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tomriddleslove · 2 months

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i still look for you.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: Theodore cannot wait to start the next chapter of his life, moving in with you. Alternatively: Memory is a fickle thing.

Warnings: Brief allusion to alcoholism if you squint

Songs: Never find u - Sombr

I bet on losing dogs - Mitski

I wait for you - Alex G

The date reads the 2nd of May, 2002. Theodore looks down at the calendar and for some reason, a horrible feeling of dread pools in his stomach. He can’t exactly tell why.

He shakes it off, yawning lightly as he sits up in bed. He runs a hand through his messy hair, eyes adjusting to the dim morning light as he looks around his now bare room. His feet touch the bedroom floor, and he sits on the edge of his bed for a second, staring off before getting up.

There was no time for zoning out, he had things to be doing.

With a gentle sigh, he pushes himself off the bed, the warmth of the sheets still clinging to his skin. As he pads into the kitchen, his bare feet lightly brushing against the cool floor tiles, he catches sight of the empty firewhiskey bottle on the counter.

A furrow forms between his brows as he reaches for the bottle, his fingers brushing against the smooth glass surface. Memories of the previous night flicker in his mind, hazy and fragmented.

He must have indulged more than usual.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he meanders back to the bedroom, where cardboard boxes lie in disarray. He reaches into one of the unsealed boxes blindly and tugs on the first thing he finds, a grey knitted sweater and a pair of black slacks. He wanders out of the bathroom, brushing his teeth as he tosses the few stray things that lay here and there, things he had forgotten to pack the day before.

Theodore, albeit a little hungover, was thrilled. Today was the day he was due to move into his new apartment with you. You would be meeting him in the evening because you had work, however Theodore had a day off, so he would do the bulk of the moving process in the meantime. He’s just slipping his shoes on when the doorbell buzzes. He walks over to the intercom, buzzing the person in.

Theodore presses the button on the intercom, expecting to hear the voice of the moving truck driver but Instead, there's silence.

Frowning slightly, he presses the button again, but still, there's no response.

Yet another thing to solidify his choice to move out of this shitty apartment, as if the prospect of living with you wouldn’t be enough.

“Get- This- Stupid- Fucking- Thing- To- Work-” Theodore grunts, banging his fist into the intercom. Finally, the buzzing sound rings, and he can see the driver entering the flat through the small camera.

With a resigned sigh, Theodore hurriedly shrugs on his jacket. He jogs over to the door as a knock echoes through the apartment, cursing as he almost trips over a box. Kicking it to the side frustratedly, he opens the door.

"Sorry about the intercom," Theodore apologizes as he reaches the driver. "It's been acting up lately."

The driver nods understandingly, offering a sympathetic smile. "No worries. Let's get these boxes loaded up, shall we?"

They spent the next half an hour carrying the ridiculously heavy boxes down 4 flights of stairs because the elevator had stopped working. Theodore wipes the sweat from his brow as he sets down the last box with a thud, the weight of it nearly causing his arms to tremble. He takes a moment to catch his breath, chest heaving with exertion. He reaches into his pocket and hands the driver what Blaise had informed him to be a form of muggle currency, a flimsy piece of paper with “£50” written on it.

“Thank you for your help,” Theodore says, breathing slightly laboured. The driver was merely doing the job Theodore had paid him to do, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly sympathetic for the clearly older man who had broken out in a sweat by the time they had bought the first two boxes down. The driver frowns as he looks down at the note, then back up at Theodore.

Was it not enough? Had Theodore given him the equivalent of a single sickle?

His misinformed panic quickly subsides when the balding man grins, extending a hand out to Theodore.

“No worries mate. Bit of a drive, isn’t it? How are you getting there?” The man says, and Theodore pales for a second.

What exactly did muggles use again?

“Car,” Theodore blurts after a second, and the man nods, pocketing the £50 note into his shorts.

“Well, I reckon you’ll arrive before me. Should be close to 8 hours, had to tell the missus I wouldn't be home for the day. Had her questioning whether I was working or down at the pub!” He chortles.

Theodore chuckles nervously, feeling slightly out of his element with the man's casual banter. He nods along, trying to appear as though he understands every word, despite the thick accent throwing him off.

"Yeah, the drive should be fine," Theodore replies, forcing a smile. "Thanks again for your help. Really appreciate it."

With a final nod of farewell, Theodore watches as the man heads back to the truck and drives away, leaving him standing alone in front of his old apartment.

Casting one glance around the barren area, he apparates away, appearing in the corridor of his new house in no less than 4 seconds. He truly does pity muggles and their transport, for he couldn't even entertain the idea of having to spend 8 hours trapped in a car.

He walks around the empty house, a small smile tugging at his lips as he imagines the countless things you’d do here. The idea of building a life with you, so grossly domestic, brought a grin to his face.

You had been a saviour to Theodore, a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day.

He can still recall the day he had first met you with frighteningly precise clarity, though to Theodore it was only natural that he did, for he was sure he only started living when he had met you. He was only ever bound to fall deeper in love with you from the very first time he had seen you looking up at him with that slightly lopsided grin that sent shivers down his spine and warmth flooding his chest. It was as if the world had suddenly become brighter, more vibrant, simply because you were in it.

Whether it was studying together in the library, sneaking out for midnight strolls around the castle, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, Theodore found himself falling deeper and deeper under your spell.

He snaps out of his daydreams, looking around as he checks his watch.

15:07

This would be the perfect time to go out and explore the town a bit, perhaps find a supermarket.

The driver was due to get here around the same time you would finish work, and Theodore was sure you’d be exhausted. He decided to make you some dinner, knowing how late shifts at the ministry drained you.

Navigating the winding streets, Theodore takes in the sights and sounds of the town, marvelling at the quaint shops and charming architecture. It's a far cry from the bustling streets of Glasgow, but Theodore finds himself drawn to the peaceful atmosphere of the small town.

After 2 hours of finding himself sidetracked by a variety of different shops, he finally finds a supermarket. He heads in and emerges later with his wallet considerably lighter and a handful of bags filled with an unnecessary selection of snacks, and produce.

It was only a further 3 hours later, after Theodore had procrastinated reading a book as he lay sprawled across the remarkably comfy bed that came in the refurbished apartment that he realised for the abundance of cabinets and chairs that the place came with, there would not be a single pot or pan in sight. How Theodore planned to cook tomato soup without a pan, or a chopping board, or a knife at the very least, was beyond him.

With a begrudging sigh, he accepted the financial loss of having to venture back into town to get the necessary culinary equipment. At least now by the time you’d be back from work, the soup would just about be ready, so you could enjoy it nice and fresh.

With the attention span of a 5-year-old, it was only natural for what should have been a 30-minute store run to turn into a 2-hour shopping spree, but Theodore couldn't help it when he saw a second-hand book store and a florist stand that sold green - yes green - tulips (which so happened to be your favourite flower). Entering the apartment once again having sworn to himself that he is not to spend for the next month, Theodore sets down the bags and rolls up his sleeves, washing his hands as he prepares to cook.

Theodore sets to work, chopping vegetables and simmering soup on the stove. The savoury aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of fresh herbs and spices. It's a labour of love, preparing a meal for you after a long day, but Theodore wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks to his admirable procrastination skills, Theodore had managed to pass an impressive 7 hours doing nothing and was only midway through dicing some garlic when a resounding knock echoed through the empty house.

Moving the sizzling pot off the stove, he makes his way over to the door, wiping his garlic-smelling hands on his trousers as he opens the door. The same man stands before him, a truck parked outside as he greets Theodore.

“Cor, smells lovely. Must have gotten here well before me if you're already cooking” The man chuckles, and Theodore nods, fumbling for an excuse.

“Relatively smooth journey.” He nods, haphazardly slipping his shoes on as he follows the man to the empty truck. No longer living on the top floor of a dingy apartment building, the process of moving the boxes was far easier, and no longer than 10 minutes later the driver is (to Theodore's relief), waving goodbye with the large wad of bills clutched in his hands. Theodore sighs as he shuts the door, setting the final box down on top of the coffee table. Boxes lay strewn around the living room, which was connected to the kitchen in an open-plan configuration. Quickly finishing off the last of the cooking so he could leave the soup to simmer, he makes his way over to one of the boxes, ripping at the tape.

He reaches for a picture frame tucked away in one of the smaller boxes. With a tender smile, he carefully removes the frame, revealing a picture of you and him taken during one of your adventures at Hogwarts.

You had just spent the day out in Hogsmeade, and after successfully smuggling 5 bottles of fire whiskey back into the castle, you both sat on the sofa in the common room, a blanket thrown over the two of you. You had a red scarf wrapped around your neck. You loved that scarf, wearing it absolutely everywhere despite Theodore’s protests that you were repping the rivalling house.

You were curled up into Theodore's side, a grin on your face. Mid-laugh, your cheeks and the tip of your nose red as you were looking beyond the camera. It was a simple candid shot taken by Pansy and one that you had found incredibly adorable and immediately framed.

Gently dusting off the frame, Theodore carries it over to one of the shelves in the living room, setting it carefully down.

He hears the sound of the door opening behind him. Turning around, Theodore's heart skips a beat as he sees you standing in the doorway, a tired smile on your face as you kick off your shoes and step inside.

"Hey," you greet him, your voice soft with exhaustion but filled with warmth.

Theodore's face lights up at the sight of you, and he can't help but feel a rush of excitement. Dropping the box he's holding, he rushes over to you, enveloping you in a tight embrace.

"Welcome home," Theodore whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I've missed you."

You return his embrace eagerly, burying your face in his chest as you breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne. It's a comforting embrace, and you can’t help but cling to him a little tighter.

You pull away, a small grin tugging at your lips as you look around your new home.

The space may be filled with boxes and scattered belongings, but it already feels like home with Theodore by your side.

"Wow," you murmur, your eyes wandering around the room. "It looks amazing, Theo. You've been busy."

Theodore beams with pride at your words, his heart swelling with happiness.

"I wanted everything to be perfect for when you got home," he says, his voice filled with affection. "And I thought we could celebrate our new place with some homemade tomato soup."

You can't help but smile at his thoughtfulness, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. Theodore always knows how to make you feel special, even after a long day at work.

"I love it," you say, crossing the room to wrap your arms around him once more. "And I love you."

You momentarily break away from the hug, reaching over for the ladle, You sneakily take a sip of soup, ignoring Theodore’s gasp of indignation as you groan.

“And I fucking love tomato soup,” You groan, and Theodore can’t help but laugh.

“Go and change. I’ll plate it for us.” Theodore says, moving over one of the boxes labelled ‘Crockery’.

You hum, wandering off to the bathroom. Your voice resounds off the bare walls as you speak.

“Start without me, love. I need to shower and I want to go to bed as soon as possible”

Theodore frowns, ignoring the slight disappointment but agreeing nonetheless. He indulges in a hearty bowl of soup, one set for you on the counter as he leans against the kitchen island.

About 20 or so minutes later, Theodore is washing his bowl, and his attention is drawn to the sound of the bathroom door opening. You emerge, still clad in your work clothes, a tired but content expression on your face. Theodore's eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight, a hint of confusion flickering in his eyes.

You had said you were going to shower, so why haven’t you changed? Perhaps you were simply so tired you had forgotten to bring some other clothes, or you didn’t realise. Theodore shrugs it off, far too enamoured by you to ponder on it for long.

You pad into the kitchen as a gentle acoustic melody fills the area, and you look over to see the record player propped up on a still-sealed box, alongside a stack of records. You can't resist teasing him about unpacking the vinyl player first.

"Really, Theo? Out of all the boxes, you had to unpack the record player first?" you tease, a playful glint in your eyes.

Theodore rolls his eyes playfully, but there's a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls you into his arms. "Hey, music sets the mood," he defends himself, swaying you gently in a makeshift dance.

You can't help but laugh at his response, feeling the warmth of his embrace enveloping you.

You shake your head in mock exasperation, but there's a fondness in your gaze as you look up at him.

As the music plays softly in the background, Theodore and you begin to sway to the rhythm, your movements slow and synchronized. The dim light of the kitchen casts a warm glow over the scene, illuminating your faces as you gaze into each other's eyes.

Your hands find their place on Theodore's shoulders, while his hands rest gently on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

Theodore's gaze is soft as he looks down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. A small giggle resounds through the kitchen area as he pulls back, hands holding yours as he spins you around.

A small yelp escapes your lips as he dips you, his laughter mingling with yours as you dance with one another. You slow down slightly, resting your head against Theodore's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you move together. The song slowly fades into the next track, and you pull back slightly, resting your chin on Theodore’s chest as you look up at him.

“It’s perfect. It’s everything we spoke about back when we were at Hogwarts” You murmur, and he smiles softly.

“It is” He whispers against your lips, as he leans down to kiss you.

This. This is what home felt like.

It was simple, but it was belonging, and it was belonging with you.

Theodore yawns, and a small grin tugs at your lips as you look at him.

“Go to bed. I’m gonna quickly eat and sort some things out then I’ll join you.” You reassure, pulling away.

He goes to protest but yawns, and realises that he truly was quite tired. With a sheepish smile, he nods, kissing your forehead as he disappears off to the bedroom.

Around half an hour later Theodore's eyes flicker open at the sound of you entering the room.

You settle under the covers, nestled close to each other, sharing the warmth.

"So, how was your day, love?" Theodore asks, his voice gentle as he strokes your hair.

"It was good," you reply with a soft smile. "Busy, as usual, but nothing I couldn't handle."

Theodore nods, his expression filled with understanding. "I'm glad to hear that. You always handle everything with such grace."

You chuckle softly, feeling a pang of bittersweet emotion tugging at your heart. "Well, you know me, always trying to keep it together."

There's a moment of silence between you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Theodore feels a sense of longing, as though he is yearning for something he can't quite grasp.

"You know," he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, "We should go out to town tomorrow. I found a nice cafe you’d love.” Theodore mumbles, sleep overtaking him as he fights to keep his eyes open.

You remain silent, running a hand through Theodore's hair as his head rests on your chest.

“We’ll see.” You whisper, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp.

Theodore frowns, slightly confused. He speaks through his half-asleep state.

“Do you have work tomorrow? It’s a Sunday, you never work on Sundays,” He mutters.

You pause, your heart skipping a beat at his words. A pang of sadness washes over you, but you push it aside.

“We’ll see tomorrow.” You say softly, pressing a kiss to Theodore’s forehead.

Theodore hums, curling into you closer as he wraps an arm around your waist.

“You make it sound like you’re going to disappear.” He mumbles into your neck. A small smile tugs at your lips as you wrap your arm around him and let your eyes flicker closed.

“I love you, Theodore.” You whisper, before you both succumb to sleep.

Dawn breaks, the gentle glow of the morning sunlight casting a serene glow on the bedroom. As Theodore wakes up in the morning he reaches out, sleepily fumbling around for you. His hand reaches out but finds only empty space, the other side of the bed cold. Groggy and disoriented, he blinks away the remnants of sleep, trying to shake off the fog that clouds his mind.

With a heavy sigh, he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes as he takes in the quietness of the room. It's too quiet, he realizes as if the very absence of sound weighs down on him.

Pushing himself out of bed, Theodore pads across the room, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor. He wanders through the empty house, the silence feeling oppressive now.

“[Name]?” He mumbles out, looking around.

No response.

He frowns. Today was a Sunday. You never worked on Sundays. Surely, if you were working, you would have told him.

His phone pings and he’s momentarily distracted, looking down at his home screen.

Blaise: We’re always here for you. It might not get easier but we’re all here to help. Sending you love.

Theodore frowns, utterly confused. It was such a morbid message from Blaise out of the blue.

He doesn’t have much time to unpack the meaning, however.

Entering the kitchen, Theodore's gaze falls upon the untouched bowl of soup on the counter. Confusion furrows his brow as he approaches it, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach.

"[Name]?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the empty room. There's no response, just the silence that seems to press in on him from all sides.

Becoming more awake now, Theodore's movements become more frantic as he searches the house, calling out your name with increasing urgency. But there's no sign of you, no trace of your presence anywhere.

Panic begins to rise within him, checking each room as your name falls from his lips in desperation.

Stumbling back into the living room, he walks to the corridor but pauses when a glimpse of a white card catches his eye, poking out from the box laying atop the coffee table. He feels inexplicably drawn to it, a nagging feeling telling him to pause his searches for you.

Frowning, he tugs it out of the box, and his eyes roam over the small, A5 sheet of card.

In Loving Memory of [Name] [Last Name]

14/04/1981 - 3/05/1998

oh.

right.

Theodore's heart lurches in his chest as he reads the words on the card, a cold shiver running down his spine.

He reads the dates again, his mind struggling to grasp everything.

Theodore sinks onto the nearest chair, his hands trembling as he clutches the card tightly. Tears blur his vision as he struggles to come to terms with the truth, the weight of his grief crashing down on him with a crushing force.

It all makes sense now. The inexplicable moments of confusion, the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. He had been living in a dream, clinging to a reality that no longer existed.

Grief may have been cruel, but love was crueller. Grief made him acknowledge that you were gone, that you had been gone for four years, but love made him think you’d walk through the door any moment with a tired smile tugging at your lips. Love made him think he could cook for you and sit down with you at the end of the long day. Grief made him accept you would never be here again but love? Love made him look for you.

Tears blur his vision as he struggles to come to terms with the reality of your absence, a hollow ache settling in the pit of his stomach. How could he have been so blind, so foolish to believe that you were still here with him?

He feels suffocated by the emptiness of the house, the silence echoing like a constant reminder of what he has lost.

His movements uncoordinated and shaky, he stumbles as he walks over to the kitchen. He haphazardly throws open cabinets as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey, his fingers fumbling as he struggles to twist off the cap. Taking a massive swig straight from the bottle, he welcomes the burning sensation that courses down his throat, momentarily dulling the pain that constricts his airways.

Theodore stumbles back to the bedroom, the bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand. As he navigates through the maze of boxes, he knocks one over, its contents spilling out onto the floor. He curses as he knocks it over, and in a cruel twist of fate, a red scarf is sent tumbling out of the box.

His breath catches in his throat as he picks up the scarf, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. Somehow, it still carries the faint scent of your perfume, a haunting reminder of your presence that lingers in the air.

“Fuck!” Theodore shouts, smashing the bottle of whiskey against the kitchen counter as he holds onto the scarf.

Curses and shouts of anguish tear from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty house like a sick symphony . He smashes the contents of the box with reckless abandon, the sound of breaking glass filling the air.

But as suddenly as his outburst began, it comes to an abrupt halt; Theodore's chest heaves with exertion. Panting heavily, he stares blankly at the wreckage around him, the full weight of his actions sinking in.

For a moment, there's only silence, broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths.

He wanted none of this. None of these stupid things, or this stupid house. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of you. Perhaps it was because everything he did, was for you. Whether you were in this life or the next.

He kicks the scattered mess around him, walking off to the bedroom.

Tears well up in Theodore's eyes as he collapses onto the bed, clutching the scarf to his chest with a desperate grip. His body racks with sobs as he holds onto the memory of you tightly, and he can only pray that he’ll wake up and you’ll be there.

Grief may have been cruel, but love was crueller. And with the way Theodore loved loves you, he was only ever bound to such a miserable demise.

@mildlyuninformative @chgrch @gillyweeds @anti-hero03 @schaebickel @lillywildly @batmandabest @always-reading @multifandom-worlds

#slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #harry potter #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fic #theodore nott fluff

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sukunasweetheart · 1 year

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warnings; trueform!sukuna, yes two big dicks, female reader, overstimulation, breeding, double penetration, biting, scratching, rough sex, bruising, cum inflation

word count; 1k

just a short little one shot because i wanted to post something with double dicked sukuna lmao

trueform sukuna being so disgustingly horny for you, his two oversized cocks aching to always get inside your holes, feel the way you stretch from them as they push the air out of your lungs. whenever you share a bed with him, he just cannot keep his hands away, constantly itching to feel you up, feel your skin beneath his fingertips and watch you whine whenever he squeezes a little too hard.

he thought he'd long lost his sensitivity hundreds of years ago, but he feels every single one of your light, feathery touches, when you lay your hands on him, trace his tattoos, bring your lips to the crook of his neck - when you touch him, it is the only thing he solely feels. suddenly, he becomes much too sensitive; your warmth, your scent, your voice and your gaze, he feels every single one linger on his senses. he remembers what pain feels like when you rake your nails down his back, the stinging being prominent but pleasurable to him.

“i’m gonna die- i’m gonna die,” you babble as he’s all up in your guts, while he merely grunts above you as he thrusts harder.

“you won’t die,” he chuckles, both of your holes squeezing him delightfully - “if i wanted you dead, you would’ve died long ago.”

two of his hands have a firm grasp on the underside of your thighs, while the remaining two are pinning your wrists down against the futon, preventing you from thrashing around and putting more scratches onto his back and shoulders. the mouth on his stomach sucks and licks at your already aching cunt, the tip of his tongue flicking at your swollen clit.

sukuna fights in numerous outrageous battles every day - and even then, it’s difficult for him to break a sweat because of how powerful he is.

but right now, a thick coat of it covers his abs and muscles with a clear sheen from how he fucks into you passionately. you make him feel things again, a feeling different from the thrill he receives on a battlefield.

“n-no more... i can’t,” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks and sweating very much yourself - beads of it gathering on your temples.

“you don’t get to decide that,” sukuna tells you, his unmerciful thrusts continuing to pummel you, the both of them reaching so deep. the base of his cocks are covered with your creamy spend, dribbling down to his heavy balls that are full - not yet emptied. he won’t be satisfied until he pumps you to the brim with his seed, just the way you deserve.

your insides tighten on him, and he groans hoarsely, being strangely vulnerable to arousal today.

“fuck.. fuck... you always say that i’m too much - you’re equally as bad,” he mutters, hips stuttering from your clenching holes, his precum dribbling out from each sensitive tip within you.

“if you want me to stop, why don’t you quit sucking me in?”

your chest heaves, desperate to get more air into your lungs, since the overstimulation keeps chasing your breath down. sukuna slows his pace just by a little, since he can’t have you passing out yet.

when he observes your face, he can’t help but think about how your lips look a bit lonely. leaning down, he offers you a kiss that threatens to devour you.

you feel the twitch of his cocks inside you, and you understand that he’s finally beginning to get close to his orgasm. sukuna’s hips get faster and rougher again, the noises of skin slapping against skin getting loud. he feels your whimper on his lips as he tongue kisses you feverishly.

the grip on your thighs and wrists gets tight. the rhythm of his thrusts become erratic. you can feel him start to breathe heavier.

“shit- goddamn- it’s like you were made to fuckin’ milk me dry,” he pants, eyes becoming half lidded.

“please... i want your cum- please cum inside me,” you plead, voice choking up from how he roughs your body up. your eyes are practically begging, revealing how much of a whore you are for him.

sukuna doesn’t manage to slip another snarky remark in before he reaches his mind numbing orgasm, both of his dicks pulsing inside of you as his cum spurts out messily, tainting your walls with its thickness, and you feel it stuffing your ass full, while the one in your pussy rests against your cervix, spilling directly into your womb.

he groans with all four of his eyes shut, cumming buckets worth of his seed in you. yet, your holes still seem to pucker him, as if to want more and more. sukuna growls and suddenly lurches forward to sink his teeth into your shoulder, making you gasp and throw your head back against the futon, dizzy from the abrupt pain and from being filled up relentlessly.

once he’s done emptying himself, he detaches from your shoulder and grabs your face to give you a final kiss before pulling his now limp cocks out of you. immediately, his spend leaks out, dribbling onto the soft material underneath you.

phew, he thinks to himself. he feels relieved and replenished. as a wrap up, he grabs his kiseru pipe that is placed off to the side, taking a drag from it and blowing out a gust of smoke languidly.

when he gazes at you again, he sees how utterly ruined you are, bruises embedded on your wrists and thighs, tear-stained cheeks, your stomach looking a little full from how much he’s pumped into you. not to mention that one apparent bite mark on your shoulder. you take shallow breaths, still recovering from the session.

sukuna places a hand on your chest, the warmth of his palm soothing you a little.

“breathe,” he advises sternly. you obey, opting to breathe in more deeply so that the oxygen reaches your lungs.

“uraume, draw some water in the bath for us.”

“good.”

he takes another puff from his pipe, and then puts it off to the side again.

the steam from the warm water rises up, comforting your sore muscles. sukuna had carried you all the way here, and now, you rest on his lap in the water, playing with one of his hands. he slicks his wet hair back, not minding your clinginess. but, he does keep eyeing the teeth marks on your shoulder.

with a swipe of his palm over the wound, it vanishes.

it’d be bad if it got infected, after all.

Masterlist

tagging; @luvkun4 @yuujispinkhair @sukunastoy @skunaskitten @nemoyr

#finally #i worked my ass off to write this #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna #jjk x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x you #true form sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you

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fan-goddess · 5 months

Note

aemond + sex pollen + getting caught + public sex 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

aemond is betrothed to reader (who he only v recently met after she comes to KL), they had no intentions to bed each other before the wedding bc honor ofc it’s aemond lol but the pollen gets them and they dont even get to make it out of the gardens before they started getting freaky 😭

Authors Note: oooh great idea nonnie i like how you think! The setting is similar to the small garden with the gods wood tree, but it’s A LOT more secluded than that. Plus changed Aemonds morals a little but it’s still the same man we know and love ❤️

Warnings: P in v sex, public, getting caught, praise kink, breeding kink, praise, degrading, mentions of aegon being bad, alicent shows up surprise! (I know I’ve missed a lot let me know what though so I can add them!)

Taglist: @sofiyathecunt, @marvelgirl123, @sylasthegrim, @arcielee, @mochi-rose, @valeskafics, @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @blue-serendipity, @omgbrcat, @lovelykhaleesiii

Ever since you were a young girl, your duty had all you’d ever been taught.

It was what your whole childhood had been preparing you for. Your septa’s had taught you what you must do to make t your husband happy and content with you, whilst your mother had insisted on taking on the role of teaching you the acts of the marital bed.

It was graphic, how she told you that you must simply lay there and allow the man to enter you, allowing him to do whatever it took to for him to impregnate you.

It was those teachings alone that haunted you for days when you were informed of your newest betrothal to the young Targaryen prince.

You had heard the gossip of the eldest prince Aegon. How maids that were assigned to his quarters left mere months later with not only a coin purse, but a swollen stomach hidden under their dress too.

It’s probably was why you found yourself as shocked as you were when you met the prince Aemond, and fell in love with him as deeply as you did.

When you kissed him one late night in the depths of the library, it felt like everything was right. Aemonds hands felt perfect as they held your waist and chin respectively as he could. Yet no matter how disrespectfully you wish for him to hold you, your duty once again held a tight grip on both of your senses.

You knew that the morning after your wedding night, the bed would be checked to see if you had bled. And if you haven’t, you would bring a great shame and dishonour on your house, no doubt passing onto your own family you and Aemond would create.

So no matter how deliciously sinful it is to feel Aemonds lips on yours, that addictive forbidden feeling of his hands beginning to roam your body in between the tall bookshelves flowing through your veins, you know your duty as of now holds you hostage.

“Aemond, we-we cannot do this here…” You murmur between kisses and heavy breaths, trying your best to keep your composure as you lean away, only for Aemond to immediately follow your head with his own eager lips.

“Please my love... just five more minutes alone with you... then I will be satisfied. I swear it!”

“You swore you’d be satisfied nearly an hour ago my dragon! You’re never satisfied whatever it is you do! Whether it is your books, your training, and now even me it seems!” You grin, biting your swollen bottom lip in a teasing motion that only makes out betrothed more undone as he groans slightly in frustration.

“I am a prince of the realm! I could easily demand there be no checking of your blood!” It is almost amusing how desperate Aemond looks in that moment. His eye blown wide as he looks at you. His lips nearly swollen like your own. Even his cheeks now a deep shade of red.

“Aemond my love, it is because you are a prince of the realm that they check my Maidenhead!” You laugh lightly, stepping away from Aemonds heaving form that leans on the space you stepped from.

“I-I’m sorry darling. The moment got away from me… I will see you in the morn. Do you wish to break fast together? I could tell the chefs to prepare your favourite?”

“Aemond my love, we have broken fast together for nearly two weeks now! You must spend more time with your family before your mother believes I’m taking you away from them!” You laugh, intending for a small joke, only Aemond looks serious as he responds.

“I don’t care. You’re my family too. Married yet or not.” It leaves a heavy blush on your cheeks as you move to kiss his scar with devotion.

It takes the two of you a while, but eventually you find your own ways back to your respective chambers, where the both of you much to your respective guards reliefs, stay till the next morning.

Aemond to his chagrin meets with his family, while you dine with your own.

Your mother can’t help herself but talk eagerly on the debates of your wedding. What colour gown you shall wear and what food will no doubt be at the feast. But instead all you can think of, is meeting your betrothed later that day in the gardens, just as he suggested before the two of you parted.

Eventually you escape your mothers questions, and when you make your way to the gardens, you can’t help but admire the bright flowers as you walked past.

You turn your head, and when you spot Aemond standing there smiling by the godswood tree as he watched you, you can’t help but smile seeing the small bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“Here you go my love. They’re flowers newly shipped from Lys, that have not even had the grace to sit in Westeros soil yet. I thought you deserved the first bouquet of them before anyone else…”

“Well thank you darling…” You smile, grinning slightly at Aemonds out of character bashfulness before leaning forward slightly and sniffing the bright flowers.

Only, you can’t help but gasp slightly when you’re suddenly hit with a strange smell. One akin to dark chocolate and a slight tinge of salt. It was odd, given what it was you were smelling, but what’s even stranger is that you find yourself already addicted to it within mere seconds. Already eager to bury your head into the arrangement and practically live there in order to smell that delightful thing as much as you could.

The only reason you find yourself not, is because Aemond quickly takes the bouquet out of your hands to sniff it himself.

Only when you see his eye widen and look at you, you can practically see it turn from a light lilac to a dark shade of purple, and you realise it’s not just you whose affected by the strange aroma.

“My love… I wish I could be sorry for what I am about to do, but I’m not.” Is all he says, before dropping the arrangement somewhere and shoving you against the tree, his lips eagerly connecting with yours in a passionate embrace.

Yet even with the vow of keeping your honour and your maidenhead screaming at you in your head, the feeling of Aemonds hands roaming your entire body is doing something to you that you cannot help but embrace wholeheartedly.

Your own hands eagerly take grasp of Aemonds hair and tugs, allowing a deep groan of his to practically resonate throughout your whole body.

“Aemond…” You murmur, “I want this. So much… but are you sure?”

He growls as he speaks, as if taken over by some other being, and you can’t deny how it makes your smallclothes feel strangely sticky and wet against your skin, and how much you like it.

“Of course I am ñuha jorrāelagon… but I must say that with what is coursing through my veins, I will not be gentle with you, like how I know you would enjoy. I will be rough, and animalistic. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes Aemond… I think I am able to handle all that… and more-“

You don’t even get to finish, as Aemond takes ahold of your face and kisses you harsher than he ever has done before. His teeth clash against yours, and you almost swear you can feel a tinge of blood on your tongue as he forces his and your own to move in some strange type of dance.

It’s so intense that feeling, that you don’t even realise entirely when Aemond rips the front of your dress open, allowing your front body to be revealed to him whilst you shiver slightly at the cold. Though you begin to quickly warm up when Aemond hot mouth leaves wet kisses all gone the length of your chest, trailing all the way to your breast that heave under the harshness of your sudden breaths.

“Good girl… what a good fucking girl I have for me to marry, and fuck my seed into…”

You whimper, and it all seems to turn into a sort of heavenly haze.

The taste of his lips on yours are like pure heaven, and his touch feels almost sinful as his fingers tweak and kneed at your breasts with hunger.

It’s only worse when he practically rips your soaked through smallclothes from your body, and stops a moment to smell them. The sight alone shocking you whilst you hang your mouth open in surprised arousal, a small breathless sound you don’t even realise you’re making being all you can say in that moment in response.

When he stuffs them in his pocket though and quickly undoes his leather trousers, allowing them to fall to the floor, the desperation in your entire body making you feel as if on fire when you catch sight of his cock, which smacks against his belly with a slight wet sound.

“Do you wish for it wife? Do you wish for me to fuck you senseless and fill you with my seed, until all you can feel is me? Until you’re stomach is swollen with our babe? Our heir?”

You’re breathless, but you don’t know what else to be. All you can focus on, is him, and nothing else.

When you nod your head enthusiastically though to his question, his brows furrow in some type of anger, and quick apologises and pleas spill from your mouth.

“I’m sorry husband, yes yes yes please fill me with your seed! I want all of kingslanding to know who is my lord husband, and who has claimed me as theirs! I want your cum dripping down my thighs and to remain inside of me until a child is born from us! Please husband allow me to carry your heir!”

Your pleas certainly seem to affective, as Aemond releases a roguish growl of approval and quickly moves to position his weeping almost pretty looking cock at your entrance, before looking at your face carefully whilst he inserts himself slowly.

You can feel your face scrunch in a painful way whilst you make a wounded sound, but Aemonds soothing touch and words make you preen so much you almost find yourself forgetting about it all.

“Doing so good for me ñuha ābrazȳrys… my sweet wife’s going to be dripping of me…”

You let out a broken moan, and yet in Aemonds eye it is too loud, as he swallows it with his own mouth. His tongue prying you lips open and practically dancing with yours.

He ruts into you like a madman, the thrusts having no true rhythm as he allows himself only to have his mind sink into the feeling of pleasure only you can give him. The feeling that consumes him better than anything in the world.

It’s deadly, and hot, and sinful, which is why it is such an addictive thing to be feeling at that moment as he groans into your mouth. The frantic rutting of his hips becoming somehow more manic as you feel his cock throb deep inside your heat.

However, such an addictive thing is dangerous, as when Aemonds grip on your upper thighs tighten to become near bruising whilst his cock spasms slightly as he groans in completion, your own face hidden in the sweaty curve of his neck as you feel your own walls tightening around him. However, the sudden realisation of a voice being heard, leaves your eyes suddenly widening in horror.

It’s a shrill feminine voice that speaks. “What in the seven is going on here!”

You can feel Aemonds spent still hot in your womb, aswell as your own juices dripping down your naked legs, which is why it is so horrifying to turn your head to see who the voice belongs to, and make eyes with the queen. Who stands before you and Aemond with a stern and scared face, her eyes seemingly unable to continue to stare at the scene before her as they look to the sky.

You and Aemond quickly move to correct yourselves, even though that feeling of desire in yours and his’ bodies almost seem to force you to want to continue. Though the shame quite forcibly overwhelms it.

It’s overwhelming in fact, when you attempt to make yourself modest and realise Aemonds eager attempts to caress you made it so the front of your dress is ruined. It’s even worse when you quickly realise you have no smallclothes to stop the trail of Aemonds spent flowing down your thighs.

An almost amused expression taking over him when he sees your dilemma, and an even stranger reaction seems to take over him when his mother turns her back for a second and he flashes you a glimpse of your smallclothes from his trousers pocket.

“I have excused Aegons debauchery for many years, and for it to go unpunished-“ The queen starts as she can now finally look at the two of you, her hands fiddling with themselves whilst she does so in what can be described as a nervous manner. “Which is why I cannot allow this sort of thing to go unpunished now with you Aemond. I would have never of suspected this of you my son, and this is the reason I feel so shameful of you. I expect this of Aegon, not you.”

You turn to your betrothed, and the man flashing you a view of your smallclothes with a smile on his face is gone. What instead stands beside you is a grim faced gentleman, who is an image of solemness and dishonour. It is obvious how much the queens words have affected him, no matter how much you know he’ll deny it later.

“I shall make it so that the two of yours betrothal to be hastened. As quick as moon tea is to be made and drunk, we cannot allow gossip to be weaves into our already, dare I even say it, hellish society. Is next month too quick? I only say as as much as the two of you would like to deny, it only takes one time to conceive a babe. That much your brother has proven to me…”

The queens words shake you, and yet when you meet Aemonds own anxious gaze, the two of you cannot help but nod heads in agreement.

“Splendid! I do believe this soured castle is in need of a happy day or two…” The queen smiles, almost looking lost in thought for a moment at the idea, before walking away without a glance behind her. Allowing the two of you to stand in the seriousness of the moment.

Aemond turns to you with sorrow, and you almost find yourself gasping in shock when he begins to get on his knees and grasps his hands on yours. “My love… I am so sorry! I have dishonoured you greatly with what was supposed to be a gift, which I why I completely understand if you wish to-“

“Aemond my dragon, you must not be sorry! We both had been struck with whatever was in those dreaded flowers! Yet it does not matter now! I love you, my dragon, and this will not change that…” You kneel with him in the dirt, and it’s like his whole personality changes, as he pulls you into a deep hug and buries his face in your neck.

Your hands move to cup his head where it lays, and you almost swear you can feel the fabric of your dress dampen with possible tears. But you say nothing to spare him the embarrassment. Instead, you allow him to stay there.

Your dragon, your Aemond, will always be safe in your arms.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x reader #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #my works #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #my kinktober #house of the dragon smut #hotd fic #alicent hightower

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Note

MEMEME I HAVE THOTS

i just....cannot stop thinking about being basically a shared commodity (if u know what i'm saying....) for the 141 like.....i just wanna be passed around plz and thanks

“Oh sweetheart, look at you.”

It’s Gaz’s voice that filters through the warm, honeyed haze of pleasure that weighs heavy in your veins. His voice is silky, rumbling, pleased, and his thumb comes to swipe away the remnant of him from your bottom lip. You can only imagine how he must see you right now. Eyes lidded and heavy, glassy with desire. Your mouth parts with gasping little pants, chest heaving, nipples pebbled and nearly raw from too much attention. Your chest is a mess of flaked cum, and you know there’s an abstract of the same spend between your thighs.

“Our girl is doing well.” Price rumbles from under you, where he’s buried deep into your cunt, and the pressure of him as his hips roll up into you is enough to make you shudder, plant your hands on his stomach with a shaky little gasp.

“You alright, hen?” A voice coos in your ear, and there’s hands snaking around to your front to paw at your chest again. You throw your head back into Soap’s shoulder as Price bounces you again on his cock, the friction enough to undo you, make your brain melt at the seams.

“I’m…I’m good.” You manage at last when Soap’s nose bumps against the side of your head, nuzzling you affectionately. “I’m okay, I- more, please.”

He groans at that, his fingers pinching at your sensitive nipples hard enough to make you keen.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He tells you, twisting your head to press a kiss against your mouth, sloppy and passionate, dragging your lip between his teeth and it’s all you can do to surrender to him, needing him, all of them in every single way.

“Wait your turn, sergeant.” A voice growls from nearby, and you see Ghost standing above you on your other side, a fist idly stroking his cock that dribbles precum at the head. You lick your lips, turn to him with a wordless whine, and Ghost chuckles, like he’s soomehow amused by this cock-drunk state you’re in.

“Soon, pet.” He tells you, not unkindly. “Have to have our captain have his taste first.”

“Damn right.” Price gruffs from under you, and then suddenly he’s sitting up, dragging you closer to him so your nipples brush against the coarse hair of his chest. “You ready for me, sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically, open your mouth to beg and instead gasp when he surges into you with little warning, hands dipping into the meat of your hips and dragging you up, only to slam you down on his cock once more.

“Fuck!” He snarls, and the violence in him bites out for a moment before settling once more. “Such a tight little cunt for us, love. Shouldn’t have waited this long for a taste.”

You wrap your arms around him and try to help him, try to raise on shaky legs to assist but Price doesn’t let you, barely lets his thighs leave yours as he fucks up into you, huffing, growling, hands snaking around to cup the swell of your ass between his fingers.

“Over here, hen.” Johnny purrs, and you lift your eyes to his cock, open your mouth without protest, relish the dragging groan that rips free of his chest as you try and take him as far as you can.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” He breathes, idly rocking forward as you flatten your tongue on the underside of his shaft, let him bump the back of your throat.

“Christ, that’s hot.” Kyle breathes from somewhere nearby, and you hear the sound of him stroking at his still wet cock at the sight of you bouncing in his captain’s lap and swallowing around Soap’s cock.

You’re lost in it, in the mindless pleasure of it all, a vessel made only for desire as Price curses and jams a hand between you both to rub at your clit, as Johnny knots a hand gently in your hair to drag you forward, turning so Ghost can kiss him, open mouth and sloppy, mask rucked up over his nose.

It isn’t long before Price’s hips stutter and he groans, loud and dark, filling you moments before he presses down and tips you into your own climax. You’re still shuddering when he pulls out of you, lays you down against his front before propping your hips up with his palms. Your exposed cunt leaks down your legs, three pairs of eyes fastened on the glistening wetness as John heaves an exhale, chuckles and turns to Ghost.

“Your turn, soldier.”

#john price x reader #poly 141 x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #Kooks I stg this made me feral #Minors stay so far away I swear-#thursday night thots

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sansxfuckyou · 1 month

Text

karma's the judge

Summary: Clay learns that Viva is pink down to her very core- well, more of a magenta color right under her skin, the deeper into her flesh the more purple it gets.

Warnings: gore, near death, hospitals, agony, i cannot stress enough that this is not romantic, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: me and @ohposhers got talking, I'm legally not allowed to say anything else about the convo aside from the fact it inspired this fic. title from FØØL, specifically the INHUMAN remix. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a like or reblog, or checkin' the Ao3 port.

It's only a mildly horrific sight for Clay to see.

He's lying actually.

The sound of the predator running off into the underbrush is still heavy in the air with cracking branches and rustling leaves. It echoes in his ears; that and the sound of Viva's laboured breathing. Her breath stutters as she wheezes, paw hovering over the bright blue shards in her chest and stomach. She's shredded in every sense including literal.

"C-Clay," Viva barely manages to get out, fat tears rolling down her face as agony surges through her. Neon magenta oozes out of rended flesh and seeps into fabric and slides down from her nose. Ears downturned and claws detracted, she's still in fight mode even though she should've ran with the rest of them.

Words are failing to form for Clay as he takes hasty, yet tentative, steps closer to his companion. Then she coughs, she sounds like death incarnate. Wet and shaky; phlegmy blood spills past her teeth and the gouges in her torso bubble up with her blood, the glass sinks deeper into her flesh. She's curling in on herself as she shudders and shakes and loose flesh trails on the dirt in stringy tendons. She grips for the shards to pull them out but even with adrenaline she's still fading fast. Her eyes flutter shut as the sharp edges slice her hands open to match the rest of her torn up body.

Viva falls limp and Clay is just frozen as he stares at their leader. Her chest rises and falls impossibly slow, she should be dead but she isn't and that gives just enough kick to get Clay to move and save her. Try to at least.

Clay drops down beside her and runs a paw across her wounds, checking the depth and the intensity aside from looking so bad it makes him feel nauseated. She shudders in her passed out state, tensing and flexing her claws against the unknown. The blood on his paws contrasts his own fur so much it makes him gag, the slimy texture of coalescing and cooling Pop Troll blood; it's lukewarm and drips but it's thick with bits of flesh. He wants to hurl as he shuffles Viva around a bit, she curls and shifts and hisses in her restless and forced state of sleep as he tries to help her.

Her cape is slowly wrapped around her body and her blood clings to the tufts of fur on the bottom and collar of the cape. The capes exterior doesn't hold in the blood, at all. Instead the magenta substance just slides off it, seeping through the fabric interior and slowly dripping down pieces of faux grass. Her breath heaves and her body is near entirely limp as it's restricted, Clay has to keep her head from hanging awkwardly and further straining her body as he carries her.

-/-/-/-

Viva jolts awake, body tingling with anesthetic that hasn't fully worn off. And as fast as she's shocked herself upright she's buckling in half due to an agonizing pain shooting up from her abdomen to her sternum. She clutches desperately only to find a similar pain resting heavy in her arm. Only then does she let her vision register as a train of thought in her head instead of bouncing from reflex to reflex.

White bandages wrap her arm and she isn't wearing a shirt, her entire torso is wound up in gauze that's a blend of magenta and almost purple with the darkness. She uses her other paw to touch it, and it's almost damp, that makes her stomach turn. She presses a bit more, higher up, and then she hits stitches left uncovered almost at her clavicles.

She glances down further and finds her leg covered in a thick layer of gauze, she can barely move her toes with how tight it is. And the magenta. She feels ill as the scent of drying and gelatinizing blood really sets in as hers instead of some other Troll in the medical ward.

Viva tries to move again, get off the bed and walk purely to spite the agony ripping through every wound on her (some unstitched but she can't tell with how much gauze she's wearing). Her paws rest shakily on the cot and so little effort leaves her winded, struggling to breath instead of cry out in pain. She's the leader. She has to be strong.

The second her toes hit the floor she swears she can hear something snap and she screams. Every torn tendon and string of muscle in her leg tries to fire all at once, preemptively activating to hold her weight, and the rush of blood darkens her gauze. It hurts enough to push her to tears as she falls back on the bed and clutches her leg. The agony in her arms and torso doesn't do much to deter her from holding the wound even as the sheets below her start to turn pink.

"Viva!"

Clay, it's Clay whose coming and closing the door behind him and rushing over. She bites back sniffles and pathetic little sounds as she lets go of her leg and relaxes just a bit. Her body lays prone on the cot, arms at her side and legs loose as Clay comes to her side.

"You were supposed to be out cold for fifteen more minutes," Clay said quietly. Then he laughs a little bit, awkward and forced, "I should've known you'd fight through the anesthetic though."

Viva laughs too even though there's nothing funny, "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Horror rests heavy on Clay's voice as he speaks.

Viva rephrases, "How am I still alive?"

"Look, all I can't find any logical reason as to why considering how wrecked you were. But let's just take it and run." Clay's eyes linger on the darkness of Viva's terribly done excuse of a cast. He should've added more layers of gauze, or made actual casting materials.

"Did anyone else get hurt?" Viva asked, trying to sit up but pushed back down by Clay. She reluctantly stays still.

"No one else got hurt, the tribes really, really worried though," Clay said quietly, "But I have everything under control, just stay in bed till you're healed up."

Viva's blood goes cold at the notions of being bedridden for music knows how long. Her eyes widen a little bit and she stares at Clay, "What are you planning, Clay?"

Clay laughs nervously, "Nothing much, ya know, just taking reign until you're better."

"What."

"For your own health! It'll be fine!"

Viva gives a long sigh as she closes her eyes, "Don't mess it up, Clay."

"I won't! Besides, I've been doing the legal stuff, it'll be fine."

"Have fun socializing and being the funboy again."

Clay swallows hard. Right. Funboy. He'll have to be the funboy again. It makes hims stomach knot but he nods along because he knows. Being the funboy, he's pretty sure the notions alone make his mind flood with dysphoria.

But for Viva's sake?

He'll manage.

#trolls #trolls fanfiction #clay trolls #viva trolls #trolls viva #trolls clay #trolls fanfic #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #tw gore #tw injury #tw hospital

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mysicklove · 11 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

Paring: Sub! Akaza X Dom! Gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Threatening, heavy power dynamics, edging, pillow throwing lol, growling, teeth baring, heavy praise and petting, soft dom reader and confused akaza

A/N: This was a blurb, and then a drabble, and then it hit 1k words and I turned it into a fic. Honestly, mostly akaza trying to manage power dynamics, not alot of smut.

He can’t do it anymore. He physically can’t. It’s even taking a mental toll on him.

How has he let a mere human like you take control over his body?

He has been edged for thirty minutes now. It was a long time for most people, but to him it felt like hours. He has been biting his tongue to hold back threats.

Akaza knows he likes being submissive to you, he knows for complete sure he does. He was the one to ask you to take the lead. Sure it came off as a complaint of a demon commanding a human, but you knew what he meant. He hated that you knew. It made him feel weak.

But in these moments where you deny him pleasure, he hates being submissive. He wants it all, every touch, graze, or caress. How could you deny it to him when he was the one who originally commanded you?

But you don't seem to care. You leave him hanging dry, with no fear of consequences. He could kill you in a heartbeat, but still, you torment him.

Akaza lunges for your hand when you begin to pull away from his leaking cock. Second time this has happened and he cannot be denied an orgasm any longer. He has played your good pet for too long.

He bares his teeth at you, the needle-sharp canines exposed in all their might. His face scrunches up in a glare and he can feel the rumbling of a growl in the back of his throat.

You watch as he squeezes your wrist and begins to pull it back to his now leaking dick. “Touch me.” He hisses and you raise your eyebrows at the tone.

Your hand goes limp in his hold and he tries to rub himself on it, the growls keep picking up in volume at your defiance.

He meets your stare, ready to threaten you some more, but when he sees you innocently blinking up at him, he knows how he is doing this is wrong. He knows that having a tantrum will not get him anywhere.

You always have those eyes when he acts out. When he doesn't get his way. You stare at him like you looking at a small child. It was humiliating.

You only did it when he plays the demon card on you. When he uses the strength of his body to overpower you. When he threatens to kill you.

It’s like you know he would never hurt you, you know that after all of this, he is still sits in the palm of your hand ready to be manipulated for your every need.

In the beginning it made him even more angry. He would yell and scream all the while you would sit there and take it, petting his hair and rubbing his body like you were coaxing a child to calm down. It would take him hours to let down his walls. He was afraid to be seen as weak to a human.

But now almost instantly he seems to relax. Sees those eyes and knows that no matter what he says or does you’ll always be there to bring him down. He enjoys that you make him feel small. It was sickening.

So, he drops your hand with much hesitance. You sit and wait patiently through it all, blinking up at him with such innocence eyes when he knows that you know how much power he has over him.

Just for one last release he grabs the pillow next to him and chucks it at the door. It lands with a small thud and he heaves, baring his teeth at the door while you follow the pillow with a small hum.

You bring your hand up to the top of his head and his eyes snap to you, his canines still exposed. “That’s it, let it all out.” You coo, petting his hair, and he stares in silence. His chest rises and falls in deep breathes, and his cock still pulsates against his stomach.

“Are you with me?” You whisper, tracing the lines on his face.

He begins to relax his face, his breathing goes back to normal and he gulps at you, looking away from those eyes. “Sorry.” He mumbles, clenching his fists in embarrassment. He knows you are kinder when he is polite, he has to suck up his pride.

The cooing picks up again and he feels his face burn. “That’s alright. Look how much better you are doing. Aren’t you being such a good boy, Akaza?” Your hand comes back to his cock and he jumps. You rub the tip and he has to grit his teeth to hold back a moan. “Say it, Akaza.”

Will you let him cum now? He didn’t freak out this time and he apologized. If he says what you want him to say will you finally touch him?

He can’t even look at you in these moments. “I’m a good boy…I want—Will you let me cum? Please.” He whispers so silently that you almost missed it. His face flushes under the marks and he grabs at the sheets beneath him. He listens to the satisfying tear of the fabric.

You smile ecstatically and he flinches, still getting used to the praise. “Just three more. Can you withstand it three more times? For me, baby?”

Another humiliating nickname. If anyone knew that he let you call him this he would have to kill them.

But he wasn’t focused on the nickname. He feels your hand drawing back. He can’t do it three more times. He is bound to get frustrated and yell or break something, accidentally break you. He can't help it. It hurts.

But he can’t seem to find the words for his complains, so he does something for the first time since he met you. He whimpers.

The sound makes his widen eyes snap back to you, hoping you didn’t catch it, but with that grin on your face he knows you did. He tries to pretend it didn't happen for the sake of his pride.

Your hand is back on his cock in an instant.

After the first two denials he begins to sweat, his heart hammers in his chest and he is clenching the sheets with eyes screwed shut. He feels the urge to yell, to command you to touch him, but he holds back. For both your sake and his own. His tongue is covered in bite marks from his very own teeth.

The third denial was the roughest by far. You tricked him, saying stuff like, "Now I'll let you cum." and "It's going to feel so good, right love?" Which made him believe that you missed counted. He didn't say anything, he wanted to let you think this was the third one. He wanted his high desperately.

You pull away at the last second and he wants to yell, scream, do something, but instead he cries in pure frustration. Globs of tears drip down his face and he continues to tear through the sheets as if they were nothing but paper.

"Please!" He begs for the first time tonight. His body racks with the sobs and he leans forward to lean onto your chest as if he really was a small child. His whole cock is covered in his pre cum. It makes him feel sticky and gross. He wants you to make it stop.

You run your fingers through his buzzed hair and murmur sweet nothings into his ear. Finally, you give in, bringing your hand down and begin to set the pace once again. He lets out his moans and whines now, too sensitive and overstimulated not to. His mind is disoriented from the praise dripping out of your mouth like honey.

It only takes him five pumps for him to cum. His back arches and he has to quickly remove his hands from your body so he doesn't accidentally dig them into your skin. He doesn't moan, instead, it comes out as long shaky gasps and rapid muscle contractions. White liquid lands on his chest and your leg.

When he comes down from his high, he doesn't speak. He sits and listens to your praise, no longer feeling embarrassed about it. Instead, basking in the warmth of your words that makes him feel lightheaded.

#dom! reader #smut #kny smut #akaza x reader #x reader #reader insert #sub kny #sub! kny #sub akaza #sub! akaza #akaza smut #demon slayer akaza #akaza x you #Akaza x reader smut #demon slayer smut #kny akaza #akaza demon slayer #dom reader #dom reader kny

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crownofgildedlilies · 14 days

Text

tellin' myself i can always do with out it -> cool about it [3]

in which: a son of jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: cursing, angst, threats of violence, actual violence

word count: 6.6k

a/n: I simply cannot talk enough about this fic. also, reminder, this has a nonlinear plot!

one two [three] four

Thunderstorms sent your blood singing.

The drop in temperature, the racing winds, the sound of torrential rain and striking lighting. You loved it all. When you were little, sometimes the only sense of stability and routine you had would be the clap of thunder following the bolt of electricity arcing from the skies.

You loved thunder.

But thirty seconds ago, there hadn’t been a cloud in sight.

You had noticed the change in the air instantly, maybe even quicker than your half-siblings seated around the Mess Hall table with you, arguing over where the best vacation spot would be, if demigods could safely vacation.

"Somewhere warm!"

"Somewhere with a view!"

"Somewhere with lots of tourists to pickpocket."

"This is why us kids of Mercury have a bad name, Reggie."

The storm was centralized over the field set aside for War Games, which piqued your curiosity even more, because you knew Jason volunteered to oversee the group assigned to clean the shrapnel from the grass.

There had been some disgruntled comments over the fact that you hadn’t been assigned clean-up duty, considering it was entirely your doing during the last games that led to so much damage on the field. Jason had stepped in to settle the issue, and somehow ended up leading the group.

He's always sticking up for her, a daughter of Mars named Janis that followed after Octavian like a leashed dog had muttered. It’s not fair that the Praetor has favorites.

And though Janis had meant to insult you, you took the comment with a smile full of sharp teeth. Because you couldn’t exactly deny that you were one of Jason’s favorites, and the fact was so far from upsetting.

"All you, Centurion," Your half-sister snickered, shoving your shoulder in the direction of the vicious storm. And really, you couldn't deny that you were probably the only one capable of breaching the gale force winds to calm the source at its heart.

Meaning, no one but you could get close to Jason when he was in such a state.

"Pride of the Praetor!" Another sibling shouted as you stood, and they should have counted themselves lucky that you were more worried about finding Jason and not launching the remains of your lunch at them in retaliation. Your face flushed, but you didn't give any reaction beyond your middle finger extending over your shoulder as you turned to leave.

You would be lying if you said that you didn't walk just a little faster than typical towards the source of the storm. The alarms hadn't been raised, so it wasn't an attack, but the wind had picked up and rain was hammering the ground in an almost perfect circle, a ring of soaked Romans clad in purple standing at the edge.

"It's bad, this time," Rico, a fellow member of the Fifth Cohort, winced when he saw you approach, his dark hair stuck up in every direction from the wind, his hands wringing the rain from hem of his shirt. "Like, bad. You sure you want to go in there?"

You made a low sound in the back of your throat, almost like a hum, more similar to a warning. Through the haze of the rain, you could see Jason hunched on the ground, right in the eye of the storm. Head tucked between his knees, shoulders heaving with his heavy breaths.

"You think this is bad?" You settled on asking, tone almost scoffing. Rico shot you a glance, like he couldn't believe careful, curated Praetor Grace could get much worse. "You should have seen him after Krios almost killed me."

Rico shuddered at the mention of the Titan, killed only a few short months back. Or maybe it was at the memory of war, but maybe it was at the memory of how Jason had nearly torn down all of Mount Tamalpais after the battle, searching for your injured body in the rubble.

"Henry almost got blasted just now." Rico tried to counter, after a moment, nodding his head in the direction of the storm crackling with lightning every few seconds.

"Henry probably deserved it," You said flatly, not missing a beat and tugging an elastic from your wrist to tie back your hair. It wouldn't do you any good, flying around in your face while you fought to get to Jason through the storm.

A dozen feet to your left, Henry let out an offended 'hey!', but you had already grit your teeth and stepped into the bubble of chaos.

Towards Jason. Always, to him.

Rico murmured something about you being crazy, probably for being stupid enough to dive headfirst into one of angry Jason's thunderstorms, but you had never really seen him as a scary son of Jupiter.

The myths about the king of the gods were… less than flattering. Egotistical, paranoid, cheating, lying, lord of the heavens, Jupiter.

But your Jason? He was all that was good in the world.

A protector, a fighter, a total sweetheart. Real pretty, too.

And yet, as he sat in the middle of swirling winds and torrential rains that no one wanted to get close to, you saw his father in him.

The anger, the depths of power. It was, always, all in Jason. Hidden, yes, under his bright smile and caring temperament, but there, nonetheless.

The anger wasn’t enough to scare you off. You weren’t sure anything about him would be enough to do that. Besides, hadn't you shown him time and time again just how relentlessly angry you could be?

And he still stayed. Still paid for your coffees in New Rome and let you borrow his books on military strategy, which you would have found unendingly dry if it weren't for his annotations, written in blue ink in the margins. Sometimes, you found yourself reading his thoughts more than the actual text.

Once, he’d written your name at the bottom of the page, next to a star, and when you had asked him about it he had flushed and claimed it was a reminder to himself to ask your opinions on the strategy listed.

You could have kissed him right there. You should have.

He wasn’t a bad guy. He just had rotten luck in fathers and temperament when pushed too far.

So you planted your feet in the dirt and fought against the winds and rain to get to him. You didn’t even care that you had an audience, or that your clothes stuck to your body with the sudden onslaught of rain and storm chilling you to the bone.

All that mattered, ever, was Jason.

Reaching where he sat, tucked tightly in on himself, you dropped into the spot beside him, so close your knee dug into his thigh.

The moment you joined him, he turned to face you with red-rimmed eyes, and the sight was enough to clench your heart in a cold, fearful fist. Anger knitted his brows together, a wolf’s snarl on his lips, but it all softened when he saw it was you beside him.

You had expected him to be angry, yes, but you had rarely ever seen the total fury that now shone bright in his eyes.

"Jase?" You had to shout to be heard over the wind, but your voice still came out quiet. Instantly, the winds died around you, though they raged in the greater circle around the both of you that you had already fought through, creating a bubble of peace and serenity between you and nosy Roman onlookers.

Silence roared in your ears, a dozen sets of eyes burned holes into your back, waiting to see how Fifth's most violent calmed New Rome's most powerful.

"I don't—" Jason started, voice tight, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Hold on," You murmured, then twisted in your spot to face the drenched crowd at the edge of the storm. They couldn’t hear you, not as wind and thunder still raged around the bubble Jason had granted you, but they could see you.

More importantly, they could see your middle finger, raised once more.

Fuck off and leave us be, you said in your own form of sign language.

Rico got the message first, started shoving the other Romans in the direction off of field and back towards main camp without further prompting.

“There. Better.” You hummed, turning back towards Jason. You knew things were bad, this time, like, bad as Rico had so eloquently put it when Jason didn't even humor you with a teasing, chastising grin.

You're not going to make any friends that way, he had once shook his head and smiled, fist knotted in the back of your shirt between your shoulders as he practically dragged you away from Octavian's gaggle of brainless bruisers. You had long since given up on trying to fight back against him, because he was bigger and stronger and had thoroughly kicked your ass in sparring once that day already.

Good. I don't need any other friends. I already have you, you had spat, letting yourself be led like a feral kitten picked up by the scruff of their neck by some heart-of-gold animal rescue volunteer.

Might not have me forever, Jason had suggested, and you dug your heels so deep into the ground you actually managed to force him to stop.

Don't even joke about that, Jason Grace, you had seethed, voice tight, and you had watched the panic cross his face at the lethality of your glare, the silent promise of what you would do to him if he kept making comments about his exit from your life.

Sorry, soldier. Won’t happen again, he had promised. I’ll be by your side forever.

Point was, even when he didn't exactly approve of your actions, he still granted you the privilege of his scar-flecked smile.

“Jase,” On instinct, your fingers carded through his soaked hair, moving it off his forehead for just the chance to touch him. “Baby, what happened?”

“You only ever call me that when you’re worried,” He pointed out, dodging the question. You frowned, tilting your head towards him involuntarily, as if you could physically see what was bothering him if only you moved closer.

"I am worried." You told him flatly, still trying to get him to meet your eye, wondering if maybe it would be affective if you tried to physically smooth away the anger living in the knot of his brows. "Forecast said we weren't supposed to have rain until next week."

"I don't want to talk about it," He grunted, holding his head between his hands. You told yourself it was because he was growing overwhelmed by his fury, not that he did so to stop your fingers from brushing comfortingly across his skin.

"What did Henry do?" You took a shot in the dark.

"Henry?" He asked, momentarily startled out of his frustration by the sudden, out-of-place question. He lifted his stare towards you, confusion briefly breaking up the anger displayed across his face. "Nothing."

"Right, remind me to apologize to him later." You kept your voice light, praying to gods that only ever picked and chose when they listened that he would take the bait and grin along with you.

It didn't work.

"Don't make me kick your ass for keeping secrets from me," You puffed out your chest like you ever had any hope of being intimidating to Jason. Sure, a good chunk of Camp Jupiter groaned and lamented when they learned they were going up against you in the War Games, but Jason had never.

He ducked your gaze, and your patience started dangling on a very thin thread, so you leaned to the side and placed your chin on his shoulder, proving to him that you weren't giving up so easily. Not that he needed the reminder. He had once seen you, for weeks, track down the legionnaire that had unintentionally taken your unassigned assigned seat in the Mess Hall, slightly inconveniencing her every chance you had.

Romans were known for their relentless dedication, after all.

"Jason Grace," You tried again, forcing a feigned disappointed edge to your voice. Your next step was to start whining, then maybe you would set your hand on his leg, the shortest inch above his knee. That always got him flustered, and you enjoyed rosy-cheeked Jason far more than you cared to admit. "Give me a name, at least. I wanna know who we're mad at."

He sighed, and even though he still wasn't looking at you, you took that as a victory.

"Damien," He huffed the name, hands flinching into fists atop his knees and scar flexing as he spoke.

"Oh, that dick," You cursed, grinning, because sure Damien might have been the most obnoxious son of Venus you had ever met, but he was leagues above Octavian in terms of summon a thunderstorm types of anger inducing. Jason grunted, in agreement, and you dug your chin harder into his shoulder, a silent reprimand for not looking at you. Maybe you should kiss him there, as punishment. "Why are we mad?"

We. It wasn't even a question. If someone pissed off Jason, chances are you were already plotting their demise. And if someone pissed off you? Well, that was just an average Tuesday, but Jason still had your back.

"Don't make me say it," He pleaded, the broken edge to his voice shattering through both his anger and your chest, rocking you to your core.

"Humor me." You asked, because the alternative was tracking down Damien and beating the truth out of him, but you had searched out Jason with the intentions of helping him calm down, not riling him up more.

Even if you were probably going to find Damien the moment you left the field, anyways.

He sighed, again, and lifted his stare to yours. His blue eyes were still cracking with lingering fury and rain raced down the slant of his nose, dripping off the end and falling into the soaked grass.

They said lightning never struck the same place twice. But Jason's did, scorching your heart each time he caught his gaze against yours.

And maybe that was only a metaphor, or all in your head, but his real lightning blasted a crater into the dirt thirty-some odd feet to your left, in a spot you were pretty certain had been the same one in which he had used a bolt to shred apart a water cannon during War Games, once.

“It can’t have been so bad." You reasoned, because if you stayed silent any longer, you would have done nothing but stare into his eyes for the rest of time. "I hit Damien too hard over the head during training a few weeks ago for him to think of clever insults.”

Jason offered you a dry chuckle then, darting his stare to his fists, still clenched atop his knees. Without thinking of the consequences, you settled your hand over one of his.

"He called you annoying,"

"I am annoying," You stated plainly, face twisted in confusion. While Jason had always refused to play along with your whole self-depreciating bit, he had never gotten so worked up over it. "That can't be all he said."

"I'm not saying the rest," Jason shook his head, clenching his jaw so tight you had to knot the hand that wasn't covering his fists in the hem of your shirt to keep from tracing the carved edge of it. "But it was... horrible stuff. And I would have beat the shit out of him, right here in the fields, except that new boy, Sammy, was watching all of it."

Any other day, you would have grinned and called out the Jason Grace for cursing and fighting, but the anguish in his voice was almost too much to bear. Clearly, he wasn't only mad about what Damien said about you, which was a relief.

You could fight your own battles. You didn't need the praetor doing that for you, no matter how pretty his smile was.

And you knew what he was worried about, too. Sammy was the camp's newest arrival, and the youngest they had seen in a while at only nine. You had seen him around, wobbling lips and watering, frantic eyes.

Sammy was scared, of camp, of the monsters he had already seen, of the big kids with big swords he saw at every turn.

You couldn't blame him. You had been the same way, too.

"He looked... so scared when I started yelling," Jason's voice shuddered, his face once more pinched in anger and anguish. "I didn't want him to be any more scared, and especially not of me. I'm his praetor, and I got worked up and scared him. He's going to think I'm some brute he can't trust, and—"

"I'll talk to him, later," You interrupted, because as much as you talked badly about yourself, you couldn't stand when Jason did the same. "Alright? I'll make sure he understands that Damien is a dickhead and you are the sweetest, smartest, safest fucking person in the world, who just happens to have a built in lightning show attached to his emotions."

Slowly, the remaining thunderstorm tapered out, until even the light drizzle disappeared and you were left with your golden boy under the rays of sun, just like the forecast had predicted.

Jason's shoulders briefly shook with a silent chuckle, the corners of his lips curling up the slightest bit as he turned to face you, eyes still rimmed with red but not quite as distant anymore.

"Maybe don't use those exact words. The kid's only nine." He teased, bumping his shoulder into yours and causing you to roll your eyes, a familiar and well-loved chain of events.

"I was worse when I was nine," You countered, taking his fist from his knee and pulling into your lap, eyes tracing the outline of his skin against yours.

"I can imagine," He fired back, voice quiet, distracted, as he watched you slowly ease his fist open, splaying his fingers and pressing your palms together, heels lined up, so you could see just how much larger his hand was than yours.

An old trick, but it made your face warm all the same.

"Fine," You hummed, studying how nicely his hand slotted against yours. "I'll tell him that you're the most dedicated praetor to exist—Reyna included, so she doesn't get mad at me. I'll tell him that you insist on checking my armor for me at the start of battle, even though I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."

You sent him a pointed look, because you were capable of doing your own armor, but it was more a part of Jason's routine than any distrust of your skill, anymore.

"I'll tell him you walk me to my bunk each night to make sure no one is ever messing with me, even though the teasing comes after you leave." You made that comment just to watch him flush, finally threading your fingers through his. "And I'll tell him that your hands may summon lightning, but they are also kind and gentle and not meant only for hurting."

You turned to face him, but he was only watching how your hands fit together like they were always meant to, a conflicted look on his face. Lips slightly pursed, you had the sudden urge to kiss his pearly scar.

It was far from the first time you had dreamed of doing so, but never had you felt so close to saying fuck it and committing.

Instead, because you knew your self control hung on a thread, you leaned close to his ear, voice dropping and warm breath brushing against his damp skin.

"Besides, I think it's hot when you get all protective of me," You whispered, then blew a puff of air into his ear that had him flinching away from you, startled by the sensation.

Your head tilted back in a laugh so loud it would have carried all the way back to camp if Jason's winds had willed it. There was a flush on his cheeks, lips moving as he grumbled out complaints about you, none with any real heat, none that ever crossed any of the boundaries that protected your heart.

Still, you jumped to your feet and sprinted away from him, knowing his retaliation would be swift, imminent, and lethal. As expected, Jason stood, too, ready for the chase.

He was smiling, though. So you considered it a victory.

There had been some complaints, some valid arguments made, when you declared that you would be joining the party that would follow the Greek trireme.

"You won't be able to make the hard choice, when it comes to it," Rico had murmured, voice dropped low. Dakota wasn't stupid enough to say it to your face, but you knew he felt the same. Most of the legion did.

How could they not?

The hard choice in question involved killing Jason Grace, and you had yet to remove the key to his bunk room from around your neck, even as you readied your eagle for flight while Rico desperately tried to talk you out of it.

"Centurion, just listen to me, for a second!" He pleaded, your back to him. Takeoff was any minute now, you knew, and if you wasted time kicking Rico's ass for what he was suggesting about your Roman loyalties like you wanted to, you would miss it. Besides, you couldn’t even convince yourself where your Roman loyalties laid. "You don't have to do this to yourself—"

"Legionnaire," A commanding, familiar, and almost haunted voice called out to you. Reyna. "Leave us."

Rico nodded his head and left, and for a horrifying moment you thought that Reyna would tell you that she was ordering you to stay behind. That she bought into the fact that Jason had, of his own free will, left with the group that had destroyed the only home he ever knew, the one he knew held you.

And maybe he didn't exactly remember you, but you had to trust that his instincts ran deep. He would never hurt you.

"Rico has a point," Reyna stated, and the only thing tethering you to your body was the massive but you heard silently tacked onto the end of her sentence. "You and I both know what's at stake here. Beyond Jason Grace, beyond the borders of camp."

"Gaea is rising. And she won't care whether we're Roman or Greek when the killing starts." You confirmed. You hadn't stopped to let yourself think of anything other than the news of war the Greeks had brought. What it meant for you, for your chances of tracking down Juno and pummeling the shit out of her until she relented and gave you your Jason back.

It was a good distraction, you had to admit. And you trusted the Greeks, because Jason trusted them.

"Then I know you will do what is necessary when we find the trireme." Reyna nodded, and just as fast as she appeared she was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a heart made of lead.

Reyna's words echoed in your mind on a loop, all the way to Charleston.

And suddenly, you were standing in the harbor, searching through the chaos for Jason and the others, hoping against hope that after the Roman chariot had just collided with Jason midair that you would find him in one piece.

That you would find him.

Because you were certain no one else received Reyna's cryptic message.

You opted for a sword, because you always found it more useful during single combat than a lance. The moment you jumped off the back of your eagle, you had slipped from the group, knowing that you couldn't even convince Dakota that you were doing the right thing.

Fort Sumter was one hell of a piece of military history, and if you had cared much at all about American history you would have been jealous that Jason had already visited the site once before, instead of being jealous that Reyna had been the one to go with him.

But, standing on the paved walkway, your back to the trireme with Jason, Frank, and the Greek named Leo at your front, you were jealous of the screaming mortals, able to run away from the scene, guilt-free.

Jason was ten feet in front of you. The only time you had ever been on the opposite side of battle than him had been in drills. It hurt, far more than you would have thought, to have Jason hold his sword out and study you for weaknesses he should have already known about.

You favored your right side, moved your feet around too much. Dropped your elbows, too. He should have known about those factors, because he had been the one to point them out to you.

"'Morning," You called out, voice tight and knees locked, shoulders back and shield raised. And though Jason trusted him for reasons you were yet to understand, you couldn't help but pin your glare on Leo and snarl. "You blew up my city."

Children lived there. Families you knew and vowed to protect, who had humored your constant streams of questions about Jason's whereabouts and never, ever, made you feel like a monster.

You sure as hell felt like a monster, then, at the look on his face.

"If it helps, I didn't mean to," Leo called back. You barely remembered hearing him when he had spoken back in New Rome, but his tone was the same. Light, joking, not taking a damn thing seriously. Or maybe you didn't know him well enough to hear the strain in his voice.

"Maybe when I kill you, it will be an accident, too." Gods, it was like you were ten again. Making threats you didn't mean, hating people because people had always hated you.

How quickly had you reverted to the person you had been before, when Jason was no longer around to calm your temper.

"You don't mean that," Jason commented, though it sounded more so like a question than the truth that it was. "I don't know how I know, but I do."

You wanted to scream and swing your sword because Jason did know how he knew that. Years and years of following at your elbow, of teasing and conversations and comfort taught him when you were being serious and when you were bluffing.

"The killing me part or the accident part?" Leo asked, darting a glance to Jason as Frank looked like he wanted to be anywhere but beside him. "Because I'd like some clarification on which part she doesn't mean."

"We need to get to that ship," Jason ignored Leo, his stare locked on you so tightly you wanted him to close his eyes. "Please,"

"It's three against one," Leo glanced at his friends, confused, pulling a hammer from his tool belt you were beginning to realize was magic. "Frank doesn't even need to go elephant mode, and we're home free."

"Are you kidding me?" Frank glared at Leo. You could only watch the boys carefully, hands never wavering on your sword or shield as they decided on their plan of attack. You didn’t want to hurt any of them, but you would if they tried you. "You've never seen her fight. We'd be dead before I could even think of an animal to become."

"She's got powers?" Jason murmured, like the idea didn't sound right to him, but the possibility was still there. There was shouting in the distance, Romans trying to find where the three traitors standing before you had ended up.

"Skill," You clarified. And maybe your Mercury blessed speed might have counted for a power, but you would never wield it against him maliciously. You would never wield anything against him. "We've got about two and a half minutes before someone finds us, and I stop being so nice."

"Nice?" Leo questioned, darting another glance to Jason. "Bro, first Khione falls in love with you and tries to freeze you forever in her palace, then Medea wants to get me and you to kill each other because you've got the same name as her old boyfriend. Now, your old girlfriend thinks it's nice to threaten to murder me? Dude, what is it with you and scary girls?"

"Leo," Jason hissed through clenched teeth, and you knew he saw the hurt and shame and embarrassment crash over your face, but what you didn't know was if he knew what it all meant. "Shut up."

"Yeah, maybe I'll try that."

You didn't have it in you to see the humor in the situation.

"If you know me as well as Hazel claims, then you'll understand why I need to leave." Jason reasoned, taking a step towards you, and gods if you weren't trying your hardest to not be bitter.

How had you forgotten about Hazel? The sweet young girl who had been the only one on the trireme that had seen you and Jason together, and then your downfall after his disappearance. If he had wanted to ask about you, she had plenty to say, no doubt.

But Hazel had only ever seen the two of you from afar. She hadn't been privy to the ways you and Jason had seemingly shared a mind and soul.

"I know you better than anyone, Jase." Your voice was more ragged than it had been the last time you had spoken. Somehow the conversation and Jason's almost indifference had taken a physical toll on you. "Apparently, better than you know yourself."

"Look, I'm sorry for not remembering." He apologized, as if any of it was his fault. The wolves, the bullies, the monsters, and the wars. The gods that always needed his help for just one more thing, dangling the promise of a few months respite in front of his face like it was a reward instead of the norm.

Your lip curled in a snarl, then softened into a frown. Anger had always been easier than vulnerability for you, but never when it came to Jason.

"They will kill you if you're caught," You warned, because maybe he didn't remember that, either. Almost of its own accord, your sword lowered. "Then they'll kill me, for this."

You stepped to the side, nodding your head in the direction of the trireme in the near distance. Leo and Frank took off at a sprint past you, but Jason's pace was slower, stopping at your feet like he had never once feared the weapon in your hand.

No matter how many times you had pointed it at his throat during trainings.

"Thank you," His voice was sullen but strong, like he was upset it had come to such a point though he would never back down. Little soldier Jason, always doing what he must despite how he felt.

You wanted to berate him. To take his face between your hands and hold him until he remembered you, your touch, just how deeply you meant to him. It was embarrassing, really. How much Roman training did he manage to override in you, with only his stare and few words?

"Save the world for me," You ordered, deflecting. Giving directions to others was easy. You were a centurion, after all. But making yourself listen? That was a trick not even Jason had quite figured out, yet.

And now, maybe he never would have the chance to keep trying.

"Gods, I wish I remembered you." He muttered, voice almost pleading. The sound was like Aphrodite herself cracked open your chest and carved out your heart. You had half a mind to track down Juno that very moment. "When I get back, we'll figure this out."

When I get back.

Because he was still leaving you.

This time, at least, you would know where he was. But the Ancient Lands were forbidden from you. If something happened to him on such a wildly dangerous quest, you might break off to find him, sure, but you had no way of getting to him.

You might have known where he would be, but he was still just as removed from you as before.

"Do me a favor?" You tilted your chin up defiantly, the same way you always did whenever someone questioned you. Jason nodded, like the sweetheart he was, had always been, eager to help you with whatever you needed. "Don’t think about me any more than you have to."

Because you weren't naive enough to believe that his missing memories of you wouldn't be wildly distracting for him, especially after whatever Hazel shared, and you couldn't live with yourself if he got hurt on his quest.

"I can't just not—" Panic flooded his devastatingly handsome face, obscured only by a few scrapes that would heal in no time.

"Go," Interrupting, your gaze settled on the Fort behind him, shouts from your fellow Romans growing louder, closer. If he stayed, you would have no choice but to fight him when the others appeared.

You didn't give him the chance to argue, turning from him before he could hurt you more.

It was easy enough to fake your injuries, considering you already had real ones nobody knew about.

Your battered ribs were already a mess of bruised skin and you simply exaggerated the limp you had been sporting since the giant army attacked New Rome.

But then Octavian, Dakota, and Rico joined your cluster of Romans after the trireme fled into the open water. They were soaked from no doubt an unintentional swim in the harbor, and maybe you could have have been more convincing.

You were claiming you had tried stopping Jason, Frank, and Leo, but they simply got the better of you. Some of your party believed you. Most refused to comment.

Octavian, of course, refused to shut up.

"He should not have been able to get past you, Centurion!" The augur chastised, like anyone, anywhere, would have been able to stop a determined Jason Grace.

You had said it before, and would say it a thousand times again. The world should have been grateful Jason was not as cruel as his father.

"You let Percy get past you," You countered, chin raised and glaring. "And you weren't alone."

"How did you end up alone, searching for Jason?" Octavian purposed, taking at step closer to you. Somehow, with a control of yourself you had never felt before, you didn't draw your sword from the sheath at your waist and hold it to his throat. "Perhaps looking to follow him? We all know how much of that you did back at camp."

Reyna stepped forward, but so did you, each one of your muscles clenched tight and ready to snap.

"Perhaps no one followed me. I'm our best shot at getting to Jason, aren't I?" You tilted your head to the side, two inches at most, in an act so condescending Octavian turned purple. The implication was there, that he would never be able to capture Jason, because Jason couldn't stand him.

But you?

"Do you really think that’s the same Jason Grace that was in love with you?" Octavian sneered. "The Greeks have changed him for the worse. Whatever future you had planned for yourself with him is gone."

From the time you were a small child, you had lived in a perpetual state of anger. Sometimes, it was simmering low under the surface, barely seen through your smiles and loud laughter. Sometimes it showed itself in short bursts during battles or Senate meetings when other members got too mouthy.

And sometimes, your anger burned so hot you couldn't see straight.

The last time it happened, you had found out a stupid son of Mars named Mark had been harassing little Sammy.

Another, younger, camper had told you of the bullying one evening while you readied to meet Jason for dinner. You had calmly stopped what you were doing, exited the bunk house, and trekked all the way to the Mess Hall on your own.

You didn't even say a word to Mark as you tackled him to the ground, he on his back and you straddling him to lay punch after punch to his face.

You had expected to take him to the ground, but not so soon. Mark's inability to fight was suddenly made very clear, highlighted by the fact that he had been trying to harass a nine year old kid instead of someone in his own weight bracket.

You might have sent him to the infirmary unconscious, instead of on his own two feet, if Jason hadn't arrived. Sweeping in like the hero he was, pulling you off Mark and muttering promises to fix whatever had happened.

I've already fixed it, right Mark? You had spat at the dazed son of Mars, the entire Mess Hall watching in silence as Jason struggled to lead you away, untold violence almost a promise in your eyes. No more beating on children, 'cause it sucks to be the weaker one, huh?

To someone who didn't know what had just happened, you calling Mark the weaker one looked a little ridiculous. He was twice your size.

But you were twice Sammy's size. And you threw a punch a hell of a lot better.

You spent the night in the brig, had to dig trenches for a week, but Jason had held your chin in his hands and told you that he would have done the same if it were him, so it all evened out in the end.

Whatever future you had planned for yourself with him is gone.

Octavian had pushed you past your breaking point.

You launched forward, hands gripping the edges of his armor to pull him close so you could get in his face without him being able to get away. He tried, struggling to wriggle free and pull your hands off of him, but you held fast.

"If you ever talk to me that way again, I will gut you like one of your stuffed animals." You hissed a promise, fury contorting your face into something that had sent plenty of enemies running on the battlefield. "Let's see if you can read the auguries in your own entrails."

Octavian was spluttering out half-sentences, shocked by how lethal your voice sound, when Dakota and Rico managed to haul you away from the augur. Your friends each had an arm locked around yours, and you struggled to free yourself, anger and venom still dripping from your every movement.

"Let her go," Reyna ordered. At once, Dakota and Rico dropped you, and you wasted no time in pinning them both with glares. You knew they were only trying to help you, but you had felt so far beyond help, lately. "We need everyone for our next step."

She sounded tired, weary. You wondered if you were the only one who heard her.

"Next step?" You heard someone ask, and somehow the question seemed to take several years off of Reyna's life. You remembered how haunted she had looked when she spoke to you before leaving camp, and now you wondered if she knew it would come to this all along.

Because you had studied war strategies for years. You knew what came next before Reyna had the chance to say it.

"We go North. To Camp Half-Blood."

a/n: tried to do an anger parallel with them, but idk if it worked so well bc duh jason's not there to comfort reader at the end, like she was to him. they just get each other so well! also, if you asked me to be on the taglist, and ur not, plz let me know! I could have sworn somebody else asked but I cannot for the life of me find the notif

tag, you're it! @aezuria @tayswiftlovebot @bonnie-tz @folklorefantasies14 @sunshine-of-ur-life @irwinchester @bellamysnatblida @saph-nic @auroraofthesun1 @helloimamistake @maybxlle @p-rspective @lauptimist @dontstopxx @apollosfavkiddo @ebony-reine-vibes @poppysrin

#jason grace #jason grace fanfic #jason grace x you #jason grace fanfiction #jason grace x reader #jason grace x y/n #heroes of olympus #pjo tv show #pjo fandom #pjo

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ackermanbloodline · 8 months

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The Lethality of Silence - Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

Summary: Levi comes home from a mission unable to speak or function. You take care of him.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Fluff to eventual smut. MDNI, 18+. Idk I wrote this a while ago and I'm noticing tense usage is all over the place but don't really want to edit it so I apologize for that. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

The sun is now setting outside the home that you and Levi bought almost a year ago together. Warm colors flood the room as you look towards the window in worry, wondering if Levi is alright. He and his squad were conducting a mission outside the walls and concern always flooded you when he wasn’t back home by sundown. It means the mission went either really well or very badly. Nothing in between. You begin to pace back and forth, unable to just sit still anymore.

Even though you had cleaned the house until it was practically shining and your hands were cracked because of the dryness, you wipe down everything again. Whenever you’re stressed, you clean. That’s a habit that you and Levi share.

Another hour passes before you hear the opening and closing of the front door. Faster than you can register it, you throw the rag down and pad over to the walkway. You find Levi hunched over with his head up against the door, leaning against it. Blood spattered his clothes, marring the Scouts insignia on his cloak, and caked messily in his black hair.

“Levi?” you call quietly, being careful to not startle him. In response to your calling, a heavy sigh heaves from his body. You still cannot tell what kind of direction the mission went. Once you can see his face, you’ll be able to.

You reach your hands up and over his shoulders, unpinning the green cloak from his body. His muscles are tense under your touch. Your heart wrenches. You walk over to the washer, lift up the lid, and put it in. You turn back towards Levi and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. You wrap your arms around his body but he doesn’t reciprocate the gesture in any way.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You help Levi get undressed as you run a bath for him, shimmying various items of clothing off him and carefully tossing them in the dirty clothes basket in the corner of the bathroom. He winces every now and then again but doesn’t say a word. All you can hear is his breath trembling just ever so slightly. He tries hard to hide it but he fails. Various marks litter his skin, the early stages of a number of bruises. One encased his entire left rib cage. Your fingertips lightly traced it. You swallow a thick wad of salvia to keep your composure.

Once he’s completely undressed, he sinks into the tub and his body disappears into the sudsy water below. Almost immediately, the water mutates into a dawn-tinted color. You sit on your knees on one side of the tub and motion him to sink further so his hair goes into the water. Your hand wraps around the back of his neck when he does so and your other hand is being used to softly scrub his scalp with shampoo.

He closes his eyes in relaxation and after a while, you notice he’s asleep. His trembling stops and his breaths are slow and steady in and out through his nose. His eyebrows are relaxed. His near-constant frown is turned upward into a straight line. He’s never looked more at peace. You look down at him in admiration and continue to wash him, trying to cleanse him from all the stress and worry from the day. Once his head is done, you grab a clean washcloth draped over the faucet and dunk it under the water. You wring it and bring it up to his face, tenderly stroking his cheeks and forehead from grime. Each time revealing more and more of his flawless complexion. You take this moment to admire his beauty. While he isn’t good with compliments and hates it when you make a huge fuss over him, he is, undoubtedly, the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

And he’s all yours.

Once his body is all washed up, you lean forward and kiss his lips, cheeks, nose, forehead. He stirs awake and his eyes crack open. You give him a small smile.

“You need to rinse off.”

He stands up and you turn on the shower now, making sure every spec of dirt is washed off. From the other side of the shower curtain, you wipe down his entire body again. He is as stiff as a board and doesn’t move. The hot stream of the shower against his scalp feels borderline euphoric to him.

He steps out of the shower and dries himself off after you give him a towel which had been sitting by the woodstove. His movements are limited and minimal. You retrieve black sweatpants, boxer briefs, and a white shirt from his drawers and set them on the sink.

“Here are some pajamas. Are you hungry?”

He says in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard, “No.”

“Levi, please, you should eat something. How about some bread and tea?”

“Okay.”

You leave him in the bathroom to get dressed and go to the kitchen. You put a small loaf of bread on the woodstove as well as the kettle. You lean on the counter and run a hand through your hair, taking a deep breath as you do so. You’ve never seen Levi like this, ever, and you two had been together for a few years. What in the hell happened during this mission?

You have absolutely no plans to ask him tonight. It can wait until tomorrow. Right now, all you’re focused on is making him feel at home and relaxed.

The bread and tea are both steaming when you set them on the dining table. Levi had gone to his bedroom and shut the door. You knock on the door.

“Honey?”

“Come in.”

You step through the doorway to find Levi’s head in his hands and sitting on his bed. Your heart aches as you walk over and sit down next to him, carefully palming large circles onto his back. He reaches out and places a hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. You take that as a ‘thank you.’ Levi had an easier time communicating through action rather than words themselves. Moments like this are when that theory proved true.

“The food is ready.”

“Okay.”

The two of you eat in silence. You split the bread loaf in half and he takes longer to eat his half than you. He has no problem getting the tea down, per usual. But something is better than nothing. The quietness is deafening yet calming for the both of you. Levi takes about a half-hour to eat his food. Once you two are done, you take the plates and quickly wash them before placing them in the drying rack.

You pad back over to your boyfriend and carefully straddle his hips while he’s still seated in the chair. He looks up at you with lifeless eyes. But there’s something deep inside them that speaks to you, even now. You brush some of his hair back from his face and set your hand on the side of his face. You gently place your lips on his, kissing him in the most passionate, loving way you can.

He weakly wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer. While the kiss is very slow, there’s a certain intimacy to it. The kiss deepens and you rotate your head so the two of you lean your heads to the left. His tongue lazily explores yours. His hands settle on the sides of your thighs as your fingers find their way to his hair and stroke delicately. A barely distinguishable groan emits from the back of Levi’s throat. Wetness starts to gather in between your thighs and you can feel Levi’s cock hardening beneath you.

This certainly wasn’t on your docket for the night but you aren’t opposed to it.

You pull away from Levi, searching his face for any hints of what he’s thinking.

“Hey,” you say, leaning your forehead against his. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

He brushes his mouth against yours and you close the gap once again. You wrap your hands around the back of his chair and you grind your hips down on his. His length presses up against your cunt deliciously and a surge of pleasure washes through both of you. Levi makes another sound, moaning, a little louder this time. You want to make him feel good, to make him feel better. You couldn’t give a shit less about what your own body wanted.

Your lips travel from his mouth to his jawline to his neck, making him squirm a little underneath when you work to suck, lick, kiss, and bite the skin there. He shifts his hips upward to get some relief, but not nearly high enough as he usually can. It’s frustrating to him. You gently hump him as you kiss on his neck and the combination is enough to drive Levi wild.

“I wanna make you feel good,” you whisper into his neck.

“Then do it.”

You take his words as a challenge. You stand up and kneel down to your knees in front of him. His eyes are glued to you like a car crash. You lift up his shirt partially and kiss his abs, slowly making your way down to the waistband of his underwear. His muscles contract under your mouth and he throws his head back when you trace two fingers underneath the band. Once his underwear and sweatpants are down to his knees, his cock springs free. You waste no time and take it into your mouth.

His hands firmly grip the armrests of the chair as you go to work on him. His knuckles are white and veins are bulging. Various curses and groans leave his lips, but no coherent sentences. His hips buck up into your mouth, causing his tip to hit the back of your throat. Tonight, you challenge yourself. You take a deep breath and try your best to take him in his entirety. Your lips, inch by inch, lower further and further down onto his shaft. Your eyes sting slightly but you ignore it and continue to push.

Your lips meet the base of his dick, your nose buried in his pubic hair, and he lets out a louder moan. You are able to deepthroat him and, as a result, he calls out for you in pure pleasure. You bob your head up and down slowly, wanting to break him down in every single way. Your hands steady themselves on his naked, muscular thighs and you use them to balance yourself.

He runs a hand through your hair, gripping softly. He whimpers, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He uses your scalp to softly guide your lips up and down onto him. He tries his best to keep his eyes open, to see how pretty you look as you devour him, but the pleasure is too much. It is not long at all before he’s already starting to shake. Part of him is embarrassed that he approaches that edge so quickly, but he couldn’t help it. It’s you.

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth and breathes loudly as he approaches his orgasm. Just as he is about to be pushed over, he lifts you off him quickly and collapses back into the chair. You are confused as you are left on your knees in between his.

“C’mere,” he says, holding his hand out and using his index and middle fingers to usher you towards him. “Please.”

You sit back down on his lap and kiss him as he requests. He tastes himself on your tongue and the thought makes him even harder. So much so, in fact, that it’s almost painful. He pulls away and looks into your eyes.

“Fuck me.”

His voice is so sultry that it makes you drip with desire.

“Baby, no, it’s okay, I don’t want anything tonight. I want to make you feel good.”

“I’ve been through hell tonight and you are single-handedly the closest to heaven that I’ll ever experience,” he explains and looks down between your legs, your cunt sitting on top of him. “Please, sweetheart, please just fuck me.”

He is almost pleading at this point. You bite down on your lip in lust. You push your shorts and underwear to the side and you are already so wet that he goes in with ease. Both of your mouths drop open when you gasp as it goes in, reveling in that initial feeling of being so full of him and feeling your warmth encasing his cock. Your eyes roll back into your head, pulling him close to you as you relish how wonderful he is inside you.

You lower your body up and down onto him, his length thrusting in and out of you at a slow yet perfect pace. Levi’s eyes are glued to your body as he’s pinned against the back of the chair. Electricity sparks in your pelvis and spreads to your limbs as you fuck him. You two are so saturated with passion and need that slaps of skin echo throughout the room. God, you could ride this man forever. His face is priceless. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth is dropped open, and his eyebrows are furrowed together as his hands guide your movements. He always looks so pretty when he’s being fucked.

You use one of your hands to circle your clit. Levi feels your walls clenching up around him and his eyelids open to find you playing with yourself as you’re riding him. You look so needy for him that his arousal heightens. He watches you intently. You kiss him again and your tongues instantly find one another’s, slipping and smacking with enthusiasm. In this short amount of time, he is already close again. But thankfully, so are you.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says between gritted teeth. You nod your head and encourage him to do so, so close to your orgasms. With a few more thrusts, he spills inside you and you cum on the spot. His beautiful moans fill the room, as do yours. Your pelvic floor milks him for every drop and he has to steady your hips due to the sensitivity he feels afterward. He stays inside you for a few minutes, gently kissing you as you both come down from your highs.

He pulls out and some cum drips onto his thigh. Excitedly, you drop down and use your tongue to clean him up. He lovingly looks down on you as you swallow it all. His eyes are so lidded, though, that you’re afraid that he’s about to fall asleep right here.

You pull your shorts and underwear back on and you help him pull up his pants again. Without a word, you take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. You both approach his side of the bed and you pull down the covers and he plops in. He takes off his shirt and sets it on the nightstand next to him. You cover his body with the duvet and you leave to go to the bathroom and extinguish all the candles in the house.

You come back and climb into bed with him to find him already fast asleep. You take a deep breath and, once again, push some hair back from his face. Again, this peaceful state is something that you wish he experienced all the time.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.

You set a hand down on his arm and watched him sleep for a few moments before he starts to whine and whimper in his sleep. Your eyebrows furrow together. You wonder what kind of nightmare he was having now. You wake him up by carefully shaking his shoulder and kissing his lips. His eyes go wide as he initially wakes up but soften when he sees you. His arm slithers around your waist and settles on your back, pushing you in closer to him.

“Mmm,” he sleepily groans. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I really, really do.”

“I know.”

A small smile spreads across his face and you close your eyes, curling up into the warmth of his chest. Whatever happened today, you are sure that he will probably talk about it tomorrow with you. Until then, you revel in this silence and peace. This afterglow. You both drift to sleep, knowing that you are both protected and so loved by one another.

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notjustjavierpena · 8 months

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The idea of javier and reader being a baby making factory is so 🤪🤪

Trying (Drabble)

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost

A/N: Actually! My idea of them is that they don’t do super well with their attempts at starting/expanding the family. Which is why I think that they accidentally made Sebastian; they didn’t think they were super fertile and got a lil sloppy. It has always taken a good chunk of time to get reader pregnant during the times they were actively trying but fate often has it that when you stop focusing on it, it becomes easy.

Word count: 500 words

Tags: Not explicit thoughts of infertility, trying for a bebe, soft!javi, the inherent suffering of being a person who has a womb, angst, hurt/comfort

Trying

“One line again,” you say quietly and try to hide your voice trembling as Javier leans against the bathroom sink. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh as the reality of not being lucky this time around either sets in. You shift on the toilet seat, “Really thought this was it this time.”

It’s been four months now without any luck.

“It’ll happen, baby,” he says without sounding overly optimistic. In fact, he sounds like he is in doubt, on the verge of giving up, and the tone of his voice makes you rise from your seat without a word. You twirl the pregnancy test in your hands for a brief moment before aggressively, and with exasperation, throwing it into the sink and pushing past your husband.

You start to cry the second that he cannot see you anymore. It’s big, heavy, and self-pitying tears that are accompanied by sobs as you walk into the kitchen with fast steps. You place both your palms on the counter, not caring about not having washed them yet, feeling stupid for being in this stupid house with two stupid spare bedrooms that you can’t help seeing as stupid nurseries.

Behind you, Javier says your name so softly that you heave for breath. You can only stammer your response, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Javier asks. You hear him come up behind you, so you turn to face him. Your face is tear-streaked, nose as well as mouth are puffy and red.

“The one thing my body is supposed to be good at doing and it’s not working. Probably won’t even be a good mom either,” your sniffles are filled with frustration, a fresh teardrop escaping as you tear yourself down in front of him.

“No, no, baby, no,” Javier shakes his head, tuts gently, and moves to cup your teary face. He wipes a few drops away with his thumbs, and you help by catching a few that threaten to drip off your chin, “It’ll happen. Think about how happy that’ll make us.”

“And if it doesn’t?” You know it’s a worst-case scenario, but admittedly it would be easier if people would only just talk about the struggles of getting pregnant. There is never talk about it not being a bed of roses, that it takes time for some couples. It’s always so fucking romantic and whoopsies, we’re having a baby.

“It will,” he stresses, holding your gaze while smiling gently, “Pero sí no, then we’ll figure it out. Maybe we’ll have our own Olivia like Connie and Steve.”

“Okay,” you reach up to hold onto his wrists, closing your eyes to steady your mind. He rests his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he repeats, “And you’ll be the greatest momma in the world.”

You chuckle whilst still having tears in your eyes, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he chuckles too, “Now I think we need to wash your pee fingers.”

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#husband!javi #pedro pascal characters #javier pena imagine #javier pena x reader #javier pena one shot #javi peña #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #javier peña #javi pena #pedro pascal fanfiction #my writing

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nincompoopydoo · 2 months

Text

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

THE GARDENIA SOCIETY — ; PART 9 / 10

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.6k SUMMARY: As Theseus enters Mrs Monet’s apartment, he learns the truth and The Gardenia Society. Meanwhile, you’re on the run from someone who seems to be Theseus, but you quickly learn that nothing in this world is ever what it seems. A/N: Second last chapter let’s goooo! Thank you to everyone for being so patient and I hope you enjoy this as we reach the finale of this series! gif credited to @maanemand from this gifset WARNINGS: Swearing. Angst. Injuries. Mentions of hurt. Being chased (if it scares you as much as it scares me). no beta we die like men. MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

All you hear are your heavy breaths – cold and dry with every inhale. It sends needles to your heaving throat as you gasp for as much air as possible. The damp air clung to your skin, and every footfall against the cobblestones amplified the growing unease that gnawed at your gut. You’re in a full-out sprint, weaving through the winding alleys, somewhere in the city you cannot recognise at the moment because your sight is almost blurry in the dimness of the night – relying on pure instinct.

In relentless pursuit is Theseus, who bores down your every step. He shouts your name, and it reverberates against the aged brick walls, and it's like thunder in your ears, articulated with such a deep sense of anger and frustration that you are sure it’s not the Theseus you knew. It makes your skin crawl.

You hear his footsteps growing louder, and through all the adrenaline, you feel the tears begin to seep from your eyes, etched in fear. As you sprint through this treacherous maze, your breaths become heavier and desperate as your lungs scream, and fatigue grips your feet.

You don’t know who is chasing you anymore, wondering if he can fathom the fear you’re feeling at this moment.

The alley breaks into a junction, and as you stumble around the corner, you catch a glimpse of him, expression blinded with anger – it propels you forward, muttering a flurry of curses to yourself. Just then, you hear him cry an unknown word when a flash of blue passes you by an inch. You yelp, head ducking instinctively, palms pressed to the sides of your face as your feet stumble momentarily.

Magic.

He’s using magic against you.

The panic grips your throat like a vice, constricting the air you desperately need, and it is so heavy it leaves you breathless.

You tell yourself you need a plan, but the problem is you have no idea where you are.

You need time … to assess. Everything has been moving too fast.

Taking another turn, nearly skidding as you run, your heart lurches when you see a set of steps, narrowly nestled between the back of two homes, almost camouflaged through the obscured overgrown plants that hung at its entrance. You muster the courage to glance behind to only see emptiness – he isn’t there, but you know he’s close.

Your steps stutter to a halt, weaving through vines that adorn the rustic gate that leads to someone’s unpolished and unkept back garden. You burst through the plants as quickly and cautiously as possible, diving behind a wall of nearly dead bushes. Instantly, you’re on the ground, knees tucked to your chest with your trembling palm pressed against your mouth as you willed yourself to stay quiet.

Footsteps – closer and closer. He can’t be more than a foot away now.

It feels as though your heart has been squeezed so tightly and is lodged at the back of your throat, ready to burst any moment. You feel your heart drumming, the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

You hear him huffing, catching his breath. His footsteps grow louder. You can only imagine his gaze darting around the area, scanning for any movement, any trace of you.

Then, you see him through the leaves that appear by the entrance. His eyes drift above your hiding spot, searching for anything that might indicate you’re here.

He calls for you. Quiet, merely a whisper. It sends a chill down your spine.

Silence.

You pray that you are hidden from his line of sight. The external sounds of the city dissipate, and the sounds of your body swell like a ringing in your ears. Everything feels too loud.

Don’t move.

A hand to your chest, you feel the rise and fall with each breath you take. You’re taken back to your childhood, when you used to run through the docks with your brother, hiding in dim corners of warehouses and alleyways like these, taking turns to seek each other out. If you focused hard enough, you could almost hear your brother’s laughter while calling out your name as you suppressed your laughter, hidden around the corner. You remember how it felt, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your heart pounding and pounding in excitement.

You were children. Everything was a game for both of you.

But this isn’t a game, and your brother isn’t here.

Theseus heaves a heavy sigh, almost as if in an ultimate decision that you are too much trouble for tailing down the winding streets. He tucks his wand into his coat, and in utter perplexity, you strain a gasp as Theseus’ features contort and shift under the moonlight, morphing into the countenance of a stranger.

Your eyes widen, knowing that you had called his bluff moments ago. He shifts his hand to smoothen the frizz of his hair. This man, though unknown, still carries an air of familiarity that triggers an itch in your brain.

Then, it hits you.

Blinding flashes of green, red, and blue, and you think you’re about to die. A stranger, Theseus, grasped your shoulders with a profound assurance that you almost fooled yourself and that you’ll make it out alive.

There was Theseus … and two other men.

Prewett ...

Oh.

Mulberry.

You don’t remember much of him. He spoke to you once, introduced himself, and never saw him again.

This is when everything truly starts to click. He’s the mole in the Ministry.

With a shift of his feet, Mulberry swiftly turns and disappears. You hear his fading footsteps against the cobblestones, leaving you in an eventual deafening silence. A moment, seconds, or minutes pass. You don't know how long you’ve been here, too afraid to move.

With your hand still on your chest, you feel your heartbeat finally regulate to a natural rhythm.

Beating.

Beating

You huff, gasping for air. It’s as if you’ve been holding your breath all this time. The back of your head connects with the wall behind you, and you let the tension roll out from your shoulders. With both hands on your chest, you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of liquid seeping from your eyes – tears of relief.

For now.

Breathe, you tell yourself.

Begrudgingly, you find the courage to pick yourself up from the ground, leaves rustling, and emerge out into the narrow lane that courses through humble, nearly abandoned homes – wait, these aren’t homes. Duplicated structures that run for a mile with capsized windows and bricked Victorian chimneys. A heady blend of earthiness and warmth begins to fill your senses. It lingers in the air around you.

The tobacco warehouses. You must be on the docks.

You couldn’t help but huff in amusement that you drove yourself to the one place you spent much of your childhood in – the area now reeks of familiarity. Beyond the shadows of the warehouse, the Tower Bridge gleams in the distance as ships drift by.

For a moment, you feel like a kid again, wide-eyed, with gaps in your smile, like he’s beside you.

You wish he were here.

–

Mrs Monet was certainly a lady to behold, rake-thinned and frail with sharpened eyes – quick-witted with a passionate sense to pry into people’s lives. She was clever in ensuring she would somehow slither into your life, social circles, everything. One of those elderly women without anything better or much to do.

To Theseus, Mrs Monet hovered like a great vulture on the Scamanders. The family friend that isn’t a friend, but you invite them every year for Christmas dinner.

Mrs Monet was vile but was also kind and helpful – well, only when she wanted to.

To his mother, she was affectionately known as Miriam.

She was also Theseus’ landlady.

Despite the borderline criminal surveillance and obsession with the lives of everyone she could her clammy hands on, Mrs Monet was never harmless. She never had ill intentions.

Well, until now. If your brother’s findings are accurate.

Considering that the Ministry wants your brother for murder, Theseus remains partially sceptical of his words. Although, it’s profusely perplexing how a concealed letter, intended for you months before you even crossed paths with Theseus, holds information about an investigation shrouded in secrecy. It leaves him to wonder if details of the investigation were leaked before the mole and found its way into hidden correspondence.

He has a theory, but he isn’t sure of the logic.

All he knows is that your brother sent you that letter, knowing you would somehow end up in this situation.

It sends a chill up his spine.

His theory is also why he stands at the doorway of his landlady’s apartment. He knows launching himself into a solo investigation without waiting for backup is a terrible idea, but he also feels that time is running out. And your life frankly depends on it.

The wooden door to Miriam Monet’s apartment is coated in a deep red and stands before him like a normal defenceless door. The door to an apartment of a defenceless woman. Theseus exhales as something unsettling stirs within him.

The door looks … too big. It’s too jarring. Perhaps in times like these, when certain people have betrayed his trust, things become scary.

But he thinks of you and how this could be the final piece to finding you.

To seeing you again.

Theseus grips his wand a little tighter as he steps towards the door. The floor parquet of the stairwell landing creaks beneath his shifting weight, the echoes resounding in the space. He brings his knuckles to meet the door’s surface, mouth agape with her name at the tip of his tongue when the door responds with a creak. The door opens, and Theseus halts and faces the expanse of Mrs Monet’s quaint apartment.

It’s empty. Dark.

Theseus wonders if he had walked into a trap.

“Lumos,” is the spell that instinctively escapes his lips, brandishing his wand in defence mode. It’s the auror in him, prepared for any sort of threat.

The light emerges from his wand, casting a narrow beam that cuts through the entrance’s interior. As he advances through the narrow hallway, the living room comes into view – pastel, knittings, and rustic antiquities.

The light dances over the furnished room, furniture casting shadows against the wall. Dust specks billow through the area as Theseus cautiously scans his surroundings. His eyes start to play tricks as the shadows tend to elongate into humanoid figures, tall and stretched. He spots a cage by the windowsill, seated on top of a settee – the parrot. It’s missing.

In that moment, Theseus can’t shake the feeling of being watched. As if the walls themselves harboured eyes, observing his every move, every step, across the room.

Then, a noise. Rustling.

Theseus’ eyes quickly dart around the living room, and his wand’s glow swings with every sharp turn he makes in his stance, to the point that it almost makes him light-headed for a split moment. The noise continues, and as he whirls to his left:

– Squawk!

A sudden screech pierces the silence of the apartment. It sends a sudden jolt in his heart as a vague figure materialises from the shadows, lunging for him. Theseus yelps, immediately hunched over with arms over his head as he braces for impact. But in an immediate absence of an expected hit, he stands and whirls around to see a flurry of wings, feathers rustling.

It’s the parrot.

“Merlin’s fucking beard –” Theseus swears under his breath, his thrumming heartbeat settles as the initial shock subsides, beckoning a chuckle from the ridiculousness of the situation. The parrot, perched on an antique work desk, watches him with beady eyes; the vibrant hues of its feathers are a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room's dimness.

Theseus stares at the bird for a moment. It blinks at him.

“Squawk! River Wapping! Squawk!”

He frowns. The parrot blinks at him again.

As Theseus shifts his wand within his grasp, the light momentarily sweeps across the desk, piles of papers and photographs scattered across its surface. Yet, something glints in the shadows. It’s subtle, but Theseus catches it.

Intrigued, Theseus edges closer, light now a focused beam on the desk. The glint resolves into a golden photograph frame, housing a photograph. It’s tiny, circular, and dusty, and its glass covering is cracked. He can’t help but allow his fingers to gingerly trace the edges of the frame, lifting it from the desk. He sees four faces, formal and taken at a studio, and recognises it as a slightly younger Miriam Monet, her late husband and a young man, assuming to be her son and daughter.

He didn’t know she had children.

They look ... so familiar.

Theseus brings the photograph closer, and his breath catches in his throat, heart dropping.

The daughter ... it’s Morrigan.

He knows it. Younger, but it’s the same face.

His eyes shift to the sun, and it finally sinks in.

And ... Mulberry.

Immediately, Theseus knows he’s the mole. It makes perfect sense. At best, Mulberry was a mediocre auror, but he recalls his time with him during the Auror recruitment programme. Mulberry stood out among the rest, having natural metamorphic abilities that allowed him to pass the Concealment and Disguise portion of the training.

Your brother was right.

Not good.

Theseus feels guilty for looking through Mrs Monet’s personal things, wanting nothing but to get out of her apartment, but something else catches his eye. It’s hidden behind the photograph, layers of dust seated over its surface with cobwebs entangled to it.

It is a brooch. A wooden frame encasing an embroidered flower. It’s faded, thread yellowed over time, but Theseus swears he has seen the same pattern.

He shifts the brooch within his grasp, fingertips brushing the dust off its surface to get a better glimpse.

Yet, he spots words lined at the curve of the wood. It’s meticulously engraved, and under the dim moonlight that cuts through the table-side window, the words shimmer to clarity and reveal: THE GARDENIA SOCIETY.

He freezes at the sight of those words.

He had only ever heard of The Gardenia Society from his mother. They were women who sought protection as witches, including their families living in Scourer-founded communities that developed a deep hatred towards magic.

The society mainly established itself in America in secret. It expanded throughout Europe as Scourer descendants, but the society became scarce as threats against witches and wizards decreased.

Theseus never knew there was ever an establishment in England. Perhaps they were so small that nobody outside their community knew about them.

The symbolism of Gardenias finally makes sense to him.

Yet, you never mentioned anything about this and as far as everyone was concerned, you were a muggle.

Theseus guesses that your mother kept this a secret from you.

It’s always the secrets. Your family and their skeletons in the closet.

Maybe it was never about you, your brother or your father, but always has been about your mother.

“– Squawk! River Wapping! Squawk!” The parrot speaks again, and Theseus looks up to meet the bird’s watchful gaze.

Is he crazy, or is the parrot trying to tell him something?

… River. Wapping.

River. Thames. Wapping. Docks.

The London Docks.

He knows Mrs Monet’s late husband had worked at a pub by the docks. The pub turned out to be a front for secret and illegal operations of brewing dark potions.

Theseus recalls the raid. He had just become an auror at the time. Though, there was no evidence of Mr Monet’s involvement with the backroom operations.

He cannot believe he had just received a lead from a parrot.

“Bloody hell.”

“Squawk! Bloody hell!”

–

Wapping is a docks town – tiny and old.

Shipmen toil with tumultuous diligence, hurling hefty cargo onto ships that sway to the rhythmic laps on the lowering tides. You stagger through the shadows, low moonlight cracking through the lanterns that line the docks as your eyes linger, the workers chat in loud conversations, superiors barking orders from the warehouses.

Of all the memories of you and your brother’s childhood maritime fascination, you don’t hold the same excitement as you did years ago. Not when you’re being hunted like an animal on the loose.

Your feet have gone past aching, now numb against the rough cobblestone lane. Your mind isn’t present; it’s far away and clouded by constant panic. It’s how your mere instincts carried your feet through the alleyways and onto the moss-clad stairs leading to the shore of the River Thames.

You see that the tides are low, revealing the rocky expanse that stretches along the river – you stumble down the stairs, finding that the area is secluded, though you hear laughter from the bar a mile from where you were. Other than that, it’s quiet out here.

The rocks crunch beneath your feet, and the wind bustles through. It makes you shudder.

Then, you hear your name. It echoes, sounding desperate, and for a moment, your heart drops.

Whirling around, you see a figure through the growing fog, running towards you. It begs you to stumble further away, your heart thrumming as you feel your stomach start to hurl.

It almost looks like –

It’s Theseus. From initially worried eyes transform into an expression of relief once his gaze meets yours. A smile creeps onto his lips, grinning so widely that you see it gleaming from where you stood under the darkness of night.

But your mind reeks at the very sight of him, unsure if he’s real or fake. You continue to stagger backwards, forcing a wider distance between you.

“Don’t come any closer!” you scream, tears threatening to spill at your words. Theseus immediately halts, hands raised in defence.

He says your name again. Surprised, yet sad.

You swallow. “How do I know if it’s really you?!”

He brings his hands down to his sides, frowning. He’s clearly confused. “What?”

You almost think you see the hurt in his gaze.

“How do I know if it’s really you?” you accentuate every word, making it clear that you truly mean your question. That this is serious.

No more tricks.

Theseus doesn’t say anything for a while but blinks, almost in contemplation. As if he’s trying to dechiper the situation and everything that has happened to you.

“I–I know about Mulberry. I know he’s the mole.”

You stand your ground, though you want to believe his words. You cannot trust yourself.

Theseus takes a careful step back, recognising that you lost all trust in him sometime between the fire and now.

It’s a silent understanding, the way his eyes glimmer in the moonlight. You almost think it’s tears, but you cannot tell.

Theseus exhales. It shudders in the cool air and recalls the first time he spoke to you.

We’ll protect you. I promise.

“… I promised to protect you. To keep you safe. And I failed you. I know that.”

A beat. You can feel your guard slipping off, giving in to Theseus’ sincere words.

You know a liar when you see one.

This man before you is not one.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

Enough to bring yourself to close the distance, and you’re pulling him into your arms. You feel the warmth of his grip, holding you so close as his head slips down to touch your cheek.

Hand on the back of your shoulder. Hand on your waist.

It’s strong. Firm. As if with one move, you’ll disappear into thin air.

Theseus smells like everything you’ve come to associate with the feeling of being safe: the soft embers of his fireplace, the sweetness of ink and the warmth of cinnamon.

You let yourself shut your eyes. Your hands grip the back of his neck a little tighter, his hair beneath your touch. He exhales, breath fanning your ear, and now, in his arms, you finally let yourself fall apart.

“Thank you for coming back for me.”

It’s quiet, a mere breath. Softer than a whisper.

Theseus holds you a little closer in response as if you aren’t any closer than before. He decides then that this ... this would be enough.

“Always.”

But the warmth of his touch and the feeling of safety quickly vanished. Now, replaced with an excruciating pain that transcends through your body. It’s searing against every muscle to your back that a cry leaves your lips. But your senses freeze at its impact, your voice merely an echo in the distance as your ears start to ring.

All you think about is how much it burns.

Before you know it, you’re slipping to your knees, but Theseus holds you so tight that you don’t feel yourself falling to the ground.

You see shadows in the fog. They grow with every passing second.

“Do you really think you could get away from me?”

A voice. Loud. Booming.

Your head is spinning, your heart gasping.

Theseus’ heart drops as he grasps you, staring down at you with pain carved across your face. Your eyes are wide, fighting gasps as if you had the air knocked out from your lungs. Panic surges through him like fire, and it burns his thumping heart.

He just got you back.

He should have seen this coming.

Theseus brings his gaze forward, knowing all too well it was the voice of the very woman behind all the chaos that has been happening to you.

From the shadows emerges Mrs Monet with Mulberry and Morrigan by her side. Rage flares and settles within his chest as he watches her grim smile appear, a sickening twist to her naive facade. The lines on her face now portray a hardened look rather than the fragile woman she was deemed to be.

This is Miriam Monet. Not the woman whom his mother trusted. And at this very moment, Theseus will do everything in his power to not lose you. All over again.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

@inlovewithfictionalcharacters27

@aterriblelangblr

@yournewmommy

@mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@eternallyvenus

@poolnoodlerescuer

@mads-weasley

@decrepit-bees-knees

@lanespeaks

@127djarin

@iceman-kazansky

@wilmasvensson

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander x you #caught in a crossfire

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aemondsquill · 1 year

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In The Dark Of My Room

Aemond Targaryen × Reader

Just a short lil story while I finish my other one🥰

Synopsis: Aemond's darling wife dies and Alicent Hightower fears he has lost himself to madness

Warnings: Grief, violence, death, mentions of smut, bro is murderous, mentions of drinking and substance abuse, choking, angst, lmk if I missed any

Aemond's wife had been cold in the ground for a week. He could not bring himself to attend her funeral, rather locking himself in his chambers drinking himself into a stupor. The enticing chilled wines and meads were the only anesthetic to his grief.

There were times when he drank enough, a dizzying and sickening amount, that would allow him to catch a whiff of her soft flowery scent floating in the dust that swirled in the beams of sunlight. This mere taste of her was not enough, he needed more. He craved more.

When the wine could not sate his yearning for his beloved lady he sent for milk of the poppy and allowed it to addle his mind.

His eye was nearly blinded by the swimming vision, but his heart nearly stilled when he was able to catch glimpses of her. A soft swish of her hair, a faint giggle in his ear, and a soft touch on his shoulder.

"Wife...Are you there?"

To another's eyes the room was empty, but Aemond could finally see her in the flesh. The blackened night darkened the corners in his chambers, but he could make out her lovely curves beneath her pale nightgown.

He stumbled over the furniture to reach her, hissing when his body made contact with the sharp corners, but ever determined to reach her.

Aemond was within an arm's reach when he lunged forward and came in contact with nothing but a curtain. Frustration burned like dragon fire in his chest as he let out a wail.

His fists made endless contact with the stone wall, splitting his knuckles and splintering his bones. The blood stained the wall and splattered on his chest.

The pain folded his knees, landing on all fours and letting out heaving breaths. She was so close, just right in front of him, taunting him. 'Death turned her into a cruel woman' he thought.

A breathy sigh pulled him out of his self-pity, head turning sharply to the opposite corner. There she stood, grinning her sweet smile.

"Please, my love, do not torment me so."

It was a beg for mercy. Aemond always thought the act of begging was beneath him, a pathetic display for any man. But in his despair, he'd crawl through the Seven Hells just for a taste of her lips once more.

Aemond let out a gasping breath, tears burning his eye, and heavy mush weighing down his head.

"Just...Just stay here. With me. Please."

He began his slow stalking towards the darkened corner. His shoulders were slumped and his hands trembling fiercely at the thought of her tricking him again.

Aemond fell to his knees once he reached her. She stood silently, watching him curiously. His eye fell shut and he could smell her lavender perfume, the scent soothing his aches.

A gentle hand on his cheek caused a burst of euphoria to spike through his skin. The mere ecstasy rendering him delirious as his arms wrapped tightly around her legs, much like a child clinging to his mother.

Aemond pressed gentle, frantic kisses to any part of her body he could reach from such an angle, tears leaking heavily from his eye.

"You cannot leave me again, I will not allow it."

It was a demand. The obsession clear in his voice, and again, she said nothing, only smiling at him gently. His chest squeezed painfully and his voice wobbled heavily as he spoke.

"You are a wicked woman for inflicting this pain upon me."

She leaned down, brushing his disheveled platinum hair out of his face and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

"Aemond, who are you talking to?" The voice of his mother rang through the room. Aemond's head turned toward the door to his chamber where his mother had just entered. With a whip of his hair he looked back to where his wife was, but could only find the thin air.

It felt like loosing her all over. Completely unbearable, a nauseating stab to his heart. A hateful eye burned into his mother's figure.

With murderous intent and red rimmed eyes, the prince approached his mother. Her eyes widened in fear and she flinched away from him.

"You frightened her and now she has left me again!"

Alicent felt his breath hitting her face harshly as he roared. She fumbled over her words, attempting to reach his sanity, "Aemond, n-no one is here... You are alone..."

"No, she was just here! I kissed her and touched her!" Alicent felt a weight in her chest at his words.

"My dear, you have lost yourself to madness, to grief! She is dead and buried! You cannot lock yourself away with a ghost!"

Only Aemond's ragged breathing could be heard in the chamber. Alicent took a moment to look over her son, her precious Aemond who was so deliriously drunk with sorrow.

His fine hair in knots, blood staining his hands, and his ribs beginning to poke through his skin. Her heart broke at his appearance.

She approached him gently, as if coaxing a wounded animal. Her hand laid on his cheek as he collapsed onto her, the weight of his anguish to heavy for him to bear.

Alicent cradled him tightly, afraid they'd both crumble to the floor if her strength faltered.

Fury trickled into Aemond's heart. She had been the one to scare his wife away just as he was rekindling his happiness. He pulled away from his mother harshly before wrapping his broken hands around her throat.

Alicent's large brown eyes widened at the action, confusion and fear coloring her irises. Her nails scratched against his pale wrists, desperately fighting for air.

"You will not keep her from me." His seething voice was laced in hatred and venom, a combination that he deemed appropriate for his enemies. And to him, his mother became his enemy. Anyone who dared disturb his delusions would feel his wrath.

His teeth were bared in a vicious snarl as he watched the life seep from his mother's eyes.

He quickly abandoned her corpse in favor of another swig of milk of the poppy, delighting in the thought of seeing his undead bride.

"Where are you, my love? No one will disturb us now."

#aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine

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kai-malewife · 1 year

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A Lazy Saturday Morning

Alhaitham x gender neutral!reader

Summary: There is no better place to wake up than in his arms. Shrouded in his scent, intoxicated by his warmth, nothing feels more like home than your lover, Alhaitham.

Warnings: None, just sickingly sweet morning fluff with our favorite scribe <3

Cross-Posted on Ao3 @ Zhonglis_cake_saves_lifes

Link here!

Not too proud of this fic, might edit it later!

It is to the sound of lively twittering that you rouse from your peaceful slumber, stirred to consciousness by the carefree melody of the early morning birds. The sun had already risen, as warm, golden rays filter through the blinds, casting streaks of light across the room and onto your lover.

Alhaitham, sprawled out next to you on the bed, winces faintly in response to the fierce gleam prompting him to awake in turn. His hold on your waist tightens and he buries his nose in your neck, breathing in your scent in a feeble attempt to cling onto any last remnants of sleep.

‘’Mornin’.’’ Your hand glides through his silver locks, voice permeated with drowsiness.

It elicits a mellow hum from him, and before long, quiet snores fill the room once more, calm and steady.

You simply cannot resist marveling at the serene expression on his countenance; his typically puckered brows now relaxed, mouth slightly ajar, and porcelain skin tinted in the enchanting morning glow.

The hand which was previously stroking his hair leisurely trails down, its thumb and forefinger now delicately tracing the curve of his face, flesh smooth beneath deft fingertips. The vision bearer quivers briefly at the touch, nevertheless he does not withdraw from it.

For such a prominent figure in the Akademiya, Alhaitham was by no means a morning person. On the surface, one might expect him to be an early riser, up by the first glimmer of dawn to make the most out of his day, given that he valued his precious time above all else. Truth be told, however, reality was otherwise.

All those lazy mornings spent in one another's embrace spoke for themselves; laced with loving pecks pressed on your temple and tender, lingering caresses that never failed to set your skin ablaze, occasionally resulting in either of you almost turning up late for work.

Minutes pass with the Scribe snuggled up to you, chest expanding and contracting against your own at a regular pace. But who can blame him? It's Saturday morning, and there's nothing scheduled for the day.

While you wish to loll in the comfort of his muscular arms for a little longer, surely any sign of fatigue has already worn off, and merely lying here, wide awake, was growing rather irksome. Instead, you opt to roll out of bed and get started on breakfast, hoping to greet your beloved with a cup of steaming hot coffee once he awakens.

You struggle to extricate yourself as silently as humanly possible from the iron grasp enclosing you, eventually succeeding only after strenuous exertion. Yet, much to your surprise, no sooner do you set foot on the floor than something pulls you back onto the cushy mattress.

‘’Mm… Don’t go…’’ Alhaitham splays out on top of you, allowing his weight to press against your body, effectively restricting your movements as he grumbles in the shell of your ear, still half asleep.

This scenario was hardly foreign to you, having occurred countless times in the past. A wry smile tugs at your lips as you find yourself engulfed in the warmth of your partner.

‘’Haitham baby, you’re heavy.’’

‘’I know.’’

It earns him a meek jab on the shoulder, which in turn draws an amused chuckle from him, one that you feel reverberating in his chest along with yours. You heave a defeated sigh, like you always do, and yield to your fate; ensnared in his affectionate grip until he finally decrees that It’s time for his daily caffeine fix.

‘’You’re unbelievable.’’

‘’Love you too, honey.’’

And perhaps this is not so bad after all.

Azur irises lock onto yours as you plant a final, chaste kiss on his forehead. And so, lulled by the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat, an unexpected weariness resurfaces, gradually carrying you back to the land of dreams together with the one you love…

#alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fluff #genshin x reader #al haitham x reader #al haitham

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cr4yolaas · 1 year

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— til death do us ‘part . ayato x reader

synopsis . with your newfound illness, you cannot afford to make ayato shoulder the burden of the loss of his spouse — so you simply will not marry him. he decides against that.

warnings . Angst !!! rdr has an illness, emetophobia tw (detailed description of puking / vomiting), ooc ayato(?), descriptions of grief and loss, lots of heavy emotions between everyone

notes . tbh, idk much about ayato’s personality? maybe on-the-surface stuff, but not enough to be nitpicky about the little details. i just wanted to write this for him :) one of the quotes is inspired by “the metamorphosis”

late in the night, ayato found you hunched over the floor, with one hand gripping the nightstand and the other trembling violently against chapped lips that quivered just as much. an ungodly amount of blood spilled between your teeth, staining the premium tatami mat beneath the bed. his calls of your name, a name he made place for in his heavy heart, fell on deaf ears as you emptied out the crimson liquid alongside the contents of your stomach.

for once, the man was at a loss. kamisato ayato, the cunning, nimble, and perseverant head of the kamisato clan, was at a loss.

before his thoughts could collect themselves, he reached around his own nightstand for a handkerchief, desperate to stop your slow asphyxiation from the sheer amount of blood and vomit and other unidentifiable liquids you were heaving onto the floor. by the time the fabric reached your mouth, your incessant hacking had come to a halt.

your shallow breaths turned heavy as you gripped onto your partner’s shoulders. “i’m sorry,” you croaked out. “. . . for waking you. you need to rest. you have a lot of work tomorrow. sorry.”

each word was weaker than the last. ayato knew he was supposed to bring you to a doctor, to a healer, to anyone who was capable of helping you, but the only thing he could do in the moment was hold you close to his chest. the aqueduct of white-hot tears within him was threatening to collapse and bring forth a sorrowful fury neither of you could handle. for you, he remained silent.

——

ayato’s mind was filled with a sense of urgency for a reason he could not place. contrast to the anxiety trickling down his spine, cold and unnerving, a soft sheet of sunlight peered through the window, coating his bare skin with a warmth that encapsulated the youth of spring. such a peaceful morning.

when his weary gaze finally met your sleeping form, he became hyperaware of the reason for his unease. bits of dried blood and remnants of dinner last night were scattered around your lips. even while you rested, your brows were furrowed — not in an angry sense, but in the way your whole face would scrunch up when you were uncomfortable. and once the little details started to add up in his mind (which was still waking up), the big picture from last night became clear.

still donning his silk nightwear, ayato rushed down to the dining room, the fear in his eyes piercing through thoma’s warm smile.

a cacophony of shatters filled the estate.

——

three months.

that was what the doctor had told him.

the news was unbeknownst to you. you were only awake for the brief check-up before falling back into an ironically peaceful slumber.

while you rested, ayato sat before his now-cold breakfast. his thoughts were moving around his head faster than he could process them, each one more nonsensical and frantic than the last. at the forefront of his mind, he was contemplating how to inform you of your unavoidable demise. was lying the right choice, despite being morally cruel? should he serve your death sentence to you on a honey-coated silver platter? or maybe, serve it to you cold and blunt?

kamisato ayato was stumped.

to his sister, who sat across from him, it looked as if he had a vengeance against his food. with delicate hands, he tore apart pieces of his bread with a violence akin to the way he handled his criminals. each fruit slice was impaled with his fork, but the pieces never met his lips. to top it all off, his plate was smothered with runny egg yolks. an edible crime scene, thoma called it. all of which committed with a straight face.

it did not take an ounce of intelligence to see that he was drowning in his thoughts, so much so that it was killing him from the inside. neither sibling nor servant took the initiative to speak to him.

you woke up to your lover’s mess of a meal, a small upturn of your lips gracing your face as you took a seat next to him.

your lover, and soon, your husband.

the thought made your face heat up just a bit.

“what’s got you so focused?” you asked him while placing your own portion of food on your plate. it was a passing question, one made out of jest, really. regardless, it made ayato break.

“june,” he mumbled, his stare falling to his breakfast (or rather, the lack thereof). the pair on the other side of the table could only look down at their own meals, playing with and separating the food, as if their appetites had simultaneously vanished. you, on the other hand, were only looking at ayato, your brows furrowed as confusion slowly nestled itself in your stomach. again, he spoke under his breath, “yes, summer.”

“i’m not sure i follow. . . ? is something wrong?” genuine concern was etched onto your face. ayaka sucked in a heavy breath, her hands fiddling with the hem of her dress.

ayato made the decision.

“you have until june.”

——

there was something so tantalizingly slow about the way death peeked over your shoulders. akin to sunrise on a foggy day, it crawled up your bare skin, infecting every square inch of brittle bone. and all ayato could do was watch.

there were no known cures to your condition, and attempting to delay the rate of the infection through surgery or medication would prove to be more of a risk. you showed no interest in trying, anyways.

you had resigned yourself to his bed (not your shared bed just yet — you had yet to officially move in with him), which he paid no mind to. with little hope left in him, but all the affection for you remaining in his heart, he tried to make the best of what he had left of you.

it took him a week to finally approach you. when he did, he bore a bittersweet smile and a small pastry from the market in his hand — more specifically, your favorite pastry. but, as soon as your lips started to move, he wished he had been faster.

“let’s cancel the marriage.”

maybe, if he had sucked up the sorrow in his heavy heart just a day earlier, the thought wouldn’t have passed your mind. or maybe, if he hadn’t wallowed in his pool of guilt and despair at all, you would’ve much rather stayed with him til the very end.

he found himself frowning at your words. the plastic in his hand audibly crinkled from his grip, which only tightened slightly. “why?”

at his inquisition you looked away. it almost made him laugh, how you looked so much more alive when you weren’t facing his way. he noticed your hands reaching for bits of skin on your lips, peeling away with an unrivaled anxiety.

this was not your plan. you were hoping to distance yourself from him (and the rest of the world) gradually, so the final blow wouldn’t be too bad. so that, when the inevitable happened, he wouldn’t grieve too hard. in all honesty, when he broke the news to you, a wave of remorse and shame and disappointment washed over you. remorse, because you would be leaving behind a newlywed corpse. shame, for letting your body succumb to such an illness. disappointment, because you could not fulfill your lover’s wishes of sticking together until the very end. he had never asked for much, especially from you. the only thing he ever pleaded for was that you stay by his side. and you were unable to do something as simple as that.

you unleashed a heavy breath, one filled with such unfiltered emotion that it struck ayato hard. “i cannot promise you what you want. in the next three months, i’ll be nothing more than a expiring body on your bed. and when the wedding comes around, i will not be able to go. to my own wedding.” you sucked in another dose of thick air. “i cannot explain to you what is going on inside of me. i cannot even explain it to myself. it hurts. i don’t know what to do, but i do know that it’ll render me unable to stay by your side.”

you couldn’t count on your fingers the amount of stories you’ve heard of widows and widowers who lost themselves to grief over the loss of their spouse. the thought that ayato’s experience would add on to the list made your heart hurt.

with a grace he always seemed to embody, he approached the bed and sat beside you. strawberry-kissed fingers brushed against your knuckles, dry and blistered. “i won’t ask you to explain anything else to me,” he reassured you, his voice laced with velvet tones. “but i promise you, my dear, i will love and cherish you until your last breath, and until mine. there will never be a moment that goes by where you’re not in my heart. i am yours, and i wish for you to be mine equally.” with soft lips he pressed kisses to your skin, coating your dying soul in an asphyxiating amount of affection as he went from your forehead, down to your chin, down to your hands, and then your lips, chapped as they may be. every word he spoke held truth. “even if you are gone from this world, it’s still us against everyone else. i’ll give you that.”

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