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azen13 · 3 days

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The General's Garden - Chapter One: Spring

CW: Yandere Themes, Stalking

Description: You're just a simple gardener working on improving General Jing Yuan's little garden. Little do you know that the General thinks of you as so much more.

Pairing: Yandere!Jing Yuan x GN!Reader

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It is a mild spring morning when you first meet General Jing Yuan face to face.

You find him smiling between rows of hedges, posture relaxed and eyes glinting with a hint of curiosity. Months ago, when you had first been hired to help care for and improve the General’s private garden, you had only met one of Jing Yuan’s subordinates. They were quick to tell you that the General, despite his lazy attitude, was meticulous and observant. There wouldn’t be much room for error in tending to the gardens just outside of his home.

So, when you see the General practically appear out of thin air like a ghost, you can’t help but be a little surprised. No matter. Jing Yuan is quick to apologize for frightening you and reassures you that his visit is no bad omen. “I simply wish to enjoy a quiet morning amidst this beautiful scenery,” the man says, lifting a hand to gesture to lines of trellises and flowers. “You have done quite the commendable job taking care of this little garden,” he adds, the corners of his mouth upturned in what can only be described as the barest hints of a smirk; there is no malice in his expression, however. Only curiosity.

“Thank you, General,” you automatically begin, genuinely touched by the flattery.

Jing Yuan is quick to stop you, though, amusement lingering in his expression. “Please, call me Jing Yuan,” he says. “I’ll leave you to care for the flowers in peace,” he adds after a moment, turning away, and walking out of the garden, back in the house.

A peace blankets the gardens as you prune back bushes with a pair of hedge shears, and think about the General. Lazy. Meticulous. Relaxed. Observant. Through it all, though, he seems…lonely. Your home is a small affair, a simple studio apartment with low rent. You can hardly imagine what it must be like to walk through silent hallways every morning, passing closed door after closed door, empty room after empty room.

You brush the thought aside. You still have so many more shrubs and hedges to cut back, and after that in the far corner of the garden, the rose bushes need your attention. You recently planted them in the General’s garden several months ago, and this summer and fall would be their first time blooming.

As you walk off to your next job, battling monstrously misshapen plants in need of some shaping with your pruning, the shadows shift. But unlike the slow, tranquil motions shadows normally move in Jing Yuan’s garden, this shadow moves fast and with an almost calculative nature.

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Several days later, you see Jing Yuan again. This time though, he doesn’t appear out of thin air. Instead, you see him as you walk towards a small terrace walled in on three sides by trellises covered in an assortment of plants. Wisteria blankets the roof of the small patio, with ivy and clematis flowers winding themselves on the three walls. In the center of it all rests Jing Yuan, still smiling that small, gentle smile, sitting at a wooden table. In front of him is a single cup of tea, its subtle aroma spreading through the area.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Jing Yuan greets you, “I hope I am not intruding upon your duties.”

You shake your head and wipe your hands on your overalls, dirty from soil and mud and all sorts of other things. “Not at all, General. In fact-” Jing Yuan interrupts you politely. “Again, please call me Jing Yuan. There is no need for formalities with me.” Despite his kind expression and polite tone, there is something behind his words, the weight of a command dressed up to look like a request. After all, Jing Yuan is the General of the Xianzhou Luofu. His very words carry weight that rumble like earth like thunder and split the sky like lightning.

“Alright,” you sigh a little, feeling awkward about referring to Jing Yuan–the most powerful man on the Xianzhou Luofu and your employer–by his real name and not his official title, “I’ll do my best.” Jing Yuan, to your surprise, almost seems pleased, though his constant placid expression still remains set in stone. “I just wanted to say that I hope I’m not intruding upon you,” you explain, walking a few paces a way, and grabbing a spade, along with a pair of gloves. “Not at all,” Jing Yuan answers, the cadence in his words a little quicker, though it’s almost unnoticeable that you wonder if you’re hearing things. “In fact, I was hoping to invite you to take a break with me and come sit down with me,” he says, gesturing to the other chair with its own cup of tea in front of it.

Although you don’t enjoy not doing your duties, you don’t want to offend Jing Yuan by declining his offer, so you nod. “Alright, but only for a few minutes.” Jing Yuan smiles and nods, picking up his cup and taking a sip of tea. From the color and aroma, you mentally note what tea the General seems to be drinking: oolong. But when you sit down and pick your own cup up, you’re met with a surprise.

A cup of chamomile tea rests in your hands.

When you go to sip it, another surprise: it’s quite sweet, the way you take your tea.

The sweetness lingers on your tongue while unease lingers in your heart. From across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes are perceptive, his eyes almost leonine. But their gaze is not wild. Instead, they are watching intently, waiting for your reaction. His trademark smile, as you’ve come to know it, rests upon his lips.

“I hope the tea is to your liking,” he says quietly, taking a sip of his own cup again, before finally setting the cup down. When you nod, your mind still racing both at breakneck speeds and moving in slow motion, a pleased look seems to cross his eyes. “I wish to know, what pushed you to be a gardener?” He asks.

The question snaps you out of your reverie. It’s a question that has been directed to you many times, by family and friends alike. Your response has not changed in decades, so you shrug and say, “I like plants.” There’s a moment of silence as Jing Yuan processes this, before a soft chuckle escapes his lips.

“I suppose that’s as good of a reason as any,” he muses, his gaze far off. After a moment, it refocuses light concentrated light through a prism, the golden glow in his eyes seemingly brighter. You wonder briefly what things those untarnished pools of molten gold have seen, what murky shadows lie in their depths. But you know that you cannot even fathom to understand what this man has seen, nor what machinations make their movements in his mind, choosing decisions and actions.

Silence returns with its chilling breath, sending goosebumps shivering across your skin. You have a bad feeling. A horrible feeling, really, but you cannot point it out amongst a crowd of reasons, you cannot provide any evidence for what caused it, and you didn’t sleep well last night, so do you really feel horrible? It’s just a bad feeling. Perhaps you should have gotten more sleep, or eaten a heartier breakfast.

Jing Yuan brings you back from your thoughts again, keeping your attention on him. “I was thinking,” he begins, “about giving you a raise. Your work is…” his voice trails off again, eyes boring into your skull, pounding on your head, as though he wishes to card through each of your neurons to understand what makes them fire. And you know he could do it. “Beautiful,” he decides.

You feel a pleasant surprise settle in your bones, shaking off the ominous feeling. “That’s very generous of you, thank you,” you murmur, sipping at your tea again. Sweetness courses down your throat.

The rest of the conversation flows like a calm river, all easy small talk and quiet conversation. Jing Yuan asks you some questions, and you ask some of your own. The unease settles itself away into the shadows of your soul, waiting for a moment to strike again. After a while, Jing Yuan says he has to leave to go to the Seat of Divine Foresight for work, and you bid him well, returning to work.

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That night, you check your phone to find a massive sum of credits in your bank account. You have to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. You’re not.

Outside of your window, almost unnoticeable, two golden eyes glint in the dim moonlight like stars.

You catch more doves with seeds than stones, after all.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere hsr #yandere imagine #yandere jing yuan #yandere jing yuan x reader #aaaa i've been posting so much yan!jing yuan #honestly i love it though i LOVE jing yuan #i suck at writing longer works but we're trying!!#also posts might be less frequent because i started working a summer job!! but i will keep trying to write as much as i can

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 9 hours

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A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Two | Series Masterlist

Summary: the monotonous days of practice are starting to grate, but made more complicated by the pianist's lingering words | Word Count: 4.3k~ | Warnings: sexual tension 😘

“Aemond, darling, please…” Alicent pleaded behind the closed door of his bedroom, her worried, motherly voice muffled through the thick frame, “it's not the end of the world, love, okay?”

He'd been in the exact same spot for several hours, his knee bouncing irritably and impatiently. He closed his eyes, as if trying to put on the image of being completely calm. But his hands were clasped painfully, fingertips sore from practice, and he could barely hear his mother through the door anyway, with the large headphones pressed to his ears, with the uncomfortable sting of the cello raking into his brain.

His heart was racing with stress, playing the same bit of ‘Cello Concerto' over and over again, trying to find the part where Otto had incessantly pressured him to perfect it. Wrong timing. Wrong tune. Incorrect finger placement.

Each time he stumbled over the same tricky passage, his frustration mounted. The melody was supposed to soar, but all he could feel was the grinding pressure to not mess up, to not let Otto down, to not disappoint his mother who believed so fervently in his talent.

Where in others, he witnessed nurture in the form of pride, loving gestures and unconditional support. He could see no merit in it. Love to Aemond was tight and oppressive, and weighty on his shoulders.

The door to his room creaked open slightly, and his mother’s voice, muffled and distant through the noise-canceling headphones, attempted to break through the barrier of sound. "Aemond, dinner," she called, her tone gentle yet persistent.

He barely glanced up, giving a slight shake of his head. The outside world, even the simple call to dinner, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"Aemond, please," she tried again, her voice firmer now. A choice of tone usually reserved solely for Aegon. "You need to eat. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Aemond cradled his cello gently between his knees, the hum of the ensemble drifted in the air, each musician fine-tuned to perfection with scales and snippets of melodies to practice. But despite this, Aemond found his thoughts elsewhere, his memories blurring into his current reality, where a new challenge in the form of the pianist had emerged.

With every draw of his bow across the strings as if he were an artist gliding a paint-slick brush over canvas, Aemond found his concentration fragmenting. His thoughts were pulled back to the pianist’s effortless expression, her ability to blend technical mastery with palpable emotion. A stark contrast to his own methodical, disciplined approach.

She irked him. She intrigued him. Two feelings which should not hold hands in Aemond's black and white reality. Every single thing his musical education had deemed secondary, she challenged. In the brief moments where he could witness her artistry himself, her performances always lingered, whereas his own, for all its precision, rarely achieved.

“Focus, Aemond.”

Otto's chide was soft and yet audible to everyone. It echoed a long and tired reminder of years past. And he found himself unable to pull back the glare that his own grandfather shot first down the bridge of his nose.

Practice ended how it often had, disappointed and dejected. He could no longer think of her or the words she'd said in their last encounter without feeling the frustration thud in his heart. After all, could the skills she so easily spoke about even be learned?

He longed to see what she saw, how she felt when she played.

The route back to Aemond's apartment was mentally tiring, and the frustration that usually ebbed away with every step, somehow lingered, and permeated throughout his body. For some time, playing the cello had not been met with accomplishment, now more often than not, met with a long and exhausting sense that he could be better.

That is what Alys had said as well, a few weeks ago, when she'd packed up the rest of her things, still pink in the face from Aemond's lips and tongue having pleasured her between her thighs to completion. The difference between her attitude and her parting words almost gave him emotional whiplash.

“I can't be the one to distract you. Not when you need to focus. Not when you have the opportunity to be great.”

Her voice was firm. And there was no room for argument or rebuttal. When Alys said something had to be how it was, that was it. Aemond had watched silently, scrubbing a hand over his face at the closed door of his apartment. He wanted to argue that if Alys had in fact cared that she'd be distracting him, her lack of presence would be just that.

How often now had he been sinking between her thighs, just to think of something else?

He never thought himself a sex addict, and yet the idea of going so long without it, with the show yet months away, made him angry to think how affected he was by it. This was hypocrisy the likes of his brother, Aegon, would love to shove in his face, he just knew it.

The stone square that choked the Grand Sept was speckled with light through the trees, rustling in a manner some would have found comforting. Couples kissed near the fountain, artists drew for money, set up with a view of the Sept while onlookers watched with joy, and children tripped and squabbled through the various nooks that had once marked the spot of a great dynasty.

This was where he waited, taking in the view and the gentle, somewhat melancholic lull of people's lives go past him without a blink. It was an hour before he'd have to traverse back the way he came for his personal booking, to practice the pieces he so desperately wanted to perfect.

During the day, his phone was off. Nothing was more important than what he deemed his life's work.

With a soft sigh, he sat on the wall, watching the square empty as afternoons drew in, his seeing eye following longingly at a brother and sister, who must have had the same age gap he and Aegon had, chasing one another on the cobbled path. Their squeals of glee and bright, happy faces stirred something heavy in his chest.

Had he ever felt as carefree as that. Had he ever felt like a child. Or had he been a grown man for so long.

His thoughts drifted to his own childhood. He would stand stiff and rigid at recitals, looking out to the expectant gaze of his mother, her burning pride gazing into him. There, there was no room for carefree joy akin to the brother sister chasing each other through the square. His childhood, if it could be called that, was dominated by routine and scales, not play and abandon.

He glances at the golden ticking hands of his watch and with a heaved sigh, lifts his cello case to trudge back along the cobblestones to the music school, feeling the familiar pull of responsibilities. Yet, something about the moment nagged at him, a sense of loss for experiences never had, for a childhood spent in service to a future that demanded everything.

With a heaved sigh and another trudge through the now darkened halls of his music college, Aemond pushed open the door, expecting a deep, sullen and wooden silence. Only to be greeted, or rather, whatever the negative version to being ‘greeted’ is, by the sound of the delicate, light twinkle of piano keys.

He watched at first with a sense of both unease and interest as she played, her face partly hidden by the locks of hair that had fallen between her concentrated brows. He couldn’t even really see her playing, but could feel the sensitivity of her fingers on the black and white keys, the piece melancholic.

Aemond willed the crease between his brows, attempting to feign disappointment between his awe.

“You’re in the room I booked.”

Her eyes pierced the darkness between the opening of the grand piano, searing a memory into his mind through her vibrant gaze. At first, she seemed surprised at not being alone, and then her features settled, and he saw the wrinkles at the corner of one of them that made it clear that she smirked at seeing his annoyance.

She stood and closed the lid with a soft thud, pulling her bag over her shoulder, “yeah well unless you want to try moving a grand piano?” she smirks, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to reply.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his cello case against a nearby chair, conceding the point without words.

“Didn’t think so,” she replied in a jokey manner, smiling down as she organised her sheet music into a neat satchel bag at her side.

While she wasn't looking, he found himself watching her, for no particular reason. There was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded even in the simplest of actions, that intrigued him. It wasn’t just curiosity about her attire or a superficial interest, he found himself wondering about the depth of her character, about the source of her fearless demeanour. If his stolen looks were not to see what she was wearing today, then perhaps to see if he could glimpse into her soul for just a moment, to see where she got her fucking audacity from.

He sat to prepare his cello, running his middle finger over the bow strings, the density of them feeling somewhat satisfying against his calloused tips.

“You’re not going to lecture me about how I need to… ‘make love to my music’, or some shit like that?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate a little too deeply within him. “What you do with your cello in your alone time is none of my business,” she quipped without looking up, her voice light yet laden with a hint of mischief.

“Hmm.”

The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a dance of mutual curiosity and veiled interest. As she packed up her things, Aemond found himself unwilling to break the moment, his usual reserve shaken by her presence. There was something about her, a boldness, an unapologetic embrace of her own talent and identity, that challenged him, that made him question his own guarded nature.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, she paused, glancing back at Aemond who was methodically preparing his cello. A thought seemed to strike her, and her eyes lingered on him, curious and considering.

"Actually, do you mind if I stay a bit longer to listen?" she asked, her tone casual but with an underlying sincerity that caught Aemond off guard.

Aemond felt a mixture of apprehension and pride swell within him. He was used to accolades and audiences, but her request felt different, more personal, more significant. His initial instinct was to guard his practice, a time he usually kept private, a sacred space where he perfected his art away from prying eyes. Yet, something about her frank interest, devoid of any apparent ulterior motive, piqued his own curiosity about how she might perceive his music.

He was so taken off guard, as he was so often by her, that he forgot to say anything and simply nodded. He positioned his cello, settling it between his knees, his back straightening as he prepared to play. The invitation was extended on his terms, yet internally, he acknowledged a desire to impress her, to validate his approach and perhaps, to challenge her own musical opinions.

Her posture was relaxed, but attentive, as if she at least wanted to offer him the respect of knowing she was listening wholeheartedly. As Aemond drew the bow across the strings, the first notes resonated through the room, rich and precise. He chose a piece that showcased his technical prowess, a complex Bach suite that required meticulous control and deep concentration.

As he played, he found himself increasingly aware of her presence in the room. Each note was not just played for the sake of practice but as a demonstration of his skill and dedication to his craft. He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eye, her expressions subtle yet revealing. She seemed genuinely absorbed in the music, her earlier playful demeanour replaced by a focused seriousness that matched his own when he played.

The last draw of his bow brought those guarded walls back up again, the same ones that usually came tumbling down when he felt that in the throes of playing, feeling as if he was alone, were so easily crumbled. When the last note vibrated into silence, Aemond allowed himself a moment to gauge her reaction fully. She had leaned forward in her chair, as if she wanted to see his technique closer.

“You play with such precision,” she almost whispered, so quietly he strained to hear them. As if the words hadn’t been for him at all.

He wasn’t certain how to place her review, negative or positive. And it aggravated him that even in her criticism, she was aggressively neutral.

"Precision is crucial," he responded, his voice steady but his mind racing. He ached to say more, but alongside fearing he would appear defensive, he was unsure whether he wanted to invite criticism from her.

She paused, considering his question, her eyes locking with his. "Precision is your strength, no doubt," she began, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "But music, at least to me, also needs to breathe, to have a life of its own beyond the notes on the page. Your playing is impeccable, but it feels tightly controlled, almost constrained."

He quashed the rising irritation, or at least as much as he could, forcing himself to consider her words from a place of growth rather than confrontation. "So, you're suggesting I let go a little?" he asked, watching as she smiled at his confusion.

“Maybe,” she said lightly, “allow it the freedom to surprise you. Control you. You might find you like it.”

He couldn’t help but dissect the slight flirtatiousness in her voice. And yet it was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness he was accustomed to in such discussions.

She broke the silence that seemed to bulge between them, “do you like it?”

His mother watched him eat, her gaze laden with a mix of pride and concern. The clink of cutlery filled the brief silences as she finally found the words.

"Do you enjoy it, Aemond?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying weight. "The cello, I mean. Do you actually enjoy playing?"

Aemond paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. It was a question that had lingered at the edge of his consciousness, unvoiced and unanswered. Did he enjoy it, truly? Or had it become merely a vehicle for his ambition, a pathway that he had been set upon rather than one he had chosen?

"It sometimes feels like the only thing I know how to do," he admitted, and for someone so often so sure, his voice wavered.

His mother’s hand reached across the table, her touch warm against his. "Music should be a source of joy, not just a pursuit of perfection," she reminded him gently. "It’s a gift, Aemond, meant to be cherished as much as honed."

Aemond paused, the question catching him off-guard. "Do I like what?" he asked, unsure if she was referring to her suggestion or something more implicit.

She bit back a small smile, and yet it still wormed its way onto her face, “losing control.”

Her question, laced with a hint of playfulness, hung in the air, and Aemond found himself momentarily lost for words. He was unaccustomed to such directness wrapped in…flirtation?

“Losing control?” he repeated, his mouth feeling a little dry.

“Mmhm,” she hummed, “you hold the reins so tightly. Might be liberating to loosen…or even let go, once in a while?”

The atmosphere between them seemed to thicken, the words ‘losing control’ echoing not just through the room but through Aemond’s thoughts, disrupting his usual composure.

Aemond shifted slightly, the concept of loosening his grip, both metaphorically on his music and literally in his life, seemed to resonate deeper than he anticipated. "And you think that's something I need?" he asked, his voice lower, the hint of a challenge lacing his words.

She didn’t move an inch, but her presence seemed more pronounced. The subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the mustiness of the old practice room created a contrast that was oddly intoxicating. "Isn't it?" she countered softly, her gaze steady on his.

The air between them was palpable now, her every word pulling at something he usually kept well guarded. His heart beat a rhythm almost too pronounced, mirroring the tension that seemed to pulse through the space.

Clasping her bag closed, she stood, "Music is about feeling, about passion. It’s not just the notes, but the spaces between them, the breaths, the moments of surrender.”

Aemond’s response was caught in his throat as he absorbed her words, her proximity, the undeniable tension that seemed to dance around them like the very music she spoke of. How the hell did she do that?

She allowed herself a cheeky smile, one that reached her eyes so quickly that with those alone he would know she was amused, “maybe you should surrender to it sometimes.”

A part of him wanted to dismiss her words, to reinforce the walls he had built around his methods and beliefs. After all, she was the face of his competition, a symbol of the school he had been conditioned to outperform. Yet, the way she spoke about music, with such a raw, inviting passion, made it impossible to ignore the pull he felt towards her ideas, towards her. The rivalry was supposed to be clear-cut, a battle of schools and skills. But with her, it blurred into something messier, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all too powerfully.

It was a dangerous mix.

To admit she affected him would mean opening a door he was adamant to firmly keep shut tight. One that could lead to complications. Not even in terms of the competition. But for his prized discipline. She watched his expression to her words closely, her eyes reflecting a glint of knowing. He desperately wanted to hate her for it. To remind her that she was no better than him simply because she wasn’t plagued with the need for perfection like he was. That she, beyond the walls of the music school she seemed to haunt, could leave her instrument within them. Whereas Aemond was forced to carry his cello on his shoulders, to support its heavy toll on him, and that every step he took, it took more.

It seemed like she was going to say more, as her lips parted. But as quickly as they did, they closed softly again, and that enigmatic smile returned.

Fuck her.

When Aegon had been in his early twenties, he’d moaned and groaned on the sofa, his phone slobbed to one side, complaining that the girl he was currently texting was verbally edging him. Aemond had merely grimaced, finding his brother's frustration more amusing than relatable.

But now he felt that aggravation of it. The fact that she knew he was hanging on every word, and still chose not to say anything, to leave thoughts dangling in the charged air between them.

She gave him a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words and tensions that lingered, then turned and walked away. It was only when she was halfway down the hallway that the perfect response sprang to his mind, but by then it was too late. All he could do was watch her retreating form disappear into the dim, wooden corridor.

In that moment, Aemond felt like a modern-day Eurydice, fading into the shadows, but with a twist, this time, Eurydice longed for Orpheus to look back. Aemond knew that if she turned, if she offered him one last look, it would mean stepping back into a narrative filled with complexities and perhaps inevitable loss. Yet, he craved that backward glance, a sign that their fleeting connection meant as much to her as it did to him, even if it meant returning to the shadows.

Aemond tried to refocus on his practice as he returned to the solitude of the music room. He played mechanically, his usual precision present but the soul of the music notably absent. The strings didn't sing; they just spoke in monotonous tones. With more than half of his allotted practice time remaining, he packed up his cello, and resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

Driven by a need for something more tangible, more human than the cold wood and strings of his cello, Aemond left the practice room abruptly.

No more than 15 minutes later, he stood at the smirking figure of Alys Rivers, leaning against her door frame, arms crossed and wearing delicate lacy sleepwear, as if she could supernaturally anticipate that he would come to her.

Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, seeing him slightly dishevelled, a rare break in his usually composed demeanour.

“I don't want to fucking hear it.”

Alys, unfazed by his sharpness, raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly, stepping aside to let him in. Her reaction was more teasing than concerned, her amusement clear in her casual posture.

"Where?" Aemond's voice was blunt, his usual grace undercut by a barely contained frustration.

"The bed," Alys responded with a flick of her head toward the bedroom, her smirk deepening as she watched him stride ahead.

As he passed her, she couldn't resist adding, "Need some instructions, or do you remember the way?"

Aemond didn't respond, his back to her as he moved into the bedroom. Alys followed at a leisurely pace, her demeanour confident, almost cocky. She leaned against the doorframe, watching as he shed his jacket with quick, jerky movements.

Alys pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to him, her steps deliberate. "Something's happened-," she said, reaching out to smooth the crease between his brows with her thumb, her touch light but insistent.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it," he retorted, his voice low and strained.

Alys met his gaze, her expression partly unreadable. "Okay," she conceded, pulling her hand back gently. She gestured towards the bed. "Show me what you need.”

As Alys led him toward the bed, Aemond followed mechanically. His movements were automatic, driven by habit more than desire. Pulling her hips towards him and slinging her legs over his shoulders was like second nature at this point. Alys was warm beneath him, her body responding in all the familiar ways, her breaths, her touches, her sighs all scripted from past encounters. Yet, as Aemond moved with her, his mind was elsewhere, disengaged from the act.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sounds of their closeness, but inside Aemond, a storm was brewing. The physical motions were all correct, but the emotional undercurrents were misaligned, leaving him feeling even more isolated as they moved together. Alys seemed not to notice, or if she did, she chose not to address it, caught up perhaps in her own interpretation of their actions.

Afterward, as Alys settled beside him, her breathing even and content, Aemond lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was close, yet he felt miles away, trapped in a cycle that provided physical release but no real solace.

Sensing his detachment, Alys’ voice broke through the silence, “you okay?”

Aemond didn't answer. Instead, he gently disentangled himself from her and slid off the bed. His movements were smooth but distant, as if he was pulling away from more than just the physical proximity, leaving the bedroom without so much of a backward glance at Alys, barely wounded from his dismissal, naked in bed. Alys watched him go, her expression resigned. She remained silent, making no move to follow him or press him further.

In the living room, Aemond walked straight to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink, his hands mechanically tilting the bottle, the familiar clink of ice soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn down his throat, hoping it would wash away the disquiet clinging to him.

As he turned, his gaze fell on the grand piano sitting under the low light in the corner of the room. It was an elegant piece, one that Alys had long forgotten, now sitting idly and out of tune. The dust gathered in its crevices spoke volumes of its neglect, a stark contrast to the careful maintenance of instruments at his own school.

The piano, much like himself tonight, felt abandoned, left to stand as a mere piece of furniture rather than the vibrant instrument it was intended to be. Compelled by a sudden urge, he approached it, his fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of its keys, each one silent and stiff from disuse. Aemond pressed a key tentatively, listening to the dull thud that echoed back, as if to taunt him.

For a brief moment, he considered the task of tuning it, of bringing it back to life. It seemed a fitting metaphor for what he needed himself, a realignment, a correction of the discord that had crept into his own life and art.

As Aemond's fingers wandered across the piano keys, his thoughts meandered back to the pianist from the opposing school. She had described music as a living entity, one that breathed and moved, pulsating with the emotions of its player. This concept lingered in his mind as he contemplated the neglected piano before him. He wondered how she would react to such a forlorn instrument. Would she feel compelled to restore it, to draw breath back into its worn frame and let it sing once more?

Just as he secretly hoped she might rekindle something within him, a spark long subdued under the weight of discipline and expectation.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

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drvirgus · 21 hours

Text

Protecting (my heart)

Idol! Minji X bodyguard! Reader

Description: getting a new job as NewJeans bodyguard isn't really something Y/n thought would happen to her. What exactly happens when she suddenly felt attracted to one of the NewJeans members? Can Y/n stay professional or are her feelings for Minji too much to handle?

Warnings: stalking; harassment; kys jokes; suggestive language; death threats; mention of abuse; mention of murder; Smut; g!p reader

Chapter: First Time (Fully written)

Masterlist

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sighing, I leaned against the ropes of the boxing ring. My body was bent forward as I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Minji was in the locker room changing, while I had already picked her up, dressed and ready. My eyes remained closed as I took several deep breaths.

The stalker looked familiar. Very familiar. But from where?

My jaw tensed as I racked my brain over the whole situation. Naturally, I was worried that the stalker, having already made contact with Minji once, might repeat it. The fear that the stalker might snap and harm Minji had kept me up all night.

“What are you thinking about?”

My eyes opened, and I immediately saw the taller woman a few meters below me, as she hadn’t climbed into the ring yet. A small smile appeared on my face as I shook my head slightly. “Nothing special. Come on up,” I said, extending my hand to her, which she took without hesitation.

I pulled my ex-girlfriend up and helped her through the ropes until she was fully in the ring. Minji sighed softly, smiling at me. My eyes, however, fell on her outfit, and a lump formed in my throat that wouldn’t go away despite repeated swallowing.

She was wearing a tight black tank top and white wide-leg sporty pants. Her black hair was tied in a ponytail, drawing my eyes to her neck.

I swallowed again, feeling my heartbeat quicken. I quickly turned my head to the side, trying to banish every single thought from my mind. A clearing of the throat interrupted my flow of thoughts, and my jaw tensed again as I automatically became more serious.

“How strong are you?” I asked, causing Minji to look at me in confusion. “Do you mean how much I can lift? Like… around-” she began, but I cut her off immediately. A smile on my face as I stepped closer to her. I positioned her in the middle of the ring and stood facing her.

“I’ll show you some moves from Judo, Krav Maga, and Jiu-Jitsu. You can decide which ones you like, and we’ll refine your technique,” I said, and Minji nodded. Her eyes were fixed on me. I got into position. “Attack me. The first move is called O-goshi,” I said with a small grin, waiting for Minji to make her move.

Minji’s eyes widened as she suddenly landed on her back on the ground. Confused, she sat up and looked at me. Smiling, I offered her my hand, which she took without hesitation. I pulled my ex-girlfriend to her feet and couldn’t help but laugh at her bewildered expression.

“You grab the opponent by the collar and the sleeve, turn your back to them, pull them close to your hip, and throw them over your hip onto the ground,” I explained with a small smile, showing her the key points on her body and the opponent's body that she needed to grab.

“Come on. Give it a try. Don’t be afraid to hurt me... I probably deserve it,” I murmured quietly, causing Minji to look at me with a furrowed brow. Her jaw tightened as she began to breathe incredulously. She immediately grabbed me at the key points and tried to throw me to the ground, but it didn’t go as smoothly as she hoped.

Minji’s eyes narrowed as she hissed loudly, trying repeatedly. My smile faded, and I gently removed my arm from her grip. “You… seem tense,” I said softly, noticing the tears forming in her eyes, but she quickly looked away to avoid my gaze.

“Hey,” I whispered as I placed my hand on her upper arm. “I’m sorry.”

Minji turned her head back to me, her eyes shimmering with tears she was determined to hold back. Her lips pressed together as she took another deep breath. “Why… did you really break up with me?” she asked softly. My eyes widened, and I withdrew my hand from her arm, but she immediately grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t avoid me, Y/n. I’m not stupid,” she said, looking at me with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. My mouth opened slightly as I first looked at her hand, still gripping my wrist, and then into her eyes. “You don’t… have to be afraid anymore,” I began quietly, causing her eyebrows to twitch and lift. “I’m close…”

Minji’s eyes narrowed, and her grip on my wrist tightened. “Close?” she asked, looking at me questioningly. A sigh escaped my throat. “I’m close to catching the stalker,” I confessed, newfound confidence in my voice. I lifted my head to look her straight in the face.

I swallowed as Minji released my wrist. “We should continue,” I said, stepping back a few steps from the taller woman. My jaw tensed slightly. “You need to learn to defend yourself,” I added more seriously, and Minji sighed before nodding in understanding.

Minji nodded, determination replacing the earlier sadness in her eyes. She adjusted her stance, signaling her readiness to continue. I took a deep breath, refocusing on the task at hand.

"Alright," I said, my voice steady. "Let's try another move. This one's called 'Ippon Seoi Nage.' It's another judo throw. Watch closely."

I demonstrated the move slowly, explaining each step. "Grab your opponent's collar and sleeve, turn your back to them, drop your hips, and throw them over your shoulder." I executed the move fluidly, and Minji watched intently.

"Okay, your turn," I said, stepping back and getting into position. Minji approached, hesitating for a moment before grabbing my collar and sleeve. She followed my instructions, her movements a bit tentative but precise.

Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted off the ground and thrown over Minji's shoulder. I landed on the mat with a thud, a mixture of surprise and pride flooding through me. Minji looked down at me, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"You did it," I said, getting back to my feet. "That was perfect."

Minji's smile grew, the earlier tension in her shoulders easing. "Thanks, Y/n. I wasn't sure I could do it."

I nodded, a smile tugging at my own lips. "You did great. Let's keep going. The more you practice, the more confident you'll become."

We continued training, going through various moves and techniques. Minji's determination was evident, and she picked up each new skill quickly. As we worked, the atmosphere between us grew lighter, the earlier tension slowly dissipating.

After a while, we took a break. Minji leaned against the ropes, breathing heavily but smiling. "This is actually kind of fun," she admitted.

I chuckled, leaning next to her. "Yeah, it can be. And it's important. You need to be able to protect yourself."

Minji nodded, her expression growing serious again. "I know. Thank you for helping me, Y/n."

I looked at her, our eyes meeting. "Of course, Minji. I'll always be here for you."

For a moment, we just stood there, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The bond between us was still strong, despite everything that had happened. And as long as we were together, we could face anything.

"Ready to go again?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Minji grinned, pushing herself off the ropes. "Yeah, let's do it."

We resumed our training, and with each move, each throw, I could see Minji growing more confident and strong. It wasn't just about learning to defend herself—it was about reclaiming her sense of security and power.

Breathing heavily, I threw the taller person onto the mat once more, but suddenly she pulled me down with her. My eyes widened as I felt her legs automatically wrap around my waist and her hands grasp my collar. I stared down at my ex-girlfriend, Minji, whose wide eyes locked onto mine.

The time we spent together—every single second, every emotion, argument, and even the moments of silence—flashed through my mind. My left hand pressed against the mat to create some distance between our bodies, while my right hand rested on her leg.

Minji was also drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Her eyes were larger than usual as she simply gazed into mine. Suddenly, she lifted her head from the mat and placed her lips on mine. My breath caught, and my eyes widened even more as I felt her soft lips press firmly against mine.

My body visibly relaxed, and I immediately kissed her back. My eyes closed as I poured every single feeling I had into this one kiss—every bit of longing, love, worry, and fear of losing her. Naturally, I also felt a deep sense of regret.

I had hurt the person I loved...

"Minji," I murmured as I broke the kiss, my eyes slightly narrowed as I looked at the beautiful woman beneath me. "We shouldn't—"

"Shut up."

With that interruption, her lips were back on mine. Her hands slid under my top and pulled it off. Shortly after, she grabbed the nape of my neck and pulled me closer, our lips locking once again in a kiss that was now wilder, more desperate, and filled with a burning desire.

My eyes opened during the kiss as I felt Minji trying to pull down my sweatpants. Her hands tugged at the fabric, hoping it would come off on its own. A smile crept across my face as I slowly pulled away from her lips, glancing down at myself.

The bulge in my pants, thanks to the heated kiss, was clearly visible. I licked my lips before looking into her eyes. "Are you... sure?" I asked, my right hand grasping her wrist to stop her from tugging further.

"Yes. I'm sure," she replied, her voice filled with certainty.

My heart pounded in my chest as Minji's confident words resonated in my ears. The gravity of the moment settled over us, and I knew I needed to make this experience perfect for her. This was Minji's first time, and I wanted to ensure it was something she would cherish forever.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice gentle as I looked into her eyes. "We'll take it slow."

Minji nodded, her gaze unwavering. I leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, conveying my love and reassurance through the connection. My hands gently roamed her body, exploring her curves with a soft touch, making sure she felt every bit of my adoration.

Slowly, I broke the kiss and trailed my lips down her neck, placing delicate kisses along her skin. Minji's breath hitched, and I could feel her body responding to my touch. I moved my hand down, brushing my fingers lightly over her chest, eliciting a soft moan from her.

"You're so beautiful, Minji," I murmured against her skin, continuing my journey downwards. I took my time, wanting to build up the anticipation and make every moment count. My hands caressed her hips, slipping beneath the waistband of her pants and gently easing them off.

Minji's eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a soft sigh as I helped her out of her remaining clothes. She lay there, exposed and vulnerable, but there was no hesitation in her gaze—only trust and desire.

"So beautiful," I breathed, not moving a single muscle as I stared at the stunning body of my ex-girlfriend. My eyes captured every curve, every imperfection, every muscle. My fingers began to trace her stomach, causing the woman beneath me to shiver.

"So damn pretty," I continued to whisper. My lips parted as I stroked the muscles on her abdomen. I bit my lip automatically to quell the urge to just plunge into her. Taking a deep breath, I bent over her once more to connect our lips.

This time, my lips traveled to her neck. I gently bit her there, while my hands roamed over every bump and curve of the beautiful woman. "Minji," I whispered softly as I moved further down. My eyes looked up to catch every little reaction on her face.

Her eyes were glassy, her lips parted and caught between her teeth. A hum escaped my lips as I took in the already hardened nipple of her left breast. Once more, I licked my lips before gently brushing my tongue over the stiff bud.

Minji's body jerked and a gasp escaped her lips, but she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. Her face flushed deeply as she looked aside in embarrassment. "What's wrong?" I asked, raising my head to look directly into the idol's face beneath me.

Minji turned her head back to me. "I... I make weird noises," she confessed, looking at me helplessly. A smile spread across my face as I gently moved her hand away from her mouth. "Good. I want to hear every single sound," I whispered softly. "Don't hold back. Just enjoy it."

After a rather hesitant nod from her, I enveloped the hard nipple with my lips, pressing my tongue against it before gently starting to suck. My eyes remained fixed on her, watching for every single reaction or any sign of discomfort.

My hand grasped her other breast, massaging it. A smile spread across my lips as I felt Minji starting to move beneath me. Her body quivered and sounds came much more frequently from her beautiful mouth. My teeth gently nipped at the skin of her left breast before I gave a firm suck.

No one would see a hickey here...

My kisses traveled under her breast and along her stomach as I kissed, sucked, or even licked every little spot. My hand on her breast slid down her side before resting on her thigh. I chuckled softly as I looked up once more. Minji watched me with wide eyes as I showered her stomach with love. "Are you ready?" I asked once more, and received only a quick, eager nod from her.

"Words, baby. I need words."

"Y-Yes. I'm ready."

A smile spread across my face as I slid down further. I ensured her left leg was bent and began by caressing her inner thigh. My breath came in ragged gasps, finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything. Minji's pleasure, however, was paramount...

With one last look into her eyes, I buried my head between her legs. My tongue parted her folds, savoring her intoxicating taste. My eyes closed as a moan escaped my lips. My lips quickly found her clit, and I sucked on it almost immediately.

My fingers dug into the bent legs of the beautiful woman. Minji's moans grew louder, and she writhed. "Y/n. Fuck, Y/n," my ex-girlfriend gasped out. Her eyes were half-open as she looked at me, her lips parted as she struggled to breathe normally, failing to do so as she would have liked.

A grin formed on my face as I ran my tongue through her folds once more. I teased her entrance and slipped the moist muscle inside her before pulling it out again and focusing entirely on her clit.

Minji's breath quickened, and her hips lifted off the mat. Her hips instinctively rolled into my face, causing me to suck even harder. A moaning scream escaped her throat as her eyes widened, and she arched her back off the mat.

Somehow, Minji managed to sit up, grabbing my head with her hands and pulling me closer. My right hand also ventured into her warm and wet core. My fingers collected every drop of her wetness before I traced one finger around her entrance, gently pushing the tip inside before withdrawing it again.

"Y-Yes," Minji moaned loudly, sending shivers down my spine. I had always loved Minji's voice, but now? So full of lust and desire? That raw edge? If I wasn't careful, I might reach orgasm just from the sound of her voice alone.

Minji's hips began to tremble as I inserted my finger into her, moving it slowly and gently in and out. My lips focused entirely on her clit. I could feel Minji, who had her hands in my hair, starting to pull at it. Her body leaned forward, and I whispered, "Relax," but Minji only responded with a moan.

Amused, I let out a breath and slipped a second finger inside her. My fingers moved slowly in a scissoring motion to spread and prepare her entrance. Minji threw her head back, "Shit. I'm coming," the younger woman moaned as her hands dug deeper into my hair. She arched her back, lifting her hips off the mat.

I withdrew my fingers from her and opened my mouth wider, determined to lap up every drop. My tongue danced over her clit, while my fingers spread her open, preparing her for what was to come. Her taste was intoxicating, and I wanted to make sure her first time was perfect.

Minji's moans grew louder, filling the room. Her body quivered as she reached her peak, her hips bucking against my face. I held her steady, not missing a beat, ensuring she rode out her orgasm fully.

When her body finally relaxed, I looked up at her, a smile on my face. "So beautiful," I murmured, moving back up to kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my lips. Minji's breath was still heavy, her body trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her climax.

I kissed her softly, my fingers trailing over her sensitive skin. "Are you ready for more?" I asked, my voice low and gentle, wanting to ensure she was completely comfortable.

Minji nodded, her eyes filled with trust and desire. "Yes, Y/n," she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.

I positioned myself carefully, my length brushing against her entrance. "This might hurt a little at first," I said, wanting to prepare her. Minji nodded again, biting her lip as she looked into my eyes.

Slowly, I began to push inside her, feeling her warmth envelop me. I moved inch by inch, giving her time to adjust to my size. Minji gasped, her fingers digging into my shoulders as I filled her completely.

"You're doing great," I whispered, kissing her neck softly. I started to move, slow and steady, allowing her to get used to the sensation. Minji's moans became louder, her body responding to mine as we found a rhythm together.

Each thrust was deliberate, aiming to bring her as much pleasure as possible. My hands caressed her body, my lips finding hers in a passionate kiss. The connection between us was intense, and I wanted to make sure Minji felt loved and cherished.

As our pace quickened, I could feel her walls tightening around me, signaling that she was close again. "Let go for me, Minji," I murmured against her lips, my thumb circling her clit to bring her over the edge once more. With a final cry, Minji reached her climax, her body convulsing around me.

My mouth opened as my body began to tremble. My breathing accelerated rapidly as I felt myself on the verge of orgasm. "Shit," I panted, suddenly remembering that we weren't using a condom. My eyes widened as Minji held me by the neck.

"Fuck," I moaned again, ensuring that Minji would finally release me. With a swift movement, I pulled out of her and started stroking my full length before coming on her beautiful stomach. I watched as the white, creamy semen landed on her perfect belly, exhaling in relief.

Relieved that I had managed to hold back just long enough.

My eyes immediately turned to the stunning woman beneath me. "Everything... okay?" I asked, slightly concerned, my brow furrowing automatically. Minji gasped for air, a smile forming on her lips. "More—more than good," she replied, still breathing heavily.

A smile spread across my face. "Good," I whispered, connecting my lips with those of my ex-girlfriend once more.

The kiss was tender and lingering, filled with the emotions and passion of the moment. As our lips moved together, I could feel the remnants of tension easing from both of us, leaving only a sense of deep connection and satisfaction.

Gently, I pulled back and looked into Minji's eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You were amazing," I murmured, my thumb caressing her cheek. Minji's smile widened, her eyes softening with affection.

"You too," she whispered back, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

We stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow and the intimacy we had just shared. Eventually, I got up to fetch a warm towel, returning to clean her up carefully. Every touch was gentle, filled with care and tenderness.

Once she was clean, I lay down beside her, pulling her into my arms. Minji snuggled against me, her head resting on my chest. The room was quiet, save for the sound of our breathing and the steady rhythm of our hearts.

"I've missed you," Minji admitted softly, her fingers playing with mine. "I've missed us."

I kissed the top of her head, holding her closer. "I've missed you too, Minji. More than you know."

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Taglist: @itzzyyyyyyydaaaa@acegaydar@alexxeey @sixflame438 @pandamiswifey

#newjeans hanni #haerin #newjeans hyein #danielle #newjeans #itzy yeji #hanni pham #itzy x reader #minji x reader #newjeans minji #newjeans smau

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thewebcomicsreview · 21 hours

Text

So, Gunwild, the writer of Cassiopeia Quinn, made a comment on that post about webcomics turning into illustrated prose

gunwildversuseverything said: I was hoping this would prompt a discussion about formats and expression, but no, it’s about artist versus writer workloads and “amount of story” being reduced to equations and word counts and update schedules. Figures.

And you know what, it's a good point. So instead of getting into the Artist vs Writers debate for the millionth time, let's take a look at how you, and artist and/or writer, can get a story told on the internet. For the sake of this discussion, lets assume you don't have any actual preference for a given medium that might influence you, you just want to know what's right for your story and will learn whatever skills you need.

TRADITIONAL WEBCOMIC

Comics are the most visual-heavy medium that a solo project can realistically do. This has several business advantages (pictures do better on social media), but it's also a good fit for stories with a bunch of things that are interesting to look at. Cassiopeia Quinn is a story heavily featuring weird alien races, cool spaceships, and attractive young women with extraordinarily casual dress codes. These are visual things! And visual things can be conveyed super quickly and subtly using visuals. Imagine just the "Cassiopeia doesn't wear pants" gimmick, if this was written out. If Cassiopeia gets a description of her appearance the first time she shows up in chapter one and then it's kind of glossed over, the reader would forget. If every time Cassiopeia entered a scene Gunwild had to go

Cassiopeia sauntered up to the motorcycle rack. Her own rack was barely contained by a dangling strip of black fabric, visible through an open orange jacket. Black elbow-high sleeves, covering her hands, matched her thigh-high stockings, separated from her black panties by her thigh pouch.

Somehow it's a lot less cute when it's written out like this, huh? And it also takes way longer to read that then it does to just look at her on the page, which increases the chance your readers might get bored. Comics are the medium that takes the most time to make and also the least time to read, which makes readers a lot more likely to put up with exposition or a plot tangent that doesn't really connect with them. Even if your comic has bits that don't grip your readers, they can grip themselves if you show them interesting bits.

The main downside of comics is the "equations and update schedules" part. They take a looooooong time to make, even compared to everything else. It's also got issues with how people read it. A comic that looks good on a desktop often looks too small on a phone.

TEXT UNDER A PANEL

This style is so strongly associated with Homestuck that a lot of people who weren't making explicitly Homestuck-themed comics seem to have been scared off it. But it's a perfectly cromulent format. It reads well on both desktop and mobile, and lets you use art for all your visuals while using text for dialogue and character thoughts. It's not, however, the best fit for every story. Because each panel is separate, it can be hard to make an exciting action scene this way, which is part of why this format is also associated with special animated pages (I mean, besides "Homestuck did it"). The panels don't really flow into each other, and there's a constant switching between looking and reading.

ILLUSTRATED PROSE

Distinguished from the Text Under a Panel Style mostly by the ratio of text to art, without a hard line demarcating the distinction between them. This style also reads well in desktop and mobile. Well, it should, but a lot of webcomics who switch to this style tend to stay in their webcomic format, meaning it's a picture of text that doesn't resize legibly, grumble grumble. I don't....I don't know if I need to explain the concept of "text" to people. You know what words are, and if you don't there's nothing I can say to explain it.

VISUAL NOVEL

I'm not going to claim to be a visual novel expert, but the main advantages are that it's the most art-efficient medium of any of these (because you can flat-out reuse art), the main disadvantages are that you'll usually need music, it's maybe not as well suited to long monologues, and most importantly that it's not a good method for drip-feed three-day-a-week updates. You kind of have to release the entire thing all at once, or at least in large episodes.

ALL OF THE ABOVE

A comic like Out-of-Placers is mostly traditional, but uses illustrated prose for lore updates. Prequel is text-under-a-panel but not always, and of course Homestuck is the absolute king of format switching, even ignoring the animations. The upside is that you can use the best format for any given scene, and that you're constantly keeping your readers on their toes. The downside (besides having to learn to do all this shit) is that you kind of have to commit to the bit and get your readers on board early with the idea that you're going to just be doing whatever this week. It's also harder to take full advantage of any one medium if you're constantly switching them up

I'm sure I'm forgetting about two hundred formats, but what are the biggest ones I'm missing?

#Cassiopeia Quinn #Prequel Adventure #Coquette Dragoon #Homestuck #Paranatural

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didalexiabreakupwitholgayet · 13 hours

Note

Can you or anon explain more about Ingrid and caros captaincy being taken away? I didn’t know they used to be captains

well, several players have worn the captain's armband for norway, including ingrid, caro, ada, and maren mjelde. but i assume you are referring to when ingrid and cgh were benched during the world cup vs. switzerland? well, norway's coaching staff has been a mess for years and years and clearly have created issues for the players.

so cgh took a break from the national team for health reasons and returned in time for the 2023 world cup, but was outspoken about her play on the national team and said:

"i feel i have been stepped on for a whole year — everyone says all the time that we have to stand together as a team and as a nation, but i feel i’ve been on the receiving end (of a raw deal). nothing comes for free in life, but i thought i had earned a certain amount of respect, but maybe that wasn’t the case.”

caro ended up apologising to then norway manager, hege riise, but it was clear that riise had no clue what she was doing and is now gone.

ingrid also expressed frustration during the world cup but not so strongly in her words:

"of course you are disappointed not to be starting a game at the world cup. it's only natural that she and i would feel that way. i don't know if i was surprised by the reaction (of cgh), i understand that you can be disappointed in such a situation ..caro has said that it shouldn't have come out in the way it did, and that it is also about other things."

but anyway, it's clear that norway needs to get their shit together because it's been a mess and players like ingrid, caro, and ada have been quite outspoken about it.

#ingrid engen #caroline graham hansen #ada hegerberg #norway wnt #futfem #woso

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acewritesfics · 2 days

Text

I don’t want you to leave | Eddie Munson

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Request: From Anon

Warnings: Mentions of assault and drunk abusive father. Angsty.

Word Count: 1,058

Stranger Things Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Eddie!” Y/N yells, slamming her fist against the door to Eddie Munson’s trailer. She had no idea if he was awake, but she knew he was home because his van was sitting out front of the trailer. “Eddie!”

The door eventually swings open, nearly knocking her off the step.

“Y/N?” His voice is sleepy, confirming her suspicions of him being asleep. It wasn’t uncommon for the two to hang out, smoke weed, listen to music, and talk about anything and everything until the early hours of the morning. What was unusual was her showing up at almost 2 a.m. banging on his door as if her life depended on him opening it. “What’s going on?”

He notices a large red welt shaped like a hand on her right cheek and a small cut on her left cheek with a bruise forming around it. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her cheeks are stained with tears. The thought of someone hurting his best friend (and childhood crush) filled him with rage. He gently takes her hand in his and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them. He goes to the freezer, takes out a bag of frozen peas, wraps them in the towel, and presses them against her cheek, causing her to wince slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, hating seeing her like this. As much as he wanted to hurt whoever did this to her, she was his number one priority right now. She needs him more than a jail cell does. “Did your father do this?” He asks her, his big brown eyes boring into hers, wanting to know every detail of what happened so he could help her as best he could.

It was well known that her father was an abusive alcoholic. It was only recently that the public became aware of it. After her mother left, her father made no effort to cover up how much of an asshole he really was. With Hopper gone, the town’s police force had spiralled into a shit show. Her father was arrested several times for being drunk and disorderly, and he always blamed it on his wife leaving and fabricating lies about her disappearance, which gained sympathy from a majority of the people.

“I have to leave Eddie.” She confirms his suspicions. “I can’t stay any longer.”

“Do you mean leave Hawkins or your house?” He asks her, his heart pounding as he struggles with his conflicting feelings.

She confirms, “Hawkins.” she confirms. “He’ll continue to make my life a living hell if I stay here. I can’t be here as long as he’s alive.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says truthfully, even though a part of him wants to tell her to leave so he can be sure she’s safe. But the selfish side of him came out and didn’t want her to leave. He prefered that she stayed with him so that he could protect her. He never saw himself as a hero outside of Dungeons and Dragons, but he wanted to be her hero.

“I don’t want to, but I have to,” she sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. She did not want to leave him. She loves him in ways that words cannot express. He was the one person she cared about more than anyone else. He had been her home since they first met in middle school. He wasn’t a freak to her. He was just Eddie, her best friend, and her first and only love.

“Stay with me tonight, just tonight,” he pleads. “Give me that much. And I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.”

She nods and embraces the young man. If she could stay in this moment for the rest of her life, she would. Eddie moved them to his bedroom after a few minutes. He helped her change into one of his shirts and climbed into bed. Nothing was said as they settled in and eventually fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The two awoke shortly after 9 a.m. Eddie was preparing their breakfast while she sat at the counter watching him. They hadn’t spoken about the early hours of this morning because they were both unsure how to bring it up.

“Have you made any recent deals?” She asks, noticing the lunch box that didn’t just carry his lunch was now sitting on the counter close to him.

“Just the usual amount,” he replies. “Do you want to tell me about what happened last night?”

The mood around them changed instantly as Y/N sat up straighter, thinking about last night. “Dad came home drunk, woke me up to make him something to eat, and when I refused, he called me an ungrateful and useless bitch and did this,” she motions to her bruised and cut cheek. It wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated. “After he passed out, I packed a bag and came here.”

“To say goodbye,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll go with you.”

“What was that?” She asks, not quite hearing him.

“I can come with you,” he says a little louder.

“No, no you can’t, Eddie. This is your year, remember? ‘86 is your year. You’ll finally graduate, and you have the Hellfire Club. You can’t just leave those kids. They love and adore you.” She moves behind him and turns him to face her. “You also have your uncle to consider. He needs you too.”

“I’d give it all up for you,” he says sincerely.

“Why?” She asked, surprised. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I love you, god dammit.” He admits suddenly becoming a little timid and bashful, a side of Eddie that only a few people got to see. “I’ve loved you since middle school. And I simply can not imagine my life without you.”

Y/N’s heart skips a beat and begins thumping loudly against her chest. Instead of saying anything, she cups his face and pulls him into a passionate kiss, letting him know she feels the same way.

When they break the kiss, she tells him, “I’ll stay. If it’s okay with your Uncle, I’ll stay with you because I can’t go back to that house.”

“You don’t have to go back there ever again,” Eddie reassures her and pulls her into another kiss.

“And I love you too,” she says softly against his lips.

#acewritesfics repost #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader

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redroomreflections · 3 days

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Changing Tides Snippet ✨

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Note: this is just a small snippet to see if I should scrap or keep going. It’s about Natasha and R’s daughter getting really sick. Totally a crying fest. It has like two different povs so that’s been hard to get down.

The family gathered around the table, laughter echoing through the cabin's warm interior. Lark and Veda, their swimsuits still clinging to their damp skin, were beaming with the energy of their swim. Lark, however, shivered slightly, catching your observant eye.

Your voice soft and motherly, noticed Lark's chill and draped a warm blanket around her shoulders. "You're freezing, sweetie," you said, your protective instinct always at the ready.

Veda, ever the picture of defiance, declined the offer of a blanket. She was too busy digging into her burger, her appetite seemingly insatiable. Lark gingerly removed the pickles from her burger, gently sliding them over to Veda, who eagerly savored each one. The act revealed the clear distinction in their personalities. Veda perched with her legs pulled close to her chest, the very picture of casual and cool. Meanwhile, Lark, the meticulous one, swung her legs beneath her chair as she methodically disassembled her sandwich before artfully reconstructing it.

You and Natasha exchanged a quiet, knowing glance as you watched your daughters. You couldn't help but wonder if hot dogs might have been a more fitting choice for Lark, whose meticulous nature extended even to her mealtime habits.

Natasha, ever the voice of reason at the table, couldn't help but notice Veda's ravenous appetite. "Veda, slow down," she advised, her eyes filled with concern for her daughter's well-being.

However, it was you who playfully defended Veda's hearty meal. You chuckled and said, "The girls practically swam Olympic lengths out there. Veda needs all the strength she can get."

Veda's lips curved into a warm smile as she acknowledged your defense of her, though she also took heed of Natasha's gentle warning. Her pace slowed, and she ate as if she were raised with table manners.

Natasha, who had been rushing around the kitchen, finally settled into her seat, a contented smile on her face.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Veda leaned in, her expression a mixture of curiosity and a hint of playfulness. She wiped ketchup from her mouth with the back of her hand. She only took a napkin when you tapped at her knees in reminder. "I have a question," she announced.

“We may have answers,” You shrugged.

“Where do babies come from?” Veda asked. Her nonchalance about it let you know she was completely serious. Lark, who’d only been half listening, raised her eyes. Seems she was interested in the answer too.

The question hung in the air, creating a moment of silence as you both exchanged surprised glances. Natasha was momentarily taken aback, her motherly instincts causing her to hesitate. You, on the other hand, seemed more amused than flustered, a subtle grin touching your lips.

Veda's question about where babies come from was a classic childhood inquiry, but it still caught you off guard.

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation several times,” Natasha tilts her head.

“Yeah, but not for real,” Veda shrugged. Veda's insistence continued, her determination unwavering. "I'm gonna be ten next year, Mama. Double digits. So I need to know the real truth."

Natasha took a deep breath and began, "Well, sweetie, most babies come from a very special process where a tiny cell from a woman and a tiny cell from a man come together to create a new life." She kept her tone gentle, aiming to explain the concept in an age-appropriate way.

You couldn't help but chime in, a playful twinkle in your eye. "It's like a puzzle, you know? Two pieces fitting together perfectly to make a baby."

Veda's brows furrowed in thought. "So, like a really, really small puzzle?" she asked.

You nodded with a chuckle. "Yes, a very small, intricate puzzle. And it's something beautiful and magical."

Veda seemed satisfied with the explanation, her curiosity appeased for the moment. "Okay, because Billy and Tommy told me it was called sex.”

You in the middle of taking a bite of your burger, had a near-comical moment. You almost choked on your food, your eyes widening in surprise as you coughed.

Natasha, quick to react, helped you take a sip of water to clear your throat. As you caught your breath, you couldn't help but shake your head in disbelief, your amusement evident.

“What’s sex?” Lark chimed in with her inquisitiveness. She had been just as confused by Veda's question and wore a quizzical expression on her face, mirroring her sister's curiosity and bafflement.

“Well,” You sighed, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “To talk about it, we’d have to go into detail about a lot more.” With a playful smirk, you began, "You know, girls, when you grow up, there are some pretty interesting changes that happen to your bodies. You begin to grow.” You gesture. “It’s sometimes happens all at once. Like—"

Veda, covering her ears with her hands, interrupted with a cringe. You’d informed her about periods the year before and it traumatized her ever since. "Mom, I don't think we need to hear this right now."

Lark, equally uncomfortable, followed suit by covering her ears. "Yeah, can we talk about something else, please?"

You couldn't help but chuckle at their reactions, your intention all along to make them squirm a bit. "Alright, alright," you relented, switching back to a more suitable topic. The girls sighed in relief, their expressions now reflecting their gratitude for returning to safer, more innocent conversations. Even if Veda was the one to begin it all.

#just a little something since I’m so busy #you may have read this before on the other account

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birchbow · 6 months

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oh my god I can’t imagine Meenah and Kurloz successfully talking through their feelings without Feeder Vantas holding their fronds every step of the way, and while I’m sure somebody somewhere has a pale exhibition kink (cough Gamzee cough) I don’t think Meenah is one of those somebodies. Although Meenloz have been pretty extreme exhibitionists in other ways, huh? Does Meenah get her kicks humiliating people both in both a conciliatory and concupiscent sense? But she wouldn’t want to be the one whose feelings are exposed . . .

(I've never put the words "pale exhibitionism" together in my head but I do think I've written it for Gamkar several times without necessarily meaning to lmao. That's very funny in light of another fic I'm working on right now)

RE: Meenloz, I think the humiliation part for Meenah is bound up in a sexual response, so for a purely pale relationship it wouldn't be on the table--theoretically it could be for her blurred/vacillating thing with Kurloz, but also Kurloz is much more willing to have sex over a table in front of an entire banquet than he is to be completely vulnerable emotionally for 0.2 seconds. So like, I think she knows him well enough to know that if she pushed on that it would not go well.

Also yes, HER unwillingness to express any actual emotions in any helpful way is a big part of the problem, and she definitely can't take what she dishes out. What the fuck for should she be humiliated or embarrassed or vulnerable about shit. She's the empress. Fuck off with that. 😤

#ask time!#part of the problem with Meenah and Kurloz's lack of communication is that they do actually know each other very very well #on several levels of their lives and personalities they are very much in sync and have worked together for hundreds of years #and do in fact Just Get a lot of things which gives both of them the false sense that they never need to express anything ever #and that if one of them gets something wrong they're intentionally not playing ball with The Arrangement that has largely been working #instead of just like. he doesn't know you feel that way because you've taken pains to never EVER hint to him about it EVER #case in point: Kurloz has in fact been more emotionally vulnerable with Meenah than anybody else in his life ever. But also.#never told her about Halore and never told her about the Sufferer until circumstances brought it up. and then when he DID-#-he pretty severely downplayed it and made it about the Sufferer making a move at him and not about his feelings about that.#And meenah never asked or followed up on it.#I have a lot of thoughts. I'm going to stop and try to include them in prose instead but. I have a lot of thoughts.

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paragonrobits · 4 months

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some important calvin and hobbes facts in case you haven't read the original comic strip in a long time or only absorbed stuff on it from memes and out of context bits on here:

Calvin's last name has never been given, and neither has any of his parent's names. This was actually why his uncle Max only showed up for a brief storyline; the creator of the comic, Bill Watterson, ultimately felt that while it was fine to have him as someone for his parents to talk to, it felt far too awkward to never have Max refer to them by name and he never made a return appearance.

The general tone of the comic is fairly light-hearted, with a big emphasis on goofy slapstick comedy contrasted by clever wordplay and often surprising adult-centered jokes that'll hit you like a slap. A big part of the comedy is, as Watterson put it (paraphrased) "It's really funny to me when people express deeply stupid ideas with really fancy terminology." One notable example you might have seen is that one bit where Calvin asks his mom for money to buy a Satan-worshiping rock album and his mom replies that there's nothing genuine about them and they're just putting on the attitude for shock value, and comisserates with Calvin as he deplores that mainstream nihilism can't be trusted. He concludes that childhood is disillusioning.

There is a LOT of criticism of the extreme materialism and selfish mentality of the late 80s, when the comic was initially written. This may go a long way to explain how its aged so well; much of what it criticizes resonates well with people today.

Bill Watterson views comic strips a legitimate form of artwork, and repeatedly fought to have more space to draw more beautiful and artistic backgrounds, which was a very hard fight and unpopular even with other comic strip artists. He eventually did win some compromises and a lot of Calvin And Hobbes' artwork shows it, with the use of space to indicate time as well as a sharp contrast between the often plain environments of mundane life contrasted by the wildly beautiful imagery of Calvin's imagination (which often sports realistic depictions in an art shift of sorts).

Hobbes is explicitly not an imaginary friend, by word of Watterson himself. We don't know WHAT he is exactly, and Hobbes is apparently unaware of the strange nature of his reality; people look at him and only see an ordinary stuffed tiger plushie, but he has a tangible effect on the world that would be physically impossible for Calvin to do on his own. He's apparently been around for a while, and was apparently around when Calvin was a young baby.

On that note; Hobbes has implicitly killed (notably treated as both a gag and also with the vibe of 'he's a tiger, duh') and while he doesn't do it again on-screen, he doesn't have any moral issues about it. Calvin claims that he's never had trouble bringing Hobbes to school because the last time he did, Hobbes killed and ate a bully named Tommy Chestnut and simply comments that it was gross and he needed a bath. Calvin's tried to repeat this again, but Hobbes was grossed out at the thought having to eat a kid raw and not being allowed to use an oven first, or complaining that children are too fattening.

Hobbes became gradually less human-like in body language and more like an actual cat in both body language and behavior; this was due to Watterson drawing more inspiration from his cat, who also inspired a lot of Hobbes' running gags, such as pouncing on Calvin when he got home. Several years into the syndication of the strip, Watterson's cat passed away, and he did a tribute to her with a comic strip of the two of them agreeing to try to dream together so they can keep playing when they have to sleep; Watterson's commentary (if I recall right), remarks on his cat: "We can see each other again in dreams."

#calvin and hobbes #queued

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homunculus-argument · 1 month

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You ever suddenly connect two things from your childhood and it suddenly clicks what your parents meant to do when they did something completely different instead?

I got trained pretty early on to not show fear. I'm aware now that what my parents probably meant to do was to reassure me that whatever I was afraid of is no reason to be scared, and I should feel safe instead, but what I gathered from it was "stop showing this emotion that they don't like to see on you", and since the praise for being So Good About It was immediate, that got immediate affirmation. Good kids show no sign of being scared.

And then once I got older and started encountering situations that were above toddler-levels of scary, adults started to suspect that I don't often seem to understand the gravity of whatever situation is going on. Like I remember several occasions of adults stressing it to me multiple times that I need to be careful, do something, not do something, etc, and had me repeat the possible consequences back to them, and still not seeming convinced that I understood the gravity of the situation.

And just now it clicked. I finally understand what they thought was wrong with me. They didn't think I looked appropriately scared for the seriousness of the situation. I hadn't been expected to never show fear. They had wanted me to only express fear in situations where they thought there's reason to fear.

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sapphire-writes · 18 days

Text

Beyond The Play

college!Art x college!Reader

summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.

word count: 3.8k

rating: mature/explicit/18+

warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!

a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!

“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Shut up.”

“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.

You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester.

But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.

You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love.

Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player.

But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.

“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”

Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more.

“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”

She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.

“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.

“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”

The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.

“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”

Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing.

“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”

“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”

“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”

“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”

“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows.

“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”

“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin.

You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.

“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”

“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.

Art frowns, confused.

“But we were—”

“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”

Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear.

“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”

You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”

“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”

“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”

Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.

His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up.

“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs.

Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other.

“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”

“You should stay.”

You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.

A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.

“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”

“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.

“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”

You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him.

“Okay,” you agree.

“Bathroom’s right there.”

You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.

When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.

“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”

“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”

“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”

“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”

Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.

“I mean only—”

“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.

“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”

Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.

“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.

He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.

“What?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”

“What is it?”

“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.

“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”

Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that.

“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”

“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”

“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.

“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”

“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.

Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.

You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure.

“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.

You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him.

Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.

Oh, Art.

He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.

A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly.

“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”

You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

“Art wake up!”

Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him.

“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes.

“Art.”

“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”

“Art…”

“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”

“Art!”

His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps.

“Get back up here,” you tell him.

Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”

Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”

The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”

Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”

“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.

“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone.

You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt.

“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.

“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”

You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest.

Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop.

“Art.”

He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered.

He’s too pretty.

You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field.

You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.

You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again.

“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.

His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center.

“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.

“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs.

Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.

“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance.

He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.

Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.

“That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”

“Yeah?”

Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”

“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”

His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.

“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”

You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.

“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”

Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself.

“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer.

He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit.

“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.

“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.

Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.

“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes.

Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”

“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”

This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”

Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.

“What’d you tell her?”

The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.

“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”

“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”

“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure.

The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch.

“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”

You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.

You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest.

You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”

“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”

Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.

“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says with a smile.

“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”

“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”

You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Me too.”

link to other stories from me!

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anxiousbabybird · 4 months

Text

Love and Deepspace men x fem!reader slightly unhinged and NSFW HCs, PART 2!

Once again, minors do not interact! I made you guys a part 2 of my current thoughts. No plot or card spoilers in my comments or reblogs, please and thank you 💙

Part 1

Rafayel

Have you met this man? He wants to know where you’re at and who you’re with at all times. So jealous. It’s probably in your best interest to forget other men exist once you’re dating him

Convinced you to suck his dick while he’s painting to see if it helps convey emotion into his painting—he accidentally pushed the paintbrush through the canvas when he came

Loves when you ride him—it’s so cute watching you bounce on him and use his body for your own pleasure. This also allows him to sit back a little and enjoy every sound you make, every facial expression, every feeling. Of course he does eventually get bored and flips you onto your back for his turn

Before you’re dating, he persuades you into being a nude model for him. He takes his time caressing your skin and telling you he has to “feel” the art, lets his hands wander and linger as he moves your body little by little until you’re in the exact position he wanted. Spends hours staring at your naked body, pretending to draw it (he finished his sketch hours ago but he doesn’t want you getting dressed yet)

Kinks/fetishes: biting, marking, breeding, spit, primal, spanking, mirror sex, praise, wax, shibari, choking, exhibitionism

Loves a pussy job—just sliding his cock between your folds and tapping at your clit like he’s knocking on a door until he cums all over you. Loves this for two reasons: 1) you look exquisite with your clit swollen and body spattered in cum, and 2) the banter between the two of you during a pussy job is top tier. It’s not quite degradation, but you’re both going back and forth in the most teasing way, riling each other up.

Has the biggest praise kink. He thinks he might actually die if you don’t tell him how amazing he is at least 12 times a day

Part of the pretty dick club. It’s actually perfect—thick but not too thick, long but not too long, nice veins wrapping around and well groomed at the base. Some would say it’s perfect.

Xavier

Sometimes when he’s flustered by you, his body emits a soft glow because of his evol. You notice it for the first time when you surprise him with a kiss to his cheek. He glows a little brighter the first time he kisses your lips too.

He’s fallen asleep during sex before. Usually after several rounds, he’s cum twice already, and you’re laying on your sides on the bed and he’s lazily thrusting into you from behind and all of a sudden he stops. Sheathed inside you and an arm around your waist. When you look over your shoulder, he’s sounds asleep and already softly snoring. You have no choice but to do the same, falling asleep in his arms and keeping his cock nice and warm all night

His favorite position is missionary where your legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s slowly, deeply thrusting into you. He likes seeing every expression on your face, really feeling you sucking him in, hearing every breathy moan you try to hide from him. And he likes that he can kiss you whenever he wants

Likes to read at night, even though he falls asleep doing it. When you start staying nights at his place, he convinces you to read out loud to him and you do that every night until he falls asleep with his head on your chest.

Kinks/fetishes: hair pulling (he likes when you give a little tug), overstimulation, marking, cum play, face sitting, cockwarming

Loves fresh flowers and brings you new ones every week. He thinks they’re pretty and hopes you appreciate them the way he does. Sometimes he buys them or sometimes he picks them from some lush patch in the forest. Always takes some for himself so he knows when they start dying and he needs to get you new ones.

Loves to lay his head in your lap so you can play with his hair

The kind of guy who will keep his hand holding yours no matter what because he wants to make sure you’re staying beside him. Sometimes takes one of your hands and puts it in the pocket of his sweatshirt with his just so it stays warm.

Zayne

He was very opposed to fucking in the hospital at first but then on a day he was super stressed, you stopped by and sucked him off under his desk while he reviewed charts and he was able to successfully perform a surgery other doctors thought was inoperable—he was more lenient on sex in the hospital after that

Kinks/fetishes: size kink, spanking, brat taming, choking, degradative praise, impact (spanking/flogging/paddle), breeding, edging/denial, thigh riding, dirty talk

Has absolutely bent you over his knee to spank you when you’re being a brat and talking back to him all the time with no regard for your own well being. All he wants is to take care of you because you never take care of yourself. And he would take the best care of you.

Cunt smacks. No further explanation needed.

Favorite sex position is prone bone. He likes hitting it from the back because sometimes the prolonged eye contact that can come with facing each other makes him uncomfortable. But doggy style isn’t what he wants because he wants to feel your body against his, holds you as close as possible. This position works best because every inch of him is atop you and he can feel your body there beneath him, he gets to tuck his head into your neck to bite or kiss or moan into, he’s close to your ear and can whisper filthy things or tell you how close he is or how good you feel around him, and most of all, this position has him so fucking deep inside you that he swore nothing in this life felt better the first time he entered you in this way

Allergic to saying nice things to you 98% of the time.

He runs cold because of his evol and sometimes when he cums, it feels like ice inside of you. Made you scream in surprise the first time but leads to some fun temperature play where he uses his tongue to warm you up after. He’s also often cold and loves to curl up against you and tell you that you’re his heater.

#ThickDickClub

@luffysprincess @seraphofthesimps @adaurielle

#love and deepspace #rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #zayne #love and Deepspace hcs #rafayel HCs #Zavier HCs #Zayne HCs #mdni

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yyuangss · 8 days

Text

MORE GIRL TALK ! ( STAR RAIL MEN )

SUMMARY ! march 7th finds out you like someone. and as your best friend, it’s only right that she has to give her input on whether or not she approves of him.

NOTES ! part one of girl talk (dan heng, caelus, sampo, jing yuan, and argenti). need hoyo to give the biggest girl’s girl they’ve ever created a bff asap. she deserves it after everything she’s been through 🫡 this goes out to that one anon. if you’re reading this, i added a bonus for you <3

TAGS ! reader is not the trailblazer. contains gepard landu, dr. ratio, aventurine, and boothill. possible spoilers for penacony quest in aventurine’s part, tried to keep it very vague and minimal. feelings are mutual on both ends.

march 7th’s thoughts on . . . GEPARD LANDAU !

the biggest mistake you’ve made is telling march you have feelings for the captain of the silvermane guards. because now she’s made herself the conductor of the express, switching course to jarilo-vi, crash landing terribly, and running all the way to serval to ask if gepard has feelings for you. march always assumed there might have been some mutual pinning from gepard’s side. he probably thought he was the best at hiding his feelings, except it didn’t help that he constantly shielded you whenever you were at risk of being at harms way. which in her opinion means he’s willing to protect you no matter what. this trait was very important and she will not let you pass up on that opportunity. according to serval, gepard had already confessed to his sister how he felt towards you and was too shy to admit it. once she confirmed his mutual feelings, serval and march are on matchmaker duty.

march 7th’s thoughts on . . . DR. RATIO !

march does think that ratio is mean and extremely talkative. she also believes him to be selfish. there’s already a negative perception of him in her mind. though, her opinion on him is only based off the first time the express met him. compared to you, she hasn’t gotten the chance to truly know him (not that she really wants to). so, march says her judgement is biased and null in this case. she hears a different side when you’re in her room, telling her all about him and how he’s incorporated you into his very busy schedule. and it’s proven to her whenever ratio boards the express for the sole purposes of visiting you. or he’s arriving at the space station around the same time the express gets there, despite having prior plans made. march is very suspicious how the two of you aren’t dating yet. actions speak louder than words and ratio’s actions make her very impressed.

march 7th’s thoughts on . . . AVENTURINE !

march won’t lie, she has heavy mixed opinions for aventurine and still doubtful of him. it’s possible that the entire astral express would share these mixed opinions if you told one of them. on one hand, she’s grateful for all the help he aided with. had he not been there, you all would’ve never gotten into penacony. she’s surprised to hear you ran into him several times when you were exploring. it’s where you got to know him while he showed you around, taking you to all the best sight seeing locations. aventurine didn’t waste a second to express his interest in you. even after what happened with him before the final battle in penacony, he still showed that same interest. which is why march doesn’t know why you’re wasting time telling her about your feelings towards him when you should be admitting them to aventurine instead. her mixed opinions will still be present. once she gets to know him like you did, they’ll eventually fade and she’ll be less on the weary side.

BONUS !

dan heng’s thoughts on . . . BOOTHILL !

“oh.” is all he says. dan heng is not very vocal, so his expression and body language tell you all you need to know. in this case, a raised eyebrow and a skeptical look forming on his face. he’s not really interested in this type of talk and that’s one of the main reasons. still, as your closest friend, dan heng doesn’t want you to think that you and your feelings aren’t important to him. his quiet demeanor makes him more observant. watching you and boothill interact makes dan heng realize how truly oblivious you are. it’s clear as day that the interstellar cowboy is interested in you. unless he’s the only person who has caught on to the mutual feelings. but there’s no way especially with all the darlin’s and sweetheart’s boothill calls you. either way, in his opinion, you should be with who makes you happy and dan heng won’t stop you from that. will bluntly expose yours and boothill’s attraction if either of you take too long.

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wrioluvr · 1 month

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flirty playboy x mature male reader

this stupid ass meme had been on my mind forever and i realised how funny it would be to have a slutty playboy who just sleeps with anyone to seriously pine over a more mature, secure guy who doesn't fall for any of his shallow charms and tricks.... here are just some blurbs of their dynamic (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

his name is roman. he's a little toxic, but he just wants to be loved.

cw: some smut, top male reader

it all started with a little night out. you didn't do those often, due to devoting most of your time towards work and earning a stable career, but finishing this particularly gruelling assignment called for a celebration. at the bar, dancing with your friends, a good-looking man with a playful glint in his eyes approached you full of bravado. he told you how handsome you were, and had been eyeing you from across the room for a while now. but from a single glance, you could tell he was the type to break hearts. beach-blonde dyed hair, a tight fitting tank top revealing his muscular build, an eyebrow piercing, the way his mouth curled up so subtly into a little smirk.... he was everything you knew to avoid getting serious with. but a little hookup couldn't hurt, right? you deserved a little fun.

and it didn't hurt you at all. a few failed relationships had made you wise beyond your years, knowing to easily seperate the good guys from the bad. you knew your self-worth. roman, on the other hand, was absolutely smitten. no other man had fucked him THIS good, gave him such gentle aftercare, and even let him stay as long as he needed. the way you so effortlessly lifted his legs up to thrust in and out of him at a rhythmic pace, or fondling his tits and squeezing his nipples softly while you hit it from the back, or tenderly running your fingers down his spine, arching it sensually.... he loved it all. it was clear to him that you prioritised his pleasure as much as your own, and it showed in how he orgasmed several times before you even came in him once, panting breathlessly while wearing the sluttiest expression of his life. it was nothing like any of the men he had sex with before. afterwards, you let him stay the night in a guest room, and even brewed a cup of coffee for him in the morning.

roman was damn near tears when you offered to drop him off at his house before you headed off to work. if he was being honest with himself, his insecurities were the root of his constant need for sexual intimacy, so being treated with genuine kindness for once was new to him.

"is dropping you off here alright?" you ask, turning into the road of his apartment complex.

"y-yeah...." he looks out the window, unsure how to look you in the eyes.

"okay. thanks for last night. stay safe." your words carried an air of finality to them, like you were so sure the two of you would never cross paths again. he didn't like that.

"uh, uh......" he stuttered, all his usual flirtatiousness thrown out the window as he couldn't meet your gaze. "could i... get your number?"

your friendly smile froze on your face. "uhhhh.... sorry, i'm not really looking for anything serious right now."

he quickly regained his composure, charm turned up to the max. shifting his tank top so more of his chest was exposed and you could notice his nipples protruding, roman whispered in a low tone, "that's okay! we can just be casual... and fuck anytime you like." a wink. a hand on your thigh.

"jeez... okay, no offense, but i've heard rumours from my friends that you're a bit of a... playboy. i'm not interested in being your toy, sorry."

roman's face flushed in embarrassment, knowing what you said was true. except the part on him seeing you as a toy. that was untrue. he could feel a warmth growing from the pit of his stomach at the thought of spending more time with you. were these... butterflies?

maybe begging would work.

"okay fine, i am a bit of a player... but please, please, pleaseeeeeee.... let's be in contact, okay? as friends?" roman sniffled pathetically, shaking your shoulder in desperation. he needed to be in your presence. why weren't his usual maneating tactics working?!?!

"alright. here you go. just don't spam me or anything, okay? i gotta go for work. see you." you sigh, a little exasperated but choosing not to let it show. he immediately lit up, typing your number in his contacts and saving many hearts next to your name. you prayed your acts of basic human decency wouldn't cause him to catch feelings. you needed to focus on your job right now.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

3:02pm

[romanbabyxx]

hiiiiiii

[romanbabyxx]

i know you said not to spam you but like

[romanbabyxx]

i miss u

[romanbabyxx]

can we meet up at the bar for drinks or something like that? please?

3:10pm

you check the messages on your phone, rolling your eyes and ignoring them. he was probably sending this text to at least three other guys right now. he had a history of cheating, based on what you heard from your friends. you weren't going to be another one of his victims.

5:35pm

[romanbabyxx]

are u ignoring me?

[romanbabyxx]

im sorryyyyyyyy

[romanbabyxx]

pls hit me back when ur free

7.30 pm

[name]

sorry, just got off work. will be super busy this week, so not free. mb.

[romanbabyxx]

oh, its okay! next week then?

[name]

i'll see

this went on for a few weeks, you constantly evading his invitations, being polite and professional, never too intimate over text. roman was starting to get fed up. he's so used to getting everything he wants, he doesn't know what to do when he actually has to work for the one he desires. he actually hadn't hooked up with anyone since your one night stand, but you didn't believe that.

roman was at his wits' end. he could only think of one final plan to get your attention.

trying to make you jealous.

over the next week, he hooked up with any and everyone he met in the bar, not bothering to keep his slutting around discreet. he wanted you to hear the rumours. he wanted you to feel a sense of unease within your very being. he wanted you to feel possessive. he wanted you, to want him. the whole time, even as he was getting fucked, he could only imagine you caressing him, holding him close, loving him.

his deeds didn't go unnoticed. your friends told you about it, yet you didn't feel anything in the slightest. you were right, after all... he forgot about you within a week and moved on to whichever poor man he would leave high and dry next.

the next time you bumped into him at the bar, roman was his usual, party-loving self, excitedly slinging an arm around you, a drink in hand. his plan had to work, surely? you would be begging to have him back. but yet, when he offhandedly (yet so intentionally) mentioned how much dick he had been getting the past week, anticipating your change in expression, nothing happened. "oh. good for you." was all you said.

he sputtered, flustered by your calm demeanour. didn't you care? at all?! "but.... but.... aren't you jealous? that i've been hooking up with other guys?!"

you stare at him, a genuine quzzical expression plastered across your face. "why would i be? it's not like we're dating or anything. it was just a one time thing."

your words hit like a knife through his heart. he clutched his chest dramatically, a pout forming on his lips. "i'll be faithful! i promise!" his words came out more desperate than he intended. he felt so vulnerable, so naked, yet you were the face of serenity. your unimpressed eyes stared through his soul, as if you were scrutinising his very core. he knew you could heal him, make him feel loved, but he was starting to doubt there was any possibility you would feel the same.

"i'm sure that's what you said to the last guy you cheated on."

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

i intended for this to be lighthearted but why was it actually kinda depressing tbh

#male reader #dom male reader #top male reader #bottom male character #sub male character #playboy x male reader #wrioluvr: roman #i admire ppl who can just write pure smut with graphic descriptions coz i end up spiraling into a full mini plot everytime crying emoji

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luveline · 2 months

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How about ploy marauders going to a party and Sirius promised to do readers make up, but is late so the other two are making an attempt. Sure they might know how to do Sirius's messy style, but do they know big dramatic styles? Can James do a perfect wing?

<3 fem, 1k

“Can you stay still?” Remus asks, turning your face a half inch where it’s held in his hand.

“Can James stop kissing me?” you ask.

James pulls his face from the curve of your neck, the warmth of his lips lingering on your skin. “Sorry, are you busy?”

“You’re supposed to be helping.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

You smile. Remus rubs the softest curve under your eye with his thumb, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, concentrating instead on your face and the wetness of your makeup where it’s beginning to sink in. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he sighs.

“You know better than I do,” James says.

You don’t know a thing about it, that’s why you’d arranged for Sirius to do your makeup tonight before Marl’s birthday bash, but where is your awful boyfriend? Late, decidedly unavailable for makeup-ing.

“You’ve done his mascara a thousand times,” James argues with Remus.

“Yes, but Sirius has never asked me to do his blush.” Remus’ hand moves to the side of your face. “You are lovely, though. I think using only a little of everything is working in our favour.”

“Sirius only lets him do mascara because he already has nice eyelashes,” you worry. It won’t matter if Remus messes up or doesn’t get close enough to the root.

“Yes, and because he likes it when Remus holds his face like that,” James points out, eyeing Remus’ hand where it stays at your cheek. Remus has long fingers, ever-so slightly thick with two golden rings that kiss your chin as he lets his hand fall, and he’s always gentle.

“James, I’m tapping out.”

James pretends to roll up sleeves he isn’t wearing, your bulkiest boyfriend in a short-sleeved t-shirt that showcases the lean muscle of his forearms, the not so lean ridges of his biceps. They tense as he sits up, his knee jabbing yours, the bed creaking dangerously beneath your angled weight. “What’s there left to do? She’s gorgeous.”

“What did you want?” Remus asks you.

“Uh, I wanted, you know…” You sound ridiculously shy. You wish you could just do all of this faff by yourself rather than force their attention, but neither boy seems annoyed. “He does that smudgey eyeliner, it makes my eyes look bigger. And lipgloss, but I can do that myself.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the best part,” James says. He gives you a smile confident enough to reassure you and handsome enough to make you shy from his touch all over again. “Pass me the black pencil, Remus. I’ve got this.”

James does not got this, his expression melding from happy, adoring, to perturbed, and then annoyed. “Aw, I’ve fucked it.”

Remus shakes his head vehemently. “You haven’t! We just need a wet wipe.”

They search the room for Sirius’ wet wipes and come up empty-handed. A towel is wetted and taken carefully to your eyes instead, cold and rough on your eyelids.

“Be gentler,” Remus whispers.

James is practically atop you know, your chin tilted up to his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers in turn, then to you solely, “‘m I hurting you?”

“No.” You’re whispering too. It feels appropriate; they’re both very close to you, and this movement might fix or ruin your makeup with the party’s start time drawing ever closer.

“I think I’ve fixed it,” James says, taking the pencil up again, the nib soft as it rolls over the corner of your eye. “Sirius can perfect it in the car, right?”

“I thought you were good at everything?” you ask.

James turns your face up impossibly higher, craning his head down for a peck. “Yes,” he whispers severely, “I’m good at everything. But Sirius is usually better. Quick, let’s find your lipgloss before we’re late.”

Remus tries to tell James that it isn’t true, a serious conversation at a bad time, and James won’t listen to a word of it. They quibble over who’s doing your lipgloss, bathe you in compliments when they’re done —aw, dove, you look so cute, and cute? she looks perfect— then suddenly an abrupt beep is sounding outside. The three of you scramble into your jackets and down the stairs, meeting Sirius where he leans against the car. He throws the keys to Remus, ushering you into the backseat with him for some last minute clean up.

“Hey, they’ve done a good job,” he praises, another hand on your face to turn it up kindly to the light. “Did you bring your lipgloss?”

You nod quickly and dig for it in your jacket.

“What!” James says from the front, turning in the passenger seat to complain. “That’s the one thing we did perfectly.”

The car starts. Remus laughs to himself behind the steering wheel.

“Did I say otherwise?” Sirius asks, letting his fingers curve toward the back of your neck. Pale in the light, eyes lit with something funny you’ve yet to hear, he dips in close to you and talks quietly, “I’m sorry, I promised I’d do your makeup for the party. But you’ve all done well without me, you look perfect, especially your lips.”

“Then what did you want it for?” you ask, confused, your seat belt pulling as Sirius encourages you forward.

“To reapply.” He taps your neck with a fingertip. “Spare a kiss? I promise I’ll fix any mess.”

Commotion from the front seat.

“James–” Remus warns.

“What? I want to watch.”

“Freak,” Sirius says lovingly.

“How am I a freak? She’s my girlfriend, you’re my boyfriend, and you’re doing that voice like you’re gonna lay her down in the back seat.”

“James.”

—

requests r open!! pls think about reblogging if you enjoyed, I hope u did either way!!!

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