” Aemond says, with an impish smirk and a rather devilish gleam in his eyes.

“I had something else in mind. Something we have never tried before.”

You lean onto your forearms to meet his harsh kisses, a look of intrigue forming on your face. You and Aemond had certainly tried a lot of things. After countless nights ‘researching’ in the library, he had been able to convince you that there was a lot of enjoyment to be had in each other that did not involve the loss of your virtue. It was really the least The Seven could do to turn a blind eye to their pursuit of happiness.

You blush intensely at the perverse grin decorating his cat-like lips as he gently pushes your shoulders back again, biting at your collarbones beneath the collar of your dress, and sucking small love bites along its edge. You struggle to get your words out at his ministrations, your hands clasping at his strong shoulders, still covered in the soft black velvet of his doublet.

“S- something in mind, my love?”

“I can see that your curiosity is getting the better of you, little Doe. I can assure you, you are not the only one who thinks the waiting has been going on just a little too long.”

His voice is husky, dripping in heat and passion. Aemond moves to kneel partially between your thighs, his lilac eye raking over your body.

“I have a thought. A thought I have had in my mind in your presence for some time now. Aegon told me, against my will of course,” he chuckles before continuing, “of a time he and one of his lovers had pleasured each other with their mouths… mutually, and simultaneously.”

You’d taken him in your mouth almost countless times, as he in turn had devoured you. Aemond was insatiable, especially after a battle. The thought of such heady pleasure taking place at the same moment made your centre throb with desire.

Aemond starts to crawl over your body fixing you with a smouldering look. “If we are quick and efficient, as I know we can be, I believe we can subdue ourselves for the next few hours… lest your husband be driven to madness, resorting to cupping his pretty little bride's cunny under the dinner table once again.”

He unlaces the ties of his tight black trousers with deft fingers. “I promise you, I can be very swift if the reward is sweet.”

Wordlessly you push down your bodice as far as you can to release your heaving chest, causing him to growl in contentment.

“My Dragon, the speeches… they commence in a half hour, and my handmaid's have left for the evening. If you mess up my hair-”

A feral laugh leaves his lips as he shifts around and lays on his side, his face level with your middle, swiftly hooking your leg over his shoulder, pressing hot sloppy kisses up the soft skin.

“Fuck your hair! … Though, that is a very convenient piece of information, my Lady. Even more privacy tonight… and even more opportunity.” With a soft kiss to your smouldering core he murmurs against your bare stomach. “I promise to be gentle with you, my love.”

He shifts his hand down to release his length from its confines, his hard cock springing free and flushed against your face. Aemond’s brushing kisses on your thigh creep closer and closer towards your heat.

“And… you wish for me to taste you, Husband?”

Aemond nods his head in a slow deliberate movement whilst stroking himself, his long hair tickling your stomach. “That is what I wish for, and I think you will come to like it.” He whispers, his breaths growing shorter, and his length swelling harder still.

Shyly you reach to take him into your hand, your dainty fingers not even coming close to meeting. Aemond was heavy and silky to the touch, and oh so hot. He was already leaking, your absence in the week leaving him hungry and craving the warmth of your mouth.

With a swift lick to your folds, he ducks his head between your legs and groans against your cunny in a way that has you shaking. “... If you would be so kind, little Doe…”

All you can do is whine softly, as you feast your eyes on the spectacle of a Targaryen prince, your Prince, nestled between your legs and devouring you like a man-starved. Unable to hold back anymore, you press your face forwards, your tongue brushing little kitten licks over the head of his cock. Aemond can scarcely contain the rumbling moan in his chest when your hand comes to join your tongue, eagerly sliding the gathering combination of spit and precum down his shaft.

“Ah- my sweet little one… a little slower if you please. Lest the moment be over too quickly.”

Aemond drawls out breathlessly, his eye squeezing shut in the sheer bliss of your wet warmth, all the while he starts to suck teasingly on your nub. Rough hands slide up to cup and caress the sensitive skin of your thighs, your flushed skin framing his handsome face.

Your face presses forwards, his hips rocking up purposely to slide home into your mouth until your nose is brushing against the soft blonde hairs at his toned navel. Hollowing your cheeks, your needy groans have him twitching inside of you, before he starts to thrust into your willing mouth. His movements are slow and purposeful, dragging his head against your tongue and against the back of your throat with a need impossible to ignore.

“Yes- Yes that’s it. Oh that’s divine. You are divine. Like the very Maiden herself.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe through your nose when he props up your leg with his hand under your knee, plunging two of his long fingers into your tight hole. Aemond crooks his lithe fingers upwards to tease relentlessly at that sensitive patch inside of you that try as you might you could never reach yourself. What you can’t fit in your mouth you grasp at tightly in your small hands, wrapped around the thick base of him now slick with your spit.

When he pulls out to tease your lips with the tip of his manhood, a pathetic high-pitched whine escapes your throat, a pink blush dusting your cheeks and breasts.

“Aem- Aemond… Are you sure The Seven will not condemn us for such- ah- impropriety? Such sin?”

You swear you can feel his sly grin against your cunt and the vibrations of his tremulous dark chuckling against your clit, shooting waves of white heat to the base of your spine.

“The Seven can judge me all they want.” He rasps gazing down at your slick dripping down onto your thigh, a thin line of saliva connecting his shining lips to your slick cunny. “Though I believe, just like you and I, they would find this very enjoyable.”

The thought of The Seven watching you in such a compromising position, the thought of such divine beings coveting the primal pleasure only he could bring you was almost too much to bear, only serving to add more fuel to the building fire inside of you.

You continue to work his length with your hand, curling your wrist to stroke the head of his cock with your palm before sliding straight down to the base. You duck down to suck at the sensitive skin of his stones, which seemed to only tighten at the very sensation of your plush lips and the warm breaths blowing out as you speak.

“That is blasphemy my Prince… but such blasphemous ecstasy is it not?”

You let out a gasping moan as he adds yet another finger into your swollen heat, licking up your folds and slurping at your sweet release.

“I might- oh- I might be willing to suffer the consequences of such sacrilege… if it means even the slightest possibility of tasting such sweet nectar once again.” Aemond pants out, gripping your thighs in a vice-like grip and pressing forward to lap up the slick gathered at your puckered hole, before diving down to slide his tongue into your cunt.

The sounds of wetness and lewd sucking and slurping fill the room in a manner so intoxicating that you can feel your release approaching swiftly. You take him deep into your throat now, feeling his hips tense under your fingers as he starts to frantically thrust himself into your face over and over, his stones slapping at your jaw.

Aemond gravels out his words through gritted teeth, his long fingers plunging into your sex hard and fast now, as his control starts to waver. Every word he utters is accompanied by a needy gasp at the end as a small tremor begins to make its way through his body.

“Fucking Seven… can do whatever they want to me… just so long as I can have you. And fuck you…. And love you.”

All at once it hits you, the week without his touch, the year you’d had been torn apart by war… the love he’d never really spoken of until this very moment. Your head lolls back against the cushions and suddenly you’re and moaning in ecstasy around his cock as he continues to fuck your throat. You clench tightly around his fingers, shaking and trembling as you reach your peak, completely overstimulated as he laps at your centre with an unrelenting passion.

Soft guttural groans fall from his curved lips, trying so hard to bring you to release once more. His hips stutter, his movements flustered… and he’s spilling into you. The feeling of you swallowing every drop washes over him like the waves crashing onto Blackwater Bay, and he cannot help but moan your name loudly and shudder, hands desperately stroking the at soft curve of your ass. He loses himself in you completely. Every dream he’d ever had, all his aspirations, meant nothing in the wake of you. He could be King of Westeros for all he cared. You were everything.

You release him with a soft pop of your mouth, panting as you let yourself breath for the first time in what felt like an age. The two of you lay spent, catching your breath. Ever so gently, you lean forward to press a tender kiss to the slender dip of his hip bone, nuzzling your nose against his naval.

“... Have I stolen your voice, love?” You whisper.

Aemond takes a few deep breaths, gathering himself and wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand raggedly. A lazy smile grazes his gorgeous flushed features. For a man so pale, you loved more than anything how only you could make him so pink and rosy.

“... I do believe The Seven had stolen it. To punish me for experiencing something so glorious and so holy, that no words ought ever to be able to describe it.”

Shakily he sits up and tucks himself back into his breeches, before pulling your back against his chest. You remember yourself and the party outside, and hastily pull up your bodice, fixing your hair until strong arms encircle you from behind, and gentle hands still you. Aemond presses languid kisses to your neck, his nose brushing into your unruly locks.

“... Just a few more moments.” He whispers pleadingly, his body still trembling from the bliss you had just given him. After a short while with tender touches, he starts to fix your hair for you, tightening loose ties, repositioning pins he’d skewed, all the while pressing small innocent kisses to your cheeks and collar.

You smile up at him adoringly when he finally stands and extends his hand to you.

“Alas my dearest one, we will have many more moments like this. In our own chambers…. In our own marriage bed.” Your voice is husky as he laces his fingers with yours and a boyish smile decorates his blushed cheeks.

“Indeed. We shall have many, many more tonight. And many, many more after that.” He steals a bashful look at you as you both start walking hurriedly through the secret passage once again, feeling a lot warmer than the time before, before he continues quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

“I believe we shall have them for the rest of our lives, in fact.”

You both hesitate before you head back into the great hall, Aemond’s pace faltering and softly taking your hands in his to gaze down at you with a purposeful glint in his eye. The faint sounds of your guests echo from behind the tapestry, the clatter of servants rushing by.

“... Come now, Aemond, my Dragon, we must go back. They will fear you have kidnapped me! To think, before my arrival to King’s Landing I was told that you were a rather wicked Prince?”

You giggle, watching Aemond ignore you entirely to lick at his thumb, reaching up to your face to brush away a wet patch of his spend from the corner of your mouth.

His hand lingers on your face to stroke at the apple of your cheek with his thumb, his lilac eye hooded and dreamy. “Oh I intend to be wicked with you however and whenever I can. You can be quite sure of that.”

Something shifts after he says this, his face still pink but seemingly for another reason entirely. You watch as his lips tremble and the tendons in his neck contract like he’s struggling to speak.

“But, I wonder… did they ever tell you how much the wicked Prince… loves you?”

A warmth like no other spreads across your chest and a blinding smile blossoms on your face.

He loves you.

“... Because I do love you, Y/N. Most ardently.”

As your eyes locked to his, the celebrations outside, the whole night seemed to fade away, leaving only the pulsating rhythm of your heart and his. You’d kissed countless times but in that moment it felt timeless, your lips gently meeting in a breath-taking embrace that whispered promises of a lifetime ahead full of happiness and devotion.

“... Now come on, little Doe. Let us away.” Aemond whispers tenderly against your lips as you break apart.

Taking your arm in his he parts open the tapestry, the light of the feast flooding into the dark space you had stolen yet another moment together in. With a deep breath, you take a step towards the Great Hall, and a greater step towards your future with him.

#Ewan Mitchell #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fic #aemond smut #hotd fanfiction #Fics by me

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