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calliesmemes · 3 months

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ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED QUOTES FROM TUMBLR TEXTPOSTS, X (formerly known as twitter) POSTS, TIKTOK, MEMES, AND OTHER SOURCES AROUND THE INTERNET

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

“ Currently considering becoming a bother and a nuisance, maybe even a menace or a rascal. ”

“ Hungry? Eat the government. ”

“ Yes, I wanna fuck after every argument. ”

“ Silence, you uneducated peanut! ”

“ They should invent a being alive that isn’t so difficult. ”

“ Women have to think I’m hot or none of this matters. ”

“ Due to personal reasons I will be named an enemy of the state. ”

“ Being overdressed is a myth made up by people who didn’t want you to have fun and be sexy. ”

“ What even are daddy issues? Just traumatize your father back. ”

“ I LOVE complaining! You can’t take that away from me! ”

“ I went to the silly goose convention and they all knew you. ”

“ I’m simultaneously ‘I’m tired of this grandpa’ and ‘that’s too damn bad!’ ”

“ The word ew coming out of a pretty girl’s mouth holds so much power … I think that it can tear apart nations. ”

“ Someone made fun of my shoes and the whole time I just thought of ways to push them out the window. ”

“ If you’re short, simply get taller. ”

“ I better think twice? Buddy I don’t even think once. ”

“ My off putting looks, awkward demeanor, and strange behavior have captivated you. ”

“ There’s something deeply, fundamentally wrong with you. Can we kiss? ”

“ You are a fool. When you walk, clown music plays. ”

“ I mean yeah he’s evil and all but what if I were his favorite? ”

“ I really do hate thinking. ”

“ In my defense, I simply do not vibe with the law. ”

“ I’ve done nothing wrong. Except all the atrocities. Besides that, I’m innocent. ”

“ Sorry I couldn’t hear you over my internal monologue. ”

“ Of course you have white hair and trauma. ”

“ So apparently the bad vibes I’ve been feeling are actually ‘severe psychological distress’. ”

“ Stop calling me a bad person just because I’m orchestrating your downfall! ”

“ The more lip gloss I collect the longer I live. ”

“ Sorry that I am obsessed with you in the unhealthiest way possible. As if it's my fault ”

“ The multiple failed assassination attempts against me have helped build both character and self esteem. ”

“ I could be your loser boyfriend. Do you ever think about that? ”

“ Accidentally went and got myself killed yesterday, but god wont let me die so I’m back ”

“ What do you mean napping isn't a good coping mechanism? What do you mean my problems are still here? ”

“ Academic validation is required for my sanity. ”

“ RIP to everyone killed by the gods for hubris but I’m different and better. Maybe even better than the gods. ”

“ Researching the stages of grief to see if I can get them finished in ten minutes tops. ”

“ My parents were like I’m gonna make a child that is so beyond help. ”

“ It’s not easy to admit when you’re wrong, and that’s why I won’t do it. ”

“ Why can’t this family ever have a funky good time? ”

“ How do I show people that I’m more than my unethical career choice? ”

“ I fucked my way into this mess, and I’ll fuck my way out. ”

“ You look so biteable today. ”

“ Why am I suffering? I have so many correct opinions and takes. ”

“ I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST THAT I CANNOT GO BACK TO! anyways ”

“ Challenging authority, angering gods. The family business. ”

“ Third base is me telling you about my father. ”

“ Hey girl. Plagued by terrifying visions? ”

“ Got caught giving a fuck. Embarrassing. ”

“ I didn’t ‘miss’ the red flags; I saw them and thought that they looked sexy. ”

“ Do my dark circles and deteriorating health make me look hot? ”

“ I get my news from the only reliable source, cryptic symbolism in my dreams. ”

“ Another day of being a bisexual disaster. ”

“ I’m going to let myself be a little unhinged today, as a treat. ”

“ Some of you act like murder is such a big deal. ”

“ You wanna hunt me for sport so bad that it makes you look stupid. ”

“ You’re not a girlboss unless you’ve killed someone. ”

“ It’s so weird how no one ever has correct opinions about things except for me. ”

“ Hello, my love — I mean, my rival ”

“ No one is calling me baby and it’s outrageous I can’t believe it. ”

“ No talking stage. Mutual obsession and you see god in my eyes or nothing. ”

“ I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOOKUP CULTURE DIE IN MY ARMS ”

“ Yes baby your emotional walls are high and impenetrable can we kiss now? ”

“ Affection is disgusting. Drown me in it. ”

“ I am gatekeeping my respect from you. ”

“ Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions. ”

“ I am equal parts fuck around and find out and please don’t yell at me I’ll cry. ”

“ Short legs, big butt. I’m a corgi. ”

“ Fuck being the bigger person; I’m going to start biting people. ”

“ Well that wasn’t very slay of you! ”

“ May I please get a crumb of affection? ”

“ I crave power! Please don’t yell, though; I’m sensitive. ”

“ You call it a near death experience; I call it a vibe check from God. ”

“ Here are some scissors. Now cut it out. ”

“ Might commit a little tomfoolery, maybe even some shenanigans. ”

“ All these flavors, and you choose to be salty. ”

“ How can I live, laugh, love in these conditions? ”

“ What if I said ‘to be honest’ but then lied? ”

“ I'm financially at a stage where I understand why people do fraud. ”

“ Yes I may be evil and morally corrupt, but I’m also incredibly beautiful and I think that makes up for it honestly. ”

“ Debates are stupid. Why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me? ”

“ I forget but I do NOT forgive.. I'm just walking around hating bitches can't remember why ”

“ Ding dong your opinion is wrong! ”

“ I’m coming for your kneecaps. ”

“ You dropped your nose you fucking clown. ”

“ Are you a fire alarm? ‘Cause you are really fucking loud and annoying. ”

“ Call me an escalator, because I let people down. ”

“ I love me a good lesbian scandal! ”

“ If you can’t run away from your problems, you’re not running fast enough. ”

“ Everything I want to do is illegal. ”

“ Don’t make me hit your ankle with my Barbie scooter! ”

“ I tell gay jokes because I am a gay joke. ”

“ Fuck! I dropped my mental stability! ”

#askbox meme #askbox prompt #rp ask meme #ask box #roleplay sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay prompts #roleplay sentence starters #* sentence meme

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tip-top-cloud-surfer · 5 months

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The Danger Zone (Part 13) - Hangman

Pairing: Hangman / Fem!Bradshaw!Reader | OC

Word Count: 3.9k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ ONLY.

Warnings: Unplanned Pregnancy; Military Inaccuracies; Daddy and Mommy Issues Galore; Arguments; Crying; Angst with a Dash of Despair; Use of "You," No Use of Y/N, No Set Physical Description

Summary: You show Jake the envelope and set off a bomb in your relationship.

Series Master List

Master List

A.N. It's Chapter 13 y'all. What else did you expect?

Jake returned home after work, expecting you to be up and walking around. But when you didn’t call out to him as he shut the door behind him, he went looking for you.

Jake walked further into your shared apartment and paused when he saw you sprawled out on the couch, asleep with the small fan blowing cool air straight onto your face. You were still wearing the clothes that you wore to work that morning.

He stopped in front of you, taking a moment for himself. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say to you about the promotion. But now that he was home and you were asleep meant that he had more time to think over those words.

Because it was not going to be an easy discussion.

Telling you about what the promotion meant for the next few months was not a conversation that he even wanted to think about. The absolute last thing that he wanted to do was stress you out. And the second that you started to look upset or if you started to cry, he’d crumble into dust. He couldn’t think about your broken expression. He couldn’t. It’d haunt him for the rest of his days.

So, he decided to start with the easier audience.

“I got promoted today, little one,” he began softly, keeping his voice low as he squatted down in front of your bump. “You shouldn’t be surprised. It was overdue, actually.” The joking smile slipped from his lips as he glanced up at your peaceful sleeping expression. “But there’s a risk that I won’t be here when you finally arrive in a few months. There was always a risk but now it got a little bigger.”

Jake bit his lip and looked down at the floor, trying to keep his own fears and emotions stable. He deserved the promotion he got. He wanted it. He craved it. He earned it.

But the timing couldn’t have been more shitty.

“How do you think your mom would take the news?” he whispered to your bump, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs. “Not well, right?” After a moment of silence, he nodded and added, “Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”

Jake turned to look up at your face, his heart stabbed by the image of how calm and rested you looked laying there. He should have been celebrating. He was the first to get promoted among the Dagger Squad. Cyclone seemed to think that he had a long and successful career in the Navy ahead of him.

But why did it have to come at the cost of the biggest moments of his personal life? Ones that he would not be able to get back if he missed them.

“Let’s just keep it between us for right now,” Jake whispered to your bump. “I'll break it to your mom slowly, okay?”

Standing up, Jake leaned over and slowly removed your shoes in an effort to make you more comfortable. There wasn’t much else that he could do without moving you and risking waking you up. So, he got up, changed, and moved to start making dinner. He knew that you would probably be starving when you woke up.

Jake was in the middle of stirring the sauce when he heard you move. Looking over his shoulder at you, Jake removed the pan from the heat and walked over to you as you sat up, rubbing your eyes tiredly. Jake sat on the coffee table in front of you as you glanced out the window, noting the setting sun.

“What time is it?” you yawned.

“Not too late. I’m making dinner,” Jake replied, causing you to smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock, apparently,” you mused, sitting up more. “My back’s going to kill me in a few hours, I know it.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No, it’s fine. I think I’ll just shower,” you stated, moving to get up.

Jake offered you his hands and you let him help you up. Pressing a kiss to his lips, you turned and headed for the bathroom. You returned a few minutes later, dressed in one of his shirts and a loose pair of shorts, as Jake was placing a healthy portion of food on a plate for you.

“Thank you,” you told him softly as he handed you a fork. “How was work?”

“Fine,” he responded, his voice low.

“Just fine?” you asked, dropping your voice low in an attempt to match his own. “You know that makes me think that something bad happened.”

“Well, something did happen,” Jake stated, causing you to set down your fork. When you looked up at him expectantly, he continued, “I got promoted. You’re looking at Lieutenant Commander Seresin.”

“Oh, Jake,” you praised, getting up from your seat. Walking around the island, you pulled him in for a tight hug. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“You deserve it. You’re an amazing aviator,” you replied, releasing him from your hug. You pressed a loving kiss to his lips before smiling up at him. “I’m so proud of you.”

He nodded and gave you another kiss, lingering, and promising more later before pulling back. Resting his forehead against your own, he cupped your bump, gently rubbing his hands over your belly.

As if it was going to be the last perfect moment that the three of you were going to share.

“Thank you.”

You retook your seat and the two of you chatted some more. You were in the middle of telling him about the crazy lady who called your office earlier when you remembered the weird envelope.

“And something came in the mail,” you stated, getting up again. Jake watched you curiously, a little confused. You grabbed the blue envelope and returned to the island, holding it out for Jake to take. “It’s from your mom, I think.”

The sharp clatter of Jake’s fork against his plate caused you to wince.

Studying Jake’s expression, you frowned. Your boyfriend’s warm and comfortable demeanor was gone in a flash and now he was staring at the envelope in your hand like it was a stick of dynamite that he only had three seconds to diffuse before it blew up in both of your faces.

“Jake?”

“I’ll take it,” Jake replied firmly, taking the envelope from your grip.

You watched as he walked around and tossed it into the trash, ignoring your incredulous expression. He closed the trash can and returned to his seat, as if nothing ever happened.

“Jake,” you stated, a bit scolding with your tone. “What the hell?”

You were tired of just pretending like it didn’t bother you that he didn’t share anything about his past with you. You let it slide what felt like a thousand times in the name of keeping the peace and keeping Jake comfortable. Especially when he just shut down and acted out like this at the drop of a hat. Frankly, it scared you, how quickly he could just change.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Jake,” you stated more firmly as you walked to the trash can. “Why are you just throwing it out?”

“Just leave it,” Jake grunted, not looking up.

“Why?” you challenged him, opening the trash can.

“Just drop it,” Jake replied definitively, still not meeting your gaze.

“Jake, I’m not one of your ensigns. And you don’t get to order me around like one,” you snapped a bit, pulling the envelope out of the trash can. Tossing it onto the countertop in front of him, you stared Jake down. “Your mother sent you a card. Why is that causing you to shut down like this?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve got enough to worry about and I don’t want to stress you out about it.”

“Can you stop using kiddy gloves with me?” you growled, folding your arms over your chest. “I’m pregnant. And ever since we told everyone, people have treated me differently. Acting like I’m weak, like I’m going to fly off the handle, or have some massive medical episode if they have a serious conversation with me. Just tell me, Jake. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

“I’m not trying to treat you differently,” Jake defended himself. “There are just things that I don’t want to discuss.”

“Jake, we’ve pushed off this whole conversation for months now. And I would like to have it before the baby comes. And if not now, when?” you asked, him before pointing at the card in front of him. “Why is a little card causing your whole personality to change like this?”

“It hasn’t.”

“Then why can’t you even look at me right now?”

Jake turned to face you with an annoyed expression that made you grind your teeth together. The two of you had a bit of a staring contest before Jake sighed and looked away, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to fight about something so stupid and stress you out unnecessarily—“

“—You avoiding this conversation is unnecessarily stressing me out,” you interjected, causing Jake’s expression to sour again. “Every time I try to learn about your past, you shut down. A switch just flips in your head and you’re not you anymore. And that terrifies me, Jake.”

“It shouldn’t,” Jake insisted stubbornly.

“Well, it does,” you snapped back at him. “I mean, if our baby asks you about your parents in a few years, are you going to shut down then? Are you going to storm off? Are you going to yell at them?”

“That’s not fair,” Jake growled, turning back to you.

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s not. Don’t bring the baby into it.”

“Jake, the baby is the whole reason why we’re here,” you stated, causing his expression to shift again.

“So, you never would have actually wanted to be in a relationship with me if I didn’t get you pregnant?”

“That’s not what I said, Jake," you snapped back at him.

“Then what are you trying to say?” Jake asked, annoyed as he stood up. “That I wasn’t worth the trouble of telling your brother and Maverick that you’re your own person if I didn’t get you pregnant? That I was only worth it when you had to deal with me?”

“So you get to bring my family into this conversation but I had to learn your mother’s name from an envelope that you would have thrown out if I didn’t see it first?” you shot back at him. “And it’s not my fault that you and my brother and Mav had shit go down before I even moved to San Diego.”

“I’m not saying that it’s your fault,” Jake stressed. "But I'm getting really fucking tired of having to prove myself to them. Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough for them, would make me good enough for you in their eyes."

"What did they tell you?" you asked, frowning.

"Jesus Christ, what didn't they tell me? Your brother thinks I'm still going to walk out on you. That I'm going to be a shit father. Mav doesn't say anything but don't tell me that he doesn't have a plan to get rid of me," Jake stated, causing you to stare up at him with an expression like you didn't know what to do.

"I'll talk to them about it, Jake," you stated quietly, causing Jake to sigh and look away. "What?"

"Are you actually going to talk to them? Are you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you snapped, getting steadily annoyed.

“I’m just saying that your family isn’t perfect. And sometimes it feels like you need a reminder.”

“At least you know who my family is," you replied defensively. "I couldn’t tell you anything about your life prior to when my brother met you. And that’s weird, Jake!”

“Why do you care so much about it?” he pressed, causing your temper to flare up.

“Because we’re having a baby together! And you’re making me feel like I’m insane for asking you questions about your past!”

“There are things that you don’t want to talk about, and I respect your boundaries. Why can’t you respect that I don’t want to talk about my parents?” Jake demanded, turning away from you.

“Jake, I’m not asking for every little painful detail about your childhood. I’m just asking for an explanation for why you shut down like this when we talk about your family."

“Because my parents are assholes and I have no intention of talking to them ever again.”

“Why are you never going to talk to them again? Help me understand that, Jake,” you practically begged him for some kind of emotional depth. “I don’t understand, so help me, Jake. Because I would give a hell of a lot to have my parents back. What happened that made you feel this way? What happened that made you feel that cutting them out of your life was the only way to protect yourself?”

“I’m trying to protect you and our baby at this point,” Jake replied after a few moments.

“Why do we need protection from your parents?”

“Because they’re snobby assholes who would never consider you part of their family. And I know that you’ve built up this image of our kid having loving family on both sides and grandparents to spoil them, but that’s not going to happen. My family isn’t going to want anything to do with you or the baby regardless of anything that you do.” Jake shifted his weight on his feet before asking, “Is that a good enough explanation for why I don’t want to talk about my parents?”

“It’s a start,” you stated, causing Jake to scoff and shake his head, turning away from you.

“Is everything fair game now?” Jake muttered sarcastically, earning a glare from you.

“What have I ever kept from you, Jake?” you asked calmly, glaring over at him. "Really, what do you want me to tell you about?"

“Why’d you break off your engagement to Connor?” Jake asked bluntly, causing you to stare at him incredulously.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Jake?”

“No,” Jake returned, causing your temper to raise quickly again. “If you broke up with a guy that you were with, got engaged to, after five years together and your family seemed to love, adore, and respect the guy, what’s keeping you here with me? Besides the fact that I knocked you up.”

Grinding your teeth together, you took a breath to settle yourself. You turned back to Jake, who waited expectantly for your response. Your mind made up, you straightened, and stared him down.

“I broke up with Connor because he was an asshole who kept things from me because he felt that I didn’t deserve to know them, even though we were getting married, belittled me when I tried to call him out on it, and made me feel like shit because he knew that I loved him, and he took advantage of that to keep me there.” You paused for a moment, your lips wobbling a bit, before you added harshly, “But I’m really fucking glad that I learned from that mistake.”

Jake’s annoyed expression broke, but you didn’t stand around to watch it fall. Turning on your heel as tears started to gather in your eyes, you walked away from him. Grabbing your phone, purse, and keys, you moved to slip your shoes on as Jake walked over to you.

“Where are you going?”

“This is your apartment. So, I’m going to get some air.”

“You shouldn’t be driving when you’re upset," Jake insisted, a bit frantic as he gently reached for your arm.

“I can take care of myself, Jake,” you snapped, pulling your arm out of his grip.

“But you’re pregnant.”

“Congratulations, Seresin, you have eyes.”

“Wait—”

You turned and shot him a look that made his blood turn cold. Reaching for the doorknob, you yanked it open harshly and stepped out into the hallway.

“Don’t follow me.”

The door slammed shut behind you, causing Jake to wince and lower his head.

~~~~~

Maverick was sitting on his couch, watching a baseball game when his phone started to buzz. Rolling over, he raised an eyebrow when he saw that Jake was calling him. Answering it, he held his phone to his ear.

“Jake?”

“Mav,” Jake returned, his tone sounding off.

“Something wrong?” When Jake didn’t reply immediately, Maverick sat up, concerned, and alert. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

“No. We . . . we had a fight and she stormed off and she’s not answering my calls and I’m pretty sure that she never wants to see or talk to me ever again, but I need someone to go and look for her and make sure that she’s okay,” Jake rambled, starting to get more and more hysterical as he went on.

And Maverick only felt his concern grow when he heard the emotion in Jake’s voice. Hangman was never the type to panic. Maverick had seen other members of the Dagger Squad panic in the air and on the ground, even just for a few seconds, but never Hangman.

If Jake was freaking out, Maverick was going to freak out.

“And I didn’t know who else she would turn to and I didn’t even want to think about calling Rooster—”

“—No, I can handle it,” Maverick agreed, walking over to the door. Sliding on his jacket, Maverick adjusted the phone in his hand as he reached for his keys. “Did she say where she was going?”

“No.”

“What set her off in the first place?”

“We were talking about my family.”

Maverick knew that wasn’t the whole story and that Jake was probably avoiding saying specifics to keep Maverick on the phone, but he didn’t press it. You were out there somewhere, alone, upset, and pregnant and that was Maverick’s priority. He could deal with whatever set the whole situation off in the first place once you were found safe and sound.

“She took her car?”

“Yes.”

“What direction did she head in when she left?”

“She’s heading towards base or you or Rooster.”

“Alright, well . . .” Maverick trailed off when he saw your car pull into his driveway.

“What?”

“She’s here,” Maverick stated, hanging his keys up.

Sliding his jacket off his shoulders, Maverick paused for a moment, thinking about what else to say to Jake. Was Maverick shocked that the two of you had a fight that resulted in one of you storming off? No, not really. But he needed the facts. And he first and foremost needed to know that you were okay.

As did Jake.

“I’ll make sure that she and the baby are safe. You don’t have to worry about them here.”

“Thank you,” Jake croaked out quietly.

The two men stood on the line in silence, both knowing that there were more conversations to be had, but both also knowing that their priorities were elsewhere at the moment.

“I’ll call or text you if she’s ready to talk to you.”

“Alright,” was all Jake replied.

“Bye, Jake.”

Maverick hung up the phone and opened the door, taking a step out as you slowly walked down the path from the driveway. Tears had already dried on your cheeks and fresh ones appeared in your eyes when you saw Maverick waiting for you. After a moment, you broke down and Maverick rushed forward, gathering you in his arms and quickly leading you inside the house.

“Jake and I had a fight,” you cried as Maverick closed the door behind you.

“It’s going to be alright.”

~~~~~

Jake sat with just the kitchen light on, giving him just a little bit of light to see. Looking at the blue envelope on the coffee table with his mother’s scrawl written on it, Jake slowly picked it up. Ripping the envelope open, Jake pulled out a simple card like the ones that people would buy in a store.

It was a simple card that just helped destroy your relationship.

Opening the card, Jake paused when he saw the cartoon baby on the left side of the card. With his heart beating harder in his chest, Jake turned to read the paragraphs that his mother wrote to him.

Jake,

I hope that this card finds you somehow, unlike my other messages. I miss you, sweetheart, and hope that you’re being safe flying around and not pushing limits like you usually do. Though I guess you get that from your father. He asks about you still. I know that the two of you have your differences, but maybe this new phase of life that you’re entering will change your perspective a little bit.

I heard that you’re having a baby with a girl out in California. I hope that everything’s going well with her and that she and the baby are healthy. And that you’re getting married, which is the right thing to do. And I hope that the two of you love each other and your child with everything in your hearts.

I’d love to meet her, Jake. And give her a beautiful gift. She’s the mother of my grandbaby and if you love her, I love her too, honey. You’re going to be a wonderful father. I hope you have a strong, sweet little boy to carry on the Seresin name.

I haven’t told your father about what I heard, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t heard it. Please, honey, call me. The number’s the same. I just want to talk.

Love,

Mom

Jake set the card down and held his head in his hands for a moment. His mind was racing and his hands were starting to shake. There was too much going on and he had control over too little of it for him to feel calm and collected. He felt like the world was spinning and he was just getting thrown around.

Angrily tossing the card away, Jake got to his feet and stormed off, heading down the hall to his bedroom. But when he stepped inside and saw your pregnancy pillow there, mocking him, a batch of hot, frustrated tears slipped down his cheeks.

Dropping to his knees, Jake slammed his fist onto the carpeted floor, before holding his head in his hands and breaking down.

~~~~~

You laid on your side in Maverick’s spare bedroom, staring out the window. You were in no emotional state to go back to see Jake and talk about your fight and you didn’t want to make it worse. Maverick told you to stay as long as you needed, and you were taking him up on his offer. You told him not to tell anyone else about what happened for now and he agreed. And after giving you some dinner and a thousand pillows, Maverick left you alone with your thoughts.

Looking out the window, you rubbed your hand down your bump, hoping that you’d at least feel your baby move tonight. But when they didn’t move like normal, you couldn’t help the choked sob that escaped your lips nor the tears down your cheeks.

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ladylokilaufeyson5 · 1 month

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Where The Shadows Dance - The Bodyguard (ii)

Bodyguard!Azriel x AutumnDaughter!Reader

CHAPTER II: The Bodyguard

SUMMARY: The Night Court must decide who shall remain to protect the Daughter of Autumn, while also getting to know the princess with a fiery soul.

WARNINGS: More misogyny! yay! mentions of alcohol, tw: beron (we all hate him its ok), people talking shit behind y/n's back, probably swearing i can't remember (also i just swore in the warning so like... it's possible), daddy issues!

NOTE: once again special thank you to my moots @icey--stars and @fieldofdaisiies for reading over my work! <33

WORDS: 2K

Sitting in the quarters Beron had assigned to the Night Court guests, the inner circle debated how to approach this situation they had found themselves in.

One of them was to play bodyguard for the Princess of the Autumn Court. Of course, there were many logistics to sort out, ranging from the most obvious one – who would be the assigned bodyguard – to smaller details, such as whether they needed more than one Night Court member to remain in Autumn.

“I’m telling you, they’re a bunch of snakes,” Cassian said firmly. “We can’t just leave one person behind. What if this is a ploy?”

“That is true,” Feyre mused, “but why bother to make a ploy at all? We fought in the war together, and an unprovoked attack against the Night Court would cause another war. And Beron must know that the other courts would be on our side.”

Amren sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Cassian. We can’t trust these people.”

Azriel stayed silent, mulling it all over. It was all true — fighting for the same side in the war had brought the courts together, but then again, there were people like Eris and his brothers lurking in this court.

A soft knock on the door prompted everyone to look towards the sound. After a moment, the door opened, revealing Eris, a small smile on his face.

“It is lovely to see you all in a different scenery,” Eris commented after he had closed the door.

“Eris,” Rhysand greeted. “How can we help you?”

Eris went ahead and took a seat in a scarlet chair beside the fireplace, relaxing with ease. Azriel supposed it would be easier to do so now that he was in his own home, but the sight still frustrated the shadowsinger.

“I just wanted to see what you all thought of my father’s… proposition,” Eris said casually.

“Did you know?” Cassian questioned.

Eris shrugged. “I did tell you that it had something to do with my sister.”

“There was an attempt on her life, which you failed to mention,” Azriel stated.

Eris just smiled calmly. “Must have slipped my mind.”

This was exactly what Cassian had been talking about before, Azriel knew. They were cunning and sly in the Autumn Court, and that made them dangerous.

“Anything else that may have ‘slipped your mind’?” Azriel inquired.

Eris turned his gaze to the shadowsinger, a small smirk on his face. Azriel wanted to punch the male, and he remembered the feel of his neck beneath his hands, and how close he could have come to killing the heir before him. He sort of wished he had.

“My father has already chosen which member of your court he wants as Y/n’s bodyguard,” Eris revealed.

Azriel blinked. Despite the fact that Beron had given them the illusion of free choice, of course the male had already decided. After looking at Eris expectantly, Rhysand realised the male would not freely give up this information.

“Who?” the High Lord asked.

Eris glanced at Azriel. “The shadowsinger, of course.”

Everyone looked at Azriel, and the Illyrian wanted to shrink away from the attention. Why him? Yes, perhaps he appeared more gentlemanly than Cassian, as he knew how to keep his mouth shut, but what else? Yes, he was the Spymaster for the Night Court, but Cassian was the general of the armies. Amren terrified everyone, and yes, she’d be more than capable to be a bodyguard, but then again, Amren might kill the princess if she annoyed her.

“Why Azriel?” Rhys questioned.

Eris looked at the High Lord as if he was incompetent. “Is he not the most obvious choice? That one–” he nodded to Cassian, “–has already tainted a female promised to the Autumn Court.”

Rage, icy cold, flowed through Azriel at the implications behind Eris's words. ‘A female promised to the Autumn Court’ was very obviously Mor, and the entitlement in his tone…

“First of all, I have a mate–” Cassian growled, but Rhysand cut him off.

“Let's not argue,” the High Lord said firmly, although silent fury shone in his eyes at Eris's words. “We're all allies here.”

Eris rolled his eyes but said nothing more, and Cassian glared at the Autumn Court heir, clearly imagining all the ways he could rip him apart.

“Didn't Azriel try to kill you at the High Lord's meeting?” Amren mused.

Eris glowered at the female. “Well, we certainly can't have you here. Your mere presence makes the courtiers uneasy.”

“I did save your asses during the war,” Amren reminded him, but she seemed more than pleased that she still terrified people.

Azriel let out a breath. He had guessed that it would be himself who would have to play bodyguard, but how could he do so when his job was one of utmost importance to the Night Court? Even now, with Nyx only half a year old, there were so many threats that needed to be uncovered and eliminated.

Azriel glanced at Rhysand and Feyre. Both had been reluctant to leave their son behind for a week, but they knew it would be much too dangerous to bring him to the Autumn Court. Nesta, Elain, and Mor had promised to take care of him while they were gone, and Nyx was probably having the time of his life with his Aunts.

What do you think? Rhys asked Azriel, mind to mind.

Azriel pondered his answer for a moment. I would be willing to do it, but to leave you without a Spymaster for the Cauldron knows how long…

I think we can manage for a little while, Rhys replied, a grin twinkling in his eyes.

Azriel nodded his confirmation. It was true — his court members were not truly useless without him. Just slightly disadvantaged, but they knew how to take care of themselves.

“I'll do it,” Azriel said aloud.

Cassian looked at his brother, eyes widened slightly with silent warning. Amren appeared disinterested in the conversation, but Azriel knew she was listening to every word. Eris simply nodded, as if he already knew Azriel would agree.

“Good,” Eris replied. “I will allow you to share the news with my father in your own time.”

The heir then got up and exited the room, leaving the Night Court members by themselves.

“I need a drink,” Amren muttered.

The following week was a whirlwind. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the Night Court members dined with the Autumn Court, and the Autumn Court members also showed them their home. It was mostly Y/n showing them around the palace and the grounds, with Autumn guards trailing closely behind.

Y/n was a different person when she was not around her father. She was much more talkative, and quick to joke and tease. After a few days, it was clear that Cassian adored the princess and her witty comebacks, and she clearly enjoyed the freedom of banter with him. It was almost as if they were destined to be best friends. But whenever any member of her family was present, she would go quiet, and exhibit “lady-like” speech and actions.

Azriel had heard many of the Autumn Court’s opinions of her through his shadows, and none of them were particularly fond. Wild, untamed, unlady-like, and irritating, were the words most commonly used to describe the princess in secret, but Azriel had a feeling she did not care what she thought about them. He could tell that she only cared what her father thought — perhaps not for praise, but rather in fear of punishment.

“So, have you decided which of you will be protecting me after this week?” she asked the Night Court members as they walked through the Royal apple orchard. The apples were the finest Azriel had ever tasted, and he wondered whether there was some kind of magic behind it to make them so.

“We have discussed it,” Rhysand replied, plucking an apple from a tree and handing it to his mate. Feyre took the apple with a smile.

Y/n sighed deeply. “I wish I could go to the Night Court with you. It sounds beautiful.”

While the Night Court members had told the princess a little bit about their home, the Autumn daughter was an avid reader, and had mentioned that she’d always been interested in The Night Court. She would read any book on their court a hundred times, and had learned about Starfall, Illyrians, and many other Night Court customs. When Rhys questioned her on the books she had read, she had become slightly evasive in her answers.

“I borrowed them,” Y/n had said casually.

Azriel had raised an eyebrow. “Borrowed, or stole?”

The grin the princess threw his way had set his heart racing, but he had no idea why. “I prefer the term 'mischievously possess.’”

Cassian had barked out a laugh, and even Amren had smiled slightly.

But as well as spending time with the princess, Azriel had other things to do. When she showed him the castle, he memorised it. He marked every exit, window, door, hiding place — everything. If he was to be her bodyguard, he would have to have the entire layout memorised. For her protection, but also for his. He didn’t doubt for one second that if he let his guard down, one of her brothers, maybe even Eris himself, would try to stab him in the back. Literally.

Eventually, the week came to an end, and the members of the Night Court gathered in the Autumn Court throne room. Azriel supposed that bonds had been slightly strengthened between the courts, but not by much. Mistrust was hard to get rid of, especially when there were centuries and generations of it.

“We have come to a decision,” Rhy told Beron, his hands resting in his pockets. “And my High Lady and I shall allow you to employ one of my warriors as your daughter’s bodyguard.”

Beron nodded, his gaze flicking to Azriel for a brief moment before going back to Rhys. “And have you decided which warrior shall be protecting my daughter?”

That glance told Azriel that Eris had been telling the truth. Beron hoped that it was the shadowsinger who would be playing bodyguard, and it made sense now. Although what didn’t make sense was the fact that Eris had not lied.

“Azriel shall remain behind to guard your daughter,” Rhys promised.

“Wonderful,” Beron said with a nod. “Thank you for this, Rhysand. The Autumn Court shall never forget this favour.”

Rhys nodded at the High Lord, and both of them shook hands, their goodbye quick and brief. The Night Court's goodbyes to Azriel were lengthy in comparison.

“Stay safe,” Rhys told Az, clapping him on the back. “Our mental bridge will be open at all times. Let me know if there’s any trouble.”

“You act as if I can’t take care of myself,” Azriel replied, a half smirk on his face.

Rhys rolled his eyes and brought his brother into a hug, the eyes on them be damned. When Rhys pulled away, Cassian was there next, squeezing the shadowsinger into a hug that nearly crushed his bones.

“I’ll miss you, Azzie,” Cassian whispered in Azriel’s ear, which set him scowling. Cassian grinned and pulled away, Feyre replacing him. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in farewell, and before Az knew it, the Night Court disappeared into the void, leaving him alone in the Autumn Court.

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

Text

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 4: Love

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Here be the fourth chapter of the rework - you’ll all recognise this one! There’s some minor changes made to flow on with the previous stuff, but beyond that, it’s the OG third chap. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs, my slap daddy lobster Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

Daemon supposes it is true what they say about Targaryens—that they are proud and violent and easy to incite to desire and madness. He lives up to the name, he supposes.

Now that his want has come to light, he cannot erase you from his mind. He withdraws to his chambers for the next few days, making his presence around the Keep as scarce as he can so that he might avoid you. The prospect of looking at you—your wide-eyed innocence, trusting open expression, still his littlest girl beneath all that ripening—and recalling the depths of his degeneracy each time he meets your eye seems an insurmountable task.

But a new issue arises. He finds he quite literally cannot rid the image of you from his musings, the enemy that is his own thoughts discovering some new wretched path to you in all he does to seek distraction. His books remind him of your love for old Valyrian histories and poetry, of sitting with him, a great tome spread out further than your little arms could extend and reciting the letters in a halting tongue. Training with the sword strikes memories of how you’d fiddle with the pommel of Dark Sister whenever you stood by him, alerting him to your presence far easier than his own eyes ever could. Attempting to govern a bout of cyvasse is utterly dull with only himself as an opponent, and—blast it all—prompts reminiscence of how you’d choose to sleep soundly in his lap as a tot, wet smacking mouth darkening the front of his doublet as he’d match minds against Viserys with only one hand free, the other keeping you chained to slumber with gentle pats to the bottom.

Resistance is fruitless. And so, he gives into the desire. For the first time in years, he unfastens his breeches and takes his cock out with the intention of spending in his own hand.

How mightily I have fallen, he thinks drolly, spitting in his palm, grasping his shaft and allowing his imagination to conjure the likeness of sweet eyes and full mouth and shapely breasts, a precious little gift just waiting for the right recipient to unwrap and play. He thinks of your soft little hands and soft little voice, how darling you would look with those same hands on his cock and your stare wide and trusting, whispering his name in naïve question as he coaxes you to his completion, gifting you a pretty pearl necklace for a pretty little girl—

“Fuck!” he moans, seed splattering over his fist.

It stains his breeches and drips over his boots, inspiring sudden gladness that he hadn’t thought to revisit Sirille’s whore or seek out another of his old haunts, for not bending some meaningless fuck over and exerting his lusts on a cunt worth mere coppers in coin. The speed of his release would have been thoroughly humiliating. Wiping his hand distastefully upon his shirt, he wonders at how best to resolve his growing problem.

It is a problem. How you have unmanned him! How insipid it is to long for a girl of seventeen as though he is some pockmarked, upstart lad of lesser standing! If he were dull-witted, his ire at himself might very well drive him to rail at you for the manner in which you’ve ensorcelled him. But doing so will not aid his particular malady.

The brothel…Perhaps the answer lies in the past. The instant he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t.

No. He shouldn’t ruin you. He will not ruin you. Besides, you had been deterred rather than encouraged by even his lightest provocations, his half-hearted flirtation failing utterly. In the face of his veiled innuendos and covetous stares, you had retreated into yourself, pulling away and levelling him with that soft, reproaching little mouse-glare of yours. Any other maiden and he would double down, pursue until he had overrun them and given them little choice but to lift their skirts and let him steal away their virtue. Yet, this brings him distinct discomfort. He cannot abide the notion of despoiling you so ignobly.

Daemon wonders at the hesitation, for it had brought him little pain to do the same to his eldest niece. He considers that because it had always been his intention to shore up his own succession—by either wedding Rhaenyra or destroying her reputation, getting her out of his way—the thought of doing the same to you had never crossed his mind.

Hm. What can he do, then? Wait for this—this feeling—to pass? He is the blood of the dragon, true; and, like the flame from which those winged beasts were born, he burns hot and bright and stinging—until the flame flickers away, doused by the merest brush of air or touch of water. In moments of want, it becomes a need, something he would kill and die to possess, and then another obsession takes hold. Men of passion—men like him—are so rarely faithful to their fancies.

Alas, you are no ordinary woman; it stands to reason that his lust is no ordinary yearning. You are everything he has ever envisioned in an ideal bride. The right bloodline. The right family name. The right temperament. These things alone…

It does not even take into consideration the simplest fact—that, though time and circumstance has changed so much, there is nothing that can destroy his deepest affection for you, his sweet little niece.

No closer to devising his way forward, Daemon does what he can to evade encountering you. It is hardly an effort, for you seem to perpetually cycle between the same activities and yet, simultaneously, are nowhere to be found. He shuns the obvious places—the library, your Hightower siblings’ rooms, Rhaenyra’s solar, the courtyard, the garden—and even deigns to add the training yard and the kitchen to the list. Luckily, he seems to have either frightened you off or had simply chanced upon a rare occurrence in which you were discoverable.

After four more mornings, he is unsurprised to see you absent once more from your father's table to break your fast. You have missed the previous occasions, too. A sennight and a day had been more than enough time for him to decide that he detested these mealtimes. Quite obviously an attempt on his brother's part to foster unity between the squabbling factions in his family, he is usually faced with the choice of either indulging in the bickering of the children or pretending he gives a fuck about anything the Hightower woman has to say. Not that Her Grace has been particularly interested in engaging him in conversation. Instead, she carefully plays the part of ignorance, watching him from directly across the table with her beady little eyes each time he so much as moves. Loathsome bitch. She must have a magical cunt for Viserys to have managed to pump four of those wretched spawn into her.

This is why he is startled when Rhaenyra and Laenor enter with their two boys, followed swiftly by you and that idiot Cole. You have an air of irritation about you, as though you had been interrupted at your leisures when your elder sister had come to collect you for the first proper meal you would see in days.

The sight of Rhaenyra—as lovely a sight as it is—sends a weak thud of hurt through his chest. But it is the sight of you that inspires a far greater reaction.

You are no less striking in the morning light that streams in from the open balcony. Garbed in a short-sleeved gown of powdered blue and wild hair pulled back in a simple braid, the adjustments only serve to emphasise the parts of you that had changed in the ten years since he had last seen you. Half-convinced that his first meeting with you was an inexplicable fever-dream sent by the gods to taunt him, he is once more besieged by the sight of your rose-bloom lips, your bare throat—why the fuck do you not wear jewels to cover up all that exposed flesh, the sight is positively lewd—and charming little tits peaked in maiden's flirtation. The dress does little to hide your endowments from his rapacious gaze, for all its modest bodice and looser fit.

He does his best not to let his turmoil play out on his face as you move further into the room. Laenor drops into the empty seat beside him, narrowing his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s noticed where Daemon’s attention has been focused. The lad’s fair to suspect him—his exploits in the Stepstones hadn’t been limited to warfare, after all.

“Father, Daemon,” Rhaenyra greets, settling herself down next to her husband.

He finds the noted absence of greeting to the Hightower woman wildly entertaining. While it is not lost on her, the Queen has deigned to overlook the arrival of her once-best friend. Instead, she turns to survey her ailing King in an affectation of care. He decides it is only polite to return his eldest niece’s salutation. Rhaenyra smiles in response to his well-wishes, an acknowledgement of his words and nothing more.

"Good morrow, daughter!” Viserys says to his eldest, looking fondly down the table as his grandsons are settled in at their seats. His gaze moves to you. “Ah, child! We haven't seen you in an age!"

He has brightened in excitement at his first glance of you, and you smile sweetly at him as you pass by to press a kiss of greeting to your father's balding head.

"My apologies, Papa," you say to Viserys warmly. “I have been ever so preoccupied with my studies, you see. I did not wish to fall behind.”

“Studies, my girl? I had rather thought you were avoiding Lord Denys again!”

He has to grit his teeth at the mention of that idiot. What in the Seven hells is Viserys thinking, allowing a lackwit like the Rose of Highgarden anywhere near you? To think that he’d be willing to ship you off to so ordinary an existence as the Lady Tyrell. The blood of the Freehold, forced to mingle with farming stock. What dishonour!

At the mention of the lord, your earnest little stare transforms into a myriad of quick-vanishing demonstrations of your distaste for the man. Daemon is savagely glad to see it.

“That, too.” You beam when your father laughs. It is a most pleasing expression on your features, a guise that erases the lingering pensiveness clinging to you like a second skin—one that you should always bear.

Would that he could replace the gloom that reclaims you so soon after.

“Darling.”

Alicent frowns at him from her position at his brother’s side. She appears to have caught him looking, not that he cares overmuch for her judgement. It intrigues him that she appears to be addressing you. He had thought the family quite divided by old and new—and as Aemma’s last living child, that places you firmly in the former category.

She smiles up at you, gesturing you toward her. “Come sit by me.”

Clearly, his assumption is incorrect. You happily proceed around your father to sit in the empty seat beside the Queen, placing you next to the youngest one, Daeron. He can only remember the name due to its similarity to his own. You grin fondly down at the boy, and it is easy to imagine you doing the same one day with his own son. You ruffle his hair when he makes an exclamation of your name, disregarding the snide glances offered to you by the older two. Ah, that is more like it.

“What are you working on currently, sister?” Rhaenyra interrupts his musings from next to Laenor, wordlessly reminding young Lucerys to pause his chatter while eating.

His mouth upturns when he sees you brighten, stopping in the middle of selecting fruits and cheese and pastries to pile on your plate. The shame feels like a distant memory as he watches you, dish aloft in your hand while you enthusiastically turn to engage with your older sister.

“I have been consulting with Ser Lysan on writing a compendium of the Dothraki language,” you say excitedly.

Who the fuck is ‘Ser Lysan’? And what in the Seven hells is she doing learning Dothraki? Daemon’s brow raises sceptically as he mulls over the fact that you—a sweet little untouched princess—appear to have dealings with horse-fucking, barbarous brutes in the East.

“There is some debate as to how we will proceed,” you add, carefully side-eyeing the oldest of the Hightower boys as he snickers at your pronouncement, “as our letters do not correspond correctly with the phonetics of their speech. We will have to either take creative liberties or devise additional symbols to signify these sounds.”

Perhaps he has woefully underestimated you. You seem to possess an intellect that may well be formidable—at least when it comes to your philosophies and languages. A fascinating paradox of a girl, he thinks, to be so clever and unknowing all at once. For all your book learning, there is much about the world you lack understanding of. It is tempting to remedy this in the most depraved manner possible.

Not here. Not now.

“That sounds… interesting.”

Rhaenyra sounds anything but interested. Does anyone take interest in your pursuits? Anyone at all? Looking around the table at the uncertain faces of those you call family, it appears not. No wonder you seem so alone.

“Dothraki, of all the languages to learn?” he asks. “An interesting pursuit for a princess.”

You make direct eye contact with him, arranging your features into a facade of polite courtesy; it is closed off, withdrawn, and you return your plate to its place upon the table.

“I am learning, yes.” You absent-mindedly reach across the little one beside you to remove a silver-handled knife from the second-eldest boy—Aemon, is it not?—and place it out of his reach. It is a good call; he had been poking the surface before him with the tip, gouging small divots into the wood. You disregard his protestations, continuing your line of thought. “I would not claim to be proficient, however. It is a complex language, and I have not studied it for long enough to consider myself fluent.”

“It is a savage language.” The eldest of the Queen’s sons has an expression fixed in what Daemon can only assume is meant to be a look of disdain. As ugly as the boy is, the effect is rather lost on present company. “No wife of mine will occupy herself with such things.”

This one too? Unbelievable. It would make more sense to betroth you to your brother than to the Lord of Highgarden. If only the brother in question wasn’t so… pathetic. Pathetic now—but when he becomes a man, a true peril to any chance she may have at happiness.

He swallows back bile at the thought. However would you survive being bound to a sneering wretch who sought to stifle any joy you might experience, and all for the sake of control? It is too harsh a fate for someone so pure.

You frown softly, shoulders squaring off in your disapproval. “Just because their culture is different, Aegon”—ah, yes! No wonder he was such a disappointment with a name such as the Conqueror’s to try and fail to live up to—“does not mean they are savages.”

His nose flares with the necessity of suppressing his own amusement. Such guilelessness; such gullibility! You really are too sweet.

“They fuck their horses, don’t they?” Aegon asks disparagingly, echoing exactly what he had been thinking only moments prior.

The younger boy titters beside him. You open your mouth to respond, brow wrinkled in affront, when the Queen cuts across you.

“Aegon! That’s enough!” she says sharply, and the boy abruptly withdraws, tucking his head down and quietly resuming his meal with a muttered apology.

As a lull falls across the remaining occupants of the room, all that can be heard is the scraping of utensils over dishware and the hissing remonstrations of the Queen to her eldest, whispered reminders of how princes ought to treat those they are courting. Given that the recipient is three places down from her—and you are, in fact, between them—her words are neither quiet nor tactful. Your head bows, lower lip quivering only once, pretending not to hear as you pick apart the remnants of food on your plate.

“An intellectual, my daughter is.” Viserys breaks the stillness with forced joviality, engaging him in conversation once more.

He had paid little attention to the spat—no doubt avoiding his fatherly responsibilities as he has done since time immemorial, long since used to ignoring the conflict that sparks beneath his very nose. Daemon is simultaneously fond and contemptuous of his brother, the years having done little to change the spinelessness so central to his personality as man and monarch both.

“Always learning something new,” the man says merrily, “always needing books and tutors to satisfy that mind of hers. She would be a maester of the Citadel, methinks, had she been born a man.”

She would be Prince of Dragonstone if she had been born a man, Daemon snorts to himself, and I’d not need be sitting here with the Hightower bitch and her offspring.

“Papa!” A pretty flush reddens your exposed ears and the apples of your cheeks.

He trails the path of the blush as it spreads to your chest, most assuredly travelling down to kiss the shy swell of your breasts under that damned raised neckline. He has never hated an item of clothing quite so much as he does your gown.

“That Ser Lysan Marios of hers,” the King explains. “A man from the Free Cities, do you know? She was ever so delighted when I solicited his services.”

A tutor, then. But what is his place in your life? This is what Daemon wishes to know.

“He is a respectable gentleman,” Rhaenyra says, no doubt having witnessed his perplexity. “Though it’s quite amusing, really; for an old man like him, he is rather adept at making his way about the Keep unnoticed. You’d think someone with such poorly knees would be easier to find.”

He hadn’t truly believed your tutor to harbour untoward feelings for you, but relief suffuses him, nonetheless. An elderly man with weak joints could hardly muster the energy nor stamina to seduce his young charge—especially a burgeoning little nymphet like you, so reserved and restrained, desperate for release from the bonds of propriety. His gut tightens at the image he has conjured.

“We always leave a note, ’Nyra,” you say, your posy-petal lips frowning.

“And by the time I send someone to find you, you have moved off elsewhere.”

You hum an agreement, picking still at the remainder of your meal. Daemon spies the Hightower woman’s pointed glare over you, the quailing of the eldest boy. The lad clears his throat and turns to you.

“Sister. Would”—he pauses to clear his throat again—“would you… care to take a turn around the garden with me? At, er—the hour of the boar?”

How the fuck has he managed to make it worse?

Daemon almost preferred his snobbish spite over this pitiful attempt at flattery. If he’d been uncertain as to the boy’s success at winning you over, he’s not anymore. There’s scarce to be any maiden who would accept such a snivelling offer.

You appear rather baffled. “Oh. I appreciate the offer, Aegon… but I am afraid I have plans then.” A polite smile of contrition curves your lips.

Your brother does not like this. With a barely restrained sneer, he begins to respond. “But—”

“—I am intending to visit Athfiezar,” you cut across, placid as ever. “You are welcome to accompany me there, if you wish?”

The boy blanches. “No!” He says, shaking his head.

You make a soft noise of acknowledgement, allowing your focus to drift to the small one immediately beside you. And, with that, the conversation ceases entirely.

Rhaenyra was right in asserting her inability to pronounce the name of your feral mount. The guttural inflections in your honey-sweet voice speak to something wild and untamed, a spark of the magic that had brought his line to life so long ago.

“Interesting name.” Daemon is unable to help himself. You blink disconcertedly at him as he speaks. It is the second time in as many occurrences that he has seen your countenance alight with startlement at his address. A nervous little morsel, you are. “A Dothraki word, is it?”

He can only assume this. Based on his few dealings with the horde of savages during his time in Essos, the word sounds similar to the harsh utterings of the khalasar.

“Yes,” you say, a pleased look crossing your visage. “It means ‘love’.”

What a name for such a monstrous creature. A little girl christening her first barn cat, all soft skin and sweet smile and doe-eyed delight. You squint at Rhaenyra when she chuckles softly. It seems he isn’t the only one to have such a thought.

You turn back to him. “He does not take well to others, I fear.”

That is an understatement. From all his existing knowledge of the wild leviathan, from his experiences with the beast growing up, from tales he had gleaned from around the capital, from accounts of old acquaintances and the from gossip of his family, your dragon—the fucking Cannibal, and isn’t that a story he’d like to hear—was an utter lunatic, as unhinged and vicious as he always was. Except, it seems, with you.

“A right bastard, too,” Laenor murmurs under his breath, just within Daemon’s earshot. “Do you know how many Keepers we’ve had to replace since that thing came to King’s Landing?”

He can imagine. Dragon, livestock and human alike, the dragon had little care for what it slayed, seemingly fulfilling itself on the blood-and-gore high of butchery. The thought of laying eyes upon such a creature thrills him to the bone.

You levy him with an inquisitive look, head tilted slightly. “Would you like”—you hesitate—“would you like to meet him, Uncle?”

Only a fool could refuse a proposition like that. Not in the least because of the Cannibal—well, so few would ever have the opportunity to come close to the beast and live to tell the tale. Through you, it may well be possible that he would get that chance.

But, moreover, how can he say no to your timid, earnest entreaty, the proverbial hand of offering held out and just waiting for yet another rejection? Hope draws your brows in a pleading arch, lips wet and parted, and it calls to mind the face of a much younger you, far freer in begging for his attention. Who could possibly deny you?

His mouth settles the matter before his mind has decided.

“I’d be glad to,” he says, warmed by the sunny beam that stretches across your face, bringing bright light to your eyes and a merry flush to your skin.

It occurs to him then that he has just invited himself to an entire span of unaccompanied time alone with you. You—the object of his waking reveries, his darkest deliberations, his filthiest wants.

Perhaps this will be what finally drives him mad.

The wheelhouse ride is a revelation—and not quite for the reason he expected.

You are surprisingly easy to converse with; high praise, coming from him. He is not one to enjoy casual discussion, finding most people utterly insipid, especially those of suitable station. Princes and lords and magisters are always far too concerned with crowing of their riches to be of much interest—and the women are hardly worth engaging with unless it is to persuade them to drop their smallclothes and let him bend them over in some abandoned hall.

It might just be his fixation upon you that makes you so fascinating. He cares not for the reason. Instead, he chooses to enjoy the rarity of the moment, listening to you talk about the weather, the food, the changes made to the city since his departure.

“We have been getting an increase in grain from the Reach, I believe, in return for silks and spices from Driftmark,” you say, filling the transport with the dulcet tones of your pretty little voice.

He wonders at how you have come to know this information.

“Papa allows me to be his cupbearer during Small Council sometimes.” Pride overtakes your expression. “I am not present often, but it is nice when he asks.”

It is expected of Rhaenyra as the heir to attend in her youth, but no such presumption falls upon you. How interesting that Viserys has chosen to allow his second daughter to be involved in the running of the Realm, small a part as that may be! Daemon had not thought his brother observant of you in any capacity whatsoever. In this, he’s happy to be wrong.

When you arrive at the Dragonpit, your faithful guard-dog Cole is waiting for you, having ridden ahead to secure the location for his young charge. Daemon rolls his eyes as the knight offers you his arm, assisting you down the steps and to the ground. You gratefully thank the Kingsguard—he has to clench his jaw tightly to resist saying something snide at the look of slavish devotion on the whoreson’s face—and take out leather gloves of deep black, a stark contrast to the blood red of your riding habit. You wear the Targaryen colours exceedingly well.

“Now, Uncle,” you say seriously, turning to him. “I do not usually meet Athfiezar at the Pit, so it is imperative that you do as I say.”

It makes sense that the dragon seeks refuge outside of the Dragonpit. The beast did not seem one to willingly enshrine itself in chains. His brow quirks in entertainment at your command, a war general in the shape of a little girl with a woman’s body, but tips his head regardless.

“Of course.” He has no wish to die for the sake of pride.

The Dragonkeepers have already begun to shift nervously in the open, unprotected space. What follows illuminates him as to why. He is startled when you stop in the middle of putting your gloves on to place your fingers at your mouth and release a loud whistle. The sound echoes toward the cavernous entrance of the building before you and sets off a cacophony of ringing screeches and roars from within. He cringes as the blast of noise assaults his ears and wonders what in the hells you were intending by doing such a thing.

Suddenly, a low rumble resonates through the air. He casts around for the origin of the din, seeing nothing cresting the horizon. Out of nowhere, there is an unearthly shriek. A hulking black shape tumbles from the cover of cloud, rapidly gaining size as it approaches.

The Dragonkeepers bark panicked orders to each other, rushing to clear the space before his little niece. “Inkot selās! Inkot selās!” Move back! Move back!

Daemon wonders through a wave of sheer panic if he ought to follow the Keepers’ example and dive for shelter, dragging you with him. The dragon isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. It is now close enough for him to make out the grim scores of scars marking its head, the eerie verdigris orbs glowing ominously within its immense skull, the sheer musculature forming one of the largest specimens of Old Valyria alive today. The dragon is quite dissimilar to the other Targaryen specimens, he notes, stouter and stockier and yet more serpentine than the winged creatures the Conqueror had brought to Westeros some hundred years before. He wonders if it is true that this one is from a different lineage entirely. He had never gotten close enough to survey it before now.

The great lumbering thing alights upon the dome of the Dragonpit, crawling with surprising agility to the edge of the structure and peering down. It sends a clatter of rubble spilling from the sides of the great dome as it crackles under the weight of it. At the sight of the Keepers huddled behind dragonglass shields, curled to the ground in vain protection of themselves, the Cannibal opens its mouth and screams. It is a haunting, hair-raising resonation that sends chills down his spine and near freezes the blood in his veins.

“Athfiezar!”

His gaze, having been transfixed upon the most terrifying entity he had witnessed in years, shifts to you. You have stepped forward, seemingly without a care, arm outstretched and calling happily up to the reptilian brute. He is about to pull you back toward him when he observes what might be the most deranged, impossible scenario imaginable.

The dragon stops.

It stops.

“Kesīr māzīs, Athfiezar!” you call again, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. Come here!

Emitting a deep keening, its eyes split to you, pausing its rampage as it takes in the sight of you below. Daemon huffs an exhilarated laugh as the winged serpent cocks its head, pauses, and then begins scaling its way down the stone formation. It is heedless of the damage it is doing to the establishment as it tears its way through rock like parchment, wiggling down to touch down upon the ground before the mouth of the Pit. The beast is surprisingly light upon its feet for its sheer size, second only to the great she-dragon, Vhagar.

He can only watch on in amazement as you stride forward to meet your mount. The famed Cannibal bends its massive frame down so that you may lay your hand upon its snout and coo something tender and indeterminable from a distance away. The wyrm growls softly, slowly pressing itself against you as you talk. The Dragonkeepers have not yet moved from their protective stances, spaced out around the yard and cowering behind obsidian safeguards.

What the fuck.

And then, you are walking back toward him, an air of contentment unlike any he had witnessed about you emanating from your person and echoed in the radiant joy upon your visage. With your giant beast as a formidable backdrop, you look every inch a Targaryen conqueror. It is a most unexpected evolution in the child that had preferred to entertain herself by reading than by journeying to the Pit to see Syrax or Caraxes. The sight makes him breathless.

You are glorious.

“Kepus,” you say, reaching out to him. He is somewhat amazed to see you are the same person, the same girl with the same charming eyes and delicate features and alluring form, that you have not somehow metamorphosed into a goddess from ancient Valyria. “Would you like to meet him?”

His answer is immediate, wordless. When he grasps onto your hand, he notes that your grip is much firmer, more solid and more real than it had been the week before. You are in your element here, at peace within yourself and with the dragon feared by the entire world. You pull him gently with you towards the creature, unfaltering even in the wake of the chitters and low hisses it emits when it observes a newcomer heading its way.

“He will not hurt you,” you say kindly. “You are with me.”

The affirmation warms him. When you are a small distance away, you release his hand, stepping in front of him to murmur softly to your mount once more.

“Ñuha kepa bisy issa, ñuhus taobus,” you call mellifluously, once more extending your palms to stroke along the dragon’s head. It nudges you lightly, and you laugh in response. “Ziry ōdrikō daor.” This is my uncle, my boy. Do not hurt him.

There is an absurdity in hearing you kindly entreat this monstrosity as though it were a prize hound, born and bred to spend its days on the lap of a noblewoman at high tea. What’s more is that the wyrm appears to enjoy it, nuzzling into your touch like a kitten.

Athfiezar growls in warning as Daemon approaches, soothed only by the quiet humming you are making and the light affirmations of peace you are whispering. Shifting its weight around, it grumbles in irritated obeisance as it allows him near. When he is close enough to hear the beat of its heart, feel the waft of its breath on his skin, smell the typical scent of dragon stink upon the air, he stops and takes in the view.

From this angle, he cannot see the beast’s hind legs, so vast is the length of its anatomy. The dragon’s powerful front legs and sinuous snake-like neck occupies his vision, the head bowed low to the ground in cooperation with its mistress’s will. Its sable scales ripple like onyx in the sun, flashing shades of coal and silver and gold as the light dapples upon their surfaces. The creature is maimed in several places, no doubt from its long history of aggression against its own kind, but the old injuries serve to heighten its aura of petrifaction.

It is a horrifying representative of its kind. It is everything he had ever adored stories about as a child. And it is yours.

“How is this possible?” he breathes, stepping closer to you. You glance back at him, mouth quirking gently at the expression of wonderment on his face.

You lightly entwine your fingers with his. When his eyes snap to yours, you tug him forward easily, placing his hand upon the Cannibal’s snout with your small hand laid on his own. He laughs quietly at the sensation of dragon-scale under his palm, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief and sheer childish awe colouring his tone. For a man to lay his hand upon the Cannibal and live… It is the stuff of dreams.

“Raqnon jorrāeltas—hegnīr ūī zijot irughin. You stare wistfully at your mount. He needed love—so I gave it to him.

Though it is a relief to hear his ancestral tongue spill from your lips once more, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar, Daemon wonders if there is more to this unlikely pair than anyone had assumed. Both isolated, both starved for affection, both cleaving to each other for warmth and surety. The notion makes him unhappy.

My poor, lonely little girl… You never need be lonely again now that he had returned.

He looks back up at the beast, Athfiezar the Cannibal, this wretched saviour of desolate maidens and broken dreams. The creature snorts, a puff of smoke jettisoning out of its nostrils in a sneeze. He jumps out of the way, startled. You giggle, laying your head fondly against its snout.

“Kara iksā,” he says. You are magnificent.

You smile as you look up at your dragon, your hand lightly caressing its colossal jaw—but Daemon’s eyes remain firmly affixed on you.

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suzukiblu · 6 months

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Day twenty-four of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon.

“I’d say maybe a picnic in the park or something but that seems incredibly dangerous unless I can pre-verify that Ivy’s in Arkham,” Tim muses, smacking a few more goons upside the skull. The others are already scattering to bolt, and there’s not much point in chasing them down; they broke up the deal and sent the suppliers running, and that was the main concern. Now they can track down their source and go from there. “And even then it’s kinda fifty-fifty.”

“Yeah, you never know what she’s left out there,” Dick agrees. “Plus sometimes the things she’s left out there cross-pollinate, and then no one knows what’s out there, including her.”

“Don’t remind me,” Tim says with a grimace, having unpleasant flashbacks to the skunkweed thorns and pitcher plant trees. Ivy’s creative enough without any accidental cross-pollination happening.

“So what does planning a date have to do with that YJ-related op?” Dick inquires casually as the last of the grunts either hit the ground or flee. Tim does not freeze, because he's not fucking new here.

“Nothing,” he lies. “I’m cycling through the projects I have scheduled to work on this week. Next there’s a stakeout uptown and some reoptimization of my utility belt organization.”

“Planning dates is in the same category as ops and stakeouts and equipment maintenance, huh?” Dick asks with a laugh, holstering his sticks and then reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Never change, baby bird.”

Tim is absolutely going to, but again, hopefully not before thirty and ideally while bringing Dick along for the ride. Dick would be a terrible supervillain and also probably pout if Tim put Superman in a kryptonite death trap to sit and think about what he’s done, but Tim loves him and wants him to be happy and also wants to make this awful fucking world a better place, and you don’t do that by just ditching all your friends and co-workers; you plan ahead and work with them, flaws and all.

Anyway, Barbara would be good at being a supervillain, and she’d be a lot likelier to come along for the ride if Dick did. So that’s also another reason to recruit him.

They’d both probably like to kill the Joker, anyway. Maybe they could make the rusty crowbar and shrapnel bomb plan a group activity? That’d be nice.

Look, Batman doesn’t kill, obviously, but Tim isn’t Batman, Dick and Babs are also not Batman, and none of them ever intend to be. So “Batman doesn’t kill” is, in fact, only Bruce’s problem.

“So I know you’re going to laugh at me for this, but you know the circus is in town next week, right?” Dick says, sparing him a smirk. Tim considers tripping him with his bo staff. “You know, for this totally theoretical and generic one-size-fits-all date that you definitely don’t have anyone in mind for.”

“While I appreciate the suggestion, the person I don’t have anything in mind for has terrible self-esteem and I promised her someplace ‘nice’ for this totally theoretical and generic one-size-fits-all date,” Tim says, because he is definitely still in the closet here and he is not giving a Bat the clue of saying “they” to obfuscate Kon’s gender. Might as well light the Bat signal with a pride flag filter over it, for fuck’s sake. “She might take fifteen-dollar tickets and sawdust floors the wrong way.”

“That just means she lacks taste, baby bird,” Dick hums easily, putting his hands on his hips and tapping a foot in consideration. “Hm. Well, Zatanna also happens to be in town next week.”

Tim considers what it’d do to his self-esteem to watch Kon spend an hour-long show drooling over a gorgeous older woman in fishnets, spanks, and a sexy tuxedo jacket and decides not to go there. Also, there’s the issue of Zatanna potentially recognizing him, and also potentially recognizing Kon, who he doesn’t think she’s ever met but is both terrible at secret identities and a teen heartthrob superhero whose face is all over the place and also looks exactly like Superman’s on top of that. And Zatanna has definitely met Superman.

So yeah, that seems unlikely to end well either way.

“Maybe,” he says, finally retracting his staff and putting it away. “I don’t know if she likes going to any kind of shows, honestly. Like–I just don’t know her that well yet. Theoretically, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dick agrees with a laugh, pulling out his grappling gun and wagging it at him. “Race you back to the Cave? Winner gets tips on how to charm a totally normal civilian who definitely doesn’t fight crime in a cheerleader skirt.”

Tim has no idea how he feels about the fact Dick is so certain Cissie is the one he’s trying to plan a date for. Then again, Cissie is the one who yelled at half the Justice League. So maybe he sort of understands the assumption.

Kon looks better in a crop top, though, Tim privately promises himself to never actually say out loud. Like, he definitely does look better, in Tim’s opinion, but a) Cissie would shoot him for said opinion and b) Kon would be unbearably smug about said opinion. And unfortunately, Tim finds Kon’s preening smugness increasingly charming, so he really can’t be doing that to himself.

He was so damn proud of himself about the fucking crop top, the bastard. Tim should burn it. Or buy him twenty more. One or the other.

The shorts he’s just not going to think about right now. Like. Ever again.

He’s pretty sure they’d work better with a thong than boxer briefs, though. Or just going commando outright, maybe. Tactile telekinesis probably makes chafing less of a concern, Tim figures.

Not that he’s thought about that. At all. In any way. Ever.

Definitely not.

Dick fires his grapple and takes off. Tim pretends to be extremely heterosexual about Cissie and not even slightly gay about Kon, though he has very little idea how to actually do that, and rushes after him. There’s basically no way he’s actually going to beat Dick unless criminal activity interferes or Dick just lets him beat him, of course, because Dick’s been flying all his life and flying in specifically Gotham since he was literally prepubescent, and Tim has just been sneaking around random rooftops and alleyways and only actually known how to do a basic somersault for a couple of years, much less any real acrobatics or aerial work. So like, there’s definitely a skill gap there.

Might as well chuck a flying fish at a hummingbird and see who comes out ahead, really.

Technically, though, Dick mostly works out of Bludhaven these days, so technically . . .

Look, Tim just so happens to know about certain construction-related shortcuts that may or may not be currently relevant thanks to some surprise rogue attacks last week, and even if he weren’t pretending to be heterosexual about Cissie he’d be trying to beat Dick back to get first dibs on Alfred’s jaffa cakes, so . . .

The jaffa cakes are delicious, though the dating advice is unfortunately irrelevant.

Tim appreciates the thought, at least.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #young just us #young justice #rinfic #long post #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon

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kazukazuhas · 10 months

Text

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 💌 ꒱ old friends, lloyd garmadon.┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁️

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 💌 ꒱ act two ;; scene two┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁️

୧ ⎯⎯ CONVERSATIONS

୧ ⎯⎯ WARNINGS ;; unspoken daddy issues ;; lloyd being a little insecure and scared ;; unrequited love // pining ;; lil bit of romanticizing

୧ ⎯⎯ NOTES ;; i love you, lloyd monty garmadon

୧ ⎯⎯ PREVIOUS ┊MASTERLIST┊NEXT

୧ ⎯⎯ TEXT ;; NO IMAGES

there was talking when you woke up —muffled and slurred by your sleepiness,— from where you presumed was outside of the room. you shift to face the windows, where lloyd and his displaced chair was when you fell asleep to find that he focused on the door with narrowed eyes staring holes as he listened. he always had better hearing than you.

“hi,” he quietly greeted you, examining you for any discomfort with the firm, cold —though now a little softer, you think— look he had when looking at the door; he returned his attention back to continue listening to the commotion. you look up at him with confusion on your face, squeezing his hand to get his attention but it doesn’t budge him much. “skywalker?” this time, you call in hopes you get some explanation.

though, you can't deny the focused look on his face is adorable.

he squeezes your hand back, perking up as the conflict grows loudly outside of the room. he shook his head, looking back at you with a soft warmth in his eyes. “sorry, i was trying to piece that story together,” he admits, a little sheepish smile on his lips as he beams softly at you.

“and?” now you’re curious.

“so, i think the first lady, wanted to see someone –who i guess just got admitted in– but there’s another lady who said she can’t– so they got into an argument of who can and can’t do what,” he breaks it down quickly with his attention divided between you and outside; the commotion had died down now and the sound of light shuffling began to sink away. “sounds like some family drama.”

“sounds less terrible than our drama– speaking of… what’s up with your father, may i ask?” it's an impulsive question you ask, but you keep your tone light in the case he decides to back away from the topic. lloyd was never one to talk or ask about his father, a man you doubt he knew. he sought to find that affection in your father, who willingly showed it to the boy.

lloyd tensed up (you mentally curse yourself for being curious about his father) before returning his full focus on you and the topic at hand, he gnawed a little on his lip and looked down to where your hand was intertwined with his. the blond cleared his throat and spoke in a low, uncertain tone, “he was a tyrant.”

that was all he said for several minutes, leaning down to rest his head on the soft covers and mattress of your hospital bed, still avoiding your eyes. “had been trying to take over ninjago for… months? years?” he hesitantly continues, looking up with soft –hurt– eyes.

“that’s– why he left. but he’s better now. nothing like what he was before– not all evil and.. he’s my dad now,” lloyd explains, putting his explanation in simple words as a hesitant smile grows on his lips.

you sit up slowly, threading a hand through his hair, you smile at him with a similar, warmer softness to comfort him. “are you scared of being him, what he was?” he nods a little, leaning into your touch. “you won’t be, lloyd. you’re a good person,” your words are soft spoken —but they’re true— as you watch him, he sighs quietly before nodding again.

“i– i know.” his voice was small, soft with uncertainty and slight fear mixing despite his agreement. “thanks,” he mumbles, looking up at you with a small smile on his lips.

“anything for you,” you muse, smiling back as he closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of you playing with his hair so delicately. your words have a gentle tone of promise in them, a little love and adoration. you mean it, you’d do anything for him.

lloyd looks up at you, peeking with one eye as he questions your words a little, noticing the vague underlying tone of them. but he drops his curiosity and chuckles a little, lifting his head up so your hand holds his face in a not awkward way. lloyd tilts his face inward, pressing his lips to your palm softly and, in the process, making your heart swell a little. “right back at you.” you smile back at him, his own words were sweet enough for you.

he hums, leaning into your hand with one of his holding it gently.

“hungry?” he asks a little quietly, squeezing your hand a little. you shake your head, “not really.” lloyd laughs, kissing your palm again —oh, why did he do it a second time?— before pulling away and reaching for the table at the foot of the bed with his unoccupied hand and sliding it towards you —the other was still holding yours. “you say that but you’ll be hungry in less than a minute.”

he’s right, you both know it– proves that you two haven’t changed much in your years apart, proves that your friendship’s still the same; something you’re fortunate for having.

“eat up when you’re ready.” he leans back on his chair and hums a little, smiling while focusing on your hand in his.

you stare at the food, conflicted on whether or not to prove him right on his observation, opting to change the topic. “who– uh, the ninja? who are they now?”

he squints a little out of confusion before sighing as he thinks of an answer, humming for a bit before he speaks. “as the name suggests, they’re ninja.” he looks at you, waiting for you to ask more questions so he can answer accordingly.

when you nod he smiles and continues. “there’s six of them, each have an element and a colour assigned to them and usually what they’re referred to depends; except the water ninja because she and lighting ninja are both blue, one darker and the other brighter– uh, respectively. she’s newer to the team compared to him so he’s preferred to as the blue ninja as well. sometimes she’s red and blue, so it’s easier to call her the water ninja.

“the fire ninja is red and the ice one’s white. the earth ninja’s colour is black and lastly the green ninja is… green,” he explains– rambles harmlessly, looking to the side unfocused as he talks.

the last sentence answers your question, one you didn’t want to ask but regardless sought an answer for, you’re a little hesitant to ask. “green ninja?” “yep, he’s the one that brought you here,” lloyd confirms.

“he and the water ninja were on patrol, and they were in the area when you were–” he stops, eyes hardening when he almost mentions the earlier incident. you watch him, sighing and squeezing his hand. “i’m okay now, lloyd. it’s fine, i’m fine.” you smile at him with a soft understanding look in your eyes. he nods. “i know.”

the guilt claws at his insides —you can tell he feels it, but you’re unsure as to why— as he buries his face in the crook of his other hand and the blankets. he places your hand back on his head and rests his head on both arms more comfortably. “i’m glad nothing worse happened to you,” he says muffledly, glaring straight ahead at the blankets.

there was something he wasn’t saying, conflicted as he bit the sleeve of his hoodie slightly with eyes glued to the blankets. you combed through his hair, soft blond fluffiness with brown peaking out in a few curly locks. you sighed, patting his head to get his attention. lloyd tilted his head to glance up at you, questioning you.

“let’s eat?” you asked, willing to prove him right if it might his mind be taken of whatever he was thinking about. he smiled a little, a mischievous sparkle in his eye as he sat up. “of course,” he’s grinning ear to ear as he pulls the table closer to you, food rattling a little and grabbing something from his bag. “nya made some food for you and sent, and hospital food is a solid no.”

“thank nya then,” you sigh happily, watching him unwrap something, a sandwich he probably packed for himself. you slide him some of much food nya sent, “eat,” you command, staring at him challengingly.

“no.” he stared back, a mischievous grin on his lips.

well, this’ll be fun.

୧ ⎯⎯ PREVIOUS ┊MASTERLIST┊NEXT

୧ ⎯⎯ TAGLIST ;; @spoopy-fish-writes // @spoops-inliyue ;; @decaffeinatedcloudkryptonite // @shaantiofher ;; @sunangelstears ;; @comicbookweirdo ;; @cl0udyw4ter ;; @chamille-trash ;; @candy884422 ;; @rossivette ;; @veiyx ;; @pix-y-styx ;; @a3th3rrr ;; @deluludhii // [pm/send in an ask to join]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 💌 ꒱ kazukazuhas copr. 2023 darling┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁️

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mrsnancywheeler · 2 months

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I gotta see Billy’s muse who doesn’t take his shit anymore and bullies tf outta him right back and his just flabbergasted

she usually bites back but that's just before she's running off, i do think in a situation where she's also a little drunk, had done a line or two and she won't just say her piece and leave now

"you are so fucking needy, just a spoiled brat from a rich family thinking she can get what she wants anywhere she goes. just another spoiled goddamn groupie" billy shakes his head and you're enraged

"billy, when are you gonna get it through your thick fucking skull that I don't have to be here. you're fucking working for this, for the money, I don't fucking have too and you're just as replaceable. as you always remind me, I'm rich and I'm pretty, I could have fucking anyone else."

"good luck with that, I doubt they'll want to deal with your tantrums"

"I doubt any girl wants to put up with the poor, tortured artist soul of billy dunne and all his fucking daddy issues." and he's taken aback because you're very personally tearing into him, usually you say one thing, tell him to fuck off, and that's the end of it, but you're being venomous now. "besides, if I'm just another fucking groupie then I'd love to go hang out with the rest of the band, I'm sure I can please them too. I could go find eddie..." you're so close to billy's face that you can see every muscle twitch, every clench of the jaw, and how that comment specifically upsets him more. you smile, "what do you not like that? I mean, since I'm just a needy groupie, I'm sure he'd be willing to help out with my needs, take me off your plate."

finally you're stepping away from him, lighting a cigarette. well at least you're about to when billy's kissing you, roughly. "don't even think about pulling that shit. you're my girl, my fucking girl." he doesn't know what else to do now that you've torn him a new one, but trust the way he fucks you after is insane

#wanda 💋#billy dunne x reader angst #billy dunne angst #billy dunne #billy dunne x reader #djats x reader #eddie roundtree #anon

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fbfh · 1 year

Text

I swear my love language has to be teaching someone how to dance. You're hanging out with Dave in his room, procrastinating doing your homework, and you're wearing one of his flannels, something that makes his heart flip no matter how many times he sees it. It just does something to him, seeing you in his clothes. It really drives home that feeling that you're his, that you want him. And you do. You really want him. You scooch closer to him, finally setting down the notes you've been pretending like you're going to go over. "I can't believe prom is so soon..." you muse, thinking about the conversation you had with your friend about it earlier. "Oh, yeah... it's totally crazy." He says, hoping you don't catch on to the fact that he totally forgot about prom at all. In his defense, he never thought he'd get a date, or go to prom at all. "Uh, when is it again?" He asks, and you remind him of the date. His stomach sinks. He and Big Daddy have been planning a sting operation for weeks on that exact night. "So, you gonna take me to prom? Get a little corsage, take awkward pictures, laugh at everyone taking it too seriously...?" You muse playfully. Prom. With you. That... that actually sounds really nice. Shit. "Uh..." he fumbles for an answer, "I mean, I can't even dance. I'd just embarrass you," he says, and it’s true. He can't dance, and probably would just end up embarrassing you. You let out a sweet laugh that makes his stomach twist as you grab your headphones and pull him off the bed. "It’s really not that hard, dancing is basically just swaying and bouncing." You give him one of your headphones and put his hands on your waist. Yours are warm on his shoulders, and he feels his cheeks flush at how close you are as some old song starts playing. He's stiff as a board, trying to match your movements. "See?" You say, voice soft, and he starts to relax into your touch. "Not so bad." The late afternoon sun streams in through the windows, making you glow like an angel. You look so pretty, especially up close like this. You smell so good too. Your skin is soft where his fingertips slipped under your shirt. The singer's voice echos through one ear while the other listens to the profound silence in his bedroom. It's just you two up here, alone together in your own little world. You smile up at him and he lets out a soft, flustered giggle. He looks at you with those sparkly puppy dog eyes, admiring everything about you, like you hung the stars in the sky by hand. His mind wanders to how pretty you'd look at prom, all dolled up and fancy, just to dance with him like this, in front of everyone. It's still crazy to Dave that you like him at all, much less as much as you do, and he's still surprised every time you kiss him or hold his hand in public. Prom... with you. The music swells and you run your hands over his shoulders, drawing a wistful, shuddering sigh out of him. He had no issues about missing prom until now. He's going to have to have a really difficult conversation with Big Daddy later about rescheduling some things, because in this moment, he knows there's no way he's missing this with you for anything.

#drabbles #dave lizewski x reader #dave lizewski #dave lizewski drabbles #kick ass x reader #kick ass drabbles #kick ass #he's so babygirl #so whipped for you #i really do love that about him

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marielschism · 1 year

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Please do talk about the Marquis, all plot bunnies, how an eventual relationship with him would turn out. Any thoughts are most anticipated! 👀

FR?????????????? okay!

so i'm currently working on patron of the arts, a marquis de gramont x artist!reader fic where he is an art patron/cultural sugar daddy who is horrendously down bad for you, an artist in their flop era. i'm making an hc post for it over at my writing sideblog [@marielserif] so if anyone's interested 👀 i'll post it some time next week!

pairing: marquis de gramont x reader note: i think i made him unbearably ooc. whatever warnings: some mature themes/content; unedited; not an entirely healthy relationship (vincent has issues!!!!!!)

general relationship hcs

side note: these hcs operate under the assumption that the reader is unaware of his work.

i am deeply fascinated by yandere stuff, so every time i think of marquis de gramont, i can't help but sprinkle a bit of obsessive yearning on his part (because i honestly think he's the type to do so! he chased john wick all over the world! that should be me!). he is ruthless, ambitious, and determined, and i think this, too, translates into how he deals with his relationships.

i think that he's the type to fall hard for someone, but is also the type to deny the feeling initially, trying to stamp it out of his brain as hard as he can, constantly pretending that he is unaffected by you. he does not need you. he wants you. he has lived through most of his life without your presence, surely he can live through more.

his dedication to denying his feelings leads him into a great number of sticky situations: perhaps he dismisses you a bit too much, and it puts a significant strain on your relationship. he might even end up with you hating him.

he is used to being feared. he is used to being hunted. but he will never get used to the feeling of your hatred, so that could easily force him to act on his feelings before he makes things worse. it is a wake up call for him: he does not want to lose you because of his own pride.

good for you!

when the marquis is in it, good god, he is in it.

i think that marquis de gramont is an incredibly selfish man. if he loves you, you become an extension of himself — and in turn, he will ensure your safety and your joy. you deserve it. you're his.

he's a patron of the arts — he'll get along with you better if you have some appreciation for art and culture. your conversations with him will be longer, too, and sometimes more heated. vincent is very opinionated, and he'll defend his opinions to the death. he'll take you to museums, renting out entire scenic cultural hotspots just for you (and him) to enjoy at your own pace. he is prone to over-explaining when he is excited, so expect that you'll be doing a lot of listening.

if he senses that you're actually listening to him and he's feeling particularly generous, he'll reward you. you know what that entails.

there are times where you're feeling tired, and you're just not in the mood to listen to him ramble about his least favorite painting in the musee d'orsay. he does not fault you for it, but you feel the mild disappointment radiating off him in waves. you'll have to...make it up to him somehow.

he'll appreciate it very much.

anyway, vincent will take you to the ballet, dress you in the finest of things, and take you to the swankiest of establishments. you deserve nothing but the best.

if you inform him that you are uncomfortable with being spoiled like this, he will try to tone it down a little. the code word here is try. he will go back to sending you swarovski-embellished fountain pens in two weeks.

despite this, he's not above accompanying you to places like gas stations or grocery stores. sure, he'll take at least three bodyguards with him to ensure your safety, but he'll be there for you. he's capable of being normal!

(forgot to mention that vincent de gramont is territorial and overprotective at times. what's the use of all of his power if he can't use it protect the one he loves?)

(his brand of protection can feel almost like a prison at times. you'll have to clearly communicate with him about what you want, and you have to be very firm with him if you don't want to feel like you're a bird in a gilded cage. you have to make sure that he knows you won't just take it.)

(you need a backbone to love him. that's the truth of it all.)

vincent is also touch-starved, though he denies this constantly.

he can be an incredibly greedy kisser. he kisses you like he's starving, and he'll hold you like you'll turn into dust if he lets go.

he can be gentle, too — easy does it, and he takes it as slow as you want. languid, lazy, like you have all of the time in the world.

he's also a horrific tease. he's a smug bastard. he'll do everything except kiss you — he'll bite your earlobe, let his lips travel to your pulse, and kiss the corners of your lips. when you whine, he'll pull away with that smirk of his, and leave you to your racing heart. you're flustered as hell, and he looks unaffected by it.

(it's a lot harder for him to keep his composure if you're the one teasing him.)

he reaches out for you in his sleep, even if he is alone. a tired vincent will always reach out for you, no matter what stage of sleep he's in. in his sleep, he'll end up wrapping himself around your entire body like a boa constrictor no matter your size. one time, he fell asleep on top of you, and you had to elbow him awake because he was suffocating you.

(he owns a weighted blanket for when you're not around.)

if you play with vincent's hair, he will complain about you messing up the handiwork of his treasured coiffeur, but he won't say a word. when you pull your hands off his hair, he'll actually whine, and place your hands back. you have to clear your schedule if you want to play with his hair; he will not let you out of his presence until he's dead asleep.

if you really want to see a very stressed vincent, you can deny him your touch for weeks on end. but why would you do that? 😊

he's prone to taking drastic actions to get what he wants. a desperate vincent de gramont is someone you do not want to meet; a desperate vincent de gramont gets results.

so god help those who will try to take you from him.

plot bunnies

i really need to finish this because i have a 7-page paper due in 42 hours

i desperately wanted to write a ballet dancer!reader x patron!marquis de gramont instead of an artist!reader but im going to be completely honest with you i have zero knowledge of the world of ballet and i would NOT be able to do the idea justice.

(your rival dancer goes missing because of your patron. you investigate. things do not go well.)

also another plot bunny: leverage!reader

the marquis keeps an eye on you as leverage over your father, who is under his employ. think caine and his daughter.

he threatens your safety to keep your father in line constantly — but he's grown fond of you, strangely. you have a harmless hobby. it is soothing to watch you work. he is not going to hurt you.

(vincent even has his men protect you from harm. their presence in the area deter would-be muggers. you do not know this.)

at one point, your father grows stubborn, and vincent has to take a very drastic measure to ensure his cooperation.

he kidnaps you. of course he does.

strange things happen.

assistant!reader! you are his faithful assistant, and you get hurt in the line of duty. oh noooo. what happens next??? :OOO

#marquis de gramont x reader #jw4 #marquis vincent de gramont #hello anon thank u for sending me this ask 😭 i desperately want to talk about him more #you unlocked something in me #anon #so little MVDG fics im gnna be sick. i had to add to it! i had to!#even if i am terrible at writing!#vincentposting

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leprosycock · 9 days

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lud acting like a fanboy about j even though they already know each other irl is so weird?? Do you have any idea as to why he's like that? I'm relatively new and I don't understand all his behavior like you do (You're so good at analyzing him and j ) all I know is it's interesting

thank you!! honestly it’s really anybody’s guess, Iudwig is a very mysterious and complicated person and he hides his emotions in a way that feels like its own form of performance art, but my best guess is this:

Iudwig has always maintained that he doesn’t have close friends. he doesn’t keep close friends. he has said outright that he keeps everyone at arm’s length on purpose. he will not allow anyone to enter his brain or chest in any real capacity because not only does he not want to process those emotions, but he probably can’t. he doesn’t have the emotional maturity for it and has never bothered to develop it because he grew up spoiled and coddled by a doting mother after his daddy died when he was ten and he’s been surrounded by sycophants and enablers ever since he began his college career and the streamer lifestyle is dedicated to the grind and very little else outside of nonstop work and exploitation and bloodmoney. he has not learned to grow up and until the streaming bubble pops for good, he probably never will.

Iudwig has also said after 2022’s streamer awards that the only person whose validation matters is jrma’s. he said that jrma’s compliments and praise make him feel warm in his chest. compliments roll off him and never matter unless they come from jrma. before fortnite mondays in 2022, Iudwig said that he “selfishly wants jrma all to himself”. he very recently said that he “selfishly wishes jrma would stream more”. he craves his attention and his physical closeness and his identity and his cultish following and his everything. and this terrifies him. jrma is the only person who has ever knocked him off his feet and shaken him to his core, breaking down the barriers between a connection and Streamer Friend and to a place where lud finds himself feeling things he doesn’t want to feel. jrma is his father figure. he’s his teacher. he’s his mother. he’s his friend. he’s his enemy. he’s everything and more.

and because jrma is this intense and this heavy and this devastating as a concept, i think that lud genuinely feels more comfortable viewing him through the lens of a voyeur. he’s more approachable. he’s this insane, inhuman, godlike figure on a screen that’s much more fictionalized and much more comfortable to muse over. lud loves to be around him, but only until his brain turns back on and he has to remember that he’s a person and he’s trapped in a hell of his own making.

tl;dr i think lud is a jrma fanboy despite their irl connection because he loves to retreat to his boyhood and simplicity and not deal with the ickiness of trauma and complicated sexuality issues and genuine companionship and intimacy. that’s what i believe

#jlud #bunnyaskz

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burstanddecay · 2 years

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In the low lamplight (Matt Murdock x f!reader) (18+)

Summary: As your shitty day comes to a peak in his kitchen, Matt is determined to coax you into accepting something other than your self-deprecating thoughts.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x (afab) f!reader (no use of Y/N)

Content warning: 18+ content. Reader cursus like a sailor. Daddy issues (the actual kind, not the sexual ones), childhood trauma (emotional, not physical), emotional hurt/comfort, teasing, thigh riding, orgasm (both parties), Matt using the words ‘good girl’ because he can. Word count: 4.9K

Author’s note: Baby’s first explicit fic, so I am absolutely terrified of posting this. This also happens to come from a personal place: I started this when I was very angry at the world, lmao. The only difference is that I do not have a Matt to make me forget my problems. This is un-beta’d. Also on AO3

With a clatter, the contents splatter everywhere as the cast iron pan hits the floor at your feet.

“God fucking damnit. Fuck. FUCK.”

You cradle your burned hand, kicking the pan to the side as you turned to the sink, letting the lukewarm water run over your palm as your elbows rested on the edge of the counter, head hung low between your shoulders. You didn’t register the door opening, or Matt walking across the apartment in the blink of an eye until the door falls shut and he comes to a halt just outside the kitchen area.

“What happened?” he asks, careful not to step in any of the food. A feat in and of itself: you’re pretty sure the sauce is spread all over the cabinets and floor. It wouldn’t surprise you if some of it was smeared on the back of Matt’s leather sofa, either.

“Wet towel,” you murmur, turning the tap off and wiping your hands on said towel, not offering any further explanation.

“Hmm,” he hums, stepping closer. “You okay?”

“Fuckin’ peachy.”

He shows you a half smile, the rest of his facial expression hidden behind his crimson glasses. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s the truth,” he muses.

“What do you want me to fucking say, Matt?” you snap, wetting a dishcloth and dropping to your knees, scooping the spilled dinner into the pan at your side. “Everything is turning to fucking shit and I wasn’t paying attention. I grabbed the pan with dinner, the one thing I was sure I wouldn’t fuck up, and I picked it up with a wet towel and burned my hand. Hence dinner being spread across the floor of your apartment, and not on a plate, like I meant for it to be.”

He doesn’t reply, merely cocking his head to the side ever so slightly as he was facing you.

You bristle against his unfocussed stare, against the knowledge that he was searching for your heartbeat, listening to other tells of your body that could tell him what was wrong.

“Can you not.”

He doesn’t reply, but instead pulls at his pantlegs and crouches down to get to eyelevel.

“I know it can’t be just the dinner, sweetheart.”

Your jaw tenses, the metallic tang of blood filling your mouth as you bite down hard on the side of your cheek, several emotions fighting each other for fist place. You fish the last chunks of tomato and bell pepper off the floor, wiping your hands on the dishtowel and lean back on your heels.

“What happened today?”

You look up at him, at the soft expression on his face, before quickly looking away, ignoring the tears stinging behind your eyes.

He doesn’t push, knowing it would only fuel the anger and frustration coursing through your veins. Instead, he stays put, not moving towards you but not away either, hands loosely dangling between his knees.

“My dad,” you eventually say, looking up at the ceiling in a final attempt to blink the tears away. “Every time I think we take a step forwards… He just... He ends up stabbing me in the back regardless. And mom says he loves me, and that he just doesn’t know how to say it,” a bitter laugh slips past your lips, your cheeks wet with tears that had started to steadily trickle down. “He never learned how to say it, how to express it. Or anything, for that matter.”

You take a shaky breath, looking over at Matt, who merely gave a small smile in return to encourage you to continue.

“I thought it would be better when I moved, and it is, for the most part. But then there’s still days where I am back to seventeen years old and being ignored for a month straight because I did something to displease him.”

You finick with your hands, pulling at the already raw skin of your cuticles, the sight blurry through your tears. It made you feel small, insignificant, sitting here on the kitchen floor of your boyfriends apartment, surrounded by a mess you made. It wasn’t like Matt doesn’t have enough to worry about: you know he does. Along with his late night activities as Daredevil, the firm had been busy after taking a big case that garnered them much deserved attention.

Yet here you were, with the comparatively small issue that was the feeling that your father didn’t love you. It felt so insignificant, so trivial compared to the problems you knew graced Matt’s life on a daily basis.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says softly, reaching out to brush some hair out of your face. “Not the good kind, either.”

You snort. “I happen to be very good at that, to be fair.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean you deserve it, though.”

“Don’t deserve what?” you ask, pawing at your face to wipe away the excess tears.

“Whatever it is that you’re telling yourself.”

A laugh bubbles up as you push your hair out of your face and reached for the dishcloth. “It’s true, though.”

He stays quiet, and you can feel him observing you as you wipe away at the stains across the kitchen cabinets and floor. It wasn’t observing in the literal sense: he had explained that he really couldn’t see you beyond a very vague silhouette, but that he rather listened to someone’s heartbeat and breathing pattern to get a sense of what they weren’t telling him.

“I want to meet him,” he eventually says, catching you completely off guard.

“What?” you frown, pausing mid-wipe.

“I want to meet your father.”

“Trust me, you don’t,” you scoff. “He’d be a complete ass. That man wouldn’t know how to be friendly if his life depended on it.”

“I want to meet the person that makes you feel this way about yourself,” Matt replies, giving a little shrug. “For undisclosed and unrelated reasons, I will be out of town tomorrow.”

You sit back on your heels again, an amused smile ghosting across your face.

“Are you now.”

“No.” The word is accompanied by a wide grin. “Made you smile, though.”

You huff out a soft laugh, a small smile on your face as you scoot over a little, focussing on cleaning the remaining stains, ignoring the small pang of hurt still blossoming in your chest.

“In all seriousness,” he continues. “I know how much it hurts you, and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve any of it. Not whatever it was this time, or the things you experienced as a child. None of it.”

“I shouldn’t complain, really,” you say, the words bitter in your mouth as you put more pressure behind your scrubbing. “I still have both my parents. They were supportive enough.”

Matt sighs softly, scrubbing a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew.

Satisfied with lack of sauce spread across the kitchen, you reach for the pan and get up, tossing the remains in the trash and placing the pan itself on the counter to deal with later. Turning on the tap, you carefully scrub your hands with soap until they’re sauce free, shaking the majority of the water off before reaching for the dry towel hanging off the handle of the oven door.

“I can make us a grilled cheese,” you say as move over to the fridge, looking for more ingredients that could be pulled together into a semi-edible dinner. “I think you have a canned soup in your pantry, or I can run to the bodega to grab one. There’s some leek and left over bell pepper, so I could make an omelette—”

You’re cut off as you feel a pair of arms snaking around your waist, Matt’s hot breath ghosting across your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“Stop.”

You squirm against his hold, trying to break free out of his grasp.

“I’m not going to let go, sweetheart.”

“I am trying to make you dinner, Matthew.”

“It can wait.”

The warm prick of tears stings behind your eyes again and you try to squirm your way out of Matt’s grip, but he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t say a word as your breath hitches in your throat, merely guiding you a step back and closing the refrigerator.

You hadn’t noticed until now, but stuck to the door with a tiny magnet was a photo of you.

It was the final straw.

Your face crumples and you are unable to stop the sob wracking through your chest at the sight of it. It was stupid: there wasn’t a single piece of art, decorative pillow or vase of flowers to be found in his entire apartment, but there was a picture you stuck the door of your blind boyfriend’s fridge. A picture he couldn’t even see, but it was there, nonetheless.

He lets go, his hands running up and down your arms as you bury your face in your hands, crying harder than you’ve done in years, barely aware that he was spinning you around and pulling you to his chest, leaning back into the countertop as he did. His hands are gentle as one cradles the back of your head and the other is rubbing light circles on your back, not saying a word as your head rests against his chest, staining his shirt with both tears and left over sauce you were undoubtedly transferring, something you tell him in between hiccupping breaths.

A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I can get a new one. That’s something we can easily fix.”

Knowing it was something that would have led to anger in a different situation, with different people, the tears seem to be never ending, chest aching with ancient scars that feel like they’ve been torn wide open.

Through the tears, Matt is unmoving, taking the thing in calm grace as if it were merely the tide coming in, and not a tsunami crashing across a village. It felt like the latter: the anger and hurt towards your relationship with your father was something laid in waiting, waiting to strike when you least expected it. It was always the smallest things that triggered it out its hiding spot, something that shouldn’t matter but that he managed to blow up into something that he would inevitably spin into a narrative that would place the blame on you.

It was something that made you sad; the kind of sad where it ends up festering into self destructive anger. It was anger at the way it was now, and anger at the fact it had always been like that: the one person that was supposed to be there with unconditional love was the one that put terms and conditions on it.

But it wasn’t Matt’s fault. It wasn’t, yet you had exploded into his face, sending the shrapnel of your anger flying into his unsuspected stature.

“I’m sorry I’m a mess,” you eventually say when the tears have stopped flowing as harshly, letting go of him and setting a step back. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You laugh wetly in reply.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Don’t be. I’m a mess, too. Foggy is a mess. Karen is a mess. We��re all messes in our own accord, sweetheart. The reasons might be different, but none of us are always doing okay. And that’s fine. That happens. Doesn’t make you a bad person, it just makes you human.”

You hadn’t noticed he had taken his glasses off until you looked up at his face, meeting unfocussed brown eyes instead of his glasses. You knew he meant every word of it: he had told you about his own struggles. He had told you how dark the world had seemed to him, how he had only seen the pain and hurt in his life and no longer the good surrounding him. How he had isolated himself and locked every single person that saw the good him in out, until there was nothing but darkness and anger surrounding him.

It was on days like this, where everything accumulated into a giant mess that left you unable to see the good in your life that Matt would take your hand and let you know you were more than that, that the good was still there but hidden behind everything else.

His hand cupped your cheek, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb.

“I love you, okay?”

You smile, laying your hand over his, feeling tired but also lighter than before. “I know. I love you, too. Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

A silence falls between you, nothing but the busy street below and the low hum of the fridge audible in the apartment.

“Let me cook dinner,” he eventually says, his hand moving down to your hip and pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

“I love you, but you’re absolutely useless in the kitchen, Matt,” you laugh, amused at his offer. “You’re not cooking us dinner.”

“Are you implying that a blind person can’t cook?” he mocks, one eyebrow quirked and a wide smile on his face.

“No. I am implying that you specifically would burn water. You keep losing the recipe for making ice cubes.”

His mouth falls open. “That is so mean and you know it's not true.”

You grin in reply, beelining across the kitchen in an attempt to get away from him as he stalks after you. You run into the bedroom, trying to close the sliding doors before he can make it in, but he is far faster than you, one arm pulling you into his chest before you’re able to dive onto the bed to roll over it.

“Didn’t think so, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear, closing the door behind him, his hand snaking up to your chin as he stood behind you, not quite pressed against your back but so close you can feel the heat radiating off him.

You grin breathlessly as his thumb brushes over your lips, the other fingers bracing your jaw. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“Gonna show you just how capable I am of taking care of you,” he replies calmly, breath hot in your neck. “Don’t need sight for that.”

Your breathing falters ever so slightly at his tone, desire coiling hotly in your lower belly as he guides your forward until your knees brush the side of his bed.

“Say the word and I will stop. We will sit on the couch, order take out and you can watch a movie. Nothing happens right now without your okay. Understood?”

His hand feels as if it’s searing a hole through your shirt with the way it spans across your ribs, the other still holding onto your jaw. There was nothing possessive about it: if anything, it was gentle, warm, caring.

You nod, a soft huff of disapproval whispered across your ear.

“Words, please, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” you whisper in return.

“Do you want this?”

“Please,” you reply, unable to keep the whiny edge out of your voice. “Yes. Please.”

You can feel him grinning as he presses hot kisses to the side of your neck, brushing your hair to the side.

“Good girl.”

You try to supress the shiver rolling through your body at those words. He didn’t use them often: his preferred term was sweetheart, using it more often than your actual name. Rarely there was baby, usually reserved for late nights, dim lighting and lazy kisses. Even less often than that there was the occasional darling, when you accompanied him to professional events.

But the words good girl only made their appearance when he had one goal in mind.

Getting you off and asking nothing in return.

He guides you forward, onto the bed until you’re sat back on your heels between Matt’s thighs, his chest pressed against your back.

In a torturously slow pace, the hand that had been resting on your jaw crawled it’s way down, his fingers leaving a scorching hot trail as they travelled down your throat, skimming across your collarbone, grazing the side of your breast and down your ribs until both his hands were resting at your waist.

You lean your head back onto his shoulder, a content sigh leaving your body as you practically melt into him.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice rumbling lowly through his chest. “There’s my girl. It’s all about you right now. Whatever you want.”

“Don’t have to do that,” you reply, eyes closed and revelling in the intimacy of the moment. “’s a two way street.”

“Not tonight.”

Not a quite a command, but as close as he would get to it.

You think on it for a moment, absentmindedly running your nails up and down his thighs until he shivers behind you. You laugh, the sound bright and warm, a stark contrast to how you’d been feeling ten minutes ago.

“You sure about that?” you ask, shifting positions to look at him with a grin, well aware of the fact that he has to actively stop himself from rolling his hips against you to bring the slightest relief to the hardness straining against the zipper of his slacks.

“I’m starting to doubt it,” he smiles. “But yes. Let me just think about something horrible for a second—”

“Matthew!” you scold in faux horror, slapping his chest, something that is met with a wide grin.

“Kidding, kidding.”

“I think I just want to make you come in your pants,” you deadpan, pushing against his chest until he gets the memo, scooting back until he’s sat against the headboard. “Or just get you so hard and worked up that you can’t think straight and then just leave.”

He grins widely, hands resting on your hips as you move to sit on his lap. “I love it when you get cocky. It’s very sexy.”

You don’t reply, instead choosing to focus on untying his tie. You know you could just easily pull it over his head, discarding of it that way, but you revel in the micro expressions flashing across his face as your fingers brush against the base of his throat as you work the knot loose.

“Should tie you up with it,” you softly say, gliding your hands down the silk fabric before moving to unbutton his shirt, touch feather light as you elicit another shiver from him. “Would that be okay?”

You can see his breath hitching in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily as he swallows.

Leaning forward, your hands pressed against his bare chest, you ask again in a soft whisper against his ear.

“Would that be okay, Matthew?”

“Yes.”

The word is barely a whisper, a confession almost disappearing into nothing.

“Next time,” you promise him, gently pressing a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Had other ideas for now.”

He smiles in return, fingers digging into your hips as you scoot a little higher onto his lap, biting back a whine as you revel in the wave of pleasure crashing over you at the friction the combination of Matt’s thighs and your jeans provide.

“Ah,” he breathes, smile widening into something soft, as if he’d been waiting for it.

“There we are.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, no real bite behind the words.

“You gonna ride my thigh, sweetheart? Think you can make yourself come that way?”

His fingers are ghosting across your top of your jeans, as gentle as the expression on his face, not making any decisions before you make them.

“I know you can,” he continues. “Seen you do it before.”

You flush in a wave embarrassment, ducking your head and biting your lip as you avoid looking up at him.

“Hey, hey, no,” he tells you sternly, guiding your head back up with a finger hooked under your chin. “None of that. Not here. Not with me.”

You pause as he drops his hand, taking a moment to take in the man sitting beneath you. The neon sign outside cast a reddish-pink light across his features, the sight familiar and comforting as he shows you a crooked smile.

“Love you,” you mutter softly, the feeling all encompassing.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me. Show me how you feel, sweetheart. I want you to ride my thighs until you come so hard you’re left a quivering mess. I want you to tie me up and ride me until you see stars. I want you to take whatever makes you feel good, without expecting anything in return. Whatever that looks like, I can take it.”

“Jesus, Matt,” you breathe, heat crawling up your spine at his blunt confession.

“Language, sweetheart,” he retorts, the grin on his face devastating.

You don’t bother thinking of a witty reply, but rather pull your shirt over your head before crashing your lips into his, knocking teeth together in your hurry to devour him whole. His hands are everywhere: across your back, on your hips, in your hair: you can’t keep track as you tug at his open shirt, urging him to sit forward as you push it past his shoulders. He quickly tossed it off the bed before his hands are finding their way back onto your body, his shifting causing more friction that leaves you moaning into his mouth.

He grins into the kiss at the sound, his hand spanning between your shoulder blades as he presses you chest to chest, getting you as close as he could in this position.

“There you go,” he breathes, his other hand at the nape of your neck, mouth leaving wet kisses on the side. You grind into him shamelessly at this point, his hard cock now definitely straining against his zipper, providing more of that friction you were desperately chasing. It wasn’t enough: you desperately wanted him as close as you could get him.

Your hand snakes into his hair, pulling his head back as he lets out a low hiss, the other digging crescent moons into his shoulder as your fingernails claw into his skin, kissing his neck with a sense of urgency as his low moan shifts into a chuckle.

“Gonna actually come in my pants if you keep this up, sweetheart,” he confesses, the words almost hesitant, as if he didn’t want to make you feel bad.

“Aren’t you lucky that I want to finish with you inside,” you whisper with a grin, pressing a kiss just below his ear, something that earns you yet another shiver as your hands move to unzip his pants before moving off his lap, handing him a condom from the nightstand as you shimmy your way out of your jeans, leaving you in a mismatched pair of underwear consisting of cotton panties and a bra that didn’t match in colour.

The chilly air of the apartment in late autumn crashed over you, making you shiver, something Matt took note of as he pulls you back against his body, his hand snaking down, fingers brushing against the soaked fabric of your panties.

“There you are,” he whispers, the featherlight touch almost unbearable as he slowly drags his fingers up until they brush past your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. You bite back a moan, breath hitching in your throat as you do, all cockiness from a mere moment ago forgotten. Though you could easily crawl on top and take what you wanted that way, all you wanted in this moment was Matt. His fingers, his cock inside you: all of him, everywhere.

You don’t say any of it, instead a soft please is whispered and he knows, he understands, unclasping your bra and pulling your panties down before pulling you into his lap, positioning himself and letting you take the lead as you slowly sink down onto him, working your way through the stretch. You can see him biting back a moan, screwing his eyes shut: he didn’t want to make you feel like you had to hurry, not after the incident during your first time together. The pair of you had underestimated the situation and tears had sprung to your eyes when you were too eager, the worry in his voice still ringing through at times when he thought he had made the same mistake.

He hisses lowly as you slide home, giving you both a second to adjust, his hands steading you at your waist.

“I’m afraid this isn’t going to last long,” he confesses as you slowly start grinding down onto him. “Wasn’t kidding about the pants.”

His hand makes it way down, sending you jolting as he brushes against your clit, easing into a steady rhythm that leaves you gasping as you continue your own rhythm.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses running across your neck and shoulders, his words only adding fuel to the fire. “You’re doing so well, taking me so well, darling,” he continues, using every pet name available in the book.

It works: it drives you insane, making you grind down harder as you chase after your release that is so close you could taste it, but just out of reach.

“Please,” you gasp, desperate for it, clawing helplessly at his shoulders. “Need you, Matt, I’m so close. Please.”

“Shit,” he hisses, your words sending him bucking up into you, hitting deeper than before, his fingers stuttering as he rests his forehead against your shoulder. You knew it was taking every grain of willpower for him to not come on the spot, but you couldn’t help the whine that escaped.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” he apologises through gritted teeth, picking up with renewed enthusiasm, his mouth hot on your neck. “Fuck, baby—”

It was the raw tone of his voice that sent you over the edge, arching back as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, barely aware that Matt was right after you, keeping you upright on his lap.

“You’re stunning,” he grinned, looking up at you with a devastating smile as you caught your breath.

You laugh silently, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face with a grin that matches his.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Murdock.”

You slide off him, feeling a little empty but satisfied as you lean over to kiss him.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. “For everything you do.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he says, rolling off the bed and padding towards the bathroom.

You hesitate for a second, curiosity blooming in your chest as you recall earlier, getting up after him.

“Matt?”

“Hm?” he asks, wetting a washcloth and handing it over to you.

“Why is there a picture of me on your fridge?”

“Ah. Yeah. About that. Didn’t think it would make you cry,” he confessed. “I figured it’d be nice, to have something that represented you in here. For when you’re not yourself,” he shrugs, as if that would somehow clarify the situation, cleaning himself before tossing the condom into the trash and stepping into a pair of grey jogging pants, leaving you alone in the bathroom.

You follow his example and make your way into his living room as you pull one of his discarded hoodies over your head, frowning a little as you watch him rummage through a drawer.

“Matt.”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Matt, you cannot see the picture.”

He paused, snorting softly. “I’m aware.”

“Then why?” you ask, feeling a little exasperated. “I could just leave a shirt here, or even some perfume. Something that you know, is actually for your benefit.”

He considers it briefly, a heavy frown present on his face as he searches for the right answer.

“I… it’s not for me,” he eventually slowly says. “I know of your presence here. I can smell the remnants of your perfume, even when you’re gone. But nothing tells other people that visit here those things, because there wasn’t any visual aid to help voice that. I want people to know that you are in my life, and you’re important. I want to show someone what you look like when they ask. That I’m proud of you.”

You bite your lip, looking at your boyfriend who was standing in his living room, the perfect image of comfort in his grey sweats, giving you the recognition you were absolutely starved for as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you, and I’m so proud of you,” he emphasises, as if he can sense how much you need to hear those words. “No conditions.”

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, unable to fully express the way those words fill the cracks in your heart.

He smiles softly.

“Any time, sweetheart. Any time. Now, Thai or pizza?” he asks, holding up a set of flyers from local takeout spots.

“Thai,” you scoff as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen enough red sauce for the day.”

“Right. Yeah. Nearly forgot about that.”

“Liar,” you tell him, eyes fixated on the kitchen with a squint. “I can see a spot I missed from here; I know you can smell it.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad!” he exclaims, hands in the air in self-defence. “I figured I’d clean it when you weren’t looking.”

You snort, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as you pass him on your way to the kitchen. “Thank you for your attempt at sparing my feelings. I clean, you order and set the table. Deal?”

“Deal.”

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