#they are OLD. they are ALIVE. they have FEELINGS.

[katiexpunk]

Scarlet Haze - Part 1

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader | W/C: ~4K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: Life in the QZ was fairly predictable. That was, until Joel Miller showed up on your doorstep covered in blood. Since then, you've helped him more times than you can count. Now it's his turn to return the favor.

Series Warnings: SEX POLLEN. SEX POLLEN. SEX POLLEN. Set in the TLOU universe in the Boston QZ. Buckle the fuck up for a lot of filthy, feral smut. Check chapter warnings for specifics. This series will follow them through current day (May 2024). Chapter Warning: Setting up some plot before the smut. Canon-typical violence. Blood. Blood sucking (just a lil drop, it's hot, trust me). Sexual tension. Bloody knuckles/wounded Joel. Descriptions of medical care. Guns. Mentions of unwanted pregnancy (not readers). Hallucinations similar to a drug high. Mentions of abortion and abortion medication. Mentions of abuse (not to reader/not by Joel). No use of Y/N. Reader has no physical descriptions. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: I've been waiting to a sex pollen fic for forever. This series is dedicated to the lovely Jett -- @morallyinept -- as part of her and her brilliant May Flora and Fauna Challenge. Part 2 coming 5/12.

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“Love, my dear, is the opium of the masses, and once people get high on it, they will trample you like wild horses.” ― Yanko Tsvetkov

Boston QZ, January 2023 The clock ticks past midnight, the only sound in the small, cluttered room where you sit at an ancient, creaking desk. The journal before you is just as old, its pages yellowed and wrinkled from water damage, the ink smudged but still legible. Medical diagrams and handwritten notes fill its margins, proof that such knowledge was more prevalent than now. You strain your eyes in the dim light of a single lamp, deciphering the faded text.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door jolts you from your concentration. Your heart skips a beat. It’s late, well past the enforced curfew. FEDRA doesn’t take kindly to nighttime wanderers. You take a deep breath, rise, and approach the door, your steps silent on the wooden floor.

Peering through the peephole, you see the night alive with rain, water streaming down in sheets, distorting the figure standing on your doorstep. You slowly open the door. The broad shoulders hunched against your worn doorframe tell you exactly who it is. His knuckles are bloody, fresh crimson mingling with the rainwater, creating a diluted red that flows into the puddles on the pavement.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice etched with concern. “Doc,” he rasps, giving you a stiff nod. 

“We can't keep doing this.” 

He looks down, following your gaze to the bloody water at his feet, and then back at you. He offers you a sheepish, almost apologetic grimace. He winces in pain and you know his knuckles are probably the least of his injuries. 

Your face tightens with worry. 

“Show me.” 

He responds by opening his jacket and lifting his shirt to reveal a deep, gruesome gash across his abdomen. You sigh. Hate to see the other guy. 

Without a word, you step aside, gesturing him into the warmth. “Sit in the kitchen chair. I’ll get my kit,” you instruct, closing the door behind him.

He lumbers in, his heavy boots thudding on your floor, leaving wet, muddy prints. You hurry to fetch your medical supplies, already cataloging the steps you need to take to clean and stitch the wound. 

Tonight, like many nights before, you’ll patch him up again.  And like all the nights before, you have a feeling you’ll be left wondering how it even came to this in the first place. 

++++

You carefully wrap the bandages around his side, the room silent except for the rain tapping against the window and the rhythmic sound of his breath.

"Sorry, just a little more," you tell him, giving him an empathetic smile, pulling the bandage snugly against his skin to ensure it's secure. "This should help keep the stitches in place," you add, smoothing the edges as you tape them down. Your hand trails over the hard lines of his core, and breath hitches in your throat. He’s firm, a mass of a man, yet somehow soft around his middle.

"Gonna give you an antibiotic" you explain, preparing the syringe. You notice his focus on the rain-streaked window, his jaw set in a stoic line. “Might sting a bit,” you warn, and he chuckles. When you administer the shot, he doesn’t flinch, just pulls his shirt back over his shoulders with a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. 

You step back, giving him space to adjust his shirt, watching him move with careful, controlled motions. "That should do it for the wound," you say, avoiding saying what you really want to. 

"Thanks, Doc," he says, his voice low and thick like honey.

He looks at you then, really looks, noticing the tiredness in your eyes that doesn't hide your beauty. "You owe me, Miller," you say with a smile, trying to keep the mood light.

"Yeah," he agrees, his tone more serious than the situation warrants. 

He rises to his full height and steps closer to you. You tilt your chin to meet his gaze, and his calloused hand gently cradles your cheek. The pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a tender but deliberate touch, his eyes locking with yours in an intense gaze that thickens the air around you.

“I do.” 

He drinks you in, his eyes dark and hungry. You feel the heat of his attention and it ignites every nerve in your body. His gaze falls to your lips, and yours to his. You stay there for a breath, inches away from an entirely different night.

You place your hand over his on your face, before grabbing it and pulling it down, turning it gently so you can inspect his knuckles. "You—you should let me clean these up, too."

"No point, Darlin'," he responds, and you feel a knot tighten in your stomach. 

You almost challenge him, ask why he thinks it doesn't matter, but the answer hangs unspoken between you— it’ll happen again. Like fine wine and cheese, Joel Miller and bloody knuckles just seem to go together. 

You're always worried about him, though you'd never openly admit it.

It's late, and the rain shows no signs of stopping. "You could stay," you suggest, hesitating slightly, “If—if you want.” The words hang in the air, surprising even you with their sudden presence.

He pauses, looking deeply into your eyes. Time seems to slow, the world fading away until only he remains in focus. He lowers his hand and steps back, his movement reluctant.

"Better not," he says, voice heavy.

He turns and slides the chair back under the worn dining room table, the wooden legs screeching across the floor, shattering the silence. He then moves around you and heads towards the door. 

You watch him leave, every part of you wanting to call him back, to keep him safe under your roof.

"See you next time, Doc," he calls over his shoulder, glancing back at you framed in the warm glow of your apartment. He looks down, willing his feet to move forward, ignoring every fiber of his being trying to make him turn back to you.

"God damn it, Miller," you say with a half-laugh, shaking your head in a mix of irritation and affection.

You watch him walk away until his figure merges with the rainy night, becoming just another blurred shape in the darkness.

Once inside, the room suddenly feels chillier without him there.

++++

Boston QZ, May 2023

"Who's next?" you ask, stepping out of an exam room, ready to keep the day moving.

She hands you a chart, and as you scan the details, a familiar name catches your eye: Daisy. Your heart sinks a little. Married to a FEDRA guard known for his cruelty, Daisy's visits are all too frequent, and the reasons are always distressing—'accidents' that never sound like accidents. With a heavy sigh, you brace yourself and walk into the next room.

"Daisy, what brings you in today?" you ask, though you're almost sure you know the kind of answer you'll get.

She's sitting on the exam table, her face in her hands, sobbing. "Doc—I, I don't know what I'm going to do," she stammers out between tears. You close the door gently behind you, hoping not to draw any attention from other patients. Her words are few, but her eyes say everything.

"Oh, Daisy, I'm so sorry." you say soothingly, your stomach twisting with the gravity of her situation. You finish up the appointment, providing the care she needs right now, but the real solution she's looking for isn't something you have on hand.

Back at the medicine cabinet, you scan for mifepristone and misoprostol, but the shelf is bare—a too common problem these days with supplies running low everywhere.

"Damn it," you mutter under your breath, pushing vials and bottles aside as you search every inch of the shelf, hoping you might have overlooked it. Overwhelmed, you briefly shut your eyes.

Flashes of that rainy night when Joel appeared at your door – bruised and bleeding – much like the night you first met him, flicker through your mind like scenes from a film. You remember the press of his chest against yours, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. Yeah, I do.

If anyone knows how to find something hard to get, it's Joel. 

Time to see if he can make good on his promise. 

++++

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” he rasps, his voice heavy with finality.

“Joel, please,” you plead, kicking the heel of your boot into the ground and crossing your arms over your chest.

He stands before you, a formidable presence, hands planted on his hips, one knee angled slightly out. God, he's infuriatingly handsome when he's angry. Though you hate to admit it, there's something irresistibly alluring about his fury—the rigid set of his jaw, the pronounced vein pulsing at his neck, and even his lips, pressed into a thin line of displeasure, somehow draw you in. His brow is deeply creased with frustration.

You lock eyes with him, engaging in a silent battle of wills as people pass by, careful not to draw attention. He waits until the bar door swings shut behind you before he speaks again.

“No,” he growls, the word hanging between you for a tense moment before he turns to walk away. 

You hurry to keep pace with him, your steps quick and double-time to match each of his long strides.

"Jesus, Joel, it’s not like I’m asking you to commit mur–" Before you can finish, he grabs your arm and pulls you off into a back alley, away from prying eyes. Suddenly, he's got you pinned against the cool brick wall, his presence so close you can practically feel the heat radiating from him. His skin is a golden tan, kissed by the spring sun, and his jacket carries a heavy scent of fire smoke that envelops you. 

Fuck, he’s intense. 

"Why do you want to go outside the gate, anyway, huh?" he questions, his eyes probing yours intently. "It’s dangerous out there."

“You think I don’t know it’s dangerous?” you scoff, irritation flashing in your voice. “Of course I know. Why else would I come to you?” I’ve seen you come back bloody, bruised, and broken, and you’re still here. 

“That didn’t answer my question, Doc,” he counters, his presence still imposing as he keeps you pinned against the wall.

“I–I need a medication we don’t have here, and I thought maybe a pharmacy out there might still have it.”

He remains silent, eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of falter in your resolve.

“What kind of medication?” he digs deeper.

“Abortion medication,” you sigh, gluing your gaze to the ground, avoiding his. He recoils slightly, the weight of the word hanging between you. You can almost see the gears turning in his head. There’s a long pause, before the question he doesn’t want the answer to slips from his lip. 

“You’re pregnant?” he asks, wrestling with the grim realities of life outside—and sometimes inside—the walls of the QZ. He can’t shove down the questions bouncing from corner to corner in his mind. Who’s the father? Was it consensual? Why is he so angry?  

“What? Me? God no,” you scoff. You don’t miss the way his shoulders fall from his ears, apparently relieved. “It’s for a patient of mine. I can’t tell you who, but I can tell you that she’s desperate.” 

You step closer, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the worn fabric of his plaid shirt under your palm. You notice stains of crimson set into the cloth, despite the scent of laundry soap. Who’s blood it is you try not to wonder. 

“You did say you owed me one,” you remind him, looking up to catch his gaze, which has softened slightly, his brow knit with concern.

"Fine," he admits reluctantly, his voice tinged with resignation. He turns away quickly, stepping out into the dim light of the alley before he can second-guess his decision.

++++

As the sky begins to darken, tinting the horizon with shades of deep blue and purple, Joel meets you at your apartment just before curfew sets in. He leans against the doorframe, his expression troubled. "You sure about this?" he asks, hoping you might have changed your mind from this morning. 

You nod, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "It'll be fine," you assure him, though his doubtful look suggests he isn't convinced. There’s an acidic fear low in his gut, the weight of keeping you safe heavy on his shoulders. 

You slip quietly through the alleys, avoiding the main routes to evade the guards and the two somehow still working surveillance cameras. 

Once outside the gate, hidden by the fading light, Joel sets some ground rules.

"Listen, if I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide," he instructs firmly, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. "We're here for one thing only—no funny business." He looks so good like this, bathed in the moonlight, all stern stoicism. 

He draws a handgun from behind his back, checks the safety, and then holds it out to you with the handle facing you.

“Think you can handle this?” You nod hesitantly; you're familiar with a gun, though the last time you fired one was during your harrowing journey to the QZ—a memory you desperately try to keep buried. 

"Look, Doc. ‘M not gonna sugarcoat it—it's rough out here. ‘M gonna do everything in my power to keep you safe, but I need you to have this, just in case something happens to me," he explains. You think you see it then, hidden in his expression, the softness of his brown eyes  – his affection for you. 

You accept the handgun from him and trail your fingers over the intricate designs on the handle. It’s heavy, the barrel long and the grip smooth, you think it might be one of his favorites. Heat rises to your chest at the thought, and you shove it down as you slide the weapon into the waistband of your jeans. 

You give him a firm nod, mustering as much confidence as you can manage. 

“I trust you, Joel. Let’s go,” you say, your shoulder brushing his forearm as you step further into the unpredictable. 

Throughout the night, as you make your way deeper into the territory reclaimed by nature, the atmosphere between you two shifts and lightens.

You mostly walk in silence, on Joel’s orders. By dawn, you've reached an area where the city's crumbling remains are overtaken by nature. With more light, he seems to have relaxed a little bit.

“Did you have a place you used to go, just to escape it all?” he asks, catching you off guard. Your eyes scan the horizon as you think of your response. It doesn’t take you long. 

“Yeah, there was this little bookstore near my apartment. Quiet, cozy. I'd lose hours in there. How about you?” “A park bench by the river. I’d go there to think, or just watch the water flow by.” “Didn’t really take you for the meditation type,” you smile, warmth spread on your cheeks at the thought of big, bad Joel Miller sitting on a park bench by the river. Maybe even feeding the ducks. 

“‘M not, but I figured it sounded better than the real answer,” he looks over his shoulder, eyes scanning the perimeter of your surroundings. 

“Alright, consider me hooked. What’s the real answer then?” you ask. 

“Home Depot,” he answers, voice level. 

You laugh.  

“What? Not a fan of Home Depot?” he looks back at you, the corners of his lips lifting to an almost smile. 

“Never really had a reason to go much, but uh – I think it smelled good. Especially near the lumber section, something about the smell of wood. My grandfather used to take me –” you trail off as you see a particularly vibrant patch of flowers through a clearing. 

Excitement bubbles up inside you, and you can't help but rush towards them. "Hang on a sec!" you call out to Joel, who sighs but follows reluctantly, still keeping an eye out for any threats.

"They're gorgeous," you exclaim, bending down to examine the flowers more closely.

Joel watches you, a slight smile playing on his lips as he agrees, "Yeah, they are." But his gaze stays fixed on you, not the flowers. You don’t notice. 

"Can we grab some? I want to press them," you ask, gazing up at him with your biggest pleasepleaseplease eyes. Initially hesitant, Joel nods, standing guard with his rifle slung over his shoulder while you immerse yourself in the floral wonder.  “Alright, but let’s make it quick, don’t want to burn any daylight by dilly-dallying,” he says. 

You make your way through the field and lift your arms to the sky as if to say hello to the clouds, before doing a little twirl of excitement.  

It's a beautiful spring day, albeit windy. As you lean in to smell more of the flowers, a sudden gust sweeps across the field, lifting a cloud of pollen into the air. It sparkles in the sunlight, swirling around you like a shower of gold dust, ethereal and shimmering. For a moment, the world seems enchanted, and Joel can't help but watch, captivated by your beauty and wonder amidst the sparkling air.

“Oh come on, Miller. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to stop and smell the roses?” You tease, the tips of your fingertips dancing over the tops of the flowers. 

You stop short of the middle of the field, attention captured by a patch of flowers you’ve never seen before.

Joel catches up and crouches next to you, curiosity lighting up his usually firm features. "What did you find?" he asks, peering at the cluster in front of you.

"It's bizarre, isn't it?" you say, tracing the delicate petals with your finger. The flowers are vibrant, almost luminescent, with a pattern that doesn't resemble anything you've seen before. The petals are a deep violet at the base, transitioning to a glowing teal at the tips, and the centers are dotted with tiny, sparkling flecks.

Initially, you think about just leaving the flower there, figuring the memory would be enough. But then you think, why not take one? It’s the end of the world, after all. Might as well enjoy a bit of its beauty. 

You pull out a small knife from your pack with the idea of pressing the flower into a bookmark. You reach out to cut the stem, but as you do, a nasty thorn dislodges and embeds itself into your finger. 

“Shit, ouch!” You cry out, shaking your hand in pain, causing Joel to turn his attention back to you. Was he…smelling the flowers? 

“What’s wrong? You okay?” he asks, his eyes instinctively scanning over your exposed skin. “Fine, the flower just uh….bit me?” you reply, trying to make light of it.

He sighs in relief.

"Better the flower than a clicker," Joel quips, moving closer to examine your finger. He notices that the thorn, nearly translucent, is embedded deeply, its core a swirling mass of the same deep violet as the mysterious flowers. He squints, bringing your finger closer to his eyes, and for a moment, he could swear he sees it pulsing in your skin. Without warning, he brings your finger to his mouth. Using the tip of his teeth with surprising gentleness, he clamps onto the embedded thorn. With a quick tug, he frees it, spitting it onto the ground. As he does, he notices a drop of blood pooling on your fingertip. Without hesitation, he brings your finger back to his mouth and sucks gently at the wound. 

The unexpected intimacy of it sends a spark right to your core—arousing and confusing in equal measure.

Joel looks at you, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "All better, Darlin’.” He plants a small kiss on your fingertip and drops your hand. 

You’re speechless. All you can do is mutter thank you and hope he doesn’t think you’re being awkward.

As you and Joel continue your trek through the expansive field, the breeze begins to intensify, carrying with it a heavy swirl of pollen from the myriad of flowers surrounding you. The air fills with vibrant particles, shimmering like tiny, floating jewels in the sunlight. With each breath, the world starts to shift subtly around you.

The colors of the field become unnaturally vivid, each blade of grass a sharp, electric green, and the sky a deep, pulsating blue. The flowers seem to breathe along with you, their petals undulating in slow, hypnotic rhythms. The sounds of birds amplify and distort; the rustling of leaves turns into a soft symphony, and your footsteps resonate like deep drumbeats against the earth.

As you walk, reality bends. The ground beneath your feet feels softer, almost spongy, and the horizon appears to melt into the sky. Everything is connected by a thread of radiant energy that you can almost see, a web of life pulsating in unison.

Joel's voice comes to you as if from a distance, warped and echoing. You turn to look at him and his features seem to blur and sharpen intermittently, as if your eyes can't decide how to see him properly. The familiar becomes alien, and time feels like it's stretching, moments lingering longer than they should.

“Hey, uh – Doc?” He asks, and all you can respond with is a small hmm.

“Do you, uh…feel a little funny?” He stops in front of you, and walks closer, suddenly coming into your line of vision. 

The scarlet haze in your vision begins to dissipate, your attention now solely on Joel. He stands there, illuminated by the soft glow of the sun, his figure sharp against the light. Joel appears almost ethereal, a stark silhouette carved from the backdrop of the broken world around you.

His eyes, deep and expressive, hold yours with an intensity that seems magnified by the surreal experience. They flicker with shades of amber, and a softness that makes your muscles feel like goo. His hair, tousled by the wind, frames his face with a wild, untamed look that adds to the raw, rugged nature of his features.

His face is marked by the trials of the world you both navigate—scratches, a bruise near his temple that is just beginning to fade, a scar on the side of his neck. Yet, despite the harshness, there's a gentleness in his jawline, in the way his lips curve into a half-smile as he sees you regaining focus.

Joel's build, strong and sturdy, reassures you of safety in his presence. His shoulders are broad, set in a posture that’s relaxed yet ready, mirroring his ever-vigilant nature. His hands, rough and calloused, hang by his sides, but even they seem to express a readiness to comfort or defend as needed.

As you stand there, all else fades into the periphery—there's only Joel. 

There’s only ever been Joel. 

And right now you couldn’t need him more. 

In your delusion, it hits you—you’ve seen that flower before. It was in a book about medicinal plants you'd been reading to learn about natural remedies. 

The details are fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream, but one thing stands out clearly: a stark warning at the bottom of the page.

"Warning: The sap and pollen of this flower are known to cause extreme hallucinations and may cause intense arousal."

The words dance in your mind, sharp like diamonds. 

Shit. 

“Joel?” 

“Yeah, baby?” 

Oh fuck, that’s new. 

“I think we need to find a place to lay down.” 

Part 2 - Coming 5/12

A/N Continued: Thank you so much for reading! Like most writers, I do have a praise kink. If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. I'll not only love you forever, but it keeps me motivated to keep creating.

Tagging some moots for visibility (lmk if you want to be removed -- no hard feelings!) @endlessthxxghts @syd-djarin @auteurdelabre @morning-star-joy @theoasisofthings @chulopascal @yxtkiwiyxt @milly-louise @secretelephanttattoo @sawymredfox @xdaddysprincessxx @burntheedges @punkshort @pedrostories @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @survivingandenduring @joeldjarin @paleidiot @darkheartgatita @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @morgaussy

#joel miller smut #joel miler x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #sex pollen #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller the last of us #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedrostories #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #jettsflora&faunachallenge

[permanentswaps]

The Swap Club - New Peter's POV

Read Part 1 here.

I'll never understand why someone as attractive as Peter Katsouris would join the Swap Club. I mean, just look at him - those chiseled muscles, that confident smirk. He could have anyone he wanted effortlessly. Yet, here he was, willingly swapping bodies with a random stranger.

At least for me, being in the Swap Club made sense. My old body was constantly out of shape, no matter what I tried to fix it. Hours at the gym, strict diets, you name it – nothing worked. I felt trapped.

By the time Peter came around, I had been a member of the Swap Club for years. I was what we called a “banker,” someone who held onto their first place pick until the perfect body came along. Sure, some cute bodies had come up in the monthly lottery, and they had potential – but they mostly weren't my type. So, I held out hope for something better, knowing that eventually, the perfect opportunity would present itself.

As soon as I saw Peter's body pop up on the list, it was like the universe had finally heard my prayers. With just five minutes to make my decision before my swap, I didn't hesitate. I confirmed my selection without a second thought, my heart pounding with anticipation.

Suddenly, for the first time in three years, I felt all the sensations of the physical world. And I knew immediately that I had made the right choice.

Standing in front of the mirror, I marveled at my new reflection. Peter's chiseled features stared back at me, his sexy smirk now my own. The power and strength emanating from this body were palpable. For the first time ever, I felt confident.

As I flexed Peter's hard muscles and admired his toned physique, I knew I needed to hit the gym to test out what this body could really do.

Arriving at the gym, I wasted no time diving into my workout routine. For two hours straight, I pushed myself to the limit, testing every muscle group imaginable. The weight felt lighter, the movements more fluid than I had ever experienced before. It was as if this body had been tailor-made for physical perfection, responding effortlessly to the demands I placed upon it.

As the beads of sweat dripped down my brow and my muscles screamed in exertion, I felt alive in a way I had never felt before. Each rep, each lift, I reveled in the sensation of strength coursing through my veins. After what felt like an eternity of intense working out, I finally decided to leave the gym, my body still buzzing with adrenaline and satisfaction.

Making my way to the showers, I couldn't resist the temptation to feel myself up, to explore every curve and contour of this perfectly sculpted form. As the warm water cascaded down my toned physique, I began to lose myself in arousal.

However, my tranquility was soon interrupted by the sound of footsteps entering the shower area. Glancing over, I saw a cute young twink making his way towards me, his slender frame adorned with nothing but a towel draped loosely around his waist.

Watching him, a surge of desire started stirring within me. As he stepped into the shower stall next to mine, I couldn't resist stealing glances in his direction. The temptation to reach out, to touch him, was overwhelming. I hesitated, but then I remembered that in Peter's body, I’m hot as hell.

He caught my gaze and flashed me a shy smile. I responded with a confident smirk. Without saying a word, I motioned for him to come over to me.

I guided his hand to trail down my chiseled abs and defined waist, relishing in the sensation of his touch against my newly acquired body. As I lifted my other arm and flexed my bicep, I watched with anticipation as his eyes widened in awe. Encouraged by his response, I guided him further, urging him to explore every inch of my muscular frame.

But it was when I lifted my arms, exposing my hairy pits, that the true intimacy began. With a sense of desire hanging in the air, I guided him to lick and nuzzle against the soft tufts of hair, reveling in the sensation of his warm breath against my skin.

Even though he eagerly complied with my silent commands, it was still not enough. I wanted more. I wanted to feel him take all of me.

Without hesitation, I turned him around, pressing his arms against the slick tiled wall. With a sense of urgency driving me forward, I thrust my thick cock into his waiting ass, the tightness and warmth of his hole enveloping me in ecstasy.

Lost in the throes of passion, we surrendered ourselves to the rhythm and came together in perfect harmony, the twink climaxing without me even touching his cock.

Letting him down off the wall, the twink turned to me and said, “That was amazing. Thanks so much, uhh... what was your name again?”

“Peter,” I replied, flexing my new bicep for him again. “Peter Katsouris, nice to meet you.”

[thegnomelord]

Okay I was just reading your intoxicated sex with Ghost and-

Now I'm imagining if it was soap or gaz. Like how would that play out. I imagine soap being the talkative high- while gaz might also be slightly talkative as well-

Oooh that's an interesting imagine but think of this MDNI:

A high Soap is silent as a mouse, give him deep fried mars bars to munch on and turn on animal planet and he'll be happier than a pig in shit.

Also Johnny defaults to Gaelic when high so the most you'll get is a half Gaelic half English mess of words mumbled into your throat as he lays on you like a 300 pound blanket and who will whine when you even think of moving him. High Soap is very much into cock warming, just feeling you in him and knowing that you're alive, he's alive, both of you are alive and fine; it's heaven for him.

Gaz on the other hand, is a fucking chatterbox. I feel like Gaz would have fun just learning random facts about everything to keep his mind sharp so when he's high it all just spills out. He'll talk your ear off for hours or when you're watching some film he'll start spouting off facts he knows about the time it's set in, the actors, the movie itself, anything he can come up with. He also can't keep still, he needs to do something with his hands, be it trying to solve a rubik's cube or just playing with your fingers. Like, this man will only shut up when you put your fingers in his mouth (or your cock), and he'll moan about how you fuck him, how you stretch him out, how good you make him feel, for every second you spend fucking him.

Price just falls asleep like the old man he is lol. Like it doesn't even take 5 minutes for him to be conked out and snoring like a tractor. But he also lets out the softest little whimpers when you roll your hips to grind your cock into him, moving so slowly to keep him just behind on the edge between sleep and wakefulness.

#gnome's tea break #gnome correspondence #trinckets of the hoard #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #x reader #male reader #top male reader #cod mw2 #john soap mactavish x male reader #john soap mactavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #captain john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #gay

[rowanraven08]

Hc that for Jon’s birthday (the one recorded on tape) Elias gave Jon these old half moon glasses that had fake lenses in them, and he was just a bit confused, throwing them in a desk drawer and forgetting about them. When Martin found Gertrude’s body, she didn’t have glasses, though every picture Jon could find of her alive had her wearing ones strangely similar to the ones Elias gave him. When he wakes up from the coma, he finds he doesn’t need glasses anymore, but feels strange and less like himself without them. Going through his things once he got back to the institute, he found those glasses in the back of a drawer, and made the connection that these were Gertrude’s glasses. He was able to wear them because of the fake lenses, and told no one who they originally belonged to.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #the archivist #tma podcast #elias bouchard #jon sims #eyes #the eye #I love theorizing about how his eye sight was affected

[newroseanna]

"I don't love you."

A/n: sorry if this is bad!! and please comment down more genshin characters I should write for. I was thinking Ayato and Xiao next!

Characters included: Scaramouche and Childe.

Warnings: Yandere themes, forced marriage, mentions of killing. Use of wife and honey. GN!reader (?).

Scaramouche:

When you weren't at the door to greet scaramouche, he knew something was wrong. Maybe you were just asleep, but you and the maids knew better than that. Scaramouche swiftly made his way up to your shared room. Opening the door with a little bit more force than he anticipated. He was met the sight of you sitting down on the edge of the bed back facing him. You were you looking at the window, not saying a word. "Did you not know when I got back? I expected you at the door to greet me like a good little wife." He said, his voice dripping with venom. But when you didn't answer, he walked closer. "Did you go deaf or something?" Scaramouche grabbed roughly your shoulder, effectively turning you around, and he was met with an empty looking face. Your usually alive eyes were soulless. Almost as soulless as his. He wasn't surprised, but he also didn't like this change. But he doesn't feel any remorse what so ever. "I don't love you. Please let me go and find someone who actually will." You whispered.

Scaramouche narrowed his eyes at you, his hand trailing to your hair, twisting his fingers around it and tugging it violently towards himself. "What bullshit are you spewing from your cute little lips. You don't know what you're talking about. I don't care if you don't love me. If I did, I wouldn't have kidnapped you. I love you, and that's all that matters." He paused, using his other hand to run his finger over your lips. "Say something as idiotic as that again, and I will sew your lips shut."

Childe:

You and Childe were currently eating out in a restaurant to celebrate your birthday. He originally asked you what you wanted, and you replied with seeing your family. But obviously childe make that happen. So a restaurant was the next best thing. But he booked out the whole restaurant for just the two of you. Again, he couldn't have cause a scene in front of other people and escaping, can he now? You should be grateful that you're actually getting out of the house.

Childe, for the whole time, was yapping about random things while you just sat there and thought about your old life. The life that was taken away from. Your family, your friends, heck even the people you didn't like too much. You took it all for granted. But it's not every day that someone gets kidnapped and forced to be a fatui harbingers wife. That thought would've never crossed your mind in a million years. Yet here you are. Your feet shackled to the chair while you were made to listen to your "husband" talk about his work. "(Name) honey, I love you." He said with a huge smile. This broke you out of your little trance. "Do you love me too?" He asked, examining your face and waiting for an answer.

You looked up at him. Then, I looked back down at your untouched food. "No, I don't love you. I never will." You said firmly. You're probably going to get punished for this, but you're tired of pretending. Childe smile didn't falter he ocean blue eyes stared straight into your soul. "You love your family and your friends, though? It would be a real shame if they were to die. Then maybe you would realise that I'm the only one you need. Now eat your honey your food is getting cold."

#yandere #yandere genshin x reader headcanons #yandere scaramouche #genshin scara #scaramouche #scara x reader #scaramouche x reader #yandere childe #childe #childe x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin imagines #gender neutral reader #female reader #male reader

[aesethewitch]

Ghosts 101

Spirit work has always been the ultimate base of my spiritual and magical practices. Some of my earliest clear memories are of encounters with spirits, and I’ve always had a talent for sensing them. In a horror movie setting, I’d be that person who gets the weird feeling in the hallway right before all the doors slam shut at once, feeling the shift in the air before whatever ghoul’s around makes its mischief.

I mention this right out of the gate so that you, the reader, know that most of what I know about ghosts (and spirits in general) comes from personal experience. Not books, not videos, not other people’s work. There’s a lot of UPG in this little essay. Just keep that in mind as you read.

If there’s something you disagree with or have different experiences with, I’m not surprised! Everything in the realm of spirits, including ghosts, can really only be theorized about. Disagreeing opinions, experiences, and theories are very, very welcome. Drop ‘em in the replies, reblogs, or my inbox. Or, if you want, make a post of your own and tag me in it. I want to see them!

Anyways, with that lengthy UPG disclaimer out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff.

What is a Ghost?

I think it’s important to note, though kind of obvious, that ghosts are a sub-category of spirit. All ghosts are spirits, but not all spirits are ghosts. But what is a ghost, exactly?

As with most things, theories differ. In general, ghosts are thought to be… well, dead people. Some folks think that ghosts are the soul, essence, or spirit of a person who has died. Others believe that ghosts are just a fragment of a person’s spirit. But I’ve also seen theories stating that ghosts aren’t really ghosts, they’re echoes or imprints of human energy that once existed in a place.

Then, there are folks who think ghosts don’t exist at all. I can’t really blame them; empirical, repeatable proof of ghosts is tough to get in order to be satisfying in a scientific way. The only reason I personally believe in ghosts is because I’ve had several encounters that can’t otherwise be explained. Plus, for me, it goes hand-in-hand with other types of spirit work. Ghosts being real just makes sense with the framework I use to engage with the world.

So, obviously, there isn’t one single, concrete answer as to what a ghost is. We can only theorize.

My Theories

My personal theory aligns more or less with one of the more common theories. I think that ghosts are the lingering spirits of living beings who have died. Note I say living beings — some people think that only humans can become ghosts, but I think that any living thing can become one. In the case of plants and trees, ghosts behave somewhat differently than animals; but that’s a whole other conversation to be had. For the sake of this post, I plan on focusing mainly on human ghosts.

The way I understand it, ghosts are the whole, complete essence of a person that lingers in the physical realm for a time after their physical body no longer functions. I believe there are also energetic imprints — energy left over from the living, often (but not always) caused and fueled by strong emotions and lingering ties of memory in a place. These imprints can seem like a haunting, but the key difference is that they aren’t sentient. They may echo when you call, but they won’t give answers that are intelligent or timely according to questions asked or stimulus provided by the living. Sort of like recording a ringing bell; playing the bell’s chime back doesn’t ring the bell again. It just plays the sound it knows.

Now, death does funny things to the mind. Depending on the circumstances of the death, a ghost might have full awareness that they were alive, have died, and are now a ghost. I find this is most common for people who died of old age and long-term diseases: people who knew they were nearing the end, for one reason or another.

Ghosts formed from more sudden deaths, on the other hand, are likelier to not know what happened. They may figure it out given time, or they may never learn the truth. As with most other things dealing with individuals, the exact circumstances vary. No two ghosts are exactly the same. Some people don’t become ghosts at all, I’ve found! They simply move on.

Another important aspect of my theories on ghosts is that I think they fade. Unless they’re continually tied to a space, fed a steady supply of energy, and purposely kept in the physical realm, I believe that they can’t sustain a form here. Without a physical body to keep the spirit, soul, consciousness, or whatever we are, a ghost is gradually pulled into the more ethereal side of things. The astral plane, the other side, the afterlife, et cetera; I’m not sure, personally, where they end up. Maybe it depends on what they were attached to in life, maybe it doesn’t. Who knows!

I think this is where I draw the distinction between ghosts and ancestor spirits. “Ancestor spirits,” in my practice, aren’t individual people from my past. Rather, they’re a sort of collective consciousness made up of all the people who came before me who are connected to me through familial, cultural, and blood ties. I like to believe that ghosts become part of that collective when they fade out of the physical world. All this is to say, ghosts are just people who are dead. They won’t be around forever unless they’re bound and kept “fed.”

On Hauntings

The first half of the things everyone wants to know is: How do we know when a ghost is actually present? It’s a good question, one that’s hotly debated in ghost hunting circles. For the sake of argument, I think we need to define the word haunting first.

To be clear, a haunting isn’t just when a ghost is present. A ghost just passing through or lingering for a little while doesn’t necessarily make a haunting. That would be better described as a presence. A haunting, in my opinion, is a long-term, sustained presence of a ghost or imprint.

And the first step to dealing with a haunting is to determine whether the place you’re in is actually haunted. You don’t have to have super sensitive psychic powers to detect the presence of ghosts. Some folks might have an easier time of it than others, but anyone can learn how to discern when a ghost is hanging around.

It’s important to note that commonly-reported signs of ghost presences and hauntings are also symptoms of other issues like mold, electrical issues, pressure changes, carbon monoxide, stress and anxiety, noisy neighbors, animals outside or in the walls (including bugs), sleep apnea or insomnia, and more. It’s important to consider mundane reasons before leaping to magical, spiritual, or ghostly ones.

With that in mind, let’s say that you’ve ruled out all the mundane possibilities, and you’re still left wondering whether that place is capital-H Haunted. How can you tell?

In my experience, there are a few signs that will stick out:

Disembodied sounds, such as voices, knocking, and walking

A pervasive chill or prickling feeling, particularly on parts of the body that are covered

A feeling of being touched, poked, or prodded

Visual disturbances like mist or shadows

Sudden smells that can’t be explained, such as perfume, tobacco, or food

Batteries in things like phones and cameras draining very quickly

Now, note that even with these signs, a lot of these things can happen with spirits that aren’t ghosts. The only way to know for absolutely sure that you’re dealing with a ghost and not a mischievous, physical-realm-poking non-human spirit is to make contact and ask.

My fellow sensitive individuals may experience other signs during a haunting. Depending on where your abilities lie, you might experience stronger sensations or detect signs of a haunting earlier than others who haven’t trained these senses.

What Causes a Haunting?

It’s hard to say. Some people (particularly ghost hunters with big TV shows who need to make those viewer numbers go up) say that ghosts stick around because they’re pissed off or had some tragedy befall them in life. Trauma ties them to their surroundings, trapping them between life and death as a specter, or something like that.

Honestly, all that tells me is that these guys are trying to sell you something (their show). I’ve met maybe two ghosts that were like that, and they had extremely good reasons for it. That’s not to say there aren’t traumatized ghosts out there; just that they aren’t nearly as common or the only explanation for a haunting.

I’m personally not sure what causes some ghosts to linger over others. I think it does partly have to do with emotion, but it may also have to do with the amount of energy the person had left when they died. For example, the ghost of my great-aunt faded within a couple weeks after she died, because she was old, tired, and ready. On the other hand, the ghost of a guy I went to school with who died in an accident a few years ago is still lingering on the train tracks where it happened. It’s an extremely individual thing.

Another part of lingering ghosts and hauntings, I think, is interaction with the living. Without a physical body, the ghost has no native source of energy. Part of working with ghosts, for me, has been learning how to share energy (mine or from other sources) with ghosts to help them communicate, interact, and continue existing. When the energy runs out, they fade. With a steady supply of energy sources, a ghost could theoretically haunt a place indefinitely.

So, what causes a haunting? I don’t really know for sure! What causes a haunting to linger? A steady source of energy, I think.

Making Contact

So, you want to talk to a ghost. Cool! You’ve got a ton of options at your disposal.

There are the witch-typical methods of spirit communication, most of which would work fairly well for talking to ghosts. I’ve talked a little bit about spirit communication methods before in a more general sense, but I find that ghosts don’t always respond well to divination.

In my experience, simpler tools are better. Unless I knew for a fact that a person understood tarot in life, I would be unlikely to use it to talk to their ghost. Tools you can easily explain that provide clear answers would likely serve you best for most ghosts. My biggest suggestions are pendulums, which are easy for ghosts to understand and manipulate, and ouija boards. Yes, yes, I can hear the gasping and booing already.

Listen. Ouija boards are not evil. Ouija is a game. But talking boards really are good tools for talking to ghosts. Again, they’re easy to understand and manipulate. Plus, you can get really clear answers from a talking board if your ghost is chatty.

There are other tools that have been popularized by ghost hunters that may come in handy, too. Personally, I’ve had success with voice recorders catching EVP (electronic voice phenomena) and, on one notable occasion, a ghost box.

Honestly, I’ve had little use for tools like these outside of ghost hunting scenarios where we’re trying to prove ghosts’ existence in a scientific sense. Voice recorders catching wisps of voice in the background are super cool, and I definitely would suggest having one on hand when doing a ghost adventure. But they’re not great for in the moment communication, since you have to stop a recording to listen back to it and then react who knows how long later.

Where ghost boxes are concerned, I’ve only had the one opportunity to try it out. We were in a location I knew to be haunted thanks to previous visits, and it did seem to work okay. I’d like to try it again sometime to see if it was just a fluke or if it’s an actual, viable thing to use. With any tool commonly used in ghost hunting TV shows (or that’s otherwise Popular By Spectacle), I always approach with serious skepticism. Those shows are all about creating a reaction that can be captured; and when they don’t receive a response, they’re liable to make shit up for the cameras. It’s annoying, especially when a tool might really be useful but it’s shrouded in the very necessary skepticism around these shows.

Now, my personal go-to method to connect to ghosts is to just… talk to them. I don’t usually need to use any tools for it. But I’ve spent many, many, many years honing the skills needed to do this. It’s worth learning how to do if you plan on working with spirits, but it does take effort to get good at, even if you have an innate talent for it. If you can, take some time to develop a sense for spirits. Learn what spiritual presences feel like for you. You may not get immediate results at first, but the skill of sensing energy can apply across the board. And even if you get no “real” response, you can still talk to the ghosts.

When you go to communicate with a ghost, just remember that they’re still a person. They’re not a spectacle, though they are fascinating. Not all ghosts are going to want to talk to you. Not all ghosts are going to like you. Be respectful. Treat that ghost like you’d treat any stranger out in the wild. Don’t be an asshole.

On Mediumship

This is mostly just a brief note, since it’s an adjacent topic that I’ve gotten questions about before.

Not everyone who talks to or works with ghosts is a medium. A medium is a particular career or path that describes someone who acts as a connector between the living and the dead. I tend to think of mediums as the telephone in a conversation — relaying messages back and forth. I used to do medium work all the time. It’s an exhausting path that requires a lot of self-discipline and solid boundaries dealing with both the living and the dead. I don’t do it anymore, though I do still communicate and work with ghosts regularly.

Just keep in mind that you don’t have to take on the title or mantle of “medium” in order to talk to, work with, or research ghosts.

Ghostly Q&A

I received a handful of questions about ghosts in the run up to posting this; thank you everyone who sent in a question! If you’ve got a question and want my perspective on it, feel free to drop it in my inbox or in the replies/reblogs of this post.

From @moonmargaritas: “How do you tell the difference between nervousness at discerning the presence of a ghost (new practitioner who still gets jitters 🤙) and sensing actual hostile intent?”

This is a really great question! This is something I had to work through myself when I got started. And honestly, I still get jitters sometimes many years later! It can be scary, even when you’re used to it.

The biggest piece of advice I have is to learn how your body experiences nervousness or anxiety. Where does that sit in your body? What kind of feelings to you experience?

For me, nervousness is a sort of itchy tingling around my shoulders and tightness around my ribs. It also manifests as the feeling of being watched or observed too closely. It’s easy to misattribute those feelings to a ghost’s presence — tingling and feeling like something’s watching? Those are classic ghost interactions! But I know that’s what anxiety feels like. That’s how I feel when the lights go out too fast or I hear a branch snap in the distance.

Once you know, you can work past those feelings and focus on what’s actually happening with the ghost (or spirit). I think of it like knowing when someone’s mad at me. Are they mad, or am I just anxious? It’s the same idea.

And, as a note, ghosts with hostile intent are few and far between. I personally don’t think that most ghosts, even the nastiest ghosts, can actually hurt you; they don’t have the energy resources for it. The ones that do are obvious, and you won't really have to question their intentions. However, you can always work with the communication methods mentioned above to determine the ghost’s feelings and intents. If you’re worried about negative interactions, a bit of salt and rosemary in a little pouch placed in your pocket goes a long way for protection.

From anonymous: “What’s an unusual way people could use to communicate with spirits? Like an expected divination tool or something we should pay more attention to.”

Hmmmm! Honestly, I think that classic, actual call and response is underrated specifically when it comes to ghosts. Yeah, we’ve all seen the Ghost TV Guys call out for a knock or a word or whatever, but when they get a response, they wig out and don’t do anything with it. It’s annoying!! Because genuinely, saying “tap once for yes, twice for no” and asking questions is a really, really solid way to communicate with a ghost when you have no other tools that will work on hand. I’ve had ghosts lead me to important places and objects within houses doing this. I think more people should give it a try without falling prey to the over-the-top reaction of “DID YOU HEAR THAT?!”

From anonymous: What advice would you give someone dealing with a haunting?

For a run-of-the-mill, regular old haunting? Let it run its course. Most hauntings, when left alone, will fade. However, if you’re inclined to talk to the ghost(s), get them to leave quicker, or get them to be less intrusive in your life, there are a few things you could do.

To talk to them, choose a method of communication and try to reach out like I described above. Get to know them if you can, and set some ground rules. If they won’t (or can’t) communicate with you, and you really want them gone, I would probably recommend a gentle banishing ritual. Something that doesn’t scream “get out” so much as kindly say, “It’s time to move on.”

Or, if you don’t want the ghost gone, just a little quieter at night or out of your bedroom, you could set up wards or activity-dampeners around specific spaces. Choose ingredients and spells that protect against unwanted spirits or just unwanted activity. Keep it activated all day long or just at night while you’re trying to sleep.

Thanks for Reading!

Posts like this are usually put on my Ko-Fi as exclusives first, but since the questions in this one came from Tumblr, I decided to post it in both places at once! (:

With that said, if you did enjoy this post, consider throwing a couple dollars at my tip jar. Tips, commissions, and shop purchases get you 30 days of access to my entire backlog of exclusive posts and upcoming ones. Monthly members get continuous access plus extra benefits! All support helps me keep the lights on, so it's very much appreciated.

If you've got Ghost Questions, shoot 'em my way! My inbox is open.

#aese speaks #spirit work #ghosts #talking to ghosts #hauntings #paranormal #witchcraft #witchblr #witch community #this post is Super Basic #it was going to have More Details but like. it was getting TOO long yknow #so. this is uhhhh part one #ghost post series

[moris-auri]

Heaven is not fit (to house a love like you and I)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baela Targaryen

Summary: The war, bloody and devastating, is over. Having bested his uncle over the God's Eye, Aemond returns to King’s Landing and to his elder brother.

But his victory is short-lived when Aegon dies in 131 A.C. without an heir. After more than a half year of peace, the realm is thrown into chaos once again. Made to choose a bride after having the ruby studded crown of Aegon I placed on his head and made King, Aemond chooses his cousin, Baela Targaryen.

And Baela Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, grows more than fond of saying "Fuck the realm."

WC: 8k

Beta'd by @vampire-exgirlfriend ILYSM Alex ❤️❤️

Warnings: NSFW 18+, spoilers for Fire and Blood (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The title sits like ash in her mouth, lingering on her tongue like sour, spoiled wine. It had ever since her arrival nearly three days prior; carried from the ship that had brought her from Driftmark to the Red Keep, she has done little else but think about it, over and over and over again.

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her conviction only grows stronger each time the thought comes, her conviction that becoming his wife and Queen is the very last thing she wants. That Aemond is quite possibly the one person in all the realm she despises. She has still not forgotten the things he'd said and done in the past, the half-sullen, half-angry boy he'd been in their youth. She has not forgotten the words he had spat so cruelly in the tunnel the night he claimed Vhagar just after her mother's funeral, the same night Luke cut out his eye. Has not forgotten his toast to Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey the night her father took Vaemond Velaryon's head, nor has she forgotten the manner of Luke and Arrax's deaths over Shipbreaker Bay.

She's had dreams sometimes of what it would have been like to be Jacaerys' queen, late at night when she could not find sleep and spent half the night tossing and turning in her bed. Dreams that were hauntingly vivid, things of what could have been if he had survived the Gullet. Glimpses of what it might have been like if war had not broken out, damaging the realm so much it was near irreparable in some places.

But he had not.

None of them had, save for herself, Aemond, Rhaena and little Aegon. If only her uncle were here to see the utter ruin of their House, what their family had become.

The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided.

Divided indeed.

It's almost laughable, she cannot help but think, letting out a faint, mirthless huff of laughter, how the might and entirety of House Targaryen- a line going back to the Dragonlords of Old Valyria, was now all but wiped out in less than five years. And over a chair no less.

"I've been looking for you, girl."

The sound of her grandfather's voice from behind her drew her back to the present, his tone sounding sterner than she can ever remember it being.

"You've found me, grandfather," she said testily, resisting the desire to roll her eyes as she stood, still facing the windows of her chamber that overlooked the city, arms crossed over her chest, fighting the urge to shout her fury.

His voice came again, but she didn't catch whatever he said. Except for one word.

Husband.

"I won't do it," she says as she shakes her head. She crossed her arms over her chest, not caring in the slightest if he thinks she seems petulant as she squashes the desire to toss her head back and laugh, instead savoring the bite of pain that ricochets up her arms when she presses her nails into the skin of her palms. "Let Rhaena wed him."

Silence.

She immediately regrets it, feeling the guilt rise inside her, chasing the anger away like a tide. She knows as well as he does that the pit of snakes and rats that the royal court is would eat her twin alive and spit out her bones. "He's a kinslayer," she says instead, a not so small trace of bitterness lingering in her voice, "Or have you forgotten how he murdered Luke?"

"I have not. But he is king now." her grandsire reminds sharply, disapproval rolling off him in waves. "This realm has seen enough war and bloodshed, child."

Baela feels her cheeks heat at the chastisement, clenching her hands into fists at her sides again. "I won't do it," she repeats, but she can feel how futile her protests are even as she says it. She doesn't want this fate; the fate of so many women before her. She feels her eyes begin to sting then, the unwanted thought of what a Queen's duty was bouncing around inside her head, bile rising to the back of her throat. Would her fate be the same as her mother's? As Queen Aemma's?

Corlys sighs, the sound almost as heavy as the hand he places on her shoulder. "You'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, girl. Be grateful."

"Be grateful?" she says incredulously as she whirls around to glare at him, her anger returning stronger than it had before. "Be grateful? For being bartered off like a chest of riches?"

His face tightens, his hand falling back to his side. "Be grateful," he adds gruffly. "That the king has chosen you."

She snorted derisively. "As if you gave him any other option. I know he only chose me because you dangled me before him like bait." She hisses the words at him spitefully, eyes narrowed. "I wish Father had killed him," she added vindictively as an afterthought.

"Enough of this," he grounds out, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You will. For the good of the realm."

"Fuck the realm." She says again. A final, futile effort to stop this.

"Baela!" His voice grows in volume, in frustration, all but bordering on a bellow. She doesn't so much as flinch, bold and willful thing that she is. Her mouth twists, blood roaring in her veins. She opens her mouth, but closes it just as fast when he sends her a warning glance.

You will marry him.

"Now," Corlys cleared his throat. "He requests your presence in the Small Council chamber."

"Now? But I'm-" she glanced down at herself, a thread of panic entering her voice.

"You look fine," Corlys said, as if he could sense her panic. The reassurance in his voice does little to calm her, though, made clear in the look etched on her face. "Now come," he said, steering her forward with a hand against her back.

**

She's barely been in the room for a minute before she feels the weight of Aemond's gaze land on her, the burning intensity of it making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed then, tucking away the unsure part of herself, pushing back the sliver of self preservation that reared its head in recognition that she was no longer the only dragon in the room, the sliver that felt like she could potentially even be prey when in his presence. The eyes she fixed him with then were hard, the weakness she resented shoved down deep within her, eagerly ignored.

She cannot help but admit how much he looks like a king in that moment, with his spine as stiff as a board and his hands clasped together before him in an almost penitent manner that was at odds with the unreadable expression on his face. The blank, carefully crafted expression on his face that made her feel disconcerted, wary and ill at ease at not being able to tell what he was thinking or what he was feeling. Did he hate this farce as much as she did? This plan to mend the shattered, broken shards their family had become? Or did he want it more than he let on?

And if he did, why?

"Cousin," her soon to be husband says from where he sits at the head of the long table, his hands clasped together in front of him. "Sit," he murmurs, the command clear when he gestures towards the vacant chair to his right. She does so without a word, but not before glancing at her grandfather, who only nodded at her with a look of pride on his face.

"Cousin," she returns once she's situated, her tone bordering on saccharine and falsely sweet as she forces herself to remain at ease, to remain calm and not spit a slew of curses at him when the rage in her eyes did not affect him in the slightest.

She ripped her gaze away from his face, sliding upwards before stopping, her lips parting as her gaze landed on the crown situated atop his head, the crown that had once sat on his brother's head. The sole ruby in the center winks in the light, the valyrian steel surrounding it looking almost black despite the sun shining into the room.

"What are your plans for the ceremony, Your Grace?" her grandfather interrupts after a long moment, elbows resting on the edge of the table as he leans forward.

Her gaze drops back to Aemond's face at the sound of the low hum he lets out in response to the question, watching as he presses his steepled fingers against his mouth, as if in thought. "In the Old Valyrian way, of course," he responds, casting a fleeting look her way, his gaze searching, before averting his eye almost nervously.

‘Let him be nervous,’ she thinks almost vindictively, feeling her mouth twitch in response. He says something else that she doesn't catch entirely, listening with one ear as they speak of other things pertaining to the realm that she knows she should care about but cannot bring herself to truly care about.

Not yet at least.

Her mind drifts to thoughts of her father as she tunes the sound of their voices out, knowing without a doubt how he'd make no attempt to show or let his obvious disapproval at this be known if he were here. Pain lanced through her at the thought of him, chased by the knowledge that he would never speak again. That she would never see his face or hear his voice again - not in this life, at least. Not when he was nothing more than a decaying corpse at the bottom of the God's Eye now.

"What say you, cousin?" Aemond asks as he leans closer to her, the sound of his voice dragging her back to the present. "The way of our House? Or the way of the Seven?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the ceremony," he repeated steadily as he met her gaze. His expression had gone unreadable again, save for the slight tightening around his mouth, the sound of his fingers drumming against the table drifting towards her.

Baela felt her cheeks go hot as her eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard by the question. She swallowed her sudden apprehension as she opened her mouth to respond, a memory of the day her father had married Rhaenyra in the traditional Valyrian way resurfacing.

He was asking her what she wanted.

She hesitated a moment before biting her lip, her heart pounding behind her ribs. She stiffened her shoulders as she looked up at him from under her lashes, her mind made up. If she was to do this, she'd do it in a way she knew would've made the Rogue Prince proud.

"The Valyrian way."

**

The day of her marriage comes a week after her arrival and she wants nothing more than to scream. The bedchamber that is hers now has been a hive of activity for the last several hours, the space full of chatter from a handful of different voices, namely those of the seamstresses and the Dowager Queen.

She has seen neither hide nor hair of Alicent Hightower since she stepped foot into the Keep over a week ago, though she had heard far and few in between whispers from the servants. Spun tales of a bereaved, grief stricken Dowager Queen who had retreated to her bedchamber after losing almost everything but the son that now sat the Iron Throne.

She had not put much stock in them before, but the sight of her soon to be good-mother is more than enough to make her believe them. She remembered the woman who had sat at her Uncle's left, glowing and resplendent in rich green and gold, hair laying across her shoulders in a sheet of burnished auburn waves.

There is hardly a trace of that woman now.

Now Alicent Hightower is pale, drawn and almost ghostly. Her hair is done plainly, an unadorned braid wrapped around her head, her dress a shade of black that seemed to swallow her whole, making her look slight and diminutive. That had been another thing she had heard, her complete disavowal of wearing anything made in the colors of her House, and as much as she does not want to pity her soon to be goodmother, she cannot help it.

Drawn from her reverie, Baela turns her head at the sound of the head seamstress clearing her throat, her gaze falling to the final part of the ornate robes the woman held in her hands. Resisting the desire to roll her eyes, Baela made a motion with one hand, beckoning the woman forward without a word.

Rhaena only had to take one look at her face as soon as the final clasp on the bodice was closed, no doubt catching the steadily heightening agitation brewing like a storm cloud in her eyes, a wordless communication passing between them. "Leave us," she says sharply as she stands from the chair she had been sitting in since early this morning, the hem of her dress soundless on the flagstones as she neared.

If there was one good thing to this, it was that she still had her sister at her side as a pillar of support. Everytime she had thought about it, about being alone in this cesspool with only the distant attention of her grandfather, she felt dread churn low in her stomach. And so it had been the one thing she'd refused to budge on. 'If I must do this,' she had said to their grandfather the second night, the look in her eyes daring him to argue with her, 'I will have her with me.'

Baela shot a fierce, withering glare at the servant who wavered by the door, the order to get out burning in her gaze. "By the gods-" she mutters the instant the chamber is fully empty, her chamber now, she thought belatedly as she rolled her shoulders in an effort to lessen the tension. She could already feel the weight of the robes she wore bearing her down like an anchor, stifling and heavy; as did the ornate headpiece, brought from Dragonstone on such short notice. She reached up to tug on it, only to let out a startled yelp when Rhaena smacked her hands away with a glare. You'll mess it up, her sister's eyes seemed to say.

Baela scowled at her as she rubbed at the now stinging skin, but let them fall to her side nonetheless, her head twisting to the side a minute later at the sound of knocking, followed by a voice partially muffled by the thick wood of the door. "Are you ready, Your Grace?"

She let out a breath as she dropped her hands to her sides. She was not ready, and she doubted she ever would be but she raised her voice nonetheless, just loud enough to let her reply carry the distance to where the servant could hear her clearly. She glanced down one final time, inhaling a breath as she steeled herself silently, the thump of her heart as loud as a drum in her ears.

"You look beautiful, sister," Rhaena murmured, as if she sensed the conflict raging beneath her skin.

"As do you," Baela said as she shot her a grateful smile, squeezing her fingers gently. She let go of Rhaena's fingers a minute or two later as she pulled away, smoothing her palms over the stiff cloth, exchanging one last glance with her before stepping past her and out into the corridor.

**

The ride to the Dragonpit was torturous, and she hated it.

Her previously half pleasant mood was gone, having vanished like smoke what felt like ages ago, replaced with irritation and the steadily growing urge to snap at someone, despite the fact that it was only herself and Rhaena in the wheelhouse, a fact she cannot help but be grateful for.

"If I must suffer one more-" she all but snarled as she grit her teeth each time the wheels of the wheelhouse jostled over the uneven streets the closer and closer they got to the Dragonpit. Or what was left of it, half demolished as it was now.

Her hands dropped to her lap, resting one over the other as she began twisting the gold ring around the fourth finger of her left hand in a nervous tic.

"At least we're almost there," Rhaena murmured half under her breath from the seat across from her, an attempt at placating her, leaning forward to rest a hand on her arm. Baela made a wordless sound of agreement in her throat as she turned her head to the side, blinking every time sunlight filtered in through the star-shaped holes. Rhaena opened her mouth to say something else, but Baela had turned away, in no mood to hear another word.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, save for the jubilant sounds of shouting from the people lining the streets on either side of the carriage. "Gods above-," she grumbled out in relief when she felt the wheelhouse rock to a stop, seeing stars as she raised her hand to her eyes to block out the glare of the sun, the sight of their grandsire standing hardly more than a foot away, the Velaryon seahorse stitched out in silver thread, bright against the dark hue of his tunic.

"Grandfather," she greeted shortly as she stepped down, ignoring the hand he had extended towards her, exhaling when both her feet were flat on the ground.

"Granddaughter," he said gruffly in response as he set his hands on her shoulders, tilting his head to look her in the eye. She squinted against the sun as she tipped her head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the odd look in his eyes, one that she did not know what to think of.

"If only Rhaenys and Laena could see you now," he murmured, his words doing little except to startle her further, "They'd be so very proud of you. I know it."

Blinking in surprise at the mention of her mother and grandmother, Baela felt the pricking, tell-tale sting of tears in the corners of her eyes as his words sunk in. She opened her mouth as if to speak, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he turned away before she could.

She knew he grieved for his wife as she and Rhaena did, mourning her in his own way. He fell silent again, the look in his eyes turning into something more scrutinizing, as if he was studying her. "His Grace is waiting," was all he said, his voice turning brusque once more, brooking no room for an argument. Baela watched him go silently, the broad width of his back filling her vision as he ascended the steps of the Dragonpit before disappearing inside.

**

"Ābrazȳrys." Her husband's tone is cold and flat, carrying nary a trace of affection- not that she expects him to have any.

Husband.

It still felt more than strange to call him that, the sole word as foreign to her as anything, even though it's been a month since their marriage. No matter how fervently she wishes to forget, she can still remember some parts of the ceremony as clear as day. She doubted she ever would now, not with the way they all but clung to her like shadows in the back of her mind.

The feeling of the dragonglass Aemond had pressed to her lip and to the skin of her palm. The sharp pain that had followed it and the iron smell of the blood that welled in its wake. The look in his eye when he had drawn the Valyrian glyph for fire on her forehead. The look on his face when she had done the same to him, the glyph for blood standing out as red as garnets against his skin.

"What do you want?" she demands of him, knowing what he'll say anyway. She braces her weight on her elbows as she looks towards where he stands in the doorway, not missing the way he's still wearing the same tunic he had been earlier.

Aemond frowned at her words, a crease forming between his brows. "We must do this for the realm-" he starts to say, his voice now carrying a steely edge. "Our duty-"

He was standing close enough for her ears to pick up the breath he let out, the sound long and slow- a sign of his growing agitation. Baela fought the urge to smile as she half turned on her side to face him, her shift slipping down her shoulder. "Damn the realm," she said viciously as she all but bared her teeth at him like some wild beast.

Even with the urgings of the Small Council, as well as those of her grandfather and his mother, she had hardly, if any desire to know him. "I do not want you here. So go away," she repeated, her voice little more than a snap now, doing her hardest to ignore the heat crawling up her spine, more than acutely aware of his stare, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze burning into her skin. "You're more than welcome to go slake your lust elsewhere, husband."

He retreated a step or two at her words, a wounded look darting across his face.

"Another day," he said finally, when she didn't relent, making his way towards the door.

She ignores him anyway.

**

"Cousin."

Rhaena's head lifted at the sound of Aemond’s voice, eyes trailing to fall on his expression.

Even from this far, she could taste the tension all but oozing from him like wine overflowing from a cask, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown, as if something was troubling him. He looked half out of place in her chamber, looking rather like an inkblot, the dark of his tunic and his breeches standing out against the lighter, paler colors.

"Ae-"

No, she could not call him Aemond- not anymore at least. He was the King now, and her sister's husband to boot. "Your Grace," she says cautiously, setting aside her book as she rises to her feet. "Is there something I might-"

He cuts her off before she can finish speaking, his eyes darting around her chambers before settling on her face. "Your sister," he all but blurts out, before clearing his throat, spots of color infusing along his cheekbones. "Baela," he amends as he twists his arms behind his back. "I…I do not know what to do. She-"

Rhaena tilted her head as she studied him, her gaze as sharp as a knife's edge, more than aware of how he seemed almost nervous, her good-brother, flustered in a way she cannot remember ever seeing from him- not even when they'd been children.

"What have you tried, Your Grace?"

"I-" he seemed to stumble over the word, glancing up at her before dropping his gaze downward to his feet. Rhaena watched as he removed his crown, holding it with one hand as he ran the other over his hair, sending the pale silver-gold strands further into a state of dishevelment.

"My sister is being unfair," she admitted, feeling a faint pity for him. "But she is headstrong, willful and proud. She always has been."

"You do know her best," he murmured quietly as he met her stare, a sliver of light skirting over his face in a way that illuminated the smudged, half-moon shadow under his eye. Her pity for him grew, though she kept it to herself as she nodded wordlessly, gaze dropping down to his boots, a slew of thoughts churning in her skull.

"If I might speak freely, Your Grace?"

He nodded, the bobbing of his almost eager in a way. "Please."

Rhaena hesitated. "She likes hawking," she said finally as she bit her lip in thought, "And riding. We used to do it on Dragonstone when the weather was favorable."

He nodded again, humming as he listened to her, a resolve growing in his eye.

His eye met hers then, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Baela would no doubt be angered by this, but her anger would fade, it had to- for the good of the realm. Rhaena let a half rueful grin form on her lips, practically able to hear the sound of her sister's voice in her mind, seething and laden with fury, as well as the saying she had taken to like a fish to water. Fuck the realm.

"Thank you, goodsister," he said lastly, half turned towards the door. Rhaena dipped her head, the sound of her braids sliding over her shoulders filling her ears.

She could only hope that it would work.

**

And it does.

As one turn of the moon becomes two, then three, the change within the Keep grows more than noticeable with each day that passes, much to the relief of them all.

**

They have been married for four moons when Baela enters his chambers, crossing the room in several short strides to stand before him, arms folded behind her back, tapping the heel of her riding boots on the flagstones, her stare lingering on the sight of his bowed head, unused to the sight of him without the crown, his hair falling loose and unbound over his shoulders. She does not blame him though, not really, not when she knows the weight of it.

"Will you take me flying? On Vhagar?"

Aemond's head lifted at the sound of her voice, grinning softly at the sight of her before him. "Hello to you too," he murmured as a greeting.

"Well?" she asked again, more than a little impatient now, rocking forward then backward on the balls of her feet. She could not help but think of her own dragon then, pretty Moondancer, who had perished during the fall of Dragonstone, and even thinking about her now felt like a shard of glass embedded in her chest, like a phantom limb, the pain of which would never truly go away.

Aemond's stare only seemed to grow sharper the longer he held her gaze, searching and almost intrusive in a way, as if he meant to cut her open from the base of her throat to navel, and Baela cannot help but shiver faintly at the thought of it. “Why do you want to go so badly?” he countered, voice laden with suspicion as he stands, unfolding himself from the chair behind the desk with a languid, effortless grace.

“Can I not wish to spend the day with you?” She grins, her tone taking on a teasing edge as she stared down the bridge of her nose at him. Or tried to at least, the action made all the harder by the inches he had over her. He only hums as he raises an eyebrow, standing near enough to where the ends of his boots touch her own.

She can practically feel the heat bleeding through his clothes, the blood of the dragon running hot indeed, she muses. His breath fans across her face softly, still smelling of the baked apples soaked in honey they'd broken their fast on hours before.

"I cannot simply abandon my duties to go flying. The realm-"

She huffs a laugh, raking one hand through the braid Rhaena had been successful in wrangling her curls into. "Fuck the realm. It can spare you for half a day. I am your wife and I wish to go flying with you." She says as she stares at him, daring him to protest more.

"Very well," he relented with a sigh, turning his head to the side to glance back to the stacked parchment on his desk.

She fought the desire to grin victoriously.

**

Her lips parted slightly at the sight of Vhagar before her, little opaque wisps of smoke coming from her nostrils as she slumbered.

Since the war had ended, she'd taken to sleeping more and more, her chosen resting spot the patches of now flattened grass just beyond the city gates. One of her eyes opened as they neared, the great orange pupil surveying them.

Aemond's shoulder brushed against her own as he moved forward, "Lykiri, Vhagar," he murmured as he laid his hand flat on her snout, the sight making the sliver of affection that had lodged in her chest grow, warmth pooling low in her stomach.

Aemond stretched out his other hand to her, the look in his eye almost gentle. "Come."

Baela stared up at him, hesitating for a moment, before she edged forward, keeping one eye trained on Vhagar as she slid her hand in his, letting him pull her up. She let out a sound, one as close to unbridled delight as Vhagar began to lumber forwards, each flap of her wings sending them higher and higher into the sky. She let her eyes fall shut at the feel of the wind whipping through her silver curls, lashing like shards of ice against her cheeks, the space all around them empty save for clouds and the blue of the open sky stretching as far as she could see.

It was peaceful, flying on dragonback this high up, so much so where she could almost forget anything and everything that was happening miles below her. Her breath hitched in her chest at the feel of Aemond tightening his hold on her, the arm he'd wound around her waist before they'd left the ground growing almost impossibly tighter, constricting like a serpent.

The aquiline slope of his nose nudged against her cheek as she half turned her head to the side, the sound of him muttering something against her skin drowned out by the shrill whistle of the wind, his words faint enough for her to miss, too distracted as she was by the sound of his breath against the shell of her ear. By the steady rise and fall of his chest behind her and the feel of his lean frame, a hard line at her back.

"Look," he rasped, his voice coming louder this time as he raised a hand from the ropes, applying the faintest bit of pressure on her face to turn her head forward again. They were still flying, but it wasn't the city under them anymore. Instead it was the coastline and the familiar waters of Blackwater Bay, the almost dirty gray hue of the water lit gold by the sun, and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

It was beautiful.

Startled, Baela shrieked when Aemond's hand tightened on the reins, angling them downward into a nosedive. She let out a sharper sound when Vhagar leveled, angling to the right, one wing brushing the water's surface and sending a spray of water into the air.

Full of exhilaration, she felt a laugh bubble up in her chest, blood roaring in her ears.

Oh, how she had missed this.

**

They had returned to the Keep just after the sun had set, the almost rose hue that had made the houses and buildings of the city all but glow fading as the sky darkened to the familiar indigo of the approaching twilight, the two of them windblown and stinking of dragon.

The servants had needed no further warning before a line of them entered one after the other, bringing in bucketfuls of steaming water. Baela had watched them fill the gleaming copper tub almost impassively, arms folded across her chest as she had waited until the last one had left before turning her focus back to where Aemond had sat in one of the chairs situated around the hearth.

His hair gleamed, shadows from the flames highlighting the angles and lines of his cheekbones, dancing across his face. She drew herself up tall, spine going taut like a drawn bowstring as she stared at him, desire pooling low in her belly.

"Aemond…" she crooned from where she stood, still wearing the black dragon riding robes she had earlier, her desire clear. "Are you going to fuck me now, husband?"

His head snapped towards her, half startled. His eye narrowed, lust warring with suspicion on his face, his fingers flexing against the arms of the chair. "You-"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" She cannot help but say snidely, watching his pupils dilate as she loosened the lacing on the front. "You're too far away." Come closer, she does not say.

He shot to his feet, not needing another word of encouragement. Baela shivered as he stalked towards her, the almost predatory hunger burning in his eye. He had the singular ability to make her feel exposed now, cut open and laid bare before him.

Weak.

Soft.

A mockery of everything she was. Everything she wasn’t.

His jaw clenched each time she took a step backwards, the predatory look in his eye morphing into something more dangerous, a wicked smirk cutting across his mouth as he followed her, stopping when the backs of her legs hit the bed.

His hands fell to rest on the curve of her waist, standing out stark and pale against the night-dark fabric of her riding tunic. Baela pushed at his chest slightly, scarcely daring to breathe as he drew even closer, resting one hand on her neck. Her fingers closed around his wrist loosely, every brush of his thumb over her skin making her breath catch in her throat.

She felt warmth heat her cheeks, taking the opportunity to look up at him from under her lashes, wondering if he could feel her pulse thrumming under her flesh. She watched him as he took a half step closer, his eye darting from her eyes to her mouth and back again. It almost seemed like he was just as nervous as she was, but she did not put much stock into it.

She trembled, half out of fear or something else she could not name, tentatively flattening her hands to his chest, feeling the muscle lurking beneath the surface shift under her palms as she stilled, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

He pushed at her riding clothes roughly, sliding the fabric down her arms before tossing the garment away blindly, his breathing seeming to grow shallower as his face lowered to loom mere inches from her own, his fingers disappearing into the curtain of her curls before kissing her again. Baela moaned against his mouth, her fingernails leaving half moons in the leather of his tunic.

He let out a low noise as her legs lifted then, wrapping around the narrow line of his waist, the sound hovering halfway between a snarl and a groan that had the coil at the base of her spine tightening. "You are a wicked temptress," he groaned again, eye closing at the feel of her pressing kisses to the side of his neck.

She reached for his eyepatch then, fingers stilling mere inches from it, an unspoken question in her eyes.

Aemond nodded, wordlessly bobbing his head, his hand splayed flat against her back.

Her fingers brushed over the raised skin of his scar, skirting upwards to slip beneath the square of leather before gently tugging it from his head. The sapphire in his eye socket was more lovely than she wanted to admit, glittering at her as it did now in the low light.

She traced the planes of his face, her touch gentle and as soft as a feather. Was he surprised by it? Surprised that she could be gentle with him? That she wanted to be? Her eyes slide over him, all but devouring the way he is almost beautiful. She kissed him again, her lips brushing across his own.

Aemond hisses quietly, a breath rattling from between his clenched teeth as she does. The sound is as loud as a dragon's roar in her ear, and were it not for the near-nonexistent distance between them, she's more than certain she would not have heard it.

His eye followed the path of her fingers, watching as they dropped lower and lower before coming to rest at the laces of his breeches, nostrils flaring with each breath, the sensation of her fingers brushing feather-light across his stomach almost too much to bear.

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a half coy smirk lifting one side of her mouth up.

Tormenting him. Taunting him.

His eye trailed up again, the sight that greeted him made his cock ache all the more. He pressed closer, his lips dragging down the line of her throat, vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, the distraction of her kiss overpowering any rational thought he might have previously had.

"Only a dragon can love a dragon, Aemond. And you are mine."

Aemond moans in her ear at that, his fingers tightening on her hips, bruising almost. He could barely breathe, dizzy and almost breathless as the potent, rich smell of her all but ingrained itself into his senses so very thoroughly, like an insect burrowing into the ground. “If you want me to stop,” he rasped, feeling his heart slamming against his ribcage, “Tell me.” His voice was a low murmur in her ear, his breath fanning hot by her ear as he trailed his hands down her sides.

“No,” she breathed, trying to press closer to him, feeling his cock hard against her belly. “Please, Aemond-” She nipped at his skin, a barely noticeable scrape of her teeth against his pulse point, grinning as she felt it jump beneath her lips. She kissed him again, and again, feeling her pulse fluttering under the thin as parchment skin of her wrists and her throat.

Aemond only chuckled, the vibration from it rolling through her, only to choke out a moan a second later, the noise weaving and twisting with hers.

**

They are married five moons when she blocks his exit from the council room with a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump, thump, thump of it beneath her fingers.

She bit her lip as she held her breath, keeping her eyes trained on his face. "I'm with child."

His eye goes wide at her words, wider than she's ever seen it. She shifted on her feet, feeling the half elated sensation in her chest fading the longer he didn't speak.

"Truly?"

"Yes," Baela nodded, feeling the giddiness grow stronger, unfurling low in her belly like a ship's sail. "The maester confirmed it this morning."

A buoyant smile splits his face cheek to cheek. It was not the smirk she had all but grown used to seeing, a genuine one that stretched his lips, making his eye crease.

"Baela."

She stilled, the thought that this was the first time he's called her by her name echoing in her head as she turned to face him. "Say it again," she demanded.

"Baela," he repeated, drawing the word out slowly.

Between one blink and the next, she all but launched herself at him, twisting and coiling around him like a serpent around its prey. She thinks later that it was in that moment she could almost love him.

The news does not stay between them for long, and soon enough a feast is hastily prepared in celebration.

**

Glancing at Aemond from the corner of her eye, Baela could feel the tension thrumming under his skin, all but radiating from him in waves where he sat beside her, one hand curled loosely around his cup, his other tapping an almost agitated rhythm against the cloth covered table, the line of his shoulders stiff and his posture unrelenting.

She leaned closer, her hand grasping his arm as she arched upwards, ghosting her lips over his ear. "Dance with me," she murmured boldly, delighting internally when he stiffened at the contact.

"You know I abhor dancing, ñuha jorrāelagon."

Aemond’s voice is barely more than a whisper, low and hushed, in that manner that is entirely his own. It is a trait of his that she has grown rather fond of, his ability to not be one to speak when he did not need to, choosing instead to stay silent and observe those around him like a bird of prey.

"And you are-"

Her gaze sharpened, daring him to say it.

"Forgive me."

He must have sensed her irritation as not even a minute later she felt his hand settle on her thigh, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the fabric of her dress. She huffed under her breath, lips pressed together tightly. "I might," she says nonetheless, knowing full well the effect her words would have on him.

Sure enough, his hand tightens on her thigh, his touch turning slightly painful. She can feel the weight of his attention on the side of her face, not having to even turn her head to be able to tell his eye is heavy-lidded, his pupil no doubt swallowed and dark now.

"Do you think they'd notice? If we were to depart," she murmurs innocently, offhandedly, keeping her gaze straight ahead, pressing her lips together to repress a smile when the sound of his breathing changes, growing ragged and hoarse with each second.

**

They have been married for six moons now, and it is the first time she does not wake up alone.

"Good morning," she breathed quietly, watching as Aemond cracked an eye open, his breath little more than soft huffs of air against her face.

"You're watching me," he noted, his voice low and rasping, still carrying miniscule traces of sleep.

"Perhaps I like watching you, husband," she said in return, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, letting the earthen smell of him envelop her then, the heat he radiated making their bed almost stiflingly hot.

His mouth twitched at her words, faint and almost hardly noticeable. There was a softness in his eye as he looked down at her, thumb swiping as light as a feather across her lower lip. “Gevie,” he murmured as he cradled her face between his palms,, the golden glow behind him caught in his hair, setting the pale strands alight.

"I love you," She breathed as she tugged his hand away from her face. She twined her fingers with his, turning his hand over to trail a nail over the lines in the center of his palm, lifting it to her lips, watching his expression as she did, knowing deep down that there was no going back.

Not now. Not ever.

**

More time passes, the months going by one after the other, her belly swelling until she cannot see her own feet. She has few visitors, not that she minds, having her twin and Aemond beside her more than enough. Though there had been times she'd been seconds away from snapping at him out of ire.

He is locked within the council chambers- has been since that morning, a fact that she is more than grateful for, to be honest. It is only Rhaena and one of her handmaidens now, both of them hardly breathing a word.

"Rhaena," she forces out, fighting to keep her face blank at the sharp bite of pain in her belly. "I think-" she does not have to say another word, watching with wide eyes as her sister scrambles to her feet.

"Should I-"

Baela nods, a single, sharp dip of her head.

**

She squeezes her eyes shut as she lets out a guttural breath from between clenched teeth and wishes the pain would stop.

"Push, Your Grace," the midwife ordered, not unkindly. Baela only glowered at her as she gritted her teeth, nostrils flaring with each inhale and exhale she took.

"Where is he?"

"He's outside, sister," Rhaena soothed, squeezing her fingers lightly. "Waiting."

"Bring him here," she growled, uncaring of the way the midwives exchanged slightly uneasy looks with each other. "Do it!" she all but snarled at them. They did, scattering like a flock of birds, one of them moving brusquely towards the doors.

"Aemond."

He moved towards her quickly, half settling beside her. "Ñuha jorrāelagon," he murmured as he clasped her hand in his, pressing his lips to her brow.

The midwife comes forward again, mouth opening to speak, though Baela hardly hears a word as she closed her eyes, hearing Aemond's sharp inhale of breath as she squeezed his hand, her nails leaving reddened marks in the shape of half moons in his skin. Time seemed to tick by as slow as a snail's pace before she let out another breath, her chest rising and falling quickly as she half slumped against his chest, tendrils of her sweat soaked silver hair clinging to the skin of her neck, hearing the wailing of not one babe two split the quiet like a crack of thunder.

"Twins, Your Grace."

"Let me see them," she said as she held her arms out.

**

"She looks like your mother," her grandfather says later, the tip of his finger tracing over her daughter's face from where he stood beside Rhaena. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Laena," she says softly, "Her name shall be Laena. For my mother." She half turned towards Aemond, a question lingering in the depths, "And Aegon for your brother?"

Aemond shook his head. "No," he echoed, feeling his throat tighten, "not Aegon. Daeron."

"Daeron," Baela murmured in agreement. "It's a strong name for your heir."

"It is," he agreed, albeit weakly from where he stood over her, his eye flicking from the newborn boy cradled in her arms to the girl resting in Rhaena's arms opposite him. The boy who was the spit of Aemond, right down to the shape of his eyes and the slope of his nose.

His son.

His daughter.

Twins.

He swallowed as he took a half step closer, keeping his eye trained on them. "May I?"

Baela's head snaps upward at the sound of his voice. "Are you truly asking to hold your own children?" she asked, an incredulous expression spreading across her face. She let out a laugh as he sent her a more than unamused look. "I jest, husband."

He only frowned at her, hardly looking convinced, but let it go anyway.

She shifted against the pillows, careful not to jostle their boy too much as she sat up straighter. "Here," she said, softer this time as she placed Daeron in his arms. She watched them carefully, not missing the way Aemond stiffened, watching with rapture as his son's eyes opened, already a light shade of purple.

"He has my father's eyes," she noted, drawing a finger over the skin of his cheek, meeting Aemond's gaze when he glanced up at her, a look in his eye that she'd never seen before.

Rhaena had been right that day, she couldn't help but think as she grinned at him. He had been trying to be a good husband to her, patient even when she rebuffed and refused him those early months, refusing to budge over and over and over again.

Or maybe she had been too prideful, too full of her own hubris and too blind to admit it.

#my fics #aemond targaryen #baela targaryen #house of the dragon #prince aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction

[brucewaynehater101]

Brainrotting again

Ever read "A Thirteen Year Old's Fake ID" by OneoftheUnknown on ao3 ???

*cracks knuckles*

Lets take this idea and run away with it

Unreliable Narration, I choose you!

. · • ★ • · .

Tim—simply put—loves too much

Loves his parents too much to expose their neglect

Too much to do something as scandalous as get caught photographing Batman and Robin

Tim loves the Batman and Robins he's dreamed up too much to not follow him at night, not photograph them, not become Batman's Leash after Jason's passing so as to preserve the hope they symbolize, preserve the childhood hero he's loved for so long

Tim loves his parents too much to be caught being affiliated with Batman, even to the Dark Knight

Timothy Drake never becomes Robin after all . . .

Alvin does!

Alvin works desperately to drag Batman out of the pit of despair he is trapped within and spreading, works to become the most efficent co-worker, and works to build the paper trail that disproves any possibility of fraud

Wigs, contacts, makeup, civilian wear, hobby and even personality that differ dramatically from Drake and Draper are the cherries on top

. · • ★ • · .

Drake is perfect for his family name, and Draper is the idealized Robin who's light preserves the Night and Justice that is Batman

Yes, it is a pain concocting a personality which is the perfect Robin yet detestable enough to go unmourned, such a personality born of an upbringing that would stand up to scrutiny is such an impossible task for anybody not a Drake

Tim is confident he's done it. Once Alvin's no longer entrusted with the burden of Batman's Robin Leash, a Young Justice member, and a hero all around, nobody will gave a damn if he vanishes

[Jason's attack on Titan Towers, Damian's murder attempts, the constant calling of Replacement, his Sweet Sixteen, Dick taking away Robin and ruining his reputation in the hero community, nobody believing that Bruce is alive

Bart and Kon's deaths, the cloning he attempted in his G R I E F which will only serve to soil Draper's name further once it leaks at the press of a button]

All of that, all of that were utterly perfect moments, perfect to lash out in ways that would make Alvin detested more and more

The clock was ticking.

He is a leach of a cast over a long healed limb

. · • ★ • · .

Alvin hates Damian and Jason and Dick to the ends of the Earth. The first two tried to kill him, the third took away the Robin he wrongly thought belonged to him and he stole Red Robin just to be petty

He left a note saying he's only proving them wrong in Bruce being dead just to spite them

Alfred is the only person he is respectful at all too

He doesn't get paid enough

Alvin tried to ignore that giggling fighting to be made at the thought of Batman's accomplice having to suffer through all this

This feeling that's been there since his sixteenth

. · • ★ • · .

Hating the Bats? That's Alvin's job. Timothy knows it's irrational

Jason dug himself out of his grave and was trained in the very same cult as Damian. Batman picked his murderer over Jason

They're traumatized in ways he can't even summarize. The family's they should trust have done horrible jobs at helping the heal, going as far as to exacerbate their issues

It's not just wrong, but inhumane to wish they were Perfect Victims

Alvin is only half right whenever he demands—yuck! have some manners—apologies

. · • ★ • · .

Awful as it sounds, BruceQuest couldn't have come at a more perfect time, a hero on his high horse, insisting against his betters on running away to prove them wrong, a rebellious stint below his age

So what if he died with the League of Assassins after proving Bruce alive and bringing him back?

Everything is right with the Bats again

. · • ★ • · .

Tim hates the Bats more than anything

He knows it's irrational. Declaring in his heart that he hates is for older adults. He can't help it

When Batman disappeared and his family was scrambling to pick up the pieces, he set eyes upon Bruce's side

Who would take up the CEO mantle? Who could be trusted with the family name that swayed Gotham's civilians and Dark Knights?

In the end, with Alvin declared a madman, they could only rely on Timothy Drake, set to inherit Drake Industries following his parent's death and Uncle's adoption of him

Not that the family would ever know it. Not that they needed to know it

It became easier wrangling being a vigilante and CEO, as well as two identities when one of them was dead

Not that he stopped being a vigilante. They're just never gonna show up on the field

But try as he might, he couldn't put the Batfamily quite back together as Alvin wanted

Bruce won't let him step down from being a CEO

. · • ★ • · .

Brucie insisted on a dinner between family and CEO

It makes sense. None as well. Nothing is suspicious of Tim Drake minus his youth

"You have another brother? Where is he?" He hadn't heard of another adoption yet

"He died asshole." Draper? Why would they still speak of him like one of their own?

But then again, he died

He wasn't Jason Todd dead, but rather a "Don't Speak Ill of the Dead" dead

. · • ★ • · .

It's kind of funny how Brucie—no, Batman—seemed to not tell the family how Tim requested to resign multiple times.

But the family was traumatized by his own hand. They needed something to stand against, to become a cohesive family unit. Bonds forged from pressure are a powerful, powerful thing

He can testify I'm so sorry Kon and Bart and Cassie and—

. · • ★ • · .

If Tim were a civilian through and through, he'd say it's fucked how Batman still employs manipulation to make sure family progress stays up

Then again, he has to find some kind of way

It's Batman

. · • ★ • · .

Tim miscalculated

Tim miscalculated sooo, so fucking much

. · • ★ • · .

Nothing but good things to say about the departed Alvin in interviews

A shrine—a shrine!!—in memory of Alvin

Talks and discussing he gathers on his computers regarding the family includes talks about how horribly they mistreated Alvin comparing him to Damian and Jason?!

Alvin had a working and antagonistic relationship with the heros. Timothy Drake was purely professional. Tim Drake's relationships are exclusively parasocial and delusional

And he's trapped the Bats in parasocial relationships with a boy not even real

. · • ★ • · .

Tim wants to be sick

He calls in sick

'Suck it Batman'

. · • ★ • · .

Only after dying is Alvin getting the love Timothy Drake is above wanting for

It doesn't make any sense

. · • ★ • · .

Tim Drake wants to step down from Wayne Enterprises all together, to cut all contact—being a CEO has been such a strain, with Bruce refusing my nephew's several requests to step down—and have his Fake Uncle move them away from Gotham for both of their own mental health

Somewhere he won't fear the Bat's finding him

Bruce refusing his requests are the perfect excuses to go as far as to cut contact with the world—

Tim Drake knows his heart belongs to Gotham

. · • ★ • · .

Tim Drake hates the Waynes and Batfamily to the ends of the earth

There are exceptions. Steph and Barbara, Cass and Duke, and—

. · • ★ • · .

Jack and Janet love archeology too much

Tim, his own family

Dead or Alive

Thus is the way of Drake

Have I ever read "A Thirteen Year Old's Fake ID"? Perhaps.

In all jest, I am so so glad you liked it. To see something inspired off something I wrote is so heartwarming.

Ngl, I like that your version bashes on Bruce a bit more than mine did.

I like to think that Tim, in these AUs, would be pissed about a shrine to Alvin. Part of him would be so angry that they built a shrine to a person they didn't even know. They didn't know Alvin was just a fake identity. They didn't care enough to find out. Yet, they want to make a physical demonstration of their guilt and call it a mourner's monument?

Two more points I like about your AU are the ways Tim separates himself from "Alvin" and how he built Alvin's personality specifically to be a slightly disliked coworker. It's distressing and disheartening (in the best ways) to think of a younger Tim desperately trying not to hate the Bats for what they did to Alvin. It wasn't him, it wasn't Tim, so it shouldn't matter, right? He can still love them?

An older Tim knows better.

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #dc au #thank you for the ask!!!!

[lostinforestbound]

The fic is going well! I'm on a roll and after I'm done I'll be searching for a Beta-Reader! For now, to tie you all over:

Romantic Zevlor Headcanons

This sad old man is incredibly traditional in the sense of romance. He plans dates to the very hour, brings flowers, cleans himself up nicely, kisses the top of his partners hand and offers his arm as they walk; the perfect man to date! He's also very experienced.

I would say he's not shy about romance, but definitely reserved. He didn't have time for it once he became a Hellrider, it pulled all his focus in. After his oath is broken and he got cast out from Elturel with the other refugees, that also pulled his focus away from even considering a relationship.

When everything is finally calm, he doubts that anyone would even want him in this stage of his life. He's an old, tired man and he made his peace with it. Then his partner comes along and throws him in for a loop! He starts to feel alive again.

He plans dates out strategically, but would not stress out if something doesn't go according to plan. He can easily go with the flow. If his partner is stressed out however, he would give them a kiss on the forehead and say something along the lines of "It is all right, my love. Let us try something else."

Quality time is important to him. His favorites are long walks! The beach, forest, a meadow, some hills, a hike, he loves to get moving! And it's even better with a partner where they can talk about anything and everything while in the privacy of nature. It's wonderful! If his partner prefers to stay home though, he's completely content with sitting by the fire.

His main love language is absolutely acts of service! He loves taking care of his partner and doing things for them. He makes food for them, patches their clothes, and makes sure their things are organized the way they like it. This man also gives some of the best massages!

Gods he loves cuddling. He adores it, actually! After a long day, he looks forward to going to bed with them the most. It calming and honestly helps him sleep much better. He's slept alone a lot, and he missed having another body next to him.

Zevlor has been through quite a bit, so of course he would have nightmares about a multitude of things! Especially regarding his fuck up in the Shadow Cursed Lands. He doesn't quite wake up in a cold sweat since he's used to them, but they still startle him awake sometimes. He's not afraid to ask for help from his partner if nights are a struggle for him.

On that point, he's a fantastic communicator! If anything is bothering him, even if he's embarrassed, he will discuss it with his partner. He personally does not like being kept in the dark about what his partner is feeling, so why would he do that to them? It benefits no one. If his partner needs more time to figure out their words, he will absolutely give it, but there is no hiding anything from him.

His kisses are usually gentle, and he loves holding his partner's face in his hands while doing so! He's incredibly tender in everything he does involving them, but he also loves to tease! When he kisses the top of their hand, he'll kiss up their arm to their neck and eventually their face, littering pecks all over. Bonus points if his partner is ticklish, he enjoys their laughs and giggles as it brings him genuine joy.

If his partner is a tiefling or a tailed dragonborn, he absolutely would link his tail with theirs in a private setting. Usually he prefers to have his tail out of the way, especially in public, but when it's just the two of them he uses his tail pretty freely. This is because he finds tail-holding very intimate.

He doesn't mind public display of affection in other ways though! Hand holding, wayward pecks, sitting close, hugs, he loves it all. Sitting in his lap may get him flustered though, especially if his partner is very forward in their affection! Sometimes he feels as though his heart will give out with how fast it beats (maybe he's too old for this after all).

Zevlor isn't used to being taken care of at all, usually he's the one doing all the caring. When his partner starts doing it his head practically reels in shock, not expecting it to feel so nice. He doesn't outwardly ask for it but brushing his hair and massaging the tension out of his hands is something he adores. His partner always receives a 'thank you' kiss.

He knows how to dance, which can surprise people! Slow dancing is his preferred style, and he'll bring his partner in for a slow sway when they're alone. No music is needed in these intimate moments, his lover is all he wants anyways.

#forest-writes #zevlor #zevlor x tav #zevlor x reader #zevlor bg3 #bg3 zevlor

[demaparbat-hp]

I can definitely see a version of katara, a couple years after sokka goes off with their dad, watching her tribe struggle for resources, first being overjoyed to welcome this air nomad, somebody around her age and also trying to save whats left of their culture in the fire nation’s wake, and then so betrayed when he’s (in her eyes) suddenly the reason they’ve all been suffering for so long, the reason she doesn’t know whether her brother and father are alive or not.

And then zuko coming along, not only with a tangible plan to stop the war and help her family, but also a way *out*. She loves her tribe and would do anything for them, but she’s also a teenager that feels so angry, so alone and helpless, and can only see a future where she lives and dies on this small patch of ice, feeling the pull of the moon but being too busy, too tired, too ignorant to heed its call. Of course its the scariest thing she’s ever done. I bet she deals with nightmares after the righteousness wears off and it sinks in what shes signed up for, the last waterbender of the southern water tribe on a metal fire nation boat. But if katara does anything its buckle down and commit.

I would love to know how zuko even gets into a position to have a conversation with katara and tell her his plan. What is their first meeting like, to not only divulge that, but want her on his crew? Do the two of them do their best to teach her waterbending; does uncle iroh help? I can only imagine watching katara struggle but keep on getting up to try the forms again and again brings back some of his own memories learning bending (i love your art, i love all the details about this au and all the others youve dropped, thank you for sharing even when people are dicks)

You have put this into words much better than I ever could. Her journey, her development and what drove her to make the decision to leave it all behind.

Zuko is a different person in this AU, and has had different experiences. He respects their village's boundaries, and comes in a small ship with two unmasked members of his crew, a man and a woman. He introduces himself in the way of the Water Tribe (I am Zuko, son of Ursa—no father, only his mother's name when it should have come last), and asks for permission to stay in their lands as his ship is repaired. Away from the village, where their presence wouldn't be a burden or a threat, and they could be easily forgotten or watched.

Katara is the only person to look him directly in the eye and, when she goes to where his ship is docked late at night and threatens to end his life if he so much as lights a fire in the direction of the village, he doesn't dismiss her fury or her capabilities. He smiles instead, eyes old and tired. I can end you, right here, right now, she says. I know, he answers. I know.

Days pass, Aang has been making himself scarce and the Prince has kept to his word. He doesn't ask for anything, he isn't seen unless someone from the village goes to stand watch, and he looks at her with something akin to respect.

Then, a few days after his arrival, Zuko asks for an audience with the village's mathriach and her family. He isn't surprised when Katara is there, and he addresses her directly, as if her opinion is something to value.

He hasn't been entirely honest, he says, with the countenance of someone about to play it all in a move that could earn him either victory or defeat. His ship needed repairs and he was closer to their shores than Earth Kingdom land, this is true. But it was so because the person he was chasing after had damaged his ship and, according to maps and calculations and sheer dumb luck, the only place they could have run to was here, in the Southern Water Tribe.

But why would he chase someone like that?

To return home. To earn back the rights to challenge his father for the throne, and end the war.

Why do such a thing?

For his mother. For his sister and uncle. For the world.

Why tell them this?

Because they had a right to know, since the person he was after was right here, right now.

Who?

The Avatar.

Who?

The airbender.

(Later, after Aang abandoned them again, Katara approached the Prince and offered herself to him. She knew the Avatar, she said. She was a waterbender and could help them in the seas. She was the Sea Wolf's daughter, and could ensure an alliance. She needed a way out. He accepted.)

#dema answers #zutara #atla #zuko #avatar the last airbender #katara #hunters au #Katara joins Zuko AU #zutara au

[starry-bi-sky]

im having more fem Danyal thoughts. But specifically I've been thinking about Dani in this au. Now, Fem Danyal is just the alt. version of Danny to my other DAG au, which means she follows that lore. that being said. Danyal and Dani already had a pretty rocky introduction in the first place, ANd if we follow canon's setup, Dani in fem!Danyal's world would be a boy rather than a girl. I'm gonna call him Ali for easier difference (my train of thought was Daniel -> Eli -> Ali). While Danny may resemble Talia more than Bruce, Danny and Damian still look very similar to each other. Their blood relation is unquestionable.

You can imagine how fem Danyal might feel, walking into her room one day after school, and finding a little boy on her bed who looks, at first glance, like the little brother she loves to death. If meeting Ellie triggered Kill Bill Sirens in Danny's head, meeting Ali bass boosted them. For a terrifying, fleeting moment, Danny thinks Damian is right there. That somehow, her clever, intelligent little brother found out she was alive and tracked her down.

She slams the door shut, completely at a loss for words. Her heart has nearly stopped a second time. Then she realizes: this boy's eyes are blue. Not green. He looks too old to be her brother. His jawline too narrow, his hair too messy. As he talks, his voice is not the same as the sparse few videos on the internet showing Damian speaking. This is not the child she helped take his first steps with, nor the child she watched utter his first words. This is not the boy whom she taught to pick up a sword; this is not her brother.

Safe to say, Ali gets a knife pulled on him much, much faster than his female counterpart did. He lives, fortunately, but their relationship is unsteady and rocky even after Ali betrays Vlad and joins Danny.

Danny is unsettled by him, not for being her clone -- although that plays a minor part -- but because every time he drifts into her peripherals, she keeps thinking it's Damian. And it spooks her half out of her mind. She gets her hopes up at the same time her heart drops, then she turns her head, and it's not Damian; it's Dani.

It's also why she won't call him 'Dani', it's one letter too close to 'Dami' and she's afraid she'll call him that if she's not careful. So when he brings it up jokingly, she immediately shoots it down; "I'll call you Eli." instead. (Ali thinks she's boring -- he thought 'danny with a y' and 'dani with an i' was funny. Frankly, so did Danny, but she's too uncomfortable with the idea of calling him Dani.)

When he asks her why, she lies and says it's to prevent confusion. When their relationship is better, "Eli" eventually becomes "Ali".

("Why Ali?" he'll ask her, with an ear pressed against her ribs while Danny coils one of his curls around her finger. She's steadily become more and more affectionate; Danny has the impeccable ability of making it seem so forced and stiff and natural at the same time.)

("Do you not like it?" She'll ask him, voice stilted and unsure. She's got her heart in her throat, but she's starting to stop seeing Damian whenever she looks down. "We can keep it Eli if you'd like.")

("No, no. I like it. Just... why Ali? Does it mean anything?")

(Danny will smooth her palm over Ali's forehead, scratching his hairline with her nails, and feel embarrassed. She'll be silent until he looks up at her, and then she clears her throat. "It means eminent; exalted; noble.")

(Ali stares at her in dead silence, long enough that she starts to grow worried. Then tears bubble up in his eyes, and for a moment Danny thinks she said something wrong. "I lied;" he croaks, "I love it.")

(She will hesitate, and then wipe the tears off with her thumbs. "Ali al Ghul," she'll mutter, "but that name is for you and I only. To the world, you're Ali Fenton." Perhaps she shouldn't be giving him her mother's last name, but he is of her blood now too.)

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #danyal al ghul au #fem danyal al ghul #fem danny fenton #does this mean that ellie eventually changes her name and has a moment kinda like this with og danyal? yes. i just havent found a name #that i like for ellie that both fits her character and still sounds recognizable to her. Ali was perfect because it sounded so close to Eli #do i believe that Danyal and Ellie's relationship would've been fundamentally different if Ellie ended up being a boy in the original au? #yes. there would've been a very similar or the exact same result as it did with fem danyal imo. danyal was already uncomfortable with her #just for being another little sibling *alone.* my man was not comfy with the fact that he had another blood sibling even if she was a siste #if ellie had been a brother instead? the result would've been the same as it was here.

[fushipurro]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

Chapter 3 - Malevolent Desire

<- Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, cowboy!au, darker themes, yandereish!sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, brief mention of an implied kidnapping/murders, brat taming, orgasm denial, vaginal/nipple foreplay, cunnilingus, creampie, sukuna calls you a slut (affectionate), biting/small blood mentions

☆ Word Count: 5.9k

Never in your life did you think one town could look as good as it does right now. It’s like a desert mirage that calls your name, urging you closer with the promise of rest.

After reclaiming your fateful bay mare, the trip home felt greater in lengths, heightened by the midday rays of the hot sun down the back of your neck. Now, the city of Valentine sits ahead of you, basked in rich golden hues.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt the levels of exhaustion you face now. It pulls on your mind, body, and soul alike ─ demanding everything you’re able to give.

Upon your return with the empty-handed lawmen, Satoru offers a not-so-subtle notion that if you’re sore or injured after any “strenuous activities” to stop in at the neighboring doctor’s office for some care.

You decide to take him up on it, hoping to find some sort of reprieve, at least from the warm sensations where clothes couldn’t protect you from the harsh touch of sunlight. There, you find a woman by the name of Shoko Ieiri ─ an old friend of the two you had spent your day with, and the resident physician.

She proves especially helpful in restocking whatever medical supplies you needed, and even more understanding with any matters relating to ones with Satoru’s involvement. In fact, all you had to do was mention his name and referral, and it was as though you gave her the key to a closet full of tonics dedicated in his name.

During your time shopping, a man clad in dark jeans, a purple button up, and a black vest steps into the office. Just like you, he’s here to restock, claiming to be on the hunt of a local predator who recently claimed another victim.

Turns out, the man you had a shootout with went missing sometime late last night, leaving behind a trail of blood that didn’t go far. The modus operandi matches that of the killer he and his partner are after. Whether they’re alive still or not is unknown, but it won’t be long before a decaying body surfaces with a cryptic message to follow.

You’ve always been intrigued with bounty hunters, at times becoming one yourself to make a few extra bucks if need be. It was something your father had done on the side to put food on the table considering how picky businesses can get with new hires.

In your discussion with Shoko and the man called Choso, you made a mention to your little adventure with Satoru and what all your poor Valentine has been through. Surprisingly, Choso claims to have some veterinary knowledge, offering to look her over for any potential injuries, free of charge.

You accept of course, her health is of the upmost importance to you. Even if you don’t believe Suguru would have purposely harmed her, you can’t say the same for his crew. That, and how she was in the middle of an ongoing robbery. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Choso not only ensures that Valentine’s in tip top form, but also checks over Clementine. You appreciate it, knowing how much you’d hate yourself if something were to happen before she’s reunited with Kento.

The two of you are joined by his partner, Yuki, who had been resupplying at the weapon’s shop across the street. She reminds you a lot of yourself, perhaps even cut from the same cloth. It’s always a pleasure to meet another woman on the frontier that can hold her own, and you hope to run into her again someday ─ maybe while hunting a bounty to compare skills.

In the meantime, she can’t help but swoon over the two mares in your care, even showing off her own that she raised from a filly ─ a silver turkoman dubbed Garuda. Choso’s steed on the other hand is a leopard appaloosa gelding by the name of Nova.

When everything’s said and done and the hunters take their leave, dusk has settled over Valentine with a thick blanket of stars. All that’s left for you to do now is to get your meat and you can be on your way for some food and rest.

…so long as the butcher’s stall is actually open, which in this case ─ it’s not.

Tough luck.

So much for getting your dinner now, guess you’ll be going to bed hungry. You opt to head for the hotel, which only serves to sour your mood further as the clerk tells you your stay is up and there’s no other rooms left to rent out. At the very least, you’re still able to pay for a bath to wash off the various dirt, grime, and other slick stuck to your body.

Now you could head off into the nearby prairie, or down by the Dakota River to camp, but as highlighted earlier, you’re exhausted. With two horses under your care and all your worldly possessions, you need to be extra careful what you do and where you go as a woman in this wild age.

Luckily, there’s a dozen barns to choose from in town, and even more available stalls to sneak into. At this point, straw poking your back is the least of your problems if it means getting a night of rest.

You lead the two mares over to an empty corral behind one such stable, freeing them from their tack and hiding the evidence under a pile of alfalfa bales. Save for the saloon, the rest of town has quieted down as others have now retreated to their homes and families.

That used to be you once when you were younger, now here you are sneaking inside a barn to get some shuteye. Oh, how your father would be so proud.

There’s just one problem.

You’re not alone.

As soon as you enter through the barn doors, you’re met with a few lit lanterns and a huge horse on the crossties. We’re talking the definition of a war horse here, with a blood bay coat to match. Their feathering is light, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find out there’s some warmblood mixed in with some draft breed. At the sound of their deep, echoing neigh, a head pops up from between their hindquarters.

“Who the fuck ─ ahh, it’s you,” the voice remarks, and it’s one you remember quite well.

The Butcher.

“Come to finally collect what’s yours?” he asks, a tinge of playful annoyance lacing in his words.

You approach the man, narrowing your eyes. He spares you his own sharp look before resuming his work clipping the giant’s hoof.

“Since when does Valentine’s butcher do farrier work?” you question, admiring the look of dark chaps around his beefy legs. It pairs nicely with his black pants and the red shirt he has on.

He snorts, “I do a lot of different work ‘round here, sweetheart.” His nickname falls short when paired with sarcasm. “Whatever pays the bills while I’m here, and besides, this is my own mare so it’s not like I’m being paid.”

“Leave it to a bloodied man to ride a red mare,” you mutter under your tongue, hearing him huff anyways. “Can’t lie though, she’s a beauty.” You reach out to pet the girl, only to retract your hand the second her ears pin backwards and she about bites your hand off.

“That she is,” he chuckles lowly, uncaring to what almost occurred, “Calamity here is loyal and obedient, just how I like it.”

You scowl in response, ultimately realizing any interactions with this man require a level of caution to be taken. He’s not to be trifled with.

Then again, Daddy didn’t raise no coward.

“You sure you’re not compensating for something?”

Not that he needs to. Appearance wise, he’s very attractive, even if he waves enough red flags at you to be called a matador. You are a stubborn bull at times, so it may be a fair tradeoff. Being tired and hungry don’t mix well for any wicked cowgirl.

“Please,” the butcher scoffs. “I have no reason to need to. Why, you interested in taking me on?” He throws a smirk at you from over his shoulder, grabbing a large file in the process to shave down the mare’s hoof.

You roll your eyes, leaning up against a wooden post to admire his workmanship. “Please,” you mock, “I think you’re exactly the type of man my father would tell me to put a bullet into and call it a day.”

“If you think my ‘services’ are inadequate, then you’re more than welcome to,” he retorts, finishing up the hoof with a beautifully crafted horseshoe nailed perfectly on. He stands up after, dusting off his hands and turning to you in full. He certainly has a height advantage on you amongst other things.

You don’t back down, not even when you’re at the disadvantage. “We’re still talking about work, right? ‘Cause you have something of mine.”

The butcher steps forward into your space, like a predator stalking its prey into a corner, only you don’t move. “Is that really why you came creeping in here? Or maybe you’ve been following me,” he muses with sultry words.

“I’m not here for you, your highness.” Those choice words deepen his annoying grin. “But since you are here, then I’d like to get my meat and go. I’ve had quite a long day.”

His eyes darken as a thought crosses his mind. “I think I can help with that… if you’ll give in to me,” he says, moving one hand to brush a strand of hair from your face. You slap him away, earning a click of his tongue, “Don’t be a tease.”

You ignore his accusation. “What exactly are you offering here?”

“Instead of sleeping in a stall full of shit…” he pauses, letting his words register that yes ─ he knew exactly why you were here to begin with. He’s as smart as he is cocky, that’s for sure. Not a bad combination, but only if you can back it up. “…why don’t you come back home with me, and I’ll treat you to some care?”

A tempting offer, but full of risk.

“And how am I supposed to believe you aren’t planning on robbing or gutting me the moment we’re alone?”

He laughs again, only this time it resembles some cackling coyote in the dead of night. “Guess you’ll just have to be good and trust me.”

“Howreassuring of you,” you reply sarcastically.

“It’s up to you, brat.” He shrugs nonchalantly, picking up his heavy western saddle. “Whether you want it or not, make your choice now or forever hold your peace.”

You keep a horse-length behind the man, Sukuna, atop your mare; your eyes are glued to the back of his head with one hand close to your iron if the situation warrants the need. The environment around you both is eerily calm ─ as if nature knows something about a potential threat that you don’t.

Perhaps your foremost thought about him being a serial killer on the side wasn’t too far off.

It doesn’t help your nerves either or his case for that matter when his home happens to be a cabin in the woods. There’s a set of storm doors that immediately catch your eyes upon arrival. They’re tightly bound and sealed with the use of heavy chains but at this point, would it really surprise you if there’s something down there he doesn’t want others to see?

Rationally, it could just be where he stores excess meats and other parts of his work, and that the chains are only there to keep predators out. He is a butcher after all, that would be the safest option.

…Unless of course the seal exists to prevent anything from escaping.

You decide to push those thoughts away for now. You’ve wrestled with bears numerous times after all; if Sukuna decides to betray the trust you’re giving him, then you won’t be going down easily.

Sukuna rides up to the pasture gate, hitching Calamity up to a post to untack her. You join him near his side with both Valentine and Clementine to do the same. Hopefully his mare’s temperament doesn’t affect either of your girls in the field after Choso gave them the okay. Explaining any new injuries to Kento would not be easy after he’s already gone out on a limb for you.

You’re then led up into his cabin, where the interior is surprisingly clean. For a butcher, he seems careful enough about it, as nothing you see has a speck of blood staining it.

“Take a seat,” he practically demands, pulling out one of his dining chairs for you on his way into the kitchen. You oblige, choosing not to comment on his tone.

You watch him from afar as he cooks, to which it appears to be yet another skill he excels in. His precision with a knife also tells you that in the event of any fights to the death, you’re gonna need a gun to win. He spares you a few glances here and there, but otherwise his focus is kept solely on the stovetop until he’s walking back into the room with dishes in hand.

You can honestly say that Sukuna’s cooking is one of, if not, the best you’ve had the privilege to eat. He’s prepared a selection of different meats paired with fresh vegetables and is eager for you to try everything he’s whipped up.

Conversation is kept to a minimum, not that you can complain. His earlier attitude seems to have softened after a good meal, yet the tension still hasn’t let up. After dinner, you offer to help clean up as thanks, but he shuts you down, even taking your plate straight from your hands.

There’s a look of mischief that plays across his crimson eyes as you’re turning back to the table. Now there’s one thing to always be cautious of when sharing company with a predator, and that’s to never turn your back on one.

A full belly must’ve dulled your senses, subsequently lowering your guard to forget that rule. Your mistake comes with a consequence, or maybe a blessing ─ Sukuna now caging you between himself and the dinner table.

His voice, deep and velvety, murmurs in your ear, “Ready to discuss payment?”

It makes your body shiver, and you hope it wasn’t too obvious. He chuckles, so you know that was a bust. Good thing you’ve still got some sass in you.

“You’re telling me you didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart?” you tease with the man.

“Fuck no.” Sukuna inhales your scent, making your eyes flutter shut. “I’m not about to let some other maggot get in my way,” he says, brushing the hair off the side of your neck, revealing splotches of red and purple bruising. “This time…you’re mine.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you tell him, but your efforts to remain in control are in vain.

Sukuna starts to pepper kisses across every discoloration his eyes can find, his other hand now pulling you closer to his body.

He’s hard, and nor was he lying either when he said he has nothing to compensate for.

With one hand placed inches above your needy core, he encourages you to grind against his own. It’s an action so specific, you can’t help but wonder if there’s some hidden meaning to it. Either way, Sukuna knows right where to get you along your neck until you’re weak in the knees and grasping the edge of the table for stability.

“What’s the matter?” he asks between kisses. “No more bratty comments?” You can feel his lips hovering over your carotid artery, smiling against the flesh as your heartbeat quickens in response.

“Fuck you,” you spit in a low volume, your grip on the table growing stronger as Sukuna’s hand moves fast to cup your sex.

“There’s plenty of time for that,” he muses. “I intend to enjoy every minute of this.” He lifts his hand upwards, pulling you off your feet for a hot second causing a gasp to leave your mouth. He then lets go of your body, backing away a few steps.

“Strip,” he commands, and you find yourself throwing caution to the wind. As you start to unbutton your shirt, he stops you, “Aht aht, turn around.” He motions with his finger almost impatiently so.

You roll your eyes before doing so, continuing where you left off. “Better, my lord?”

“That’s it,” he drawls, ignoring your snarky tone in favor of the new title of worship. “You’ll do well to listen and take orders.”

“You know, maybe I should put a bullet in you if you think I’m gonna sit back and become one of your pets. Better yet, I could always just cut your dick right off or maybe gelding would be more fun,” you warn him with an amused smile.

“Your words only arouse me, brat.” He stalks closer, baring his canines towards you with a similar, more salacious grin. “Stick around long enough with me and I’ll show you the best way how to do all of those things.”

Unlike you, you don’t believe he’s joking.

Sukuna takes a moment to admire your body, feeling his own cock strain in his pants. He leans his head down, taking you by your mouth in a ravenous embrace. He roughly bites your bottom lip, making you gasp yet again. Sukuna uses this chance to slip his tongue past your teeth, savoring the metallic flavor all while a free hand slips between your thighs.

He spreads you open, prodding his middle finger against your opening. “My… so wet already? I’ve hardly touched you.”

For how much you hate him for his arrogance, he certainly knows how to make a gal feel oh so aroused. You’re enjoying this more than you had expected to.

Without warning, he thrusts his finger upwards, lifting your body to rest atop the dining table. “Fuck!” you shriek, the pain turning to pleasure when his thumb coos your throbbing clit. With deft motions, he pumps his finger in and out.

Sukuna laughs in an almost sadistic manner, thoroughly enjoying the reactions you’re giving him. It’s always more fun when his prey has some fire that makes his efforts to break them all the more satisfying. Pretty soon, you’re rolling your hips against his knuckles on your own, aiding his motions.

“Look at you, slut,” his voice, full of sin, whispers in your ear. He bites the sides of your neck overtop the pre-existing marks, thus overriding the claims. “So desperate. You want to cum, don’t you? I can feel it.”

You nod your head, unable to hold back your noises as you grow closer to that sweet release. His touch is like wildfire against your body, igniting you with otherworldly passion.

“I wonder, what would happen if I were to deny you?” His grin widens and he retracts his hand from your body.

“Asshole!” you hiss breathlessly, groaning from the loss.

Sukuna loves how easy it is to push your buttons. Each action serving to intoxicate you under his full control. If one simple finger of his could do all of this for you, then he can’t waitto impale you with his cock.

“Such a bad girl,” he purrs against your ear once again. Both of Sukuna’s hands hold you at the hip while he rubs his clothed self against you. “Tell me you’re mine and I’ll please you over and over again until all you can think about is me.”

“I’m starting to think it was love at first sight with you,” you chuckle through a moan, “Can’t ask a girl out like a normal person?” That remark earns you another reprimand as he suddenly pushes himself hard against you, forcing you back onto your forearms.

“Last I checked, I already made you dinner and offered you my home. If you’re having second thoughts then I’ll gladly let you go,” he states, but you can tell that’s a lie.

Sukuna would much rather you stay and give in to his desires. The offer is quite tempting to, as with any deal with a devil. It proves even harder to deny the effects Sukuna has on you, your stomach endlessly performing flips with emotions.

His whole domineering self is a forbidden type of decadence that draws you in, hypnotizingly so. There’s a lot you don’t know yet about him, and if one thing is obvious, it’s that the longer you stay at his side, the more you want to slip into depravity with Sukuna.

It might even help you become a better version of yourself. No longer would you be alone trying to survive in a world pitted against you.

Then again, your feisty nature is what got you here to begin with. Where’s the fun in letting that go now when you have someone that can keep up with you, with plenty to offer if he stays true to his word.

With a devious grin of your own, you tell him, “Fuck. You.” Emphasizing each word to better toy with him.

He laughs again, louder, and more boastful this time. He knew you would continue to deny yourself, punishing yourself in the process. You’re only making this easier for him to have his way.

“You won’t say it?” He stares down at you with a darkened expression, flashing those wolfish fangs again. One of his hands swoops up to cup your breast, pinching the bud as he makes you lie flat for him. “Oh, I’ll make you say it.”

In the blink of an eye, his mouth latches onto your swollen pearl, sucking with an intense force that leaves you writhing beneath him. One way or another, he’ll shatter your will. He knows it’s just a matter of time before you admit what you already know to be true.

Sukuna’s tongue swipes upwards once before pushing inside. He licks up every last drop of your arousal, feeding into his own animalistic desire to claim you.

To ruin you.

He moans at this thought, savoring your delectable taste like it’s his last meal on earth. The sweet flavoring pairs perfectly the way you cry his name out. One of your hands even holds the table in a white-knuckle grip, with the other struggling against his head. You can’t escape his touch, even if you tried. His own hands brandish your hips tight enough to bruise ─ making you in his name.

“S’kuna,” you groan, feeling your mind reaching a state where it has no choice but to unravel.

“Just say those three words,” Sukuna insists, spelling it out for you with the tip of his tongue. He’s edging you a second time now, knowing all too well how close you are. “Three words, and I’m all yours,” he urges.

“Fuck! Please, please, let me cum!” you beg the man, rocking yourself against his mouth for the needed stimulation. Sukuna clicks his tongue but doesn’t let up, sucking more vigorously now. Your eyes practically roll into the back of your head, your spine arching off the table from the force your climax hits you with. “Sukun-aah!” you cry out in pleasure.

Your mouth falls agape with a silent scream, falling limp against the wood. It takes a minute to come down off the high, but when your vision clears, you look to Sukuna whose shirt has been discarded. Now, you can clearly see his sculpted chest and all the black ink that adorns his body.

The sound of metal teeth fills your ears, and his jeans are the next to go. He doesn’t even give you a chance to see the rest of him in his full glory before you’re scooped into his arms, forced to wrap your tired legs around his waist. Contrary to his abrasive personality, he holds you with a lot of care, and you think you if this goes on, you could fall asleep just like this.

Sukuna lowers himself onto his bed, and in the process forces you into a straddling position. He briefly kisses your lips ─ another sweet act ─ and then leans back, tucking his hands behind his head.

“Ride me,” he commands. You shoot him a questioning glare in response. “What, you thought I was going to do all the work tonight?” he scoffs, “I told you already what I want to hear.”

You sigh, lips stretching into a fine line. It doesn’t seem like any amount of begging will save you from those three words he wants you to say, but are you ready to admit it?

“Come on, cowgirl.” Both his tone and expression carry a hint of mocking, albeit playful as part of his nature. “Let’s see some bareback riding… I want to watch you make yourself cum on my cock.” Sukuna pats your thigh before pulling it back behind his head.

You lift upwards, feeling a burn in your legs as you do so. Between days of being on the saddle and Sukuna marking the fourth man in your unintentional conquest of the city of Valentine, you ought to get a medal for how hard you’re working. At this rate, you may as well embrace the buckle bunny trope.

Reaching between your thighs, you take his cock in hand. The size is bigger than you imagined, even after feeling it through his denim. He’s no doubt the biggest you’ve taken thus far, and you can’t even feel the tips of your fingers around his girth.

There’s a bit of uncertainty that starts to bubble up, but as the famous saying goes ─ country girls make do.

And so, you line him up, rolling the fat mushroom tip across your slit to gather the necessary lubricant before even attempting to sit over this monster. You wince at the first stretch, your insides burning unimaginably so.

Sukuna wants to laugh. He’d love to keep teasing you but even he’s having trouble forming words in this situation. It’s hard enough resisting the urge to go all in and get it over with, but that won’t end well for him.

He wants you to trust him after all.

He wants you to be his.

After what feels like a century, you finally bottom out, hips kissing his pelvis in full with a deep, guttural moan to follow. Any slight movement on either of your parts sends shockwaves heavier than his heavyweight draft.

In this moment, Sukuna decides to play nice. His hands move from his head down to the dips of your hips, helping you through the motions with a gentle touch. It’s mostly an excuse to get you moving already, but also due to how deeply he wants to feel every bit of you.

Pretty soon he lets you take over, as he originally planned. At first, your pace is agonizingly slow, fueled from your exhausted state much to his discontent. Despite this being his way of tormenting you, it affects him equally so. Sukuna’s also punishing himself for not making his move earlier when he had the chance.

“Is that all you got? Here I thought you wanted to cum,” he teases. “You look so pretty with my cock buried in you, slut.”

The degrading term aside, his sudden compliment has you moaning a saccharine tune. Your body hunches forward, curving his length to reach greater depths you didn’t think possible.

“Oh?” Sukuna groans deeply. “Does someone enjoy being praised?”

“Y-yes, ‘Kuna.”

“Good girl,” he hisses with lustful joy, clenching his teeth together. Sukuna wasn’t prepared for the feeling you created by saying his name in such a delectable way.

He could eat you right up for that.

“My dove is doing so well,” he murmurs against your ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth. “Now if only you’ll say those three words already,” he urges you once more, wishing for you to give into him.

You huff, “What haa-happened to saying please?”

“Tch.” The palm of his hand meets your ass. You gasp into a cry, clenching around his length. “Don’t be a brat after I’ve been nice and complimenting you.”

Fresh tears gloss your eyes but are quickly soothed by him rubbing circles over the forming red handprint. That hand then moves deftly over your stomach to where it had rested earlier. Sukuna pushes with his palm slightly, feeling himself deep within you.

Fuck, it feels good, but it’s not enough.

Your pace begins to slow as your body tries desperately to balance exhaustion with your building orgasm. Sukuna’s breathing turns disheveled, a sign that even he’s losing his patience ─ ready to fill you to the brim with his seed.

Nearing the precipice of your release, you finally come to terms with your inner turmoil. You’re here now, you may as well make the most of it. As downright intimidating as Sukuna can be, he just wants to please you in his twisted sort of way.

It’s not easy to admit, but in a way, he reminds you of your father ─ always pushing you past pain to grow stronger. It’s what made you into a rattlesnake in a world full of predators. Sukuna brings out that venomous side of you but also rewards you with subtle soft touches.

One might argue that your affection for Sukuna could be the result of losing your father years ago. On the other hand, this possessiveness Sukuna shows might be his own way of dealing with issues from his past. Whatever the case may be, you hope the lengths he’d go to protect what he deems his isn’t anything too maniacal in nature.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you will let go of control ─ let someone else carry your burden without always needing to put up a strong front.

“’Kuna,” you whine, leaning down in front of his face, cupping both sides of his jaw. A bead of sweat falls from a strand of your hair, disappearing in an instant from his hot flesh.

His eyes narrow in your hold, obsidian swallowing garnet. “Say it.”

And you finally do.

“I’m yours, Sukuna. All yours.”

That’s all he needed to hear for everything to snap into place. Sukuna’s arms reach around your torso, holding you tight to thrust himself into a brutal pace. His cabin now but a domain of lust, fueled by a cadence of sounds as body and souls unite as one.

“’Bout time,” he growls, the pitch of his voice noticeably lower. “I was just gonna mess with ya at first, tease you a bit ─ see how far I could back you into a corner,” Sukuna starts to reveal, his pace unrelenting. “Then I saw you showin’ off at the bar, fucking that bastard’s hand up without breaking a sweat. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.”

The two of you bury your faces in each other’s neck, your hands struggling to find a grip anywhere to provide relief from the mounting state of rapture. The knot in your abdomen growing tighter and tighter by the second.

“Had to watch that blond fuck get to you before I could, and then,” he growls, “you ran off with that white-haired freak of a sheriff this morning.” His arms coil around you with more force. “Don’t think I’m not aware these marks are from him.”

“’Kuna, please,” you whimper into his collar.

“That’s right, tell the world who you belong to ─ who’s ruining you,” Sukuna’s laugh mixes with deep, groaning exhales. “Fuck, you feel so good wrapped around my fat cock. You better be proud of yourself for what you’re doing to me.”

You cry out his name a dozen more times as he ravishes you, no sooner reaching the plateau of an ecstasy that unravels every fiber of your being. Your only thoughts now are of the man beneath you, drunk off his cock now shooting thick ropes of cum deep inside you.

The stimulation gets to be too much that you feel the overwhelming desire to bite down on his neck. Sukuna revels in this, spilling out every last drop he can manage until it overflows from within you and around the base of him.

You relinquish your hold on him, allowing your body to slump against his. “You’re mine now,” Sukuna declares with your name following his words. He moves one hand up and down your back, reminding you of his softer side, all before flipping your positions, still nestled within your body.

“Suku–“ You’re cut short by his lips pressing against yours in a warm embrace.

He kisses every tear down your face, and even the drool that trails the sides of your mouth before returning to your lips. Amongst everything else, you can still taste yourself on his tongue, paired perfectly with his own like seasoning on the finest of meals.

“Did you think we were done?” One hand moves to hook the backing of your knee, lifting it up to grant him better access. “I said I’d take good care of you, and all you had to do was submit your trust to me.”

You might’ve just created a monster without realizing.

“Take every bit of me now… you’ve earned it.”

You have no memory of when sleep overtook you. Sunlight peeks through the curtains now, illuminating the cabin in warm, rich tones. Your body, while sore and aching, feels renewed in all aspects ─ mind, body, and soul.

Sukuna’s arm is wrapped around your waist, with his other acting as a pillow beneath your head. Feeling you stirring, his eyes flutter open, glaring at you with his own tired expression.

“Mornin’, dove,” he greets, voice thick with sleep.

You stretch in his arms, moaning slightly as you wiggle closer for comfort and warmth. Sukuna smiles against your forehead, tightening his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll fly away if he lets go. It’s fine for now. After all, you made your choice to give in and it’s one you don’t regret.

He may joke about “fucking the brat out of you”, but let’s face it ─ Sukuna had plenty of frustrations of his own to get out. Now, you get to experience his softer side. While Sukuna will never admit he has one, he is glad you’re here and wants to keep it that way.

After another bout of sleep, he prepares a nice, fulfilling breakfast for you. It’s quiet as the two of you eat, both knowing full well you weren’t going to be staying for another night.

The fact remains that Sukuna has some unfinished business to attend to, and you yourself must return Clementine to Kento before making any lifechanging decisions in your journey of life.

On your way out the door, Sukuna grabs your wrist, spinning you back and up against the door. His knee wedges between your legs, one hand holding your jaw up for him to claim your lips in a fervent kiss goodbye.

“Come back to me soon, dove. I’m not finished with you.” He smiles, but it lacks the malicious intent he held earlier.

You think.

“See you around, cowboy.” You tap the back of your hand to his chest when he releases you, walking off from the porch and over to the pasture. “Oh, and by the way,” you call out from over your shoulder, “I give you five stars for your excellent service.” You wink, licking your lips.

Sukuna smirks from afar, remaining by his doorstep until you’re nothing but a shadow in the distance. His eyes pan over in the direction of his cellar, eager to pass the time until your hopeful return.

…but will you?

☆ Notes: I got stuck on this for a while during my writing slump as I’ve come to realize I’m not all that big on smut writing, tbh. It’s not something I feel confident with, nor is it something I actively seek out to read.

But god, writing Sukuna was a BLAST and a nice start for me cause I have several ideas I want to do for him in the future <3 I hope you guys enjoyed how I wrote him though; I tried to balance all my favorite aspects his personality and my own little headcanons.

Also had to throw in my own choso & yuki cowboy headcanons… originally I was gonna have choso working in the office with shoko, but I ship him with yuki hard and really wanted to include them one way or another in the series. blood manip just screams doctor AUs to me, and I think he’d be an awesome vet or peds doctor!!

For all the red dead 2 players though… do you recognize what house we’re in? :3

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk au #cowboy!au #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jjk smut #choso kamo #shoko ieiri #ryomen sukuna

[kakapim]

Shinichi angst is so damn good. He's in his own body but it doesn't feel like himself. His life is "dead" even though he's alive. When he comes back he will never go back to his old self. He can go back to his body but his life will never be quite the same (for better or worse)

He was just a 17 kid who had dreams ambitions friends he had to "abandon". Imagine putting up an act 24/7 and not being truly able to say the things you actually want to. And yet- this false identity of his started to blend in with his "authentic" self.

He will have to "kill" Conan like he did with himself eventually. Like I know this this is the whole point of his character but I feel like it's easy to forget due to everything going on, and every so often I'm reminded of this and go bonkers over it. Does anyone get me 😭

#detective conan #something something about how awful it is that the bad things of life change us fundamentally. ever and always. time is always foward and we #cannot go back no matter how much we want to. but life isnt going to end over that. we gotta keep going too; and perhaps that change will #lead us to good things #man i should sleep already. it is 5 am rn lol #i expect to wake up from this philosophy induced post and cringe at it later lmao #shinichi kudo #my posts #detco #also yes shinichi trans allegory slay

[vintageaustin]

goodbye kiss

austin butler x reader.

summeray: the reader and austin meet again, and spend one night together

warnings: angst cussing alchol depresion pregnancy cheating mention of sex not acteul sex tho

authors note: i personally really love this and i hope you guys do as well, enjoy kids, there are so many songs combined into this song let me know if you can find them!!

Massive thanks to @austinbutlerslovers and @elvismylove04 for the help🩷

It was Friday night, and like usually, you felt alone. You didn´t mind feeling alone, but... there was something about being so lonely that you didn´t even notice you were crying till now. The road was long, sure, and you tried to have fun in the meantime.

So even though it was a whopping 57 degrees in Vegas, you decided to go out and maybe look for someone who was just as damaged as you are. You liked taking a walk on the wild side. It made you feel alive, and feeling alive was better than feeling nothing at all.

Your heart broke with every step you took. You had never really been in love, you thought as you wandered the streets of Las Vegas, except for that one boy. You were hoping that at the gates they´d tell you that he was yours. He was born in August. You just met him too soon.

As you got lost in your thoughts, you bumped into someone. I'm so sorry I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking, you said softly. The stranger chuckled, and you, on the other hand, still hadn´t looked up. "It´s okay." He laughed gently. That voice that laugh, you recognized it. 

"A-austin, you whispered as you looked up. There he was standing in front of you, but something was different; it was like the light faded from his eyes. He wasn´t doing okay, and well, neither were you."W-what are you doing here? You stuttered, and he smiled softly looking.

Down at you, ¨I was looking for you" he whispered.

You looked at him a bit, taken aback. "For me?" you asked, kind of confused. To be fair, you and Austin broke up a while ago. Though you never stopped loving one another, you never really talked again after you broke up. "You're dad, he, uh, he called me." You looked at Austin and turned around, walking away.

"You´re dad!?" The little voice in your head was screaming. You hadn´t talked to your parents in ages, and now they send your ex-boyfriend over to check up on you??. How sick is that!? Your thoughts got interrupted as Austin called you multiple times, "Angel!? Wait up, cmon, let me explain!" he said. And you shook your head. "I don't wanna hear it aus, you either don´t mention them and we have a fun night and forget about this tomorrow, or I leave," you said, kind of cold and huffed. 

Looking at those striking blue eyes, Austin chuckled and nodded. "Wanna get drunk in my hotel room then?" You smiled softly and nodded as he grabbed your hand and started running down the street to the corner store. The two of you got a cheap bottle of vodka and whiskey. Then make your way back to his hotel room.

And you couldn´t help but think maybe the two of you lived in silence for too long. You were broken, and he ran allong like he was supposed to, and maybe the days the two of you had were gone, rock and roll sent the two of you insane back then... You couldn't help but wonder if it would do that again.

You got snapped out of your thoughts as Austin spoke up. "Do you want a drink?" he asked as he took a hold of your waist gently. You nodded and smiled. I'd love to" hear you whisper as Austin leaned closer and smiled. "I got you," he chuckled, kissing your cheek. He went over to the mini bar and poured the both of you a shot. As you got half way through the first bottle,.

You and Austin were talking about your lives now and reminiscing about the good old days. Those 20 minutes felt like forever, but you learned a lot about him. You learned he had a girlfriend, yet he remembered the day he wrote "mine" on your upper thigh so well.

This night was doomed from the start; you shouldn´t be here; he was taken, and this was wrong; no words could save this; he was drunk, and you were pissed. You sighed softly and got up. You walked over to the door and leaned against it. "I should go." You said soft enough that he could tell that you were hurt. As you looked up, he was walking over to you. "Angel," he said barely in a whisper as he looked into your soul with those striking blue eyes.

He made you look up at him as he took a hold of your chin. "Don't leave," he said barely in a whisper. "I just got my angel back,” he mumbled as his eyes fell down on your lips, and he started leaning in closer and closer until you felt his soft lips on yours. The kiss was rough but sweet. Was this your goodbye kiss? You thought to yourself.

One night, after that, you go your way, and I´ll go my way, you said, and Austin nodded and picked you up. Kissing you again, he laid you down on the bed. He was so gentle with you, and the both of you were so drunk. You knew it was wrong, and so did he, but you loved him, and he loved you.

So one thing led to another, and you woke up in Austin in his arms the next morning. You looked around and sighed softly. "Shit" you muttered and looked over at Austin, who was sleeping peacefully. You got up carefully and took a quick shower before getting your clothes back on. 

You wrote him one last note before you grabbed your stuff and left his hotel. "I hope someday we´ll meet again—forever, your angel." that´s what she wrote.

He tried calling you; he tried finding your apartment, but there was no luck.

You knew one day you'd meet again because, a month after you slept together, you found out you were pregnant.

#austin butler #austin butler imagine #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #elvis presley #elvis movie #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis fic #austin butler one shot #austin butler fic #austin butler fanfic #austin butler imagines #austin butler smut #austin butler x

[seaslugfanclub]

Hi I'm a big fan of yours and I really enjoy the villains and y/n interactions. Btw I want to ask what made frollo develop feelings for y/n.

Do Judges dream of park attendants?

(Frollo x Reader)

TW: description of Panic attacks

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Out of all the Disney villains brought to life by Disney, Frollo is having the hardest time. All of his beliefs, everything he had sacrificed in his life have been destroyed in an instant the moment he opened his eyes in this Infernal theme park

Frollo doesn’t actually believe he’s alive anymore, that the Disney parks is his divine punishment

Though deserved, everywhere he goes he’s ostracized and humiliated. His fellow villains love to single him out to needle him, especially Hades.

He’s so tight that if you shoved a piece of coal up his ass, two weeks later you’d get a diamond

It’s obvious in the film that his mental psyche is as fragile as communion wafers, and this has been amplified to 100 now that he’s in a completely unrecognizable reality.

He hasn’t slept in months, barley eaten (he excuses this as religious fasting) and rarely talks to others

The only person who tried to regularly interact with Frollo is that scrappy park attendant, (Y/N)…

Usually it’s quick conversations, greetings and goodbyes, “how are ya?”s, and sometimes brief smiles. Something that both disgusts and confuses Frollo, a strange prickling feeling in his cheeks whenever he makes eye contact with (Y/N)

Panic attacks have become a regular occurrence for Frollo, usually when the sensory nightmare of Disney parks get to much for him, although he usually isolates himself to avoid being so vulnerable

Most of the time Frollo’s able to keep his emotions in check until he’s alone, so most of his panic attacks come out at night

One night his episodes were really, really bad, everything Frollo had tried to hold in finally boiled over, leaving the ex-judge crumbled to the ground, frozen in terror.

He didn’t need a fireplace to feel the licks of flames on his skin, and no matter how hard he clenched his hands over his ears, Frollo couldn’t stop the chanting echoing in his head.

It felt like a lead weight was on his chest, and dark spots were crawling into his vision, threatening to pass out

Frollo was too lost in his own head, mumbling prayers to himself as the crackling of fire and chanting drowned out all sounds, even the light creaking of his bedroom door opening…

“Pr- preces meæ non sunt.. dignæ Sed- sed tu bonus fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne…. Pie Iesu Domine,Dona ipse requiem…. Preces meæ non—”

“Frollo?”

The feeling of a hand resting on his head broke Frollo out of his mumbling. Through blurry vision the ex-judge made out a figure crouching above him, their hand slowly petting his hair. The sensation of soft fingers on his hair felt grounding, with each stroke the flames began to lull…. Has an angel finally come to end his misery?

“Frollo? Are you alright?

The black spots around his vision began to subside, as his teary eyes cleared enough to see the worried face of (Y/N), the young park attendant. At any other point in time, Frollo would’ve flinched away from their touch, cursing them out for having the gall to lay their filthy hands on a holy man, but all of his senses had failed him, and their touch had quelled the flames and disembodied chanting around him.

Starving for any source of familiarity, Frollos trembling hands reached to clutch onto (Y/N)’s pants,

“Je ne peux plus faire ça— Je—”

“Frollo, please- I can’t understand you…” (Y/N) pleaded, at a loss at what to do with the pathetic man before them.

(Y/N) was finishing their shift for the evening, their final task was to check on each villain to make sure they were set for night. They were walking down the hall to check on Sher Khan when they heard a thump behind Claude Frollos door, wall muffling the sound of weeping. Knocking on the door brought to response, and worried that the old man might’ve actually fallen and couldn’t get up, (Y/N) slowly cracked open the door.

Instead of being immediately kicked out by the ex-judge, French curses thrown at them— they found Frollo slumped against his bed, mumbling latin to himself, his eyes a thousand miles away.

(Y/N) was at a loss, they had never seen Frollo this desperate, this deep into despair. Even when they watched the “Hunchback of Notre Dame” and his song “Hellfire” was he this vunerable. This was unfamiliar territory.

But panic attacks were familiar, especially with how to deal with them.

“Frollo? You’re alright… Your minds just working against you right now.” (Y/N) hummed, continuing to pet Frollos silver hair,

“Here, I’ll be right back,” gently removing Frollos hands, (Y/N) grabbed a spare glass from his nightstand before rushing into the bathroom. Turning on the sink faucet, they filled the glass with cold water then crouched below the sink to open the drawers. They grabbed neatly folded a face towel, a Mickey Mouse insignia embroidered in the corner— (Y/N) wet the towel, making sure that it was thoroughly soaked then grabbed the glass, walking back into Frollos room, the man still on the floor, pale face just watching (Y/N).

“Try to drink something, I know you might feel nauseous, but I promise this helps,” They offered the glass to Frollo, who continued to just stare at (Y/N). After a few seconds between them, He hesitantly reached out and took the water with shaking hands.

As he began to take small sips, the cold water cooled his throat, and he could feel the water cool his insides as he swallowed. The flames were dowsed.

“It’s already 11, you must be exhausted… I think it’s best to try and sleep. Don’t even worry about changing, just get comfortable. I always feel better when I lie down.”

Helping him up, they watched patiently as Frollo collapsed into his bed, not even bothering to pull up the sheets. As he lay on his back, he finally closed his eyes, only for them to open again when (Y/N) lifted his bangs to place the cold wash-cloth on his forehead. His pale cheeks prickling again at the feather light touch of (Y/N) fingers and the cooling sensation of the cloth on his skin.

“Uh— whenever I get an attack, anything cold helps me bring myself back to reality.. and uh, and a wet washrag stays cool for a while, I like to wash my face with it to feel refreshed.” (Y/N) offered quietly, having a difficult time maintaining eye contact with Frollo.

Frollo was at a loss, never— never has he been the subject of such care from another human before, not as a boy, not from the church, not even from his lord. How could he even react to this? It was all to much.

He was tired, mentally and physically, darkness beginning to overtake his vision again, but this time from pure exhaustion.

Risking it a final time, (Y/N) gave Frollos hair one last pet, “I’ll find a way to take you off schedule for the rest of the week, I wish I could get you months off… I’m sorry. But for now, get some rest ok?”

With a final smile, they turned to resume their rounds, already late to check up on the others, but before they could step away from the bed, a hand grasped their arm, stopping them.

Turning back around, they looked down at Frollos pleading face, an almost manic look in his eyes.

“Stay… please… at least until I’ve fallen asleep..”

With wide eyes, (Y/N) looked down at him shocked, before sighing.

“Of course.. try to rest now.” They relented, taking a seat at the foot of Frollos bed. The others could wait.

Silence fell over the two, (Y/N) waiting patiently as a good 15 passed. Just when they thought he had fallen asleep a whisper escaped him,

“mon ange..”

And with that, sleep overtook Claude, no longer able to fight off his exhaustion. Warmth enveloping him as he dreamt of feather light touches and scrappy park attendants.

————————————————————————

Sorry if this feels forced or too OOC 😅, I just love Frollo so much, and taking care of others is my love language. When I tell you I need this man whimpering—

Translations:

“Pr- preces meæ non sunt.. dignæ Sed- sed tu bonus fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne…. Pie Iesu Domine,Dona ipse requiem…. Preces meæ non”:

My prayers are worthless, Yet, good Lord, graciously grant that I be not burned up by the everlasting fire. Lord, all-pitying, Jesus blest, Grant myself Thine eternal rest.

“Je ne peux plus faire ça— Je—“:

I can’t do this anymore—I can’t—

“mon ange..”:

My angel..

#disney villains #disney imagine #disney x reader #judge claude frollo #claude frollo #frollo #the hunchback of notre dame #frollo x reader #that old man

[middlingmay]

German!Gale AU Part 2

Part 2 of my headcanons for my German!Gale AU. We deal with language barriers, the resistance, and an opportunity for Gale.

So, now Gale has a fugitive American airman on his hands, and he's not quite sure what to do with it. But he knows, he can feel that this is finally his time to do something rather than enabling others. This is his chance to help someone. That need that always burned in his core to help others, that his dad regularly scolded and beat out of him whenever Gale couldn't quite keep it down in his presence? Well, it was back with a vengeance, and Gale didn't think he was ever going to be able to put it out.

And it's completely inappropriate. There are more important matters at hand, literally life or death, but when he unearths John from the hay cart and ushers him inside, Gale can't help but be bewildered by the sheer amount of hay that can get stuck inside dark curls.

"You look ridiculous," he says with the patchy English he knows. "Like der Löwenzahn."

And John might not know a lick of German beyond the basics the brass drilled into him, but he knows when he's being judged. And if he weren't in so much pain he might be of a mind to get pissy about it, but he can feel a whole hell of a lot now the adrenaline's wearing off.

He tries to scrub a hand through his hair but winces and curses and bites on his lip hard.

"Stay, no," Gale shakes his head and gestures with his hand and John gets the point. "Mein Vater..."

The idea of his father getting his hands on John, and the prize he would be for the Nazi's makes Gale want to vomit.

John gets it and tries to stand. "Got it. Thanks. Just point me to safety and I'll be on my way."

And Gale rolls his eyes because he'd heard American's were dramatic, but trying to embark on a solo expedition across enemy territory is a bit much.

So he pushed John back into his chair.

"Ich habe..." he gesticulates, searching for the words, "time. To fix." He points at John's face.

And so he does, all whilst trying to think of a plan - or a better one that the mad idea that occurred to him almost as soon as John showed up.

He gently cleans the blood of John's face, John who doesn't look away form him once even when Gale hits a particularly sore spot around his eye. And when he's done Gale notices that he's uncovered a wild amount of freckles and doesn't notice he's smiling.

When John asks why, Gale struggles to find the words. "You look, like himmel," Gale points up, meaning the sky. "At night. All spotty."

And John laughs barking, tearing his face from Gale's grip and grins at him. "Yeah, fuck you too."

And he gives John some warm water and a cloth and some privacy. He also fetches him some clothes, a white undershirt and a grey sweater and dark grey trousers, and Gale strives to ignore how well they fit him.

He makes a plan to dispose of John's soiled clothes, but when he goes to take John's jacket - a disgusting, perhaps-it-used-to-be-white, utterly terrible sheepskin thing, John snatches it off him and shoves it on over his fresh clothes.

Gale wrinkles his nose and looks at John like he's stupid and gestures at the patches signifying the US Air Force. And John might blush, but still refuses until Gale hands him a short black overcoat, too.

So Gale ushers them outside, and John manages to stay quiet until Gale gets into a beat up old car. John just leans down to the window.

"What's the plan, Buck?"

And Gale wants to tell him everything - about the resistance, about his father, about his need to do something - but he can't. Not here. So he says, "To keep you alive."

And that does the trick, until they start to get closer to town and John's leg bounces up and down until it's driving Gale crazy and he has to put his hand over to settle it, and miraculously, it does.

"I have friends," he says as he drives. "Der Widerstand, yes?"

No. John just looks at him confused.

"They... no Nazis, ja? They...make trouble for Nazis."

And John's face clears like the summer sky and he slumps back into his seat.

"Are you fucking tellin' me, that of all the farms I could have stumbled upon, I find one part of the goddamn resistance?!"

But Gale hushes him fiercely, paranoid, and corrects him. "Not farm. Not father. Just...me."

And John mutters something about crazy people and no appreciation for my lucky jacket, and follows on Gale's heel when he reaches their destination and deems it safe for them to get out the car.

It's only a few feet to the non-descript door, but they feel like the longest chasm John's had to cross.

A square hatch opens and Gale mutters a word and he's yanking Gale inside.

And a whole bunch of arguing follows and someone shoves Gale and John is up in that fucker's grill before he knows what he's about, and exhausted or not, he drops that sucker on his ass with a busted nose so fast, and the place is silent.

"Now I don't know what you're hollerin' about, but if someone wants to get me back to friendly territory, well. That'd be swell."

Gale gestures at him to take off the overcoat, and the other guys in the room see his air force sheepskin and it's like someone cuts a puppet's strings. Everyone relaxes and the guy on the floor looks embarrassed and if Gale kicks him a little as he walks past them, well. John wasn't gonna snitch.

So they come up with a plan to smuggle John out, and he notices Gale is getting further and further way from him, and John digs his heels in and the guy trying to lead him away jerks back.

"Where are you going?" John says to Gale. "He's coming with me."

And the blood rushes from Gale's face but everyone else seems ecstatic at the idea.

"I can't leave you here, Gale. Those Nazi's will figure out you helped me eventually. So just, come with me."

And Gale hears the others thrilled at having a source connected to the Allied forces: the help they could offer, the resources. And Gale trembles, thinking of all those times he'd thought of escaping his father, and all those times he really wanted to help people, and how he just couldn't, being stuck here.

But he didn't want to swap one prison for another.

"Your - Luftwaffe. They will prison me?"

And John looks angry at the idea and vows, "No they fucking won't," and Karl, the leader of their local resistance group, scribbles a note in the code he used that Gale didn't understand and thrust it into Gale's hand."

"Give this to the commanding officer. It will keep you safe."

And that evening, Gale finds himself in the back of a truck, tucked against American pilot John Egan's side, with no idea of what was ahead of him. He was terrified, and excited, and finally felt like he was where he was supposed to be.

#german!gale #mota #clegan #gale cleven #john egan #buck x bucky #masters of the air #headcanon #alternative universe