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flowerandblood · 2 days

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The Fall from the Heavens (35)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, swearing and being a bitch ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Never before in her life had she felt so fulfilled, so free, as in the fortress of which she was now lady. Harrenhal, though at first grim and grey, when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds seemed to her to be some ancient keep. By her and her husband's orders, their belongings from King's Landing and Dragonstone were brought to the stronghold in great carts.

She ordered new furniture made of wood for them − great ornate oak bookcases to fill with their books, desks and chests for their garments, and something that filled her with particular joy − a cradle for their child, something that reminded her and her husband every day that they were expecting their offspring.

To her delight, she found that although in the company of Baela, the guards and the servants, her husband was harsh, the moment they were left alone in his quarters his demeanour and voice softened.

He no longer closed his mind, exchanging his thoughts with her as he had when they were children, discussing with her current affairs.

She felt that at last there was no resentment between them − their frequent and intense intimacy was proof to her that they both wanted this marriage and what it brought with it, that being next to each other was in itself an aim for them.

Her husband began to see the pleasurable value of her achieving fulfilment − he took delight and satisfaction in her moans, in driving her to the brink of madness, in knowing every bit of her naked body perfectly.

His closeness, him deep inside her, his mouth licking and sucking her puffy bud, his fingers invading between her tight slit had become something natural to her, something craved, and each fulfilment in his arms calmed her.

Encouraged by his openness in these matters and the fact that his attentive approach was helping her to discover her own femininity, she decided not to remain indebted to him, wanting to know that she appreciated his efforts and was able to repay him.

The echoes of Alys' words about what men desire deep down had taken root in her heart as a significant piece of advice. She decided to slowly explore how her husband and his body would respond to her touch, to her caresses, to her involvement.

At first, she merely brushed and sucked the skin of his neck as he lay on top of her in the tight embrace of their bodies, moving lazily inside her with his face snuggled into her hair. She felt a shudder run through his body, his breath became heavier, his cock pulsed inside her greedily betraying what he was thinking.

"− ah −" He breathed out, sinking his fingers into her cheek, pressing her closer, encouraging her not to stop, her hands squeezing his firm buttocks making goosebumps appear on his skin.

She discovered, to her amazement, that his nipples were also very sensitive − the first time she licked them and clung to them, sucking on them with a hum, letting him pound into her with deep, sloppy thrusts, she heard him gasp, surprised and bewildered.

"− what − mghm − fuck −" He muttered, a helpless, low groan of pleasure escaping his throat as the tip of her tongue swirled around it. He became more vocal, panting hard, clenching his fingers in her hair, pressing her to his chest as his painfully swollen cock opened her little cunt with the impatient, sharp pushes of his hips.

His fulfillments were longer and stronger than ever before − he moaned and panted exactly as she did, ashamed in a way of his helplessness and what he was letting her do to him.

He pretended when it was all over that nothing had happened, and she didn't discuss it with him, letting him keep up the pretence that everything was as it had been before.

Their intimacy was simply pleasurable and natural to them, so they each pursued it relentlessly, treating it as a wordless expression of their affection, the eternal longing and closeness they needed.

Much to her husband's displeasure, Baela decided to stay in Harrenhal longer after what had happened.

"I sent a letter to Dragonstone. I described to father what had happened." She said, looking at her fingers thoughtfully − the two of them were sitting under one of the trees near the fortress, wanting to get some fresh air during the sunny day.

While her husband did not approve of her leaving their chamber in his absence, fearing for her and their child, he did agree that she should do so in the company of Baela, which she did.

She looked at her cousin, horrified.

"What? Gods, was that necessary?" She muttered, imagining in the back of her mind how horrified her mother would be at the word that someone had tried to poison her, and that she would surely insist that she return to Dragonstone. Baela sighed heavily.

"I promised my father that I would be there for you and I will keep him informed of what is happening here." She explained, shrugging her shoulders.

She looked at her with a smirk, stroking her slightly rounded abdomen with her palm.

"Are you his spy?"

The corner of Baela's mouth lifted in a smile.

"Yes. He told me to watch how your uncle treats you, and though I have no sympathy for him, only a fool would fail to see that his intentions towards you are sincere." She replied, her face sad and tired. She blinked, seeing that something had been bothering her for some time.

She figured she wasn't returning to Dragonstone for more than just her reason.

"Has something happened? You can tell me."

"Should I complain to you about your brother? That doesn't sound fair." She muttered, taking a small white stone from the ground, turning it between her fingers.

"He's my brother, but I know his nature. You can tell me what troubles you. I will not judge you." She assured her, wanting her to know that she had no bad intentions.

Baela pressed her lips together and nodded − her eyes reddened as she swallowed hard and looked away, shrugging her shoulders.

"I have a lover here. One of the guards."

She blinked, looking at her in disbelief, not knowing for a moment what to say.

"Oh."

"We promised each other we'd both stop doing this before I came here. But I can't. I don't love him. Not in that way. I mean −" She choked out and fell silent, swallowing hard, trying with all her might to stay calm and not cry.

"− I mean − we don't fit together − he's important to me, close to my heart, but − I've only now realised, looking at you, that it's impossible to change a man's nature −" She said and clenched her eyelids, bitter, hot tears of shame running down her face, which she covered with her hands, as if she was terrified by what had just come out of her mouth.

"− gods, what have I done −" She mumbled out, whooping with her crying − her hand quickly rose to her back, stroking it reassuringly.

She didn't know what to say, what to do, what she could advise her in such a situation.

She swallowed hard, feeling the discomfort and pain, understanding in a way what she meant, yet feeling pity in her heart for her brother, not knowing if he would be able to take any more rejection.

"− did − did Jace −"

"− he did the same thing − in Winterfell, with that Snow girl, that whore, that fucking bastard −" She hissed, wiping her cheeks hot with rage.

"− I lied at the time that I was also having an affair with a guard to hurt him − to make him feel what it's like when someone fucks someone else behind your back −"

She only blinked at her words, horrified at how it looked like, that neither of them were faithful to each other.

Baela looked at her quickly and shook her head, as if she only now realised what she had said.

"− forgive me − I didn't mean − I didn't mean to offend you −" She muttered quickly, looking at her with big eyes.

"− no, no − I just − you surprised me − I mean − I didn't suspect it was that bad −"

"− me too − until I flew here and was left alone with my doubts and thoughts −" She stated after a moment of thoughtfulness, wiping her nose with the top of her hand, trying to calm her breathing.

"− I realised − watching you throw yourself into his arms when we arrived here − he didn't even see me − your husband − it was your moment, your reconciliation − and I don't even miss him − I don't think about him, even though I should − I feel really free and lonely here at the same time − I just would like to love and be loved like you −"

Her cousin whispered, and she embraced her and hugged her forehead to her temple, stroking her back reassuringly − Baela broke into tears and cuddled her face into her neck, trying to hide from her thoughts and what she herself was feeling.

For some reason, her words had ripped her heart apart.

Her thoughtfulness and despondency did not escape her uncle's attention when they were left alone after their supper together. Finally only in her nightgown, she lay down on the bed and sighed − his gaze immediately followed her.

"What is it?"

She looked up at him, snapped out of her reverie.

"Hm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"About Baela."

He blinked and hummed under his breath, looking towards the fire, spreading himself comfortably in his chair.

"Why?"

She didn't know how much she should tell him, but she needed advice.

She had no idea what to do.

"She doesn't love my brother and I don't think he loves her. Not the way one loves a wife or a husband."

"Mmm."

"I don't know what to advise her."

"Don't advise her anything. Don't interfere in their affairs. Your intervention will only make things worse. Let them resolve it between themselves. In your condition, you should not focus on such matters and take on someone else's infidelity." He replied dryly, and she looked at him surprised, furrowing her brows.

"How do you know about infidelity?" She muttered, and he threw her a long, bored look.

"I caught them in the act. He fucked her instead of guarding your chamber in my absence. I wanted to shame him and reprimand him, but when I saw Baela, I gave up. The humiliation was punishment enough for both of them." He sneered, tapping his index finger against the armrest, sitting in profile to her.

She felt a cold sweat on the back of her neck at the thought that he had not shared this knowledge with her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Her husband looked at her sternly.

"Because I don't play in spreading rumours in the court. Other people's promiscuity is not worth burdening my wife, who is expecting my child, with it. She is a grown woman. If her father or her mother couldn't raise her properly, you won't be able to either."

"Do not speak of her like this. She is suffering deeply."

"And she is finding comfort." He replied coldly. "I don't want to hear it."

"If your mother had forced you to marry Maris Baratheon instead of me. Would you have taken me into your bed?" She asked, looking at him expectantly.

He threw her a quick, surprised look, not expecting this question completely.

"− I −"

"− answer honestly −"

"− I don't know the answer to that question −"

"− your answer according to good manners should be: no −"

"− it's not the same thing −"

"− it's exactly the same, Aemond − I understand what you mean, but judgements have no power when we can't judge ourselves as harshly −"

"− I wouldn't be fucking proud of it or brag about it to my cousins −"

"− she didn't brag, she despaired − she regrets it but doesn't know what to do −"

Her husband clenched his jaw and bowed his head, burying his face in his hand.

"− I will not concern myself with her betrothal and I expect her to stay away from my marriage − I advise you to do the same −" He said dryly, rising from his seat, undoing the buckles of his emerald tunic with an impatient motion.

She swallowed hard, playing with her fingers, feeling her heart pounding like mad, her stomach clenched in discomfort.

She knew that part of her heart was agreeing with him, but she didn't want to admit it.

When he finally lay down beside her, putting his eye patch down on the table beside the bed, they were both silent for a long moment. She didn't push him away, however, when his hand went to her lower abdomen, a tender, calm, circular motion of his fingers stroking the place. She sighed quietly, placing her hand over his, feeling her anger slowly begin to leave her.

"− isn't that what you expect from me? − honesty? −" He asked in a hoarse voice. She looked up at him, meeting the calm, warm yet dark gaze of his healthy eye. She nodded and moved closer to him, their foreheads touching.

"− yes −" She whispered. As his hand slid to her waist she let him to embrace her, his arms snuggling her into his body, allowing her to take refuge at his side from the gloomy thoughts that flitted through her head.

However, the next day something happened that she had not anticipated.

Her brother arrived in Harrenhal at the behest of their mother.

The mood was tense, to put it mildly. The distance between Baela and Jace was palpable and, as they were not married, her uncle had assigned them separate quarters.

He was furious.

"I don't want him here. Let him take his betrothed and get the fuck back to Dragonstone." He hissed in her direction, walking around their chamber like an enraged lion, breathing heavily.

She stood watching him with her heart in her throat not knowing what to do.

"We can't just send him away, my mother might become suspicious. Let him stay a day or two and then…"

"− good gods −" He breathed out, burying his face in his hands at her words, as if trying not to explode. He finally sat down in the chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staying in that position for a moment.

She approached him slowly and knelt in front of him with a quiet rustling of her gown, grabbing his upper arm, exposing his face − she met the look of his eye, frustrated and tired.

"− I know − I know, my love − I'll try to resolve it somehow, but give me time to think −" She muttered, wanting him to understand that all this was not her desire, that also all she dreamt of was holy peace for them and their child.

Her uncle sighed heavily, looking away, clearly inconsolable by her words. She knew he wanted to add something else, but fell silent when he felt her hand on his knee, traveling up to his thigh. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, tense, his lips parted slightly.

He shuddered as her fingers slid between his legs, stroking gently and teasing what was beneath them. His manhood pulsed hard in his breeches under her touch, and then again and again, swelling and hardening from those gentle, innocent caresses.

She heard his breath become heavier, his hand slipped into her hair, stroking her head, betraying what he was thinking about what was about to happen.

How she wanted to compensate him.

Her nimble fingers untied the material of his breeches, spreading it to the side, revealing his half-hard, throbbing erection. She leaned down, stroking it in her palm, placing soft, butterfly kisses on the area where his veins were clearly outlined, barely brushing his bare skin.

She heard an exasperated sigh escape his lips, his hips involuntarily bucked towards her, pressing his twitching, long cock against her face, searching for the source of the rubbing.

She knew he was looking at her, and that he derived an unspeakable satisfaction from the sight before him.

She gasped at the thought, wanting to give him everything he could possibly want, and following Alys' instructions, she decided to take her time − the tip of her tongue traveled from the base of it to the very tip of his length, swelling more and more in her hand, she heard him tilt his head back, feeling and seeing it.

"− fuck −"

Her hand clamped down on the base of his root, giving him a few encouraging, soft squeezes, meant only to tease him, its tip turning all pink and hard, moist from his own wetness.

"− warm me up −" He muttered. "− it's a chilly evening −"

She felt her walls clench greedily around nothing at his words, sticky from her moisture, knowing what he wanted.

She directed the fat, glistening head of his cock against her lips, sliding it in a little, licking it encouragingly − his two hands clamped down on her hair, the soft, gentle thrust of his hips sliding it deep into her mouth, its tip bumping against the back wall of her throat.

"− so eager to taste my seed − ah − barely fits −" He exhaled, keeping his fingers clenched in her hair, thrusting between her lips as he saw fit, slowly and reverently, making her feel safe even though he was in complete control of what was happening.

Each time he slid deep into her throat again with a lewd click of her saliva, she teased his entire length with her moist tongue, licking it and sucking it inside, squeezing it so that a low, throaty moan came out of him again and again.

"− I could watch it all day − your pretty mouth full of my cock −" He gasped, and she hummed, squeezing the base of his erection that didn't fit in her mouth with her hand.

She moved her head up and down, feeling the tears of exertion begin to run down her cheeks each time the tip of his manhood hit the back of her throat, making her gag, breathing loudly through her nose to keep from suffocating.

"− fuck, you are too good at this −" He mumbled as if he were in pain, the chair he was sitting on began to creak loudly as his hips quickened their pace, his breath raspy and shallow. His manhood began to twitch and throb between her lips betraying that he was embarrassingly close to fulfilment as her hot tears rolled down her cheeks one by one.

"− don't stop − please, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop −" He panted, gripping her hair tightly in his hands, not letting her escape the deep, greedy thrusts of his hips, making her whimper with exertion.

Something in the sounds he was making, boyish and charming, in his helplessness, in how much he wanted to feel vulnerable at least for a moment, made her feel her sticky wetness running down her thigh, her swollen slit pulsing around nothing.

"− I know − I know, please, I know − uh,gods,fuckkk −" He gasped, a low groan mixed with a sigh of relief broke from his lips as his body went breathless all over and his warm spend spilled deep into her warm throat. She swallowed the first wave with difficulty and jumped up along with him as the door to his chamber opened suddenly, startling them.

She slid his manhood out of her mouth with a loud splat, covering her face to avoid screaming and choking at the same time, some of his seed staining his breeches.

Her figure kneeling before him was covered only by the ornate oak desk standing before her.

"Your Grace. Shall supper be prepared in this chamber with Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela included?" The servant asked, and she swallowed loudly, trying not to make a sound, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

"− I − yes −" Her uncle muttered in a shaky voice, trying to keep his voice cool and hide the fact that he had just came, and his wife was kneeling in front of his untied breeches.

When the servant left her husband closed his eye and breathed out loud, leaning his head against the backrest, pale. She pressed her lips together at the sight, wiping her cheeks wet with tears of exertion, trying not to laugh.

He looked at her after a moment with resentment, as if it was her fault and sighed through his nose, frustrated to see the look on her face.

"− you and your wise ideas −"

"− don't you wish your wife to reassure you in this way? −" She asked softly, placing her chin on his knee, smiling contentedly. Her uncle sighed heavily − clearly something about the sight he saw before him made him content, because his hand rose to her head and stroked her soft hair in a lazy manner.

"− make sure the door from my chamber is locked next time −"

Even though she knew he was still unhappy about her brother's arrival, her treatments, whatever he thought of them, calmed him and made him accept his presence temporarily.

Baela and Jace walked into the chamber in silence and took their seats at a distance from each other − Baela sat opposite her as usual, with her uncle to her left, but her brother did not take the seat next to her − he sat on the opposite top of the table, facing her husband.

She knew this was some kind of challenge to him, her uncle's lips pressed together in a thin line, in his gaze something she knew perfectly well.

Impatience.

The servants tasted all the food and drink in their presence before the table was set. Her husband let them go when everything was ready, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"How are you feeling, sister?" Jace asked, putting the roast on his plate and tearing a piece of bread, but not giving it to Baela, who held out her hand to him.

She threw a quick glance at her uncle, who was watching her with a look that told her he was thinking the same thing she was.

Something was about to happen.

She swallowed loudly at the piece of pate she had just had in her mouth and sipped it with the apple juice the maester had prepared for her, telling her that she should avoid wine until after the birth.

She grunted, correcting herself in her seat.

"I am well, brother." She replied softly.

"I hope your daughter is born healthy." He said lowly, taking a sip of wine from his goblet.

She felt a cold sweat on her back at his words, looking up at her husband in horror, seeing on his face exactly what she had feared − a wide, dangerous grin not reaching his eye, his gaze cold and frightening.

"− Jace −" Baela hissed.

Her brother shook his head, frowning his eyebrows, feigning surprise, taking a bite of the roast into his mouth.

"− what is it, my love? − wouldn't my uncle love his daughter? − or would he be afraid that he would do to her what he did to his own niece? −"

"− how dare you −" She asked in disbelief, wanting to tell her brother that he was an insolent fool and that he should leave at once, however, her husband forestalled her.

"− your betrothed told you that she fucked one of my guards? − is that why you are acting like a cunt? −" He chuckled in a way from which a cold shiver ran through her, her heart in her throat. She glanced at Baela, who froze, staring dully into her plate, breathing heavily.

A terrible, uncomfortable silence fell around them that seemed to last an eternity − she didn't even know when she clenched her hands into fists.

"− yes, she did − but how could you know this, uncle? − did she lie in bed with you too? −" He asked mockingly, she and Baela cast quick, terrified glances at each other.

"− that's enough −" She hissed.

"− no − my nephew deserves the truth −" He grinned, and Baela rose from her seat, knowing what he wanted to say.

"− SIT THE FUCK DOWN −" Her husband growled in her direction. They both threw him shocked glances, his gaze expressing, however, that he was completely serious and if she left, blood would be shed.

Baela sat back in her seat, all quivering.

"− I caught her in the act − she was so preoccupied with him, or, I beg your pardon, with what he was putting into her, that she didn't notice me at first − I just wished to reprimand my guard − he was supposed to keep my wife safe, not −"

"− I said enough, husband −" She said, looking at him warningly.

He knew that look and what it meant.

That one more word out of his mouth and he would spend the night in his chamber alone.

He turned his head and fell silent, looking involuntarily at her brother with a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

"− did you know? −" She heard Jace's voice pointed in her direction and she looked at him, surprised.

Her brother was looking at her all red, something in his gaze that surprised her.

"− did you know about this? −"

She felt an overpowering, deep, hot shame at the thought that she could not deny.

"− you're my sister − we promised each other we'd both end this − she deceived me − why do you forever let to make a fool of me? − why do you never stand up for me? −" He muttered in a voice filled with regret.

She was horrified by the realisation, which came upon her suddenly, that he was partly right.

If her husband had betrayed her with another woman, wouldn't she expect her brother to tell her?

That he would have shown her concern, warned her, protected her from the pain?

She lowered her gaze to her plate, feeling tears under her eyelids herself. Jace got up and walked out, followed by Baela, who only muttered a brief, tentative apology.

One by one, tears began to run down her cheeks as soon as the door closed behind them − she had to hide her face in her hands to keep from bursting into sobs.

She heard her husband sigh heavily, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, the pleasant sizzle of a fire burning in the fireplace behind him. She heard him pick something up and move it towards her − when she lowered her hands she noticed it was a tray of lemon cakes.

That summer day when she came to comfort him, a lemon cake tucked into the pocket of her skirt.

"− eat −"

"− I don't want to −"

"− eat − these are your favourites − I ordered them to be prepared with you in mind −"

"− I don't want to eat lemon cakes now, Aemond − I −"

"− it's easier for him to blame you than himself − to accuse you in his mind instead of taking responsibility for his actions −"

She snorted, shaking her head, looking at him with regret.

"− didn't you also behave similarly to him until recently, uncle? −" She asked in a trembling voice. Her husband swallowed hard and closed his eye, remaining silent for a moment. When his eyelid opened, his gaze was already calmer.

"− I did −"

As he placed his hand on the table top, extending it towards her she felt a squeeze in her heart, because even though he had made so many mistakes and hurt her so much, for her he had truly made an effort.

There was no reason for her to pretend otherwise.

She lifted her hand uncertainly and placed it on his. Her husband hummed under his breath, stroking her skin with his thumb, pleased apparently that she had not rejected him, that after moments of anger they were able to calm and speak with each other.

Something in that thought touched her.

"I love you." She muttered, looking up at him from under her lashes on which her tears shone.

Her uncle looked at her with wide-open eye, as if snapped out of his reverie, shocked even though he had heard these words from her mouth before.

"I mean it. I really do. I'm not speaking of the cloying affection described in the books I read as a child. What I feel is painfully real."

She saw his nostrils twitch at her words, his jaw clenched, his eyebrows arched in a way as if he was trying to fight what he had just felt.

His lips parted, but nothing came out of them for a long time.

"− I didn't reply to your letters because I didn't want you to move on − because I didn't want you to forgive yourself − because I didn't want you to forget about me − because I couldn't move on − because I couldn't forgive myself − because I couldn't forget about you −"

He said, looking at their hands, stroking her soft, warm skin with his fingers, at the same time being somewhere far away, as if he had returned with his thoughts to that evenings when he had read her letters.

Her heart filled with heat and pain at his words, at his confession, which was proof to her that both of them had only been pretending all along, trying to preserve their dignity by not accepting their longing, grief and desires all these years.

Only when they were left in the darkness of his chamber could their true reconciliation have happened.

There was something beautiful to her in the fact that they only hugged each other that night. Her husband, lying behind her, embraced her waist, their fingers entwined together lying on her womb. She felt safe sensing closeness of his body, his warm breath enveloping her bare neck.

Though with others he remained the same cold, cruel, mocking man, with her he became who he had been eight years ago, being the husband and companion she had always seen in him.

Baela set off on her way back to Dragonstone the next morning, informing her that she and Jace had broken off their betrothal. She wished to inform her grandmother and father about it, knowing that they would not force her to do anything against her will.

They said goodbye as if they were friends, hugging each other tightly, however, apart from her, neither her husband nor her brother came out to bid her farewell.

To her husband's frustration, her brother remained in their fortress. He ate his suppers separately and hardly left his chamber, but his mere presence made her uncle lose patience.

Although she didn't want to do it, she had to act.

With a heavy heart and trepidation, she went to his quarters, however, to her surprise, she did not find him there. She left, looking around the corridor and stopped one of the servants.

"Where is my brother?" She asked, the young boy turned behind and pointed his finger at the other, less frequented part of the stronghold.

"In Alys Rivers’ chamber, Your Grace."

She looked at this young boy wondering if she had misheard herself.

What?

"By what right does anyone visit Alys Rivers without my knowledge?' She hissed, feeling a squeeze in her throat at the thought that, apart from her guards, no one was to cross the threshold of her quarters until she left Harrenhal.

Her cousin had delayed answering her letter, surely still feeling humiliated after the way he had learned that their betrothal was not in force.

However, she knew he would eventually succumb and intended to send Alys away to the Eyrie anyway.

The boy swallowed hard at her words, surprised.

"− I − the Prince said you personally gave your consent, Your Grace − how would I question his words? −" He muttered, and she clenched her eyelids and nodded.

"− go for him and bring him to his chamber − tell him that I will be waiting for him there −"

Indeed, not long after, her brother joined her in his rooms, closing the door behind him, looking at her uncertainly, his brow furrowed.

"− what's it? −"

She stood up from her chair, turning her face towards the window, trying to calm her breath, her hand on her womb.

"− Alys Rivers − I didn't allow you to see her −"

"− she's my aunt − I don't need your permission, sister −" He replied dryly.

She looked at him angrily, walking up to him, looking him straight in the eye.

His gaze seemed distant and empty to her, filled with bitterness, sadness and pride.

She knew that look because she had seen it sometimes in their uncle's eyes.

He was broken.

Something in that thought made her close her eyes, trying to regain her composure.

"− she's a dangerous woman − I value her, but she manipulates others easily −"

"− I know I am easily manipulated − I have found that out painfully on my own −" He said calmly. "− is that all? −"

"− is that why you are not returning to Dragonstone? − because of her? −" She asked, turning to follow him as he moved ahead of her and spread out comfortably on his bed, taking an apple in his hand from a silver bowl standing on the table, tossing it thoughtlessly.

"− maybe −"

"− why? −"

"− she tells me about our father − about Harrenhal − about her dreams −" He muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling, playing with the fruit between his fingers, thoughtful.

Something in his words, in the fact that, like her, he longed deep down to understand where he came from, made her heart fill with compassion and empathy towards him again.

She approached him slowly and sat beside him on the bed, bowing her head. For a moment they remained in complete silence.

"− forgive me − for not telling you − Baela despaired greatly and regretted what she had done, but it could no longer be taken back − I am not going to defend her − she did, however, tell me that you had not remained faithful to her either − that you had lain in bed with another woman in Winterfell −"

Jace pressed his lips into a thin line at her words, tossing the apple high into the air, catching it in his hand again with a loud smack.

"− did she also tell you that she had a lover herself at the time? −"

"− she told me that she lied to you at the time so that you wouldn't see how much you hurt her −" She whispered, her brother throwing her a quick, horrified look. She saw him swallow hard and close his eyes.

"− it doesn't matter anymore −"

Silence fell between them again.

"− I want to admit, however, that there was a grain of truth in your words − I want to support you, but I feel that whatever I don't do, you will reject me −" She muttered.

"− you are the one who has always rejected me −"

His words stabbed into her heart like a dagger.

"− forgive me −" She said.

Her brother let out a loud breath, his eyes red.

"− I want to take her to Dragonstone −"

"− who? −"

"− Alys Rivers − I want her to see something beyond Harrenhal −"

His words surprised her so much that the obvious question crossed her mind.

"− Jace − did you and her −"

"− if you desire the truth so much, let's call a spade a spade − I'm a bastard, just like her − I live in a great fortress, eating from silver trays, while she is locked up here like some prisoner − how is she different from us? − what did she do to deserve a fate so worse than mine or yours? −"

He asked with a fury that startled her, his words, so direct and bold, made her feel overwhelming shame.

How is she different from us?

What did she do to deserve a fate so worse than mine or yours?

She swallowed hard, not knowing what to answer, how to react to his words.

"− but what will our mother say? −"

"− I will gladly introduce our father's sister to her −"

"− Jace −"

"− I've decided − I, not you − I take responsibility for this −"

She lowered her gaze, feeling that her hands were trembling all over with terror, her brother, however, seemed confident in his decision.

"− I'm leaving tomorrow and I'm taking our aunt with me −"

______

Author's note: No, Jace did not sleep with Alys, lol. In case this is not clear from the chapter, I would like to add it so that you do not panic unnecessarily. The next chapter will be Alys' POV, so you'll find out everything there!

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kurooh · 8 hours

Text

HORNY BRAINROT.

☆ includes: aged up! various characters from bnha

☆ warnings: 18+ content, reader is gn or fem depending on the scenario, drug use (weed & alcohol), somnophilia (consent given prior!!), nsfw. not proofread

thinking of izuku coming back home after a long day at the agency; he bends you over the kitchen table you were both about to eat on, and he skips dinner and goes in for dessert between your thighs.

sucking on eijirou’s cock desperately while he pushes your head down and tells you to take it. when he gets close, he yanks your head off him and you switch to jerking him off, your eyes closing as his cum sprays on your face. he groans loudly when you sweep your fingers across your wet skin and then suck on them, looking up at him innocently.

always a lover of public sex, dabi fucks you in alleyways, on rooftops, behind cars at night, and all across the city. he especially enjoys taking you from behind, your back pressed against his chest and his hand wrapped around your throat — he often fucks you like this in sight of the sky during the #2 hero’s patrols.

sometimes hitoshi can’t sleep, so he gently pulls the blankets away from your sleeping figure, admiring you in the dark. he’ll kiss your tummy, hips, and pelvis, then peel away your underwear, his tongue rushing to taste the sweetness between your folds. when you cum, you moan as though you’re in a dream, rarely waking up — occasionally he’ll make you cum so hard you wake up gasping his name.

keigo finds himself feeling overwhelmed when you ride him, his eyes rolling back and his entire body shaking each time he sees your greedy pussy swallow the whole length of his cock. as he unravels more and more, his wings represent how he feels with their wild movements. when he cums loudly, his wings rush in, wrapping around the both of you, pulling you close to him.

despite his shy demeanor, tamaki is a FREAK. he’ll have you sit in a chair, blindfolded, limbs tied to the back and the legs. then, he’ll tease you with kisses and touches, lightly slapping your thighs if you try to pull free to touch him. after a long while, he’ll spread your pussy open and spit onto your clit, then tease you further.

speaking of spitting, katsuki enjoys spitting into your pussy as well, or making you spit onto his cock to lube it up for sex or jerking him off.

i offer u: denki + hanta tag team. hanta’s on his back, your back is on his chest, his cock is stretching out your ass. while he’s thrusting up into your ass and holding you close, denki’s fucking in and out of your pussy with his overstimulated cock. his cum drips from your cunt and trickles down hanta’s cock, adding more lubrication. a threesome with these two would be insane because they would try out every position and cum once from it before stopping.

despite hating it when you edge him, shoto loves it. he’ll sigh shakily, hissing out, “ah— god, make me cum already, stop fucking with me!” but when you let him get real close, he begs you to stop and edge him. it’s confusing but ultimately he enjoys it, and always cries when he cums after edging.

drinking with katsuki always gets rowdy; he’ll show you off, get jealous more easily, and fuck you harder. after a night at the bar and way too many shots, he hops into an uber with you and heads to an expensive hotel instead of your home. katsuki books a big room, the one with the best view of the city and streets (it’s also 2-4 stories up from the lobby). when you get into the room, he practically rips your clothes off, pushing you against the big window overseeing the people and cars beneath. then, he fucks you right against the window, your tits pressed against the glass.

dry humping with eijirou in his agency office with an unlocked door, his hard cock rubbing against your pussy through layers and layers of clothing. when his precum is dripping through his underwear, and your panties are soaked with your slick, he removes whatever’s in the way, besides your underwear. when you start to get loud as his clothed cock creates more friction against you, he pulls off your wet underwear and stuffs them into your mouth, saying, “shh, baby. you have to be quiet, okay? don’t want any of the staff coming in, right?”

sharing a joint with keigo on the balcony of your shared apartment, plumes of smoke swirling around you as he spreads your legs. he always enjoys making out with your pussy before he eats you out, taking your folds and clit between his lips as he drags his tongue against you. he stares up at you with reddened eyes, desperate for your approving moans and facial expressions.

being fucked doggy style by izuku, either in your pussy or ass, as he praises you and your beautiful reflection in the mirror. “oh, you’re so gorgeous.. make me feel so damn lucky every time i look at you.” if you refuse to look, he leans over you, his pecs pressing into your upper back as he tugs your chin. he demands, “watch yourself cum” or “if you look away, i’ll stop pounding you”

shoto always cums within a few minutes of 69ing with you.. the way you desperately hump at his face and gobble down his cock always proves to be too damn much for him. he used to feel embarrassed, but now he just pushes through the overstimulation and adjusts you how he likes, slurping at your pussy loudly as you moan on his cock.

sexting with denki during his work hours, and sending him sneaky photos of your tits/ass/pussy when you know he’s busy. he’s always so quick to read your messages, and he rushes to the bathroom to hide his boner in a stall. he texts you to tell you what he’s gonna do to you, how desperate he is, or he’ll send mirror selfies, his hard cock visible through his pants.

phone sex with dabi, who easily makes you torture yourself. and god, does he sound good — he tells you what to do, rewarding you with his moans/groans or pictures. he’ll talk you through your orgasm, demanding that you keep fingering yourself or stop to ruin it. if you sob over his instructions, he’ll briefly reassure you, and then tell you to shut up and do what he says (he reminds you to be a good girl/slut or threatens to not fuck you).

god.. hitoshi loves filming you going dumb on his cock. most of the videos in his ‘us vids’ folder start off with him praising you as he moves the camera around your body, capturing every inch of you. “so pretty, god damn.” as the video progresses from gentle to rougher, his hand is wrapped around your neck, squeezing enough for you to gasp often. you’re a mess, babbling pleas as you cry his name, eyes rolling back and drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. by the time he’s cumming, you’re begging for him to fill you up, not a single other thought in your head. later, still filming, he thumbs away the saliva at the corner of your mouth; he kisses you and asks if you’re okay.

food play with tamaki, who eagerly gobbles strawberries off your tits, or the whipped cream designs all over your pelvis. even after your skin is free from all the sweetness or its residue, he licks you hungrily, then starts to bite hickeys into your skin. he blushes when you pinch one of his sensitive ears between your fingers and give it a tug — “tamaki, put your tongue to good use and eat me out.”

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mysteria157 · 3 days

Text

Chapter Three

Pairing: Black Fem!Reader x Hitman Toji Fushiguro

CW: Profanity, Slight Angst (mentions of death), Fluff, Comfort

Word Count: ~5k

Summary:

Suffering from haunting dreams and a raging cold, you find solce in Toji's challenging yet comforting presence.

Authors Notes: Hello! Thank you all for waiting so patiently! It took me weeks to finally get out of my perfectionist mindset and just...write so everything flows together. This chapter is shorter than my usual, but to me little moments help with character development. And this is going to be a very, very slow burn lol.

As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated! Enjoy and thank you for your support!

Previous Chapter | Twitter | Ao3| Masterlist | Next Chapter

Dividers: @royallaesthetics @eloquentmoon | Header: created by myself (fanart from Pinterest)

***You***

The cold air is deceptive; it nips at your skin, raising goosebumps despite the warm inviting appearance of your surroundings. Tall trees—oaks, hickories, and basswoods—clutter densely, forming a barrier that shields the land from the outside world and cages bittersweet memories of the past. You’ve followed your father through these woods before, navigating rocky hills and leaping over thick, ingrown branches to reach another unmarked spot for exploring.

Deep purple hues of the twilight sky cast elongated, eerie shadows over the forest, and they fold over the tall grass like dark, unnatural fingers. This definitely isn’t real. Everything around you right now brings painful memories—but they’re are not as sharp as what you feel in reality.

In reality, the ache is persistent, pulsing weakly in your veins, flaring up with every fleeting memory of your father—his infectious laugh, his hands putting you on his shoulders as you walked to football games, or the early mornings spent huddled together, his hand guiding your binoculars to focus on a bird in the distance.

This is definitely a dream.

You know it also from the feel of the grassy meadow beneath your toes, the blades soft and ticklish against your ankles, the usual worry of ticks far from your mind. Vivid wildflowers—yellows, pinks, and blues—sway in a nonexistent breeze. The dirt path that once led to your father’s house has vanished, taken over by the soil and grass, erasing years of footprints.

The house he dreamt of building, a two-story structure crafted by his own hands, now stands as nothing more than a decaying skeleton. There is no roof, only stretches of drywall reaching towards the twilight sky, as if trying to reach the heavens and falling short.

As you walk further across the foundation, the environment shifts around you, the air folding in on itself and twisting like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. Your fingers trail along the phantom walls that spring up, and your feet glide over the conjured glossy finish of hardwood floors. This empty space is a blueprint nestled deep in your memory: bedrooms that will give privacy, a living room that will host family gatherings, a fireplace that is now roaring in orange and yellows.

“There you are,” a familiar voice calls to you, sending a jolt through your heart that tightens your chest as if you’re about to cough. As you turn the corner, reality morphs once again, unfolding into a meticulously designed kitchen with forest green cabinets adorned with brass knobs, a deep porcelain sink and shiny stainless-steel appliances. The surreal surroundings are dizzying, blurring and swirling in your vision. But the figure you know—his broad back turned to you, shoulders stretching and pulling as he wipes something in front of him—that grounds you, preventing you from drifting away.

“It finally came in, take a look.”

He radiates an intense warmth as you stand beside him. Even with your arms barely touching, the heat feels suffocating, instantly causing you to break into a sweat. Just being next to him makes your throat constrict, choked and searing, it’s nearly impossible to speak. But with each stroke of his hand on the new granite counter top, sweeping a fiberglass cloth, his love and comfort are palpable in the stiffing heat, settling on your skin to relax you.

“Looks good huh?” He’s proud, and even though you don’t have the strength to look up at his face, you know he’s beaming. “Once it all comes together, it’s gonna look beautiful.”

His words stir a deep-seated guilt within you, so fierce it makes you want to scratch at your own skin, as if to physically scrape away the emotional turmoil the festers beneath the layer of your dermis. You press your toes into the hardwood, cross your arms and dig your fingernails into your arms. It’s hotter now—god you’re burning up. Your body prickles with beads of moisture as you watch him tirelessly wipe over an already clean surface.

It’s incessant, and with each swipe the guilt rises further, urging you to flee from a conversation that will never happen. You don’t really know about an afterlife but if there is one, does he know what happened? Is he rooted in the present, watching you occasionally to see what you’ve failed to do? Is he disappointed in you?

Maybe if you focus on his steady motions, close your eyes, and just breathe, you might find yourself back in your room when you open them again. After all, none of this is real—it will never be real. This kitchen, these rooms, the wooden floorboards, and the beautiful roaring fireplace. The remnants of all of this are written on a blueprint somewhere, collecting dust for the last two decades.

He calls out to you again, his voice oddly distant though he stands right beside you. He sounds weary, as if he’s struggling to breathe, and when you glance at his hand moving across the counter, it’s no longer vibrant and almond-brown but ashen, marked by blown-out veins. Lifting your eyes, you meet not the father you remember, but his final, frail image—his sunken skin, his life slipping away too soon, anchored to the world only by the fragile thread of a nasal cannula.

“You okay, honey?” he croaks, concern etched in every syllable.

You open your mouth to speak, but fear grips your entire being, squeezing you like you’re a piece of fruit to be juiced. The terror is paralyzing, and you find yourself unable to face him any longer without crumbling into tears. A deep, ragged breath cuts through the silence, rasping painfully in your throat as you stammer, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t—“

Your eyes snap open, sticky and heavy with exhaustion, wincing against the harsh glare of sunlight that peaks through your maroon curtains. The embers of your dream fade into nothingness and unforgiving reality slides into place with ease. The heat of the dream is replaced by a chilling dampness; the sheets cling to your sweaty skin, and the fiery soreness in your throat reminds you of your still raging cold. When you swallow, it feels like sandpaper across raw flesh.

It’s been almost a year since you’ve dreamt of your father. It’s not that you don’t like to dream about him; actually, you cherish every memory, even the painful ones. But dreaming of him in the house—his house that has remained untouched since his death—it consumes you with regret for the role you’ve been unable to fulfill. You don’t have the time. You don’t have the money. All things that are out of your control but still hold you by the throat.

It’s too much for your mother, and you don’t blame her. The love she has for your father never really left. It lingered in her second marriage and came back full force in her divorce. So she stays away from all things related to him when she can.

Your eyes wander to the corner of your office desk where the old property deed lies, rolled up and bound by a simple rubber band. The edges are brown and dusty, much like the blueprints in your dream.

Why do you even keep it there?

Maybe it’s a reminder of him, just something physical you can glance at every day even if it hurts. Maybe it’s there to spur you to make that thousandth trip to city hall—the one that always ends in tears. Maybe, with these next few days off, you can try again. You’ll be stronger this time, more aggressive with the bald-headed piece of shit that always gives you trouble.

Or maybe not.

The flare of your throat is harsh enough to push away any other thoughts. There’s a frustration that always comes with getting sick, it makes simple things extreme when there is no need for it. Your body is too hot and also too cold, your throat burns with every swallow no matter how many throat drops you take, your lungs spasm with the tiniest breath to cough, your nose is so congested that it makes you regret taking breathing for granted. It’s overstimulating as hell.

You wince against the harsh sun again, turning your head further into your pillow before your eyes fall on your nightstand. There’s a tall glass of water and two pills. You don’t remember setting them there, but you sit up to throw them back anyway and down the water quickly. The coolness soothes your throat and with each swallow, the haze of last night lifts.

You know Toji brought you home because your car is out of commission and he refused to let you take the bus. He helped you out last night—literally carrying you up to your apartment because you were so achy and exhausted you could hardly stand. You remember him leaning casually against the brick wall of your complex, that insufferably charming smirk playing on his lips as he watched you go through every stage of defiance for help.

“I’m not getting any younger, princess.”

That name. You hate that name.

It was a taunt that made you eventually give up, too damn tired to snap at him. You gave in to the warmth of strong muscles and the scent of detergent, cologne, and something that’s just Toji. You remember the lack of strain in his neck, the ease in which he breathed as he took step after step like you weighed nothing, and the analytical gaze of jade irises beaming in the night as he took in his surroundings. It almost felt like he was assessing the area, checking every corner when he hit another flight of steps to make sure no one was lurking nearby.

As you think back, your hands automatically press against your cheeks, warmed by the flush of memory as your blood pumps faster in your veins from the rising shock. Toji had drawn you an Epsom salt bath to soak your muscles, rolling his eyes as you feverishly barked at him for privacy to undress. That gruff attentiveness continued as he watched you like a hawk as you slurped down the bowl of canned soup he warmed, and then gently nudging you to bed with a press to the small of your back. Even his firm grip on your arm as he wielded a syringe of cough syrup—which you tried to refuse—is clear in your mind.

“You’re burning up, stop fucking fighting me! What kind of doctor won’t take medicine?”

“This doctor. I would rather lick the floor than taste cough syrup. It’s just a cold. Go away,” you remember protesting, delirious with a stubbornness that has only gotten worse with age.

He had pressed the tip of the syringe to the side of your mouth, eyes narrowed and annoyed. “Open your mouth and—OW, why are you biting people! Girl, what the hell?!”

“Fuck,” you groan now, your hands digging into your eye sockets as the memory plays like a broken record behind your eyelids. You bit him like a fucking maniac. Who does that?! You remember giving in because you felt bad but still…

As a kid, you were the same—so against the taste of medicine that your mother had to pin you down.

But now? At the ripe age of too damn grown? You’re mortified.

Your hands slide down your face as you sigh in the silence, which feels heavier than before. Did he leave last night? You can’t remember anything beyond smacking your lips to get rid of the cherry taste of cough medicine and rolling over to pass out.

Your body isn’t as achy as last night as you climb out of bed. You slip into dry clothes and throw off your bonnet, ruffling the curls loose before you snatch up your phone and leave the room in search of him. The air in your apartment, usually so familiar, now carries a subtle disturbance—a reminder of his increasing presence. Only the distant chirps of cardinals outside punctuate the silence. As you enter the living room, you notice Toji’s black jacket casually draped over a kitchen stool and his car keys abandoned on the counter.

Your fuzzy socks muffle your steps as you approach the counter, where a covered glass bowl sits alongside a small note. You hate the lurch of your heart skipping as you snatch it up, your movements fueled by a mix of dread and anticipation.

Make sure you eat it all.

You can practically hear his gruff voice through the words, rough and serious, a subtle layer of care that’s unique to him. The thought makes you snort softly, relief washing over you with the distant thought that…he didn’t leave. But that relief is a push and pull, it’s frustrating to you because you’re unsure of what you want, even though you want more and moreof it. More of him.

As you pop open the lid of the container, the steam hitting your nose, your phone rings, your eyes rolling on reflex as you look at the caller ID. It’s a work day for your cousin, you can tell by the sleek reading glasses she only wears to comb over legal documents. Her shiny kinky hair is pulled up into a neat bun with not a strand out of place, edges laid to perfection, dark lip liner with a clear gloss on full lips, and she looks professional and uniquely Rene. Dark brown eyes narrow at you, the corners pointed in a cat’s eye with fresh black eyeliner, her expression tightening. Your mind automatically conjures the phrase you know she’s about to say.

“What do I have to do—”

“—to make sure you’re not dead,” she finishes in real time, her voice a blend of concern and familiar exasperation. “I was texting you all night.”

This is a well-worn interaction between you both; you work for days on end and disappear from the world, Rene reels you back in with stern care that rivals your own mother.

Your fingernail idly traces Toji’s handwriting from his note. “It was a rough night. My car wouldn’t start, I had to catch the bus and it made me late, and then work was just a nightmare. I’m sick, everything hurts, and Toji had to pick me up—”

“Why don’t we back up a little bit,” she interjects, elegant eyebrows arching up in wicked surprise, your well-being entirely forgotten because your cousin is a nosy bitch. “Toji was there? Where is he?” You shoot her a glare, irritation flaring because you refuse to give in to her curiosity. She holds up her hands in defense, her full lips curving into a smile. “Damn, a bestie can’t ask a question these days? That’s tough.”

Your gaze holds firm, challenging her. She meets it in a well-known game you both play, her eyes widening comically and it’s enough to break you both, laughter filling the kitchen.

“This is why I don’t tell you things,” you lie, coughing into your elbow. “We are just taking it slow. Nothing crazy. I didn’t need his help anyway. I could have taken the bus and taken care of myself. It’s just a cold.”

She laughs again at your bullshit and you sigh in defeat. There’s no point in trying to sugarcoat things with her. Nothing crazy, you say even though can’t even get your thoughts together when it comes to him. You could easily hang up the phone, but annoying or not, you haven’t talked to Rene in days. It’s nice to hear her voice again. Your mother is overseas often for work so calls aren’t as frequent. As for the rest of your family? You’re just…not as close to them.

Rene’s still running cackling keeps your mind from wandering again.

“Alright, it’s not funny anymore,” you snap as you grab a spoon from a kitchen drawer, turning back to Toji’s leftover food with a frown.

“I’m sorry! Really! But come on, it’s just classic you—the baddest bitch I know, but here you are, refusing any chance of help even though you want it so bad. Hard-headed as hell,” she chuckles, her voice warming with the years of friendship between you.

You pause, spoon in hand over the steaming bowl of soup, struck by the truth in her words. Stubbornness is your armor and you rarely let it slip, only few know what’s behind it. Even though she teases, it hurts. It hurts because it carries history—reminders of every instance you’ve pushed help away. It wraps around those jabs from your family, from the men you’ve been with.

Mean because you demand respect so you can weed out those who aren’t worth your time.

Defensive because you’ve been hurt too often.

Uncompromising and fierce, and that’s anyone who tries to get too close—never stays.

You clench your teeth together. “Rene, I’m not—” you start to protest, but the latch of the front door opening makes you raise the spoon in alarm.

It's Toji.

He walks into your home as if he owns the place, his presence so commanding it seems to fill every corner, snuffing the lights and sucking the air from the room. His gaze sweeps through the space, and when his emerald eyes finally settle on you, you feel the weight of his attention.

His shirt is stained with grease, and raven locks, messy from the July humidity, sticks to his forehead and sides of his neck.

“You won’t get far if you’re trying to stab me with that,” he teases, nodding towards the spoon in your hand. Though his tone is light, the underlying seriousness suggests he’s not entirely joking. He’s strong enough to disarm you and you wouldn’t mind a big man like him trying to—

The spoon clatters against the granite counter top as you slap it down and force your mind to shut the hell up.

He takes only two steps before he’s standing in front of you, analytical eyes scanning you in seconds—a look so intense that it feels like he’s trying to memorize you and understand hidden layers you’d rather keep concealed. Alarmingly thorough and you’re still trying to process him being this close, his proximity bringing an electricity you feel even before his lips press a soft, almost possessive kiss on your cheek, like he’s been waiting—itching for contact.

Rene’s startled cough cracks through the phone, mirroring your own internal shock. Toji is making your fever worse because it’s hot as hell now, the hairs rising on your neck as you gape like a fish.

“W-what are you doing…” you begin to ask, but the words die in your dry mouth when he pulls back. His eyes linger close to yours—too close and sliding across your nose, your cheeks, your lips. He still smells like cologne, but now there’s sweat and a muskiness of exertion and outdoors that makes your head swim with dread and desire.

“Where’s your toolbox?” he asks, putting a leash on your thoughts before they run away from you.

You clear your throat and step back, trying to reclaim your space, to fortify your defenses, do anything so you don’t fall apart. “Um, coat closet down the hall. Top shelf.” Your tone is steadier than you feel, pointing mechanically to your hallway.

You look down at your phone when he walks away, exhaling a breath you don’t realize you’re holding. Rene’s watching you with an amused, knowing look, eyebrows rising and falling suggestively. You can’t stand her because you want to laugh and groan at the same time.

“Girl,” Rene chimes, voice dripping with insinuation and not low enough because she doesn’t care who hears her. “I’m sure if you take him for a ride again, you’ll feel a little better.”

“When she’s not sick,” Toji calls from the hallway, your eyes widening at the implication of him listening in. “That kind of ride takes a little work.”

You gawk at the empty space of your hallway. Rene hollers and you hope to god she gets written up for being too loud.

“I know that’s right, Toj—”

You hang up and slam the phone down with more force than necessary.

Toji returns with the toolbox, smirking and completely unphased by his remark and just how unsettled you look by it. He motions with his head to the bowl of soup in front of you.

“Eat.”

It’s a command, gentle but firm, and you bristle not just at the directive, but at your own conflicting impulses—to bare your teeth and snap at his attempt of care or to melt under his attention.

Toji doesn’t wait for an answer, just studies you a moment longer, seemingly satisfied with what he sees, and disappears out the front door. The quiet buzz of the cardinals outside fills the silence he leaves behind.

You’re left standing there, a hand squeezing your phone on the counter like a vice, your mind struggling to remain upright in a storm of emotions that he stirs up within you. Unsettling and soothing, your chest fluttering like butterflies wings against your rib cage. Maybe it’s just a heart palpitation, this intensity—this feeling. Nanami can do an EKG when you return to work in a few days. And he better be there, because he’s the very reason why you had to pick up so many shifts in the first place.

Rene’s giggles still echo in your ears as you exhale a shaky breath and grip the metal spoon in your hand again.

***

“What are you doing?”

Your question cuts through the ambient city hum and the rustle of trees surrounding the parking lot of your complex. Toji is hunched over the hood of your car, hands deep in it’s guts, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

The summer sun beats down on you both, yet you’re wrapped in Toji’s jacket to cover your exposed legs. It was the first thing you grabbed when you rushed out of the apartment but it’s too big, the hem brushes against your knees, the sleeves dangling past your hands. You push them up again, feeling simultaneously protected and vulnerable under his gaze as he turns to face you. The jacket feels like a shield, but also a reminder of how much space he’s beginning to occupy in your life.

“Your starter is bad,” he grunts, showing you a car part smeared with oil. It looks expensive, way more than an oil change, and panic flares in your belly briefly as the numbers fluctuate in your mind. If it’s too much, it’ll probably be weeks before you can take your car to the shop.

You’re a doctor, but doctors don’t start making good money for…awhile.

“How much do you think it will be for a new one?” You sigh, mentally calculating the number of zeros the mechanic is going to throw at you. At least Toji saved you some money for a diagnostics test.

“I already ordered the part.”

The admission hits you like a truck.

You gape at him, fumbling and overwhelmed. “You didn’t—I could have done all of this myself. I don’t need your help, Toji.”

The words taste bitter as they drip from your tongue, a defensive reflex from years of self-reliance. Of course you’re grateful, but the frustration that he’s seen a need you hadn’t voiced, that he’s filled it without asking, that’s what stirs the deep discomfort. It’s not just the help—it’s the intimacy of it, the presumption that he can anticipate your needs.

The weight of his jacket on your shoulders no longer feels comforting.

His reaction is immediate, a flash of annoyance flickering over his features, the scar on the side of his lips twisting as he frowns and snatches a rag from the hood of the car.

“So, what, you were going to trust some corner-shop mechanic to rip you off?”

His accusation is justified, and almost instantly, that phrase parrots in your mind.

Let me be nice to you. Let me be nice to you.

“Yep, that was the plan,” you retort, your voice lacks conviction, weak and drowned out by the steady thump of your own heart as he walks closer. He drags the rag between his knuckles, collecting the dirt in the seams.

“You want me to let some old fuck tear your shit up? Even though I know what I’m doing? Not happening.”

His assurance should be overwhelming, but you find yourself irresistibly drawn to it. He moves closer, and instinctively, your muscles tense, your toes curling inside your fuzzy socks and blue Crocs. With every inch that disappears between you both, your mind fires with mixed signals: go back to the safety of your apartment or surrender to the magnetic pull of him. God, you’ve only been awake for two hours, but the emotional whiplash just might knock you back out.

“You told me to earn you, so I am. You need to let me.”

His directness, unyielding and raw, hits you harder than you expect. It’s not just his physical presence that’s imposing—it’s the sheer force of his will, loud and insisting that you realize he’s not leaving anytime soon.

Your reactions and reflexes are not completely intentional, but it isn’t easy to just change who you are. The defenses around you are lined with hard-learned lessons. Your armor and shields to keep yourself safe are all you know. Letting go is like disarming a trap designed to protect you—it requires careful, gentle hands. And you’re terrified that Toji’s large, scarred hands will be too rough.

But you recognize that you can’t tell him to try, and you not do the same. That’s not fair to him, or to whatever this dance is that you are both trying to learn the steps to.

As Toji wipes the sweat from his brow, he unwittingly smears a streak of grease across his forehead, drawing your attention. “If you really feel like you need to repay me, then I don’t know—spend a day with me.”

You lift an eyebrow, surprised at his suggestion. “A whole day?”

Toji nods. “When the part comes in and you’re feeling better. No long ass shifts. No PI cases. Just you and me.” He offers a half-smile, white teeth glimmering in the sun and the look is as disarming as it is dangerous.

Your interactions with Toji, even limited, have always been charged with an intensity you’ve avoided and craved. The meaning behind the car repairs and taking care of you, it’s not just surface level. There’s more to it…he’s trying. So now it’s your turn.

You sniff through a congested nose and clear your rough throat, grabbing the rag from his hands and standing on your toes to reach his forehead. You don’t get very far, but Toji leans down so his forehead is closer to you, holding back a snicker at the height difference. You wipe the grease away, locked on the task because you can feel his stare.

“An entire day with you sounds…ominous.”

“I’ll make sure to feed you,” Toji responds, a comforting rumble that unexpectedly makes you laugh. A small smile blooms across your face and the tension in your stomach eases. You feel a little better, still on a tightrope but you can see the other side. With the grease now gone, you sink back to your slightly achy heels, unable to look away now that you’re both eye-level. “I’ll throw in a thirty-minute lunch break.”

“Make it an hour. Don’t try to short change me,” you challenge, playfully. His eyes, emerald and sharp, scan your face with open curiosity, and you wonder if you’ll ever get used to his intense focus. You press the rag into his white shirt, deliberately looking to the dirt on the fabric to ground your thoughts. “How’s your finger?”

His laughter vibrates through him, a melodic bark that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, and you watch his abdomen tighten under his shirt from the motion. Toji’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the rag from your hand, his touch making your heart jump. The scars on his knuckles catch the sunlight, and you’re struck again with the curiosity of how they got there.

“I’ve had worse.”

You can’t tell if that’s a joke…or if he’s serious, but you don’t have time to ask because his lips press against your cheek, stealing another unasked kiss that leaves you momentarily off-balance. You swat at him in reflex as if he’s a fly in your ears, swallowing a stuttering response that you’re glad doesn’t filter into the air.

“You’re burning up. Go lay down,” he murmurs, almost gentle now. “I’ll finish up here and head out.”

You can stay.

It’s what you want to say. The words are on the tip of your tongue, pressing against the back of your teeth, but you curl the muscle back and purse your lips, offering a tight nod before you turn and walk away.

Your Crocs squeak against the concrete, your pace quickening because you can feel Toji’s eyes on your back, watching you. You’re burning up from the summer air and the jacket that’s around you. But there’s an underlying, electrifying warmth that pulls a small smile on your face, your hands rising to your cheeks to quell the heat flush that you know is not from your fever.

Thanks for reading!

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eww-y-tho · 2 days

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The hypothetical debates surrounding the whole "Lady and Lord Whistledown" vs "Colin and Penelope Bridgerton" make me wither because

Lady and Lord Whistledown.

I'm telling you, this shit would be so fucking funny. I can picture it in my mind's eye: Bridgerton season 4, we get a quick shot of Colin and Penelope talking shit and giggling like crazy in the background, maybe with some PDA to match because Colin can't keep his hands off her, only to hear a male voice actor of a similar calibre to our angel Julie Andrews join in sometimes while Charlotte picks up the paper and cackles. Obviously, the reveal would happen, but I want to believe that our Queen would be down for Whistledown to continue as long as it doesn't get too personal. It would be kind of unfair and a bit indicative of the period, monarchy and all, but Charlotte being in on it would amp up the comedy points. Plus some ~historical cultural commentary~ would just be that final flavouring of spice.

It would kind of feel like Colin's turning to the dark side because we've already seen quite a few scenes where he seems possessed by Lady Whistdown's attitude and I love the idea of him coming from hating Lady Whistledown's guts to protecting her and joining in because it's fun and it activated his little shit reflex. Plus the subtextual implications of just how much Colin and Penelope actually are best friends and are connected beyond normalcy would just be *chef's kiss*

I would also love it because it feels very partner-in-crime vibes, giving another aspect to their relationship that would be fun to see. Combined with the power Lady Whistledown has on the story, we'd be guaranteed to see our beans quite a lot. Also a "Hello, my Lady," followed by a "Hello, my Lord" after a particularly steamy scene would literally have me shaking crying giggling dancing kicking my feet.

As for Penelope, it honestly depends on how you view her character and her relationship with Lady Whistledown. If the person in question thinks that Lady Whistledown is a vital part of her personality, an aspect of who she is, limiting her by making her quit would just feel really, really sad, man. Lady Whistledown has caused Pen a lot of grief, however, and we see it a lot throughout the story, so I think Colin being there, sharing the secret and partaking would make her feel much more comfortable in her own skin.

Anyway. Love the idea, and would perish if it happened, but probably won't.

Colin and Penelope Bridgerton.

This one's more cute than anything else. Two writers as a couple release solo and joint works sometimes while establishing their reputation as respectable authors and leaving Lady Whistledown behind them. I can see another scene in my mind's eye, Colin and Pen are sitting across from each other on their respective writing desks, writing and then handing each other their work to review and give opinions, paired with a kiss after they start teasing each other about their writing. Considering that the designated Sexy Desk Scene has already been taken, this would have to be in a secluded area or in their bedroom. And then shots of people buying their books and enjoying them would ensue.

With the amount of journals and letters and things Colin's done, he's practically primed for an author's role. Maybe they can be more exposed to Colin's love for travel in this version. Having Penelope with him on his trips while writing their little hearts out would be adorable. Sadly, though, this would mean that they would probably have less screen time.

If you see Lady Whistledown as an outlet for the suffering Penelope was going through throughout the story, she wouldn't need Lady Whistledown anymore and abandon the alias because she's served her purpose as Penelope's coping mechanism, and Colin and Penelope would find their fix through other means. Maybe continuing to gossip but only between the two of them, going back to the beginning of the series and the final link to their relationship.

It's been established over and over again that they both love reading, writing, gossiping, and discussing all things philosophical. And each other for enjoying those qualities. So, I think this dynamic would be particularly interesting because it would be yet another way to connect. They could probably also make each other all hot and bothered by leaving random sexy letters sporadically, which would just be so fitting, tbh. However, that would also work for the Lady and Lord Whistledown dynamic so it's kind of a null point. It would be hot, though.

And, yeah, that's how I see those hypothetical dynamics playing out and how that would affect the characters. But now for the negatives. While I love the Lord Whistledown idea, I do think that Colin is a bit too nice and cute for that, and it would probably be a bit OOC, especially because of his personal experiences with Whistledown, it would be a bit weird if his tune suddenly changed to "yeah, I know gossip can ruin someone's life, but I like it now, so I don't care." But I also just can't fathom Bridgerton without Lady Whistledown, and this idea hinges on literally removing the narrator and source of all the tea, as well as making us lose our angel Julie Andrews. At least the Lady and Lord Whistledown idea fulfills almost all fronts of their relationship dynamic.

Again, as the GIF demonstrates, both are good, and I love both of them for the different ways they would take the characters, but let's be real, a combo would be really fun as well. Like Pen keeps up with Lady Whistledown while Colin writes his own books or smth.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. Bye.

#polin #bridgerton #polin bridgerton #penelope x colin #colin x penelope #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #penelope bridgerton #lady whistledown #lord whistledown

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 2 days

Note

Eeeeee! Congratulations! You deserve every single one! 🖤

Could I pretty please request:

Am I supposed to be scared now? In a Mafia AU. Vibes and item I'll leave up to your enormous, genius brain.

🖤🖤🖤

Thank you so much, Sam! 💖✨️ Hope you enjoy!

Worth the risk

Rated: E

Words: 992

Tags: Mafia AU; Hitman Eddie Munson; Dark Eddie Munson; Mob boss Richard Harrington; Secret relationship; intrigue; Referenced character death (RIP Tommy); Blood and violence; Knife play; Blood play; Groping; Dry humping

Notes: Previous part | Part 1

Nobody says anything as they make their way out of the Harrington villa, but by some unspoken agreement, they don't part ways yet. They linger in the driveway by the cars.

Eddie knows better than to speak first. Instead, he lights a cigarette and lets the silence drag on, pretending to be brooding over the night’s events. He knows that somebody is bound to say something sooner rather than later.

It’s Jeff who does, in the end.

“Harrington’s losing it.”

Gareth jumps and casts anxious glances all around himself, like he’s expecting to find the boss lurking somewhere in the shadows, while Frank shushes Jeff with a hectic gesture.

“Shut up, are you insane?”

Jeff shrugs petulantly, but he does lower his voice. “I'm just saying what everyone is thinking. That thing with Hagan? That was completely fucking bonkers, sending him to make that deal with the Carvers all alone. It’s almost like he wanted him to end up with a bullet through his head.”

“Maybe he did,” Gareth says. “Rumor has it Hagan’s been making eyes at the son.”

Eddie nods along solemnly with the rest of them.

“All I’m saying is, it’s bad news,” Jeff mumbles. “He believes he’s invincible, that he can get away with anything. It’s dangerous for a man in his position to think like that.”

“Then maybe he shouldn’t be.” Eddie lets the words linger, waiting until every single face is turned to him. “Be in that position, I mean.”

Frank scoffs. “Yeah, right. Who’d even wanna do it instead? Junior seems much more interested in lounging by the pool and taking it up the-”

“Nah,” Eddie is quick to deflect. “We’d need someone capable. Somebody younger, who knows how things work on the street.”

“Someone like you?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Gare,” Eddie lies. “Just putting in my two cents on the matter.”

Behind the garden wall, a light flickers alive, then dies again, quick as a heartbeat. Eddie grinds his cigarette under the heel of his boot.

“Shit, just remembered I forgot something. Don’t wait for me, guys.”

He feels their gazes on his neck as he walks back towards the house and doesn't bother hiding his grin.

The hydrangeas are long past their bloom, decaying flower petals rustling under his feet. He doesn't lament their death, not when he knows that the seeds of something else are slowly taking root.

The underwater lights of the pool bask the garden in an eerie glow, but he makes his way to the pool house unbothered. He has hardly ducked inside when a key clicks in the lock behind him.

Eddie’s body moves on instinct and muscle memory. The key clatters off somewhere in the darkness, and when the crimson veil lifts from his eyes, he has a warm body pressed against the wall, the edge of his knife licking at a shivering throat. A throat covered in the fading marks of his own teeth.

“Damn, Stevie,” he hisses, retracting the blade and sliding it back into its holster. It leaves the faintest of cuts, tiny droplets of blood gathering against tan skin like dark beads. “Are you out of your mind? You can't just sneak up on people like that.”

Steve scowls at him, face full of haughty disdain. He's beautiful in the glow of the pool seeping in from outside. He's always beautiful, of course, but something about the pale blue light rippling off his skin makes him look ethereal and downright unreal. Like an ancient deity, like a marble statue come alive.

“Excuse me?” he whispers, wriggling in Eddie’s hold. “What was I supposed to do? Nobody tells me shit, and then I overhear my dad talking on the phone about how one of his guys was killed. I just wanted-”

“Aw,” Eddie coos. He leans into Steve’s space, scraping a toothy grin against the hollow of that pretty throat. His lips come away tasting like copper, leaving a bloody trail on Steve's skin. “Are you worried about me, honey? Why, I'm honored.”

Steve pushes his head away with one palm against his cheek, but makes no further attempt at twisting out of his grip.

“This isn't a fucking joke, Eddie. If my dad finds out about this, you'll be next in line for a bullet through the- Will you stop this?”

Eddie lets Steve's thumb slide out of his mouth with an obscene, wet sound, nipping at the tender skin at its base as he goes.

“Am I supposed to be scared now?” he drawls. “I'm not an idiot, I can look after myself.”

“I know you can,” Steve confesses, tracing Eddie’s cheekbone with his thumb. It's still wet with his own spit, and the touch leaves a thin trail of moisture, cool in the stuffy air of the pool house. “But sometimes, I don't think you understand how dangerous this is.”

“Believe me, darling, I’m well aware of the danger.” Eddie trails a hand over Steve’s throat, down his chest. The motion makes a drop of blood run from his neck into the collar of his shirt. He watches how it blooms on the white fabric, pretty like a flower, as he slips his hand between Steve's legs. “Good thing we both like it a little, dangerous, right?”

He gives the bulge in Steve’s pants a firm squeeze, and as always, the boy responds like the beautiful, needy little dream that he is. He rolls his hips, grinding himself into the touch, and wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck to slot their bodies closer together. Eddie bites down on that perfect, pink bottom lip and laughs against it when Steve moans.

“Woah, honey! What happened to being careful?”

“What's life without a little risk?” Steve smiles, looking at him from under his long lashes. “And besides, you made me drop the key, so one of us will end up on his knees anyhow.”

Eddie finds he can't argue with that.

More celebration ficlets

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #hype's 1k follower ficlets #kiss that ring #Mafia AU

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mudandmire · 18 hours

Text

Contrasts

Azris Week - Day One: Contrasts

~~~ Hello hello! I found the Azris ship and the community this year and have absolutely been consumed by it. I love this idea, I love these two characters, and I love that there's so much potential between them and for them to feed and inspire such a wonderful community. I've never participated in the acotar fandom apart from this, and I'm so excited! Thank you so much to @azrisweek for putting together this event, I have had so much fun letting my brain run free like a dog off a leash with these prompts :D ~~~

Tell me

Azriel calls him tatlım, and Eris doesn’t know what it means.

It’s a secret, he supposes he can accept it—relate to it. Nooks and hidden corners itch and snarl with the weight of his own. An enchanted drawer he keeps in the washroom holds his greatest wonder and his greatest shame.

The journal weighs heavy in Eris’s mind. He traces back the parchment pages with intangible fingers during lulls in his father’s council meetings. The drone of bees, lazy and fat in the afternoon sun becomes the hushed whisper of a canyon gale through dried grass. The lines he inks, stroke by stroke, Azriel matches in full, thrumming strides. Words next to his are clean, unbroken, while Azriel’s remain thick, written in charcoal with smudges at the corners from where his fist has run over the line.

When it’s dark, a time when even shadows cannot creep and loom larger, Eris presses his own fingertips to those words. The smears of charcoal because Azriel had told him early on in their budding friendship when they were young that he can’t use quills.

“They're too thin, my hands shake too much.” A smaller version of Azriel speaks the memory into his mind. The whorls and pockmarks on his hands hidden between the gap of his thighs.

Eris had taken it as a challenge—and now he revels in it. Azriel is messy with his charcoal pencil, too free with his mistakes and smudges and it leaves Eris half a country away and entirely breathless.

‘Tell me what bothers you, tatlım.’ Azriel had written him earlier, the familiar scrawl of his heavy hand appearing stroke by stroke in the filled pages of Eris’s enchanted journal.

Two were made, Eris gave one away. He could not bring himself to regret it even if his life were on the line.

‘Tatlım?’ Eris had asked, his letters looped and coiled together in the way they get when he rushes, when he needs answers.

There was no sound save for Eris’s own steady pulse, the whistle of air through his nose as he waited for a response. And yet he could’ve swore he heard Azriel’s laugh, the breathy one, brush against the point of his ear.

The words appear in the space between one breath and the next: ‘Maybe one day, gach’lilit, I will tell you. For now, stop avoiding my prying.’

Eris places a hand on the rise of his chest. Holding in something that seems to be rising from his stomach to his throat and lands gently on his tongue like the orange and black patterned butterflies in the garden.

‘Tell me now,’ he begs, ‘and I will tell you whatever you wish, Azriel.’

‘Come back to visit me, sweetheart. That’s all I ask.’

It had formed a pause in their effortless back and forth. Eris wanted to—Azriel knew that. No, the issue wasn’t in Azriel’s plea, he knew just how much Eris longed for the little village in the Illyrian steppes. The stable in the field and the small, knobby kneed, black lamb that follows Azriel around like ducklings in the Forest House pond in spring. He misses the creeping, ruby red moss and the yellow and sage aspens that crop up from out of the golden plains like the jagged teeth of a cliff.

Most of all, most desperately of all, he misses Azriel. There is not one inch of his soul that doesn’t.

The inked tip of his quill hangs over the page, a knife poised for the final push. Through skin, muscle, bone, to the heart of everything—the rot that waits, festering under the floorboards of his adamant desire to run. It is one thing; it is also a collection of things Eris has stored like the most gruesome of trinkets, the most harrowing of trophies.

Because Azriel calls him sweetheart. He writes in his tongue letters of longing and punctuates them with words like tatlım, and gach’lilit. As much as Eris wants to stitch those given titles to his chest, he already has one.

Eris Vanserra. Heir of Fire. Son of Autumn.

Sweetheart. Tatlım. Gach’lilit.

He cannot have both. The heir who wears the crown, who feels it’s golden spiked thorns pierce the thin skin of his head knows this. Eris Vanserra was not born with room on his chest for titles other than this: his father’s son.

When his quill meets the page, a heaviness in his hand that wasn’t previously there, he knows Azriel already knows what he will write.

‘Soon,’ he lies, ‘when the festival of the summer sun comes, I’ll visit.' Eris Vanserra cannot flaunt about the wilds of the Night Court without purpose or reason. Even less if the hint of the reason is his desire to see an Illyrian male—but he can set out on inter-court business to strengthen alliances, break down information, and gather intel. Eris Vanserra cannot winnow straight from the quilts of his bed into the hay-strewn floor of Azriel’s stable.

No matter how much he wants to.

His chest pinches, a sharp point digging into the sensitive skin between his ribs when Azriel takes a minute longer to reply. The page remaining horribly empty with their spare words, their delicate dance.

‘Then I will just have to hold onto these words a little longer, besheirt. I wish for you to hear them in person, for they are as sacred to me as you are.’

Something cracks, folds then splinters and out pours a smile like evening sunlight through the painted colors of autumn leaves in the canopy. The tension building in his shoulders leaks down and pools around his feet, an unwanted puddle he completely forgets about Eris may be an heir, a son of autumn, and child of a loveless, forced marriage; but he is also sacred. Something holy and divine by only the rights of Azriel, and Azriel alone.

Eris has his titles. The stitched corners of his heart taken up piece by piece, but he will forever play the game of keeping himself in between the two if it will let him keep Azriel.

He has his own titles to give him.

~~///~~///~~///~~

(Key for words:)

Tatlım - ‘Sweetheart’

Gach’lilit - ‘Firefly’

Besheirt - ‘Notion of a soul mate, but mostly means Intended in terms of spouse’

aH. Alright okay cool I'm so normal about them. This is a short little thing, and it doesn't follow canon lore lol sorry about that. I really loved the idea of contrasts because for me it's what first drew me to this pairing. At first it seemed like there were too many contrasts for them to even be compatible, and then through softening my perspective of both of these characters and their flaws (and no small amount of delusion in which we merely squint from afar at SJMs portrayal of these characters) I found that maybe these contrasts actually enhance their chemistry. what crazy imagine that.

#your honor im obessed with them thanks #azris #azrisweek2024 #azriel x eris #ah im main tagging this is frightening.

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unanswered-stars · 21 hours

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Day 1: Contrasts - Two Souls Entangled

A short poem for @azrisweek highlighting the contrasts between the two characters.

Read here on ao3

I adore poetry and write it quite often as my way of journaling, that being said it is also one of the most intimate pieces of my soul and it was actually quiet difficult to share this piece but I hope you enjoy it.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The song of the dark

Meets the flame and the spark

One shackled unseen fed by cold icy rage

One displayed within a beautiful gilded cage

Piercing hazel finds

Honey amber eyes

The spy

The general

Two battlefield cries

One the holder of truth

The other a master of deception

The shadows

The flames

A perfect inverse reflection

The thrill of the flight

And the glow of a blaze

The stars

The leaves

The heat of their gaze

The edge of the knife

Over a sharp silver tongue

The singer

The dancer

To words yet unsung

One family found

Another divided

The bastard

The prince

By fathers hand’s guided

Dark lines of ink

Meets pale freckled skin

The torturer

The tortured

Buried by their sins

One filled with rage, loathing, and hatred

One with love and hope for the one long awaited

So broken and mangled

These two souls entangled

Sing a little ditty if you want on or off the tag train

@chunkypossum @futurehunt @fieldofdaisiies @hieragalbatorixdottir @the-darkestminds

#azris #azris supremacy #azris fanfiction #acotar #eris vanserra #azriel acotar #azrisweek2024 #poetry #poem

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sigmasemen · 15 hours

Text

WHEN THEY GIVE YOU THEIR COAT. (2/2)

multiple blue lock characters x reader

tags: established relationships, tooth rotting fluff, short headcanons

taglist: n/a currently.

characters: jingo raichi, meguru bachira, yo hiori, kurona ranze, sae itoshi, gin gagamaru, michael kaiser, kenyu yukimiya, alexis ness, gender neutral!reader.

word count: 2348

extra notes: reposted from my wattpad ^- ^ !! older work... you cannot get me to read this shit. had to post it in multiple parts sorry y'all!!

MICHAEL KAISER:

- Dating Kaiser was an entire rollercoaster, so getting around wasn't too hard. He had the money to afford limousine after limousine for you two, except when you two chose to go out on a hiking trip. "Good for training!" He said. He lied.

- Now here you two were, dashing home in the rain as makeup dripped down both of your faces. Kaiser had attempted to carry you, yet nearly slipped so you refused to get back in his arms.

- Around 10 minutes of moving, you realized how deep in this trail you were. It seemed Kaiser noticed too, as he sighed and finally paused.

- "Follow me!" He grasped your hand and ran you to a small cave. It was the sort of thing you saw in those stereotypical movies. It even made you wonder if Kaiser had purposefully planned this. Still, you got in.

- "Seriously? A cave?"

- He laughed, "Well, I'm not sure we have much of a choice, now do we?" He reached towards his own front and quickly unzipped his jacket to put around your shoulders.

- "For you."

- You pause and softly laugh, "I'm not some damsel in distress. Besides, this is soaked too."

- Kaiser just shrugged, getting closer to your warmth and leaning his head against your's. His arms soon wrapped around you as well. "Well, I might as well warm you up with my body."

- It wasn't like you had any complaints with that.

KENYU YUKIMIYA:

- You weren't aware of who Yukimiya was beyond Blue Lock before this. He was one of the top 6 to you, one of the people who had been an essential part to the U20 match. Honestly? You hadn't ran into anyone from Blue Lock since this break had started.

- However, you had chosen to go outside now of all times in a brightly lit street with gleaming lights hitting your eyes. Even so, it was raining. It dropped off the signs and right onto your faces. You were one of the few people that didn't have an umbrella and didn't see any holders in sight.

- So, for 10 minutes, you walked through the freezing cold rain. You allowed the rain to make your shirt stick to your skin and make you shiver. The dissatisfactory feeling haunted you as you walked past a bowling place.

- Your eyes eventually landed on Yukimiya. You didn't expect to see him of all people out here, but it wasn't the best time for you. You didn't look good at all.

- But, of course, he had to notice you. His eyes narrowed as he saw you, giving a short chuckle and walking over to pull off his bright orange scarf over your head and dark grey coat over your shoulders without a word.

- He paused, "You shouldn't get yourself like this, you might not be able to face off against everyone in Blue Lock."

- "Wouldn't that be better for you?"

- "It would, I would just hate to see you like this." He reached up and pushed through your wet hair, "You should focus on getting home. It's getting dark."

- You paused to stare at him, before nodding, "Right, thank you Kenyu."

- "It's my pleasure. I'll see you tomorrow?" He smiled, starting to walk off yet looking over his shoulder to wave.

- And you matched that, tightening the coat around you to make a dash for your place once more.

ALEXIS NESS:

- Oh how Ness is so doting over you. Every little thing, he wants to make sure you're perfectly pampered and feel special during the entire date! He's planned it out in his head for months, researched this festival multiple times, he won't let anything go wrong!

- Until it rains.

- You remembered being under one of the tents as it started to pour down. You just sighed and looked at your boyfriend. Yet he seemed pissed. He was biting his lip, staring at the ground and having issues with calming himself.

- You take his hand and laugh. For a second, he doesn't notice. Until you slip his jacket off his shoulders and pull it onto your head, covering yourself from the rain.

- Ness then notices, he seems confused until you speak again. "Oh my! Thank you Alexis for giving me your jacket."

- He pauses, softening his bite as his eyes light up. "Of course!" He adjusts it, holding it on your head and wrapped his upper body around you. "Let's make a run for it to our car, alright?"

- And minutes later, Ness is running and getting soaked while you're comfortable underneath his jacket. "Thank you..."

- "For what?"

- "For saving my perfect date." He smiled and pressed a kiss onto your forehead.

#bllk #blue lock #bllk x you #x reader #michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #yukimiya kenyu #yukimiya kenyu x reader #alexis ness #alexis ness x reader #cupid’s bangers

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awkward-tension-art · 3 days

Text

Darkess on Umbara Chp.12 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 11.

Friendly-Fire

cw: Rex x Reader, Reader is a medic, incorrect military procedure, graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, swearing, death and battle, Canon character death, Spoilers for the Umbara Arc, Pong Krell is an asshole, reader insert, names of non-canon dead clones, Grief, Dissociation, SUICIDE, friendly-fire, POV of dissociation, reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), if i miss a tag LMK

MINORS DNI

“Stay alert. The enemy has our weapons and our armor, they may try to trick us with an ambush.”

You kept your head up as Rex led the few squads through the dark umbaran forest. He was at the front, pistols ready.

Your location was near the back, keeping close to Tup and Dogma. You’ve learned the two were from the same batch, and it made you wonder.

How could Tup be so…sweet and polite while Dogma was so vindictive and tense?

“Watch out, Dogma!” Case in point, the trooper with a painted tear stopped his friend from stepping on a vine, “I saw that thing attack Hardcase. It'll chew you up and spit you out.” He warned, picking up a fist-sized rock, “Here, watch.” The soldier threw the stone, hitting a dark mound hidden in the ash-colored dirt. As soon as it hit the camouflage beast, the creature growled before waving its tendrils and opening its fanged mouth.

Dogma jumped back, “Ew!”

“Try not to get eaten by them,” You deadpanned, “I won’t be trying to rescue you if you do end up in its mouth.”

He was about to respond before being cut off by a barrage of blue blaster bolts.

Blue? So Krell was right. The Umbarans stole clone weaponry.

“We're under attack!”

The squads began to step backwards, getting behind cover. Two soldiers went down and you rushed past Tup and Dogma to their side. Your training kicked in as you assessed. The closest one to you had a smoking bolt right through his helmet.

Fatal shot. Instant death. His name was Uno.

The other soldier twitched and you grabbed his arm before dragging him behind one of the dark-wooded trees. Two other troopers were behind the cover firing in the direction of the shots.

“I got you,” You spoke to him, taking off his helmet.

No head injuries. Burn on his side. Most likely a graze. His name is Ryder.

An explosion, most likely a grenade, hit the ground a few feet from you. Despite that, you remained calm, “Stay awake, I’m going to fix you right up,” In one swift movement you had a patch out of one of your packs and placed over the blaster burn. You worked quickly, getting him stabilized.

Ryder flinched and groaned, but nodded, “Thanks Doc.”

“Where’s the enemy!?” One of the troopers next to you shouted, clearly unsure where to shoot.

The one kneeling beside him answered, “I don't know! I can't see anything!”

The trooper who asked the question flew back, hitting the ground. His chest had two smoldering holes through it. The plastoid melted and burned, his skin turning to embers from the heat.

Blaster bolts through the heart. Fatal. His name. What was his name? Barr. His name was Barr.

You looked up, spotting Kix tending to a writhing trooper. Another missile hit the tree above him, raining glowing red branches and burning ash down on them.

A blue shot nicked your cover, barely missing your head and you ducked.

“Get those mortars up here!” You heard Rex command. He was somewhere behind cover in front of you.

Good. Stay safe, cyare. You prayed silently to yourself.

Tup and Dogma ran forward, heavy weapons ready. They were followed by a group of about six other men, also armed with mortars. They knelt, keeping low to the ground. They fired, and the sky rang out with a familiar whistle of falling explosives.

The ground trembled with the power from such shots, and smoke began to billow from the woods in front of the 501st squads. You peaked, taking the brief moment to dash to Kix’s side and aid him with the wounded.

Just as you got safely behind cover, blaster bolts fired again from the enemies side.

“Anyone have a visual?” The clone captain asked, keeping behind the massive, black trunk of an umbaran tree. Several shots scraped the wood narrowly missing Rex, but he didn’t even flinch.

Kix stood, leaning out from behind his own cover, he steadied his scope, “Negative. It's too dark.” He dove back, barely dodging a shot directly to the head. After a moment, he peaked again, “Wait! I see them! They're disguised as clones, all right.”

The squads surged forward, charging the moment they had a visual.

Chaos reigned as blasters and grenades littered the air and ground. You kept back and out of sight, grabbing any wounded and getting them behind cover. You could manage with the supplies you had, even if the Umbarans seemed more skilled than usual.

One of the troopers, Filter, beside you cried out and stumbled back. He knelt down, gripping his smoking upper arm.

“Don’t move.” You got to his side and began to tend to his wound.

Direct hit. Bone visible. Muscles burnt. This was similar to the injury you sustained before taking the airbase. You knew exactly what to do.

As you treated him, you looked up, taking in the battlefield. Dead and injured littered the dark ground. Troopers were firing. The very earth shook with each explosion that went off. With dread, you realized you couldn’t see Rex.

You commed him, immediately, “Captain, where are you?” Your heart raced when you didn’t get an answer. You searched the battlefield again.

Your eyes landed on a dead Umbaran wearing clone armor. A puddle of crimson blood was growing larger around the body. You recognized the gold of the 212th.

So that's the supplies that were stolen. Weapons and armor of the 212th…

Your thoughts halted. Do Umbarans bleed red?

“Captain!” Tup’s voice came through the comm, “We're sustaining heavy casualties!”

You were frozen, eyes searching the field, “Rex!?” In your desperation, you commed him again.

He answered, sprinting past you, waving his arms, “Everyone stop firing!” He cried out, clearly panicked and distressed.

Rex? What was going on-?!

“We’re shooting at our own men!” The 501st captain shouted, running straight into the line of fire. He threw off his helmet as he continued to clamor, “They're not Umbarans! They're clones!”

Abandoning safety, you stood, getting out from your cover, eyes wide.

Clones!?

Rex continued forward, commanding his men in a desperate attempt to end the battle, “Take off your helmets! Show them you're not the enemy!”

As he ran through the field, the shots began to wean, but the fight wasn’t entirely over, “Cease fire! They're not Umbarans. They're clones!” Your despairing lover tackled the 212th trooper in front of him and ripped off the trooper's helmet before standing, “Look! We're clones! We're all clones!”

The battle halted in shock and anguish.

The soldiers around you took off their helmets, some dropping them on the ash colored dirt. The 501st began to step out behind cover, coming face to face with the 212th.

Their own brothers.

There was the sound of a blaster loading next to you. Filter had the barrel of his rifle settled under his chin.

“No!” You reached out, only to be too late.

He pulled the trigger.

Your stare was on his unmoving body, eyes wide and arm stretched out.

Fyre. Vim. Oz. Ringo. North. Gabe. Tro. Tess. Zeb. Sante. Reign. Pheon. Dawn. Nim. Jamie. Hek. Recon. Mav. Zeo. Fisher. Hinge. Trident. Iron. Mesh. Steele. Bruno. Zeke. Jumper. Aura. Dia. Silk. Forty. Thrall. Hardcase. Uno. Barr. Filter.

You looked up, eyes spotting Rex across the field. He looked devastated. His knees were on the ground and his head was in his hands.

Be strong. For him.

“Kix, give me your supplies!” You barked, shutting down your emotions. Coldness filled your body and blood. Your focus became sharp. The only sound your ears registered was a high pitched ringing. You no longer felt like yourself.

Save as many of them as you can. Now!

You got to action, searching the dead and triaging the wounded. The world was gone. All that mattered was saving the troopers.

You lost time. At some point, you realized that whenever you blinked, your hands were on a different soldier. The wounds didn’t matter. The blood didn't matter.

You were going to save them.

Someone else joined you in your mission to aid the wounded. Kix, you think. He gathered himself together enough to help.

Save them.

Then, you realized the medic of the 212th was beside you, helping stop the bleeding of a 501st soldier.

Save them.

You blinked again, more time had passed, and you were straddling a 212th soldier. He writhed under you from the pain of you breaking his ribs to perform CPR. Hurt but alive.

Save them. Save them. Save them!

You moved on to another soldier. You held his hand as he died, surrounded by others of both the 212th and the 501st. He had a painted twi’lek girl on his helmet. Once you stood, someone grabbed you.

Hardcase? No. he was gone.

Silk? No. you had gotten him killed earlier.

Your name was called, not your title. Not your rank. Your name. They were trying to claw you back into the present. Your mind refused, you moved on to another trooper. Tending to his wounds before someone else grabbed your wrist, halting you.

Who were you staring at? You knew you recognized them…but you had forgotten names.

Tup? Was Tup alive?

You grabbed the wrist of someone else approaching to your left. In their hand were sedatives, you recognized. The needle was aimed for you.

No. You had work to do. You had to save as many of them as possible.

They dropped the injection, and you stepped away, only to be tackled. The hard earth slammed your mind back into focus.

“You did it! There's no more injured!” Rex was on top of you, keeping you pinned. His brown eyes were wide and full of fear, “You can stop now, Mesh’la.” His breathing was shaky. His cheeks were marked with tears, “You don't need to save anyone else.”

It felt like you woke up. The world around you snapped into place. The ground beneath you was solid. The air in your lungs was crisp, and tasted of smoke and iron. The ringing in your ears disappeared.

With shaky hands, you held your lover's face. He was alive. He was here. So were you. The both of you were here, in the present.

“Are you hurt?” You whispered. Sighing in relief when he shook his head, “What happened, Rex?”

“Krell,” He answered, helping you to your feet, “Krell sent them to these coordinates to stop the enemy. He told the 212th that Umbarans were wearing clone armor.”

He fucking tricked everyone!

Your eyes roamed the former battlefield. The survivors had managed to collect the fallen, and lay their bodies down. You noticed that Kix and the 212th medic were getting names and CT numbers, all to add to the list of casualties. Too many good clones were still, waiting to be marked as dead.

Krell killed them all.

The five stages of grief ran through your body. They hit you in waves, but you remained standing, surveying the world around you.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

And acceptance.

But right now. All you felt was one thing, creating a sixth stage of grief.

Vengeance.

“Something has to be done.” You looked to the captain. The coldness had left your body the moment Rex tackled you. Instead, every cell in your body burned with the heat of rage.

“We all know who's responsible for what happened here,” Like you, your lover held the same wrath. His beautiful eyes were a storm of righteous fury, “I’m getting a squad together. Krell will face justice.”

You wanted in.

#reader insert #captain rex #captain rex x you #captain rex x reader #star wars tcw #star wars x reader #tcw x reader #umbara arc #darkness on umbara #clone trooper tup #clone trooper dogma #501st #212th #star wars #clone wars #my writing

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