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draconic-desire · 3 months

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A Dance With the Dragon III — Opera

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I] [Part II] [Part III — You are here]

Neuvillette enjoys bringing you to the Opera Epiclese. You, not so much. The result; a clash of tides.

Warnings: Implied past NSFW, typical yandere tendencies and obsessive behavior

You had grown to loathe the opera.

When Neuvillette first suggested it, you had perked up immediately. You ignored his rare smile at your excitement, knowing he believed to use this as a stepping stone to winning you over. You didn’t care; the Chief Justice was delusional if he thought you wouldn’t abuse this opportunity to escape.

Your plan, of course, was a complete failure.

Neuvillette kept a firm, guiding hand on your lower back the entire night. Even the slightest movement on your part would earn you a warning glower. He wasn’t even challenging you to act out; no, he was demanding your compliance. Bastard.

And Archons, the stares you got for it.

You knew that Neuvillette had worked his way up to being a well-respected and renowned figure, but you never expected the fanbase he had acquired. He was barraged by women and men alike, all hoping for a chance to woo, interview, or befriend Fontaine’s Chief Justice. He responded to all of their inquiries with aplomb, though you noticed his grip on your waist tighten every time an individual would glance your way, whether out of curiosity or envy.

Standing off to the side, you swirled the champagne glass clasped in your hand, opting to remove yourself from the conversation. Honestly, you were shocked he had allowed you to indulge in any alcohol with his obsession over your health. Such regulations included eliminating certain foods from your diet (“Why would anyone ever eat food that’s been deep fried?”) and drinking an ungodly amount of water each day, usually with a long conversation about its flavors.

Oh, and the physical activity, too.

With a scowl, you tipped the flute back to imbibe the rest of the champagne. Maybe if you got drunk enough, you’d have some respite from both the spotlight and your memories with him. He already seized every moment of your reality; you didn’t need him plaguing your thoughts, too.

But luck was never on your side these days.

A particularly nosy group of women had been giving you the stink eye all night, until one of them strutted up to your “date”. Despite being multiple paces away, you could hear their entire conversation. She curtsied, batting her long lashes flirtatiously. “Good evening, Monsieur Neuvillette. I am Trudaine, daughter of the Duke of Romaritime Harbor. I’ve been meaning to approach you for some time now, for who could resist such a handsome and powerful man?”

You rolled your eyes and kept chugging as Neuvillette beckoned you towards him. Before he could answer, you reluctantly closed the distance between the two of you, feeling his hand caress your lower back. Trudaine sneered as she looked you up and down. “I must inquire, who is the lady you’ve brought as your accompaniment tonight?”

Neuvillette tipped his head politely. “Greetings, Lady Trudaine. While I appreciate your flattery, I must decline your advancements. You see, Lady (Y/n) here is my wife.”

You choked on your drink.

While Neuvillette rubbed your back in a concerned manner, believing you had simply had too much to drink, Trudaine’s lip curled in disgust. “Her, a Lady?” she barked in disbelief. “Come now, Monseiur. She’s clearly nothing but a commoner, and not even one from Fontaine.”

Neuvillette’s judgmental gaze flicked down to the woman with a dangerous flash. “Lady Trudaine, I suggest you take your leave before I lose my temper.”

The Judicator’s expression must have spooked her, for she quickly shut her mouth and scurried to the safety of her friend group, no doubt to continue the gossip about you.

“My dear, are you alright?”

You waved Neuvillette away, coughing up the last bit of alcohol. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” You placed the empty glass on a nearby table; alcohol had been ruined for you for the rest of the night. “Though I don’t recall accepting your proposal, husband.”

Neuvillette ran a gloved hand through his bangs. “Ah, forgive me. Your human customs sometimes elude me. If it is a ring you seek, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

You gaped at him. “You seriously think I’m upset because you didn’t buy me a damn ring?” You pressed yourself against his chest, jabbing a finger into his robes. Neuvillette sucked in a breath, marveling at the proximity. You were actually touching him. He didn’t care in what context; he could feel your warmth, sense your heartbeat in tandem with his own. It took every ounce of his might not to rip that dress off your form and bury himself inside you.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” you whispered so as not to draw attention, “I am not, and will never be, your wife. I do not, and will never, love you. You may think us a couple, or mates, or that what you feel for me is love, but you have seaweed for brains. You have taken everything from me—my freedom, my career, my family, my vision. You have forced yourself on me and molded me into some hollow version of myself.” You gestured to your attire, all lace and frills to replace your preferred pants, to emphasize your point. “Delude yourself all you want with titles like ‘wife’ and ‘dear’ and ‘mate’, but they are nothing but empty monikers.”

The enamored look on the Justice’s face only served to prove your point. Stretching his cane horizontally behind your back and cupping your chin with the other hand, he trapped you against his form. “All in good time, my darling. Rocks may appear unbreakable, but the sea erodes them all eventually.”

~*~

Then there was the most recent time he had taken you.

Neuvillette’s idea of a ‘compromise’ was to forgo the formalities of chit-chat for simply sitting in your (private balcony) seats until the opera began. This development saved you from the crowd, but at the cost of being alone to fend off his intimate touches. You practically snarled at him when his hand snaked up your thigh.

“Try that again in public and you’ll lose that hand.”

“Later, then.” He muttered the promise as the lights dimmed.

The opera’s plot centered on an ancient monster rescuing a sacrificed maiden. Instead of devouring her, the creature took her into his care, and their love led to the creation of the Melusines. You nearly throttled Neuvillette at the climax, when the maiden denounced the humans who sent her to die in favor of becoming an immortal with the creature. The so called “monster”, then, transformed into a handsome god of the sea.

As the curtains fell and the lights rose, you glimpsed his subtle smile. Standing abruptly from your seat, you moved towards the exit without sparing him another glance. “Don’t even fucking start.”

~*~

This time, however, you found an opportunity to turn the tables.

This time, Neuvillette had permitted you to mingle alone within the crowd in the Opera’s foyer prior to the show. Pointless chatter with the other opera goers was preferable to being alone with him, though you really knew that Neuvillette had agreed as a test of your loyalty. Although it seemed you could roam as you pleased, you knew the Iudex kept one eye on you at all times. A note slipped into a hand or a whisper for help into an ear would be detected immediately.

While you refrained from approaching others, that didn’t mean you could prevent others from approaching you.

Others like the exceptionally handsome individual striding towards you.

His azure irises soaked in your form as he ran a gloved hand through his fiery-toned hair. Once before you, he delivered a playful bow, lips pulled in a smirk. “Ah, and might I ask why a lady as stunning as yourself is standing by herself?”

You lowered the champagne glass from your lips, taking in the man’s appearance. Based on the thick fur coat slung over his shoulders and the single red earring flashing on his left ear, he certainly wasn’t from Fontaine, though he clearly possessed a good deal of wealth nonetheless.

Your eyes shifted towards the hydro vision on his hip. Your hand instinctively went to your neckline, where your own vision would have been. The only reason you hadn’t gone mad from its absence was because it was never truly far from you—that is to say, because Neuvillette was never far. Your heart ached, and somehow the fact that this man shared a hydro vision made you trust him. “And might I inquire as to who’s asking?”

The man offered you a coy smile. “Call me Tartaglia.”

Returning the smile, you sketched a brow cheekily. “That’s quite a unique name. You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Am I really that easy to pin?” Tartaglia chuckled, blue eyes sparking mischievously. “Seems I’m losing my touch.”

“Not at all. If you ever need someone to get you acquainted with Fontaine, I’d be more than happy to oblige,” you shot back with a wink, your implications clear. Of course there was no world in which Neuvillette would ever let that happen, but you missed how fun it was to flirt—or just to even talk with—someone who wasn’t the Iudex. You’d take your fun when you could.

Tartaglia’s grin only grew at your suggestion. He offered you the second glass of champagne he held. “I noticed you might be needing another one of these, though really I just took whatever excuse I could to talk to you. Are you really here all by yourself?”

Before you could respond, your gaze subconsciously flicked around the room until it landed on the one who had brought you here. And it was then you noticed the Chief Justice glowering at you, his knuckles turning white around the goblet in his fist. The group of officials around him, though they kept prattling on, went completely ignored as his silver glare flicked between you and the mysterious redhead.

Oh, this would be good.

As Neuvillette excused himself from the conversation, your eyes met his own and a wry grin graced your lips. Blame it on the alcohol, but you were feeling bold and invincible. Like you were the one in power for once. Maybe that’s why, before Neuvillette could reach you, you leaned towards Tartaglia and purred, “It’s just you and me.”

Then you tilted your face up and kissed his cheek, the barest hint of your lips brushing against his porcelain skin. And yes, it was petty in every sense of the word, but you reveled in the furious spark of Neuvillette’s lilac irises.

No more than a second later, a shadow loomed over the two of you. Neuvillette stepped between you and Tartaglia, forcing the other man to take a large step backwards. You, on the other hand, were now partially hidden by the Chief Justice’s large frame, his left arm out to hold you behind him. His cane cracked against the floor in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tartaglia quickly recovered, looking more entertained than anything. “Woah, comrade! We were just having a bit fun! No need to spoil the mood,” he laughed.

Neuvillette’s eyes simply narrowed as he maintained his calm facade. “You will stay away from my wife.”

The redhead tipped his head, trying to get a better look at you past the Iudex. “Didn’t know I was chatting with the Chief Justice’s lady! Any chance I could convince you to share?” He laughed again, flashing sharp teeth.

Neuvillette was far from amused. “You should hope to never cross paths with me in court, Harbinger.”

Wait. Did he just say Harbinger?

You may have been locked away for four hundred years, but you’d still been informed of the Snezhnayan group of Delusion bearers and their influence (whether for better or for worse) across Teyvat in recent years. You barely had time to process that revelation as Neuvillette firmly clasped your wrist and dragged you outside.

Heavy rain had started to fall, battering the Court with its relentless downpour. Both you and Neuvillette were quickly soaked to the bone, and while you were shivering in your light gown, the Iudex whirled on you. “What exactly did you think you were doing?”

You gave a nonchalant shrug, knowing it would twist the knife even further. “What do you mean?”

“With that man,” Neuvillette said, gritting his teeth. His composed, human mask was slowly slipping, and you were in the mood to provoke the dragon beneath.

“What, I’m not allowed to talk to other men? You were the one who said I could mingle tonight.”

Neuvillette’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Talking? You kissed him, (Y/n). In front of your husband.” His tone slipped into a deep growl. “Your mate.”

Anger flaring, you went in for the kill. “Despite what you keep telling yourself, we are not actually married—”

“Silence!”

Thunder rumbled across the court so violently you swore you felt the ground shake. You gasped as the leviathan tattoo on your arm resurfaced, illuminating your face with blue magic. The authority in his voice cascaded down your spine, soaking your entire being as if you had been submerged into the depths of the darkest ocean. But no, it wasn’t just that—the rain had started to fall even harder, accompanied by gusts of wind that threatened to knock you to your knees. You could barely see five feet in front of you, but the visibility didn’t matter, since Neuvillette’s figure was as clear as day.

He was glowing.

The Hydro Dragon’s horns sparked with blue light, and his robes seemed to have expanded to create flowing waves on either side of his form. Tendrils of azure power snaked through the air around him, forming intricate patterns that resembled water droplets spiraling around one another. Blue seeped from the bottom of his cane and formed cracks through the ground that pulsed with raw energy, threatening to unleash the waters below. His irises burned as bright and silver as moonlight on a midnight sea.

Neuvillette might have been the most composed individual in all of Fontaine, but when his anger bubbled over, it was no mere flood—it was a tsunami.

You gaped at his appearance, the closest to his true draconic form you had seen to date. You suddenly felt like provoking him was your worst idea yet, but that wasn’t what scared you the most. “Did you…can you control…?”

“I am no mere water nymph or Melusine,” Neuvillette replied curly, power dripping from his body as smoothly as water. “I am the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. Water of the earth and the skies bows to me. As will you.”

You weren’t sure when you had started shaking. For the first time in a long while, your anger was doused. You looked between your tattoo and his matching glow and realized just how powerless you were without your vision and within this dragon’s clutches.

Despite all his flaws, after all your years together, Neuvillette knew how to read you. He immediately stilled, a look of panic contorting his handsome features. The ethereal glow around him faded, and the rain began to subside into a dull mist.

He wrapped you in his arms, squeezing you with desperate abandon. “My love, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me—please, forgive me.” Another shiver wracked your form, which prompted him to hold you tighter and bury his nose into your hair, exhaling deeply. “I have made a grave transgression by frightening you so dearly, but I pledge to never lose my temper in such a manner again.”

Neuvillette caressed your cheek and tilted your chin up to gaze longingly into your eyes. “You are my entire world, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.” He swiftly picked you up bridal style, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Come. I’ll draw you a warm bath with fresh sea salts. I believe we’re done here for tonight.”

Wordlessly, you let him take you home. You can’t argue with a dragon.

#yandere neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin impact #reader insert #yandere #opera epiclese #fontaine #guess who makes a surprise appearance #childe #tartaglia

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dumbsoftheart · 4 months

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gibson girl

pairing: post-university!coriolanus snow x reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dark themes, heavy mention of drug and alcohol usage, abusive/toxic relationship, calls reader a bitch, degradation, cunnilingus, vaginal sex

summary: “obsession with the money, addicted to the drugs. says he’s in love with my body, that’s why he’s fucking it up.” you and coryo aren’t proud of the relationship you’ve built, but you both can’t seem to get enough of each other.

notes: yes this is a repost because i did not proofread this and got a bit embarrassed. this is probably my most crudely written work, sorry (not!), and for a lack for better words is not as carefully written as my other fics, but i hope you all like it <3 this is probably the last i will write for coryo aside from any continuations of past works for now so soak it all in!!!!!

word count: 3.2k

౨ׅৎ

in the dimly lit hideaway of pluribus’s nightclub, where pulsating lights of reds, purples, blues, greens gleamed kaleidoscopically against the writhing mass of glittering bodies and thumping music, stood coriolanus snow. he hated the affair, being clamoured in the sweat and smoke of dancing strangers, a complete infiltration of his personal space, and far too stuffy for anyone’s comfort. it was an incongruous occurrence, his presence in the glitter-drenched revelry. clemensia had tormented him that day, with piercing whines of “but it’s your birthday!” and “won’t you ever have fun?”, and there he was, ludicrously dressed in slacks and a half-undone button-up shirt, courtesy of a drunken sejanus, traces of glitter— which he despised, smeared across his face and neck. when arachne had showed up and rubbed her lustre infested fingertips all over his clean-shaven face, he’d wanted to kill her right then and there. he sat there, wide-legged in the private section of the club, fiddling with a half empty bottle of champagne with happy birthday! streamers dangled across his shoulders. he’d had about three of festus’s liquor concoctions, with their repulsively sweet maraschino aftertastes, but amidst the chaotic symphony that had his head spinning, there existed one exception to his distaste for the ordeal—a vision he couldn't bring himself to detest: you.

festus sat next to him, head nodding and lolling to the side from inebriation, and coriolanus kept a distant eye on clemensia and arachne as they disappeared into the dense crowd of hot, glittering bodies. his body yearned for the solace of his bed, plagued by the ache of alcohol and half-hearted dancing that numbed his legs, and the variegated torment of the club's vibrant lights— and then there you stood.

adorned in a cascade of the remnant sparkles that had rubbed off on you as you danced, gold flakes carefully splayed across your eyelids, and a daringly short dress hugging tightly on your hips graced your curves as you moved without care among the chaotic company of the nightclub. when coriolanus watched you beeline into his peripheral, open-backed dress teasingly swaying as you spun in hand with one of your friends, smiling so bright you outshone everyone else in that godforsaken bar, his hands tightened on the bottle held between his legs, and he exhaled slowly through parted lips.

the subtle reaction provoked a slight nudge and a cocky smile from festus, to which coriolanus rolled his eyes childishly at, fixing his gaze between his legs in an attempt to veil the growing want spreading through his veins. festus wasted no time in spewing some audacious insinuations about coriolanus and a hypothetical "dancing girl across the room" to a stumbling clemensia and arachne (“so every girl in here?” arachne had giggled, rippling a current laughter throughout the rest of the group and a juvenile grumble from festus). then, without warning, coriolanus pulled himself to his feet and pushed your way, propelled by a mix of inebriated bravado and annoyance, running a hand through his hair nervously as he (cutely) tried to dance his way to you.

drunk and hazy, you wasted no time in latching your arms around him, flashing him a smile that had him feeling weak and guiding him to sway in tandem with you as the music blared and vibrated through your souls. you’d coaxed his hips to move in consonance with yours, and soon he’d figured out the rhythm you set, his hands delicately enveloping the contours of your waist. he was grinding his hips against the curve of your ass yours in a manner that was far too seductive for a first encounter and had you gasping lowly under the booming noise of music and conversation.

by the end of the night, coryo had bid his friends goodbye with his lips half-attached to yours, and fucked you so good and hard you struggled to walk for a week.

he returned the next weekend, alone, a halfhearted attempt to alleviate his stresses within the familiar embrace of the bustling speakeasy. he needed a drink, and he went to the first place he could think of. he had expected the place to be buzzing on a friday night, but he hadn’t expected to see you again.

he hated smoking, but something about the way you slowly let the dense vapour of your joint escape your lips with a dimwitted smile made his cock twitch. with a swig of whiskey, he made his way towards you, snatching the long stick of cannabis from your fingers and taking a long, hot drag. in a fluid motion, he closed the space between you, blowing the smoke between the parted entrance of your lip-glossed lips with a light hand venturing to your waist. the night continued with you on his lap, high and dazed from both the weed and the delicious feeling of coriolanus’s lips on your neck, sucking and nipping dark marks onto the softness of it. he was marking you as his, and you loved every second of it.

he coaxed you into a few more drinks, cooing words of dirty praise into your ear when you downed the dark liquor from his hands, whispering softly in your ear how much he loved your body, the sweet and sexy suppleness of it, and you became his, entirely. when he beckoned you to take another drag of a joint, you complied. when he whispered into your ear the order of his drink, you fetched it for him, sipping it lightly on his command, and when he bent you over the club’s bathroom sink and ordered you to spread your legs a liiittle further, you did.

after that occurrence, it was like clockwork. he was downright filthy when he fucked you; he’d show up, tense with frustrations from work, and there you’d be, beautiful and seductive as ever, and he would fuck his tribulations into your sweet little cunt like his life depended on it. like he never got tired of it, he’d slowly drag the head of his cock over your slick folds, circle it around your clit and then pound into you sloppily. he’d mumble how dirty you were before loading you with his cum, then he’d flip you over and finger-fuck you to a blissful release, making sure not a single drop of his load escaped your throbbing hole. he especially liked fucking you in the clothes he bought you, ruining the expensive fabrics he splurged on greedily. you’d grown used to the gifts he’d send you. you didn't know how he’d found your address, but you couldn't find it in you to care. the plethora of dresses and jewellery and shoes he sent you, always tagged with a note, for my aphrodite, made up for it. you loved dressing up for him, to his tastes, because it made him desire you all the more. the minute he caught sight of you in his hand picked ensemble, it was impossible to get his hands off of you. he was addicted to you, and how easy it was for him to claim you. just like that, you were his, and he loved even more that you embraced it; showed him off.

coriolanus hated the bright colours of the club, but he adored them on you. he’d always pick dresses and accessories that glinted brightly in the right light, and he’d set the dark private room to a cool silvery blue that was easy on the eyes. you’d dance for him, not because he asked, but because you loved it, and he’d sit smugly and watch, sipping on some dark liquor that you loved to taste on him before pulling you onto his lap with a small laugh and letting you ride him until the sun rose again. when you ground your hips against him, sucking him to the base, he’d string his hands through your hair and moan out pathetically, “i’m never gonna let you go, never gonna let you fucking go,” which was far too intimate for the relationship the two of you had struck, but it only drew your orgasm closer and made your heart swell, the bittersweet combo better than any drug you could take on the market.

he was addicted to you, in every sense of the word. “takin’ my cock so well, baby, fuck” he’d choke out in a high pitched whine, nails digging even deeper into your ass as he slammed your velvety walls into him, “pretty fuckin’ pussy.. sucks me in like it needs me,” his thrusts would get sloppier, your pretty moans egging him on to coax more out of you to satiate his fix. in a moment of vulnerability, he’d peer down at you with his brows scrunched together, lips quivering and ask, “do you need me?”

you were too dumb and fucked out to answer, just as he liked, and he loved to slide a lousy hand to rub circles on your swollen clit while he angled his fat cock in a way that made your body weak and drool escape from the corners of your mouth, and repeat the question until your body shook uncontrollably with pleasure.

“n-need you so bad, coryo, fuck me so good, please, please” you would pant in your breathy, whiny voice, absolutely unintelligible, squirming and shaky.

“tell me again, baby, do you need me?” he’d try to overstimulate the words he wanted out of you, searching your eyes desperately until you croaked out a small yes, and his head would fall into the crevice of your neck as you managed to take almost all of him simultaneously, moaning out as he came inside you.

when things turned slightly sour between the two of you, it only fueled your aching want for each other more. you were insecure, desperate for his approval, and when you sensed a glimmer of his disinterest in you, you were quick to spark up an argument with him; the only way you could figure out to show him you care without explicitly telling him. it was toxic, and part of you loved it. you loved to rile him up, make him so angry he’d brutally grumble in your ear how much of a slut, whore, bitch you were. you loved when the two of you would go at it and he would force you into an empty room, ramble about how much he hated you while he pumped his cock into you at an agonisingly fast pace, and then bring you two to sweet relief with a barely audible i love you, please never leave me, and then send you home.

he hit you, sometimes. it would always happen after sex, when his insecurities got the best of him and he’d strike another argument of his own to form some semblance of conversation with you, then be driven to madness by his own doing so severe that his hand would unleash upon your cheek, staining the soft skin of your mandible a familiar shade of red. when he slapped you during sex, you hated it. you had no means of fighting back and winning, so you combat him with your words.

“you’ll never amount to anything, snow,” slap, and his hand grabbed at your tits crudely, “you can walk around this city and act like you own it,” another slap, then he’d wrap his hand around your neck as he made you cum until your body couldn’t handle it, “and you can try control everything,” slap,“but you’ll never be able to control what matters.”

you tried your best to dig at his biggest fears, vulnerabilities, anything to ignite that shimmer of pain in his eyes so he could feel a morsel of what you did for him. he was coldblooded, and it took more than a simple jab at his ego to make him bleed. you loved him. everyone knew you did, no matter how much you denied it, because you wore him everywhere you went. in your clothes lingered his scent, under them, his bruises, and you were irrevocably his.

you knew how deep you were in after your final shred of patience snapped. coriolanus wanted to play it hard today? fine. and off you were, dancing like a whore in the middle of the dancefloor with one of coryo’s coworkers. he sat and watched you dance with a fire burning in his eyes, his teeth grinding painfully and his hand wrapped around his glass so hard it threatened to shatter (on another occasion, it did). then, when you’d snaked a hand down the drunken man’s abdomen, lip bitten and eyes heavy with lust, he’d grabbed you harshly and stormed out of the club into the cold streets of the capitol, and you smiled. the sound of your heels clacking against the pavement reverberated in your chest. you threw him a loud “fuck you!” as he tugged you out of sight from any passerby, then, without warning, you found yourself pressed up a damp wall by the neck, coriolanus’s thin fingers twisting painfully into your carotid.

“you’re a spoiled fucking brat, you know that?” his hands plunged into your underwear, and he toyed with your clit dangerously fast as he stared you down.

“did you want to fuck him?” the way he spat at you made you squeeze your thighs together. you smiled, mouthing a slow ‘yeah’, groaning when his grip around your neck tightened and your body became lax from the lack of air and his fingers on your dripping pussy. he dropped you, stroked a loving hand through your hair then grabbed your jaw, forced it open, and dug his two fingers down your throat.

“do you think he can fuck you as good as i can, you bitch?”

you gazed up at him, eyes wet and hazy and fucked out with lust, and mumbled with a smile, “mhm..”, he forced his fingers deeper, and you moaned.

“don’t fucking lie,” tears streamed down your face now as you struggled to breathe with his fingers shoved down your throat, and your eyes widened as you heard the familiar sound of his belt buckle, “can he make this pussy cum as hard as i do, hm?”

he hitched your dress up, pushed your panties to the side forcefully, and lined his tip with your entrance while he awaited your answer. you shrugged, slowly becoming dizzy from gagging on his slender fingers, whining from the absence of his touch, and he growled angrily as he began to pound into you relentlessly.

he removed his fingers from your mouth to slap you wide across the face, the slick of your saliva on his fingers causing them bouncing painfully on your cheek, and your smile grew further.

“yeah, you fucking slut, this what you wanted? for me to fuck the sense back into you?”

coryo liked it messy. he loved berating you, degrading you, arms wrapped tightly around your torso and feeling your cunt grow wetter on his cock as he did so. he loved to make you an embarrassing, babbling mess, then force you to watch as he bullied his way into you, a rough hand in your hair as he pumped his cock with an inhuman fervour.

“you like that don’t you? keep watching.”

“fuck, coryo!”

“thats right baby, let ‘em hear who you belong to.”

you pressed your forehead against his, panting heavily through parted lips as you kept your gaze on those sapphire eyes of his that you adored, mumbling incoherent pleads and apologies as your release approached.

“are you going to listen to me?” and with a tear-inducing orgasm, you shrieked cries of yes, coryo, fuck yes! into his shoulder, biting harshly on his pale skin as you tried to quiet yourself.

you walked home that night, panties soaked with his cum and a few new bruises to remember the night from.

this was the routine the two of you had settled in. neither of you were proud of it, neither of you liked it, but neither of you knew how to do it any differently. you didn’t know how to love unless it was through petty quarrels or you were too high to remember the feeling. coriolanus didnt know how to love unless constituted of complete, whole control of you-- and you couldn’t bear accepting his love like in that form, not sober at least. so you let him. you let him destroy you, bit by bit. you would pump yourself full of any and all drugs you could find, down the glasses upon glasses handed to you on his lap, and the two of you would love, the only way you knew how.

when things were like that; desperate and full of unspoken feelings after a tense week of not seeing each other, the private room the two of you often booked would glitter a dark red light, flickering radiantly against the sequins of your dress, and the pearly blonde of his hair; and you’d stand above him, between his legs, stroking the soft hidden curls of his in a haze, feeling so good and loose from whatever he’d given you that you’d giggle without warning, lean close to him and press earnest, loving kisses to his lips in between mumbles of i love you’s. he would nod, tears welling in his eyes, hating how far he had to go to make you feel love for him again, and cradle your face in his hands, kissing you with every ounce of his being. you’d find yourself straddled on his lap, like always, kissing red marks along his neck and his shirt and chest gently as you comforted him, trying your best to wash away his worries and assure him that you did, in your own messed up way, truly love him. he’d flip you over, hook your legs over his shoulders and lap messily at you until morning came. he would do it forever, if he could-- get on his knees and devote himself to eating you out. his hands would grip your thighs like he was afraid you would slip away from him, and he’d rest his head on one of your thighs after making you cum for the third time, staring up at you, breathless, face glistening, and mouth parted like you were everything to him; before diving into the saccharine mess of your pussy again. he knew how to please you like the back of his hand. he knew how to edge his nose against your folds in the way that made you whine and thrash; he knew when to insert his fingers into your gummy walls, how to curl them in a way that had you come undone in a mere seconds, how to kitten-lick his way around your clit with a lewd moan, drag out long, animalistic groans from you that had you gripping his hair so hard you wondered how you didnt rip the follicles straight out his head.

the relentless cycle of passion and pain that defined your bond, the late-night arguments that left scars deeper than their words, the moments of fleeting tenderness that were overshadowed by deceit and manipulation. whatever you and coriolanus snow had made had eroded into a relationship neither of you could understand, but neither of you could let go. you were each other’s life lines, so when he hit you, you thanked him, and when you dug your knife deeper into his heart, he’d tell you he loved you. even as he fucked you up, ruined you, you knew he was doing it out of love, and you were grateful.

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow smut #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus smut

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gogogodzilla · 8 months

Text

day 15, keeping quiet

bigby wolf x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, dirty talk, creampie, afab reader, bigby calls reader doll kinktober ☠︎︎ main masterlist ☠︎︎ read on ao3

Bigby’s apartment is shitty. He knows it’s shitty. You know it’s shitty.

The walls are paper thin, so you must be very careful about the noises you make. You avoid having sex in Bigby’s apartment like the plague, but when his hands are touching you just right and you feel like you might explode if you wait any longer, it’ll do.

“Could smell just how badly you needed me from downstairs, doll,” he says, and heat rushes to your cheeks.

The only downside to dating Bigby is that you can never hide when you’re aroused. He’ll either smell it on you or deduce it some other way. He’s good at reading people like that, and he can read you better than anyone.

You’re sat on Bigby’s lap, fingertips tracing over his stubble as he kisses you. Your pencil skirt is long gone, and your blouse is half unbuttoned. Bigby’s shirt is opened just enough to expose his toned chest. Below you, he is thrusting lazily into you. You sink your teeth into his shoulder, silencing the moans that escape you. He grunts and loses his rhythm just for a moment.

He runs his fingers over the bare skin of your thighs and over the curve of your ass, pinching lightly. You yelp and he grins against the crook of your neck.

“Thought you were all bark and no bite,” he jokes, voice low and gravelly.

The once gentle rain pattering against the window is now a torrential downpour. You jump as a clap of thunder echoes throughout the apartment. Bigby bites back a groan as you clench around him.

“Scared of a little thunder, doll?” he teases quietly. You meet Bigby’s thrusts with your own, matching his pace. You secretly hope the thunder will cover up the lewd noises you’re making.

“Fuck off—”

Your retort is cut short by Bigby grabbing your hips and slamming you down onto his cock. You gasp and arch your back as he continues pounding into you.

“S’okay, doll,” he reassures through grunts with each snap of your hips. “Big Bad Wolf is here to protect you.”

You snort and begin to press messy kisses along his neck. He groans as you latch your lips onto his pulse point, your tongue running over the flushed skin. You rock your hips against his, the familiar heat pooling in your core.

Bigby’s large hands roam your body, fingertips dipping under the hem of your blouse. He tugs at the front of your blouse hard enough for the buttons to pop off, rolling away into the rest of the apartment.

Bigby cut off your protests by pulling you into a kiss. He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and you let him taste you. His fingers dance up your back and unclip your bra, and you pull away long enough to throw it elsewhere.

He runs his fingers through the hair at the base of your neck and tugs, pulling your head back and baring your chest to him.

“Fuckin’ love your tits, beautiful,” he breathes before trailing kisses over your chest. He thrusts into you again as he kneads your breast, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You throw your head back, moving your hips along with his. You can’t help the noises that escape you as Bigby takes your breast into his mouth, swirling his tongue around your nipple. His free hand reaches to where you’re joined and draws tight circles on your clit. Neighbors be damned.

You cry out Bigby’s name as your release hits you like a lightning strike arcing across your body. You clench around Bigby, your pussy holding him in a vice grip, and he soon follows after you.

His release coats your walls, and you continue bouncing on his cock, milking him for every drop. He let out a low whine, overstimulation settling in.

Finally, you decide to grant Bigby mercy, and your hips still. Bigby leans his head on the back of the armchair, panting.

“I hope your neighbors aren’t too mad at you,” you grin, only slightly embarrassed.

Bigby snorts, “They’ll get over it.” He rolls the hem of your blouse between his fingers, looking sheepish. “Sorry about your shirt.”

You shrug, “It’s fine, I’ll just wear one of yours.”

Bigby’s cock twitches within you, and you shudder a breath, arousal heightening once again. You made a mental note to yourself to wear his clothes more often before you ground your hips against his. You weren’t through with him just yet.

#the wolf among us #bigby wolf #bigby wolf x reader #twau bigby #sheriff bigby #the wolf among us bigby #twau #bigby x reader #reader insert #no y/n #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #bigby wolf smut #bigby wolf x reader smut

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fuckmyskywalker · 1 month

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𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧!𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈: 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬.

Summary: A week of chaos. From the end to the very beginning. You find yourself in the darkness, remembering how the light touched your skin first. When you fly too close to the sun...

CW: 18+. dead dove do not eat, non-con, gun play, knife play, knife riding, death threats, dirty talk, dark content. | word count: 3.3k

a/n: Hope you enjoy it! DNI if you don't like the topics listed and DNI if you are a minor. Happy riding!

Hitman!Anakin series.

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺."

Sunday. 16th.

Comically, he could argue with any soul that crossed the empty streets that life doesn’t have a price. He could laugh at the soft-spoken, naive answer of self-value, laced with the dumb kindness of human nature. Humans are kind by nature, or that’s what idealists say; what— a sane person, he thinks— would say is that humans are selfish by nature, the realistic approach.

Since the start of times, the number two has been sacred. There are two worlds to join in the afterlife: Heaven and hell. Two deities to recognize: God and the Devil. Two spectrums: Good and bad. Two cycles: Day and night… and two options: To kill, or get killed.

It could also be described as a constant phrase he learned while growing up: “The strong one will eat the weak one”, eight words haunting him like the plague, following him and patting his shoulder at every failure, and congratulating him at every success. Strength equals power, money equals power, intelligence equals power… but can a man have it all without losing his mind? Or perhaps he is just getting philosophical when he shouldn’t. Unlocking the windows with ease as his mind races with the never-ending turmoil of an unfair life, edging him to do unfair jobs, and win dirty money.

Although Anakin Skywalker has learned that some hot dish soap helps clean the blood stains over dollar signs.

Twisting the knife— an anxious habit— Anakin stands beside your bed, watching your immobile boy. There’s a soft smile plastered on your face, you must be having a nice dream… too bad it won’t last long. Leaning down, the tip of the knife dances over your neck, careful— careful. Not yet. Those aren’t his instructions. Although his boss never specified the in-betweens.

His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, raising goosebumps in your slumber. Your skin is aware of the intruder, the instincts kicking in. “Hey,” His voice is barely audible, but his warm breath sends a jolt of adrenaline like a lethal injection directly into your veins. “Wake up.”

Your eyes shoot open, body jolting forward only to be pushed back by the knife against your throat and his gloved hand over your face. There’s no need to use brutal force, it’s easy to fuel your fear; blue eyes staring into yours through the holes of the black ski mask. He can tell you are shaking— in fact, he can see it.

“Don’t move, don’t try to scream. If you do, I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear. Smiley face, that’s why I like to call that,” He chuckles when he sees you shivering. Oh, to be the strong one grants him with a power that makes him feel alive. Who cares about repercussions when simple acts and sighs like your tears make him feel immortal? “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod weakly. Every fiber of your being is yelling at you to run, to push him and throw him everything within your reach but you can’t move. Your body is paralyzed and for the first time in your privileged life, you realize something frightening. When he pulls back and lets go of you, the loud exhale that escapes your lungs pleasures him even further. Good. Everything is going according to plan.

It doesn’t matter how much money you have. You can die just like anyone else.

“See, I can imagine you already know why I am here,” Anakin continues, chuckling when you shake your head. “No? Uh, I thought you’d be smarter. Well, I guess money can’t buy intelligence.”

Your eyes flicker to his wrist, watching him twist the knife. At least he isn’t all over you. How can a human be so calm while toying with another’s future? As if it wasn’t a delicate situation, as if money was everything in the world— pathetic.

Stuttering, you run toward the only option your brain knows. “I’ll d–double the price. I’ll triple it,” Your legs move, hanging them on the edge of your tall bed. Anakin arches an eyebrow, he could’ve killed you for moving. Yet, he is somewhat interested in your offer. “I can pay much more than whoever hired you.”

“Oh, really?” Anakin laughs. It’s a cold, bitter laugh. There is no humor in it. Only cruelty. “And what makes you think money was the only thing I got paid with?”

“Who hired you?”

He laughs again. It has been seconds since you heard him laugh for the first time and you loathe the sound already. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, darling. Or maybe I’m lying. Maybe it’s just like the movies and I get a mystery envelope with money and your name. Would that make you feel better?”

He is definitely mocking you, which normally would raise your anger and bring out the worst in you— right now it seems like a bad choice. Anakin can’t blame you for questioning, every victim does, sometimes he grants them their wish— when they aren’t that important— sometimes he just does the job, hoping they die with their doubts as their last thought. Your life's on the line, it must be the first time someone has pierced your little bubble… so yeah, he can’t blame you.

“Please don’t kill me, I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

There it is. Classic. His favorite words. Anything means anything. Everything is fair in love and war— everything is fair at gunpoint. “Anything?’ He repeats. “It’s not like I haven’t heard that one before.” His sarcastic tone flies over your head. You cannot pay attention to anything else besides the ringing in your eardrums and the palpitations of your heart.

Anakin finds great joy in fueling the terror in your soul. It is something he wasn’t exactly born with— or at least, during his loneliest nights, buried in alcohol and money, surrounded by his guns and his ghosts. He isn’t afraid of them, they can’t hurt him.

“Anything,” You confirm, lip wobbling and tears streaming down your cheeks. His task was awfully simple, yet, there is something he must do first now that he sees you more clearly. Anakin doesn't have the pleasure to witness such a pretty downfall often.

In a swift move, Anakin lifts the knife over his head, smirking wider when you raise your hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. Expectant, you sob one last time before the pain comes, before the burning sensation of piercing skin and crimson blood.

Which never arrives.

The sharp blade pierces through the sheets and the mattress. Ripping the stitches and creating the most awful sound you have ever heard in your life. That could’ve been your face. Did he miss his shot? Is his aim that bad? Your vision is blurry due to the thick coat of tears, crystal clear and salty that trickle down like tiny diamonds.

“Money is not enough this time, sweetheart,” He coos at you, cupping your cheek and brushing your tears in a fake act of kindness. His pursed lips make your stomach twist. You never thought there’d be fates worse than death… but here you are. “I won’t kill you—” His words make your shoulder fall for a second as a smile dances on your chapped lips like the weak swing of a butterfly’s wings. “Yet.”

“What do you want from me?” You sob, placing your hands on your lap, not sure what to do with them. You are in no position to fight. You are under the mercy of a clear psychopath. Someone without morals, without ethics and values— under the claws of a monster.

The worst part? You don’t even know who is pulling the strings tied over the monster’s claws.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart. I’m sure you will find it amusing— and if you don’t I don’t care,” If you weren’t begging for your life, his voice could’ve been attractive. Even his eyes. His fucking eyes that seem to pierce your soul. “You see that handle?” He points at the knife with his chin. “I want you to lift your cute nightgown and ride it. You can close your eyes and imagine a cock, I’m sure you’ve done it before from what I’ve heard about you. If I like the show, I’ll let you ride my cock— and if I don’t like it. I’ll kill you.”

“You cannot possibly ask me to—”

A small squeal escapes your lips when the muzzle of a gun comes in contact with your temple. The steel is frigid against your burning skin. There are no words left in your throat, if you weren’t terrified you would’ve thrown up.

“You don’t like to think, you don’t like to listen— I’m starting to believe you are actually stupid, princess. You either fuck that knife or die.” Your whimper. Irritating. Infuriating. Fucking lovely.

Lifting your hips from the bed, you kneel with the little strength you have left. Anakin never removes the gun from your temple, in reality, he presses it further, watching your skin dent slightly. Lifting your sheer nightgown, you clumsily hook your finger at the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with embarrassment.

“Please don’t make me do this,” You beg, losing balance momentarily as your panties hang from your ankle.

There is a storm echoing in his laugh. Like pouring rain falling over your heart before it even reaches your ears. “If you don’t do it, I’ll force you. I will enjoy it more… and then you’ll die.”

The flat tip of the blade handle feels like steel against your folds. The touch is feathery light, perhaps unintentionally gentle. You are glad there is a thick leather wrapped around it— otherwise, it might hurt even more.

Rocking your hips slowly, you close your eyes focusing on anything else. You will not enjoy this. You refuse to give him pleasure. If this is the way you die— at least you want to imagine you put up some kind of fight. Despite your constant thoughts— foolishly thinking your mind is stronger than your body— when the handle comes in contact with your clit, your body instinctively jolts. You stop. You don’t talk.

You don’t want to die. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to enjoy it.

“Spread your legs wider and don’t stop moving. Don’t make me go there and open them myself,” His voice is low. “Show me how much you don’t want this.” His voice mixed with the adrenaline brings you to a borderline dizzy state.

Resuming your movements, you bite the inner part of your cheek, flinching when his free hand cups your breast. “See? Is not that difficult to obey. I know you are so used to getting your way, little princess. But not this time. Not with me.”

His thumb traces your nipple poking through the silk. You hate yourself for this— even more when you find a steady rhythm. Your clit grinds against the flat top and throbs, quickly begging for more. Hooking the barrel underneath the thin straps of your nightgown, Anakin lets them fall, exposing your chest.

“Don’t come. If you do, your tiny brains will make a bloody mess over your lovely canopy and walls. Now fucking ride it.”

The leather glistens with your arousal. It’s pathetic, humiliating, miserable. When you position yourself above it, when you flex your knees to fit it— that’s when everything you are— breaks.

The handle stretches your walls in a way that couldn’t be more uncomfortable. Your arousal helps but only much. Unhurriedly, you begin to ride it just like he commanded you to, just like you have to. Your pussy clenches around it, you can’t even fool yourself and think it is a dick. Nothing could help you now. No one can save you now.

“Seems to be you can listen sometimes…” Anakin observes, removing the gun from your skull to press it against the valley of your breasts. “Don’t think I can’t see how wet you are. Are you that deranged you are enjoying this?”

Are you?

Is he?

You just have to do this. Right?

Too many questions, no answers.

“Faster.”

Increasing your pace, the tears make themselves known again. You are enjoying it. Your walls are dripping, your pussy is begging for more. The slick sticks to the leather like a second layer of shine, the sounds your body is making are against your will— but you can’t stop moving. Anakin breathes loudly, his own excitement evident. You cannot see the outline of his erection underneath his black cargo pants but he feels it, throbbing, leaking, eager to bury itself in you. Hear you sob and feel you clench after every cry.

“So fucking wet,” He mumbles, pressing his lips against your sweaty neck. The soft cotton of his ski mask brushes over your skin, bringing you a nasty comfort. “Remember, if you come… you die.”

The muzzle now dances over your nipple, distracting you from the burn in your lower stomach for a second— when his hand finds your clit. Circling it quickly, roughly, Anakin exhales again right in your ear.

“I can’t wait to fuck you. I hope you are ready to die while I bury my cock inside you.”

A loud moan, mixed with a throat-ripping wail falls down your lips, body writhing and hips trashing. The handle is as deep as it can go, and before your vision goes white you feel the gun poking underneath your chin. Your hands curl around the hem of the nightgown you are still lifting, almost piercing the expensive and delicate fabric. Your orgasm is strong, it clouds your senses and for a moment the euphoria makes you forget how you just marked your destiny. The handle is sticky just like your thighs. The world is spinning.

Your life is ruined.

Just as your vision goes white, it goes black.

Monday. 10th.

Politics are known to be comparable to walking on thin ice. One false step and you sink— all the way to the cold and lonely bottom. Made only for the ones who can twist and turn others under their will and for those who aren’t scared of the nerve-wracking possibility of being a hero or a villain.

When your father offers you the vacancy for Campaign Manager you don’t hesitate to take the opportunity. Daddy dearest always serves opportunities such as these on a silver platter. Why would you refuse? Sure, a week before the presidential elections might be signing a death sentence, but why would you care? Even if you fall, your safety net is insured, secured and endorsed.

“Are you sure you can do this alone?” Natasha Andrews, your father’s assistant lowers her clipboard, focusing her dirty blue eyes on you from beneath her thin-gramme glasses. “We have a week before the election, these last days are crucial.”

“I’ll be fine!” You answer confidently. To have such confidence and naivety that being young gives you. You just feel invincible. “I read some of John’s final projects. A few venues and bookings won’t scare me.”

“I don’t think you are seeing the big picture here,” Natasha calls your name patiently. Removing her glasses, folding them and placing them next to her clipboard, you can already imagine a boring lecture about responsibility. You’ll be fine! “Your father has an image to maintain, a reputation to hold and the statistics are growing in his favor. This last week is to secure the win. Your father chose you for a reason.” Another way to say ‘There are high expectations. You better fulfill them.’

Huffing, you take her words as a weak attempt at an insult. You understand the big picture. You’ve been surrounded by the big picture since you can remember. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Natasha runs a hand through her ginger locks, taking a deep breath. She’s too old to deal with all this. “Look. I know you are young and I’m sure you have wonderful ideas for the campaign, but our time is limited. We can only continue with the schedule and hope for the best. If your ideas can be incorporated into the events then you are more than welcome.”

Always used to getting your way, you find baffling how someone who doesn’t know can defy you— or in your eyes, Natasha is doubting your capacities. Standing up, you point at her. Your manicured nail, painted a crimson red holds an almost accusatory tone. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone— not even your father. There is no chance of failure, because when you are young… you are on top of the world.

“No, you look. I know you are worried but I can do this,” You reply, not bothering to hide the patronizing tone in your voice. “My father knows I’m more than capable. You may not know me but you will. If I want to change the date of a venue, or if I want to make a goddamned pool party we will. I know what’s best, I know what will work.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at your words, her expression hardening slightly. “I never doubted your… abilities, Miss. We have a schedule we must follow. Nothing personal. It is your first day in your position. Can you even name three key supporters of Jonathan's campaign? Have you planned a meeting with potential donors for when your father wins the elections?”

The assistant has a point, but you won’t give up. You will never lose a fight.

“Easy, everything you say is too easy,” You narrow your eyes, placing both palms on the desk to hide how they shake from frustration. “If I say the word, my father will fire you. It doesn’t matter how long you have been working with him. I’m his daughter.”

That’s your wild card.

And as usual, it works.

Sighing through gritted teeth, Natasha rubs her temple. How can an educated girl like yourself be such a despicable person? “Go on.”

The smile that brightens your face beams like flames. Threatening to consume everything on its way. Everything is easy when you have the influence. You were born with it, what’s wrong with using it? “Alright… key supporters….”

The redhead scribbles down as you talk, from all you know she is playing hangman with your face on the stick figure, not that you care, of course. Your mood heightens as she just listens and comments on trivial things such as locations and schemes. You knew it would be easy. You just need people that follow you.

“We can do the last meet-and-greet at Cafe Serenity. My father invested in the project and the owner owes him that. I’m sure if we present the petition he will accept,” You talk, tangling the wires inside your head. “I can schedule an interview with Channel 7, Global News Network, and Insider Globe, they do most of the coverage during the elections and my father knows the actionist in GNN…”

“The meet-and-greet sounds good. It’s the perfect strategy to calculate the supporters Jonathan has. Plus the media coverage will be wonderful,” Her jaw clenches as she talks, but you are too busy staring at your nails to see the daggers coming from her eyes. “You’ve got a good grasp on this.”

“I know,” You smile, ignoring the fake smile.

Suddenly, your phone rings. It’s an unknown number. A frown etches on your face as you pick it up. Excusing yourself from the table, Natasha nods, her blue orbs gluing to your back; if looks could kill…

Closing the door of the meeting room behind you, you bring the phone closer to your ear. “Hello? Who is this?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

A feminine voice breaks the silence. The unknown woman calls your name and your heart stops momentarily. It sounds vaguely familiar, and it carries a heavy accent that you can’t pinpoint from where.

“Lisseth? Is that you?” Your chirp echoes through the empty hallway. “I can’t believe you are back!”

Thank you for reading! ✩

#𓆩ꨄ��𓆪 anya writes!#ꨄ︎𓆪 anya's series!#hitman!anakin #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x y/n #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin smut #anakin skywalker fan fiction #anakin skywalker au #anakin x reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader smut #anakin star wars

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natsarrownecklacx · 9 months

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Cruelty Is An Art Form

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word count- 1,920

Summary- Your the daughter of one of New York’s most known Mob leaders. Unfortunately, you’ve caught the attention of New York’s most feared Mob leader, Natasha Romanoff.

Warnings- Minors this fic isn’t for you, Allusion to murder, Dark Mob Natasha, Thigh riding, marking, allusion to non con.

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ

There is no evil known to mankind worse than Natasha Romanoff. Of this, you are almost certain.

Sure there are other terrible things that plague the world like famine, natural disasters and horrific diseases, but the difference between Natasha and all of those things is that, when it comes to how they affect people, it isn’t their fault. All of those things are more or less out of our control, and the way they impact people, out of their control.

Natasha however, is practiced with her cruelty. Each and every ounce of pain and suffering she inflicts is calculated and purposefully. She takes a pride in it that could only be measured to that of a parent towards their child or an artist towards their art.

Usually when a person contains this type of passion for cruelty it would be contained to the unfortunate few people who find themselves in the presence of the evil being who cultivates it. For example serial killers or people with an affinity for torture and their victims.

Sadly this isn’t the case with Natasha Romanoff, who has enough power and influence that her cruelty spans over hundreds if not thousands of people, even if they do not realize it. As the leader of one of the most powerful and dangerous gangs in New York City, Natasha’s control spans just over triple the city's population.

She is known throughout the underworld of gang leaders as the “black widow”, the name being given to her in recognition of the countless bodies she has left up and down the coast of many cities across the globe.

No one would dare mess with her, in any way, unless they had a death wish. Even then, unless that person wanted to die in the most slow and torturous ways even the darkest minds could not conceive, they would stay far, far away from her.

Which is something you’ve, thankfully, managed to do for all twenty years of your life, despite your fathers standing as a rival gang leader in New York. One that, for the past few months, Natasha has been taking territory from.

To Natasha anyone other than herself and the few people of her inner circle are merely ants ready to be squashed under her boot at a moments notice, even purely for her own twisted entertainment. So she did not know, nor did she care, who’s territory she was taking over, nor did she fear any backlash from the unknown ant.

Your father let her behavior slide, for the sake of peace and to avoid the possibility of innocent civilians getting harmed in the crossfire if he were to start a war between his own gang and the widows.

He has warned you to stay far away from her, away from any territory she deemed her own, in fear that she may recognise you and harm you for the sake of sending a message to not only him but the other leaders in the city.

So you did as he asked and stayed away, not wanting to cause any problems for your father or anyone else. But how were you to know that while you were on a night out with your friends that the redhead would choose the exact bar you occupied and claim it as her own, killing the previous owner where he sat in his office before strolling her way up to the bar to order herself a glass of vodka.

Natasha sits at the bar, glass in hand as she lazily surveys the room, looking for someone to sate her need for the night, getting her use out of the unwitting victim before killing them.

As she moves her gaze around the room her eyes land on you, a pretty girl on the dance floor moving her hips along to the music in a way that catches Natasha’s attention and stops her mid way raising her glass to her mouth.

She watches you for a few moments, her darkening eyes drinking in every sway and move of your body as you lose yourself to the music and atmosphere around you, dangerously unaware of the predator approaching.

Natasha is unaware of who you are and in all honesty, she doesn’t care, her plan for you remains the same. Act like the sweet gentle woman she never will be, convince you to accompany her back to her mansion, use you like a toy until the sun comes up and then discard you like the broken used thing you will be once she's finished with you.

Natasha approaches you, reaching a hand out to your waist, moving her body against yours to the beat of the music. She treads lightly, not wanting to scare you off before she can get you at least into her car. The idea of making a public scene tonight just seems like an annoying headache for the redhead.

Feeling a feminine body slid in behind you mould to your own does not bother you, even as her hands slid sensually around your waist, pulling you flush against her. You relish in the attention from the unknown woman.

Natasha drags her lips against the pulse point of your neck causing you to tilt your head back, needing to give her more room. She suctions her lips to your neck, intent on leaving a mark and branding you as hers. Her toy for the night, her slut made to proudly wear her marks.

You can’t help the moan that quietly spills from your lips at the action, leaning your head back against her shoulder and moving your left hand up to grip the hair on the back of her neck, holding her in place while she leaves her marks on your skin.

Natasha slides her arms fully around your waist, tightening her hold on you and locking you in place as she slots her thigh between your legs. Your breath catches in your throat at the action and a whimper follows soon after when the mystery woman whispers “Move your hips, baby” in your ear hotly.

You do as she says, moving your hips slowly up and down her suit clad thigh. Her warm mouth continues its attack on the delicate skin of your neck, nipping and biting every so often to ensure her marks are clear.

The whole interaction makes you want to melt against her, melt into her, succumb to the pleasure the woman is bringing you. That is, until she tenses the muscles in her leg, the hard muscle hitting your clit just right in a way that has you moaning out “fuck” and tightening your hold on the redheads hair to the point that you cause her pain.

Natasha bites down hard on your neck in retaliation, the force of her teeth strong enough to nearly draw blood.

You gasp and quickly jerk your body away from her. Natasha loosens her hold, allowing you to turn and face her but still keeps you in her grasp. You spin around quickly, determined to tell her off for such a violent act.

Your breath is stolen from your lungs the second your eyes land on the woman your father spent countless day’s warning you away from.

Your eyes fill with fear, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the redhead, and you try to take a step back.

Natasha only tightens her grip on your waist, a smirk falling against her lips while confusion flickers behind her eyes. She can see from the look on your face that you know who she is, what she is capable of, yet she doesn’t know how. Word of the infamous black widow isn’t exactly common knowledge with the civilians in the city.

“You know me.” Natasha muses, tilting her head to the side slightly, her eyes lighting up when she feels you try to step away from her again. “And you're afraid.” She says, the smirk on her face nearly doubling in size, as she takes a step toward you.

Your eyes move frantically around the room, desperately looking for the men your father sent with you everywhere. Your body guards, as you call them, or your “protection detail” as they like to call themselves.

Natasha’s hold on your waist tightens again, pulling you flush with her front and ignoring your attempts to squirm away. Your attention turns back to her and you have to gulp down your fear at the sight of the look in her eyes. It truly feels to you as though she is a starved, deranged predator and you are her prey.

Natasha takes a moment to look you over, appraising you, while you squirm under her heavy stare, your eyes move away from her, unable to continue looking at her with the intensity of the moment.

“You're a pretty little thing aren’t you.” Natasha muses, gripping your jaw in her rough, calloused fingers and forcing you to look at her. Using her hold on your face she pulls you closer to her, until you are just a breath away.

Your mind tells you to slap her, to spit in her face, kick her between the legs and run as fast as your feet can carry you. Your survival instincts tell you otherwise, screaming at you that if you want to survive then you have to keep her as calm as possible until your fathers men realize where you are.

So you stand as still as you can, your hands making fists at your sides in an attempt to keep them from shaking. Natasha’s eyes glance down to your clenched fists, a smile sliding its way onto her face before her eyes move back to your face.

She moves her mouth next to your ear, her warm breath hitting your skin while she whispers to you. “Let me tell you a secret little dove.” You feel her lips smile against your skin, trailing a short path up and down the skin of your cheek before she speaks again. “I like it when pretty girls like you are afraid. The look you all get in your eyes when your afraid for your life…”

Natasha moves her hands to rest on the small of your back, moving your body in one swift jerk so that your thigh rests between her legs. She doesn’t waste a second before grinding down on the plush skin of your thigh, a grown falling from her lips at sensation. “... it gets me so, so wet, angel.”

Natasha feels more than hears the gasp that leaves your mouth, feels the air hit her face as she pulls back to look at you again. That annoying smirk is back on her face, her eyes dark with lust and need. You jerk your leg from between hers, narrowing your eyes at the fake pout she wears at the action.

Natasha tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, her eyes never leaving your face as she whistles a tune you’d never heard before. Within the blink of an eye nearly fifty bodies hit the floor, each of them going down silently, without so much as a scream, as though someone had simply powered them off.

You look around in shock and horror, your mind running through how she could have done something like that and if you’d be next.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Natasha coos, her voice a poor imitation of someone attempting to be soothing. “I won’t kill you.” She smiles, bringing her hands up to cup your face.

“You're of no use to me dead.”

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ

A/n- Currently obsessed with dark mob boss Nat, let me know what you think so far, part two will be out this day next week

Part Two

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff x y/n #Dark Natasha Romanoff x Reader #Mob boss Natasha x reader #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff smut

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myuni-moon · 9 months

Text

#Ink Splotches

—Synopsis: Dan Heng has never liked being reminded of his past, but no matter how hard he tries, some things just stay.

—Pairing(s)/Character(s): Dan Heng x GN!Reader

—Genre: Yandere (Sensitive content ahead)

—Warning(s): Dark content, yandere, possessive, stalking, Dan Heng is a creep that likes to watch people sleep, reader's gender isn't specified but they're described with the word "pretty," reader is shorter than Dan Heng, a/b/o-ish themes (Dan Heng goes feral), mentions of hypothetical choking

—Word Count: 2.4k

—Note: Some of these I'm making up, so please discern the information here as just headcannons for Dan Heng. Most of this was written prior to any updates about Dan Heng's past, so please excuse the discrepancies. Also this is darker than some of my previous works, so proceed with caution.

Dan Heng never liked discussing his past, never did enjoy doing anything that reminded him of it either– save for a few things, of course. He liked reading. Him deciding to use the library as his quarters alone was a testament to that. If that wasn’t enough, you could always catch him reading in his spare time with the few pocketbooks he stored under his coat. It was something he used to do on slow days when he hopped from one station to another, and it stayed with him even after joining the Express. He liked the food in the Xianzhou Luofu, too. Despite the initial hesitance, he came to enjoy the multitude of flavors that coated his tongue. The cuisine may have been similar, but it was so much better than the staleness of his day-to-day in the past.

Most of all, he liked calligraphy– though it was an activity most inhabitants of the Express didn’t exactly know he partook in. Dan Heng couldn’t quite remember how he learned it or when he even did (out of his own mind wanting to block out any memory of that time), but the hobby gave him peace of mind. There was something about the careful concentration of the brush on parchment and the orderly manner in which each stroke was placed that lulled his mind into a quiet away from the chaos of time. Perhaps that’s why he never felt all too bothered by the constant whirs of the machinery that surrounded his quarters. The constant white noise distracted his mind just enough for him to dwell on anything but the skeletons in his closet.

The low table before him was ready and set, and the door remained locked to any outsiders that could interrupt. The scroll was blank, but the brush in his hand had already collected ink. The dark liquid dripped onto a container as Dan Heng stared into the white void in contemplation. He sighed. Doing calligraphy that day was meant to calm him, something to ease him out of whatever stressed him.

The data bank whirred on and on, yet no matter how many minutes passed, his hands could conjure nothing– neither a single stroke nor flinch. If anyone were to watch him, he’d look like a statue. It was quiet. It was peaceful even if nothing even happened. However, disarray plagued his mind and soul.

It was simply a stray thought at first, something just a little more impulsive than how he usually thought of his companions. You looked tranquil, he supposed as he kept watch that night. Belobog was cold, and he could see your breath puff out of your mouth with every rise and fall of your chest. The campfire’s heat tickled and licked at your skin as it illuminated your features with a warmth that painted you in an innocence far divorced from your typical image. Even when the hardships of battle befell your little party, you always slept soundly, peacefully. Dan Heng remembered a time when he wished for that too– to sleep as if the horrors didn’t haunt him at night. The way the shadows danced across your face, the wrinkle of your nose whenever a stray snowflake found its way a little too close, or the twitch in your fingers as you searched for warmth– he craved it if he was being honest. Maybe too much, even because every time he stayed up, he always stared at you sometime into the night.

You looked pretty, he admitted a few nights later. Once again, he had taken the role of lookout. Again, he watched you with fascination and envy. He twirled a tassel of your jacket around his fingers, careful not to tug hard enough to awaken you. It was like a switch was flipped in his head because as he looked at you now, he could feel something in his spine tingle. An urge long buried and forgotten with the rest of himself that was slowly trying to dig itself out from the facade of indifference he put together. He tried composing himself first, isolating his mind and shoving whatever it was that tried getting out back into the deepest, darkest parts of his brain.

It was okay after that. Dan Heng was back to normal, and everything went back to how it was before. Once you completed your mission, you all went back to The Astral Express. Himeko and Pompom welcomed you back aboard, and Mr. Yang dismissed you all to your rooms to rest before setting out on trailblazing once more. As per usual, Dan Heng only holed himself up back in his room with the piles of data he compiled during your time in Belobog to be sorted. The blue screen before him had already started to burn his eyes as he propped his elbow on the desk. His head rested on his palm. He had already read through half the files when someone knocked on the door. Instinctively, he checked the time. It was way past the time for someone else to be awake at that hour. It couldn’t be Himeko, Mr. Yang, or Pompom; he knew they went to bed earlier than the rest of the crew aboard. March was unlikely to be awake either because he had already heard her snoring a few hours ago. That only left–

“Dan Heng, are you still awake?” You.

The man gulped as he jumped to his feet, and his heart thrummed beneath his ribcage. His footsteps felt heavy, slowly making his way to the entrance. In hindsight, Dan Heng shouldn’t have even paid attention to your call. Maybe it was the fatigue and tiredness that relaxed his self-restraint, enough for his hands to get a grip on the handle; however, he was more than used to snapping himself back to reality. In a sliver of a second, he was able to catch himself. All his muscles seized up, and his breathing went ragged.

Just what was he doing? His control over himself had slowly been slipping, and for what? There was no warning, no transition. There was no logic either in why his usual disposition had crumbled. There was nothing unusual from that first night, and it didn’t feel any more weird the days after. In fact, everything was just how it normally was for him. Sure, he loosened a few restraints and came to terms to the thoughts floating around his head - but that was rational, surely. So, why did static start to settle under his skin the longer he kept you outside? Why did his nails dig into his palms every time you laughed? Why did he feel like breaking the door down when he could just simply open it?

Nervously, Dan Heng eyed Cloud-Piercer, stowed away in a corner of the room. The orb in its clutch glowing ever so faintly in the dim brightness, its calm twinkle a stark difference to the instability swirling within his veins. With his current condition, it was dangerous. Extremely so. He wanted to tell you to go away, to have the others take him far from the rest. His unshakable calm was slowly diminishing, and his fears of losing control only made it worse. But something in him just didn’t want to.

“Dan Heng?” God, could you just stop saying his name? He could feel himself slipping.

“Dan Heng, are you there?” The handle started to rattle, his shaky hands flexing as he fought for control.

“Dan Heng, open the door, please?”

The mechanisms of the door whirred as it slid open. You stood so close, too close to what he would deem safe. Yet, the moment he saw you, everything went quiet. It wasn’t just the dead silence of space. The thoughts in his head had calmed down. The pins and needles that pricked his fingertips had vanished. It was as if nothing ever happened. Dan Heng blinked, bringing his palm up to his chest. His heartbeat was normal– stable even– as he gazed down at you. The strangeness of the whole ordeal shook him. Never in his life had he experienced the way his mind and body tumbled the moment before. He’d have to alert Himeko or Mr. Yang of the changes the next morning.

“Is there something you need?” His demeanor returned to normal, too.

You looked down at the ground sheepishly, shifting your balance from one foot to another. Your lips were pressed together in a thin line, leaving your cheeks to puff up. Your gaze even shifted from side to side until you looked up at him. Innocent, he noted. Your eyes reminded him of a doe’s. “Well, I couldn’t sleep. I just thought you might be awake, too.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but can I stay with you?”

He wanted to say no, to bring back the iciness on his tongue and the dismissiveness of his tone. Yet, before he could even think to say it, his mouth had already moved. “Alright.”

You smiled so sweetly, immediately slipping beside him and into his room. His arm brushed your skin as your fingers grazed his knuckles. The hairs on Dan Heng’s body all stood up. A static washed upon his ears, drowning out all other noise as if it had been stuffed full of cotton. It was a minuscule interaction, but it was electrifying. But just as his senses dampened, they would heighten. Soon, he found himself hyper-aware of the beat of your heart, the way he could count each beat with only his ears. His eyes had zeroed in on your movements, everything slowing down cinematically– which he would have found humorous if it weren’t for the fact that something animalistic started to crawl its way out of Dan Heng’s carefully maintained self-constraints.

A part of him howled, growled, and gnawed for him to shed his shell. A beast, running only on its instincts, began to awaken after being forced into hibernation. His humanity couldn’t battle against it, and it could only give way to the feral force lest Dan Heng risked losing himself completely.

Can’t you smell them? It crooned at him. He could– fuck, he definitely could. You smelled so sweet to the point his mouth started to water with every whiff he took. Your scent was so appealing, and he wasn’t even referring to body wash or cologne; it was just you. You never smelled like that before. Maybe it was because of his true nature coming to light that he was able to, but he couldn’t help but want to be enveloped by it.

Don’t they look so perfect, so pretty? You did. You always did even when he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He could just imagine the cute smile you showed him seconds ago, and he couldn’t help but want to release a guttural purr at the fact that it was directed toward him and him alone. Then it hit him.

You want them all to yourself. That’s right. Dan Heng wanted you all to himself.

After all, what was stopping him? If he really wanted to, he could just knock you out on your next adventure, abduct you right then and there, then take you to wherever he saw fit– as long as it meant keeping you with him without having any such disturbances. You’d think a more rational– dare say, human– part of him would’ve realized the morality of his thoughts, perhaps even chase them away and put himself into self-confinement until he came back to his senses. But no.

No, if anything, it only served to smooth out the rough edges of his devious plan. Starting with places to go when he finally had you in his grasp. The routes from place to place, just to avoid other trailblazers and authorities that may have picked up on his bounty. Suppose he’d use drugs or physical force to get you to be cooperative enough to go with him (as if you’d have a choice). Then when he was sure you two were finally alone, he’d put his claim on you with a bite to your pretty neck– but that didn’t sound as appealing as giving you his mark right now. All he needed to do was wrap his hands around your neck and-

A crack snapped him out of his stupor and away from the image of you in his mind. Dan Heng retracted himself back into the present. His draconic gaze settled on his workplace before clicking his tongue. He had applied too much pressure to the brush; one remnant still sits in his hand while the other half had found itself in a farther place. The paper was in no better condition. In some areas, the ink had bled through, creating large splotches of dark, foreboding circles on the page. What were supposed to be detailed strokes had become near-erratic in the time span he was stuck in his imagination. The man frowned and sighed.

However, his eyes brightened when they flit to the very center of the page. Amidst all the chaos and rage that had been thrown into the work, your name remained neat in the expanse of Dan Heng’s mental deterioration. Fitting, he supposed.

Without another word, he cleaned up. He didn’t need March barging in and finding the evidence of his deep affection for you. He disposed of the calligraphy brush (begrudgingly. It meant he’d have to go back to the Luofu to attain another).

Straightening himself out, he left his room towards the parlor. Pom-pom, as always, came to greet him. The small bunny skipped over to him, tilting its head as it inspected him. The conductor of the Astral Express pointed to his robe.

“You’re not usually this untidy, Dan Heng.”

Dan Heng looked at the area the bunny referenced. On his green robe, typically free of any stain, was a noticeably-sized black dot. It must’ve been from his haphazard movement earlier. If he didn’t exercise any self-control, he might’ve let out a laugh under his breath.

“It is nothing,” he waved a hand dismissively. Truthfully, it felt almost entertaining to see the naivety of the conductor to the obscenity happening within its very own train. He thought it was poetic– comical, almost– how it looked as if it had been a subtle sign of the corruption happening to Dan Heng. Or maybe, he’d always been this way, waiting for that sick part of him to finally run rampant. Dan Heng side-stepped and proceeded on his way as if everything had been fine. His lips curled into a smirk the moment Pom-pom could no longer see his face.

“Just an ink splotch.”

#hsr.dan heng #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #star rail x reader #dan heng x reader #yandere x reader #yandere dan heng x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere star rail x reader

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thecameronchronicles · 1 year

Text

Shark Tooth Necklace

TW: Severe angst (all the feels). Language. Cheating. Smut.

SUMMARY: The effect of your gift to JJ remains even after you've broken up…

WORD COUNT: 3500

*ORIGINAL CONCEPT*

Shark Tooth Necklace

It became a statement the same way his dimples, lighter, and rebellious reputation wore over him like a second skin. An accompaniment to which you use to be a part of up until six weeks ago when you found the attention of a Kook following an argument JJ had come to regret since it transpired. It haunted him for the words he spoke, and more importantly, the ones he hasn't. And yet, he kept the evidence of his care for you tucked beneath the curve of his shirts in the belief he could keep a piece of you close. Even if it hurt like hell…

TWO MONTHS AGO

As if the wood making up the floor of the screened in porch had been blistering, your feet danced over the surface as you came to your boyfriend lounging in one of the chairs set for such inactivity. The excitement of a child bouncing down the steps in a similar gait on Christmas morning pulled his attention from his lighter as he illuminated to the joy across your face.

"I have something for you…" His brows lifted as his eyes descended. That lecherous glance he always gave you in the broadcast of his perpetual desire.

"Then why are you still dressed?" He teased while pulling you into his lap. But upon doing so, the small drawstring bag hidden in your palm was brought to him.

"Sure you've got the right pogue, princess?" He taunted to the color of the bag having been a light pink.

"Just open it…" You whined, having tried to wait until his birthday, but found every day a struggle.

"I made it…from the rocks we used to skip at the pond near Rixton's Cove…" He poured the contents of a necklace to his palm, his face plagued with disbelief.

JJ was rather particular to the jewelry he wore. Gaudy rings set over sporadic fingers as you were often the recipient to the chills it allowed, and yet, this was something you'd chosen specifically for him.

"The chord is from the guitar that broke the night…" You hesitated, remembering a dinner night caused by his father that was sweetened by your presence. It wasn't even that next week until you were officially titled as his possession. But the details of that night no longer mattered to the beautiful adornment he held to catch the sun.

"It's layered so it won't wear…"

A sable black shark tooth necklace, the perfect length as it came short just before his clavicle.

"If you don't like it-"

"I love it…" he moved closer to you as you bounced on his lap.

"Really? I tried to wait and I just couldn't…I almost told you about a hundred times and it was burning a hole in my back pocket-" He shook his head to one of your infamous nervous ramblings as he kissed you.

"Do you really like it, J?"

"I'll never take it off…" he confessed as he tried to set the string over his head before you corrected him and tied it perfectly stilled.

"Maybe I had an ulterior motive…" You divulged why tracing the new necklace over his naked chest. Your fingers tempting a southern descent as your eyes widened to the tones physique you were never able to be tired of.

"Oh?"

"It does work for leverage…" You hooked two fingers around the strong chord and used it to guide him to the bench beneath you, his weight pinning you softly as your lips touched in a silent promise of a small forever.

"I love it." His eyes remained to yours as if speaking the words to you and not your gift. But they were words he hadn't spoken. Not only to you. To anyone. At least aside from a joke when discussing the other pogues. But never when it made him vulnerable. And never when he had so much to lose.

Since that day, he wore it with pride as a woman would wear an engagement ring. It was his favorite accessory up until the night your relationship crumbled.

"JJ-" You ridiculed his name alone as he took the contents over John B's dresser and forced them to the ground.

"You can't tell me you didn't fucking notice-"

"I didn't!"

"You're too smart to be that dumb. EVERY guy wants you-"

"So what if they do? I don't care!"

"You get off on it don't you? All that attention? Everyone wanting to get in your shorts…Maybe I can tell them all it takes is a few compliments and a blunt-" Your hand came to his cheek, an immediate regret as you knew his father had done the same the night before. It was why you'd forgiven the way he bloodied the Kook's face who got a bit too handsy for his liking. And even if he knew you were devoted to him, the frailty of his already weathered emotions had made this his final straw.

"I love you, JJ." The words came out as a surprise to you both. It was a confession neither had stated until now. But it did not warrant the reaction you'd hoped for. No kiss or embrace. Instead, it seemed to be disappointment. Fear even. But anger still residing as his lead emotion.

"That's just too goddamn bad." He finally responded after an endless silence.

"If I go, JJ…I won't come back…not after that…I've been here…I've been the one here…" You reminded with tears streaking down your cheeks.

"I don't want you here…" He shrugged.

"You're…this isn't you…"

"Maybe I'm just tired of watching my girlfriend pawed on anytime we go to a party and you doing next to nothing to stop it…"

"Well you don't have to worry about it anymore…I'm not your girlfriend to be pawed over." You slammed the bedroom door, pushing last Kiara and Sarah as they heard enough of the argument to cast glares to JJ who followed behind. But it would be his pride and stubbornness that kept him from chasing after you.

And he had come to regret it ever since.

"Should have told us you were going out, would have waxed my board last night…" John B greeted your new boyfriend as they had been acquaintances during JJ's downward spiral and had since become a friend. A decent Kook with more common sense than a means to fit in with the princes of the Outer Banks, he fit in with the pogues well.

Everyone but JJ who stared at him as if his looks could truly kill.

"Probably couldn't keep up…" JJ teased as your eyes narrowed. Despite the cruel words and messy breakup, he seemed almost indifferent since that night. Almost as if you'd never dated. Aside from these twinges of jealousy of course. Yet you write it off as it being a part of his sarcasm as he had done it to Pogue and John B as well, but there was something a bit colder if he had done it to your boyfriend.

This specific afternoon was no exception as you were on the HMS Pogue. A small vessel in its own right, it was spacious enough to keep a distance. And yet with JJ making it worse on everyone, it seems ni larger than the door in which Jack was arguably denied in the Atlantic ocean in "Titanic"

"Never teach you how to fish on Figure Eight?" He would begin the insults lightly. Almost as a term of endearment as he turned right around and teased Pope for choosing literature over nature, as he often did. But then they became personal.

"I remember when we were together and you liked to hold my pole just right-" And even as Kiara nudged him, he wore a smile of pride in knowing he made you and your new beau uncomfortable.

But it wasn't until you reached land, the boat tied off by Sarah and your boyfriend as Pope, John B, and JJ made their way inside The Chateau. You hadn't meant to follow them, but absentmindedly took the steps behind their trail and came upon the argument you were never meant to hear.

"I don't even know why she's still here?! She's Sarah's friend-NOT my girlfriend anymore. And I still have to see her almost every fucking day!"

"Pogues for life…" Pope attempted to remind him.

"She isn't a goddamn pogue anymore than HE is…"

"JJ-" John B attempted to stop him as he saw you on the other side of the screen door leading to the docks you'd just come from.

"You know what…fine…you all want to keep her around, that's fine…but don't come complaining to me…there's a reason I'm not with her anymore-" He turned to leave, tears in your eyes as he pushed past you.

"He's just-" Pope began as he tried to console you.

"JJ…" John B finished the sentence as you slowly nodded. Until now, you'd hoped for civility, if anything. Maybe even he'd find someone else…a thought that razored and scorched your heart to think of, but you believe it was only fair. Even if he wasn't JJ, he was dependable and stable.

But he still wasn't JJ. Your reckless, passionate-

No. He was not yours anymore. You corrected yourself to think of him in only past tense. It was best that way for everyone.

Later that night while around a new fire, JJ was sulking on the rival side of the flames. It was debated from whatever angle one sat that he was more enraged that the embers aglow as a core for the group as stories and tales did nothing to alter this. He was fixated on the fire.

"Truth or dare?" Kiara groaned as Sarah called excitedly.

"Finally some fun!"

"We were having fun.." John B defended as Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Me first! Kie-" She proceeds to dare Kiara to do a keg stand, to which she excelled. John B asked Pope to recite Shakespeare naked, to which he convinced his boxers would suffice, and your boyfriend asked Sarah a truth of her biggest regret, which she named as a single ex.

"Truth or Dare…" JJ asked you as you tensed. The sudden mischief on his expression was worrisome in contrast to the point he wore the earlier duration of the day.

"Truth…" he scoffed as you'd taken the safest bet.

"Do you love him?" For the group that usually came to your defense, they were all silent with curiosity. In truth, they believed you and JJ would find your way back to each other. Even wishing the same as you introduced your new boyfriend, who was annoyingly charismatic and likable. And for that reason alone, nobody interfered for your answer.

"I…" You looked at your boyfriend.

"It's early…and there's A love-" Your boyfriend answered for you.

"But do you love him? The way you did me?"

"JJ-" Sarah now warned as tears filled your eyes.

"No…I mean, if she doesn't want to answer it, she can always do a dare instead…"

"Fine then…dare…" you countered.

"Kiss him. Like you used to with me. Sitting across my lap…feeling how hard you made me-"

"Okay…" John B reached for JJ's beer and arm before he stood up.

"The way you pulled on my necklace when you wanted me on top and clawed on my chest when you were…Oh just wait, man…wait until she's on her knees and you'll be wondering how she can be so sweet with a throat like a wh-" Kiara now forced JJ into the Chateau as you had your face in your hands.

"I'm so sorry…" You told your boyfriend as he tried to console you. And yet his touch was suddenly suffocating.

"Maybe you should try to talk to him…"

"What?!"

"If we all keep hanging out, you're gonna have to see him. I think the tension needs to be-" He became distracted by his phone.

"Shit, I gotta get back to Figure Eight before the boys find out I was here." He kisses your temple, abandoning you when you needed him most. The usual reliability always faltering when it came to being Rafe or Topper's right hand man.

But as he left, you stormed in behind JJ.

"What is your problem?!"

"Maybe we should all cool down-" Sarah began before she was pulled away.

"Let them hash this out…it's been a long time coming…" John B led the group out of The Chateau.

"Just don't break any of the pictures. The glass is hell to clean up-'" JJ glared.

"Nothing's getting broken, because I'm not staying-"

But as he tried to leave, you couldn't help yourself.

"Do what you do best and run away." You spoke the first hurtful thing that came to mind. It was enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Last time I recalled being here alone with you and you were the one who left, sweetheart. Probably just couldn't wait to get back to him…"

"I would never have cheated on you! Him and I were together after us! Not even after you talked to me like that. No matter how insecure you were-"

"Insecure. No, princess, you've got it wrong. I knew my place with you. It was just under everyone else."

"What?! I always put you above everyone else! When my friends told me you would only hurt me, I told them they were wrong. I denied invitations to parties and made excuses for why you ruined the ones we did attend! Because I love you!" The present tense stilled him.

"Loved-" You corrected as he took a step closer.

"No no no..you said-"

"Because you make me crazy, JJ! I've tried to make it easy-"

"Easy?! Bringing your new fuck you around so you can rub it in my face is making it easy?!"

"I'm not…we're not-" You suddenly became defensive once again "But even if we we're, it doesn't pertain to you!"

He moved even closer until you were directly in front of him. The only person you feared and craved in equal measure.

"Everything you do "pertains" to me, cupcake…" As you went to speak he walked you to the wall directly beside the door. His body never touching yours and yet every nerve set on fire by his proximity alone.

"Because dating or not, you're still my girl. You'll always be my girl-" he surprised you with the weight pinning you to the wall and the soft kiss reminding you of how sweet he could be. The direct kiss similar to the one you allowed now as you fell into the familiarity of how he excited you. Even in anger. Especially in anger.

His hands were quick to rise from the wall to your hips as he walked you back to the couch, your calves greeting the edge for only a second before you were pushed flat to the cushions.

"JJ-"

"I'm not stopping. Not after tonight. Not after knowing you don't love him and you still love me…"

You tried to cease. His touch. His words.

Him.

But everything was intoxicating. Even as guilt weighed within your stomach, you couldn't fight this. You couldn't and didn't want to.

"JJ…" He only kissed you into silence, his tongue reminding you of its strength as it coerced your own into submission against him. After only a moment of this French kiss, your shirt was lifted and disposed of and that same skilled tongue came to your nipples.

"JJ!" You gasped.

"That's how you should always say my name…Screaming for me, not at me…" He pinned your hands over your head before returning his grip to your breast.

"Fuck, I missed your body…I miss how it missed me…" His secondary hand came into your panties, an elastic band of your shorts making it easy.

"Please-"

"If you insist…" He angled you on the couch before lowering to his knees, kicking the table away so he could pull your legs over his shoulders.

"Too bad he isn't here to hear how to make you come…God knows he could learn…" He dove into you, your body reacting immediately to the torturous flicks and sucks made of his technique. As you would begin to tremble for him, he would withdraw, edging you in repetition as you pulled his hair into disarray.

"I want you in every fucking position to make up for the nights I should have…" he began at the arm of the couch, lifting you to a bend, before undressing behind you. Undressing so quickly that your guilt didn't have time to register before he was inside of you.

"Fuck!" You belted to that identifiable plunge and width that was incomparable to anyone else. To worsen the seduction, he played with your nipples and clit in alteration, before pulling your hair until you were again this chest.

"Does he touch you?"

No. You answered silently.

"You're dripping for me like you haven't been touched since me…Was always so easy to make you come…"

"JJ please…we can't." The cruel thrust he made were ended as he pulled you over him in a straddle on the couch. Your hands caught the back supporting him before he kept you in place with his own large grip.

"I'm not letting you go. Not this time…"

"What you said-"

"I was jealous as hell because everyone looks at you. Because guys like him get to. They deserve to…I want to. I want to deserve it."

You looked away, the sight of your clothes making your expression sour.

"I can't-"

"I love you." He spoke the words in a pained delay, as if he had been punched upon trying to speak each word aloud.

"I should have said it that night but I'm saying it now. I love you." He spoke it again, this time with conviction.

"Tell me you don't and I'll let you pretend to be happy with him. No more comments or cheap shots…" You searched through his lustful eyes for deceit. But if ever, he was the most authentic he had ever been.

"I don't…" He exhaled in defeat, rising as you pressed your hand into his chest.

"JJ…"

"No, I told you if you said…"

"I wasn't finished…" his expression illuminated with hope.

"I don't want to hurt anybody…"

"Please tell me there's a 'but' in there…"

"But…I…I love you…" He scanned your entire expression. Looking for a moment in which you would falter or second guess your own confession. When it wasn't found, he sunk you onto him.

"I love you…I love you…" The declaration faded into grunts as you kissed him once he'd struggled to speak.

"I'll tell you every minute on the goddamn dot if necessary…"

"Just show me…" You ignored the guilt and focused solely on the pleasure he allowed before reaching for his shirt. It was then that you saw it. Your motions slowing as you hooked two fingers beneath the chord of the necklace.

"You kept it on…"

"Every day." He answered. "Even the ones that hurt…"

"JJ…"

"And I still will…Even if I fuck up again.." You used the necklace to pull him closer.

"Just don't fuck up again. Just fuck me…" His lips parted into a parting of disbelief.

"This is making love now, not fucking."

"Then make love to me…" He lifted you slowly but pulled you down harder, his body reacting in accordance to your own. As you arched, he fell into you and when you fell he met you at the center. When he began to tire, he reclined and pulled you to follow him.

"Fuck, I missed making you come, sweetheart…"

"Then make me, JJ…please…"

"Anything for you, princess." He pulled sensation from your body in which only he could. Caverns visited and inhibitions unlocked that only he could access as he had you moaning and screaming in alteration.

"That's it baby…come for me…all over-" You clasped your hand over his mouth.

"I know how to come, JJ…You're the only one who's ever made me…" He clenched his jaw before rolling his eyes, that confession pulling his own release. Your hips are sorely bruised against his own due to his impressive stamina as perspiration and ecstasy joined together in those final moments. Your names intertwined at that final buck of his hips as he claimed you as his own once again.

"My girl…" But as the bliss faded, your eyes fell to the side.

"Whatever happens, I'm not going anywhere…And neither are you for the rest of the night…"

"JJ, I have to…"

"Forty three."

"What?"

"That's how many nights I could have had you here in my arms. In my bed. So I have a lot of orgasms to make up for…"

"Forty three?! He nodded, lifting you around him and carrying you to the bedroom.

"We'll start slow…"

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

Text

Man-Sized

9/9 Peace in a Lifetime of War

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He didn't call, didn't text, didn't explain himself.

She wrote dozens of texts, mostly with one sentence, Where'd you go?, Could we talk this through?, I'm sorry, would you please come back, but never sent them.

But she was also being ripped apart by the feeling that this simply couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this. There was something real here. There had to be.

Pride got in the way. He didn't deserve her begging after leaving her like that without even an explanation as to why. He cared about his job more than her, and she would no longer beg for leftovers. She would not be the girl he could come and fuck in the dark when he had the time for it.

Let's make this work.

That's the sentence she wrote the most, to reverse the last words she had said. A nervous voice inside her told her that she had driven him away. That Simon was somewhere out there thinking she didn't want him in her life. After all, she had shouted that he should go and do his job… Practically, get out of her life.

But how could a few words spoken in anger drive him away? How could he just cut her off after everything? Player or not, she had thought him a better man than this.

He still had the key. He hadn't left it on the table or mailed it to her. He might still walk through that door when she least expected it.

But days turned into weeks, and somewhere in her heart, she knew a decision had been made. Simon never half-assed anything. If he had left, he had left. End of fucking story.

After three weeks, she threw away the shower gel. It reminded her of the time she had come from the shower to a dark room filled with him. When she had teased him, and he had sent her to heaven, when they had confessed their love to each other. It stared at her from the bin until she went and took out the trash with not much else but that single men's shower gel bottle in it.

He had left one of his hoodies in her apartment, and she almost threw it into the bin too. Then she crawled inside it like a child who had lost her parents.

It smelled of him, and it was so big that half of her disappeared inside it, and she felt warm, and safe, and devastated. That hoodie and her bedroom walls twisted the knife by whispering the words Marry me, laced with an echo of his laughter. Every day she decided to throw it away and start a new life, and every night she curled inside it to cry herself to sleep.

Bolognese was ruined for her. Motörhead was ruined, bourbon was ruined; the smell of tobacco brought tears to her eyes. She walked past springtime tulips like they carried the plague itself. Even Dürer was ruined.

How could a heartless, cocky 21st-century soldier ruin the genius of a Renaissance master?

Luckily, she hadn't told anyone who she had been dating for months now. She had never asked Simon to meet her parents. She hadn't even told them she was seeing someone… Her mother had made a remark on how nice it was to see her happy when she was visiting on holidays, and she had told her she had gotten good grades this semester. In her heart, she had perhaps always known that things with Simon wouldn't last. It all seemed like a dream. A beautiful, heated, fucked up pipe dream.

It was like the very oxygen from her life was gone. She didn't have the will to masturbate; the toy she had only reminded her of the embarrassing incident where she had forgotten it on the bedside table, and he had seen it and made her blush with a laugh and a comment; "That's the competition?" Such a small, pink thing compared to Simon, and even that reminded her of him.

Her workplace was a smoking rubble after a war. The pole choreographies had the atmosphere of Swan Lake rather than anything sultry and sexy — she flicked the pole to spin mode more often, started to do leg hangs and suicide spins and unicorn splits and chose music with lyrics about betrayal and other heartbroken, forlorn wailing.

Her gaze swept the audience before she grabbed the pole. Just in case. There were hungry eyes, but none belonged to the man with a winter-over stare, sleeve tattoo, and voice burnt from scotch, smoking, and sleepless nights.

The room spun, and her heart hurt, and she wondered if Simon had found another sweet girl or if he was bleeding in the blur too. Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with the women on his team, no strings attached. Fucking those tough army girls who were everything she was not. Making them moan with slow, heavy torture.

She wanted him to hurt. And then again, she did not. She wanted him to be safe, and for the first time in her life, she prayed even though she had never believed in God.

That forgotten oversized hoodie was her temple, and she wasn't sure who she was even praying to before falling asleep inside that black cotton. But she asked for Simon to stay safe, to not do anything stupid. She even prayed for his happiness, but then the prayers turned more selfish, and she asked that he would come back to her.

Just come back to her.

Her prayers were answered sooner than she would've thought. It was a frightening invocation, because when she finally caught him as a black, massive shadow against the darkness of the club, it was clear that he was in an even worse shape than she was.

He was still big, still menacing, a powerhouse of a man, but she saw that he had lost weight, the shade under his eyes was even darker than when they had first met. He was looking at her dance like he was attending a funeral: there was no smile, no hunger, only suffering in his eyes that followed her from inside a black hood.

She wanted to jump from the stage in the middle of her show, climb onto his lap, cry all the tears still uncried, although she had done nothing but bawled every night since he had left. Sweat made the pole slick, and she closed her eyes as she spun, hoping to be somewhere else entirely so he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes. But the lights were pointing at the stage, and her face must've been a pale mask of fear and longing, and the dance turned into the ending act of her own personal Swan Lake.

It had been almost a month, and he barged back into her life like he would barge through a door into a room full of prisoners. The game was on again, and he was the fucking worst, and the relief and longing turned into red, blazing rage.

How dare he show up here? Still without warning, without a single message, when he knew how much it meant to her. Especially after what had gone down.

When she was done, she didn't go to him; she left the stage before the applause had even died, rushed to get her things, and stormed out the back door, half fearing that she would bump into him. He wasn't there, but when she walked past the entrance to get home, there was a man smoking outside. She wouldn't shed a look his way but knew from the aura of darkness and hellfire and silent leadership that it was him. There was no sound of footsteps, but she knew he was walking behind her, could almost smell the smoke, could feel his stare on her back as she rushed down the street like she was being hunted by a ravager.

And hadn't he, in a way, promised to haunt her, dead or alive?

She cried the whole way home while being followed by his ghost – silent tears of anger and relief and sorrow, jaw trembling and hiccups tickling her throat.

When she reached her apartment, she opened the door as quickly as possible, then slammed it shut behind her.

Would he use the key and force himself in? Would he take the closed door as a sign not to trespass? She almost went to open it to let him know that this area was actually a No Man's Land, not a threshold to her personal space, much less a fortress he needed to conquer.

But he had decided to pursue her, and a clear-cut knock sent her heart up her throat.

She had a choice not to open that door. Return to her old life without this fuckery. He wouldn't use the key she had given him, he was gentleman enough not to. Or perhaps not a gentleman: he simply knew when he was not welcome and would be too proud to force a connection.

But the decision had really been made a long time ago. It was made when she asked for that drink, when she accepted his flowers, when he pushed inside her the first time. Perhaps even on the moment she first laid eyes on him.

So, without having a grain of rational thought behind it, her heart walked her to that door and opened it.

He was leaning on the frame with one hand, and the hooded head rose from a heavy hang. He looked defeated for a moment, and she realized she had taken a while to come to the door… But then he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, bounced away from the frame, and the tiniest little smile played on his lips.

A look of I win.

It was something so Simon that it burned her heart, and the love returned – as if it had ever gone anywhere – and she was so angry that she slapped him to wipe off that stupid look that told her he could drop her like a toy and then come back and pick her up again.

Her palm met his chin, and it hurt her too: to hear that slap and know he allowed it to happen.

He allowed her to slap him. Again.

He reduced her to someone who hit people, like this was some trailer park romance where physical abuse was ok.

It was his fault, not hers.

It was his fault. It was.

His head was turned to the side from the force of her palm, the eyebrows rose in muted surprise. Then he slowly turned to look at her, and couldn't hide his smile anymore. He fucking got off on this.

Which was why she slapped him again – only, this time he caught her hand and finally forced himself inside, like it was an invitation that she tried to hit him. Her other hand shot out, rather impassively, and he caught that, too.

"That's quite enough."

That gruff, dark voice was probably what she had missed the most. Or those big, brown eyes full of promise. Or all that muscle wrapping around her in a crushing hug, those lips that smashed against hers in a starved kiss.

The door slammed shut behind him as he devoured her. The moment his hands let go of hers and enveloped her into that secure embrace, she dissolved and let him crush her mouth, her ribs, her everything — her hands reached for the hood and tore it down, clutched his back, his jacket, threatening to tear the clothes apart from how much she had missed him.

Tears gathered up her throat, and her eyes burned and squeezed shut, she held the black fabric in her fists and pulled, trying to get closer even when there was not a breath of air between them. His scent brought back so many memories that she threatened to drown in the flood.

The kiss left them both breathless and huffing when he drew her against him. She felt like a hostage when he closed one heavy palm around her head and simply forced her cheek to meet his chest. He had never closed her in a hug quite like this — like he was afraid that she would disappear into thin air if he didn't hold on tightly enough.

"Sweetheart." It was a rumble in her hair, a deep vibration in the solid wall she was smashed against.

"Don't you dare," she whispered through tears, but her hands told a different story as she clung to him like a drowning person.

"Sarah…" He only squeezed her harder, so hard that she feared he would soon break bones. "Love. I'm sorry that it took so long."

Her fingers flexed, then wrapped around that jet-black cotton again. The tears disappeared in his shirt, and she was glad he always wore black; otherwise, the mascara would've made a visible mess.

He smelled so good. She inhaled him like a drug — even after the desertion, his scent meant safety and home to her.

"What the fuck happened?" She sniffed, trying not to wail like a child against that firm wall of chest. "I thought you only went for a smoke."

He stroked her hair so gently that the shirt was soon soaked from her tears.

"I thought it would be best if I left you in peace," he muttered, sounding almost guilty. Her hand twitched in the folds of the hood from the utter folly of it all. She thanked the heavens that he hadn't. She had never exactly found peace with him, but being without him was even worse.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she retorted.

"Yeah. I used to be a better man. But if ya think I'm cocky… Hah, you should've seen me back then. Feared nothing."

She had expected him to share a reason for leaving her like that, but she hadn't envisioned it to start with those words. The world was quaking again in her hallway, lit by a single, lone lamp.

"It didn't work. It got people killed. Even my brother's little kid." He was still talking to the crown of her head as if exposing the darkest of secrets, fearing that the walls were wired.

"I'm not really… alive, you know? Died with them about ten years ago."

From any other man's mouth, that trace of information, an explanation for his handicaps, would've felt melodramatic. When it came from Simon, it felt like a void was yawning before her.

"Swore that day I would never let it happen again."

How could she always forget that her judgment concerning Simon was flawed – no – distorted as hell? She knew he had lost everybody but didn't know how exactly. Of course there had been violence. She had never really understood just how important it was for him to protect people from getting too close.

I didn't mean for things to go this far suddenly stood for something completely different.

He wasn't playing or toying with her. He was being absolutely, vehemently, utterly serious.

Even… intimidated.

She felt even worse about not being there for him when he had been thin with his skin. She had made it all about her when he tried to share a deep fear.

"I tried to keep my hands off you as long as I could." He hummed, a sound of a distant, pleasant memory. "You were so… fuckin' graceful. Felt like you were dancing just for me."

The tears kept flowing, the world kept quaking.

"I was," she whispered. "Even when you weren't there."

"Thought you was just teasin' me. Seemed such a tough girl." He gave her one of those short laughs, a cynical scoff that said he wasn't easily caught off balance. "'N then you turned out to be sweet as a pie. So bloody sweet. Swept me right off my feet."

She pulled back a little and saw that his eyes were liquid too, the pale lashes fluttered over bloodshot, melted chocolate, but no tears came out. It was like he didn't quite know how to cry, like that skill had been tortured out of him, never to return.

"Nothing lasts. Especially if it's something good and pure." He ran a thumb over her cheek, catching a tear, like he was soothed by seeing someone crying the tears he could not. "Really wanted this to last."

Her lower lip trembled at that, and she had to fight back a whole bawl that threatened to erupt. He was stupidly eloquent when he wanted to. But he was also blind if he couldn't see that no one else but him had tried to end things this time. How could a man so mature and smart be so stupid?

"You're the one who walked out the door, Simon."

He blinked a few times. Yeah… He was that stupid, even if he was sharp and trained and brave. But it was also stupid of her to think there wouldn't be problems. He had built a wall, five-foot thick, since childhood. She had tried to penetrate it with a needle and had had a fit when it wouldn't budge.

"Look... You can't just come into my life and fuck around and fuck with my head — and fuck me… and then leave and say Darling, it's dangerous."

He huffed a laugh at her imitation of him. "You make me sound like a jerk."

"That's because you are."

A sigh. "Right."

She had expected him to return the quip, make some clever comeback, but their love had been on ice for weeks and weeks. Even if the warmth was there, and he was close, so close… Something was still wrong.

She pulled herself back to the solace of his chest. There were broken things inside, and she was a brittle vase herself, barely able to hold all the sorrow in.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

"Comes with the job."

"I hate your job," she mumbled in his shirt, and he chuckled humourlessly.

"Me too."

"No you don't. You love it." She sent another accusation in the air, and the penalty was an open prison, a slackening muscle around her.

"Guilty as charged."

"Why are you here, Simon?"

There was a pause, one, two breaths…

"Can't fuckin' live without you."

He had no doubt tried, tried to veritably leave her from fear of setting her in danger. Only Simon could leave a woman for fear of losing them…

"Even if I only get scraps and slaps. Phone's full of look at me's but you never call."

Her eyes flared wide open, her lungs ceased working for a second. Five months flashed backward, then forward, their shared moments twisting and turning, words finding new meanings.

Scraps…

You never call.

Jesus Christ.

It was bitter, and it was true. She had guarded her heart like a prisoner of war during a time of peace. Sent him thirsty selfies like they were the only thing he wanted from her, refused to call in fear of losing some game.

He wasn't the only one who was proud and dramatic. She had had a whole month in her hands. She could've called him, sent him those texts. She could've made it known that she hadn't meant her last words as a command for him to get out. But she had done none of those things. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and slapped him when he finally came back with his tail between his legs.

It was never about his job. She could deal with that. It was about the game.

They were both boneheaded, proud little creatures, and she realized she was the one who had been playing, playing for far too long…

"You said you'd rather call me," she whimpered, voice barely even a whisper.

He pulled her away by the shoulders and took a quick scan. There was patronization and pity, and she wondered whether he would take the blame for her failings too. But the pain was more profound than that.

"Sarah. Do ya even like me?"

Of all the things said that night, said ever, that was probably what hurt her the most.

"Yes," was all she managed to say to the man who was, in truth, the love of her life.

"Alright. Then I don't see what the problem is."

He was being reasonable, but there seemed to be a whole other problem she had never acknowledged. Had never even known existed.

And it was a rare, rare thing, that he chose to break first.

"Sarah, bloody fucking-... It kills me to imagine you with someone else."

All in.

As if she could ever find a man like him. As if she could even see other men. They had ceased to exist five months ago.

Just say it.

"I don't want someone else," she said, knowing that games like these should be illegal. But she was not playing anymore. "I only want you. Remember?"

The wall cracked, crumbled a little, exposed some softness in those chocolate eyes.

"Now that's what I like to hear."

Annoying, lovable, cocky bastard. This time, it was her turn to pull him in for a kiss.

He let her take some of his clothes off but then seized the reins from her again by hauling her to the bedroom like a doll. Everything happened right according to a script: she was undressed, tossed on the bed, and he was climbing on top of her before she could even say his name.

He just wouldn't allow her to touch him. She had given him one and a half blowjobs, one handjob, and slapped him two times. They cuddled every now and then. That was basically it.

He was always on top, had fucked her against this and that wall, fucked her with his clothes on half the time. He initiated everything, made her feel good, and so, so subtly prevented her from touching him. Did he even know he was doing it, or was it subconscious?

This would have to change.

Past torture or not, it would change now.

"Simon," she placed a hand on his chest when he was already inserting himself inside her.

"Hm?"

"Can I be on top?"

Something akin to worry flickered in his eyes, but it was only a brief glitch that soon changed into an intrigued look.

"Why not," he tried to hide the remnants of his bafflement, then crashed to the bed beside her. She flicked the table light on as if making it clear that this was the dawn of a new era. He gave it a hasty side eye, then turned his attention back to her.

"Have you ever heard of Adam's first wife?" She asked when she climbed on top of him. God, but he was wide, even though men were supposed to have narrower hips. Simon was a man in his prime, threatening, even when lying under her in a seemingly vulnerable position.

"You givin' me a history lesson too?"

"She was banished from Eden because she wanted to be on top during sex." She tried to seek support from his chest, knowing it would be of minimal help. If he would get too enthusiastic, she might be bucked off.

"I won't be so cruel," he said with a soft smile as he ran hands over her thighs, then up to her waist, hesitantly. Simon never hesitated.

From what she understood, he was far from a footsoldier. The people he killed never even heard he was coming for them with a thick, ugly blade. Perhaps he preferred to fuck like that, too: stealthy and intimate, in the darkness, keep his victim in a sturdy embrace so he could feel how they bled to death.

That light was a threat. Her stare was piercing awareness: also, a threat.

And it was only now, from this position, that she finally caught the wounds. Fresh, ugly holes that should've probably been under bandage still.

"What's this?"

There were not one, but two cavities surrounded by discolored skin, bruised dark purple, virtually black — gunshot wounds that had barely missed his liver. Had the bullets reached the internals, they would've likely been the end of him.

"That's the reason why it took so long."

Shallow breathing was a stupid response from a body already feeling faint. But the next few breaths were just that: an attempt to sustain the flow of oxygen and allow reality to sink in.

The last time Simon had gotten hit was years and years ago: a bullet to the arm, not nearly as severe as an abdominal wound. She thought they used bullet vests at work. Unless he had chosen not to wear it. Her brain was a horrid thing, pushing a clinical sentence out of a psychology journal to her mind.

"The root cause of self-destructive behavior can stem from a mental health condition such as depression: overwhelming sadness and loss of interest."

She had drowned herself in self-pity in her cozy little apartment and taken revenge on a shower gel bottle while Simon had gotten himself wounded, nearly killed. Probably spent the last few weeks in a hospital after the operation in whatever medical facility he had been brought to from the field. Without telling her, stubborn and proud as he was. Lying there, with no visitors, thinking it was better to leave her alone…

She knew he had a death wish, but this… This crushed her soul.

"Soap said I should ask you to marry me instead of trying to prove something by killin' myself."

Shit…

More edgy, dark humour — but her insides shuddered.

The axis of melancholia turned and turned. She hadn't told anyone about them, but Simon had. So that someone could deliver the message if need be. Even the thought of a Scottish jarhead appearing at her door and telling her how Lieutenant Simon Riley had been killed in action made her eyes sting.

Soap was a clever man. Much more intelligent than the one between her thighs.

"What am I to do with you," she whispered while placing the lightest, faintest touch on the stretched skin around the injury. The muscles rippled underneath her fingertips, and a soft hiss drew her attention back to his face, but the discomfort was hidden from view before she could decide whether it was caused by her words or her touch.

"A few ideas come to mind," he spoke with his everlasting cheek, even when healing from both gunshot wounds and a broken heart. "Wanna hear?"

"How about you shut your mouth for a change," she offered, gently enough to make it clear that some things should be fixed with another kind of communication.

When she reached to guide him inside her, he was uncommonly solemn. The dry spell had ended at the door already, but that drowsy, flaming rust of a stare caused the cup to overflow. She was slippery as hell, but he was patient, mostly having a ball watching how she went through trial and error to get him in. The intimacy made her flustered, and that stern expression soon turned into a smug one as she fucked up guiding him in smoothly and with finesse.

And it was wishful thinking that Simon would keep his mouth shut.

"Ya need help with that?"

"Shush," she said, knowing it was futile, a laugh bubbling in her chest as she tried to sound convincing with the command. As if she could order someone like Simon around.

He broke again when the thick of him finally pushed in, slow and steady like a reverie.

"Always so fuckin' tight 'n wet for me…"

"You can't just shut it for one minute, can you," she breathed while gliding down the cock that spread her wide — and God, she had longed for that familiar invasion.

"Not with you, sweetheart."

She had barely even started when she saw how his throat worked, then felt him tighten the grip on her waist.

"Did ya have others while I was away?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The muscles on his jaw tensed, then unwound with a sigh, the heavy-lidded eyes making him look like a man about to pass out.

"Neither did I. Seat's already taken."

The jesting, his laugh, their togetherness — she had missed it so much that it physically hurt.

But at the same time, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. This time with more than just their clothes off. Everything was…amplified, and not just because the lights were on. This was not a lazy Sunday morning fuck under the sheets.

She had been squashed against his chest, but she had never traced the muscles with the tips of her fingers, watched how his nipples grew hard at the contact. She had never quite seen how his jaw clenched, how his abs pulled taut just from a slow roll of her hips. Her hands looked tiny, dainty, when they swept over him – a man made weapon – all corded muscle and uneven skin, tone changing with the map of old and new scars, fresh scratches here and there, ill-healed burn marks and whatnot coating a skin that had seen more than just rough weather. He didn't treat his body like a living, breathing thing; it was simply a tool.

Her past boyfriends had been just that. Boys compared to him. It wasn't just his size, that he was older than her. It wasn't even the map of scars spread over muscles built to withstand and wage war. It was just something so inherently him, a maturity, ripe survival, toughness that came from another age entirely.

She tried to be worthy of him, make love to him in return for all the favors he had so generously given her.

He appeared to enjoy it with the most laid-back attitude she had yet seen on him. She had prepared for intensity, as always, a bit of devilry, but not for that daydreamy stare. That absorbed, blissful look could only be compared to someone easing down on a divan, waiting to be served wine and grapes like they were some Roman deity. Or, in his case, on a lush sofa, waiting for his girl to bring him a scotch after a long day. Maybe take his boots off, and his pants too, kneel and take him in a warm, wet mouth…

God, she was fantasizing about blowing Simon while riding him. But she'd be damned if she didn't serve him that back rub with a happy ending as soon as she had ridden him to the finish line.

"Should do this more often," he noted evenly, echoing her thoughts – and trying to grasp some sliver of control by telling her he liked this. Liked being served.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Can't complain."

And she realized now that she wasn't the one in charge, no. He was looking at her much in the same way as he did when she was up on that stage. Only, he was now both the stage and the pole… and the audience.

Fuck.

Every time she tried to get in control, he did that rear choke on her. Even this turned out to be another counter technique. He was simply enjoying her take her pleasure.

The notion didn't cause fires anymore, other than a flare of licking heat down to where they were joined. Her inner walls had decided that he was a keeper too, gripping him so violently that the tendons on his neck became visible. The callous of his hands traveled upwards to her ribs, and she caught a thought of how he could easily crush her if he wanted to — but he only proceeded to hug her waist with an iron grip to join in the show.

"Keep doin' that and there's gonna be a real mess," he said, voice thick, sending more heat trickle down her spine.

"Isn't that always the case with you?" She was on the brink of laughter now, because it felt stupid that it had taken her so long to enjoy this man to the full.

"Yeah… But you love it. Admit it." He wasn't bulldozing now. Just enticing, eyes glimmering from seeing her so evidently happy.

And she did admit it. She didn't hold back at all. She allowed him to see exactly how much she wanted and admired him, how good he made her feel.

The account started as a steaming, almost pissed-off checklist, a confession rather than a declaration of love. It contained pent-up love and hate, from how he fucked her in the dark to how he drove knives to a wall she didn't even own. But then it turned into a hymn. Nevermind ego; she wanted to stroke his heart and soul. He fucking deserved it.

She told him he was a good man, the best man she had ever known. How she had never loved anyone like this. How she was his, had been from the moment he came to that club. She even told him how big he was and how she had trouble concentrating in class because of it. That she had trouble focusing pretty much anywhere.

How she had cried herself to sleep in his sweatshirt every night after he had left… How she wanted him to never leave again — how she wanted to solve every argument they would have from now on with a hatefuck instead.

At first, he looked at her curiously, probably thinking she was joking. Then his expression turned to a choked-up stun.

“Sarah– Fuckin’ hell…"

Every secret thought from the past five months was laid out before them; every little thing she admired about him from body to soul.

It seemed to be a shock treatment, a little too much all at once, but he was true to his word and didn't complain.

"You're gonna make a grown man cry 'ere."

He didn't cry, but if there was still some invisible wall between them, every last brick was blown apart at this point.

The poker game was finally over, the whole table was cleared of cards and chips and bets.

"Do you even like me… Unbelievable, Simon," she said as a final notion. There was a soft smile, but it wasn't arrogant or vain in her eyes anymore. Just proud, pleased.

God, had she been stupid.

She descended to celebrate, to seal it all with a kiss. He welcomed her with fast allegiance: arms went around her as soon as her breasts pressed against his chest. It was all hunger, but ten times more tender than the starvation at the door. Slow, deliberate, and it went straight to her cunt, gripping him — and of course he responded with a groan, straight into her mouth.

His hips jerked up to meet her, and had she not been in the safe custody of freakishly strong arms, she would've fallen off her ride. And it was high time to investigate whether he had a vulnerable spot in his neck as well.

A sluggish, flat-tongued lick up the column of his throat and some open-mouthed, sloppy kisses sent him contracting from the middle, pushing in, balls deep. She risked a nib, even a soft bite, and eventually, went a bit feral on that neck. It was another jackpot for the both of them.

"I need-.. need you on your back," he had never stuttered like that, out of breath, trying to be polite with a raspy throat. But he wasn't really asking, and it wasn't really mannerly. It was actually a demand.

"Wanna fuck you hard," his voice was so low that it was almost a growl.

Yes.

Yes. Yes, please.

And she knew just the trick that would ensure that he did.

"Hmh. Denied," she said to his neck, and waited for the punishment that was brief and thorough.

"The hell it is."

He rolled over and switched their roles without even pulling out, and just like that, her feeble attempts to be the rebellious first woman turned to dust. But she didn't really mourn the loss. Her Eden resided right here.

"You're such an asshole," she was laughing from mirth and love and the joy of being pressed under that safe weight again.

"Would like to fuck that too someday."

Oh my God..-

She wasn't a blushing lady from Victorian times, but this was a little unexpected, even from him.

"Bet you're even tighter down there… I might just pass out."

Her jaw must've fallen an inch or two, her eyes no doubt shot full of shimmering glee because nothing, absolutely nothing escaped him, and her face was now more than that of a stupefied goldfish.

"I suggest you close that pretty mouth before I-"

She cut him short by sinking nails in his skin — more precisely, his ass. He arched his back with the following thrust, even exposed his throat with a satisfied grunt.

"Lil' wildcat… I could do this all night." It was a pleased chuckle, and her heart hurt — she was constantly calling him annoying, an asshole, a jerk, and he told her she was beautiful, sweet, his girl, or a little wildcat in return…

"Would ya like that?"

She could only nod, time and again, and the sex turned messy, noisy and unhinged, weeks and weeks of frustration and longing dissipating with fucking that spread her thighs wide and made the whole bed wail. Her head hit the frame once or twice before he moved her with an annoyed grunt while she was having a laugh about it, but then she remembered he was injured and that this was a bad idea.

"Your wounds-" she tried to stutter amidst a pounding that had certainly been held back for longer than five months, not to talk of a few weeks.

"I'll live."

She was close, but so was he, and it seemed it was the most difficult decision he had ever made: to choose whether to slow down and grit his teeth or just give into the temptation and spill. A split second, and he chose the latter, and she must've been gawking: all that muscle towering over her went tense, the halved slant between his pecs sheened with sweat.

He came with a long groan and a head rolled back, the tension leaving him in shivers before his head fell back down, chin to the chest. The stare behind those heavy lids was unfocused, heady, drugged.

"Fuck, you're a glorious sight," he said while sweeping a hand over her sternum and closing the giant palm around her throat — nothing brutal or rough, just a little bit of fun that probably shouldn't have made her tighten around him as furiously as it did. It felt like she was one of his victims, held in place by one hand only, as his gaze dropped down to marvel at how his cock disappeared in her and came out all wet. The thrusts were erratic and desperate, the ending throes of ecstasy — must've been a glorious sight indeed.

He wouldn't even pause to enjoy the trip back to earth to the full. He left her, eyes both determined and drunk, cock still half hard, so abruptly that a sad little whimper fled her. But he wasn't gone for long, just settled next to her and gathered her in his arms, wracked with purpose.

She gasped when not one, but two fingers dipped inside, then drove deep to the knuckle.

"Fuck…"

"Will do."

It was a scant substitute for his cock, even with two thick fingers. But he was good, so damn good that it didn't matter.

He did everything right, perfect, precise. Made a mess of the cum that joined the wreckage, played with it, slathered it all over her until she was sticky and wet and the noise was well-nigh filthy.

But even more unbearable was the intimacy, the way her hand found him, the bunching muscles on the forearm, the thumb brushing her clit, his fingers curling in a loose fist while two of them curled inside her…

She wanted to participate, feel the fierce connection that had gained a whole new level. There was a sense of belonging, merging — did he feel it too?

Yeah, he definitely did.

Their gazes were locked, but the depth in his eyes wasn't hunger or will to dominate or even meant for fishing cues, it was pure surrender, actually, it was… love.

"Please," she whispered while he made love to her with both his hand and those eyes, not knowing why she even said that. But he had told her he loved it when she begged, so that's what she did. She would give him every fucking thing he wanted.

The sweltering bronze of his eyes broke a little, his brow gave a minimal tug.

"Simon - Please," the words were a mouthed prayer rather than an audible whisper, and she knew her own gaze was fractured because the warmth in his eyes only spread.

"I got ya," he crushed her in a devout hug while spreading her open, breathed into her ear, all joking gone. It was a solemn pledge, a guarantee.

"Promise I got ya."

This wasn't affection anymore; it was bonding.

She came with a strained whimper in his neck, curled into the hug with thighs trembling and hands grabbing whatever she could: a sheet, a tight muscle. He was an absolute genius for not moving, just stayed inside as her muscles sucked him in with a long, hungry pull that turned into a shudder that went through her whole body.

"Uh, fuh-…" She was cursing, sobbing, coming apart by the seams, and he took it all in, breathing high and wide from witnessing what he was doing to her.

It was a slow and tense shattering but turned messier after: into sloppy writhing and moaning, and he moved gracefully to ride it out with her. An absolute ace at what he did.

He might've said something, cheering her on with That's it or Fuckin' beautiful or something like that. She couldn't hear it, and it didn't really matter anyway. The looting was sweet, and he was the perfect fit, so fulfilling, still inside her after the waves had passed. They were breathing into each other, holding the space, sustaining the present moment just by being entangled together, all limbs and breath and sweat on sweat. When he ultimately pulled out, the hand joined the one wrapped around her, holding her like the most precious thing in the universe.

Her depression was gone, the man supporting her being a better cure for her condition than any kind of antidepressant ever invented by Western medical professionals could ever be. There was no fear, only a terrible will to live, a hunger for love and life.

It felt too lame a thing to say: I love you, in that kind of a moment. But something needed to be said. It wanted to come out like a wild thing from a cage.

"You brought me back to life," she whispered to the pulse on his neck, tasting both their salt, feeling like crying again, but this time for a different reason. "When we met. And every day after."

He was calm and still, frozen in time, but she could feel his heart thundering underneath that chest. Fast and overwhelmed.

"You're good at so much more than just killing people. I hope you know that."

The world could use another flood, but he chose to be the floodgate, chose to fight back mass destruction and death and darkness while looking like it. A hero, if there ever was one.

Simon didn't just take lives. He saved them.

"You saved my life, Simon." She stirred a little to look at him, wholly stripped of all his masks.

"There.. Finally shut you up."

He swallowed, and a steady hand brushed the nape of her neck, dissolving the tension if there still was any left.

"Yeah."

The soft silence covered them like a blanket until he bore even deeper.

"I'm glad you could finally join us."

And she realized he was talking about the Game. Their game. The poker game.

She had been a player while he had been here all along with palms facing upwards, with no cards at all. Just waiting for her to catch on.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"'Atta girl."

The kiss was gentle and slow. He grunted in her mouth, and when she withdrew to look at what was wrong, he opened and closed his jaw, then rubbed the side of his chin that had begun to swell a little.

"You hit hard for a historian."

Oh God.

She felt bad, but not bad enough to suppress a chortle.

"Remarkably hard for a woman. Almost dislocated a jaw," he continued when he saw she was laughing at the whole situation.

"I hope it swells real bad," she chuckled. He cast her a look that said So much for sweetness.

"You're ruthless."

"Do you need ice?"

"A kiss'll do."

She didn't deny him that kiss. She wasn't that ruthless. But after that soft peck, she turned to whisper in his ear.

"You deserved it."

He scoffed lightly, gave her a squeeze. It was the middle of the night, but it felt like the midsummer sun was shining.

"You deserve the best."

"And you're the best?" She asked, while they both already knew he was.

"I try to be."

That was probably the most humble thing she had ever heard him say, but then again, when had his arrogance ever been ego? He had always delivered. He was a soldier, but he was not a killer. He was a protector.

But if he would protect her by leaving her in peace, she would start a war of her own.

"Then don't leave me."

"Never."

Her heart skipped a beat, then fluttered flush against her ribs like an overjoyed bird.

"Is that a promise?"

She caught a smile, cocky, but only because he knew he was the best man for the job. He was best at what he did, and it had nothing to do with games.

"It's a vow."

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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My darling Ange, I climb into thy askhole and kindly request some pegging Aemond content. Doesn’t matter if he’s full on submissive or a power bottom, your choice, i’ll take both with open arms and a prepped strap! Much love😽

HERE YOU GO, BOO <3 ENJOY

Warnings: Smut, references to past unpleasant sexual experiences, mention of loss of virginity, pegging (lol) Word count: ~2.5k

Aemond was not sexually experienced when he married her. His expedition with Aegon to the pleasure house in the Street of Silk on this thirteenth name day had been enough to kill his curiosity with regards to carnal acts of the flesh. There’d been so much skin on display, noises and movements he didn’t understand, and not an affectionate gaze shared between anyone he laid eyes on. He’d turned on his heels and run, deciding from that day forward that that was simply something not meant for him.

He was twenty when his mother, encouraged by his grandsire, had decided it was time for him to marry. He had no thoughts on the matter, accepting that it was something expected of him as part of his duties as a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. The match chosen for him was a young woman, nineteen years of age, of noble birth and from a House that would prove advantageous in securing Aegon’s claim to the throne

She was pretty enough, he supposed. Most surprising was that she didn’t flinch away from his appearance. She seemed to genuinely delight in his company, asking questions about him out of actual interest rather than forced politeness. He finds himself becoming excited for their impending nuptials when he catches sight of her in the library, engrossed in a book. She is fascinating to him.

His lips are cold and chaste against hers when they share their first kiss after exchanging vows in the Sept. Hers are soft and warm and they press to his with enthusiasm. He pulls away, wide-eyed, heart hammering wildly in his chest as she beams up at him. She’d actually wanted to kiss him, and it seemed like she’d enjoyed it.

It then dawns on him what is to be expected of him after the wedding. In the lead up to the ceremony, his mind had been so preoccupied that he’d never stopped to consider the bedding. His mind travels back to the sights and sounds of the brothel and dread gnaws away at his insides. How could he possibly subject her to that? She is too good for that and even if that were not the case, he doesn’t believe he has it in him.

Aemond stands rigid and uncomfortable when they retire to their marital chambers following the wedding feast. He hadn’t touched his food and had barely spared her a glance during their first dance together as husband and wife, his nerves were too great.

Gently, she reaches up a hand to cup his cheek, coaxing him to look at her. “What troubles you husband?"

The concern that overcomes her delicate features, coupled with her addressing him as “husband” causes his heart to flutter, and shame burns hotly in his cheeks as he makes his confession. “I-I cannot bed you.”

“Then you don’t have to.” She says softly. “Not until you are ready.”

He is overwhelmed by emotion and affection for her. Nobody has ever treated him with such care before. He stares at her for a moment, the tension dissipating from him as he relaxes his shoulders, before surging forward to capture her lips with his own.

They lay tangled together that night, their mouths meeting in urgency into the small hours, and that is as far as they dare to go. Aemond is thankful his position as second son negates the need for a bedding ceremony or for the sheets to be checked for evidence of his wife’s purity the following morning.

As the weeks press on, the urge to do more than just kiss his wife plagues Aemond. As he hovers above her, her doe-eyed gaze is filled with adoration and he can’t help but think how different this experience feels compared with what he witnessed in Flea Bottom all those years ago. She is warm and kind, she makes him feel safe, and she looks oh so beautiful with her hair fanned out across the pillows beneath her head. He can scarcely believe he ever thought of her as just pretty.

He reasons that the urges he feels for her are not depraved because he is in love with her, and so a month after their marriage, it is finally consummated. Aemond’s jaw goes slack when he first pushes inside of her, her tight, wet heat enveloping him in a way that causes his vision to fog and his mind to empty. Her body slots against his so perfectly and she feels so good, he is almost annoyed he has forced them both to wait this long; they could have been doing this - this - the entire time.

From that point onward Aemond seizes every opportunity to be intimate with her, she is like an addiction to him and he cannot get enough. He is thrilled that his feelings towards her are reciprocated and she is as eager to please him as he is her. They spend hours exploring each other’s bodies, finding out what each other’s likes and dislikes are, while making use of some of the more salacious reading material within the Red Keep’s library to educate themselves on how best to pleasure each other.

When Aemond is tired and sore from training, but still wants to indulge in the intimacy that only his wife can provide, his favourite thing to do is lay top to tail with her, his head resting on the soft flesh of her inner thigh as he licks lazily between her legs, bringing her to peak as she rests at the opposite end of him, driving him to the apex of his own pleasure with her mouth.

They are engaging in this activity when it first happens - her hand moves to cup his sac as her mouth works up and down his length and her finger accidentally grazes the entrance to his rear, at least he thinks it’s an accident. He jerks away, startled, and she apologises profusely, but there is no denying the jolt that the sensation of her touching there had sent straight to the tip of his cock.

“Do it again.” He rasps.

She smiles, circling her finger around his puckered hole as she takes him back into her mouth and when he eventually climaxes he feels he may black out from the force of it.

They have been married six months before she finally works up the courage to breach the tight ring of muscle and insert her finger. The sensation is foreign to Aemond at first and he tenses up, unsure if such a violation is something he really enjoys. That is until she curves her digit and brushes against a spot deep inside of him that causes his stones to tighten in a way that makes his erection throb. His grip on her hair tightens and as he finally releases it is with such potency that she pulls away coughing and spluttering as it unexpectedly hits the back of her throat. After that it becomes a regular part of their shared oral indulgences and Aemond has no complaints.

Another half a year passes and she comes to him in their chambers one evening, a mischievous glint in her eye and a cloth wrapped package in her hands.

“I thought we might try something new.” She says.

“And what might that be?” He eyes her curiously, as she unwraps the cloth covered object.

It is a phallic shaped object, made of black leather, with two, long cotton strips attached to the end. She places it into his hands and when he gives it an experimental squeeze, he can feel that the leather has been stuffed rigid with fabric - more cotton, he guesses.

Aemond raises an eyebrow in question and she blushes before speaking.

“You know how I use my fingers to…well…when we are..you know…”

“Yes, I know.” He cuts in with a wry smile, putting her out of her misery.

She looks gratefully up at him. “Well, I thought we might try something more…if you are open to it?”

“Oh.” He says. “Oh!” Realisation dawns as he looks at the object he now holds. “So what exactly would you do with…this?”

“Well, Aegon says that-”

“Aegon?! Did you get this from Aegon?” His voice raises, yanking his hands back as though he has been scolded, allowing the leather shaft to fall to the floor with a dull thud.

“No.” She responds, stepping forward to gently take hold of his forearms, in an attempt to soothe him. “I asked Aegon for advice, but I had this specially made for us.”

“We will not be engaging in any depravity suggested by my drunken half-wit brother!” Aemond’s nostrils flare with outrage. “And that,” He points towards the offending item, “Is going nowhere near me.”

She nods in understanding and they speak no more of it. Their bedroom activities resume as normal over the coming weeks.

She has two fingers inside of him, her tongue lapping along the length of his shaft as he fucks her with his tongue, when the memory of what she’d shown him crosses his mind again. It sends a shiver of excitement down his spine and before he can stop himself he is propping himself up on his elbows to ask about it.

“What you showed me…do you still have it?”

She stops what she is doing and smirks at him. “Why, yes, dearest husband. What makes you ask?”

His breath is shaky as she pumps lazily at him. “D-do you think we could try it?”

Wordlessly she lets go of him and crawls to the furthest corner of the bed to rummage beneath it. She produces the familiar fabric package, pulling it open to reveal the object Aemond had requested alongside a small cork stoppered bottle of oil.

Aemond swallows thickly, apprehension bleeding together with his excitement. “Will you talk me through it? I want to understand what’s going to happen.”

She gives an encouraging nod. “Well, first, you need to be in a position that’s comfortable. I am told it’s best for you to be on your back, with your backside slightly elevated.”

He lifts his hips to accommodate the pillows that she takes from the head of the bed and places underneath him. In spite of his nudity, he feels oddly exposed by the unusual angle he finds himself laid at. Mercifully, she continues on with her explanation, sparing his discomfort from evolving into mortification.

“This.” She picks up the leather member and uses the fabric strips to fasten it around her hips. “Ties around me. It will allow me to thrust into you as you do to me.”

Aemond’s breath hitches at this, his cheeks flushing hotly. There is a part of him that feels humiliated by the idea of allowing himself to be used, penetrated in the way that a woman is, yet at the same time it has his erection throbbing as it lays flat against his lower abdomen, aching for attention.

“I’ll need to ease the passage of entry.” She explains, holding up the bottle of oil and uncorking it. “Which is where this comes in. Spreading this along the phallus and around your hole will lessen the discomfort.”

Aemond’s breathing picks up, unable to stop himself from stroking at his prick as her fingers work to lubricate his rear, before she spreads a generous slick of oil along the makeshift shaft.

“Stop that.” She chides softly, lightly smacking his hand away from him. “If you peak before we start there is no point in doing it.”

Aemond whines in frustration, his composure crumbling. “Get on with it…please.”

She tuts at him. “Patience. I must prepare you first.”

His eye flutters closed as she pushes her index finger inside of him, dragging it back and forth experimentally. He is unable to contain his moan of pleasure as she slowly adds a second, a slight scissoring motion working to stretch him wider. Droplets of pearly essence secrete from the swollen tip of him, dripping onto his stomach as she enters a third.

“Finally you’re ready for me.” She purrs seductively, withdrawing her fingers and pressing the tip of the phallus against the slight gape of his ring.

She pushes forward slowly and Aemond’s body instinctively stiffens, it is too much, too invasive. He grips the sheets so hard that his knuckles turn white with the effort.

“Breathe for me, my love.” She coaxes. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

He takes a deep breath, his body going lax as she is finally seated fully within him. She stills, allowing him to adjust as he gets used to the intrusive feel of it. He has never felt so full. The sight of her above him like this, inside of him, sets his heart racing.

“Gods…” He croaks. “Move. Please.”

She obliges, slowly dragging her hips back before pushing them forward again. She repeats this motion over and over, each time he feels the spot inside of him brushed ever so slightly, but it is not enough.

With a snarl, he sits up, pulling her to him and fucking himself against her, the thrust of his pelvis against hers infinitely more brutal than the pace she’d set.

“Eager, are we?” She says with a giggle, clearly happy to indulge him.

Aemond’s only response is a wanton moan, the tip of his erection an angry looking red as it is pressed between them, spreading slick across both their abdomens.

She leans back, taking hold of it and stroking it in time with each thrust. Aemond’s eye rolls back, the pressure building in his balls and the base of his spine reaching a fever pitch as he continues to work himself against his wife’s marital aid.

As he feels himself drawing nearer, his pace falters, becoming erratic and sloppy. Each blow to the rough patch deep inside of him pushes him closer to oblivion. It seems that she senses it too, speeding up her ministrations over his member.

As Aemond topples over the edge he is certain his soul has left this mortal coil. He lets out a strangled cry, a sound he is unaware he is even capable of making, as white hot sparks flash behind his eye. His entire body goes rigid, gripping onto her for dear life as he paints them both with his spend.

She releases him and carefully pulls out when he starts to jerk against her with oversensitivity. He collapses back onto the mattress, succumbing to exhaustion, breathing heavily.

Discarding the toy to one side, she cuddles into his side. “How was that, husband?”

“Mmmm…I saw stars.” He murmurs. “Give me a moment to recover and I shall ensure that you see them too.”

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sunsents · 1 year

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neteyam sully - drunken confessions

I saw a fic where yn gets drunk and confesses to Neteyam, but I truly have no idea whose it was nor was I able to find it. For that, I apologize. If you're that author, or if anyone knows who that is author is please tag them in the comments so that I can give the right credits.

➵ summary: Fed up with your platonic feelings towards Neteyam Sully, you decide to let loose during a festival. Never would you have guessed your drunken state would decide to take matters into her own hands and deal with your feelings personally.

➵ pairing: (aged!up)neteyam x fem!reader(no use of y/n)

➵ word count: 3.8k

➵ warnings: alcohol consumption, one kiss, fluff

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

"Who wants another kiss!"

Yelling to no one in particular, you slur your words together as your drink sloshes in the wooden cup - darn whoever let you have it in the first place. When you bring the bowl to your lips, you frown. "Who..." You blink, though it’s obscenely uncoordinated. "Who drank my drink?"

Neteyam doesn't know what's worse; the fact that you think someone would dare to drink out of your cup, or that you have no idea it was you who sabotaged the evening by spilling the contents of your drink.

"Bro, you have got to try this!"

Lo'ak holds two bowls filled with something - the fumes hit your nose and your face pinches in disgust. It's pungent and positively putrid—no sane Na’vi would look at the liquid and immediately think ‘I’m going to put this in my mouth.’

You survey the boy with questioning eyes, then scan the clearing.

Tsireya was finally of age and appointed as Tsahik, which prompted a lively celebration filled generously with roaring music, food, and alcohol. Ronal, the previous clan tsahik, had decided to leave her place for the younger woman to spend her days enjoying the fruits of domestic bliss with her elder husband, Tonowari.

You're delighted, of course. As is anyone in the clan. Tsireya had been your closest friend since birth when she pulled on your kuru and you pulled on hers - grabby hands aching to get ahold of anything and possibly everything as a youngling.

Lo'ak is beaming as he looks at you, it's almost blinding. "Eh, why not." you relent, taking the bowl from his hand.

The boisterous atmosphere is accompanied by a majestic fire that lights up the eclipse sky. People are dancing and having fun in the golden glow of it all - everything is so warm that you're feeling heaps more open-minded than at any other time.

Lo'ak smirks at you before downing his drink in one gulp. Impressed, you follow suit. The liquid burns your throat and you can't help but cough, had you bitten off more than you could chew?

You were of age, no one would be there to chastise you, a grown woman, for drinking. The only worry that plagued your mind was embarassing yourself.

Whether you liked it or not, Neteyam Sully would always be there to catch you in your most embarassing moments to poke fun. This time around would surely be nothing different.

You huff, not allowing him to consume your thoughts. No, you were going to enjoy yourself tonight and celebrate your best friend's success.

Determined, you march up to the large table where drinks are being presented. "Lo'ak," you call out, firm. "I bet I can outdrink your scrawny ass."

You did outdrink Lo'ak. Then Tikanu, and Rotxo. Perhaps Aonung was also involved at some point, and then some.

You can’t think straight when you're drunk off of your teal-blue ass and swaying gently to the music. It's consuming and frankly, you don't have the decorum to care about the quality of your moves. It's a sway of hips, a clash of limbs - the closing of your eyes and the humming of your throat. Other people are no better, you're sure. Lo'ak passed out hours ago, then got found by a very angry Tsireya. The man was pure pleas and apologies, even mushier when drunk.

"____?"

The deep treble of his voice replaces the music you feel deep in your bones. "Neteyam!"

You giggle obscenely and fuck, sober you is going to be so embarrassed tomorrow. But drunk you is a piece of shit - a force of Eywa that cannot be reckoned with. With your hands in the air, you lunge into Neteyam's arms. He catches you with an oomph.

"What-" he clears his throat. "Are you drunk?"

You frown as you clumsily part from him. "No, I'm ____. “

As he waits for your next drunken action, you manage to think of a joke rather than say it. It’s funny enough to make you laugh loudly, but not so much that you verbally announce it to the man before you.

Neteyam merely looks at you with amusement.

"Sorry, Made a joke..." you mumble with a giggle. "T'was funny."

He waits expectantly.

You blink at him. "Pretty..."

He chuckles lowly and crosses his arms on his chest. “I think we should get you home, hm?”

In your hazed mind, Neteyam has a halo around him. With feathers in his hair, fresh tattoos on his smooth skin, and a strong frame covered in accessories, he's glowing like the morning sun. You shout excitedly, feeling all too happy for him. "I'm gonna kiss you, I think."

At least you had the decency to warn the poor man before you grab his cheeks with wide palms and smash your lips onto his. It's vulgar and wet, you feel him freeze in your hold. You swear you hear him groan, melting forward before he quickly snaps back.

"Oh-kay, you're definitely drunk. Come one, up up, we're taking you home." He’s about to lift you with an arm behind your knees and the small of your back before you push his chest.

"No!" You whine, then turn around all too suddenly. Your vision scrambles to catch up with the sudden change. "Who wants another kiss!"

When a huddle of men perk up in interest - all drunk and ravenous, Neteyam lets out a growl that surprises himself. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, then breathes out.

Ketu'ney, a clan warrior known for his rich plays in hunting parties steps forward. "I would," he smirks, all too proud.

"Oh! Me too, me too!" Kiri, drunk and bouncing on the soles of her feet, comes forward.

"Everyone gets a kiss!" You declare happily.

"Oh no you don't."

Neteyam grabs you by the hips and slings you over his shoulder like a sack. "We're going to your kelku, and you're putting your ass to bed."

If you were any less drunk, you would be embarrassed by the position he has you in. But you're not, dramatically waving to your friend as a parting gesture. They wave back just as enthusiastically, a little confused but spirited nonetheless.

You feel the buzz of Neteyam's chuckle on your thighs; he's got them pressed to his chest so you don't slide down. Slung over his shoulder, you decide to enjoy the view of his back rather than complain. "Nice," you smirk, peering down further.

"Are you looking at my ass, ____?" Neteyam asks, entirely amused.

"No, it's looking at me."

Neteyam barks out a laugh - it bubbles from his chest and rasps out of his throat. Your heart flutters just a little, he had such an attractive laugh. His face was entirely his mother, and so was his determination, strong mind, and free spirit. Yet he also had the stubbornness and the laugh of his father. You knew it would be a combination that would cause your downfall.

You are falling, you realize. Neteyam has deposited you on your nest like some weight he needs to take care of. You groggily look around and realize you're in your kelku.

Inhaling deeply, you let out a huff of air with lidded eyes. "Can I go to sleep now, please and thank you,"

Neteyam sits down next to you with a soft hand on your shoulder. Through your hazed view, you realize he's smiling. "Alright sweet girl, let's sleep this off."

You nod, looking around for no particular reason. The kelku feels all the more warm and homely with Neteyam in it, or perhaps the alcohol in your system pushes you to entertain a false domestic fantasy with the only man you've ever pined after.

He smooths down your hair gently, "If you feel like puking, just tap my shoulder." He gets up and grabs an old wooden bin, then sets it beside the nest. "Water..." he mutters to himself.

You lazily watch as he moves around the room in search of something. With narrowed eyes, he comes back with a bowl of water.

You reach out, (way too off in your aim, Neteyam has to guide your hand) and slowly gulp the liquid down before collapsing. "Feel so bad...ugh," you drawl off, smacking your lips as sleep dances around your lips. "I wanna go swim, I think."

You feel him settle beside you in the nest. His arm reaches back and pulls you into his warmth. As he traces a plethora of shapes on your skin, the urge to close your eyes becomes undeniable. "Just go to sleep ___, you'll feel better in the morning."

"No," you whine, fighting for consciousness, "Wanna...fine."

Promptly closing your eyes, you turn the other way and huff into the silence.

When sunlight invades through the flap of your kelku, you have the audacity to mumble a 'fuck off'.

Sharp pain shoots through your spine and lingers in your head. The intensity of it throbs your scalp and muffles your ears. Groaning, you try to get a grasp of why the fuck you feel like dying.

Lo'ak, alcohol, Neteyam.

Slowly but surely, the events come back and you regret welcoming them into your consciousness. You frantically look around, eyes landing on Neteyam across the marui, dicing fruit and mincing some kind of herb. His ears flicker, golden eyes darting to your face. "Good morning to you too," he smiles, sitting comfortably on the back of his heels, his strong thighs supporting his weight and looking entirely like his father.

You're hot - the realization sinks your heart until it hits rock bottom. Embarrassment floods through you like a tidal wave and oh Eywa - you want nothing more than to curve into yourself until you become a small pebble and get lost in the ocean.

You had thrown yourself at him like some desperate fool, which forced him to take responsibility for your stupid, drunk self—Eywa knows what embarassing secrets you told him. You remember the major events - being offered drinks, challenging unlucky bystanders, dancing, and trying to kiss anything and anyone. The rest and the in-betweens are mind-boggling blurs because your headache won't let you think.

"Morning," you croak, then reach for the bowl of water on the side of your nest. The cold liquid tastes like gold running down your throat - when had water ever tasted this good? You moan involuntarily, gulping it down like a quenched woman left in the dune for days. The liquid dribbles down your chin and you're far too thirsty to care.

When you put the bowl down, you're even more embarrassed than before by the look Neteyam gives you. He grins, "How are you feeling, more water?"

You're a little shy now, smiling and looking away. "No, thank you," you murmur, folding your hands on your lap primly. The properness of the action almost makes you laugh—it was only yesterday you were going around kissing people, throwing yourself onto Neteyam, and wreaking havoc across the village. It's almost humbling; you have no idea how to bounce back from the hole you've buried yourself in. Neteyam is Toruk Makto's son, and lest the sky people hadn’t disturbed the peace, he would be Olo'Eyktan of Omaticaya. His status is humbling enough that you fight the urge to bow your head down and apologize for the inconvenience.

But you don't. Not when you've known him for seven years (more of admired him from a distance, with the occasional small talk because of obligation - on his part, you were friends with half his family, after all) and saw each other enough to be called acquaintances. Though, you would always be Lo'ak's friend who encourages dumb decisions, Tsireya's other close friend besides Rotxo and Pewli, or Kiri's weaving partner. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Ma ___?" he addresses, and it takes too much of you to control your flushed state.

"Oh," you make a surprised noise, "Sorry, my head hurts."

He gathers his trinkets and squats next to your nest, "Here."

"What is it?" you tilt your head, nostrils flaring. "Smells weird."

"It's medicine for your hangover," he quips, getting impatient.

You scrunch your face in disgust, "No way I'm drinking that, it smells like Ilu waste."

"Will you just drink it," he sighs, shoving the cup to your face.

You're quick to turn away, mussed morning hair flying with your movement. "No,"

"Stop being so stubborn," - you turn your head to the other side when he makes an effort to follow your lips with the cup. "You're worse than Tuk," he grumbles, fighting for your submission. With a final huff, he grabs your face, smushes your cheeks together, and drains the liquid down the opening your puffed lips prompted. It seems practiced, this action; you can only guess how persistently Tuk fights against medicine she doesn't particularly enjoy. You choke, having no choice but to swallow the horrible abomination.

"You're like a baby," he grunts, "that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"It was," you croak. "Blech,"

Neteyam chuckles all the same, then stands up to wash the used cups and bowls. Guilt squeezes your chest, not only because he was washing your dishes and taking care of you, but because you were enjoying it. You were having a glimpse of what life could be with Neteyam - waking up to him making you breakfast, taking care of you when you make idiotic decisions, watching him carry out household tasks like it's the most natural thing.

"Neteyam," you call out. "Please, you don't have to do that.".

He makes no indication of stopping his tidying anytime soon - tidying your kelku, like he also lived here and had to have it uncluttered. You slowly get up, conscious of your headache that seems to be dulling away, then slowly patter your way to him. Ear tips catching fire, you put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Please."

He stops his cleaning and crosses his arms. "This place is a mess, ____. "

"I wasn't expecting guests," you grumble, putting away the utensils in their appointed baskets. "Look, I want to apologize for yesterday."

"It's- it's fine. Really," he shakes his head.

"No, it isn't fine. I made a huge fool of myself - Eywa, I'm so embarrassed." you groan. "You even took care of me which is just so nice. You really didn't have to,"

He smirks, "I couldn't let you roam around drunk, kissing everyone on sight."

With a painful groan, you hide your face between your palms. It seems Neteyam was determined to rub salt in your wound.

"You're fine, ____. " he drawls only a little to emphasize that you really were fine, because he made sure you were, crossing his arms and facing you fully. "Everyone else was just as drunk, Kiri could barely hold her head up."

You nod, guilt still lingering behind your shoulder, and peering at Neteyam. In your checklist of 'things to apologize for', the next line was going to be a dreadful experience - located right next to apologize to anyone else you possibly might have kissed. Taking a deep breath, the words. "I'm sorry I kissed you," is blurted in one breath.

You watch Neteyam's ear twitch, and his eyes widen. With a soft chuckle, he takes his sweet time coming up with a response. Your heart pounds in your chest and you hope he can't hear it as well - which was doubtful since it was beating for him. His laugh sinks the soles of your feet down into the marui floor, readying to plummet you down when he eventually rejects you and tells you it was like kissing his baby sister's weird friend. Because while you had your fair share of friends, Neteyam always caught you at your worst.

You have to shake your head for the images to stop playing; when you were talking to Kiri, who was blocked out of view by a huge palm tree and thus, made you appear as though you were having casual conversation with yourself - Neteyam and Lo'ak were passing by, and were kind enough to ignore you out of pity, (Lo'ak laughed about it for days until his mother had to intervene). Or when horrid-smelling seaweed got stuck to your Iknimaya outfit during the ceremony, which caused the stench to stick to your skin during the festival. When Neteyam approached you to celebrate your adulthood, he was holding his nose with watery eyes.

Worst of all, whenever he was around, you became this clumsy, uncoordinated mess. You were either breaking something, tripping on something, or saying something you shouldn't be saying.

Thankfully, Neteyam's voice seems to stop the images. "You do not have to apologize for that," he winces, narrowing his eyes while averting his gaze.

You gulp, "Oh, okay." your voice sounds unlike your own. "Why?"

"You were drunk and unconscious of your actions," he says firmly.

"But I overstepped my boundaries," you continue, fighting your case.

Neteyam gives you a look that you can't decipher, and it eats away at your insides. He's been giving you these looks for years now, settling into your soul and engraving it so whenever you close your eyes, you could see his expression.

"You, kissing me, is a boundary I'm willing to overstep. Why can't you realize that?"

You gawk at him. His words don't settle in for another five seconds, but when the implications start rushing in, your heart squeezes with the most welcomed pain. "W-what?"

Netetam huffs a frustrated breath, then pinches the bridge of his nose. With squeezed eyes, he sits on his hunches. He says your full name, and you have no choice but to kneel down and sit in front of him as well.

"I have been trying to court you for 3 years now but you're one difficult woman to impress."

You would argue that the sound you let out is inhumane. You choke on your breath. "Excuse me?" you try to process his words. "What- I had no idea!"

"No idea? ____, why the hell would I look after your drunk ass if I wasn't the slightest bit interested. I slept here, I made you breakfast, and I'm tidying your home! All to prove that I can provide for you." Neteyam sighs, and you lower your ears at the unfamiliar ‘hell’ word. He seems frustrated and you can only hope it isn't at you.

He notices your demeanor and softens, gently grabbing your hand. "My love, I weaved you gifts, I always offered you the biggest plays I caught, I invited you to eat with my family several times, and I even got Tonowari's approval!"

While what Neteyam says is inherently true, it holds some falsehood - and this frustrates you. He can't put the blame on you entirely, and you realize that his warrior ego is far too big for him to admit his attempts were simply not enough.

"No," you say lowly. "The gifts you weaved me always had colors of cordiality on them. You offered my entire family food. And you didn't invite me to eat with your family, Lo'ak, Kiri and Tuk did." You count as you list them on your finger.

Neteyam flushes a deep color that compliments his cheeks beautifully, and for a moment you forget the entirety of the conversation. "I asked my siblings to invite you since you were closer to them - I was scared you would refuse if I asked. And whatever do you mean, cordial colors?"

"You know, the colors that indicate a platonic friendship."

He gawks at you. "I don't know of this!"

"Neteyam, you've been in our clan for years, surely, you've heard it somewhere."

"No!" he gets a little panicked. "I just thought you liked those colors, you always wear them."

"Because these were given to me by my friends!" you touch your jewelry for added effect.

Neteyam falls back from his position clumsily, holding his forehead. The view makes you soften entirely - you never thought you'd see Neteyam, always so calm, calculated, and graceful, panicking and awkward like this. He seems like he isn't in control of his actions and feelings which is evidently making him frustrated even more.

You crawl towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder soothingly. He flinches slightly at the touch, and you can see his nape starting to flush a deep color. His body is hot beneath your fingertips, and you can almost feel it thrumming. "Eywa, I'm such a failure. I asked everyone how to court you properly and they gave me these...answers. And I did all of them. All of them- you didn't even blink in my direction - you,"

He looks at you, eyes blown wide. "You turn me into this clumsy, awkward fool. I hate not being in control,"

“Aww,” you coo, heart soaring. Taking a deep breath, you try to calm down to provide him some sort of comfort. "Neteyam, I like you too. I've liked you ever since you and your family came seeking uturu."

He gasps, "That long? Why didn't you ever-"

"For the same reasons you haven't." you sigh. "I'm always making a fool of myself whenever you're around. Take last night for example,"

Neteyam smiles fondly. "I thought you were adorable, clinging onto me, checking my ass out."

You groan, hitting his arm softly. "I thought you liked me. You don't tease the one you like,"

Neteyam grabs your hand before you can retract it. He pulls you forward until you're almost kissing him. Almost. "Oh, but I think you do," he smirks.

Face hot, tail twitching, you suck in a breath.

"So, you like me, and I know I love you,"

You gasp, not breaking eye contact.

"We wasted all those years for nothing." he huffs, "I could have had you much sooner than this and saved us all the trouble. I shouldn't have asked my dad and Lo'ak for courting advice, they're helpless."

You giggle, putting a hand on his chest. The joy you're feeling is inexplicable, you feel it lingering down to your feet and floating you. His hand covers yours, squeezing it softly. "Yeah, you probably shouldn't have."

"Aren't you demanding," he grins, gaze fluttering down to your lips. "I will court you the right way from now on,"

"You should ask Rotxo,"

He furrows his forehead, "Rotxo? You're joking!"

You swat at his arm with your free hand. "No, I'm not. Rotxo is more romantic than all of you combined. Don't you see how flustered Kiri gets whenever he's around? The man knows what he's doing."

"Are you purposefully trying to make me jealous right now?" Neteyam grumbles, catching your free hand. He presses it to his heart, and you hope this will become a practiced gesture as well. "Don't talk about other men this close to my lips, yawne."

You roll your eyes, though your blush is undeniable. "Jealous already?"

"Always," Neteyam whispers, pressing your palm on his heart. The breath he lets out hits your lips.

"Neteyam, kiss me before I lose my mind."

And he does, softly until it's no longer the lingering touch of his plush lips but the two of you, grinning from ear to ear, unable to kiss due to your uncontrollable smiles.

#avatar twow #avatar the way of water #neteyam #neteyam imagine #neteyam x reader #avatar #fluff #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x you #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam fluff #avatar neteyam #neteyam sully fluff

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blakeswritingimagines · 10 months

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Grumpy Aemond with Sunshine You

Being grouchy is not always easy for him, especially when dating a ray of sunshine that is you. He feels you have the patience of the Mother herself. However, he has found that he has become a little bit of a better person since being with you. He is learning to see things from your perspective and, dare I say, finds himself enjoying life a little more when he is in your presence. Despite his outward coldness, he has found himself opening up to you and enjoying each other's company immensely.

Dating you is an endless source of pride for him. The very fact that a beautiful, radiant young person like you would design to give him the time of day is flattery most men only dream of. There's nothing quite like hearing your laugh or getting lost in those big adorable eyes. You're complete opposites, but it's that very contrast that makes you work. You brighten his days and he brings a bit of his sharpness to keep you on your toes. He couldn't imagine being with anyone else.

It can be challenging at times. He is a man of serious temperament, but you are the opposite. You are a lovely soul full of compassion, and a delight to be around. However, your personalities can clash occasionally and it can be difficult to see things from each other's perspective. But ultimately, you love and respect one another deeply and your differences are part of what makes your relationship special.

You may sometimes drive him a bit mad with your positive outlook on everything and your inability to take no for an answer, he has also grown to admire these attributes of yours. You always look at the bright side of things and never give up. While he may not always be the most pleasant to be around, you always stay by his side. He has also found himself wanting to be a better person for you, one who is capable of sharing her optimism and enthusiasm. Despite your differences, he is slowly realizing that your positive nature has the power to bring out the best in him.

He has found that he no longer has to put up his defensive walls as much. No longer does he have to fear that others will see through his facade. With you, he feels free to be himself and let his guard down. It feels good. And, yes, he truly does enjoy seeing your smile and feeling your warmth.

He has found that, with you, he can be at ease. When you are around, any worries that plague his mind seem to dissipate. He truly feels at peace when he is with you. You bring a sense of calm and comfort that he has never before felt.

Your relationship has also allowed him to find joy in things he may not have otherwise cared for. He was not particularly fond of music or dancing before. These were not things that interested him. Yet, when he sees the light dancing in your eyes as you listen to your favorite singer or dances with the lightness of a cloud, he can't help but be affected by such beauty. It gives him a sense of joy, a sense of life that he had not experienced before. To experience that with you is quite something.

He has also found that he has become more open with his feelings toward others. Before, he may have kept his feelings bottled up and hidden away. Yet, seeing the way that you are so open with your feelings and your affections has allowed him to also share his own feelings. This is why sometimes he finds himself being a bit more… gentle with his siblings, his nephews, and even strangers.

As a somewhat grumpy person, he has found that his love language is often acts of service. By performing tasks for his loved ones, he shows them that he cares about them and is willing to go the extra mile for them. He also appreciates quality time, and when spending time with his loved ones, he tries to make that time special and meaningful. He does not always express his love through words or gifts.

He has also found that he is much more patient than he used to be. He used to think that patience was a waste of time, and he would become more and more frustrated as the moments passed. Yet, now he has learned to see the value in waiting, in savoring the moments. To feel the joy of a long-awaited reunion with you. To see the light in your eyes as you see him again. To wait for the right moment to say an important word. He never would have appreciated that before he met you.

Meeting you has shown him that love is possible. It isn't some abstract concept for him anymore. It is a real and tangible feeling, one that can be felt and experienced in the face of darkness and despair. Your love has given him new hope. It has reminded him that the world is not as cold and cruel as he once thought. He no longer feels so alone and isolated in this world. He no longer feels like he is fighting a losing battle alone, he has found the strength to fight on, to find joy in this world once more.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #hotd #hotd headcanon #house of the dragon headcanons

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yizukikhons · 4 months

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Gothica Graysons (Title to be determined)

So this story is based off of this post where Danny learns acrobatics from the Graysons. This story is quickly developing into a multi-chap fic, just for the Circus Gothica arc. I don't know where this will go afterwards-i don't know enough about batman-but anyone is willing to take this story and use it for their own story!

The Graysons had been a part of this Circus for a while now. They can't quite remember when they left Haly's circus or why. Something happened. Something....

"Performing death defying stunts without the aid of a net...!"

"Dad!"

They had joined circus Gothica. It was an odd choice, their aesthetic dark and edgy in a way that they didn't really appreciate. It was boring too, the days blending into one another in a way that left them uncertain of how long they had been with the troupe. The other members looked just as bored as them too, their eyes glazed over in the same red haze that plagued their own vision. Not to mention the ringmaster was a total ass. Why they stayed....

you will listen to me minions

Well, it wasn't like they knew where their old troupe was, much less had the time to find them. So even though she and her husband didn't like it, they didn't exactly have anywhere to go.

They did though. There was someone they needed to find....

you'll always be our special little robin...

Mary shook herself as she and her husband got ready for their act. It really was terribly boring here, they didn't even remember changing into their costumes....

That didn't matter. They had an audience to entertain.

"Presenting! Here from beyond the veil to give you a ghoulish performance, the late Flying Graysons!"

That was their cue. Mary plastered a smile onto her face as she and John swung into the arena, flipping over each other in a practiced routine that they knew by heart. The audience beneath roared in excitement as they passed between trapezes, flying over and under each other, dancing through the air effortlessly. It was routine at this point, even if it felt like there was a strange gap in their routine, like there should be someone else...

Mary's eyes caught on a boy.

There wasn't anything special about him. He looked like any other normal teenager. The only thing that made him stand out was that he wasn't dressed like all the others in the audience, his white and red shirt popping out starkly against the sea of black shirts and silver spikes. There wasn't anything noteworthy about him.

But his appearance still made her pause mid-leap, hovering for just a moment in the air in the way only a ghost a true acrobat could, drinking in his raven black hair and ice blue eyes. Eyes that were swiftly clouding over with the same red haze that still tinged her vision. For the first time in a while Mary felt dread pool in her gut in a way that she hadn't felt since she was alive performing their routine with her son for the very first time.

Her son...her son?

"Robin..." she whispered, staring into the red eyes of her boy. Yes, how could she have forgotten? Robin, their son.

***

Sam regretted going to Circus Gothica.

That was never something she would've thought she'd say, but never say never and all that.

"Danny!"

It was just supposed to be a fun outing. A way for her to stick it to her parents, enjoy something she liked for a change, and hang with her friends.

"Danny?!" And it had been at first. Danny and Tucker didn't really get the goth scene, but they were supportive of her interests (when it didn't involve her activism, or her ultra-recyclo-vegetarianism, or anything that would affect them personally, but she was working on it) which was more than could be said about her parents. They were so caught up in maintaining their reputation that they didn't truly care about anything else.

"Danny, where are you?!"

The performance was incredible. The acts had been dark, gloomy, and spoke to her in a way nothing else had. Every person had put on a show that defied human capability-especially the trapeze artists who Sam swore flew through the air like true ghosts could-and even Tucker had been 'oohing' and 'ahing' throughout. It was one of the best experiences she'd ever had, and one she wouldn't soon forget. After the performance she'd finally torn her eyes from the arena and turned to look at her two friends, only to just see Tucker beside her and Danny nowhere in sight.

"C'mon, this isn't funny anymore!"

She'd been angry at first, thinking he'd gotten bored and ditched them (he got so easily distracted), but when they exited the tent and still couldn't find him...that's when they'd started to worry.

When they got home and found their parents angrily waiting for them with no Danny in sight...that's when they started realize that something had gone horribly wrong.

"Danny!"

***

Freakshow had been surprised when the boy had shown up in the tents after the performance. At first, he thought he had been found out by a child too curious for his own good. He'd been about to call for one of his dullard of a minions when he'd noticed the red eyes and assumed that one of them had already overshadowed the fool. When he'd ordered him out of the tent, the boy had turned around to leave. When he'd screamed that he was talking to the ghost, the most amazing, awful thing happened.

The boy became one.

A white ring of ectoplasmic light formed around him and split, transforming the boy into a specter that hovered in front of him, still staring at him with red eyes and the same blank expression that all his minions did.

The boy was a ghost.

This boy had managed to do the one thing he'd always craved, turned himself into one of the beings of the other side. The one thing he'd cried and sobbed about every night as his parents ignored another birthday, holiday, school performance in favor of their research, wishing more than anything that he could be the one thing that they cared more than anything about...

He'd struck him. He'd kicked and punched and screamed, demanding to know how he'd done it. When the answer had come it only made him angrier. Science. The boy's idiotic parents had made a portal to the Infinite Realms through science, the one thing his parents never studied. The one subject he'd struggled in more than anything else, too steeped in the occult and mysticism to ever truly grasp it. The boy was beginning to turn black and blue when a snarl erupted from behind him and the Grayson specters leaped between him and the ghost child, eyes completely red and expressions filled with a rage that broke through the thrall of the Pret Niyantran. Silently, Lydia materialized between him and the two infuriated spirits, her aura thick in the air, intimidating them into submission (or at least not attacking him) until he composed himself. His hands were white around the staff as he exerted his will. The red crystal glowed as it amplified his will, strengthening his mind until the ghosts had no choice but to fall back under his thrall. Immediately the enraged expressions disappeared, their eyes returning to their original shape and their bodies becoming lax, awaiting his commands. He ordered them out of the tent, telling them to take the abomination with them. If his dim-witted minions cared for the child so much, then they could be responsible for him. He couldn't stand to look at the demon who'd achieved his greatest wish for a moment longer. Without a word, all three left, phasing through the cloth walls as if they weren't even there. The stab of envy as he watched the display of power was no stranger to him, but it's sharpness at now knowing there was a way to become one of them that didn't involve his own death...that he was unprepared for. He threw the table when he felt the freezing touch of Lydia against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He screamed at her to get out, uncaring about the concerned look she gave him before turning to leave as well. He didn't want to be pitied by the lesser beings under his command. He wouldn't. His hands shook with rage, only steadying whenever they landed on something solid before it was halfway across the tent. The sounds of shattering glass and breaking wood fell on deaf ears as he raged. And if his minions stayed quiet in their tents? Then all the better.

He didn't want to see any filthy ghosts right now.

***

John watched as his wife cooed over their son, brushing his hair in an attempt to get it to lie flat. He chuckled as each time, the untidy mop would poof up higher and higher, loaded with static charge from being run through with the natural bristle brush so many times. It had been so long since their boy had been with them and she was smothering him in affection in an effort to make up for the lost time. Mary hadn't tried this hard to style their boys hair since his sixth birthday when they had had enough money to take their boy somewhere nice. That had been a very productive season-he was getting off track, lost in nostalgia the same way his wife was. His sons red eyes watched him back, blank in a way that concerned him. The ringmaster didn't like their son. He could see it in the way his eyes narrowed at the boy every time he crossed his sight. The way his teeth grit and his hands tightened on the staff he always carried with him, strangling the wood like he wanted to strangle something else.

John never let him have that opportunity. He still remembered the feeling of something being wrong, wrong, wrong, of rushing towards that feeling only to see the ringmaster standing over their little Robin, hand raised to strike him. The all encompassing fury that had overtaken him in that moment, a snarl he hadn't known he was capable of ripping itself out of his throat as he put himself between their son and the ringmaster. What happened after that was a blur. The next thing he remembered was floating out of the circus and back towards town. His wife and child trailed behind him as they made their way to the jewelry store and began loading the sacks they had been provided with as many valuables as possible. John didn't know why they were stealing these things. A small midwestern town wouldn't have anything of higher quality, so it wasn't like the ringmaster would be getting a significant amount of whatever was stolen here. Most of the precious metals were of low quality, and all the gems were lab grown. Plus, it just felt...wrong. He and Mary were carnies, Romani born and raised. There were more honest ways of swindling peoples money than stealing it from their banks. It was so...petty.

Not that the ringmaster would listen to any of them. Instead, John made sure his son stayed near as they phased through the walls and grabbed everything they could before flying back towards the circus. The police gave a valiant chase, but it was hard to track something that could walk through walls, disappear, and fly. It wasn't long before the wailing of the sirens faded away and the three of them landed in Freakshow's tent. The heavy sacks of ill-gotten goods fell from their lax fingers and smashed into the bare ground, metal clinking against metal and the hissing rattle of gems smaller than a pin shifting in the bags as they settled on the ground. The ringmaster seemed pleased as he scooped up their spoils and ran them through his fingers, though he quickly snarled at the three of them to leave afterwards. John was only too happy to oblige.

He and Mary quickly made their way to the circus arena to begin practicing their routine. It had been so long since all three of them had worked together, and they needed to rehearse as much as possible before their next performance. It's a good thing they decide to do this too, as their son can't seem to remember any of the routine at all. Or any acrobatic skills. What had the boy been doing all this time? He and Mary have to start him on the basics all over again. They share a look as their boy swings clumsily across the arena. So much for doing their normal act. They'd have to bring out their first routine they did when D-when their little Robin was 4, They'd have to account for his bigger size and weight, but the routine was deliberately simple so that even a beginner could do it. John slowly floats up to their sons height and begins giving him pointers, showing him how to hold the trapeze bars so he wouldn't slip, how to angle his body so that his weight swings him across the arena instead of using his muscles and tiring himself out too quickly. His little Robin soaks up the lessons like a sponge, his body quickly remembering the old lessons. Once sure that their boy wouldn't hurt himself, John begins showing him the routine for tonight's performance.

"Danny!" The voice startles the three of them out of practice and they all turn to look down at the ground. A girl with black hair is staring up at them with wide, purple eyes, her face open with shock and horror. She stands, rooted to the ground with open dismay.

"Dude! What are you doing?!" The boy next to her cries, not frozen with emotions like his friend. "Everyone's looking for you! Your parents are worried sick!" John tilted his head in confusion at the boy. How could their sons parents be worried? They were right here; and their boy's name wasn't Danny. It was...it was...It didn't matter. Their son was here now. There was no need to be looking for him now that he was finally back where he belonged.

"My...parents?" Robin croaked-the first words he'd said since that first night- and glanced towards him and his mother with his own confusion and incredulity, obviously not understanding any more than they did.

"Yeah dude! Jazz is worried sick! She's convinced you've been kidnapped!" The dark-skinned boy continues, glaring up at their son as if he was responsible for this family worrying themselves to death.

"Jazz..." Their boy whispers, his eyes gaining awareness, the red color flickering, being replaced by toxic green and icy blue. His face spasming with pain and screwing up as though he's trying to remember something. "Fight it Danny!" The girl screams, finally coming out of her stupor and marching towards the center pole that hold the tent up as if she's going to climb the ladder and drag their son down herself. "Don't let these ghosts brainwash you! We're your friends!" "Ghosts don't have friends," the ringmaster called out. Everyone in the room tensed, turning to look in his direction and he strutted into the arena, Lydia trailing behind him as a silent bodyguard, a quiet threat. "But how interesting it is to see two little vermin sneak in unannounced," he sneered, peering down his nose at them. Both the teens crouched into fighting stances, ready to run at a moments notice. "Well minion? Don't just stand there. Introduce us." The girl locked up in fury, looking ready to tear the ringmaster to shreds. The boy in the red hat wasn't far behind her. Robin stayed silent, his eyes still flickering rapidly between blistering green and blank red.

"Minion? Danny isn't your slave! He's his own person!" The girl shouted, marching forward and getting in the ringmasters face in an effort to intimidate him. Unfortunately her head barely came up to the ringmasters' chest, so it wasn't very effective.

"I don't remember talking to you little girl," the man hissed, his pale, human red eyes glaring down at her hatefully. "I asked you a question you dolt." The ringmasters hand tightened on his staff and the orb on top brightened, the dizzying red color washing every other thought out of John's head. "Answer me," he demanded.

"Don't call Danny that!" The black teenager shouted, leaping forward as if to punch the ringmaster. Unconsciously, John found himself and Mary flying between him and their master, acting as a wall and stopping the boy in his tracks. Both teens watched them warily and didn't try to get closer.

"Their names are Tucker Foley and Sam Manson," Their son responded, staring into the red crystal.

"Manson," the ringmaster repeated, his eyes widened in shock, but quickly narrowed in cunning and delight. His fingers tapped absently on the wood of his staff in contemplation. "As in, daughter of Pamela and Richard Manson? The richest family in Amity Park Manson?" He inquired, his eyes bright as he stared at the young woman with greed. John felt his gut fill with dread again. Behind him, his son went stiff. Sam seemed to catch onto the danger and started backing away. "Now, why leave after you've come all this way? After all, didn't you come to enjoy our hospitality?" The master stepped forward, the rest of the troupe materializing behind him, John stepping in line with them mindlessly.

A white gloved hand gripped both teens shoulders and John looked up to see his son, eyes blazing with green fire glaring straight at them, before all three disappeared from their sight. The ringmaster growled, fingers twisting around his cane in fury.

"Find them!" He screeched. They obeyed.

#dpxdc #danny phantom #batman #dick grayson #danny fenton #danny learns acrobatics from the flying graysons

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