#that shudder that ripped through me was not natural

[paperbackribs]

update: 🐺werewolf Steve, 🦇bat Eddie completed on Ao3 here

How to survive a werewolf attack, Eddie mentally repeats to himself in a determinedly bright manner, channelling every nature documentary he’s ignored. His resolve does little to quiet the jolt of fear that had run through him as it turned into— that.

“How to survive a werewolf attack,” Eddie mutters to himself as it pads one giant paw towards him in the middle of Steve’s living room, hoping that speaking aloud will clear the bees buzzing in his brain, focusing all his thoughts in one direction: he should run.

“How the fuck do I survive a werewolf attack?” Eddie frantically yells at Dustin standing by the couch, grinning a gummy smile back at him with his hands casually thrown in his pockets.

The wolf growls lightly at his tone and Eddie’s head snaps back, alarmed that he’d allowed himself to look away from those intent yellow eyes for even a moment. But as scary as the predatory look is, the size of its head is just as terrifying. As large as Eddie’s torso with a wide, fanged mouth to match. Faintly, Eddie mentally compares one long tooth to the length of his hand.

This is how he dies Eddie realises with a thumping heart.

Not the bats.

Not Vecna.

No, a giant, golden mahogany werewolf nearly as tall as his fully grown adult body is going to open that massive mouth and swallow him down whole.

The beast stops, gaze narrowing to the pulse pounding in Eddie’s neck and he quickly slaps a hand over it, trying to limit the temptation of the tasty blood slash fresh meat vibe he must be giving off. It sits back on its heels; a movement Eddie feels shudder through the carpet at his feet and turns its head to Robin with a slight whine.

She scowls at Eddie, stepping forward to bury her hand comfortingly into the plush at its furry neck. “Don’t listen to him, Steve. He’s just being a big baby.” Shifting her fingers to scratch under its ears, the werewolf—Steve, Eddie hastily corrects himself as Robin continues to glare at him—half-closes its eyes in bliss. Though, he notes that it—he—still keeps his gaze steadily trained on Eddie.

Swallowing, Eddie tries to remember what they had just been talking about, but it’s lost in the chaotic whirlwind of his thoughts and the adrenalin urging his heels back. All of it consumed by the conviction that Eddie is prey in front of predator and about to be fed to what used to be Steve Harrington.

“Oh my god,” he moans, hands coming up to pull his hair down to hide behind, “Am I a sacrifice?”

Lucas sighs in exasperation, “I told you we should’ve showed him photos or something first.” Max makes a derisive sound and sits cross-legged next to Steve’s wide chest; he gently leans against her with a small thump of his tail. “He was always going to freak out, may as well get it over with.”

Eddie would really like to get the small child away from the massive beast right now; despite the fact that Max is a sophomore and would likely rip him a new one at even the suggestion. But it does help, seeing her casually play with the fur under her hand, and the bees die down a little, just enough to remember why they had called him here.

“You wanted to show me this—” Max squints at him and Eddie changes tack “—show me Steve turning into a wolf because you’re concerned about me.” The ridiculousness of it strikes through him, bubbling over into half-hysterical laughter. “Shouldn’t you be worried about the massive fucking fangs near Max’s head right now.”

The wolf lets out a gusty sound that Eddie can only imagine is a sigh and thumps onto his belly, stretching his head out to rest on crossed-over paws as big as dinner plates. The position should look less threatening, but all Eddie can see is how the jaw of the creature has been thrown into sharp relief, emphasising how far it could probably unhinge if given an incentive. He slaps his hand back over his pulsing neck again.

El appears by his side and he nearly jumps a foot, not having noticed her approach while focusing so fiercely on the wolf. She takes his hand, gently saying, “It is okay, Eddie. He’s only Steve and he would never hurt you.”

He keeps a hold of her hand. The Steve he’s come to know since Spring Break has seemed like a pretty good dude, sure; but, the one thing he does know, is that the guy would take a bullet for every kid in this room.

It's not cowardice to hide behind a kid, he reassures himself. Not when the kid isn’t in any danger. Max shoots him a dark look again and he suspects that she’s seen through his intentions. He clears his throat, focussing on El’s kind and reassuring squeeze of his hand, “Right. Why is Steve a werewolf?”

“Good question,” the bill of Dustin’s hat bobs in his approval, “Back in ’84 we were in these tunnels, you see and —”

“Short version, Dustin,” Robin interrupts, which is frankly ironic of her Eddie thinks, knowing she falls into extended explanations herself.

Dustin screws up his face, but condenses the story, “We were attacked by dog versions of the demogorgons and since then Steve has gone all furry whenever he wants.” He waves a hand at the prostrate wolf who continues to placidly watch their conversation, “I see where you went with werewolf but technically, he’s not forced to turn at a full moon.”

Will exchanges a look with Mike as they lean against the opposite wall, “Not technically, no. But he does get weird around it.” El tugs him to sit down with her and Max, but Eddie lets go of her hand, unwilling to let cede the high ground when it’s the only thing keeping his feet ready to run if Steve decides to demonstrate how weird he can get.

“Shouldn’t he have…” Eddie waves a hand over his face with a splaying motion of his fingers. He hasn’t seen a demogorgon yet, but the kids had described them to him, and the demo-bats apparently had the same set-up of gaping maws exploding like a fanged cross over their face.

“Another great question, Eddie,” Max rolls her eyes, “Let me just consult my instruction manual on the Upside Down and get back to you.”

“It’s a fair question, Max,” Lucas says softly and she relents, “Yeah, but he looks like he’s about to throw up and Steve would hate the mess.” The wolf snorts and nudges her with his muzzle; she lightly strokes the top of his nose with a responding smile.

“Our best guess is that the demo-dogs and demo-bats are a weird mix of actual animal and Upside Down creepiness,” Robin says, letting go of Steve to sit on the couch behind him, “And Steve got infected with the actual animal part but the woo-woo creepiness is what helps him turn into the wolf.”

Eddie’s guts turn to liquid, and he hovers suddenly uncertain hands over his body; right beside the areas still scarred from his own demo-bat bites. “Wait a second,” he rasps, “Steve got bit by the dog version and he turns into this. So if I got bit by the bat versions…”

“That’s why we’re telling you,” Lucas explains frankly, “It didn’t happen straight away with Steve so we thought that you should have a heads up at the very least.” Dustin gestures down Eddie’s body with a demanding hand, “And you can tell us if you notice any weird changes.”

“What?” Eddie asks a little wildly, “Like if my voice drops and I get hair in new and wonderful places?” Robin and Dustin exchange worried glances and the latter falls back on a soothing tone that he hasn’t managed since cornering Eddie in the boathouse while he was on the run, “There’s no guarantee that you were infected…” Robin winces at the word choice as Eddie’s eyes widen. “…but you should tell us if you notice anything different, just in case.”

Eddie wants to collapse onto the floor. Just crouch there with his hands pressed comfortingly against his eyes to shut out the insanity this afternoon has turned into. But eyeing how close Steve with his monster fangs is, Eddie refuses to get any closer. He may as well lay on his back and strip for good measure. That way Steve won’t get any denim stuck in his teeth; he thinks the last thought with a small hiccup.

The massive head raises and turns to look over its—his—shoulder with a questioning whine. Robin’s faces hardens slightly, and her arms come up to cross over her chest. “You go for a run or something, I’ve got this.”

Eddie watches those tree trunks for legs rise and feels something quake inside, doing nothing for his pounding pulse that had only just started to subside. Steve looks back at him one more time before licking Dustin’s hand and butting his head against Robin’s knee to trot through the living room towards the backyard.

Chapter 1

#steddie #werewolf steve harrington #bat eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #stranger things #paperbackribs writing

[dyeher]

“Gentlemen,” Mikey says.

His voice doesn’t rise above its regular volume but the single word is enough to quiet the room of executives settled around the conference table.

He's standing at one end, a hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other tapping a random rhythm into the mahogany surface of the table as he regards his...what did you say these men were to him?

They're your friends Mikey.

His friends. Right.

He eyes Ran Haitani who balances on the back legs of the chair he's sitting on precariously. His loafer-clad feet crossed at the ankles on the table. Next to him, his brother sighs deeply, his thumb and forefinger massaging circles into the bridge of his nose.

Opposite them, Kokonoi and Kakucho appear deceptively calm. Kokonoi is chewing diligently on a piece of gum. His attempt at quitting cigarettes. Kakucho has one arm slung along the back of Koko's chair, his legs spread as he slouches in his chair. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the headrest. If Mikey didn't know better he'd think Kakucho was recovering from a night out drinking.

Of course, the truth is much wilder than Kakucho spending a night on the town.

Takeomi is absent. Naturally. Sanzu is sprawled in his own chair at the other end of the table. His guns are on the table as he shines his katana.

Mikey considers everything he's been through with the men in this room.

If you can let me in, then you can let them in.

He shudders as your words wash through him. You're like his fucking conscience. It's simultaneously the most unnerving and wonderful experience he's ever had. A voice of reason that isn't being paid in his blood money. He glances at Kakucho again quickly.

If you think these men have stuck around because you're paying them then you're dumber than I thought, Mikey.

Sanzu gently places his katana on the table and shakes out the little cloth he was using to shine it. He gives Mikey his full attention. the action seems to stir the others who also turn to him. Kakucho lifts a single brow at him in question.

And the action sets of something akin to...gratitude in Mikey. It's a wildly unfamiliar sensation and he has to quell the urge to rub his chest.

They would die for you, Mikey.

Yes, they would. He catches a glimpse of a cut running along Rindou Haitani's chest as the man shifts in his chair. The skin is shiny and puckered from healing and a pang goes off in his chest that almost knocks him on his ass.

These men would die for him.

A sudden clarity comes over him and he has to blink several times to reorient himself. It feels almost like someone has ripped whatever ill-fitting glasses he was wearing before off and he can see clearly now. Jesus Christ, these men would die for him.

He sinks heavily into his own chair. The weight of his previous oversight anchors him to the cushion.

"I have news," he blurts.

The words suck the air out of the room. Silence ensues for a handful of seconds and then...

"Oh my God, you knocked her up!"

Rindou reaches Ran before Mikey can react to his exclaimed words and slaps his brother in the back of the head.

"I-" Mikey starts, blinking in confusion. What?

"Jesus Christ Ran, so what if he has?" Rindou interrupts, glaring at his brother.

"I di-" Mikey tries again, his brows furrowed.

"That actually...that makes sense," Kokonoi says slowly, nodding. "I saw her eat half a cake by herself the other night."

Kakcuho is gaping at Mikey. But there's a twinkle in his eye that makes Mikey nervous.

"Wait a min-"

"I thought you'd never notice," Sanzu laughs from the other end of the table and Mikey's skin chills.

What?

"What?" He zones out. Something in his voice must get the others attention because the room goes quiet.

"That's not...the news?" Ran squints at him, his chair making a thudding sound as he settles onto all four legs.

Mikey swallows around a ball of spit that seems to be stuck in the back of his throat. Pregnant.

No- she can't be- she- but- but the crying...and the sensitive breasts. the cravings.

"I was going to say I'm getting married," he says, hollowly.

"Oh shit," Sanzu breathes.

"Fuck, Mikey."

"I thought it was obvi-" Kokonoi shrugs.

"She agreed to marry you?" Ran interjects. "Without-" he pauses to glance around the room quickly and then lowers his voice as he finishes his question "-putting up a fight?"

That gets the rooms attention.

"What the fuck kinda question is that?" Kakucho frowns. "She's in love with him."

That seems to throw Ran for a loop. His eyes narrow on Mikey who's still stupified by the realization that he might become a father and husband in the same breath.

"Maybe there is hope for me," Ran says.

Sanzu snaps at him. "Are you implying Mikey doesn't deserve her?"

Ran splutters. "What? No- Why the fuck would I-"

"Just be quiet," Rindou sighs.

"You really think she's pregnant?" Mikey asks, interrupting their squabble.

"Yes," Koko nods.

"Absolutely,” Rindou agrees.

"Half a fucking cake Mikey...in a single sitting."

Mikey blanches. “She’s pregnant.”

Koko chuckles.

“She’s fucking pregnant,” he repeats. There’s a note of distress in his tone. “With a baby. A child!?”

Kakucho gives him a knowing look. “Congratulations, Manjiro.”

Sanzu, who has been uncharacteristically quiet stands. “This means she can’t say no to a protection detail anymore.”

Mikey’s brain stutters. Protection. Because shes pregnant with your child and about to become your wife. She’s singlehandedly the most important person to Bonten. And to him.

“Oh fuck.”

Rindou shakes his head. “We need to start personally vetting Bonten members now.”

“Why did it take a child and a marriage to convince you of that and not the two times we’ve been double crossed?” Kakucho questions.

“Do you want to deal with a Mikey whose wife and child are hurt or murdered?”

The room falls quiet as all eyes fall to Kokonoi. A heavy tension settles on Mikey’s shoulders. He’s having a child. Maybe. And getting married. Definitely.

And he runs one of the most dangerous organizations in the world. With over a hundred thousand employees worldwide. And stakes in every major and even some minor pies, in every industry.

He’s not sure of much except his own success and frankly, inhuman work ethic. But as the realization that his life is changing. Developing into something better, something more. He’s sure that if anything ever happens to you or his unborn child…he would unravel.

“Can we circle back to her wanting to marry him?” Ran asks, breaking the tension. “Without being coerced?”

#manjiro sano x you #mikey x reader #mikey x you #bonten fluff #my work. #tr x you #tokyo rev fluff #tokyo rev x reader #manjiro sano x reader #tr: beyablade.

[cevansbrat0007]

The Scent of You

Summary: Ari loves the sweet scent of you, which is why he's content to live between your thighs.

Warnings: Smut, Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Begging, Oral Sex (fem rec), Pussy Spanking, Slight Chase Kink, Light D/s themes, Minors DNI

A/N: Written for @curls-and-eyeliner. Hopefully this is okay, ya'll. I'm honestly not sure if it worked the way I intended. Part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

It’s no secret that Ari adores you, but you’ve learned over the course of your relationship that he is particularly fond of the way you smell. Your natural essence of spiced, sugared vanilla draws him in like a moth to a flame. 

Which means he was always looking for a reason to touch you – to pull you close and breathe you in. Whether he’s hauling you against his broad chest to bury his nose in your hair while you’re cooking dinner, or he’s busy cascading soft, sweet kisses along the delicate column of your throat when you’re both snuggled up on the couch.

Your scent is like a drug. It calls to him – like a siren’s song – demanding that your handsome Bounty Hunter give in and help himself to his next hit. 

This man is hooked on you and it’s honestly one of the most exhilarating things you’ve ever experienced. Growing up, you’d never dreamed someone would desire you like this; that anyone would want you in such an all-consuming way.

“I’m going to burn the chicken if you don’t cut it out.” You hum, smiling when you feel his brawny arms tighten around your waist. “And then we won’t have anything to eat but mashed potatoes and asparagus.”

“Mm. Then maybe we’ll just have to order-in.” His warm lips dance along your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Beast.” You try again, intending to issue a light reprimand. Instead your voice comes out soft and breathy. 

“You can feed me my dessert while we wait.” Ari’s long, talented fingers travel to the waistband of your pink sleep shorts, lightly tugging at the drawstring. “Just think about it.” You briefly lose your train of thought as you find yourself trying to remember if you were even wearing panties. 

You’re pretty sure that you’d neglected to put them on again after your shower. At the time, you’d told yourself that you were trying to save yourself from having to make another trip to Victoria’s Secret. 

It wasn’t your fault that your Beast wasn’t always house-trained. He was the kind of man who had a propensity for ripping off your underthings and tucking them into his pocket. Which meant you often had to make adjustments to your wardrobe.       

And all of it because the scent of your arousal drove him wild.   

Your musings are interrupted when a sudden pop of grease splashes out of the cast iron skillet, just missing both you and your man. “Alright, hands to yourself now, Beast. We’re working around hot oil and I’d feel terrible if you got hurt.” 

Jesus H. Christ, you should’ve picked another day to fry this incorrigible man some chicken.

Ari nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck, gently nipping at your pulse point. “I just need a fix, baby. One little hit and I’ll be good for the rest of the night.”

“Ari…” You blow out an exasperated breath as you reach for your tongs to flip your meat. “You don’t even know if I’ve showered or not today.”

“Don’t care.” He grunts, one big hand reaching into your shorts to possessively cup your increasingly damp pussy. “You know I love how you smell. Almost as much as I love the way you taste.” Ari lips move on to kiss along the shell of your ear. A shudder courses through you when he tugs the sensitive load between his sharp teeth.

“I’m proud to wear my girl.”

Your thighs clench of their own accord, your empty walls clenching around nothing. Apparently your body was just as hungry for him as he was for you.

“Y–you can’t go around just saying things like that.” It comes out as a whimper as your cheeks heat, meanwhile Ari busies himself with grinding the heel of his lightly calloused palm against your already throbbing clit. 

“Why not, Duchess? Am I being too crass for you?” He teases as his free hand comes up to knead your breast, squeezing with just the amount of roughness he knew made your knees weak. “Turn that shit off and come feed me. I’ve been dying to get between those thighs all fuckin’ day.”

“But–but…” Your eyes flutter closed even as you reach for the knob that controls the burner, switching it off. Maybe he was right. You hated to waste this, but you could always try again another day.

Preferably on a night when your very persistent Beast was working late. 

“There we go. I knew my woman wasn’t the type to let me go hungry.” Ari murmurs, releasing his grip on your now very wet pussy in favor of tugging down your shorts. A growl rumbles deep in his throat as he watches them fall to the ground at your feet. “I knew you couldn’t be that mean.”

“You owe me chicken alfredo from Guiseppe’s, you animal.” You snarl, removing the pan from the heat. 

“Consider it done, baby.” You could tell without looking at him that he was obviously pleased with himself. 

God this man was an absolute menace. But he was yours, which meant you had to keep him. Hell, you were pretty sure that if you ever tried to put him up for adoption you were pretty sure he’d find his way home. 

Back to you. Wherever you were.

Feeling bold, you wiggle out of the Bounty Hunter’s grasp, only to be surprised when he lets you go. 

“Bet you can’t catch me.” You challenge, making a sudden dash for the stairs. 

Of course you knew he’d catch you. But sometimes you liked running from your Beast – because he was the type to always give chase which would only add spice to the proceedings.    

And just like you knew he’d be, your Bounty Hunter is on you before you reach the fourth step. A scream escapes you – but you both know it’s one of excitement. After all, Ari Levinson was every inch the predator. It’s why you lovingly referred to him as “your Beast”.

“Gotcha now, Duchess.” He hisses, a heady mix of exhilaration and pride coursing through his veins. And that’s when you finally notice the impressive tent hidden beneath the fabric of his light gray sweats. 

God, you had a feeling this man was gonna wreck you tonight. You just hoped you’d be able to walk in a straight line come tomorrow morning. 

Ari takes that moment to flip you over before gently maneuvering your body in such a way that allows you to slide down a couple of steps.

“Yeah, you caught me.” You breathe, your body aching for him. And then you part your thighs, feeling more than a little empowered when you notice the way his imperious gaze darkens with lust at the sight of your glistening cunt. “Now…what are you going to do with me?” 

Grabbing the edge of your nightshirt, you slowly pull it over your head, baring your breasts. If this man wanted you and was so willing to *ruin* your dinner for it, then who were you to deny him?   

Immediately, Ari buries his face between your slick covered thighs, his powerful hands coming up to quickly throw your legs over his muscled shoulders. A deep, satisfied groan of appreciation escapes his throat as he sucks your pulsing clit into his warm, waiting mouth.

“Holy shit!” You cry, burying your hands in his soft, chestnut strands. “Sir, please!” Your body begins to tremble as you’re treated to the most sensual of assaults.  

One thick finger gently prods at your entrance, seeking refuge in your slippery cunt. At the same time, you feel Ari release your sensitive bundle of nerves, content to lap at it with his wicked tongue.

“That's it now. Fuckin' drench me, Bird.” He orders softly, his voice coming out slightly muffled.

And then pauses he pauses again – this time to nuzzle his nose against your slippery folds. Your entire body quivers when he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent and reveling in your wetness. 

“My fuckin’ pussy.” Ari snarls, his flat tongue dragging a long, greedy swipe along your cunt. “Mine.” He pulls away long enough to slap your core in silent demand.  

“Fuck yes!” You agree, eagerly rocking your hips in time with each delicious lash of his tongue. He swirls it over your little bundle of nerves, making your toes curl.

“Would wear you all day if you’d let me.” His nimble fingers begin to work you over, stretching you in the way he knew would make you crazy. “Proud to wear my girl.”

“Omigosh!Omigosh!Omigosh!” You wail, your velvety walls clenching around his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you. 

“Promise to always feed me when I need it, little Bird.” You feel his teeth lightly graze your clit once more, loving the way it makes you thrash and moan.

That’s right. This man was breaking you down on your living room stairs. And it was so good that you couldn’t even be bothered to make yourself give a proper fuck. 

Dear God, this was the most exquisite kind of pleasure.

“Don’t you dare let me starve.” His fingers curve inside you, expertly finding your spot.

Holy fucking shit your man was making one hell of compelling argument, as evidenced by sweet cries and your shaking legs. 

“Never.” Your thighs tighten around his head, threatening to smother him even as you gush around him. 

Just the way you knew he fucking loved.     

“There we go -- yeah, that’s it.” Ari rasps, smacking your right flank, reveling in the way you clench around him as you continue to ride his face. Meanwhile, you’re busy writhing in your man’s arms, trying not to escape his grasp as that familiar coil of pleasure begins to tighten in your belly.

You know he knows you’re close. So he picks up his pace, clearly enjoying the way you’re coming apart under his feral loving. 

“I just need one good one from you – just one good one to start. And then I’m gonna give you my cock.” He increases the pace of his fingers, not missing the way your head is thrown back in complete submission. “And after that, I’ll order you dinner.” 

“Fuck, Beast!” You pant, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. "Whatever you fucking say - ooh!" Your open palm slaps against the wall as you try to run. But his grip is too strong.

Instead he simply chuckles before pausing his feast long enough to press one hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh - his teeth scraping over your damp flesh as he takes you higher and higher.

“And while we wait, I’m gonna go ahead feed you my cock.” He quips with a feral flash of teeth. “And don’t worry,  I’ll make sure you eat every bite.”

END

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#cevansbrat0007 sweet renegade series #chris evans imagines #ari levinson imagines #chris evans fanfiction #ari levinson fanfiction #chris evans x you #ari levinson x you #chris evans x black!reader #ari levinson x black!reader #chris evans x woc!reader #ari levinson x woc!reader #chris evans x black reader #ari levinson x black reader #chris evans smut #ari levinson smut #chris evans x reader #chris evans x female!reader #chris evans x girlfriend!reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x female!reader #ari levinson x girlfriend!reader #chris evans x poc!reader #ari levinson x yn #chris evans x yn #ari levinson x y/n #chris evans x y/n #ari levinson girlfriend!reader #chris evans x fem!reader #ari levinson x fem!reader #cevansbrat0007 fics

[cuubism]

By the time half of his nine a.m. class called out sick with migraines, Hob knew something was seriously wrong.

He himself hadn’t even slept at all the night before. It wasn’t impossible for that to happen, despite the fact he was dating The King of Dreams, Lord of Sleep, etc, because Dream refused to outright control Hob’s sleep—which Hob thought was admirably restrained of him, actually. When Hob had asked why Dream wasn’t particular about it as he was about so many other things, Dream had said that ‘the mind’s independent exploration of the unconscious is crucial to mental functioning.’ So Hob being kept up by work or mundane worries was always possible, if rare given the natural effects of his proximity to Dream. 

But something about sitting up in bed that night, sleepless, nagged at his mind. He hadn’t seen Dream that day, either. Hob was a little… touchy about risks to Dream, a little hyper-attentive to hints of occult wrongdoing or broad disruptions to sleep. He’d failed to help Dream once. He wouldn’t again.

So it was already prickling at the back of his mind before he opened his laptop that morning to dozens of emails of students calling out sick. Hob himself had been spared any migraines, but all the messages dropped like stones in his stomach. Dream. It must be. Was he captured? Hurt? Did someone summon him again?

He had just sent an email cancelling class and was halfway to the door, not knowing where he was about to charge off to but doing it anyway, when Matthew landed hard on the windowsill and started pecking at the glass.

Hob rushed back over, heart jumping in his throat, dropping his bag. So it was Dream. Something was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded as he wrenched open the window and Matthew tumbled in. “What happened? Where’s Dream?”

Matthew stumbled onto the side table, flapping ragged wings. A couple of loose feathers shook out. “So he’s not here? Shit, dude, I was hoping—”

“Matthew. What happened.”

“We got attacked.” Matthew shuddered. “Boss fought ‘em off, but now I can’t find him anywhere.”

“You can’t find him in the Dreaming?” Hob tried not to let this come out hysterically, but he didn’t entirely succeed.

“The place is fucked— look, if he’s not here, you should just come back with me.” He flapped up and landed on Hob’s shoulder, claws piercing his jumper. “I think I can maybe— yep—”

The world swirled around them in a million colors, flashes of unfathomable places and sounds, and then they were stumbling dizzily into the throne room—or what was left of it.

“Shit, get back!”

Matthew hauled Hob backwards by the collar of his jumper before Hob could go tumbling into a crack— no, a void in the marble floor. It went straight down into infinity, dizzying and unreal. Heart jumping in his throat, he stumbled backward, nearly tripping. Then sucked in a deep breath and looked up and around.

The crevasse he’d nearly fallen into wasn’t the only crack in the throne room floor. The entire castle, the fabric of the Dreaming itself, was rent in concentric circles, a spiraling pattern where the rock and sky had been pulled apart from itself and nothing showed through. Slices in reality—or rather in dreams—where it cracked open into the fundamental void of the universe.

Hob look away from it, horrified, a fierce headache brewing behind his eyes. He kept his gaze trained on the intact sections of the castle.

“Place is fucked,” Matthew repeated—a massive understatement—landing again on Hob’s shoulder, well away from the crevasse. “Watch those gaps. That’s raw nothingness, it’s usually outside the Dreaming.”

“Wasn’t planning on going in them.” Hob walked carefully across the intact portion of the floor, wincing at the gouges ripping open the throne room. If the Dreaming looked like this, then Dream probably did, too. Or something like. “Tell me what happened exactly?”

“Okay, so, according to Luce, a billion years ago, these ancient beings attacked the Dreaming, and—”

——

How

dare

they?

Fools. Arrogant fools. To think that because the Dreaming was newly remade that the Dream Lord was weak. To return.

When last their paths had crossed, he had torn their leader’s spine from its back. He wore its skull still as a symbol, a warning. And yet they dared to return and challenge him again.

He had shown them. They had dug their talons in, held tight with sharp teeth, but he had strong jaws, too. He had ripped them out: root, stem, bone, cell, torn them apart, disintegrated them, shredded them just as they had asked for. It had taken much out of him. But he had shown them.

Now…

Where…

was he?

“Dream?”

Somewhere in the Dreaming…

“Hey, love. Can you hear me?”

…he had been looking for something… respite… he had not found it, quite. He had gone through a dream of burning flowers… through a nightmare of sweet lovemaking… no, that was… not right…

“Dream.”

Hands on him. The gashes torn through him where starlight leaked. Hob had made this place. A dream version of the safest place that Dream knew.

“I can hear you,” Dream murmured. Opened his eyes. The rug on Hob’s living room floor greeted him. Hob’s knees, just in his line of sight, where he was kneeling. Hob’s hands on his shoulder. He was bleeding there, and elsewhere.

Hob touched Dream’s cheek. “Took me ages to find you.”

“You made this place,” Dream said, finding Hob’s knee with a shaky hand and squeezing it.

“Did I?” Hob looked up and around. “It’s just my flat.”

“A place where we spend much time, even in dreams.” He groaned as Hob helped him sit up, leaning him against the couch. The ancient ones were destroyed, cast like so much dust out of the Dreaming, but the damage they had inflicted remained. Including on Dream’s own form.

“I tried to find your dreams,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch, already tired, “after.” He had known that Hob’s mind was a place where he might recuperate from the strain of fighting those terrible creatures, and that Hob, unlike most humans, was familiar enough with the Dreaming not to buckle under the shock of what he saw. “But you were not sleeping.”

Hob studied him with concern. “I wasn’t the only one.”

Dream stiffened. Bad enough, the damage to the Dreaming. “Have I inflicted much harm on the Waking world?”

“No, love, I think they’ll be okay. Once you are. Will you be? The throne room was, well— nightmarish.”

“I will repair it,” Dream said. He was relieved the damage had not spread too far into the Waking, though he would have to examine it himself—Hob would not be able to see the full scope. But Waking world effects were much harder for Dream to fix. And to think that he might have harmed his dreamers…

“And what about you?” Hob asked. He cupped Dream’s face in his hand. Dream still felt inestimably tired. But he had to get back to the core of the Dreaming, not this tiny corner crafted by Hob, no matter how comforting it was, or how much he might wish he could stay, just for a moment longer.

“This is not the first time the Dreaming has been attacked,” he told Hob. “I have repelled them before, and I did so again now. The damage was greater last time, in fact.”

“This may surprise you, but that’s not comforting to me,” Hob said.

“The Dreaming will not fall,” Dream repeated. “You need not worry.” He wouldn’t let it happen again. Not after that first attack, so long ago. Not after his recent absence had done so much damage.

“And what about you?” Hob repeated.

Dream knew what Hob wanted from him, but to leave to the Waking now and indulge himself in proper ‘rest and recovery’ as Hob might deem it was not an option for him. He could not leave the Dreaming in such a precarious state, no matter the effects upon himself.

He stood up, bracing himself on the couch. Hob followed him, alarmed. Dream swayed, then caught his balance and stood tall. The gouges torn through him from the monsters’ claws caught on his shirt and coat, and he winced, despite himself.

“I will not fall, either,” he told Hob. “You needn’t worry.”

Hob sighed, mouth tilting in disappointment, but didn’t tell him off. He traced his fingertips over one of the deep cuts in Dream’s coat, where a claw mark curved over his shoulder, dark blood caught in the edges of the fabric.

“I have rested here for some time already,” Dream told him. Though it had not been a wholly conscious decision to do so.

“Sure,” said Hob. Dream braced himself to again be told that he must rest. Instead, Hob tilted Dream’s head down, and kissed his forehead.

“Lover of mine,” Dream murmured, wrapping his hands lightly around Hob’s wrists. “I am sorry to worry you.”

“Let me come with you?” Hob said, but Dream shook his head.

“Matthew should not have brought you to the palace, it is not safe for dreamers. Nor even for Matthew. When I have mended the borders of unreality, then you can visit there again. I thank you—” he tilted his head at the image of the flat around them “—for your hospitality.”

“Your hospitality,” said Hob. He took Dream’s hands and squeezed them. “Be safe.”

Dream kissed Hob’s cheek, and whispered, with a curl of his power, “Wake, Hob.”

Then he was alone, and so he traveled, painfully, back to the center of his realm.

——

It rent Dream’s heart to see the Dreaming in such a state, flayed, shredded to ribbons. But the active danger had passed. This now was the cleanup after a storm, and his efforts, at least, would improve things, instead of merely staunching the flow of blood.

Carefully, deftly, as a surgeon with a needle, Dream mended the gouges in the Dreaming. Careful not to tug on the raw edges and split them again. The void retreated to its proper space beyond the walls. The Dreaming groaned in pain to be drawn back in from its chaotic spiral, but Dream made it hold. It must hold.

Soon the crevasses shrank to mere cracks in the marble, and the sky into careful patchwork of blue and clouds. Dream’s head ached, like the migraines the attack had given to some of his dreamers. He finally allowed himself to stop, to sink down to the throne room floor and press his forehead to the cold stone. It offered some relief.

He felt when Matthew reentered the Dreaming, and then the flutter of his wings as he landed beside him. To keep him away from the dangers of the fragmented Dreaming, Dream had sent him to survey the damage in the Waking world, and then, when he was finished, to appease Hob with his presence and assure him of Dream’s continued ability to stand upright.

“Uh, boss?” said Matthew, bobbing beside him, tilting his head to catch Dream’s eye.

Dream looked at him out of the corner of his eye, head still pressed to the floor. “Yes?”

“You good?”

“Yes, Matthew.”

Matthew fluttered his wings, and looked up and around at the throne room. “Place looks better?”

“The bulk of the damage is mended,” said Dream.

“Great,” said Matthew. “Well. If you’re done having floor time here, Hob would really like to see you. Like really. ‘Practically threw me out a window to check on you’ really.”

“He worries,” said Dream, with fondness.

“I wonder why,” said Matthew. Dream did not call out his insolence. This time.

He did push himself back up to sitting, then, more slowly than he would have liked, climbed to his feet. “I will call on him. Will you do a brief survey of the borderlands to check for lingering damage? Then, please rest.”

Matthew gave him a look that should not have been possible for a bird, but which Dream understood to be pointing out his own hypocrisy. But Dream did not address it, instead pulling forth a pinch of his sand, and traveling to the Waking.

——

Hob was fucking fretting like he’d rarely fretted before. He was also realizing how common an occurrence this had become since dating the King of Dreams. Fucker. Hob was going to go gray, immortal body aside.

But he would readily admit that he did also admire Dream’s dedication to his realm. Dream would not be Dream if he abandoned the Dreaming in a state—and what a state it had been—for his own needs. That was the person Hob had fallen in love with, a person whose sense of responsibility was as serious as his creations were whimsical. And love him Hob did.

He was still awake, late that night, waiting in hopes that Dream would finish his repairs and return to assure Hob of his well-being, or, luck willing, to rest a while. Waiting. Hob was good at waiting.

And his patience, his tolerance, paid off, for around four in the morning, Dream appeared in Hob’s flat by way of a cloud of sparkling sand. He looked at Hob, still sitting up on the couch, legs stretched out, reading a book. His exhaustion was evident in how long it took him to manage to say, “You are still awake.”

“Yup,” said Hob, setting aside the book. Relieved beyond measure to see him whole. Dream was even still on his feet, though looked decidedly like it would be better for him not to be.

Without further words Dream stumbled over to him, coat and shoes vanishing as he went, and curled up in his lap. He tucked his head under Hob’s chin. Buried his cold hands under Hob’s jumper.

Hob kissed the top of his head, and pulled the blanket down off the back of the couch to drape over him, wrapped his arms tight around his back. “You fixed everything, then?” he said, voice hushed in the night hour. But it was too late to ask questions, for the King of Dreams was already asleep.

#dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing

[oneforthemunny]

​​you and bouncer!eddie fucking in the walk-in during a closing shift.

minors dni 18+

it's just the two of you on a wednesday night- too cold for even the drunks to venture out. you hadn't had much cleanup besides the few beers you served to frank, a regular, and you'd finished that before close.

eddie had sat at the bar with you, closest to the door in case someone walked in, but they never did. his hands traced the fringe of your ripped jeans while the jukebox played. you were giggling, so close you were practically nose to nose.

the two of you had gone out a few times, already planning for the next time you both had a night off. you liked eddie, a lot. and he liked you. he especially liked that you surprised him. like how you were naturally good at darts. or how you knew every word to 'starry eyes', you'd serenaded him on your first date, tipsy and giggly while he was sure he was going to marry you, right then and there.

he was even more sure when you'd sucked him off in the bathroom of the bar he'd taken you to. knelt on the grimy, sticky floors, head bobbing and eyes locked to his. he had his ringed hands fisted in your hair, head tilted back on the graffiti stall walls of the bathroom, groaning and muttering how good you were. you'd swallowed his load without him even asking, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. he'd kissed you hard, pressing you against the stall, uncaring.

eddie was hooked. so enthralled by you, and the excitement of your budding relationship. it was new, thrilling, and the best part, is no one at work knew. sure, they might see the little smirks and teasing banter you two had, but you'd always done that.

on night like tonight, you could be more yourselves, lingering touches and stolen kisses behind the counter.

you had finished loading the lemons up, going to dump the ice in the kitchen and stock away the unused produce for the night before you could leave. eddie insisted on helping you, muscles flexing when he lifted and dumped the ice down the sink.

eddie followed you into the walk-in, pinching your ass just to hear you squeal when you bent over. he wrapped you fully in his arms, your little giggles filling his ears as he pressed you against the cold, metal shelf.

"you look so pretty." eddie groaned, stamping kisses up and down your neck, biting and sucking on the skin that had you mewling and clawing at him.

"ed-ed, we can't. we're at work-"

"no one's here." eddie sighed against you. "just me and you, c'mon. been thinking' about you all night." you whined when his hands went lower, cupping you through your jeans, rough fingers pressed hard against your slit.

you gave in, letting him pull your jeans and panties down, lifting your shirt and bra up over your boobs. he smirked at the way your nipples hardened in the cool air of the walk-in, leaving your shuddering under his glare.

moments later, he had you clawing at a shelf, bent at the hips so your ass was pushed back into his face. eddie was on his knees, spreading your cheeks and lapping at your clit like his life depended on it. he grabbed the doughy skin of your ass, squeezing it and moaning as you shimmied back further into him, begging and gasping.

once he added his fingers, slipping them in slow into your sopping hole, you were shaking, writhing in pleasure. eddie pressed kisses to your ass cheeks, up your spine and to the back of you neck until he stood at his full height, pumping himself a few times before sinking into you with a grunt.

he anchored his hands on the shelf above you, hips snapping furiously into yours, eyes rolling back at the sound of your echoey moans in the freezer. the buzz of the cold air filling the space, mixed with your breathy demands of, "please, eddie, right there!" had his abs tight, gritting his teeth to keep himself from cumming too early.

you came undone quickly, your first orgasm leaving you sensitive and mushy. eddie watched as you dropped to your knees, finishing him off with swallowing him wholly. he fisted your hair, guiding your head on his cock again, groaning when you cupped his balls, squeezing just enough to get him twitching and spilling down your throat.

you turned off the lights and machines on shaky legs, clinging to his arm when he walked you to your car. you wrapped your arms around his torso, smirking up at him as he finished off his cigarette.

"wonder when we get to close again together, hm?" eddie smirked. "think we should make that a new closing task for us- fuck in the walk-in after close. whaddya think, baby?"

#oneforthemunny #munnytalks #funsonmunson #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson au #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x female reader #bouncer!eddie munson x bartender!reader #bouncer!eddie munson #bouncer!eddie #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic

[rudspankow]

this was smth i wrote when i was bored, don’t hate me if it’s shitty, just wanted to post it for funsies ..

MDNI 18+

perv!!jj , smut

Context -

Your bestfriend is a sick perv who’s obsessed with you

He’s a perv, and you knew it the moment you found his eyes darting upon your cleavage longer than a friendly gaze should’ve. His greedy hands always finding a way to smush against the flesh of your hips or lace into the belt hooks of your shorts before ripping you into his harsh frame. Cuddling up to you in the Château and purposely crushing your body with his, in hopes to feel every ridge, curve, and pulse that you could grant. Feeling the blood rush straight to his cock that swelled between your legs from his perverted positioning.

Everybody saw JJ’s intentions, continuously telling him to leave your little innocent self alone. But he just couldn’t, not when you sat perked up like a pretty princess. Teasing the mutt he was with your small sundresses, hiding barely anything as your tits pooled out of the top, catching his attention every minute of everyday.

It’d take less than 40 minutes for him to rush off for a ‘leak’, ending up in the bathroom abusing his cock with his hand. Fastening his pace torturously as he imagined your silky pussy swallowing him whole, a bundle of whimpers he was. Submissive to his imagination as you ruled his entire fantasy.

JJ loved being a perv, it was his second nature.

“Jayj, you’re suffocating me. .” You choked up, slipping a small chuckle as he trapped you beneath his broad body. A grunt left his lips as he positioned himself between your legs, left cheek resting above your swollen tits. His cock began to expand, feeling the warmth that radiated between your legs as he sunk into your embrace. Completely subsiding the fact you were lacking oxygen and needed a breather.

“So comfy Y/N, can’t help it.”

You always loved helping JJ, heck. He was your best friend for crying out loud. There wasn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do for him, no matter the cost or consequence.

But nothing prepared you for the moment you stood in his room shutting the door behind you, eyes wide and pupils blown as JJ trembled before you. An aching pain of lust consuming his body as he held himself through his shorts, fighting the urge to breakdown from the intense pressure his member caused.

He was an idiot, and he knew the results when it came to taking something like E. So where did he go when he needed a quick fix, a sexual reliever?

The person he could always count on, his forever wet dream. You.

After 5 minutes of absolute blabber and begs, you sighed heavily with a silly feeling in your chest. Standing before JJ and giving him everything he’s wanted the moment you hit puberty, finally awarding the boy with the scene of your body on full display.

It was awkward, invading in a way. But nothing felt more right once his fingertips danced upon your burning skin. Letting his lips latch onto you and taste the desire that layered on your skin. JJ Maybank had officially sweet talked your pants off, caving into his puppy dog eyes and tearful pleas as he watched your body shudder with fear. Afraid this would falter your friendship heavily.

But none of that mattered after he had the privilege to slaver his pallet with your taste, ignoring every thought that urged him to step away. Guilt vanishing as you became everything he needed, suddenly his body was going through drought and famine until you rocked up, sitting pretty on a silver platter as he couldn’t wait to dig in.

“This won’t affect anything right?” You whimpered, feeling his hips buck into you fast and rough. Harsh thrusts connecting with the bruised flesh of your ass as you bent lower, feeling his fingers thread into your hair before pulling you up.

“Shh. . So sweet for helping me out Y/N—Shit! Yeah, always there for me.” He moaned, shoving you back down before hovering above you, drilling you into the bed. Your eyes rolled back as he impaled you with his cock, his hips never stuttering as he felt you flutter around him, motivating his body to impossibly fasten as you cried out his name.

“Shitshitshit,”

The feeling of your velvety walls sucking him deeper managed to throw him off the deep end, driven to the hardest release he’s ever had once your pussy leaked cum and smoothened every thrust. His girth soaked in your white sticky bliss as he fucked his salty seed into your cunt with no mercy, never stopping as he felt his greedy heart tempt him for another round.

Urging to feel your pussy pulse around his cock again and absolutely coat him in your cum.

“Such a princess for this, Y’know? Lettin’ your bestfriend stuff you with his cock because he needed help. Perfect little thing, can’t take you for granted.”

After that night you were sure things would continue forward, attempting to brush it aside and forget about the please he exhilarated through your body.

But it was so hard when all he did was watch, beg and act.

Act on every sexual desire once you entered the room.

“W-What’re you doing Jayj. .” You whispered, feeling your cheeks burn pink as your best-friend humped you under the covers. His hips rutting into your clothed core as he found home inside your arms once again, this time, you were surrounded by all the Pogues. Gathering together to watch a movie Sarah suggested.

When you pulled up in nothing but your skimpy pajamas, JJ felt every gear in his head turn as he bolted to cradle you towards the couch. Gently pushing you down before sinking between your legs and nestling his cock inside the gap ontop of your sweet, warm pussy.

“I’m gonna cum, just let me. .” He whispered into your ear, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck as he drowned his sounds with a chaste kiss across your skin. You bit your lip feeling his length rub against your core, the friction he caused turning you on crazily as you listened to his quiet sinful songs.

“So pretty Y/N, jus’ need you so bad.” He whimpered before releasing into his boxers, stuttering his hips as he came hard and fast. The wet patch seeping through his fabric and all over your clothed heat, you fought the urge to groan in annoyance. Having to stay seated with the remnants of his cum splattered on both of your crotches.

He made sure you would stay there for the rest of the night, knowing how dirty it was for you to sit there covered in his cum. It made him almost want to coat you in another load.

It was the weirdest thing, realising the boy who you’ve known since third grade desired you everyday. JJ was always attractive in your eyes, but you never seemed to step over that best-friend boundary in worry he’d reject you, or that your friendship would crumble to pieces once you squeezed it with hope for friendly affection replaced by love.

But he looked past all problems aside, just following the pathway of lust and determination as he made it his every mission to feel, touch, and talk to you. He was obsessed, crazed at himself for waiting so long.

He enjoyed knowing you flustered at his gazes, following your train of thought to the night he fucked your brains out, or the hours before where you’d let him eat your pussy. You wanted to help him, always needing to reassure JJ you were forever there.

Understanding his current home situation, you became his outlet the moment he realised how shitty his life was. Breaking down in tears and sobbing inside your embrace.

So, the boy took it one step further than just a place to stay or eating food you prepared. You became everything he needed, everything.

Eventually, one night turned into many, and friendly hugs turned into stolen gropes and whispered temptations.

“You need me to do what?” You repeated, feeling embarrassment flourish your blossoming cheeks as he stood in front of you, all teary eye’d. The scene of his sadness made you want to help him further, to draw him away from whatever bothered him so harshly. Knowing it was his piece of shit father who neglected his kindness, painting your perfect boy’s skin black and blue.

JJ sniffled, wiping his nose with his wrist before shrugging. As much as the interaction with his dad affected him, he knew he was putting on a more ruthless production, all in hopes you’d let him fall into you once more.

“JJ, i don’t know. I want to help you but, that just seems—,”

“I know, i know. I jus’ really want to feel you Y/N.” His voice croaked, and it sent a pang to your heart. Watching his lips quiver as he sat in front of you all weary and burdened, a sigh left your lips as you pulled him in. Closing a gap between the two of you as your arms wrapped around his shuddering frame.

“Okay.”

His eyes widened as you agreed, pulling away from the hug and peeling off every piece of clothing you wore. His cock jolted to life as he pushed himself against your head board, your body walking towards him seductively as you unzipped his shorts.

“This what you want J? My lips around your dick?” You murmured, mouth watering at the sight of his thick cock pulsing after your smooth mouth. He nodded vigorously as your mouth gathered his leaking tip, sucking on it gently before taking his entire length.

He was a mess before you, hands tangled into your hair as he moaned and fucked your mouth. Salvia trailing down your chin as his force picked up nailing into your raw throat.

“Just a blessing aren’t you? Gonna cum princess, keep doing that. .Shit!”

JJ breathed heavily, his body sizzling and mindset foggy as he released his hot white ropes of cum inside your mouth. Sliding across your tastebuds and falling deeper down your throat. You gagged as he shoved you lower, spilling every last drop into your mouth and keeping you there to watch you swallow his filth.

JJ made it very clear he was into you, publicly voicing his opinions whenever you were close. To your face or even just with Pope, wearing a large prideful smirk trying so hard not to spill your secret meet ups.

“Dude, you’re such a pervert.” Pope chuckled shaking his head slowly, JJ’s grin only widened as he watched you laugh alongside Sarah. Laid out on the beach towel soaking in the sun, glistened in tanning oil that ran down the valley between your tits.

“Can’t tell me you haven’t thought about hitting that, like really man! She’s a fucking sex dream, i mean look at her.”

His lips reddened from the way he bit it religiously, shifting in his position as he felt his cock swell at the sight of your half naked body. Pope grimaced at his comments, shaking his head at the boy again.

“Of course Y/N is attractive, but don’t you think you’re being a bit weird? That’s your best friend, y’know?”

“I’m not a child Pope, i’m simply appreciating her beauty—,”

“With a weird sex craze to it.”

JJ rolled his eyes.

“So what, i’m not gonna sit here and deny what i’m feeling. I’m as honest as they come Pope, who cares if i lust after my best friend. Can’t help she’s everything i want.”

#jj maybank smut #obx #jj maybank #outer banks #the pogues #pogues

[lauraneedstochill]

Cry me a river

summary: Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her. author’s note: her betrothed does what Daemon did to Rhea... this time, the woman survives 🔪 also, couples who kill together, stay together, I don’t make the rules warnings: archery (described in unprofessional language), slow burn (... and then not so slow), mentions of blood and murder (duh), it gets a bit heated words: ~ 11K song inspo: Tommee Profitt ft. Nicole Serrano — Cry me a river (cinematic cover) 🔥

>>> Aemond is caught in heavy rain midair, in the depths of a starless night. The storm rips through the clouds, and the lightning flickers across the sky that’s bowed over the Vale. He tries to resist the voice of reason that urges him to land, he’s no little boy to be afraid of the whims of nature. But the downpour only grows more ferocious, and the rattling of thunder soon drowns out Vhagar’s displeased roars.

Begrudgingly, Aemond sets his pride aside and peers into the darkness that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can barely make out a vague outline of the mountains but the rocky terrain is a poor resting place, that much he knows. Exasperation slowly claws at him as the wind howls, his clothes drenched and heavy, and the ribbon of moonlight slips away into the gloom.

When his gaze suddenly catches a flicker of light, a faintly lit cave in the distance — Aemond thinks it’s the Gods' mercy as it is. He is yet to find out that the Gods are leading him that way for a reason.

>>> The landing is rough but Aemond holds back complains and runs for cover, breathing a sigh of relief once he gets to the cave. Vhagar curls up in a heap, and her enormous silhouette can easily pass for just another mountain in the valley.

The prince tiredly wipes the raindrops off his face — and only then notices a spot of crimson right under his feet. He recognizes the color of blood in an instant, and the realization fills him with dread. Slowly, he turns around, his eye following the gory trail, his hand reaching for the dagger. But the sight he’s met with leaves him frozen in place.

Aemond is sure he’s never been so stunned and horrified all at once.

At the far end of the cave, a woman is lying next to a waning fire, with her eyes closed and face drained of color. She is dressed in bright red, and the blood on her hands blends into the laced fabric of her long sleeves, and Aemond is struggling to locate the injury that left her unconscious. She looks so helpless, a breath away from irrecoverable, he throws caution to the wind and rushes to her side without much thought.

Aemond kneels, examining her bare and bloodied feet, the torn hem of her dress, the smudges of dirt on it. With timidly blossoming fascination, he takes in the softness of her features stained with tears, green leaves tangled in her hair. Aemond reaches his hand to smooth a strand of it when he sees a splash of red framing the side of her face. His fingers barely graze her temple — and once he sees them stained with red too, his breathing hitches.

He’s no stranger to cuts and bruises but he doesn’t know how to treat a head wound. And his fighting skills won’t be of use against the Stranger.

A feeble voice brings him back to reality:

“I am not dying.”

Startled, Aemond lets his gaze fall on her lips, parted and faintly tinted with pink. Her eyelids flutter before she opens her eyes — they meet his in an instant. The feeling he gets bears no explanation: it’s sudden and overwhelming, raging like a hurricane that hits right at his chest. She doesn’t look away while her hand finds his — his fingers are still in her hair, and he shudders at the touch; her skin is cold but the grip is surprisingly firm.

“I’m not dying tonight,” she repeats, her tone a bit steadier. “I will not give him the satisfaction.”

His brows furrow from the lack of understanding. His body tenses at the very clear hint that he gets.

“Who did this to you?” Aemond asks with concern.

But she already drifts out of consciousness, back to where she can’t hear him. The thunder rolls and the lightning tears the cover of darkness, illuminating uninhabited mountains and valleys. The terrible weather seems like the least of Aemond’s problems.

>>> It rains all night, and the dawn comes shrouded in white mist. He cannot sleep a wink. The woman tosses and mumbles incoherently as her mind lapses back into the grasp of the unknown suffering. Aemond finds the sight so unnerving, it’s almost painful to watch, but he doesn’t take his eye off her.

He keeps the fire burning to help warm her up, ignoring his own discomfort. Not his shivering but hers eventually compels him to peel off his wet outer garment to dry it off faster. He hastens to put the clothes back on but leaves out his coat to cover her with it, black material over red, a night draping over sunset. Hesitantly, he rubs her arms and back, his usually deft fingers now tentative, until he sees the life returning to her cheeks. It puts Aemond’s nerves at ease, and he belatedly realizes how stiff his body has become from hours of sitting in agonizing suspense. And yet, he never leaves her side.

The mountain tops stay hidden by the clouds, the sky coated in gloom the sun can’t peek through, but around midday, she wakes up again. Her eyes dart to Aemond who moved to feed the fire with branches. He doesn’t rush into conversation, giving her a chance to come to her senses. She is looking at him with distrust but without a hint of fear.

“You stayed,” she concludes in a hoarse voice, slightly shifting in place.

“Leaving you all alone didn’t seem fair,” Aemond responds, which only earns a huff from her.

“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” she rebuts, trying to prop herself up on elbows — and instantly groans at the ache in her temple.

Aemond comes closer in a blink of an eye, and it’s hard to miss the empathetic look he gives her. He politely stays at arm’s length which she is thankful for.

“Your bleeding stopped but such a serious wound must be examined by a maester,” Aemond tells her peacefully. “How far away is your home? I shall accompany you there once the weather calms down.”

He sees emotion flashing through her face, and for a moment it gets so quiet, he can only hear the rain still drizzling outside the cave.

“I do not have a home,” she forces out, and Aemond is surprised to notice that she doesn’t sound sad. If anything, there is ire in her words. “You shouldn’t bother.”

“I am sure your family is worried by your absence and —”

“My family valued me so little, they got rid of me at the very first chance,” she cuts him off, her voice stern. “So I am not going back to them, I’d rather you leave me here.”

He looks her over — her ruined dress and anguished face, dried-up blood in her disheveled hair. No doubt, she is hurting, and it would be unbecoming of a prince to leave a lady in such dire straits.

“I can do no such thing,” Aemond insists. “You survived a severe injury but whatever discomfort you are now feeling can be eased.”

“Complaining would only make me look pitiful. I need none of that,” she is sitting with her fingers pressed to the aching part of her skull, her brows knitted.

“Only seems reasonable to pity anyone with a ble—”

“Did anyone pity you?” she interjects, looking straight at his eyepatch.

The question is meant to cut him yet it doesn’t — too much time has passed, and his once painful memories are now dust-covered images at the back of his mind. But he finds her intent amusing. Wounded and weak, she is supposed to be at his mercy, but her spirit stays unbendable, and her gaze is so blazing, it’s nothing less of a fire. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reply, confident that she will get it.

“Hardly anyone,” Aemond admits. “But I wasn’t left in a cave to die, so the comparison doesn’t work in your favor.”

He expects her to snap again, he almost wants to have another taste of her insolence — a trait so uncommon among any women he’s met, Aemond deems it not offensive but thrilling. She only hums in response, throwing him a glance, and he sees curiosity shining through her cold stare, like a ray of sun in the storm clouds. Their exchange of pleasantries is cut short by another one of her groans. He is usually patient but the sound of her suffering is a test that he fails.

“You will not get better on your own and you know it,” Aemond tries to reason. “I can take you to the greatest maester there is,” — and his persistence is akin to a plea. He anticipates her fears and allays them before she can utter a word: “You will be free to leave at any moment, you have my word.”

“What’s in it for you?” she narrows her eyes at him, her whole demeanor a clear evidence of her refusal to give in just yet.

Aemond thinks for a moment. The real answer to her question lies on the surface and is as vivid as her dress and as her blood: he knows nothing about her and he wants to know everything. He has trouble not only voicing but coming to terms with his desires.

“I am afraid that guilty conscience will disturb my sleep,” Aemond says, and it’s not entirely untrue. He can already tell he’ll think of her many nights to come.

She looks at him appreciatively, slowly, as if her gaze can cut through the cotton of his shirt, flesh, and bones his body is made of. Whatever is her verdict, he can’t tell because in the next moment, she is stricken with pain again, and talking isn’t of much help.

“We shall leave at dawn,” Aemond recapitulates, helping her lay down to have some rest while he can’t find any.

“Do you happen to have any water?” she mumbles more humbly. He senses that showing weakness doesn’t come easy for her; he’s not the one to gloat at something he can perfectly understand.

“I will fetch you some,” he reassures and pulls his coat over her again — and hurries outside.

The mountain valleys welcome him with stillness, and Vhagar’s eyes are two beacons in the mist. The dragon seems comforted by the rain and pays Aemond no mind as he climbs up to get a flask with water he luckily brought, and some lemon cakes Helaena insisted that he take (“should something happen on the road”, she said; he makes a mental note to thank her later).

They eat in silence — she has no appetite, and Aemond feels food stuck in his throat. She tells him nothing but her name; he savors the sound of it, a weave of letters he can now put to her face. Aemond studies her discreetly and although he can’t read her yet, he puts everything in memory, down to the smallest detail. The slight tilt of her head, the pensiveness of her gaze, a blizzard of feelings trapped in her irises, the stubbornness in her lineaments paired with beauty. The curve of her neck and a thin golden chain around it, her collarbones flowing down in that hollow spot his thumb would fit in... He stops himself from looking further down; his face flushes nonetheless, and something sparks inside him, dangerously unnamed.

The evening approaches stealthily but comes chilly and dank. They go to sleep early, both laid next to the fire, and Aemond courteously keeps his distance. She notices the goosebumps that snake under his shirt; her suspicions are soon confirmed when she catches the sound — and can’t tell if it’s the hammering of rain or his chattering teeth.

She considers him: his sharp profile, tense angles of his jaw, lines of his cheekbones seemingly chiseled by the Gods themselves. With his silver hair and eye the color of wisteria, she expected a different attitude; everyone knows the Targaryens to be self-righteous at best and prideful as a given. But the man next to her is instead stoically enduring the hardship he can easily avoid — if he only rolls closer and allows their bodies to trap the elusive heat; he doesn’t dare to. She realizes he could’ve taken advantage of her if he wanted, but it seems like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. She finds it way more endearing than her vigilance would usually let her — the pain must’ve dulled her sanity, she thinks, reminding herself that it’s the sole intent of surviving that should motivate her.

No words will work against his wit so she wastes no time snuggling up to him, with her forehead against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as she shares his own coat with him. A quiet gasp escapes Aemond’s mouth, but he stays still.

“I can hear you shivering,” she can feel it now too — his skin trembling under her fingers. “You are risking to catch a cold.”

Aemond is frozen for a minute, his heart thrumming at that unexpected boldness, at the feeling of her — malleable curves and no rigid edges, their ribcages in contact, their thighs brushing. Calming his breathing is an arduous task; he’s used to fighting off opponents but now he’s battling with himself, with the need that’s treacherously strong, almost primal. He barely quells it, and only by some miracle his inhales are soon steady again.

He moves his arm — the one she’s lying on — a little to the side, giving her more space to settle into, tips of his fingers stopping at her lower back. He does feel undoubtedly warmer. Aemond glances down at her, his voice a whisper tinted with mirth:

“Isn’t this called pity?”

He hears a faint cackle. “Call it rationality,” she refutes. “Since we are to leave soon, and only one of us can fly a dragon.”

The words roll off her tongue like it is the most mundane thing, not a century’s worth of power encased under the thick-scaled skin of a creature the size of a castle.

“You do not find the beast scary?” Aemond can’t stop himself from asking.

“Why would I? It is only a dragon,” her voice grows smaller, eyelids become heavier. “Unlike some men, the dragons are at least not known for their ill intentions.”

At that moment, a wish is abruptly made — to find out who harmed her, make sure it happens no more. The fury in Aemond is a mounting force meant to cause destruction, tamed yet never really dormant. But he listens to her breaths and pushes his anger aside, and the full moon is the only witness of his surrender. As he falls asleep, he tries not to think how nice it is to have her body pressed to his.

>>> What he should be thinking of is how to explain all this — him, unwed, bringing a woman to the castle; a scandal, no less. And yet, it is the last thing on his mind. It’s only occupied with this moment he wishes would never end — with gusts of wind tucked under the dragon’s belly, clouds spread out around; and, most importantly, his arms snaked around her waist, her back touching his chest.

It is bittersweet, truth be told because her pain isn’t gone overnight, and he can’t heal her with just his hands and his words. The splotches of dark maroon are even more visible in her hair in daylight, and she winces at loud sounds, at the harsh flow of air that bites her skin while Vhagar soars up, and she has to grab onto Aemond a little tighter.

But soon they reach the clear canvas of the sky, the serene emptiness, and she looks around, taking it all in — and then the corners of her mouth curl up. There are sparkles of delight in her eyes, and still no sign of fear. And he thinks that her smile is the closest thing to the sun.

They cover many miles, crossing the lands as Vhagar bursts through the clouds, and the time allotted to their inadvertent closeness runs out, mercilessly as ever. Once they land and he helps her climb down, his anxiety comes back, like a wave approaching shore. But then a sound of her whimper reaches him, almost inaudible; he only has time to turn around, to see her pained expression. She passes out — he catches her; it’s his heart that falls, and no other thoughts and explanations matter.

When Aemond is seen at the castle, he’s carrying her in his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, and not a word slips out after he calls for the maester. The prince pays no attention to the guards and the maids exchanging glances, to his mother stopping dead in her tracks upon seeing him, her hand over her heart. There is a question hanging in the air, parting Alicent’s lips, but she doesn’t voice it and only watches her son walk away, hurried and fearful in a way she forgot he was capable of. She struggles to remember when was the last time she saw Aemond in the company of a lady. And if he ever looked at a woman the way he looks at this one.

>>> Aemond is pacing the corridor, his eye on the floor, on the pattern of the stone surface. His mind is treading at the doors that were closed in his face after she was carried into the room. She was breathing still, and that’s what helps him keep it together, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers go numb.

He wonders if maester Mellos has always been so annoyingly slow. That’s the only wondering he can allow — otherwise the noxious thoughts will flood his head: how much blood did she lose before he found her? What if he was the one being too slow? What if —

“Her life is not in danger as she regained her senses” the maester moves with the pace of a cat, his face wearing the same unbothered expression. “The long flight might’ve been tiring for her impressionable female nature.”

That assumption is disregardful and uncalled for — Aemond hates it; still, he’s glad to hear the rest. He lets out a breath that frees his chest from the chains of agitation.

“I will fetch her some herbal ointment to help the cuts and bruises heal faster,” the old man then adds.

Aemond’s expression hardens; clearly, he knows the meaning behind the words but he cannot fathom them. Violet marks of violence blooming on her skin, how could he miss it? How did she get them? He accidentally thinks of it out loud.

“It is a rare luck to get only bruises after taking a fall from a horse,” the maester looks at him askance. He gives his final verdict before leaving, followed by a sigh: “The young lady surely must rest.”

The displeasure is a tiny tongue of flame at Aemond’s ribs. He is vexed by not knowing (nothing new in that, not with his eagerness to learn all and everything ever since he was a kid). Unexpectedly, he is equally vexed by not seeing her — so much so, that he almost reaches for the handle of the door that separates them.

Aemond stops himself, his reticence a fetter but also a necessity: she needs her rest, and he shall leave her be. He will not go beyond the bounds of decency.

She can’t be niched into any bounds, he soon will learn.

>>> Aemond is good at many things but not at waiting, as it turns out. In the morning, after he wakes up, anticipation already laps up in him, his day a blur — breakfast, sword practice, the lines in a book he picks at the library all merge and bore him. He only glimpsed the maids leaving her chambers once; it took all of his willpower to go the other way.

In just three days, his impatience smolders — then flares up, then erupts into a wildfire, his head in a haze that makes him lose focus. The more Aemond tries not to think of her, the harder it gets.

He pushes yet another thought aside as he sees Ser Criston approaching, armed with a longsword and perseverance. Aemond’s training is never a dull routine — the knight makes sure of that and doesn’t make concessions. Their swords lock and clank, and time is a whirl; in the midst of it, Aemond finds himself reminiscing about her shining gaze. He almost misses the hit aimed at him and ducks at the very last second — spins, glares, strikes, his blade stopping an inch away from Criston’s face. 

The knight chuckles in good spirits, and the pride he feels is almost paternal. “Such a shame you aren’t the one for tourneys,” he pants, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Aemond rolls his eye, a brief respite not helping with his frustration. The subtleties of his emotions are unknown, unreadable like an ancient language: he’s daydreaming of her hands, her face, her —

“What a shame, indeed.”

Aemond turns to the sound of her voice. The whirl is silenced in an instant.

It’s different from his memories and his dreams — better than both: she is alive and well, she’s right next to him. She isn’t wearing a dress but a tunic and a pair of breeches, cool-toned material against her sun-kissed skin. Her wound is cleaned and healing, the mark left is a lightning peeking from her hair, the waves of it loosely braided. The simple attire doesn’t take away from her beauty (nothing can, he thinks), and it takes him a second to blink the enchantment away.

Aemond’s voice comes back, a tad low. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He’s looking too joyful for it to sound like reproach.

There’s laughter in her eyes. “No one forbade me from stretching my legs. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Ser Criston chimes in, cautiously curious. “If only you don’t find the sight too unsettling,” he twirls his sword, the steel soundless in his hands.

“On the contrary, I find it entertaining. Although that wouldn’t be my weapon of choice,” her gaze follows the blade up.

Aemond throws her a surprised look but Ser Criston is the one to raise the question. “You have your preferences? Do tell,” he turns his head to the weaponry on a nearby table. “We’ve got shortswords, flails, axes...”

“All of which lack speed,” she remarks pertly, leaving the knight mystified.

Aemond sees no mystery; he knows that in the highlands catching prey is way trickier than killing. Knives, swords, blades of any kind won’t cover a long distance. Something else will.

“Archery, then?” the prince guesses.

“Doesn’t seem like the type of weapon you Targaryens prefer,” she shrugs but her disinterest is feigned.

Ser Criston catches onto that. “Can’t have preferences if there is nothing to choose from,” he grins, then calls for one of the guards, giving short instructions.

The man runs back in a minute, with a bow and arrows, and her eyes light up. They glide over the tight string, the polished wooden bend, concave at each end; it’s crafted beautifully.

“I must ask you to spare the guards,” Ser Criston jests while she takes the weapon, laying hold on its grip. “But do not be shy about taking your pick,” he points randomly at a stack of barrels, about thirty yards away. “These might be nice for a start.”

“That is too easy of a target,” she barely glances that way, then takes a good look around. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

The knight’s cheeks heat up. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to —”

“Oh, I do not find it offensive,” she grants him a meek smile without looking, already eyeing something much further away. “To tell you bluntly, it only spurs me on,” she mounts the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring — and then pulls it.

Both men follow the direction the arrow is pointed at. Right outside the castle gates, there’s an apple tree, tall and branched, bent slightly over the stone wall. The fruits are bulked and ruddy, mouth-watering; but from where they are standing, the apples can barely be seen, obscured by foliage the wind breezes through.

Ser Criston raises an eyebrow, not incredulous but intrigued; Aemond only gets time to take a half-breath. The first arrow is fired with no warning — it cuts through the air, a flash of color above everyone’s heads, — and pierces an apple, pinning it to the trunk. A moment later she takes another shot; after the second one, Aemond isn’t looking at the apples, his eye instead drawn to her.

He suddenly can see nobody else.

Her every move is concise and simple, but her gaze is dead-set on the tree. She repeats each shot with a honed precision, controlled yet gracious; one of her arms set in a straight line, the other one follows a well-learned pattern — an arrow out, an apple down. That’s where, he thinks, her intrepidity comes from: the deadly weapon in her hands sings like a musical tool. The chance to watch her is bliss, and she’s a vision.

Only when she’s down to the last arrow, her hand unexpectedly flinches. She doesn’t miss, still, but the iron tip veers off and knocks the apple to the ground; a shadow of discontent glides across her face. Ser Criston is too impressed to notice yet Aemond knows that feeling all too well. He’s always strived to be the best too, and he knows how poisonous the pursuit of excellence can be.

“With that level of skill you might be unrivaled,” the knight praises, his words backed up by some of the guards and passersby clapping.

She seeks no praise, her quest is more troublesome. “I can do better,” she says, with her disappointment forced down. Her voice wanes a little when she adds: “I will do better by the next full moon,” and that hidden meaning holds unfathomable weight.

Aemond is too eager to bring her comfort to read between the lines. “The bow and arrows will be waiting for you, shall you decide to train more. But do have mercy on the tree,” a smile ripples her lips, a warmth ripples his heart. “I will ask for some target rings to be made.”

That gives her a dollop of contentment, and their fingers brush when he takes the weapon back. As Aemond gazes after her, he wonders if she feels it too — blood stirring, sweet dizziness, limbs lightweight.

Ser Criston watches the prince with a knowing look, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “It is so rare to find a lady with such a competitive spirit and a talent to match,” the knight muses. “Her husband must be a lucky man.”

Aemond’s joy shrinks, that mere word disturbing. “She doesn’t have one,” he responds. The uncertainty of his answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Doesn’t she really?

“That might not be for long,” Ser Criston carelessly comments. The prince’s cold stare makes no impression on him. “Shall we resume our training?”

Aemond goes to pick a shorter sword, his blood now boiling for another reason. There’s a gaze that’s akin to a caress, to a gentle tap on Criston’s shoulder — he turns readily to meet it, dark brown eyes that are a mirror of his own. Alicent casts a glance at her son, questioning and worrying, then holds the knight’s gaze once more. The looks they share are hand-written letters — both of them write the same thing.

>>> Alicent goes looking for answers first — she walks into the woman’s chambers the very same day, with the elegance of a Queen, with the benevolence of a mother. She doesn’t push but guides the conversation; she faces no resistance from the woman she’s facing.

When they are both seated, she tells her a story as old as time, a tragedy lived out by many. Her mother died when the girl was ten years of age, too weak to carry on her blank existence, and her father couldn’t even bear to look at her, no matter how much she tried to please him. Growing up in the Vale felt freeing but lonely, so she preferred archery over embroidery to leap at every chance to get away from home, into the beauty of the wilderness she had no one to share with. But she held out to hope that her life would change. She couldn’t predict that said change would start as an accident — her horse slipping on wet grass.

Alicent can’t help but bring her into a compassionate embrace at the mention of it. Her embrace turns into an offer — of a place to stay, of a shelter, and a friendly ear (maybe those were all the things her younger version wished for but was robbed of). The lie Alicent heard was so skillfully woven into the truth, she didn’t get suspicious. 

Once Aemond learns the story from his mother, he discerns the misleading part in a second. All the other pieces fit together like a puzzle — her being self-reliant and guarded, her brazenness a shield, just like the one he’s grown accustomed to. But that last bit was made up, he can tell. And yet, he just doesn’t know how to approach the subject and not scare her off.

Aemond takes a task on earnestly.

>>> He looks for an opportunity to talk — he ends up tirelessly watching her, and he can’t say that there is no pleasure in it. She does resume her training, and every morning she’s the first one at the training yard when the sun is barely up, and no prying eyes can witness her dedication. Him having an eye on her doesn’t seem to be a problem.

His relentlessness has always been something Aemond prided himself on but it’s hers that he grows to enjoy. He carefully notes her refined movements, her sharp focus, her gaze cutting through any target before an arrow does. It’s easy to be fascinated by her; it takes him a couple of days to look past her outward calmness to catch a flicker of a feeling he can effortlessly recognize — an undercurrent of fury. And then he grasps that each time she aims at the wooden boards, she means to hurt someone. And maybe that is the exact reason she struggles with her every last shot, and her hand keeps flinching, unsure, or maybe too overwhelmed with certitude instead.

On one of those mornings, Aemond gets an idea, an outburst of bravery (or madness, but he’s too excited to care). She’s grimly collecting the arrows, inspecting them for damage when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.

“I couldn’t help but notice that something’s been troubling you,” Aemond comes closer, hands behind his back. She gives him a look that holds no denial but no explanations, either.

Aemond goes to the wooden boards, round and lined up on a hastily built frame, — and stands in the middle, right in front of them. He then puts out a hand with an apple in it, ripe and deliciously red. “Maybe I can help.”

Nothing short of shock flashes through her face, her eyes darting from him to the fruit and back. “What— ” her jaw drops as the words escape her; she strings them into a sentence. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you focus better,” Aemond offers in the calmest tone he can master.

It’s not uncertainty that leaves her speechless, her proficiency hard to deny. It’s the genuine, borderline naive trust that he shows her — with his open gaze on her, his body not moving from the spot, his faith in her as unwavering as his posture.

The moment is fleeting, soft like a morsel of a gossamer cloud, with so many words not shared; in another blink of his eye, it ends. The change in her isn’t drastic but chilling, like a touch of steel blade to the skin — her hand doesn’t waver when she reaches for the arrow, her gaze firmly locking on him.

As her last attempt at leniency, she notes: “There is no stopping an arrow once it’s shot.”

Aemond doesn’t think twice before replying: “You trusted me with your life once. I trust you not to kill me.”

She lifts the bow without hesitation, and he keeps eye contact with bated breath. The never-ending movement of life abates and the pale sunlight fades, and Aemond is deaf to everything but his booming heart. She drops the bow out of the way just a little and pulls the string up to the tip of her nose. She waits at full draw, the passing seconds endless and fulminant at once, before her hand flows back, her fingers relaxing — and the arrow slices through the air.

The first one hits somewhere above the apple; Aemond doesn’t dare to even take a glance, standing motionless, rooted to the ground. The second one follows soon. It’s a blood-curling contrast — how quiet is each shot until it reaches the target, and then the arrow rips right through the board, a deafening crash, a waft of death he’s spared from. Until she draws the bowstring again.

Aemond hears the third and the fourth hit, his hand unmoving, every muscle in his body tense. He is rarely scared, and it’s easy to mistake the fluttering of his heart for fear. But with how his eye is riveted on her, his gaze rapt and throat soar, — he thinks, it might be some other feeling. He gets no time to guess as the fifth arrow — finally — plunges into the apple and pins it to the board.

It’s a momentary reprieve, a quivering wave going through his body; and yet, she doesn’t lower the bow, eyes still fixed on him. Aemond can see her inhaling, the metal tip of the arrow pointing in his direction — and then released smoothly. In a split second, it lodges into the gap between his ribs and his arm, the feathery end stopping right next to his heart. When Aemond looks at her, he catches fiery glints of mischief in her gaze — and then something else, bright but short-lived like a glare on the water.

She puts the bow down, and they both know — her hand didn’t flinch once.

Only when Aemond steps away, he sees that the six arrows form the letter “A”, with the red apple right in the middle.

>>> He’s afraid the change is transient but it lasts — she is now watching him, too. Aemond finds it befuddling at first, not considering himself worth the attention, not used to being seen as something other than a wreckage of man, intimidating, and lonely, and harsh. She doesn’t look daunted. On the contrary, every time she sees him, the ice of her concentration thaws, and her gaze softens and lingers on him, mending every part of him that’s been broken by his insecurities.

She doesn’t recoil from the parts that are irreparable, either. She shows the same understanding when he can’t find the right words and shrinks into his shell — in the middle of conversations, in between rows of bookshelves, at bustling dinners; her company is a haven he can retreat to without a word. She welcomes his every impulse to talk and to share — thoughts, meals, books he thinks she will like (she bites down a smile thinking how much time he spent looking for any mention of archery).

She stays by his side when he doesn’t want to talk and when he overshares, when he’s bleakly taciturn, and when his temper gets as rigid as his sword; she’s enthralled by his anger, never burnt by it. One week turns into two, then into three. Day by day, Aemond wakes up earlier to watch her hit every target without fail, and she then watches him win one bout after another with evident amusement. They explore the castle, get lost in the library, take rides to the woods — she laughs as her horse breaks into a gallop, she basks in the sun, wind ruffling her hair, and his heartbeat raises to a clamor upon seeing her like that.

Her seat is next to his at the dining table, their chambers not too far away, and he persistently walks her to her doors, and every evening he dithers before saying goodnight and parting ways. Her presence soon becomes a warming light nurturing his days — and simultaneously the reason for him losing sleep. But as he lays at night, watching the moon wax, he thinks of another constant, bothering him like a page missing from a book, a closed door he’s got no key for — it’s her secret that he is yet to uncover.

He gets his chance when he least expects it.

>>> The month is nearing its end when Aemond is nearing the dining hall, brimming with emotion he cannot capture — excitement, unrest, sprinkling of anguish. He last saw her hours ago, when his mother came to her in the training yard, and the two of them hastened to leave, seemingly in some agreement he knew nothing about. He caught bits and pieces of words — mentions of fabrics and seamstresses, but it didn’t help with his confusion which soon turned into worry he had trouble coping with. And it wasn’t the worst part.

What’s worse is the comprehension, icy and unforeseeable like a blast of northern wind: it’s only been a few hours, and he’s already missing her. He looks back at the days she wasn’t with him, but they all seem too far away and forgotten, his life before her a blank canvas that she’s now painting with colors. He keeps thinking of her, getting more pensive with each step, until he reaches the doors, and walks in, and — 

the ground is cut from under his feet.

All is the same in the hall: long table in a cloud of mindless chatter, silverware clanking, a rich palette of scents. What stands out is the color, bright like rubies formed within the earth’s crust. It’s the red of her dress — the same old and brand new — and he can only catch a glimpse but it’s enough to leave him dazed. It lasts a second before she senses him, her conversation with Helaena interrupted; she springs to her feet, the dazzling hue stirs up his ardor — he’s almost blinded when he gets an eyeful.

He is staring at her, everyone’s staring at him.

Helaena stands up with a laugh in her attempt to smooth things over: “It isn’t very nice of you to keep a friend waiting,” they both sit down then.

Aemond goes to join them with cotton feet.

He must’ve been too busy last time, her injury too big of a disturbance, so he paid the dress no mind. But once he’s seated, he can’t help but notice: the layers of fabric, flowing lines of her body, the cut in the front, the golden chain now ten times brighter. She casts him a wondering glance, he drinks half the cup in one swallow. The minutes that follow are like a fog, and although the conversations carry on, Aemond can’t bring himself to take part in any.

That is until he hears vaguely his sister’s delighted voice. “The stitching is barely noticeable! What an excellent work,” she marvels at the red dress, then looks at him with the spontaneity of a child. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear brother?”

He’s certainly grateful he’s not drinking otherwise he’d choke. Aemond manages to cast one furtive glance. “A fine work indeed.”

His mother gently picks up the discussion. “It was only fair to help repair the thing your friend holds so dear,” Alicent’s gaze is directed at her. “You can now wear it on more than just one occasion.”

Why would she hold so dear the dress that only carries the memories of her pain, he wonders. The dress that was covered with blood, with fingerprints of someone who wanted her dead. He takes a peek at her, and her face expression gives away no answers but for a second too short to comprehend he sees the undercurrent again; only it never takes shape. She puts on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he’s the only one to notice.

“I greatly appreciate you taking your time to help me,” she says, and Alicent’s smile — a genuine one — only grows wider. Maybe even a bit too wide for it only to be about some stitching.

“I suspect we tired you out with all the measuring and dressing up,” his mother points at her plate. “You hardly ate, my dear.”

“It’s been a long day,” her fingers close around a cup but she doesn’t drink from it, “And the dress brought back some memories,” her grab tightens, the only sign of everything she’s keeping covered. “But I am glad to get a chance to wear it one more time.”

“And I am happy to help,” Alicent assures, “But please, go have some rest, you have seen enough of our boring dinners.”

“I was never bored,” there’s a glimmer of gratitude, a tone of sincerity as she gets up from the table and looks at the faces sitting at it. For a moment, it seems that she wants to say more — grand, meaningful, closer to the truth. And yet, she just opts for a short, “Thank you for having me.”

She barely has time to take a step before Aemond all but jumps to his feet. “I will walk with you,” the words leave his mouth as he stands up with unflinching determination. And it’s not that he wants to leave as much as he wants to follow her.

His eagerness doesn’t come off as a surprise. No one says it but it seems that everyone knows — Alicent and Criston sharing the same looks, Helaena beaming, Aegon smirking into his cup. Aemond only waits for her reaction, his eye focused on her face. She isn’t against it — just like she’s never been before, every time he found a reason to come to her and be with her, and even when there was no reason to do so. She gives him a nod, a tad guiltily but more so accepting (and maybe just as eager as he is).

While they are on their way out, Aegon turns on his chair to say something but Helaena covers his mouth with her hand.

>>> Aemond breathes a little deeper and walks a little slower, gathering his words, — and before he knows it, they are talking again, his infatuation receded, although never truly gone. He asks about her day, and in the corridors and hallways curtained with silence, her voice flows lightly. He can tell that she’s abashed by all the fussing over her.

“Our seamstresses are quite fierce,” he chuckles. “I fear no sword of mine will stand a chance against their needles.”

“They said this dress was made for feasts,” she quotes, fiddling with the material as if she can’t see what’s there to admire.

“Well, Aegon’s name day is approaching. That will surely be a feast we are all invited to endure,” Aemond jests.

“I don’t think that I will —” she doesn’t finish the sentence, biting down her lip. He’s too distracted by that movement to pay attention to what’s left unvoiced. “You do not find those celebrations to your liking?” she changes the topic swiftly.

“I find them boring,” Aemond huffs. “The same old lords boasting about their wealth, making up achievements that are each so hollow.”

“Sounds like ladies aren’t a part of those conversations?”

“Theirs are hardly better so you should keep your expectations low,” he ruefully remarks. “Сourt gossip is one thing you can’t avoid. And then they’ll either lament about their husbands or try to find one for you,” he doesn’t think much over his words until he sees her smile dropping. And then, before he can find a reason not to, he adds: “...Assuming you are not already married.”

As soon as she hears it, she stops — Aemond does too, and he can tell that she isn’t looking for lies and excuses. She only timidly looks around, as if she’s afraid the walls have ears, and the truth she’s about to tell him is only meant for his. They managed to reach his chambers first, so without a single word Aemond goes to open the doors, and she accepts the nonvocal invitation.

They walk in — both are hasty and agitated, but he gives her space and scarcely hides the trembling of his hands. She finds it hard to utter a particular word. “I was... betrothed but not anymore. The man in question now believes I am dead.”

Her face is turned away from him, her gaze gliding over every object in his room, searching for something to fall on. She hesitantly walks to his table, glancing over a stack of books on it.

Aemond gives her a minute, then inquires: “Was he the one to hurt you?”

Her pain is still fresh, her face briefly splashed with it but she pushes through. Her response is not affirmative and yet, it’s enough of a confirmation. “I should’ve known better than to trust him.”

His anger rears up its head, a beast on a chain readying to get loose. “There is no excuse for what he did,” Aemond punctuates. “There cannot be —”

“There isn’t,” she cuts him off, not harshly but with a weary acceptance, her finger grazing thick book covers. “And I’m the last person to ever make excuses for him. But I should’ve known.”

Aemond is hurt by the thought he gets, but her torment is even more hurtful so he says the words, each letter scorching his heart. “You can’t take the blame for having feelings. Love often makes people let their guard down.” (And for years, he never did. Not until her).

With how fast she retorts, his ache is cured: “It wasn’t love.” Whatever it was, she regrets it so deeply, it’s written all over her face. “Now that I think about it, it never was.”

Her fingers travel down to the table surface, her thoughts straying back to the time that’s too distant but too haunting to forget.

“Lord Dykk Hersy is a son of my father’s friend, we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. He was always too noisy, then turned too self-centered, not much to like about that. And I never thought he fancied me, either. But my father made a decision about us some years back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Dykk started coming more often, following me around, being very nice. And I wasn’t...,” she stops fumbling with strewn parchments and lets out a sigh. “Not a lot of people were nice to me back then. I was naive to mistake his kindness for something else, and he was smart enough to say all the right words to make me believe him.”

Her fingertips reach his dagger, unscabbarded and left in plain sight. His eye is drawn to her every movement.

“We were betrothed when I was ten-and-six. I grew to like his company, and I think he did try his best, at first. For a couple of years, he was courteous, generous enough to give in to my every whim. Not that I had too many,” she’s glassy-eyed, and Aemond’s glare would be enough to kill. “But the illusion didn’t last for long. I soon began to notice pitiful stares, taunting whispers behind my back, maids dropping their gazes in shame. Three years in, I found out one of them was carrying his child.”

“Am I right to assume he denied it?”

“He did,” she chuckles bitterly. “He seemed taken aback by my anger, tried to persuade me he was falsely accused. But I could never blame the girl, it’s not her fault he was so good with words... I fell for them too,” her sadness is washed off with virulence; her fury awakened again, flames of it rising from the bowels of her restraint.

Aemond finds himself only a few feet away from her, pulled in by empathy at first, enamored somewhere in between the first and second steps.

“From that day, the complaints began, the excuses — he was too busy to stay for long, then got too busy to visit.”

“Was it so hard to saddle a horse?” Aemond bristles.

She casts him a glance followed by a half smile. “He lives in The Reach.”

“So chivalry is dead,” he snorts, and her laughter gives him a spark of joy. “It isn’t far away from here,” Aemond notes.

“Takes way longer to reach the Vale,” she explains, then pauses. Her memories eat up the merest hint of cheer. “Only he wasn’t road weary. He was burdened by me.”

Aemond almost reaches out for her, but clasps his hands together, his knuckles whitening. Her finger traces the very edge of the blade.

“And then, on his latest name day, my father made a poor joke,” her smile is crooked, hating. “He said me and Dykk were meant to stay together unless death do us part. That’s when, I think, he got the idea.”

“It is unworthy of a man to ever nurture such a thought,” his voice is embittered, his chest ablaze with wrath.

“I should’ve known,” she sounds dull like an echo. “He’s always called himself a man of traditions — the start of the month was meant for hunting, and he preferred the grounds of Grassy Vale, the shore of the Blueburn river. But then, all of a sudden, he wanted to explore the mountains of the Vale,” she wraps her hand around the hilt. “Said he wished to reconcile, that the trip would bring us closer, made me wear a dress,” she stumbles over the words, “And I didn’t even want to come or to see him, and all the signs were there, but I put on the stupid dress, and I was the one being so unbelievably stupid and —”

His palm covers hers in a rush of tenderness, his gaze more telling than a poem, confessions embedded in it — so many of them, it would take all night to unravel. They stand still, their eyes locked, his affection sweeping in between his fingers and her skin.

“None of that was your fault,” Aemond asserts. “And no one is to blame but him. Your fortitude is only worthy of admiration.”

It’s alluring how unrelenting he is in his desire to please her; the shift of her body toward his is barely noticeable, and she looks a second away from giving in. Something stops her, a sign of regret on her face, her gaze averted.

“And yet, he continues with his life thinking he got the last laugh,” she bemoans. “And I fear I... will never forget the feeling of his stranglehold as long as we are both alive.”

“You survived the unthinkable,” he tugs at her hand, caring in a way no other man ever was with her. “Why can’t it be enough?”

She ponders, hesitates, her outrage tempered by his solicitude. “I guess some lessons can only be learned the hard way,” she draws conclusion.

There it is again — the puzzling implication, a mystery wrapped in an enigma; it leaves Aemond with a sense of unease. “You deem that lesson to be worth it?” he questions.

The truth slips away from his grasp, but her hand stays, and it is too disarming of a sensation for him to think clearly. “I am afraid it’s too soon to tell,” she deflects, her thumb pressed against the flat of the blade. She can’t resist glancing briefly at it.

“You seem to like this little thing,” Aemond observes. “If so, you can have it.”

Her face is so bright with glee again, all the light in his room grows dim in comparison. “I’ve never seen such an intricate pattern,” she clarifies shyly, then adds with appreciation: “It’s truly beautiful.”

“It is,” he’s only looking at her.

“Teach me how to use it,” she unexpectedly asks. She looks at him again, her gaze exulting, and his heart skips a bit. “Properly.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, undeniably willing.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she teases, her hand moving from his, clamping the dagger tightly.

Aemond misses the feeling — her skin against his, tighling with warmth, — and he catches her fingers in the same second. The distance between them is shortened down to a few inches; they don’t seem to care.

His touches are light and feathery. “You need to make sure your grip is strong,” he gently presses his forearm to hers, her hand positioned in his palm. “Not too tight so there’s some room for maneuvering. But with all your fingers in place,” he gives instructions, and she eagerly follows.

The red of her dress is a striking distraction; as is the softness of its lace, of her touch, of her lips parted in wonder, her diligence bewitching. She waits, his blood rushes; Aemond gulps.

He continues. “It is a common mistake to take a swing with a pommel up,” two of his roughened fingers latch onto her palm. “But the backhand grip works better,” Aemond rotates her hand in the right position, a steady motion with unsteady breath; her shoulder comes in contact with his chest.

He halts all movement, she makes no attempt to step away. He wonders if she can feel... He lacks the words to describe it. But he can discern her bosom heaving with every breath, and his heartbeat is caught in his throat.

He keeps the dagger pointed down, then calmly guides it up and away, their fingers intertwined. “This way, the point of the blade always comes first,” her eyes are on the steel, on the veins scattered on the inside of his wrist. “Which means that the threat also comes faster,” his eye is on the curve of her neck, on the necklace gleaming, beckoning him to glance lower.

Both of them feel the pull, too spellbound to resist — she takes a half step back, he meets her halfway. Her back is now fully propped against him, every bit of his body overflushed with yearning. Their hands stay adjoined as his words vine through her hair: “You try it.”

And so she does. The first time she repeats the movement, it’s almost reluctant, and his long tenacious fingers lead the way. He inadvertently leans in, his forearm molding into hers, a touch that edges towards embrace; her bashfulness then disappears without a trace. The metal shines coolly as she dexterously twists the blade, and Aemond should be concerned with how easy it comes to her; he is instead utterly transfixed.

She looks at him over her shoulder, his breath fanning out over her cheek, the space between them almost nonexistent. She makes a turn, torturously slow, their hands an inseparable duet, bodies longing to share heat.

“Seems like you did have some practice beforehand,” Aemond notes, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or you are a good teacher,” her eyes slip over his lips.

“And you are a fast learner,” he says under his breath.

This once, his gaze wanders, like a wayward traveler in search of means to satisfy his hunger; she is the one he craves. His fingers are itching for every curve of her body — she’s burning in all the places she wishes he could touch her. The tension rises, floods their bloodstream like fever, and —

“Hardly fair to leave me deal with our grandsire on my own!” Aegon bursts through the doors without knocking, a cup in his hand. “Did I ask for a lecture on table manners? I did not!”

He then sees them, already a step away from each other, and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes which quickly turns into suspicion. He’s about to voice it when she blurts out: “Aegon would make for a good target.”

The cup he’s holding doesn’t reach his mouth. “...I beg your pardon?”

“I talked your brother into teaching me how to throw a dagger,” she lies slyly. “Would you mind stepping back to the door?”

Aegon blinks, incomprehension evident on his face for a moment, until he frowns and does move back to the door — only to open it and rush out, grumbling: “Both of you are utterly insane.”

The second he leaves, she bursts into laughter, and the same sound, low and hearty, spills from Aemond’s lips. She glances at him — his face relaxed, cheeks adorned with dimples, and he catches her gaze. The moment is lost but their desire isn’t, still swelling in both, unabated fire under the navel.

But now she tarries, her delight eclipsed by a grim understanding she chooses not to put into words. She tries giving him the dagger but Aemond gently pushes it back: “I meant it, it’s yours.”

“Thank you,” she puts it into a scabbard he hands her, then murmurs, sincerely grateful: “For listening, too.”

“I am glad to be worthy of your trust,” he replies warmly.

There’s a ringing urge in the back of his head to come closer to her again. But she is unanticipatedly avoidant of any intimacy, mumbling something about the late hour, moving out of his reach — and then the urge turns into a need so desperate, he can’t keep it bottled up.

“I think he is the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,” Aemond lets slip.

She turns to him when her hand is already on the door handle. “Because he couldn’t manage to kill a woman?” the smile she gives him is acerbic, but her gaze is sad.

“Because he didn’t love you the way you deserve,” he breathes out.

She looks astonished, her mouth falling open, and he wants nothing more than for her to say another word, just to give him a reason to spill his every feeling out. But she slumps her shoulders and purses her lips, and then pulls the handle and gets out so quickly, the door slams behind her, and the sound makes him wince.

He is left all alone, with an unsaid revelation at the base of his throat — the way I would’ve loved you, he wanted to say. And with another heartbeat, Aemond realizes: he already does. He is already hopelessly in love with her.

>>> That realization is a ball lightning that swirls in his chest, and he cannot close the eye all night. It’s liberating to say it to himself — love, the word that sounds and tastes so sweet; it’s also absolutely terrifying. Chaotic thoughts run through his mind, and he is racked with indecision that’s paved with his self-doubts and fears. Amidst the chaos, Aemond finds himself reminiscing of her shining gaze — and then of a touch of her hand, of her eyes on him, of her body leaning toward and her lips not shying away from his. He couldn’t have made all that up, he thinks. He also can’t let fear dictate his future.

Aemond leaves the room with the first rays of the sun, while its light only shyly skims the ground, but the prince’s never been more awake. His intent is a vital force, a fuel that makes him quicken his pace. He all but runs — down the stairs, through the doors, through the castle, and out of it; her name and his proclamation on the tip of his tongue 

— only she isn’t in the training yard.

And neither are her bow and arrows.

Anxiety scrapes his ribcage and spreads like ice, then creeps, sluggish and squeaking, into his subconscious. His gaze roves over every corner of the yard, but he can’t catch the slightest hint of where to look for her.

He does break into running on his way back; the corridors and walls all flash before his eye. Her chambers greet him with her absence, the maids all share his concern. Aemond tries to look for clues — a letter, a piece of anything that once belonged to her — but she had no belongings, he remembers then.

Despair crawls out, like a predator sensing blood; Aemond isn’t about to give up without a fight. He goes to question the guards — surely, she couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what her talents are. The men in silver-plated armor are doubtless striving to help, but only one of them recalls her visiting the yard not long before the sun emerged. That knowledge is rather scant and hardly helpful, and Aemond’s determination traitorously falters.

Help comes in the form of a stable boy passing by who gleefully chirps:

“The lady must be a skilled hunter,” he says to no one in particular, dreamingly impressed. “Not many people stick to traditions these days.”

“...Come again?” Aemond throws him a glance so piercing, the boy stammers.

“I only m-meant that it’s a full moon,” he hurriedly explains. “They say, on that day deer move more at night hence why the hunters favor it so much.”

That’s when her words resurface in his mind —

“I will do better by the next full moon.”

“Lord Dykk Hersy always called himself a man of traditions.”

He thinks that for a man who’s only lost one eye, he surely couldn’t have been more blind. Because the clues he’s been so desperate to find were all before his eyes this entire time. He promptly knits together all the fragments — her tireless training, haunting memories, her asking to repair the dress. Only, the one occasion she wanted it for was not some silly dinner.

Disappointment clashes with worry in his chest as Aemond leaves the castle once more, this time with a destination in mind. He blames himself for not guessing sooner; he hopes and prays that it’s not too late.

>>> The grounds of Grassy Vale are robed in green, a canvas of valleys and flats with lone wooden shacks interspersing; Aemond reminds himself he didn’t come for sightseeing. He gazes into fields sprawled underneath, and Vhagar’s body casts a shadow that sweeps along the earth like a water stream. With how low they are flying, it won’t be hard for any of the smallfolk to spot the dragon but Aemond can’t find it in himself to care.

His gaze is searching for one person only, his longing for her immense against everything in his life that’s been measured. But soon he sees the river, and the valleys smoothly give way to forests; Aemond admits with increasing concern that he’ll have to continue on foot. Vhagar grudgingly plops into the high grass, burying her claws in the ground, the flap of her wings so strong, it brings down a couple of trees. Once their rustling is stilled, the sullen peace settles in the vale.

As if to add to his unrest, the sky gets blanketed with clouds, and he can hear the thunder humming in the distance, his heart already hammering in tact. The Gods, it seems, certainly have a penchant for drama.

The sound of the branches crackling is what catches his attention first, and he discerns heavy footsteps fast approaching. In just a second, Aemond sees a man running out of the forest, and there’s no need to take a guess — not only does the stranger look clearly aghast, he’s also got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

Aemond throws him a disdainful glance but Lord Hersy is too distraught to notice. “Please, help!” he begs and whines, “I am being chased by a mad woman!”

The prince holds back a snicker, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he drawls, and every feature of the man looks hideous to him. “A woman instilling that big of a fear? It is the rarest of things.”

Lord Hersy can’t seem to share his amusement. “She’s truly evil!” he assures with wide eyes, his legs unsteady, hand pressed to the wound, red seeping through his fingers. “She led me into an insidious trap, and I am left completely disarmed!”

“It sounds like it required quite a lot of planning,” Aemond notes. “Might it be that she has a reason to be cross with you?”

“I am a righteous lord, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the man lies profusely, and a dark look crosses Aemond’s face. “My only fault was trusting her, that scheming wen—”

With one hand movement, Aemond grabs him, his fingers holding the man’s collar so tightly, Lord Hersy has trouble breathing. “But you are surely cross with her, it seems,” the prince remarks in a dry tone, his gaze blistering cold. Underneath the ice, there’s a flare, a spark; he is actually enjoying this. “Would you mind, my lord, telling me more about her?”

Lord Hersy seems taken aback by the request but obeys implicitly. “She’s n-not lacking beauty, that I will admit,” he weakly tries to free himself yet to no avail. “But ignorant of manners and so terribly short-tempered!”

“Is it her temper you are so afraid of?” Aemond doesn’t hide his mocking.

“She’s got a dagger!” the man complains in distress. “An angry woman armed poses a horrid threat! Gods know, I’ve done nothing to merit that mistreatment!”

He opens his mouth to accuse her some more — but then finally takes note of the frighteningly stiff look on Aemond’s face. The prince’s lips curl up into a wrathful and malignant smile, and the air gets heavy with silence.

His anger is a beast that breaks the chains with its teeth.

“Hm,” Aemond shakes his head with derision. “Worry not, ser, you are in good hands,” the prince lowers his face to his, his voice spewing poison when he hisses, “I was the one to give her the dagger.”

Lord Hersy does attempt to escape Aemond’s grip, he’ll give him that. Pathetically and weakly he twitches and wails, tries scratching his face, then reaches for the eyepatch, wobbly fingers tugging at the stripe of leather, gasping and swearing and —

all of his efforts fall short, and Aemond’s iron grip doesn’t loosen one bit.

And then, out of nowhere, another hand grabs a fistful of the lord’s hair, yanking his head back so harshly, that he gasps. They both were too distracted by the scuffle to notice her draw near, but once she reaches them — engulfed in red, her gaze equally flaming — she truly is force to reckon with. The fury looks so good on her, it makes Aemond hold his breath.

“I see your luck did finally run out,” she says to the man, words filled with resentment.

Lord Hersy grows unsure about his every accusation. “I think there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he protests in a whiny tone. “I deeply regret causing you any offe —”

“I don’t remember you regretting dragging me down from a horse to try and crash my skull with a rock,” her voice is low, biting. The grin that follows makes her face look sinister. “I knew you couldn’t finish.”

His frown betrays his irritation — he puts it out the second he pulls out the dagger. “There are still ways for me to make amends,” Lord Hersy pleads so sickly sweet, Aemond lets out a growl. “I made a terrible mistake, I shall admit, but I did search for you! Day and night, I prayed to the Gods to find you, I cried my eyes out!”

Her face seems empty while she listens, and Lord Hersy is enough of a fool to mistake it for reluctance. But Aemond thinks she’s never looked more sure, and there’s no mercy she can grant the man whose fate has long been sealed.

She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth twitch, and the prince reads this expression with ease — she’s finally facing her most wanted target. He loosens the grip, and Lord Hersy falls to his knees, gulping air, the breath of death no longer tickling his neck; but his relief is premature.

The blade in her hand pale-glimmers in the vanishing rays of the sun — the man only catches a dreadful glint before he feels the metal pressed against his throat. Her gaze is just as sharp. “Go on then, dear lord,” she sneers without a sign of mirth, each word hastening his end, “Cry me a river.”

He barely gets a breath in when she swings — unmerciful and with the backhand grip; the dagger draws a scarlet cut across his throat. The wound is deep and fatal, and the blood runs fast and thick, cascading down his chest, his body going limp and falling lifeless to the ground. The red seeps out into the grass, splashed beads of it shining dully against all the green, and it’s almost alluring to look at.

Unceasingly and invariably Aemond only looks at her.

The trees sway in the wind, and the clouds race, the sky now veiled with the darkness of the unfolding storm. He’s never been the one to value landscapes, but it makes him think: the same lush wilderness surrounded her while she was growing up, a rose among the weeds, her thorns repellent to most but no obstacle for him. With bloodied hands, disheveled hair, dirtied clothes — she’s still the only one he wants, irresistible as life.

She stands in reverie, her gaze boring into the huddled body of the lord: “I must admit, this is poor planning on my part.”

As if on cue, Vhagar’s roar echoes in the distance, and Aemond smirks: “I know of a way to get rid of a body.”

She hums and slightly leans over the dead man, wiping the dagger off on his coat, and Aemond sees that she ripped the dress again; he finds it funny.

“Not the best choice of clothing, I might say,” the prince notes.

She follows his gaze and doesn’t even bother to adjust the damaged hem. “He thought I came back from the dead to hunt him,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I counted on that.”

“Wish I could see it,” Aemond says, a gentle admiration in his tone.

Her mask of concentration crumbles, replaced by the expression he remembers from the day before. The same astonishment mixed with timorous indecision, with a tint of shyness, washes over her face as their eyes meet.

“You came for me,” the words fall from her mouth as if she only now becomes aware.

“Why do you find it so surprising?” he wonders because leaving her was never an option for him.

“Unreasonable, mostly,” she bashfully remarks. “You’ve been so kind to me, and yet I left without saying goodbye.”

“You did,” he agrees, thinking that shyness only adds to her charm.

“And I never told you of my plans,” she admits, even more coyly, and he just nods.

Her gaze falls, mouth unsurely half-open, as if she’s trying to pluck the right words from the grass. He watches her, and there’s that pull again, the flowering desire in his chest.

“I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” she musters out, and it knocks the air out of his lungs. She’s curbing her own pain, deeming it to be a relief for his. “You’ve done more than enough for me... I think your conscience should be clear.”

The wind picks up, and so does his pulse. “And where will you go?” Aemond asks, his voice faltering.

“I am my father’s only heir” she shrugs, mostly burdened than pleased. “He will take me back and,” she works up the courage to find his gaze again, “I won’t be a problem of yours any longer.”

The thunder is approaching, a rushing sound disrupting the peace of nature. Aemond knows he will never find peace if he lets her leave.

“So you can go,” she offers but they both don’t want it, and he instead allows himself a step to her. “If this is what you want,” she blurts out in a shaky voice that gives away her struggle no matter how much she tries to put up a face. “If this is what your heart desires,” she adds so quietly, she isn’t sure he will hear her. But Aemond does.

Something snaps in him, and his body is an arrow shot out — he closes the distance in a heartbeat, and his lips all but crush into hers. She kisses him back with the same fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and neither of them is timid or holding back. His hands find her waist, follow the gentle bend of it as she presses herself to him, as her mouth opens more, and his craving turns into hunger, his desire not hidden any longer, erupting right through.

Aemond grabs onto her hips, desperate to feel more, ravenous in his need, and each of his kisses is a plea for her to heed to; she does. Her fingers frantically travel up, then tangle in his hair, untieing knots of his restraint, his quivering sighs all disappearing into her mouth. There are no other sounds but their shuddering breath, their lewd touches, moans — hers or his, he can’t tell.

The massive storm is brewing when they part, both breathless, their lips still brushing.

“It’s you,” his confession is hot against her mouth, “You are the only thing I desire,” the syllables flow, pouncing like a waterfall, “He was undeserving of you, foolish, pathetic excuse of a man, and if only I—”

His words die down at the feeling — her fingers dancing right above his cheek. The one that’s scarred, unloved, detested by him; the gruesome sight that was supposed to be covered by the eyepatch. He must’ve missed the moment when he lost it, too wrapped up in his anger to notice the despicable lord succeed in his attempts. Aemond can’t find it in himself to ask for confirmation, to even move his hand to cover half his face.

She never looks away. And then, in the gloomy evening, she smiles — the sun rises again, a crack of dawn formed by every feature of her face. Her fingertips tenderly graze his scar.

“You asked me once if I thought it was worth it,” she recalls, her gaze affectionate, without a shadow of a doubt. “It was. Because I would do it all again if I knew the fate was leading me to you.”

The warmth of her touch heats him up, then ignites every part of him. She’s still caressing the side of his face when he reaches for her — his kiss so searing, her hand trembles, while his confidently moves to the hollow of her throat; this time, the sound of pleasure is undoubtedly hers. With his eye closed, his mouth on hers, Aemond sees the vision, bright as day: him going through the layers, lace and red, until she is all bare in his sheets, and he can put his lips to every inch of her skin. And feel her, drink her, worship her, their limbs intertwined, him drawing moans from her until the night sky lets in the first streaks of light.

He has to take a labored breath to blink the dream away, to hold his ardor back for just a little longer. By the look on her face, she’ll welcome his every offering.

“It seems that all those years I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for you,” Aemond whispers, holding her tight in his embrace.

“But you found me,” she follows the contour of his jaw with her finger, her smile never fading. “And you can have me,” she makes a vow, and her lips trail for his to seal the promise.

And no storm can compare to the love for her that rages deep in his heart.

✧ if you are into stories about revenge (enemies to lovers, with angst, fighting, and quite a bit of fire involved), I have a multi-chapter fic for you ✧ two more stories inspired by songs (modern!au): with Aemond & with Aegon ✧ my masterlist tagging @amiraisgoingthruit who was kind enough to ask (girlie, I’m sorry this one is so enormous…) also big thank you to arcielee for approving the gif it was driving me insane 💙

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

#aemond targaryen #it took me 3 (THREE) months to find inspiration to finish the gif and I can't say I'm 100% happy so I will take NO criticism #to the ten people who will read this — I am forever grateful (I'm sending you cups of cacao as a treat) #my stuff #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fic #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x y/n #hotd fic #house of the dragon fanfics #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond #aemond the kinslayer

[cheolhub]

HEAD — CHOI SOOBIN ࿐

summary. soobin goes down on you for the first time.

wc. 1.1k

warnings. [PLEASE READ] sub!soobin, oral (f. receiving), grinding into mattress lol, dommish?reader, heavy praise (use of good boy), c*m eating — MINORS DNI 18+

note. based off a req from a very long time ago… if u saw the first post, pretend u didn’t lol. i revamped a little :p likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

soobin is eternally grateful for you, really. you’re his first everything. first partner, first kiss, first fuck— his first love.

now he’s going down on you for the first time after hearing from his best friend that eating pussy is the closest thing to paradise. when he asked to so meekly, you were shocked to say the least. the mere thought of his mouth on your cunt had heat spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears and you instantly felt arousal pool in your panties.

“can i try eating you out?”

you could see in his face that he wanted it. almost like he’d die if he didn’t get the chance to bury his face in between your thighs. and with a face like that, who were you to deny him?

that’s why you’re on you elbows, legs spread open as you guide him in between your legs.

“okay, baby, just do what feels right. i’ll let you know what feels good.” you tell him sweetly to which he nods eagerly.

he dives in, tongue pressing flat against your wet core and, immediately, his eyebrows knit together. he let’s out a loud moan, the noise vibrating your entirety. he holds his tongue there for a few seconds, relishing your taste.

you shudder out his name, eyes fluttering and his body fills with a sudden… urgency… to hear you call out for him again. his tongue moves again, lapping up your honeyed arousal.

and he does it over and over and over, naturally becoming an ace at eating pussy.

“feels good, angel, just like that.” you moan when his mouth trails up to your clit. “suck right there—yeah, just like that, good boy.” you praise breathily, head falling back as his mouth suctions around your sensitive bud.

the praise causes a short circuit in soobin’s brain and, all of a sudden, it’s like he forgets about everything except how to make you feel good. he’s digging his face into you deeper, tongue flicking at your clit faster, hands squeezing your supple skin harder— he needs more. more of your words, more of your cunt, more of everything.

he’s so lost in your pussy, he doesn’t even realize he’s grinding his messy, aching, incredibly-hard cock into the mattress.

you’re shocked by the sudden onslaught of pleasure that it has you wondering if soobin lied about his pussy-eating experience. “slo-slow down, ‘bin.” you attempt to tell him, feeling your mind slowly escape you.

but your words fall on deaf ears because soobin can’t hear a thing. he’s in heaven, he fucking swears. the friction on his cock and his mouth sucking up your arousal are validation that he is, indeed, in paradise.

when a loud whine rips through his body and vibrates yours, you realize you actually can’t take it anymore, just about ready to combust on his face. “okay— fuck, baby— okay!”

your hand finds his head, tugging at the dark locks to pull him off of you. he resists at first, not wanting to part from what he believes is the best thing he’s ever had in his life, but eventually, he comes up for air.

he whines softly, still fucking himself into the bed.  “lemme keep going.” his fingernails bite into your skin and you’re honestly in awe.

no man has ever begged you to eat you out like this. no man has ever been this desperate for you. ever.

“just let me catch my breath, ‘binnie, was gonna cum too fast,” you pant, pushing his slightly hair back and basking in his beauty.

his swollen, wet lips turn pouty at your words, “w-want you to cum quick, please. p-please, i wanna taste it.”

your pulse accelerates, eyes nearly rolling at his desperation. all you can do is give him a wordless nod, hands coming back to fist at the bedsheets and letting him continue his assault on your cunt.

and that he does, quickly diving in and slurping you up, nose digging into your clit to further stimulate you. his tongue then drags from your drooling hole all the way back up to your swollen bud and that’s when you know this isn’t his first time.

there’s no way. there’s no way choi soobin, a virgin to oral, eats you out better than men with experience. there’s no way he has you this close to cumming this quick.

“fuck, ‘binnie, you’re so fucking good. eating me so fucking well. good boy, you’re so, so good f’me.”

at this point, he’s whining uncontrollably, making the entire experience all the more pleasurable. you swear he’s mumbling “‘m your good boy,” into your cunt, but your jumbled mind could easily be making it all up.

you can feel the bed rocking faster and faster and you can tell he’s close. you are, too, so you urge him.

“‘bin— ‘binnie, keep going. fuck, if you keep going, ‘m-m gonna cum.” you promise. “y-you want that, right? wanna be a good boy—my good boy— ‘n make me cum, yeah?”

you think he nods, but his change in pace confirms that he’s most definitely heard you. he’s erratically tonguing in and out of your cunt while his nose sloppily rubs at your clit. it gets you where you need to be— breathily moaning and tummy tightening while your brain fogs over— you’re going to cum.

and so is he.

it happens for you before you get a chance to warn him. you clench tightly while his tongue wanders and the knot in your stomach unravels. you cum hard. harder than you ever have during oral. white spots fill your vision and your back arches off the ruffled bed sheets while you cry out his name.

it triggers his own orgasm. he's filling up his boxers while he sobs into your pussy, continuing to eat you out through both of your orgasms.

the come down takes awhile for you. soobin insists on licking you clean which slightly overstimulates you, but you let him do so anyway because… well, he claims he needs it.

but when the two of you slowly— but surely— come down from your intense highs, you look at him bewildered.

“soobin, i thought you said you hadn’t done that before?”  you ask, still a bit breathless.

he furrows his eyebrows, “i haven’t! that was my first time.”

“liar.”

“i’m not lying!”

it’s true. you see the genuine look on his face and you can tell it really was his first time.

he smiles cheekily, your arousal still dressing his lips and chin. “does that mean i did good?”

you scoff loudly at the praise-seeking. “you could use a little more practice.”

“okay, no worries. lemme try again, i bet i can make you cum faster this time.”

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

#soobin smut #txt smut #i proofread this version #only a little tho lol

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 4

Prompt: Teratophilia Pairing: monster!IN(Jeongin) x fem!reader WC: 3,395 (I literally said “what” outloud...no way) Summary: Would you still love me if I was a worm? Of course you would! But what if I had three tails and claws and teeth sharp enough to rip your throat out and black eyes? Would you still love me then? This is a work of fiction, it does not represent IN or any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this.  Additional warnings under the cut.

TW/CW: Idk a great tag for this but Jeongin’s conscious is essentially trapped when he shifts into a monster (unwillingly), the monster is very enthusiastic about fucking, Jeongin is not so much out of fear you’ll get hurt. That said IDK where to rate on the consent scale.

Also I use italics to indicate conversations between the monster and Jeongin. Sorry if that’s annoying or unclear.

Simple warnings - monsterfucking, big dick, humping, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting.

 “Babe, I think you need to know something about me before you start fantasizing about our dream apartment together,” Jeongin sighs. He knew this day was coming. For as excited as he was to dream about the future with you, he was afraid. He knew if it got to this point he’d have to tell you. Mentally listing the number of people who knew and the number of people who’d stuck around he found the number could be held in one hand alone.  You don’t even look up from your phone, scrolling aimlessly, waiting for him. Your eyes flick up to look at him as he fails to continue further. “Mhm. Okay?   “You know how you have a time of the month and like, I am super understanding and buy you supplies and have no problem going out to grab pads or even, like, lay down a towel because a good orgasm can really help cramps? I’m going to need you to be just as understanding okay?   Finally you look up from your phone, concerned. “You don’t need the monologue, what’s up?   He takes another deep breath, hands gripping his knees. Staring straight forward he blurts his whole prepared speech, “I’m actually a monster. A real monster with teeth and fangs. Once a month I need to lock myself to a chair because the need becomes too strong and I could-I could hurt people.”  You’re a blank, expressionless. It worries him, it isn’t a reaction he’d prepared for. “Okay? Like a theoretical monster or-”  “No, like a schedule three restricted access elevated permissions type monster. As in only a few people and even fewer know who are alive. Real serious shit type of monster.   Your brows furrow, “like a werewolf or…?”  At least you don’t look scared. It’s only natural for you to have questions he tells himself. “It’s complicated. Not like one of those hollywood types. Technically I think I’m ‘otherwise unspecified’ but, to summarize, think scales and teeth and wings and talons and black eyes.   The fear and regret and panic in your precious Innie’s eyes is hard to miss. The rapid way he’s rattling through the worst as a nervous habit proves his sincerity. You smile softly at him, “I think I need to see for myself.”  “What no. NO. I could- did you not hear me? I could hurt you if I-” he shudders. “If I get free I don’t know-I couldn’t guarantee-I’m not myself.   You shrug and turn back to your phone, “I trust you. I just wanna see.”

  It takes weeks of working on him to get him to agree to let you join him on his formerly labeled “boys night”. It was not without a long list of compromises on your part. You were to only observe through glass of the french doors in his living room. He would wear additional heavy duty cuffs and chains to hold him back in case the first set failed.  “No matter what,” he reminded you as you locked him into the recessed hooks behind his couch, “no matter what you cannot touch me and you cannot leave the next room. Not even to leave the apartment. The apartment door is the last line of defense and if I get out-”  ‘I know. You’ve said a billion times Innie,” you say as you push his hair back. “It’ll be fine. I trust you.   Jeongin shakes his head, holding his tongue. So stupidly confident, he knew no matter what he said he couldn’t shake it from you. Stubborn and confident in the face of the unknown. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he looked over your handiwork. Everything was just the slightest big large, for now and not for long. The faintest shimmer crossed his forearm beneath the cuff. “Leave. Now.”  Tucking back his hair again you can’t help yourself, tilting his chin up to kiss him. “I love you.”  The kiss dries his mouth, he’s so thirsty he could die. His tongue presses to your lips, eagerly licking into your mouth as you grant him permission. You taste so sweet, sweeter than any candy he’s ever tried. Chasing your lips hungrily his teeth snap at you as you pull away. The sudden aggression making you both jump.  “Are you deaf? Leave!” Jeongin’s fingers dig into his knees, veins popping out all over. Grabbing you he tries his best to toss you backwards, chains cutting his throw short. It’s just enough to send you stumbling backwards. A split second of fear shines in your eyes, a split second that he hates himself for. “Leave,” he whimpers, head hung as he hears the click of the door behind you.

  It’s just in time. Jeongin’s arms start itching, he twitches and contorts to try to relieve the nagging flares popping all over his arms and legs. Slowly the iridescent shine stays, black scales tipping his arms and covering his hands. He screams as the bones of his finger morph curling back and up before lengthening into claws. The human part of him that remains is glad he can’t find you, hoping you left fully and locked the door behind you. Pain shoots through his spine, forcing him to curl in on himself. His jaw unhinges, gurgling through the spit pooling in his mouth, teeth turning to fangs as two feathery wings sprout from his back.  Panting and screeching he’s a half formed creature. Part lizard, part bird, part wolf, and still some human left to spare. The doctors told him it would’ve been easier if he had been able to fully transform, that being in limbo is what made him able to remember it all. This partial transformation kept the sliver of human unable to act and conscious of his state. Full shift meant the human portion wouldn’t know, could escape the pain of knowing and being unable to act.  The creature inside was pissed. It was always upset but tonight the cuffs felt particularly tight and heavy. Tugging with all his might the metal left raw impressions in the scales. Teeth snapping into the night air in desperation. He wanted to feed. He wanted more than food.

  You sat in the small what the landlord considered “dining room” just beyond the doors. Hidden in the pitch black dark beyond the doors you followed your boyfriends’ instructions to remain still and calm. Watching the pain and anguish crossing his face, you want to burst through the door. Despite the various ways he could rip you limb from limb or otherwise harm you, he looked sad. Your heart ached as you watched him struggle, magnificent wings beating and folding and flexing to try to assist his fruitless tugs. Beautiful. He was beautiful, an angel even.

 Almost an hour passed of him fighting frantically with his restraints until he wore himself out, scraped and bruised. Pitiful vocalizations were all that was left of his resistance. Feathers covered the floor, some falling from stress and others from effort. He was still beautiful. Hair hanging into his eyes, he was still beautiful. You watch him for hours, staring, though he really didn’t do much more than doze off and tug at the chains. The way the light falls on him is entrancing, dark scales seemingly twinkling at you like he was covered in stardust. Moreover he still looks like your boyfriend, despite the additions. Your heart ached for him, face covered in tear stains. The once loose cuffs looked far too tight.

  The scraping of metal against metal perks his sensitive hearing. The most delicious scent of vanilla and coconut wafts past his nose. His breathing accelerates as the pat of a bare foot hitting the ground echos loudly in the otherwise empty apartment. The door clicks and his head snaps to face the intruder.  Your stomach drops as his black eyes turn to you, grinning. His teeth are sharp and slick with saliva. “Innie, it’s me,” you whisper.   Eat. EAT. Take. TAKEtaketakeeatdevourpossess. His senses go hayware, newly invigorated to tear at his bindings. What a delicious offering. What a snack. If only this body could have her whole-   He snaps and growls in your direction, chains straining and cuffs cutting in. “Innie! Yang Jeongin! I know you’re in there!”  The monster howls, doing one last tug before settling again. Don’t hurt her, you can’t hurt her. I will kill us if you hurt her. She’s not for eating, she’s not an offering. She’s my girlfriend. She’s my girlfriend. She’s my girlfriend. The monster huffs, head twitching to his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he gives you a once over.  “I’m going to come closer. I’m-we need to be able to get along.”  He sneers and growls at the thought. This tiny thing is right. No eating. Girlfriend. Fine. No eating. The monster appears to sulk as you draw nearer. What used to be your boyfriend’s body has grown much larger than you originally thought, almost completely covered in a pattern of smooth scales.   “I’m going to touch you, the cuffs look tight. I want to make sure you aren’t hurting yourself.”   Please no please no please no I can’t control it, I’m not- he’s not in my control. The monster gives you a sideways glance but makes no movement as you reach your hand out slowly. The scales vary from slick and soft like a snakes underside to thicker and more protective where callouses used to be. In particular where the cuffs encircle his legs and arms has built up a layer of armor. A small chirp noise eminantes from his chest over a deep rumble.   “Are you purring? Do you purr?” You smile as you continue to stroke the soft side of his body. “Is the big scaly boy purring?”  A small click comes from his throat, head shaking back and forth. Moremoremoremoremore this. Need this. Good. Hunger. Want tiny thing. Everywhere. Yes. Want everywhere. More everywhere. More now. More fast. Moremoremoremore. Practically panting his eyes slide closed into a state of bliss. Suddenly he flinches and pulls from you with a snap.

  Your blood runs cold, teeth inches from your shoulder as you throw yourself backwards to the wall. “Hey! Innie! Be nice!” No leverage to hold over your words, a rush of adrenaline has you giggling. “I know you don’t mean it. I know my Innie won’t let you. I trust him so I trust you.”  Stupid tiny thing. Pretty. Want. Want more. Need. He whines and hangs his head.  “It was my fault, I went too far and you didn’t know how to handle it. Just warn me next time, okay?” You approach him again, speaking in a low soothing tone. He’d been overstimulated, he didn’t know kindness, he acted out of fear not out of a wish you hurt you. You made every excuse in the book. Heart beating wildly you were closer than ever before as he leaned back, shaking his hair from his eyes.  Closer close, yes, close. Do not fucking hurt her, you know what will happen to us if you hurt her. Closetastytinyclosetastytiny. DON’T.  Both of you barely breathe as you stroke his hair, slowly pushing it back so that it doesn’t bother him. You’d politely not looked at his boxers, previously loose now stretched to the max, but it was hard to ignore the twitch at your thigh. His eyes slide closed again and you withdraw your hand, his mouth twisting into a frown. “This time you’ll warn me right?”  He chirps again. Stupid tiny thing more now more.  Instead of returning to his hair you start touching his chest. He’s still human here, morphing into fur on his stomach and then to scale on his thighs. Your hands shake as your fingers caress down to the band of his boxers. The faint rumbling starts again. Long strokes from chest to waist, steady as you feel the muscles below relax. As your fingers ghost over the band he growls. “Not there?” You ask softly, shortening your path.  Claim. Hurt hurt need claim. Tiny human need. Need. Breed. Spawn. Offspring. Yes. Tiny thing carry spawn. “Touch. Hurt.” The words are mumbled and unclear, monster unsure of the shape of the words when spoken.   Your eyebrows shoot up. “Hurt? Where, how can I help? What can I do?”   His head hangs down, staring at the nearly destroyed boxers. “Hurt.”  Thumbs slipping below the waist band you watch his face, his mouth, his claws as you tug downwards. The soft thud of muscle against muscle as, whatever is going on down there, hits his furry lower abdomen. The noise he makes is new to your ears, a pleased trill traveling high to low. Pheromones flood the room, musky and masculine. Your head rings, blinking to clear your vision. “That help?” You don’t dare look down. Whatever it was sounded as monstrous as the being that had changed your boyfriend.  Don’t you dare, don’t you dare let her. You can’t have her. You can’t. You’ll hurt her. The monster huffs.  Eyes glued above his waist you continue to pet him, opting to skim his collarbones and shoulders instead of lower. “How is that my sweet thing? See we can be friends. I can help you. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”   Purring, his head droops again, chin to chest, “more.”  You gulp, heart dropping into your gut. “Oh-okay. If you’re sure.” Holding your breath your eyes flick south. “Fuck, more? More?” Your voice trembles. Innie wasn’t normally anything to shrug at, perfectly average length and just a little bit thicker. This, whatever the monster did to his body, this was the most. Your abs flex, walls of your sex clenching. His dick looked mostly human, deep purple and blue veins ran the thick shaft, all the way up to the head, tapered and an angry red.  “Touch,” he insists. You’ll hurt her. She-I-. Your spawn too. Our spawn. Our brood. We breed. We spawn. He lightly growls as you hesitate.   Shooting a glare at him you scold, “be nice, or I leave.” His claws grab what he can, the lower half of your calves, sharp ends carefully pressed. You weren’t going to leave him. Whining he almost looks sorry. “You manipulative little shit.” Pressing your palm to the base his cock easily passes the length of your fingers. “There’s just no way-”   “Find. More. Moremoremore,” he moans and thrusts against you. The tang of need on his tongue. The chains rattle ominously. “Find. Hurt.”   “Let me just take,” you try to scoot away from him, his claws scratching lightly as he tenses. “I need to take these pants off. To help. If you want me to help--” the grip drops immediately.   Growling and snapping as you leave him he looks more like a feral creature than your beloved. Hair wild and wings stretching to his sides. She won’t leave. She should leave. God damn it, can you just control yourself? Listen to me and we can get through this. You’ll have her, fine, you’ll get to have her. My rules, her rules. You get your fucking claim can you just listen for once? The monster leans back, heels pressing into the floor.  Naked in the moonlight you straddle him, bolder than before as you hear the familiar clicking and rumbling. “I promised. I kept my promise. Now promise, no bite, no scratch, no eat.” Your elbows rest on his shoulders, pressing his hair out of his eyes to stare into him, trying desperately to reach the boy inside the beast.   He growls, burying his head in your chest. You heard her.  Tentatively you wrap your hands around him, needing both to cover his circumference. He’s already sticky with slick. Self lubricating perhaps, or from the steady stream of substance trickling from his slit. You squeeze and pump him as you rub against his scaled thigh. IN looks pleased at least, head back and eyes closed as he purrs. However your arms quickly start hurting, range of motion and girth a challenge to your muscles. Meanwhile you’re practically dripping down his thigh, quickly growing desparate.  Your scent is potent in the air, drool leaking from the sides of his lips. Delicious devour defile deep so deep want need wantwantwantwant candy dumb stupid tiny. Fragile mine mine have need mine. He grunts and whines, arms tugging again at the chains. For some reason despite the closeness, despite the fact that he could easily bite you, you aren’t afraid.  “Normally you’d prep me but,” you smile adoringly at his pleased expression, “I somehow don’t think that’ll happen huh.”   He chirps back, hips bucking enthusiastically upwards as your grip loosens.  You’re glad for the tapered tip as you position him at your entrance. It’ll still be a stretch no double but at least it wasn’t a blunt one. Baring his teeth IN growls, writhing and thrusting up into your wetness. “My speed!” You yelp as the head pops passed your entrance.  Her speed jackass go her speed! Warm, want more. Deeper need, need deep. Tiny thing is small tight warm warm tight need. He pants and groans as you slowly slip down, his hips canting and bouncing, eeking out whatever extra depth he could. Finally you settle, only able to take a little over 3/4th of him, leaving the bulbous, calloused base exposed. You bend forward and wrap your arms around his neck, rocking your hips as you get used to the burning stretch. With your ear to his neck you can better feel his pleased subvocalizations, trilling as your fingers scratch the leathery base of his wings.

  “Good boy. You’re being really good for me,” you mutter as you feel him tense and shudder. “Doing well, going my pace. Feels good. Good right?” Leaning back you grind against his lower abs, letting the coil in your stomach wind back. “Just a little more and then I gotta rest, okay?” Your walls squeeze desperately around him. Your beautiful monster. Dangerous and hungry but yours.  More need moremoremoremoremoremoremore faster go faster deep fast. He grits his teeth and yips, frustrated. His muscles flex, as his arms tug again. Grab, grab tiny. Grab fill breed fill spawn. Mate mine mineminemine. Hungry. Twisting and tugging again a link pops with a bang. Throwing you off balence, falling foward to grab him by the shoulders. Your overstimulated clit spasms, orgasm rolling painfully over you. Your scent floods his nostrils, sweet and musky and a little spicy now. Delicious. No don’t you dare don’t you dare. She’s my girlfriend don’t you dare. He tugs again, the second set of chains popping open. Our tiny. Our.  The curve of his talons perfectly fit over your shoulder as his arms wrap around you. It all happens in the blink of an eye, the chains popping, his arms gathering you between them, the force of his hips driving forward as he locks you in his embrace.  You’re screaming as he forces the rest of himself inside of you, practically roaring as you both fall forward. Hanging off of him he cradles you as he pounds brutally quickly into your cunt. There’s no art or finesse to it, only aim to drive himself as deeply as possible into your womb. Every noise he makes is strange and animalistic, rough tongue licking away at your neck as if he was preparing you for something much more sinister.  You’re moaning, maybe, or choking on air, could be screaming. The blood rushing in your ears clouds your perception of noise. Cumming again on him, drives as deep as he can go, base of his cock growing thicker and locking inside of you. Whiting out from the pressure, your body is limp and vulnerable to the monster.  Bitebitebitebitebitebitebitebite mate bitebitebite. He waits for the other man to speak. Bite? The other man has quieted or left. He bares his teeth, your neck exposed. It would be easy. He huffs, another spurt of release emptying into you, stomach distending slightly.  The monster gathers you, sitting back and draping your form over his chest as he purrs. You shiver, locked to him naked in the cool night air. Two wings wrap around you, cloaking you in what little he can provide. The man will be back in the morning light, the monster is satisfied and so are you.

I was thinking about this one and as I was writing I feel like next year I’ll do fewer prompts but just...all monsters. Like monsterfucker october for kinktober. Assign different traits to all the skz and atz members.

#yang jeongin smut #jeongin smut #IN smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #stray kids kinktober #skz kinktober #kpop kinktober #kpop smut

[pictureinme]

kinktober day xxi. FREE USE – calvin weir-fields

word count: ~900 tags: unsafe sex, lots o' begging, typical possessive calvin behavior, nylon stockings >;) masterlist | ao3

You hum a nondescript tune as you dust the bookshelves for what seems like the twentieth time this month– how could dust and muck accumulate so fast? As you reach for a particularly high shelf, you feel a hand sneak its way between your thighs, causing you to gasp.

There was no need for you to turn around, you knew it was your boyfriend Calvin’s hand that was quickly making its way to rub at your clothed entrance. He had a tendency to take what he wanted when he wanted it, and you didn’t exactly object to such a tantalizing quirk of his.

He seemed to revel in the feeling of your nylon stockings and your lack of panties– why even wear them when he was so keen on doing things like this day in and day out?

“It seems pretty dusty up there, doesn’t it?” Calvin hums as he circles your clit through the thin fabric, acting as if nothing was amiss. “You’re such a good girlfriend, cleaning this up for me.”

You shudder as he speeds up his movements, trying your best not to moan. He presses himself against your back, and you feel his hardness– breaking that tentative hold you had on your noises. His fingers move with a newfound urgency, matching the rhythm of your breaths as they grow heavier and more desperate.

“That’s it,” Calvin whispers into your ear, his voice low and dripping with desire. “Just let me take care of everything for you.”

He bends you over slightly, your hands grasping at the shelving as his fingers move away from where you need him most. Before you can turn around, Calvin’s touch comes back tenfold as he quickly rips open your delicate stockings. You gasp quietly as he does so, the act so perverted in nature– but not unwelcome in the slightest. You also knew better than to question what he was doing.

“Look at that,” Calvin traces your folds with a single finger, collecting your arousal, “Always so wet for me– you’re perfect. Bet you were thinking of me taking you like this the whole time, right? Just couldn’t wait for me to be done writing…”

He spreads you open further with a grab at your ass, and you can’t help but arch your back in response, “Please, Cal–!”

It turned him on like nothing else to see you as desperate as he was for this, “Beg for it.”

“Please, I need you so badly,” you whisper, embarrassed at your growing want.

Calvin hums as he starts to unzip his slacks, “You can do better than that, baby, come on.”

“Need you to make me yours, use me, just… anything. Please.”

“That’s more like it,” he chuckles softly at your words as his tip teases at your entrance. “Not so hard, was it? We both know how badly you need this.”

He enters you slowly, groaning at the feeling of you wrapped around him. You whine as he settles all the way inside of you, gripping the shelf like it was your only tether.

“Such a good girl, letting me use you like this, fuck,” he grips your hips tightly for emphasis, “All mine, right?”

“Yes, yes!”

Calvin begins to move quickly, setting the pace as a brutal one. His mouth hangs open in a perpetual moan as he feels every part of you, “Mine, mine…”

Each powerful thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making it difficult for you to form any coherent thoughts.

"You like that, don't you?" He asks between heavy breaths, his voice hoarse with desire. “Like it when I fuck you like a slut– whenever I want, however I want?”

Nodding, trying to think straight, you gasp out, “Love it so much, please, Cal…”

“Please what?” Calvin pulls you back towards him by your hair, the grip making you see stars. “Use your words.”

“Please use me, please, fuck!” You were practically drunk with lust at this point, and so was he.

“That’s right, beg for it,” he lets go of your hair to fuck you harder, moving your hips back onto his length like you were a toy. “Such a perfect girl, God…”

You moan at his praise as he uses you as you begged for, the angle at which he was fucking you allowed you to feel every inch of pleasure he was giving you perfectly. You reach down to rub at your now exposed clit, which he, thankfully, took no issue with you doing.

“Yes, keep touching yourself like that, baby,” Calvin whimpers. “Gonna fill you up, make you all mine–!”

His thrusts speed up before stilling almost entirely as he releases inside of you– a feeling you would never tire of. Just as quickly as he stopped, he started up again with a hot whisper against your ear, “Come for me, come all over my dick, (Y/N)– you need it so bad, don’t you?”

Calvin moves his fingers down to replace yours, his rhythm relentless as he continued to fuck you throughout it. You shake as your own release finally comes, accompanied by a whine that’s like music to his ears.

“Such a good fucking girlfriend, Jesus…”

#calvin weir fields x reader #paul dano x reader #calvin weir fields smut #paul dano smut #kinktober 2023

[funnyexel]

Imagine having Makeup Sex with Bruce Wayne

You’re married, he stupidly accuses you of cheating and after much resistance, you finally give in and fuck it out…

“I won’t forgive you easily.” You say sure of your resolve, how naïve of you.

——

“Its not coming off.” You whisper to him in the darkness, speaking about your bra.

“want me to rip it?” He breathes against you and you hum in compliance. The clasps a tearing to his inhumane grip, fabric ripping as well.

“here..” you mutter, “touch me here, please,” you beg him. Tears on the verge of falling from your frustration. Using his finger to lift your chin, he kisses you, his warm lips pressing against yours and increasing the ball of heat. Which blazes through your whole body, a ball of heat and want. Sneaking his hands to your hips, he helps you straddle his lap as his rough palms move over your soft and smooth thighs. The kiss was slow but your moments were hasty, needy, your hand messing up his naturally styled hair as your tongues intertwine in the most sinful dance ever. Trailing the kisses down your chin to your neck, you take a breath and bite back a moan.

“hurry up.” Your voice breaks with the demand, you wouldn’t be surprised if he clowned you the next morning for all the whimpering you’re doing. Before you give him anymore leeway to touch and tease your body more, you slide down his shorts. And he pulls your panties aside in response, ridiculing your hole and pushing two fingers inside.

“you’re…so wet.” He thickly swallows, holding your hips still as he pushes them in and out.

Taking his fingers out you for good he’s hard, using the wetness he collected on his fingers to lube himself up. It not only made his cock strain but it made him twitch in anticipation. Pushing yourself up, he lines himself up with your hole. Resting your hands on his shoulders and sliding down, you stretch out as you sit inch by delicious inch.

“m’slow, baby…slowly.” He lets out in a labored breath, the silhouette of his head leaning back on the headboard. He is always horny, he just controls himself majority of the time. And you, without fail coax him out of his composed nature, turning him into a man with instincts once he gets you alone.

“oh..fuck.” Your breath shudders, hips rocking against him. This is all he wants. You on top of him, moaning and cursing from the pleasure. It makes his night after he spent so many nights cumming in his hand, looking at your sleeping body and wishing it was your cunt. All his anger towards the world disappears when he’s inside you.

Your soft palms move to his hair, so you can pull him closer. Shoving his face in your breasts. Shrieks leaving your vocal cords every other moment when he would push himself into you, deeper than you could ever do without help. He hums, his eyes not leaving yours. Though you could barely stay focused on his eyes, he never stopped looking into yours. Sitting up on the bed as your knees sink in to better hold yourself up, his hand slithers up your back. Making you jerk forward, boxing him in against the headboard and your boobs. Your hands moving from his hair to the headboard.

He mumbles under you and even if you could hear him its just incoherent nonsense he spurs out when he’s pussy drunk. His mouth latching on your nipple and sucking, all the while he is thrusting into you at a shattering pace. You can’t help but roll your eyes, moaning with no restraint.

You try to laugh at how much he’s enjoying this but your face twists at the pulls and pinches happening in your cervix. Breathing his name lowly as you cry out for him.

“bruce, hm’..” Your nails scratch visible marks into the wooden board as you slam yourself down to his balls, squeezing tightly on his cock, relieving yourself. His grip on your hip tightened as he moans, your warmth, sounds and ability of your body overwhelming him. Flipping you feverishly, he huffs over you, a surprised high pitched hum leaving your lips. Hands digging into his shoulder as he rolls his hips into you, then snapping them harshly beginning a rogue pace. Moving one hand to the top of the headboard, you use it as a cushion for your head as you body gets pushed upward.

“hah…my- my head.” Words totally escape you. He grunts, gripping the backs of your thighs and moving you both lower on the bed.

“you’re…” he starts, “so fuckin’..” in between, “pretty..” every thrust. “oh my god-” The moonlight illuminates his shadowy figure nicely, you watch as he roughly grips at his roots. Grabbing one of your ankles, you jump at the suddenness of it but melt into it as he rests it on his shoulder. Doing the same to your other leg. Stopping his rhythm completely.

“what’s wrong..?” You squeak at the pull in your legs, a bit of shuffling going on.

“nothin’…hmph..oh.” He says abruptly starting again, purposely putting all of his body weight on you to mush you into a mating press. Now babble was leaving your lips, a mix of no’s and yes’s, stuttering and stumbling over simple words and most of all whining. So much whining, and sharp breaths.

“yes, m’little wife,” you deliriously smile at the name.

“sorry…sorry..sorry, please! fuck.” you shout mindlessly, your nails finding the nearest pillow to dig into.

“who’s my little wife,” he sighs, grinding into you.

“no..o-oh my..fuck!” you put one hand against his chest, your lungs burning from the strain and gummy walls aching around him.

“don’t make me ask again..” he mutters in your ear, enjoying you cracking under the intensity.

“please…” you beg him, “it’s me-” you recite, giving in, “fuck! it’s me,” you gasp.

“say it” he bathes in your hiss of pain when he bites lightly into your neck.

“i’m your little wife!” your leg shakes against his head and you couldn’t be more ignorant to the pain, “your wife,” you cried out, “just your wife!” to the top of your exhausted lungs.

“..’m gonna cum-“ he rasps, slamming into you, over and over. Whining and letting all the slutty noises leave his lips. Only focused on getting off. Opening your mouth to intake more air, your labored breathing fills the air along with your skin clapping together in applause and his cute whining. Your chest heating up at your bodies moving the bed back and forth. His intimate and broken moans being the start of the end to his barbaric speed. The strength of his strokes increasing.

“ah..oh..shit,” he recites in a chant, swallowing his access spit. His hips sputtering to a stop as a line of curses leave his lips. Hot fluid burning the insides of your body, shooting into you, moaning lowly at the feeling of his hot semen in your cunt. Heavy breathing mixing together in a song of sex. Looking down at your spent body, he takes in your fucked out look. He knows it hasn’t been long but by the looks of it, you won’t last another round. Lifting up off of you, he gives both your legs a rest as he places them down gently at either side of him. Keeping his hands on your thighs to feel the violent shake.

“y-you ass-h-hole.” you hate when you stutter but you honestly couldn’t help it.

Your hands go limp at your sides as you relax, hesitantly reaching down to feel his cum leaking out your plugged pussy and a wet spot on the bed. You’re too surprised and caught up in the fact that you squirted and didn’t notice that he dipped off the bed.

“you okay?” he asks, coming back, wiping your inner thighs and legs. Humming to him, you smile in content. Rolling you on your side, he spoons you.

“Isn’t the bed wet.” you croak and he shakes his head, telling you it was is shirt that’s wet. Lying in the pillows, your eyelids shut as a loud yawn escapes your lips. The exhaustion in your body not helping you ignore the immense butterflies swirling in your abdomen as he rocks you to sleep.

The burn of the morning sun shocks you out your slumber, rolling into open arms, you mush your head into his shoulder. Deep chuckles rumbling his chest as he ruffles the sheets, shielding you beneath his pile of flesh.

“mornin’..” he slurs, his head pounding from the night before.

“good morning.” you bathe in his raspy morning voice, eating up the way his eyes identify all your facial features from the curves and creases of your lips to each darling hair of your eyebrows as if they’ve changed overnight.

Tilting your head up, you force your eyes open, blinking a few times to clear the blur and find his lips. Once, twice, thrice and smiling into the last one.

“how’s your legs.” he smirks at your unamused face, already knowing the answer to his teasing statement.

“you must get off from getting a rise out of me.”

A/n : I literally can’t stop taking huge breaks and its so bad. I’m changing up my formatting for my works if you couldn’t tell. I also might be publishing a Brahms story but then again who knows…

more of my writing

#fanfiction #black fanfiction #y/n #black y/n #black girls matter #black girl magic #black women #smut #dc smut #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x black female reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x reader #batman x black!reader #batman #rich men in fiction #mmmm yes #fuck yes #yesdaddy

[auspicioustidings]

Firewatch Part 4

Summary: You fight back and a punishment is handed out.

(Or, anytime Mhairi writes more than 3 chapters of anything we inevitably land on angst)

Word Count: 2.3k

CWs: Kidnapping, dubcon

You felt your legs give out which had the unintended but maybe welcomed result of Ghost realising he had been rutting against you and stopping with a bitten off growl, arm banded around you holding you up.

“It’s what’s best for you sweetheart” he whispered lowly into your ear. “You didn’t want to be all alone anymore, invited us to take care of you. And we will, promise we’ll take such good care of you.”

There was a numbness to you now and you tried to dig deep and find the fight. You couldn’t just give in, you refused to just give in. He was warm and sounded kind and there was a betrayal happening between your body and mind as you only barely stopped yourself from pushing back against him to chase that rutting, to try and make him move again. This was so fucked up.

You tried to bite at his hand but it was difficult with how large his palm was over your mouth. Still he squeezed your waist hard, knowing exactly what you had been attempting and scraping his teeth against your earlobe in warning. 

“Don’t start with me, I bite hard.”

You whined and felt tears of humiliation from hearing that it didn’t sound entirely like a horrified whine prickle at your eyes. It sounded like a needy one. 

“Oh, you’d like it wouldn’t you sweetheart? You need someone to bite hard, put you in your place a little.”

You hated him, you hated him so intensely that you got your legs back to solid beneath you through spite and then started kicking out to try and get him to loosen his grip enough to free your arms. Your entire weight plus the force of your legs wildly bucking out didn’t seem to phase him from a strength standpoint, but you felt a little satisfaction when he had to adjust his stance to stop from losing his balance. 

“Knock it the fuck off.”

His tone sent a blaring siren of ‘stop’ off in your head. You hadn’t spoken at any length with this man, but you had not heard him sound like this, like some sensual predator ready to hold you down, unsure if he was going to fuck you or eat you right up. He would find that you were not meek prey. You had moved to a new town where you knew nobody, taught yourself how to do everything you needed to bring a ruin back to life. Giving up easy was not in your nature. You kept kicking. 

The pain of his teeth in the juncture of your shoulder and neck that was revealed by the slouching t-shirt was white hot and knocked the air fully out of your lungs. He hadn’t been exaggerating, he bit incredibly hard, like he was trying to make sure the mark he was sucking into you went right down to bone. You thought he might rip your throat out, leave you here to bleed out, and you couldn’t even scream against his hand because you had forgotten how to breathe. You gave a few final kicks but it was a token effort to prove that he could not so easily conquer you before you settled down, chest heaving with the start of shuddering breaths as you tried to get enough air. In the fray he had hoisted you up higher, your feet no longer quite reaching the ground to leave you hanging like a ragdoll.

You didn’t even register that you could have screamed now, his hand had left your mouth and was instead gently cradling your head so he could lap at the bite, soothing. The other arm moved to gently set you down, turning you so that you could see his uncovered face. He was handsome in the tragic way a man with scars often was. 

“Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to lose my temper, shouldn’t play so rough with you should I? S’for your own good, needed you to calm down. Went all loose so pretty when you felt my teeth huh? Just what you needed” he said, a quiet and desperate ramble as he kept planting little kisses and licks at your neck.

You should stop him. You could just tell him to stop, find out if he would respect it. But it felt so nice to have his lips and tongue worshipping at the mark he had left. It felt like he was pressing prayers into your skin, reverent and gentle. Well if you were going to hell for enjoying this, may as well twist the knife. You pulled gently at his hair so you could bring his head up and press a kiss to his lips, waiting until he relaxed into the gesture and then letting yourself imagine this was any other situation so you could enjoy it for a moment before bringing your knee as hard as you could up into his groin and spilling out of the closet when he buckled.

–

There was perhaps a more elegant reaction you could have had when you found downstairs was much as it had been this morning only with the addition of Johnny. Whoever had been here was gone, the three firemen looking over at you with gentle smiles as if you had just casually come downstairs for a cup of tea. You were too late. 

“Oh for fuck sake!” you yelled, not trying to get to the door. 

You knew a little better now. No shoes so you weren’t outrunning anyone unless you had a significant head start. Johnny was leant by one of the windows, near enough to the door that you wouldn’t even make it out without him getting there first. He grinned and glanced out of it when you caught his eye, as if it was some big funny joke that whoever had been here was now far enough away that they couldn’t be seen through the glass. They’d probably driven over the rough tracks, probably already well out of the woods.

While Price looked somewhat disappointed at your language, Kyle laughed brightly at your outburst before coming over to you. He was still shirtless in nothing but those plaid pyjama bottoms. Why did this idiot have to kidnap some girl? He could have anyone he wanted, what exactly drove him to this?

“You don’t have any money for the swear jar luv, going to have to think of a different way for you to pay up,” he said with a cheeky grin before his eyes softened and he gently swept a thumb over your neck, giving a pitying little coo when you flinched. “Bloody git, need to muzzle him don’t we?”

Price appeared then, now interested in checking what Kyle was talking about. He didn’t seem anywhere near as casual about it, a storm gathering in his expression as he took your neck in. It was confusing that he should be the angry one here. He was still one of your captors. You heard footsteps on the stairs. Ghost must have been managing to limp heavily down them now. 

“24 hour watch for a fortnight Simon, get yourself together because you start in an hour.”

That caught Johnny’s attention and he came barrelling over as well. It was ridiculous how the four of them just swallowed you completely, all tall and broad and intense.You imagined it must be like being under several weighted blankets, soothing but a little panic inducing when you realised that it was hard to move.

“Naw Captain, dinnae gie him that! He did it tae calm ye down didn’t he bonnie? Has tae do the same tae me if I get too reckless, if I might end up hurting myself cause I’m being a bampot” Johnny said.

You looked at those big liquid eyes of his, saw that they were genuine in their belief that Ghost was just doing right by you. You tucked away the image of teeth in Johnny’s throat and resisted the urge to agree with him to please him. To make him smile at you. To save Simon Riley from being stuck alone for the majority of the next two weeks because he was serving penance. The Simon who had made you hot chocolate and who Dosia had so easily taken to as safe. The Simon who had realised he had lost control, had spilled apologies to you and laid devout kisses all over the evidence. The Simon who wasn’t defending himself at all, was willing to take the punishment without complaint.

“What does 24 hour watch mean?” you asked quietly, feeling the oppressive silence and stillness that followed crushing down on you.

Kyle had been surprised you had spoken up, was pretty sure the rest were as well. None more so than Simon who was staring at you like you were some alien thing in front of him. Were you going to try and ask leniency or going to request he get a more severe punishment? Hard to tell. You were so different already from what Kyle had created in his head. So wild and stubborn. He had no idea what you might say next.

“It means he’ll stay in the watchtower for the two weeks luv. He won’t be allowed to come back here for anything unless it’s an emergency, he’ll be using the little outhouse and rainwater shower at the base and we’ll drop food off” he said, trying to be gentle and finding that he could not resist the opportunity to tease when you seemed so deep in thought. “He’ll sleep on that sofa you ravished me on.”

“Aye in front of us if I recall, was mean spirited of ye bonnie.”

You sputtered an attempt at an outraged string of words which only came out as noises and smacked at Kyle’s chest. They had kidnapped you, technically they had murdered you, and the fact that they could still make you blush with flirty banter was beyond what was acceptable. 

In anger at yourself more than anything you refused to look at Simon and said nothing to save him, Price ignoring Soap’s outburst and instead only looking to you for any protest. You would not let yourself like these men, he could rot in that tower for all you cared. For two weeks. Barely sleeping. Hardly seeing anyone. Miserable. No, no that guilt could turn itself right around and find a home elsewhere, you were not entertaining the idea that you might not want that to happen.

“Yes sir.”

“Ye cannae be serious! C’mon bonnie, tell Price he’s got it wrong eh?” Soap said, weaving a hand through your hair to fix it a little and smiling still. 

His smile was tight with worry now. Before, Johnny had thought you would be quick to defend Simon and he wouldn’t be punished. You were such a soft thing in his head, he had always imagined you’d enjoy baking but would be notorious for burning everything. He dreamt of dancing around the kitchen with you, giving you little kisses to remind you when to take things out of the oven. It didn’t match with his mental image that you could be stubborn and ruthless. Surely you would say something right? You wouldn’t let Si suffer because of a little bite? Well a big bite, looking at it even Johnny knew he had gone too hard. He could take that level of rough, but you needed to be treated with more care than that. Still though, he hadn’t meant it, was probably just worked up was all. Two weeks of 24 hour watch was too harsh.

“Got what wrong? That I’ve been kidnapped and had a chunk taken out of my neck for trying to alert the authorities? That it turns out you’ve actually murdered me? How awful to have to sit in the tower for two weeks knowing that you can leave and walk into town at anytime! Something tells me he’ll survive such an indignity!” 

Not guilty, you would not feel guilty. You would not wince at the absolute heartbreak on Johnny’s face as you yelled at him. The shocked silence would not make you want to desperately apologise for being mean. The fact that you would actually be dead if not for the men in this room would not sway you. Their gentle care for you would be locked away tight in your head where you did not have to think about it. 

“With me little bird.”

Price was firm, issuing a command more than anything as he took a step towards a door at the side of the living room you had not been through yet. The others were silent. Yes, Price knew this would be difficult for you, but he was not about to let you scream at his men like that. Murdered you? Absolutely not. They were only acting in your best interests, removing all the stresses of the outside world and looking after you so you’d want for nothing. He saw you glowering at him and puffed out his chest.

“Now. You can come easy or I can make you come hard.”

There was something in the double entendre that got you blowing out a huff, sticking your chin up in defiance and stomping after him and through the door. You could not let him throw you over his shoulder and carry you there, not if there was any threat that it might spark something unwanted deep in your belly. Price closed the door behind you and you found yourself in a small office, toe to toe with him as you both stared one another down.

“You are going to regret bringing me here.”

“You are going to forget there was ever a time that you didn’t want to be here.”

“Wanna bet?”

#cod #cod au #fanfic #mhairiwrites #tf 141 x reader #tf141 x reader #the angst has arrived #is this even good anymore? idk but I'm enjoying writing it so whatever

[sstan-hoe]

◇ 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 ◇

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — vampire!bucky barnes × human!fem!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — you're his angel and he will love you for eternity, he does everything for you...it's time to return the favour

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — oral (m receiving), throat fucking, Bucky being just hot by making sounds, light praise kink, a bit mean Bucky?

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — reblog, comment/follow | this is my first fic for the June-iverse Event and I'm very excited!!! I really wanted this to be good and hope its not a total flop! I had the words Shop, Angel, Vampire and Rich. I didn't really know what to do with shop so it's just there haha | would have posted earlier but couldn't find the email! stupid spam folder

𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 — Alternate June–iverse | @buckybarnesevents

You twireld around in your white summer dress with a joyful giggle, it was one of your favourites and made you feel light on your feet.

The warm breeze flowed around you making a cosy feeling spread through your body. A few butterflies crossed your path, dancing along the sunbeams that let the world look healthier.

Bucky sat a little further away, watching you closely. Every move you made had his heart beating – if it could.

Once your gaze met Bucky everything went still, he looked powerful sitting in a black garden armchair. It seemed out of place with the setting of nature around it, but it suited your man’s dark demeanour.

Legs spread wide apart, body leaning back into the armchair as he rested his chin between his thumb and pointer finger. His eyes never left your body, you looked care free as if no one could do a thing to you – they couldn’t, Bucky made sure of it. All his mind could think about was what he did to deserve you.

Being alive for five hundred years and he never came across a woman like you, an angel. He loved calling you, his Angel.

You came and pulled him from the darkness, made the life he lived make sense. With you by his side he didn’t mind living forever, he would love you for eternity and that included if you died and he still had to live.

He tries avoiding that scenario and instead gently guides you into the life of being a vampire. It took him a while to adjust to the thought of turning you, becoming a vampire was a big decision to make and he wasn’t sure if you understood that. This was the reason why he wouldn’t turn you until you were at least twenty-five.

Back to the moment, you had broken Bucky from his thoughts as you skipped over to him, “what do you think?” you asked refereeing to the dress you wore.

“Mhm, I quite like it...easy access,” he purred, hands grasping your waist to draw you into his lap. The cool fingertips of his metal hand grazed your soft skin, a light shudder rolling down your spine.

You swatted his hand away which caused him to grip your chin with his flesh hand, “are you denying me what belongs to me?” he cocked his head to the side as if to challenge you.

“This dress is brand new, and I will not have you make it messy,” you scolded him playfully.

“Remind me, Angel, who bought this dress?” Bucky asked innocently, however his blue eyes betrayed him. You knew exactly how much he loved spending his money on you, most of the time without even asking if you wanted something. He just bought it.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned back against his chest with a smile, “oh, well then I guess, I have to buy my dresses myself in the future…,” you knew how much Bucky disliked it if you bought something with your own money.

His eyes darkened, hands moving to your stomach as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. “Do that and I will have to punish you,” he whispered tickling you.

You squirmed with a squeak, “stop it!” trying to rip yourself from his grip on you. Bucky chuckled and continued tickling your sides, “I don’t think so, my little Angel,” he smirked teasingly. A wholehearted laugh escaped you at the feeling, squirming in his arms again, “Bucky, please,” you breathed out.

Bucky’s heart grew everytime he heard your angelic voice, his angel. Your laugh, your voice, something he would never get tired of hearing. He stopped and went to caress your clothed covered skin.

As you recovered from the torture of your love, Bucky had snaked his right arm under your knees to pick you up. With a surprised sound you were lifted and carried inside the house.

He walked with you into the bedroom, laying you onto the bed. His hands sneaked underneath your dress, but you sat up and stopped his hands. Confusion was written all over Bucky’s features, wondering if he did something wrong however you excited smile told him otherwise.

You slide towards him and his hand, pushing him back a little so you could stand up and guide him to replace you on the bed. Bucky sat down, hand still resting in yours as you got on your knees in front of him.

Oh, now he knew where this was going. His cock strained against his dress pants, you let go of his hand and moved it to stay on his side.

You trailed your fingers up to his belt which you unbuckled easily, fingertips stroking his covered cock. Bucky hissed at feeling, you barley gave him any fraction and he was already this responsive.

“Today, I want to return the favour and devour you,” voice just above a whisper had his member twitching. It should be a crime how sexy you were to him, a hoarse groan leaving his lips, “mhm, what a good Angel I have…then devour me,” a hint of begging danced at the edge of his voice, covered by the command.

Pulling his briefs down his hard cock sprang against Bucky’s abdomen, the few drops of pre-cum staining the blood-red dress shirt.

Your tongue darted out lick the pre-cum from his mushroom formed tip, the brunette drove his flesh hand into your hair trying to suppress the urge to shove his cock down your throat.

A smile spread across your face at his reaction, you let him take over the reign soon but not yet. Licking a long stripe along his length, you could taste the light saltiness which had you thriving.

The hand in your hair didn’t hinder you in teasing Bucky, your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. Gently stroking up and down, a way to feel every popping vein. One thick vein popped out, practically asking you to lick it.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned as he felt your tongue on the sensitive vein, hand gripping your roots.

You hissed at the sudden tightness in your hair, but damn did it feel good. You didn’t want Bucky to lose his grip on your hair hence why you closed your mouth over his angry tip.

At first, you gave him a few kitten licks before taking him completely down your throat – or trying to take him. His cock wasn’t particularly long but thick, it was difficult fitting all of it inside your mouth. You couldn’t take him any further down, a gagging noise erupting from your throat in protest.

The feeling of his tip hitting your maw had him moaning and his sounds encouraging you to try and take more of him. Never in your life did something turn you on as much as his noises he made while you gave him pleasure.

It was over for Bucky. He took control over you. His hand spreading over your scalp, gently massaging it before yanking your head back and taking you by surprise in the process.

“Enough of that little Angel, it’s time I take control,” the vampires voice was hoarse, you wouldn’t do anything to disobey him. Firstly, he guided his guided you back up to look into your eyes, they were filled with hunger and the need to be controlled.

This was the last soft eyes you received from Bucky before he had your head shoved down on his cock again. All the way down which tears to spring from your eyes, “fuck, show me those pretty tears,” he let his head fall back in pleasure.

He didn’t let you lift your head, instead he let you choke on his cock. A loud gagging sound ringing through the walls as he rolled his hips up.

The vibrations of your cries sending him closer to his high, “choke on my cock, little Angel,” Bucky purred as he kept his cock pressed against your throat. God, he wished he could stay in the warmth of your mouth forever, buried deep inside.

However, he was near his orgasm, he had to make a decision. Gently he thrusts your head up and down his hardened length. “You’re such a beauty when you suck my cock,” he praised you in a soft tone. Soon his pace picked up and drool escaped your mouth as you couldn’t control it anymore.

“God, I’m coming,” Bucky grunted moving his hips to meet his thrusts. You felt his cock twitch against your tongue, his release would drop over the edge every second.

Even though you were his angel, you could be a little devil especially when it came to teasing him. You hollowed your cheeks around him, a deep groan flowing past Bucky’s lips. As the grip on your head tightened you knew how close he was and what would tip him over.

While he desperately fucked your throat you sucked on the mushroom formed head. Bucky came, all over your tongue. Gasping and groaning as he watched you swallow all of him.

You couldn’t stop the moan that escaped you, his sounds just felt different and had you clenching your thighs pathetically.

“Take it, take all of it Angel,” his metal hand came up to rest against your cheek as he slowly lifted your head from his cock. “Swallow,” was all he said, looking deep into your eyes and without hesitation swallowed the slightly salty yet sweet semen of Bucky.

A drop almost falls from the corner of your mouth, but Bucky swiped it away with his thumb. Laying his digit onto your tongue to give you every last piece of him.

After a delightful moan from you had Bucky thriving with pride. “Did such a good job, Angel,” you sat up onto his lap, his cock hardening again, “but I’m not finished with you...still have to make a mess of this dress I bought.”

𝑩𝑶𝒀𝑺 𝑻𝑾𝑶 — @smile1318 @wintasssoldier @xcaptain-winterx @georgiapeach30513 @alina02 @jobean12-blog @broadwaybabe18 @waddlenut @buckymcu12 @witchybabel @daemonslittlebitch

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | I do have a taglist however it has conditions that must be followed — you can follow @sstanhoe-updates for updated without anything

#Connect4AU #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #vampire!bucky #vampire!bucky barnes #vampire au #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes events #my cat lover bucky 🦾🤍

[randomshyperson]

I have smut drabble idea!

Wanda riding R's strap for the first time. They've only ever done missionary or from behind. It can be alot but in the best way...Iykyk.

Ridin' - Wanda Maximoff Drabbles

Summary: Wanda tries a new position on the couch. | Words: 1.044k

Warnings: (+18), strap-on use, bottom!Wanda and Brat!Reader, teasing, praising, established relationship.

A/N-> Yes I'm gonna call a 1k work a drabble, I make the rules.

General Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3 | Drabbles

--//--

Gasping whispers mingled with the sound of your mouths pressing together. Wanda, straddling your lap, seemed to grow impatient with each second, hands tangled in your hair trying to bring you closer even though there was no space between your bodies.

The hardness in your pants - magically placed there by the impatient witch - was rubbing against her thigh with every movement of her hips and was driving her to insanity.

She took a soft bite of your lip, breaking the kiss to unbutton your jeans, and you took the opportunity to move your lips down her jaw and neck, almost making her lose concentration on what she was doing.

But once Wanda pulled the strap out, and the hard tip rubbed against her covered intimacy, she shuddered, a whimper ripping through her throat.

"Baby, I need you inside..." She practically begged, nails scratching under your blouse, and it was your turn to shudder, tracing your way back to her face with firm kisses.

Once your gaze met hers, your hands drew patterns on her thighs. "How about...you ride me?" Your suggestion brings a strong pink to her cheeks, but the green practically disappears from her pupils as well, giving way to a hungry look of lust. She nods, and you smile. "Think you're ready for this, pretty girl?"

Instead of answering, Wanda settles better into your lap, and you let her run the whole thing. She guides the toy between her folds and takes a deep breath as you taught her the first time, before sinking in. You both moan at the contact, the strap-on magically charmed so that you feel all the way inside her, the warm, moist walls squeezing your cock tightly.

"Fuck, baby." You gasp, steadying your hands on her waist and waiting for Wanda to get used to the invasion. 

She looks up at you, lips swollen from so much kissing and cheeks burning red, and she looks absolutely beautiful with your cock buried deep inside her. "Can I move?" You ask breathlessly against her lips, and instead of answering, Wanda kisses you slowly and passionately, her hands moving on top of yours so that you invade her blouse and pull the material out of her body. Once the item comes off, and her breasts are exposed to the cold air of the empty complex, your natural instinct is to lunge into her hardened nipples, tongue, and tooth marking the soft, sensitive skin and almost making Wanda scream with the most delicious stimulation.

Your hips jerk upward, and she gasps heavily, her hands gripping your arms. You thrust again, and again, and Wanda whimpers. Before you can build up a rhythm inside her, however, she brings her hands to your shoulder and pushes you back to the couch.

"What are you up to...?" Your question turns into a gasping grunt as Wanda rolls over on the strap, biting back a mischievous grin when she sees the way you lock your jaw, trying not to lose control. "Go on then. Show me how you want it."

She starts slowly, thighs twitching as she finds her rhythm until she is bouncing gently on top of the toy. You both pant softly with each movement, the fake cock sliding in and out of her wet folds.

"I need... faster." She tries to guide you between one gasping sigh and another, and although your hands are steady on her waist, you offer her a challenging smile.

"Do you? Well, move then. It was you who pushed me away." You tease, and Wanda grunts softly, but before you can take pity on her, red sparks appear around your wrists and pull your arms away from her, effectively pinning your hands on top of your head. "Wanda-"

"That's for being a brat." She cuts you off, eyes glittering with mischief. But her smile falters when you firm your feet on the cushions and throw your hips up, eliciting a squeaky moan. "Don't make me tie your ankles." She warns with her nails digging into your stomach, and you give a breathless giggle, deciding to obey her. She takes a deep breath, beginning to grow a rhythm on top of you again, and you gasp at the feel of her walls squeezing your cock.

Once she approached her climax, body spasming and strokes getting more uncoordinated, the moans louder and more whimper-like, you pleaded, "Please let me touch you." But Wanda shook her head in the negative, eyes closed and frowning as she pushed her hips hard against you.

Your only option was to find the same rhythm as her and try to help her.

"Oh, just like that." She moaned loudly when you steadied your feet and moved your hips in her rhythm, finding that sweet spot that made her gasp. "I-I'm almost..." Her sentence became a loud, affected squeak, and as you felt her pussy squeeze you around the edge, you came too, hot cum staining Wanda inside and making her moan as she fell against you. 

Her face met your collarbone as she tried to normalize her breathing, and her magic released your hands, which went immediately to caress her back as you moved your hips slowly, fucking her beyond her orgasm.

"You did so well, so hot watching you ride me." You praised against her ear, feeling her smile against your skin. But once she stopped trembling, your hand came down and grabbed her ass, pressing her hard against you and making her choke. "You think you can ride my face, now?"

"Babe!" Wanda whispers in shame, her burning face hiding in your collarbone. You laugh softly, returning to caressing her skin and imagining that the invitation would have to wait until Wanda is ready. But she settles against your chest, resting her chin on your skin. "You'll...be honest, right? Tell me if I'm too heavy, or suffocating you?"

"Oh, what an incredible way to die, smothered by your pussy..." You joke, and although she chuckles in embarrassment, Wanda slaps you in the ribs. As you calm down, you kiss her and again and again until she starts to get horny enough to bother. "Please, Wanda Maximoff, sit on my face." You whisper between kisses and she smiles shyly before nodding.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff drabbles

[acapelladitty]

Waylon Jones/Reader: Concern

Summary: Even in the midst of passion, Waylon remains as careful as ever.

Despite all the preparation, his tongue having long since licked every possible inch of your cunt with its animalistic texture - a little physical boon which still had your legs twitching minutes after he had finished eating you out like the finest meal - it was still a difficult fit.

"M'not hurting you?" Waylon asked, his question so low and growled that it was almost easy to mistake it as little more than a noise as it rolled free of his lips.

Wrapping your hands around the back of his head as you lowered yourself another half-inch down onto the cock that felt like it was threatening to rip you apart, you gave him a strained smile as you masaaged your fingers across the hardened skin of his neck.

"It's so thick," you purred, "that I think I'll be ruined for anyone else. Forever."

"Didn't answer me." Not missing a beat, Waylon paused his hips as they circled beneath your cunt, his natural instinct to stretch you out making his movements stuttered, and the concern etched on his face forced you to relent your teasing.

"I've never felt pressure like it." You confessed with a breathy moan. "I can feel the muscles burning as they stretch and the heat of your cock against them. I can feel every one of those lovely little ridges which decorate the shaft. It's," you pause to search for the right words, "quite a lot. But it's so good."

A rumble in his chest is his answer and he continues his slow ascent, raising his hips enough to push his cock another inch and the scorching stretch claws your fingers into his neck even deeper. What must be a slight pinch against the leathery skin draws a smile from his lips, exposing razor sharp, stained teeth that you can easily imagine puncturing through your vulnerable skin - the thought enough to draw a fresh moan and shudder down your spine.

He pulls himself almost free, the drag of each ridge of his cock making your walls feel like they're being dragged along with him as every millimetre was subjected to wicked torment. Holding it for a moment before pushing back in, you both found that the movement was a little easier due to the forced give of the muscles.

A calloused thumb dropped into the space between you, his other clawed hand remaining tight against your hips, and a keen of pure pleasure escaped you as his thumb spreads your slit to rub gently along your clit.

"Waylon-" His name is hard on your lips, at once a prayer and a curse as the extra stimulation makes your body stiffen in place - cunt, if possible, growing tighter around his cock as you pushed yourself into his curious thumb.

"Nice and slow." Waylon grumbled, clearly enjoying himself even as you see the slight twitch of strain in his eye as he held himself back from devouring you in the ways that his beastial urges demanded. "And all mine."

"Yes." You confirm with a pleasurable sigh, willing to wait until it was safe for him to indulge himself even as the thought of it made your limbs shudder in anticipation. "All yours."

#waylon jones #killer croc #waylon jones x reader #killer croc x reader #gotham rogues #batman villains #shoutout to my scalies!

[ddejavvu]

For mvm can I please req perv!virgin!stepbro!eddie x experienced reader pls (w mommy kink🙏 also pls don’t feel pressured like u have to write this!)

today is multiverse monday! send me any au you can think of :)

this post is 18+ (and so are its characters) and dark, minors dni.

Eddie's hips buck gently against the seam of your mattress, his hands gripping your bedsheets so hard that his knuckles turn white, and you're certain he'll rip the fabric.

"Eddie," You croon, running a hand through his messy, sweat-beaded hair as you sting from overstimulation, "Slow down, baby."

His long, lithe tongue only laps faster at your spent cunt, though, your words having no affect on him as he shakes his head vehemently, "Mommy," He whines, "Mommy I can't."

He has a smattering of unkempt stubble lazily growing in on his chin, and his jaw grates against your soft inner thighs. It burns, couples with your post-orgasm sensitivity, and you shift with a soft hiss, "Baby, breathe."

"No," Eddie pants, his exhale flowing steadily against your cunt, "I- I need more, need- need- agh!"

He lets out a choked cry into your slick cunt, suckling on your clit while tears brim on his lashes. You don't realize he's cumming until a visible wet spot floods the front of his jeans, and your heart warms seeing your baby boy trembling just for you.

"Good boy," You coo at him, letting him continue mouthing sloppily at your pussy as he brings himself down from what you're certain is his first orgasm, "Come here, sweetheart, I want to taste you."

He blinks up at you with those beautiful brown doe eyes of his, his lashes fluttering over his cheeks. He's reluctant to leave your soaked cunt, but does so when you beckon him forward, crawling eagerly onto the bed and straddling your waist, his cock and its corresponding damp denim rubbing against your stomach.

You lean up to kiss him, and his eyes flutter shut. One of your hands comes up to scratch at his scalp, just at the base of his neck. He shudders into the kiss and his hands flit up to your stomach, pressing into the warm skin there as your tongue slips skillfully into his mouth.

He tastes like you, and it's amazing. He's messy, sweaty, and desperate, if the way that he's grinding against your stomach is any indication, and he's still letting out beautiful whimpers that you swallow as soon as they escape his pretty pink lips, his chin still glistening with your slick.

You part with a soft squelch, and he stares imploringly at you with his pretty brown eyes, "Did- Did I do good?"

"You did fantastic, baby boy." You purr at him, pressing a kiss to his soaked chin, "You're a natural."

"I want to do it again." He whines, already missing the blissful warmth of your walls, "Please, please Mommy, 'wanna do it again."

"Not now," You reassure him with a hand on his cheek, his chin wobbling beneath your palm as he sniffles "Soon, baby. You did so good I need a break."

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson one-shot #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson hc #eddie munson hcs #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson dialogue #eddie munson x reader fanfiction #eddie munson au #stepbro!eddie #multiverse mondays #ddejavvu's multiverse mondays #dark mei